CHAPTER III 



" WHiile crowded theatres^ too fondly proud 

 Of their exotic minstrels, and shrill pipes. 

 The price of manhood, hail thee with a song. 

 And airs soft warbling ; my hoarse-sounding horn 

 Invites thee to the chase, the sport of kings ; 

 Image of war, without its guilt." — Somerville. 



In the stag-hunting days of which I am speaking, among the 

 members of my hunt, the late Colonel Standen, of the Guards, 

 was one of the foremost of the first flight of riders over a country. 

 On Pilgrim, and on a compact chestnut horse of his, whose name 

 I forget, nothing could beat him. In saving a deer, too, he never 

 spared himself, and he would at any moment go into the water, 

 when a deer had taken soil, and was in danger of being drowned 

 by the hounds. I shall not in a hun-y forget his having gone into 

 a pond up to his chin, when a little finnicking man, who had 

 out with him a pocket-flask of brandy, came up and tendered 

 him " a sip." My gallant friend thanked him, and applying the 

 small flask to his lips began to turn up the end of it, while the 

 civil Httle man, who wanted at least a sip for himself, continued 

 a series of saltations, as male opera-dancers may be seen to do 

 when the sylph coyly holds aloft a flower, in a vain endeavour 

 to recover a timely possession. I remember Colonel Standen, 

 and a Mr. Smith, from Hanwell, then I think both on chestnut 

 horses, going beautifully together, in one of the fastest things I 

 ever knew, over the Harrow Vale, and cutting everybody else 

 down. Mr. Peyton was also very good. The late Mr. William 

 Locke ; Colonel Kingscote, as a heavy weight ; and, though last 



