1877—78.] THE WHISSENDINE. 209 



THE WHISSENDINE. 



The feature of the week — perhaps the run of the season, 

 certaml}^ the event of November, '77 — was the run of Saturday- 

 last, the 17th ; so let all else stand over, and minor chronicles 

 remain untold, till at least in sober black and white shall be 

 written the story that memory's pages alone may carry in 

 befitting letters of red. 



Stapleford Park has various coverts, copses, and sj)innies ; 

 but the best-known and staunchest of them all is Laxton's 

 Covert. Thence we started for this fine gallop ; thence have 

 we seen many a sterling chase before, and thence may we hope 

 to see their like again — at least, so long as Major Claggett 

 can give us foxes gallant and bold as the one we galloped to 

 death to-day, and the one that the Cottesmore bitches so fairly 

 ran into in the open in March last. 



Bearing in mind that readers at a distance are as a thousand 

 to one against those in the neighbourhood of the scene, and 

 hundreds to one even against those who have ever been on the 

 spot, the best endeavours of my humble pen shall be given to 

 render the story clear. 



Some half-dozen miles from Melton, then, and on a slight 

 eminence lies Laxton's Covert — a most snug little gorse, half 

 encircled and wholly hidden by sheltering pine trees. Below 

 it runs the famous Whissendine — a name with which every 

 hunting man is femiliar, as linked with deeds of the past and 

 with men hke Lord Forester, Lord Waterford, and a generation 

 of hard riders, of whom only Captain Ross and Lord Wilton 

 survive, but whom Nimrod, Aiken, and Ackerman have im- 

 mortalised for us and our descendants. All around is classic 

 ground ; and in the arena embraced within the points of 

 Woodwell Head, Cottesmore, Ranksboro', and Melton every 

 square yard of turf has sprung to the gallop of Giants of the 

 past, of whose deeds we still speak reverently : 



