228 THE HUNTING FIELD 



fatten in droves, while the more sedate and matronly 

 cows graze indolently in groups — hares, pheasants, 

 and partridges run and bask about, with a sort of 

 privileged security — the rabbit warren is alive, and 

 the sedgey sun-bright lakes swarm with fish and wild 

 fowl, and the clear purling stream with beautiful 

 speckled trout. In those paddocks may be seen 

 brood mares and foals, the winners, and expected 

 winners, of our great prizes, while in others the worn- 

 out favourites of the hunting field close 



"A youth of labour with an age of ease." 



Then the stables, the coach-houses, the harness- 

 rooms, the straw-houses, the granaries, with all their 

 concomitants of grooms, coachmen, postilions, helpers, 

 and the out-lying kennels — out-lying, but not too 

 distant for the mellowed notes of the baying pack 

 to fall with the sweet west wind on the listener's ear 

 as he stands at the castle gates. There is nothing 

 sets off, nothing enlivens a place like a pack of hounds. 

 Even in summer they are an object of attraction. 

 How beautiful they look in a morning, passing in- 

 dolently at exercise among the venerable trees and 

 glades of the park, attended by the hatted and purple- 

 coated servants of the hunt, wearing at once the 

 stains and laurels of the bygone year. Even if a 

 great man does not hunt, still a pack of hounds is 

 an ornament and attraction to his place. There is 

 nothing so popular as keeping a pack of hounds. 

 We must all remember the noble example of the 

 Oxford sweep, who recorded his vote for a particular 

 candidate, because, said he, " I unts with the duke." 



That duke, however, we may add, was the Duke 

 of Beaufort, an out-and-out sportsman, one of the 

 most popular men of the day. We have been cudgel- 

 ling our brains and labouring at an imaginary de- 

 scription of a nobleman's establishment, whereas, if 

 we had cast our eyes westward, we should have had 



