180 FOX-HOUNDS. 



The day was mild, cloudy, with a gentle wind. We 

 drew several covers blank, and found a fox, about one 

 o'clock, in a small spinney, from which he bolted at the 

 first summons. A beautiful picture it was to see gallant 

 old Sebright get his hounds away, the ladies racing 

 down a convenient green lane, and the little Fitzwilliam, 

 in Lincoln green, charging a double flight of hurdles. 

 In half-an-hour's strong running I had good reason to 

 rejoice that Percival had, with due respect for the fourth 

 estate, put me on an unmistakable hunter. Our line 

 took us over big undulating fields (almost hills), with, on 

 the flats or valleys, a large share of willow-bordered 

 ditches (they would call them brooks in some counties), 

 with thick undeniable hedges between the pollards. At 

 the beginning of the run, my black-coated friend led me 

 much as a dog in a string leads a blind man at a 

 great pace, into a farm-yard, thus artfully cutting off a 

 great angle, over a most respectable stone wall into a 

 home paddock, over a stile into a deep lane, and then up 

 a bank as steep as a gothic roof, and almost as long, 

 into a fifty-acre pasture, where, racing at best pace, we 

 got close to the hounds just before they checked, be- 

 tween a broad unjumpable drain and a willow bed two 

 fine resources for a cunning fox. There I thought it 

 well, having so far escaped grief, to look out for a leader 

 who was less of a bruiser, while I took breath. In the 

 meantime Sebright, well up, hit our friend off with a 

 short cast forward, and after five minutes' slow hunting, 

 we began to race again over a flat country of grass, with 

 a few big ploughed fields, fences easier, ladies and ponies 

 well up again. After brushing through two small 

 coverts without hanging, we came out on a series of very 

 large level grass fields, where I could see the gray horse 

 of the marquis, and the black hat of my first leader sail- 



