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being Messrs. Oswald, Middlcton, and Baird. Mr. Wallace 

 here loosing the scent, went a little out of the way, but 

 getting on the line again a slashing finish took place, the 

 riders arriving in the following order: — Mr. W. Baird, Mr. 

 Wallace, Captain Middleton, Mr. Oswald, Mr, C. Cunninghame, 

 Mr. Cockburn, and Mr. Dykes. Young Mr. Dick M'Farlane 

 went well throughout. Mr. Cockburn, when going well, 

 was cannoned against near the finish, and fell. The Clydesdale 

 beagles have had some good spins, but have been unfortunate 

 in not bringing many hares to hand, owing a good deal to the 

 boisterous state of the weather, and there being so many 

 hares in a good deal of the country, causing so many changes. 

 They also finished their season with a short steeple-chase at 

 the Mearns Muir, where, I am informed, Mr. John Buchanan 

 had the best of it. I have not heard from Cox, Lord 

 Eglinton's huntsman, but I understand he has killed over eighty 

 brace of foxes. The old coat may now be hung up for the 

 season, and I may put past my favourite pen with which I 

 have had the pleasure of describing so many capital runs this 

 season. As old "Jorrocks" says, "Summer is now drawing 

 on, at least it ought to, if its a comin' at all, leavin' us a 

 long season of repose to contemplate the past and speculate 

 on the future — that uncertain future to which we all look 

 forward with such presumptuous certainty ! Oh, my beloved 

 hearers, summer is a dreadful time. Whoever talked of the 

 winter of our discontent talked like an insane man and no 

 sportsman ! I knows no more melancholic ceremony than 

 takin' the string out of one's 'at at the end of the season, 

 foldin' hup and puttin' away the old red rag — a rag unlike 

 all other rags, the dearer and more valuable the older and 

 more worthless it becomes." I hardly agree with the cele- 

 brated Mr. J., however, as every sport has its season, and 

 can be enjoyed by all true sportsmen. 



' ' Though midnight her dark f roTvning mantle is spreading, 

 Yet Time flies unheeded where Bacchus resides ; 

 Fill, fill, then, your glasses, his power never dreading. 

 And drink to the hounds o'er which Buchanan presides. 



