356 Tally ho. 



papers, and '^ c^rect cards ^' — whicli are strewed about 

 in all directions, whilst a melancholy, tenantless, 

 weather-beaten structure is all that remains of that 

 which, but a few hours since, was the grand stand, 

 thronged with the elite of the county, and the distin- 

 guished visitors from Belvoir Castle, bright as a 

 blooming parterre with the radiant costumes adorning 

 the gathering of youth and beauty assembled beneath 

 its roof. 



Then, as I remember that it is a thoroughly well- 

 authenticated fact that all that^s bright must fade, 

 I draw the whip across my willing steed, and hasten 

 to join the gay and festive throng who, failing racing, 

 are content to enjoy a final day^s hunting. In the 

 centre of the park, on a grassy knoll, stands Frank 

 Gillard, the huntsman of the Belvoir, mounted on his 

 well-known grey horse, with the beautiful pack of 

 hounds, some stretched on the grass, others roaming 

 about, but confined within due bounds by watchful 

 eyes and ready whips. A prettier sight it would not 

 be easy to imagine, especially to a lover of hunting, 

 for no more beautiful hounds are to be seen than 

 those of his Grace the Duke of Rutland. For even- 

 ness of size, beauty of condition, and richness of 

 colour, they may challenge comparison with any pack 

 in the kingdom ; there may be many others faster, 

 stouter, and more resolute, according to the require- 

 ments of the country they hunt, but there are none 

 I have ever seen that excel them in appearance ; and 

 the sport they have shown during the past season 

 goes far to prove that their performance does not 

 fall far short of their promise. Emerging from his 

 carriage, his Grace proceeds to examine a well-made 



