FOX-HUNTING 



red bog-moss, which is meant as a fair warning to 

 all who know the winter-garden. 



'However I am no worse off than my neighbours. 

 Here we are, ten valiant men, all bogged together ; 

 and who knows how deep the peat may be? 



** I jump off and lead, considering that a horse 

 plus a man weighs more than a horse alone ; so 

 do one or two more. The rest plunge bravely on, 

 whether because of their hurry, or like Child Waters 

 in the Ballad, **for fyling of their feet." 



* However **all things do end," as Caryle pithily 

 remarks somewhere in his French Revolution; and 

 so does this bog. I wish this gallop would end 

 too. How long have we been going? There is no 

 time to take out a watch ; but I fancy the mare 

 flags : I am sure my back aches with standing in 

 my stirrups. I become desponding. I am sure I 

 shall never see this fox killed ; sure I shall not 

 keep up five minutes longer ; sure I shall have a 

 fall soon ; sure I shall ruin the mare's fetlocks in 

 the ruts. I am bored. I wish it was all over, and 

 I safe at home in bed. Then why do I not stop? 

 I cannot tell. That thud, thud, thud, through moss 

 and mire has become an element of my being, a 

 temporary necessity, and go I must. I do not ride 

 the mare ; the Wild Huntsman, invisible to me, 

 rides her ; and I, like Burger's Lenore, am carried 

 on in spite of myself, ** tramp, tramp, along the 

 land, splash, splash, along the sea." ' 



47 



