70 THE BEST SEASON ON EECORD. 



wind — wliIcL, or as mucli of it as prudence will allow, is 

 foini 1 to be exhausted after another half mile. The 

 rector of Stonesby, scarcely needing this encouragement, 

 drops his chestnut in turn into the pit, and he too 

 scrambles up the bank without a hill. The huntsman's 

 bay mare does equally well for herself and rider; but 

 also does quite her share in churning up the quagmire. 

 Capt. Smith is down ; M. Descharaps is not ; Mr. Pen- 

 nington falls ; Mr. Brocklehurst keeps his legs, and so 

 does Capt. Ashton. One after another now they come 

 rolling over — each casualty conducing to the next — the 

 crowd fuming and fretting almost in silence (we are 

 gentle in our savagery in "Leicestershire) — and hounds 

 are fleeting far away. To avoid the choking breach, 

 Mr. Fred. Gosling turns over the side fence ; and, over- 

 grown and untempting as the gully seems in its upward 

 course, he finds it after all much easier than where the 

 crowd is hindering itself The same result attends the 

 efforts of other searchers lower down. But all this, 

 direct and indirect, unavoidable and part of a chapter of 

 accidents, is taking time— time that cannot be regained, 

 till all the object of recovering it is gone — time that, as 

 distinct from hurry, constitutes the economy, indeed the 

 basis of riding a gallop to hounds. Meanwhile there are 

 now thirteen cou})le a full half mile ahead — speeding 

 onward like the brief moments that have to counter- 

 balance and quicken the many dull days of existence. 

 Forrard, you beauties ! Life is happiness while we 

 can hang on your skirts o'er the merry green grass. 

 " Open the gate, sir, if you can ; or take the young 



