The Essex Unioji, 309 



old dog-fox who is on liis travels, the odds are 

 in favour of his giving you a clinker. The best 

 sport I ever had was from the Pytchley and Fitz- 

 william Woodlands at the close of the season, in the 

 days when old " Tom Sebright ^^ held the horn of the 

 latter crack pack. 



Up with the morning early, I made my way to 

 Stamford Street, where Mr. George Cox had promised 

 to have a nag in readiness ; and I found on arrival a 

 well-bred grey horse at my disposal, which subse- 

 quently proved to be as handy as a lady^s maid, and 

 as resolute and determined to get over a difficulty as 

 a Russian diplomatist is to break through a treaty. 

 Well, after all, there is nothing like determination, 

 whether it is shown in riding to hounds or bamboo- 

 zling and defeating an enemy. It is your shilly-shally 

 fellow that comes a cropper in the one case or turns 

 tail in the other. A short run of half an hour landed 

 me at the Romford Station, and then a ride of three 

 or four miles brought me to the Bell at Upminster, the 

 meet of the Essex Union Foxhounds. By the way they 

 have a pleasant habit in the vicinity of Romford of 

 allowing traction engines to wander about at will 

 along the highways and byeways, puffing, snort- 

 ing, priming, and otherwise disporting themselves in- 

 decorously, as they toil clumsily along the public 

 thoroughfares. A reckless proceeding is this, and 

 one that cannot fail to lead to mischief. I do not 

 speak in my own interest, as my horse stood fire 

 like a " Salamander," and I am not likely to travel 

 that way very often, but on behalf of the unwary 

 traveller, who, emerging from the railway station, with 

 a horse trembling with the excitement, noise, and 



