A SKETCH OF THE BLACKMORE VALE 349 



Whatever tlie day may have been elsewhere, in the Black- 

 more Vale there was a tropical sun but a cool south- 

 westerly breeze. And scent upon the grass was firm ; 

 though directly hounds struck a road there came a dead 

 stop — as, let us say, of an editor's blue pencil across 

 wordy manuscript. 



Mr. Merthyr Guest had met at Sandley Tunnel Head, 

 on the highland overlooking the Vale, into which he at 

 once descended in order to draw Nyland, the Ranks- 

 borough Gorse of the Hunt in question. But the sport 

 of the day came from Fifehead, a covert of the Master's 

 just under the hill. It was close upon 2.30 when a fox was 

 viewed thence ascending the upland. " The worst direc- 

 tion he could have chosen ! " quoth one who had kindly 

 taken upon himself the post of cicerone to the wandering 

 scribe. Yes, but the horn of the huntsman was gaily 

 tuning below ; and, while screams resounded southward 

 proclaiming yet a third fox away, the field dashed round 

 the covert in ardent search of the pack. Two meadows 

 and two gates, two tail hounds, now we had a clue, and 

 now we sat down to gain position, your humble and timid 

 investigator enjoying, as ever when called upon to ride a 

 strange country, sensations wholly similar to those of a 

 wretched urchin forced for the first time out of a bathing- 

 machine. I had, I knew, a bit of the blood of Tipperary 

 beneath me, though how much *he might have learned 

 before leaving his native land I could only guess from his 

 honourable aversion to falling in Northamptonshire. To 

 a bathing-machine, if I remember right, there is invariably 

 a rope, and a rope I ever seek and clutch eagerly on such 

 similar occasion as the present, finding it in the form 

 either of the huntsman or of some expert equally con- 

 versant with the proper method of crossing the country. 

 Here a loose and flying coat, surmounting an equally flying 

 grey, at once took my fancy ; and in hot haste I made after 

 the combination, steering as best I could, or as best young 

 Tipperary could help me, across the cut trenches that serve 

 in due course to irrigate water-meadows. The banks were 

 fair and sound, perhaps six feet high at most, varying to 

 one foot at least. 



