150 THE HUNTING-FIELD. 



drab kind of sliooting jacket, instead of the 

 pink. That is Mr. or Jack Fearon, one of tlie 

 crack riders here, and would be the same every- 

 where. He is a better bred one than one in ten 

 of those out ; his father was a private gentleman ; 

 Jack was educated at Rugby^, but for some cause 

 inherited one thousand instead of twenty, which 

 he expected j he took a small farm here, and also 

 took a Avife, as well bred as himself. From a 

 hundred acres he now farms eight hundred ; but 

 the slights he underwent in his commencement 

 live fresh in his memory ; his doors are shut to 

 those who now would enter them and be his 

 friends. Keeping such far oif, he is too proud to wear 

 scarlet, lest it might be thought he was wishing 

 to become one of those who once slighted him. I 

 have the pleasure of the entree to his house, where 

 everything speaks of the gentleman ; he is cour- 

 teous to all, but holds them at the distance they 

 formerly did him; his only friends are the two 

 parsons we have seen, and the master of the pack, 

 every dog of wdiich he knows as well as the 

 huntsman. Be the country rough or smooth, the 

 drab jacket is among the first. You see three 

 coming up together; they are officers from the 

 barracks, and, as you now see, by the friendly 

 mutual recognition, are friends of Fearon^s. He 

 is rather an extraordinary man, and though sin- 

 gularly mild in manners, he is a bold man who 



