FROM BRAUNSTON GORSE AT LAST. 



217 



itself is easy here, formidable there, impossible at a third place 

 — as you may happen to hit it, and, still more, as your mount 

 faces width or you fancy water. But, nearly everywhere, the 



I 

 'I- x- , 



mem 



one bank levels with the other ; a bold horse need never be 

 trapped ; and the mere stride of your gallop will land you, if 



only ah, there is the word that has wrecked every plan, 



annulled every project, and spoiled every plot since the sun first 

 shone upon failures. And the mud of the Braunston Brook was 

 stirring with ifs well nigh the whole of Saturday's afternoon. 

 The water made the feature, nay, the whole physiognomy, of 

 this foxchase and landscape — as I will endeavour to sketch. 

 Need I touch on the weather, the ground, the covert, the 

 hounds, the horses, and the people ? A line is enough, in 

 epitome — the day warm, cloudy, and breezy ; the earth, with 

 its velvet coverlid, in perhaps better form for hunting than it 

 has been during the season that is now fast vanishing ; the 

 covert a perfect nest of thorn, privet, and what not ; hounds the 

 Pytchley bitch pack, wiry, varmint and sharp ; horses ugly in 

 their motley spring colouring, but in a hundred instances, 

 striking in their lean shapeliness ; the people — now I am 

 " baffled and beat." He who would venture to lay hands on 

 one name should be prepared to complete his list with a whole 



