DRIVING RED-DEER. 235 



their holes, and the chattering jay to give his loud 

 note of warning that an enemy was invading their 

 privacy. When I left London the ground was iron- 

 bound in the grasp of a hard frost, which looked very 

 like spoiling the sport in which I was to join ; how- 

 ever, by noon a thaw had set in, and dull gray clouds 

 overhung the wild common on which stands the exten- 

 sive range of buildings, possibly very comfortable, but 

 certainly far from picturesque, known as Warley 

 Barracks. 



Passing by this uninteresting specimen of modern 

 architecture, I speedily arrived at the Lion Gate, and 

 entered the precincts of the lordly domain so long the 

 abode of the Petres. As I wended my way in the 

 direction of the hall, I could not fail to note the 

 difference in the appearance of the park nowadays as 

 contrasted with what I remember as a boy, some half 

 century or more since, when I rode side by side with 

 the then Lord and Lady Petre, in pursuit of a gallant 

 old fox, which we had found in the Warley Woods, at the 

 tail of one of the finest packs of foxhounds ever main- 

 tained in the county of Essex. Then the music of the 

 hounds in full cry, the sharp note of the huntsman's 

 horn, the crash of the many well-mounted and hard- 

 riding men who followed this crack pack, awoke 

 the echoes, driving the startled deer into the inmost 

 recesses of the covert, as we ran at a rasping pace 

 through the densely wooded portions of the park, forcing 

 Reynard at last to face the open and trust to speed to 

 out-distance his pursuers. Now all was dull and drear, 

 not a sound was to be heard, not a soul to be seen. 

 The ground was strewed with withered leaves and 

 broken branches, borne down by the heavy fall of 



