280 THE CREAM OF LEICESTERSHIRE. [Season 



and horses are sent through the two next fiehls to mamtain 

 their honour and pronounce their pedigi'ee. You and Perfection, 

 reader, make nothing of it ; but skim into the gi'ass bej'ond to 

 take easy note of thmgs as .they go. You may cap on the tail- 

 hounds : you may cheer Captain Jacohson and the good brown 

 as they draw up to the leaders ; and you may cry Forrard to 

 Mr. Harter and his contingent as they strike the grass in 

 l)ursuit. You will note how, right and left, the front now 

 extends fiill four hundred yards broad. Hounds are streaming 

 up a hedgerow a field to the right of the "NVhissendinc and 

 Stapleford road. Captain Jacohson leads the van, jumping 

 fence for fence in theii- wake. Mr. Harter, on his strong bay, 

 rides next, with Mr. Beaumont on one of his neat thorough- 

 breds, giving him just time to land fairly over each leap. Mr. 

 Leatham is allowing some three stone to the last named, and 

 has nothing like the *' quality " under him, but he drives 

 forward with a detennination that almost defies weight. And 

 right forward among this central group Mrs, Molyneux glides 

 along — doing as full justice to Lord Grey de Wilton's silver- 

 tailed brown as even his bold owner could have done. Lord 

 Manners is well up ; and Mr. Clayton is riding a splendid old 

 steei>lechaser. 



Captain Ashton on the right is as forward as anyone, and is 

 pioneer to a strong following on that side. Parallel again on 

 the left are Lord [Helmsley, Caj^tain Brocklehurst, and Mr. 

 Flower ; and hitting off" the road alongside are Neal, Colonel 

 Forester, Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Chaplin (he on a stout good bay, 

 she on the black Onyx), and half a dozen others — galloping 

 their best on the hard level, yet unable to gain a yard on 

 hounds. You may glance round to the crash of the new ash 

 palisades. The breakage is none of Lord Carington's. The 

 old horse (once the best of his Melton stud) retains at least his 

 talent for timber ; and, blown as he is, leaves no leg behind 

 him ; but the next comer smashes all before him for the public 

 weal. Every fence takes more and more jumping : the pace is 

 awful ; even the turf is fetlock deep ; and each furrow sucks 



