30 STAG-HUNTING ON EXMOOR, 



Here we have a veritable picture of the old days — 

 Courtenay Walrond, Esquire, and his brother and his 

 steward starting oft" before even the early September 

 day had dawned, in long frock, boot and spur. Did 

 they go to bed on the previous night? Was it their 

 first or twenty -first draught of ale that they drained 

 before they set out bravely mounted, attended by 

 several servants (doubtless all a-yawn), which had 

 horses. What were those horses ? Were they for 

 master or men ? and why did Courtenay Walrond 

 take nine hours on the road to the woods — not above 

 twenty miles ? Did the party lose its way in the dark- 

 ness ? Did they all go to sleep, men from weariness, 

 masters from beeriness ? or did they all stop at some 

 half-way house ? Alas ! history telleth not. But they 

 reached the meet, and doubtless bowed low to the 

 great Sir Thomas when they met him and his pack of 

 tall, solemn, heavy hounds. We can see the couples 

 taken off by an eager whipper-in at Sir Thomas's 

 word ; the old harbourer, ragged and mysterious, 

 repeating his tale ; the selection of a couple or so of 

 steady tufters ; and the harbourer finally showing the 

 slot of the deer. We can hear the great hounds open- 

 ing on the line, and the ringing " Tally" that greets 

 a view of the finest stag that ever was seen. Sir 



