E. G. 147 



5, a licavy one at <S.oO, perhaps early to nap, and late to 

 bed — " Oh," as the ex-guardsman exclaimed regretfully 

 of his " liquor-and-cards days," " them was times ! " 

 And this is how they do it now-a-days. 



Having described all this, with a breadth of touch, a 

 depth of intimacy, and a license of foncy that are 

 altogether denied to the correspondent who makes one 

 of the daily party, and whose utmost indulgence must at 

 least be within the bounds allowed by the kindly good 

 fellowship that allows him to do his work at all — the 

 casual sketcher might employ a page of his book in 

 •depicting a view that, backed by the striking and historic 

 mound of the Coplow, appeals to the not-unromantic eye 

 of the sportsman as powerfully as any scrap of scenery in 

 the shire of Shires. With the holloa from across the 

 -valley, sending forth an outlying fox into the very midst 

 of the camp followers spread out over the park — his pen 

 and that of the weekly journalist must travel in the same 

 practical groove, and move onward, more or less soberly, 

 together. This hapless fox started with none of the 

 honours of war or circumstance of sport. No hero of a 

 gallant light was he to be — no glorious victim whose 

 ■every relic should be counted a worthy troph}' — though 

 his heart may have been as courageous and his limbs as 

 stout as those of any traveller that ever defied the Quorn. 

 He woke in his stubblefield to find liimself face to face 

 with some noisy varlet, bethought him at once of Bag- 

 grave or Ashby Pastures or other distant refuge, and 

 pointed thither — only to be pounced upon in Quenby 

 Park by as fierce and persistent a colley dog as ever 



