40 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



getting to ground upon Mr. Charles Webster's farm, beyond Warlies Park. 

 It was a real steeplechase all the way, and very few, besides the Master, 

 Majors Wilson and Ricardo, Mr. Jones and Mr. Ford Barclay, were near 

 the hounds. There is some fun, after all, in riding a stern chase, as you 

 overhaul first one and then another. I shall start last from a covert again 

 if ever I am short of copy and want to ride for it — you don't see all the 

 fun from the stalls or dress-circle in the hunting-field, I can tell you — a 

 turn in the pit must be taken occasionally. But I will let you all off 

 for the present my brave sirs and pretty dames, although I could a tale 

 unfold if I couldn't invent excuses as to why you were left behind. 



It IS one thing for hounds to run away from you, another for you to run aiuay 

 from them ; and this is exactly what a large proportion of a big field 

 managed to do on Wednesday, when a fox was found at Man Wood, and 

 turned back into the covert. Hounds could not own to him, and while the 

 huntsman was drawing back through the wood, seeking a clue, from some 

 unexplained reason about 120 people jumped to the conclusion that as he 

 was out of sight for some time he must have gone to Down Hall, and 

 started off accordingly. Not finding any signs of hounds, a panic set in, and 

 men and ivomen rode blindly in all directions. The Mate set off for Row Wood, 

 but recovered hounds — he told me going to the meet that he did not intend 

 to let them get out of sight all-day — by the greatest possible good luck just 

 as they found in the fagot stack near Matching Park. Mr. Newman 

 Gilbey and three others arrived just in time. A few, when the run was 

 over — the majority (it is more than my place is worth to mention any 

 names) went home — having missed nothing more than a hot nineteen minutes 

 and a kill in the open, as hounds did not find again. Second horses (Mate's 

 and own) were not of much use at four o'clock — they got into the stream 

 and swam with the tide. 



The gem of Friday's sport was the bright little sparkle with Mr. Harry 

 Sworder's fox from Shalesmore (have we spelt it right this time ?) — to 

 ground at Suttons. 



The crux of Monday's at North Weald was that owing to frost hounds 

 never turned up. 



Mr. Sheffield Neave's Staghounds. 



Extraordinary sport, by hearsay and report, these hounds appear to 

 have had all through this memorably open season. Runs long and fast 

 have, in spite of the light going, put rider and steed to the test. So when 

 the card said Tawney Hall, Saturday, February 8th, we soon decided 

 which horse of those fit to go to take out. Of course, tlie choice fell upon 

 the clipper that stands in the stall at the top, for if ever you want a good horse 

 it is with staghounds in Essex — a horse to whom no sort of country comes 

 amiss, bank, ditch, or rail. You may start in an open flying country, and 

 run into the region of high and trappy banks, or you may reverse the medal 

 on any day in the season. In any case you are safe to have to tackle — that 

 is, if you want to be with hounds — more curious fences in one good gallop 

 with staghounds than you would have to jump in a whole week with fox ; 

 and unless your horse can gallop and stay you had better remain at home. 



It is not my intention here to draw comparisons, favourable or other- 

 wise, between stag hunting and chasing the wily fox ; still less to agree 

 with one gentleman, =■= however much I may have laughed at him, who 

 turned up at the meet at Tawney Hall and said, " Fox-hunting be 

 hanged " — (I am not even sure that his language was not still more 



* Mr. Docwra. 



