Il6 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



hound's name came readily to his Hps as we asked him the question. 

 " ' Belvoir,' by the ' Belvoir Gordon,' a rare one to drive along." For the 

 brook we all rode, and again did Mrs. Sewell give the huntsman a lead, as 

 his horse cut it. A field beyond we had a view of our hunted fox. Mr. 

 Basham will vouch for this, as he saw him come over the road dead beat, 

 and hounds hit off his line up the grass fields to Gaynes Park. Ten 

 minutes in the woods finished him, and some of the youthful members of 

 Mr. Chisenhale Marsh's family, who were out on foot, were duly blooded. 

 Methought the jovial expression on George Dawson's face, who was riding 

 his good little grey, betokened that he, at least, was one of those who had 

 enjoyed this run to the full. 



A good horse, bought from Mr. H. E. Jones, carrying a 

 good man in every sense of the word. Mr. Thomas Co wee's 

 figure was at one time a very familiar as it was a very welcome 

 one with the Essex Fox Hounds, for he was a thorough sports- 

 man. Alas ! the last few seasons his health has only permitted 

 him to appear at rare intervals, where as an exponent of the 

 art of crossing a country on a well-bred little 'un he had few, 

 if any, equals (see portrait, page 114). 



I have done it at last ! Done what ? my dear friend. Taken to cycling, 

 driving a motor, or floating a company ? Oh dear, no ! Nothing half so 

 exciting. I have left home late, made a guess at the country to be drawn, 

 chanced the run of the season coming off in the morning, and without dis- 

 turbing a covert hit the hounds off to the tick for their initial find, and this 

 feat was accomplished this season for the first time on Monday last, though 

 attempted before. 



The Egyptian Sphinx is not more silent or discreet on the question of 

 the afternoon draw than the present Hunt staff, and the variations in it are 

 as problematical as the weather. No, not quite that ; for the certainty of a 

 wet day in this month of December, 1896, is hardly a subject for a wager. 



A choice of two courses — the Colonel's coverts and Loughton Shaws, or 

 Curtis Mill Green and Sir Charles's " Osiers." Impossible to try both with 

 any success, and to hit off the wrong one — chagrin and disappointment, 

 with a certain attack of malaise. 



No need to bore you with the reasons that induced me to put all my 

 eggs in one basket, and stake everything on Curtis Mill Green and the 

 " Osiers," but will merely state that be-mackintoshed and covert-coated, in a 

 heavy storm of rain, I set off on my solitary and speculative ride at twelve 

 o'clock. The heavy clouds were driving up before a keen easterly wind, 

 disclosing here and there a gleam of blue that mocked the rain showers as 

 ihey came down to swell the glancing rivulets that fringed every road, while 

 anon a brilliant rainbow lighting up a dense bank of black clouds bespoke 

 fairer things, and the whole landscape was brought into the clearest focus, 

 so that the scene of the third act in last Monday's exciting drama was 

 vividly presented to us as we swung back the latched gate in the bridle 

 road to Tawney Hall, and let the good little bay go up to his bridle, without 

 hurrying him. Never hurry when you are on the look-out for hounds. Pull 

 up, if you like, on arising knoll and scan the horizon. If your horse is keen 

 he will listen too, and catch the faintest note of horse or hound long ere it 

 strikes your duller sense. 



In the stable-yard at Tawney Hall no sign of life except the rattle of 



