1880—81.] A EUN UNSEEN. 335 



certainly in covert. Tlieir fox turned westward at once, and 

 ran the deep rides tlie whole length of the wood. There was 

 nothing to stop hounds ; but there was mire, and claj', and 

 water, bogs, and holes to hinder you, however doggedly and 

 desperately you plunged on, thankful if 3'ou could but catch a 

 glimpse of the j-earguard of the pack swinging round the corner 

 of a ride. INIen who had dashed through the wood, and even 

 turned immediately parallel with the hounds, were in no better 

 plight. They had to make a considerable detour to begin 

 with ; they had to open a dozen gates along the edge of the 

 wood, and they then had to wade along a deep muddy lane as 

 stickey as an}' of the rides inside. To make a long story 

 short, no one succeeded in reaching the extreme end of Owston 

 "Wood (towards Whadborough Hill) as quick as the hounds — 

 except two visitors from Ireland, Lord Cloncurry and Mr. 

 Clinton, who had fouglit their way through the wood, onl}- to 

 issue with blown horses, utterly unable to cope with the stiff 

 succession of timber and ox fences that opposed them. So 

 they were compelled to put up with the sight of the pack 

 fleeting swiftly away like a dream in the distance. Round the 

 outside of the covert ]\Ir. Harter appeared just in time to catch 

 sight of a tail hound or two struggling over the second grass}' 

 slope ; but before he could jump out of the road and climb the 

 first, even these guiding stars were lost to view, and all after- 

 wards was blind darkness and hateful disappointment. Mr. 

 Tailby, the Messrs. Gosling, Sir Bache Cunard, and Neal and- 

 Goddard, are none of them likely men to be left behind at 

 Owston Wood, under ordinary circumstances. But here they 

 were, with a dozen others, equally keen and ready, galloping 

 wildly over the country without a beacon, with scarcely a 

 notion, to guide them. And such a country ! That's where 

 half the bitterness lies. Let me finish my tale, and forget it. 

 A grander, sounder, fairer extent of grass does not exist than 

 that between Owston, Marfield, Burrough, and Somerby. It 

 is as much finer, freer, and in every way superior to ordinary 

 ten-acre pasturage as the blue swell of the Atlantic is to the 



