332 THE POST AND THE PADDOCK. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

 AULD LANG SYNE. 



" Ay, perish the thought ! 

 May the day never come, 

 When the gorse is uprooted, 

 The foxhound is dumb !" 



tITHER from a desire of instruction, from curi- 

 osity, or amusement, every man, whatever his 

 pursuit may be, feels anxious to learn from history 

 the antecedents of those who have been engaged in 

 the same occupation. To a sportsman, nothing can 

 be so interesting as the legends of the chase. In 

 early days, some two hundred years ago, the higher 

 orders of society took no interest in, and were 

 wholly ignorant of, the science of hunting ; and it 

 was many years before periwigs and satin vests gave 

 way to the green coat and brown tops.^ The only 

 sportsman was the old rough squire, who had never 

 been far from the purlieus of his mansion. The 

 smart sportsman of the present day, who breakfasts at 

 nine o'clock, and rides his hack twenty miles to covert, 

 will hardly believe the style and habit of those days. 

 Our ancestors used to breakfast in the baronial hall, 

 on well-seasoned hashes and old October ; and the 

 huntsman and whippers-in, in the servants' hall, on 

 the same good cheer. Thus fortified against the 

 morning air, they sallied out at early dawn to enjoy 

 the sports of the field. In those days there were no 



