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CHAPTER XIV. 

 AULD LANG SYNE. 



"Ay, perish the thought ! 

 May the day never come, 

 When the gorse is uprooted, 

 The foxhound is dumb I" 



T7ITHER from a desire of instruction, from 

 ij curiosity, 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 regular coverts. 

 The whole couhtry was a mass of straggling gorse, 



