54 THE HUNTING FIELD 



by. When their waning day arrives, may some abler 

 pen portray their merits. 



The Huntsman of our Analysis is one of the old 

 school ; his father was Huntsman before him, his 

 sons now whip in to him. He has neither read Beck- 

 ford "On Hunting," nor Nimrod on "Condition of 

 Hunters," but he can kill a fox with any man going, 

 and turn out his horse in as good condition as the 

 best. He carries his library in his head — experience. 

 Look at the old boy as he sits astride his glossy, 

 well-conditioned black, his venerable gray locks pro- 

 truding beneath his new black cap, his spic and span 

 coat, his fortieth scarlet, with the stout drab breeches 

 and mahogany tops. He sits on his horse as if he 

 were a part of him. Old Will is our Huntsman's 

 name. He most likely has another, but we never 

 heard him called by anything else, and possibly he 

 may have forgotten his surname himself. Old Will 

 and young Will and Will junior (or sweet Will, as the 

 girls call the young one, who is a bachelor), are the 

 trio now moving the hounds about on the bright green 

 sward, for Will, though no painter, knows that there 

 is nothing like a dark background for setting off 

 colours to advantage. How quiet he is with the 

 hounds ! He gives them their fling, too, instead of 

 having them cowering under his horse's legs to avoid 

 the sting of the W T hipper-in's lash, but a gentle " here 

 again" with a slight wave of the hand, brings the 

 outsiders frolicking back to his call. How much 

 better than the noisy, bullying clamour of idiot boys, 

 showing off, by the loudness of their rates, the 

 severity of their cuts, and the thrashing of their 

 horses. 



There isn't a gap, or a gate, or a hole in the wall 

 in the country, that Old Will does not know, and 

 that he hasn't been over or through a hundred times. 

 Time has slackened his leaping powers, but he is a 

 capital hand at screwing through awkward places, 



