THE OLD HERO DIES 299 



Bower House, and then bearinj^ down the hill, reached Fox- 

 borough Wood, where the huntsman, Master, and many more 

 of us cauQfht them ; for what with iron fencino-, locked Pfates, 

 and some unjumpable rails, those on the right had been caught 

 like rats in a trap, while man after man of the rearward con- 

 tingent rode to the holloa of a fresh fox over the park and rode 

 never to see Jiounds again in this grand run. 



Foxborough Wood was left behind ; a single hound running- 

 ahead of the pack to the four cross roads, where Bailey got 

 hounds together, and they flew over the very cramped but well 

 grassed Dagenham Vale. How keenly they ran. Did we 

 ever know hounds go better in a storm of rain, but wasn't there 

 just a touch of east in the wind ? The old line — it must have 

 been the old fox, the hero of so many fights. Now up hill he 

 turned to Hatters W^ood, the shortest way out (if your horse 

 had It in him, and hadn't been going at large in a brook) with 

 the Master, the Major, Miss Morgan, and some half-dozen 

 more, over the sunken post and rails. If not? — through the 

 gates on the left, and you could nick hounds as they raced 

 round the park before crossing the brook near the double-gated 

 bridge. Thank you, my Knight of the Velvet Cap. J for so 

 deftly opening them. On, still on ; no summer condition could 

 live with them, through Duck Wood and away to South \A^eald, 

 where in Vicarage Wood hounds got up to their fox. What 

 a crash of music ; death in every note ! Could he leave the 

 covert alive ? 



" Ha ! yet he flies, nor yields 



To black despair. But one loose more, and all 

 His wiles are vain. Hark ! thro' yon village now 

 The rattling clamour rings. The barns, the cots 

 And leafless elms return the joyous sound. 

 Thro' ev'ry home-stall, and thro' ev'ry yard. 

 His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies." 



Weald village was left behind, Rochetts touched and passed 

 ere we left the road, then over several banks, to splash through 

 a ford, and breasting the hill near Dagenham gravel pits, once 

 more swung down to the brook, to view the fox up the root field 

 beyond, with the leading hounds racing to catch and roll him 

 over in the open fifteen yards from the fence. Few faced the 

 brook at the end, for its brown waters swirled viciously between 

 its steep and muddy banks. Many did not get within sight of 

 it, but two ladies at least got over successfully, Miss Morgan 

 and Miss Buxton. One hour and a quarter — hounds must have 



X Mr. Harry Sworder. 



