THE CHACE. 
only fourteen men of the two hundred are to be counted ; 
all the rest coming. At one blast of the horn, the hounds 
are back to the point at which the scent has failed, Jack 
Stevens being in his place to turn them. " Yo doit! 
Pastime, 1 " says the Squire, as she feathers her stern down 
the hedge-row, looking more beautiful than ever. She 
speaks! "Worth a thousand, by Jupiter!" cries John 
White, looking over his left shoulder as he sends both 
spurs into Euxton, delighted to see only four more of 
the field are up. Our Snob, however, is amongst them. 
He has "gone a good one," and his countenance is 
expressive of delight, as he urges his horse to his speed 
to get again into a front place. 
The pencil of a painter is now wanting ; and unless 
the painter should be a sportsman, even his pencil would 
be worth little. What a country is before him ! what 
a panorama does it represent ! Not a field of less than 
forty some a hundred acres and no more signs of 
the plough than in the wilds of Siberia. See the hounds 
in a body that might be covered by a damask table- 
cloth every stern down, and every head up, for there is 
no need of stooping, the scent lying breast-high. But the 
crash ! the music ! how to describe these ? Reader, 
there is no crash now, and not much music. It is 
the tinker that makes great noise over a little work ; but 
at the pace these hounds are going there is no time for 
babbling. Perchance one hound in five may throw his 
tongue as he goes to inform his comrades, as it were, 
that the villain is on before them, and most musically do 
41 
