1878—79. THE PUNCHBOWL RUN. 281 



like quagmii'e. As the cliase passes the right of Whissendine 

 village tlie front closes up, and crosses a road at almost a 

 single point. The stream of the dreaded Whissendine is here 

 but a 3'oung and easy brook ; and better still, there is a useful 

 open bridge. 



Flying onwards hounds are pointing for Ranksboro'. In 

 the dim fog you can just discern their darting forms ; but you 

 have better guidance in the black coats of the two leading 

 horsemen, and the hogmane tells you that the pink at their 

 heels can only be Mr. Lowther. In the hurry of such moments 

 the eye catches and retains memory of horses rather than of 

 men. The incident, the action belongs to the horses : the 

 riders are for the time but ciphers in your notice. You mark 

 well what horse is galloping alongside or j)ast you, jou know 

 what horse springs the fence before or beside you ; and you 

 judge how you are holding your own or losing ground by the 

 striding forms that your eye can include, though fixed intent 

 on 3'our own difficult course. 



The terrible strain of the past twenty minutes is beginning 

 to tell its tale. There is rapping and scrambling over the 

 timbered corner next the Whissendine ; there is choking and 

 sobbing and stopping when another hill top brings a deep seed 

 field. I could say whose career found its check in a ditch 

 bottom ; and I could tell whose chesnut could be driven no 

 more. There is shouting at each gap such as in Meatli is the 

 usual accompaniment to the ash plant down the shoulder, but 

 in Leicestershire is only heard in direst extremity. A dozen 

 men are together now ; and few of them care about the stifi" rails 

 scraped by Neal's gre}-. 



A long black belt of trees — 25 minutes by the watch — where 

 are we ? It is the Fishpond Spinney of Cold Overton. Surely 

 25 minutes never passed more quickly, evolved more incident, 

 or contained a more exciting struggle ! Panting, steaming 

 horses, flushed and perspii'ing men, flanks heaving, faces 

 beaming — distress and happiness brightly commingled. Besides 

 those with whose names I have ah*eady made free, there were 



