Last Scene of All. 367 



witness tlie last performance for this season of the 

 Royal Buckhounds. 



The first scene of all is the White Hart at Windsor. 

 My hack is at the door, and the fixture is Maidenhead 

 Thicket. Consequently there is some considerable 

 distance to go to cover — which, by the way, reminds 

 me of a circumstance that occurred on one occasion 

 when riding to the meet of the Queen's on an exceed- 

 ingly dirty morning. My companion, fresh from 

 " County Meath," not wishing to sully the spotless 

 purity of his leathers, or dim the brightness of his 

 exquisitely polished boots, rode gaily along on the 

 footpath. This called down the ire of a newly-elected 

 vestryman, whose attention was arrested by this 

 daring proceeding. 



" Do you know, sir, that you are committing a mis- 

 demeanour, sir ? " he shouted. 



" Faith, and it isn't an idea of the thing that I have. 

 Is it anything like a cauliflower now ? '' was the 

 audacious reply. 



At this moment the horse put his foot in a puddle, 

 splashing the parochial official from head to foot, who 

 stood transfixed with amazement, and speechless with 

 indignation, at the lawless proceeding of this heedless 

 horseman. 



Having mounted my hack, I trot away by the Long 

 Walk, making for Fern Hill and Ascot Racecourse, 

 on my way to the Royal Kennels, which I wished to 

 visit en route to the meet. A sombre sky, more like 

 November than the middle of April, spoiled an other- 

 wise lovely ride ; and had it not been for the chorus 

 of the " plumy people,'' the atmospheric pressure 

 would have kept my spirits below zero. 



