2 THE HUNTING FIELD 



for the absence of summer altogether, if we could but enlarge 

 the operations of the pack. Well, however, " Here we are 

 again ! " as Mr. Merryman exclaims, as he bounds into the 

 circle. "Here we are again!" Another month, and the 

 season will be in its pride. Let us indulge the pleasures of 

 anticipation by giving our mind's-eye a canter round the 



hunting field. 



First comes the Master— punctual as Masters should be. 

 His clever grey hack has scarce turned a hair, though he has 

 come no end of distance within the hour, while the rider as he 

 enters the field drops the reins, and, raising his hat, wipes the 

 slight perspiration from his brow with a stout bandana, show- 

 ing the thinning hair of his crown, and the slightly shot grey of 

 forty, or five-and-forty years. But look what health is on his 

 brow. Fine clear complexion, light bright eye, full lip, white 

 teeth, steady unshaken hand of early hours, strong exercise, 

 and sobriety. We have seen many older men at thirty. 



Our Master looks the sportsman all over : neat, we may 

 almost say smart ; but not the smartness that is afraid of dirt. 

 No dandified satin or French polish flimsy finery is here ; all is 

 stout, warm, and weather-defying. The good heavy hat (caps 

 for gentlemen we abhor) would resist a deluge, or one of 1845 

 summer's rains, the round-cut single-breasted red coat, con- 

 fined by one button, across the step-collared toilanette striped 

 waistcoat, is made of strong double-milled cloth; the roomy 

 breeches are of broadish striped cord, not exactly white, but 

 what will scour to white ; and the well put on boots are made 

 ot that comfortable-looking leather that tells to the eye how 

 soft they sit to the wearer's foot. But mark ; they are not 

 jacks-h^.ng your jacks, say we ! ditto your Napoleons ; ditto 

 your cab-head leather fisherman's, with mouths gaping like 

 young rooks, and which seem capable of carrying half the 

 wearer's wardrobe, along with his legs. Give us the good old 

 top— the top that neither degenerates into affectation by its 



