178 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



well be written about so famous a sportsman, the author must 

 content himself with a description in these pages of some of the 

 good days which he enjoyed under this famous Master who, 

 commencing about the year 1830, kept Harriers for about sixty 

 years. Mr. Vigne, when he was living at the Oaks, Woodford, 

 delighted in showing anyone interested in hunting- over^ his 

 kennels, close to which he kept a tame deer to teach his jelly 

 dogs to " 'Ware Haunch !" a plan that was f^iirly successful in 

 making them stick to their legitimate quarry when hunting in 

 Epping Forest. 



Mr. Mgne was a striking example of what may not be 

 generally known, but is none the less true, that the man who 

 retains his interest in hunting for the longest time is not always 

 the man who bruises across country, for I never, during the 

 many years I hunted with Mr. Vigne, ever saw him guilty of 

 attempting to jump a fence, and never met his equal in his 

 devotion to lunitiug. 



I am indebted to the proprietors of Bailys Magazine for the 

 above excellent likeness of Mr. Vigne. 



It was on a dull December afternoon, two days before Christmas, i88g, 

 that the remnant of an eager little field (that had gaily assembled in the 

 morning at Maries Farm at the invitation of Mr. Lewis Phillips to enjoy 

 a day with the harriers) were eagerly watching the patient efforts of Mr. 

 Vigne's huntsman (old Hurrell) and his son William, as they drew a likely 

 wheat field. 



The day was fast waning, for it was three o'clock, and something like 

 despair began to take possession of us, as if we did not find there we had 

 little chance of another gallop, when we were startled by an exclamation 

 from Mr. Clarke of "There she is." And there she was, right under our 

 feet, snugly ensconced in her form. 



The Master's face was a study, but the twang of the horn from lips that 

 had known at least eighty summers was a marvel ; hounds flew to it, and 

 the hare jumped from her form to speed over a narrow grass mead, and to 

 be lost to sight. Thick and impenetrable frowned the hedge ; merrily 

 sounded the music beyond. Mr. Clarke did not hesitate a second, but bored 

 his way up the bank and through the hedge, making way for us all. 



There could be no mistake about it, we were in for a good thing, for 

 these little hounds were racing away over the grass at a pace that defied 

 being overriden. Crossing the Rye Hill Road, Mr. Rickett, jun., and 

 I\Ir. Clarke showed us the way over, for the pace was too good to linger 

 a second, even for a well-latched gate. Young Hurrell was in his place and 

 swung over the next three fences as they came. Away over a large grassy 

 field, past Latton Park, and hounds crossed a lane, and there was a 

 momentary check, just time to take stock of those who had stayed out to 

 the end, and who meant to be with them or die. 



First and foremost the Three Graces of the Essex ?Iunt — need I mention 

 the three INIiss Buxtons ? — fearless to a degree, they have the knack of 

 getting over a country in a fashion that young ladies of their age never did 

 before, I trow, and, I was going to say, never will do again; that keen 



