The Sport of Our <^ncestors 



one gentleman's horse is to be seen resting, nearly balanced, 

 across one of them, his rider being on his back in the ditch, 

 which is on the landing side. ' Who is he ? ' says Lord 

 Brudenel to Jack Stevens. ' Can't tell, my lord ; but I 

 thought it was a queerish place when I came o'er it before 

 him.' It is evidently a case of peril, but the pace is too good 

 to afford help. 



Up to this time * Snob ' has gone quite in the first flight ; 

 the * Dons ' begin to eye him, and, when an opportunity 

 offers, the question is asked — ' Who is that fellow on the 

 little bay horse .^ ' * Don't know him,' says Mr. Little 

 Gilmour (a fourteen-stone Scotchman, by-the-by), ganging 

 gallantly to his hounds. ' He can ride,' exclaims Lord 

 Rancliffe. * A tip-top provincial, depend upon it,' added 

 Lord Plymouth, going quite at his ease on a thorough-bred 

 nag, three stone above his weight, and in perfect racing 

 trim. Animal nature, however, will cry * enough,' how 

 good soever she may be, if unreasonable man press her 

 beyond the point. The line of scent lies right athwart a 

 large grass ground (as a field is termed in Leicestershire), 

 somewhat on the ascent ; abounding in ant-hills, or hillocks, 

 peculiar to old grazing land, and thrown up by the plough 

 some hundred years since, into rather high ridges, with 

 deep, holding furrows between each. The fence at the 

 top is impracticable — Meltonice, ' a stoper ' ; nothing for it 

 but a gate, leading into a broad green lane, high and strong, 

 with deep slippery ground on each side of it. ' Now for 

 the timber-jumper,' cries Osbaldeston, pleased to find 

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