The Sport of Our Ancestors 



have been pressed upon by the horses, and have rather 

 overrun the scent. ' What a pity ! ' says one. ' What a 

 shame ! ' cries another ; alluding, perhaps, to a young one, 

 v^ho would and could have gone faster. * You may thank 

 yourselves for this,' exclaims Osbaldeston, well up at the 

 time, Ashton ^ looking fresh ; but only fourteen men of the 

 two hundred are to be counted ; all the rest coming. At 

 one blast of the horn, the hounds are back to the point at 

 which the scent has failed. Jack Stevens being in his place 

 to turn them. ' Yo doit ! Pcistime^^ says the Squire, as 

 she feathers her stern down the hedge-row, looking more 

 beautiful than ever. She speaks ! ' Worth a thousand, by 

 Jupiter ! ' cries John White, looking over his left shoulder, 

 as he sends both spurs into Buxton, delighted to see only 

 four more of the field are up. Our Snob, however, is 

 amongst them. He has ' gone a good one,' and his counte- 

 nance is expressive of delight, as he urges his horse to his 

 speed to get again into a front place. 



The pencil of a painter is now wanting ; and unless the 

 painter should be a sportsman, even his pencil would be 

 worth little. What a country is before him ! — what a 

 panorama does it represent ! Not a field of less than forty — 

 some a hundred — acres, and no more signs of the plough 

 than in the wilds of Siberia. See the hounds in a body 

 that might be covered by a damask table-cloth — every stern 

 down, and every head up, for there is no need of stooping, 



^ Mr. Osbaldeston sold Ashton to Lord Plymouth for four hundred guineas, 

 after having ridden him six seasons. 



1 68 



