THE UNITED HUNT. 217 



names, unpronounceable though they be to your English readers, 

 of the several townlands over which the varmint led us. After 

 leaving the demesnes of Dundullerick he crossed the fine grass 

 farm of Rathgubbane, to his own great disadvantage, as the * dog- 

 gies ' settled to their work where there could be no mistake. He 

 then held on through Ballyroberts, Rathanigue, Ballinvullin, Bally- 

 nakilla, then across to Kippane, up through Bluebell and Lisurrilla, 

 a long and steep hill, which tried the metal of the nags — some of 

 them not unknown to fame. The fox then descended in a straight 

 line through Ballynandagh and the old Barrymore Park, to the 

 river Bride, where two or three of our select few treated themselves 

 to a cold bath, mistaking one of the deepest reaches on the river 

 for a safe and easy ford, which was close by. When safe across 

 the flooded stream, poor pug was nearly at home, for a quarter of 

 a mile carried him to the rock of Castle Lyons, ' an asylum where 

 foxes for many a gineration have found refuge from their rival per- 

 secuthers,' to use the words of an Irish schoolmaster, who ran out, 

 followed by all his pupils, to see the finish. The said learned 

 person at the same time informed us that one of his * Latinists' — 

 a bit of 'nate timber' to make a scholar of — ran in and thus 

 addressed him in choice Virgilian phrase : — Domine, hie veniunt 

 equites et odora canum vis' which he, the said Domine, as he told us, 

 thus rendered into the vernacular for the benefit of the ' lower 

 class :' — ' Boys, here come the red-coats and the hounds ! — adding 

 to his translation the pleasing note, ' Take a quarther holiday!' 

 We arrived just in time to see wily reynard take * refuge from his 

 rival persecuthers' in one of the caverns under the rock. The 

 pedant's phrase, 'rival persecuthers,' was, to quote another brother 

 of the ferule, ' a most liable, congruent, and measurable applica- 

 tion of the epithet.' I never saw such racing before — from find to 

 finish — the thing was done in a most workmanlike form. There 

 was scarcely a check for a second, and not a cast was made. The 

 line taken was as straight as man and horse could go. The dis- 

 tance, seven miles (Irish) from point to point; time, twenty-eight 

 minutes. Now for a word about the cavalry. In so decisive an 

 aflfair as this there was a fair opportunity of seeing who was the 

 best mounted man, but it would be hard to say which of two bore 

 away the palm. The par nobile were Mr. Fitzgerald on Valentine, 

 the hero of many a well-contested steeplechase ; and Mr. John 

 Barry on Psyche, a small but prime bit of stuff. She won the third 



