THE FIEST AND LAST HOUNDS 

 IN ENGLAND. 



Boreas first, Eurus second, Favonius third, and the 

 rest nowhere — myself included — was the result of the 

 race with the elements, for which I was entered for the 

 last week in March. Yes, beaten on the post by a 

 savage north wind — a bitter, biting blast — " that tells 

 the plovers when to scatter o^er the heath and sing 

 their wild notes to the listening waste,^^ dries up the 

 earth, "and in its mid career arrests the bickering 

 stream,^^ kills the scent, and renders hunting for the 

 while impracticable. 



The best laid plans of " men and mice off gang 

 agley.^^ So did mine on this occasion, for my well- 

 considered intentions were frustrated. I proposed to 

 have a day with the Baron, and a gallop across the 

 Vale of Aylesbury, having written to Sir Nathaniel 

 Rothschild to ascertain the fixtures for the present 

 week. In due course I received a very courteous but 

 disappointing reply to the effect that " Baron Roths- 

 child's Staghounds would not go out any more this 

 season^ owing to the hard state of the ground." The 

 same post brought me a somewhat similar reply to an 

 inquiry respecting the Belvoir, from my hard-riding 

 and cheerful companion in the chase, Mr. Jos. Wilders, 

 whose bruising propensities across country are well 

 known, and whose preference for stiff flights of posts 

 and rails makes him an exceedingly awkward customer 



