The Quorn, 69 



every day) are almost indispensable to tlie thorough 

 enjoyment of hunting in Leicestershire. In the 

 crowd and confusion of the morning you are not so 

 hkely to see sport ; but it is all one horse's work to 

 keep moving on with the ruck. In the afternoon 

 there is generally a run — and for this you want a fresh 

 horse. The crowd have gone home ; hounds have a 

 fair chance, and the master has kept his best covert 

 for the evening draw. The sun has disappeared ; the 

 wind, maybe, has fallen ; the glass is rising, and 

 scent is a moral certainty. Your fox is only too ready 

 to go ; hounds get away at his brush ; all the choicest 

 spirits are there, full of ride ; and the country is the 

 Twyford Vale. To be on a tired horse is misery — 

 and perhaps grief to you both. You ought not to 

 ride bad ones at all (at least within hail of Melton) ; 

 but we all get them occasionally, and have to make 

 the best of them — wrapping the secret of their vile- 

 ness in our own breasts. If obliged to bring such an 

 one to the covert side, ride him in the morning. If 

 necessary, trot the brute about the roads, keeping 

 your own counsel, and letting the world think, if it 

 chooses, that you are not so keen and hard as you 

 used to be. The world — at all events the morning 

 world — will not take half as much note of you as you 

 fancy. But, as you value your pleasure (and your 

 reputation), don't ride the said brute in the after- 

 noon. Send him home with a thanksgiving ; and get 

 on your trusty one with a chuckle. He is bold, and 

 swift, and stout. Your heart bounds ; your blood 

 warms ; you feel you are as good as your neighbours; 

 you mutter something in his ear that you would not 



