THE PROVINCES 



Challenger, and Charmer his progeny, crash 

 out of the wood together, fairly howling with 

 ecstasy as their busy noses meet the rich tufted 

 herbage, dewy, dank, and tainted with the 

 maddening odour that affords such uncontrolled 

 enjoyment. " Harve art him, my lards!" ex- 

 claims old Matthew, in Doric accents, peculiar 

 to the kennel. " Come up, horse ! " and, having 

 admonished that faithful servant with a dig in 

 the ribs from his horn, blows half a dozen shrill 

 blasts in quick succession, sticks the instrument, 

 I shudder to confess it, in his boot, and proceeds 

 to hustle his old white nag at the best pace he 

 can command in the wake of his favourites. 

 " Dang it ! they're off," exclaims a farmer, who 

 had stationed himself on the crest of the hill, 

 diving, at a gallop, down a stony darkling lane, 

 overgrown with alder, brambles, honeysuckle, all 

 the garden produce of uncultivated nature, lush 

 and steaming in decay. The field, consisting of 

 the Squire, three or four strapping yeomen, a 

 parson, and a boy on a pony, follow his 

 example, and making a good turn in the valley, 

 find themselves splashing through a glitter- 

 ing, shallow streamlet, still in the lane, with 

 the hounds not a bowshot from them on the 

 right. 



** And pace ? " inquires young Rapid, when his 

 father describes the run to him on Christmas 



215 



