The Sport of Our Jincestors 



the huntsman ; he might as well say so to the sun. During 

 the time we have been speaking of, all the field have been 

 awake — gloves put on — cigars thrown away — the bridle- 

 reins gathered well up into the hand, and hats pushed down 

 upon the brow. 



At this interesting period a Snob,^ just arrived from a 

 very rural country, and unknown to any one, but determined 

 to witness the start, gets into a conspicuous situation. 

 ' Come away, sir ! ' holloas the master (little suspecting that 

 the Snob may be nothing less than one of the Quarterly 

 Reviewers ^) ; ' what mischief are you doing there ? Do you 

 think you can catch the fox ? ' A breathless silence ensues. 

 At length a whimper is heard in the cover — like the voice 

 of a dog in a dream : it is Flourisher,^ and the Squire cheers 

 him to the echo. In an instant a hound challenges — and 

 another — and another. 'Tis enough. ' Tallyho I ' cries a 

 countryman in a tree. * He 's gone,' exclaims Lord 

 Alvanley : and, clapping his spurs to his horse, in an instant 

 is in the front rank. 



As all good sportsmen would say, ' 'Ware hounds ! ' 

 cries Sir Harry Goodricke. * Give them time,' exclaims 

 Mr. John Moore. ' That 's right,' says Mr. Osbaldeston, 

 * spoil your own sport as usual.' * Go along ^ roars out 



1 We know nothing of the derivation of the word ' Snob,' unless it be in 

 contradistinction to Nob ; it is certainly not a classical one, but either that or 

 Tiger is too often applied to a total stranger who ventures to show himself in 

 the ' swell countries ' as they are called. 



2 This essay originally appeared in the ' Quarterly Review.^ 



^ A noted finder, now in Mr. Osbaldeston 's pack. 



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