CHAPTEE XXXI I. 



RUNNING RED DEER. 



fAKEN, lords and ladies gay, The mist 

 has left the mountain, grey ; Spring- 

 lets in the dawn are streaming, Dia- 

 monds in the brake are gleaming, 

 And foresters have busy been, To track the buck 

 in forest green," were the words (which, if I re- 

 member rightly, are to be found in "Waverley") 

 that crossed my mind as I journeyed on my way 

 to Bridge Castle, the seat of the Marquess of Aber- 

 gavenny. 



Congratulating myself on my good fortune, in 

 being able to join in the exciting pastime of running 

 the red deer, I was off at an early hour en route for 

 Tunbridge Wells, the nearest station to Eridge. A 

 dense fog enshrouded London and the suburbs, trains 

 were behind time, fog signals exploding, passengers 

 becoming irritable, and porters less than polite to 

 those not encumbered with luggage, probably pre- 

 mising that there was in such case little chance of 

 exacting fees — a custom, by the way, more honoured 

 in the breach than the observance. At length the 

 train emerges from the gloom, and comes whistling 

 hoarsely, as befits the morning, into the station. 



