CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



There they go — prince and peer, baronet and squire 

 — the nobility and gentry of England, the flower of 

 the men of the earth, each on such a steed as Pollux 

 never reined, nor Philip's warlike son — for could we 

 imagine Bucephalus here, ridden by his own tamer, 

 Alexander would be thrown out during the very first 

 burst, and glad to find his way dismounted to a vil- 

 lage alehouse for a pail of meal and water. Hedges, 

 trees, groves, gardens, orchards, woods, farmhouses, 

 huts, halls, mansions, palaces, spires, steeples, towers, 

 and temples, all go wavering by, each demigod seeing, 

 or seeing them not, as his winged steed skims or la- 

 bours along, to the swelling or sinking music, now 

 loud as a near regimental band, now faint as an echo. 

 Far and wide over the country are dispersed the scar- 

 let runners — and a hundred villages pour forth their 

 admiring swarms, as the main current of the chase 

 roars by, or disparted runlets float wearied and all 

 astray, lost at last in the perplexing woods. Crash 

 goes the top-timber of the five-barred gate — away 

 ov^er the ears flies the ex-rough-rider in a surprising 

 somerset — after a succession of stumbles, down is the 

 gallant Grey on knees and nose, making sad work 

 among the fallow — Friendship is a fine thing, and 

 the story of Damon and Pythias most affecting in- 

 deed — but Pylades eyes Orestes on his back sorely 

 drowned in sludge, and tenderly leaping over him as 

 [46] 



