THE HANDBOOK OF THE CHASE.

BY THE EDITOR.

(Continued from page 140.)

Melton is the acknowledged capital of fox-hunting-the high place wherein the virgin goddess is worshipped with an idolatry of which her disciples at Ephesus had no idea, and with an orthodoxy that will hardly be understood by after-ages. The progress of that elixir of all sports was indeed but slow at first; but, of a verity, it was sure. In the reign of the mighty Meynell it was thought good work to take the field three times a week; while in the autocracy of his great successor, Osbaldeston, what with the contrivance of a second pack of hounds for afternoon foxes, and other devices of a similar character, distilled from the imaginations of the "fast," it may be set down that, on occasion, the Quorn country was hunted at the rate of twelve days a week. To be sure, Meynell had but a couple of subscribers to his hounds; while, of those that came after him, some have had a couple of thousand followers of them-though, perhaps, they might have overlooked the precaution of subscribing. According to modern authorities, the crack countries consist of the Melton, the Belvoir, the Cottesmore, and the Pytchley. We will deal with the former of these in the present chapter.

Leicestershire is the metropolitan country; I don't mean in the Cockney interpretation of the term, but as the rendezvous of the élite of hunting men. Northamptonshire has been declared, by the best judges that ever adjudicated in the chase, the most perfect in the world. for hounds; it is, moreover, especially remarkable, for the provincial characteristics of its fields. The Quorn and the Pytchley hunts, then, may be regarded as the Lords and Commons of the Parliament of Diana; they are the two chief public countries, and we will so deal with them. The local revolution brought about by the institution of railways as modes of transit has of course materially affected the economy of the chase, as well as everything else. Now-adays people of all tastes and pursuits make London their head quarters during the winter months, to the threatened annihilation of the race of squires. Your lord of the manor now sets up some preterfect lord mayor in his stead, and himself in Hyde Park Gardens. Should he desire a day's shooting, he's in the heart of his Norfolk preserves a couple of hours after his breakfast in St. James's; or if he would hunt, the space of time necessary for conning over his morning paper carries him from May Fair to Melton Spinny. No doubt the epicurean epoch at Melton has passed away; the days in which open house was declared by every man with a roof over his head (having first collapsed into a short era of exclusive hospitality and aristocratic cotericism) are no more. The

chase is not the rosy-gilled, boon companion he was wont, when the set that shall go down to posterity as the worthies of the fox-hunting age reigned and revelled with the Quorn. Ah! that was indeed the saturnalia of woodcraft. Pardon if, in the grateful garrulity of the heart, one who partook the triumph, essays to sketch the glories of Meltonia some dozen years ago.

Vivere bis."

66 Hoc est

It is something to have ridden to cover in Leicestershire with one who remembered it when there was hardly a fence or a drain in its whole extent. Such has been my chance. 'Twas something to ride a burst with one who commenced his career with Meynell, and continued it, without interruption, through the successive reigns of Lords Sefton and Foley, Assheton Smith and George Osbaldeston, and so forth, down to the day in which it occurred with the hounds of that true sportsman, the ever-to-be-lamented Sir Henry Goodricke. Such was my fortune. It was a thing to make you stare, having learned much of the " slows" of your grandsire's time, to hear him describe a run in the last century, which was so awful that seven horses in the field stopped stone blind! Yet such a story would old Ella of Wymeswold love to recount; and his record was true. Peradventure it was not all pace that did it, for foxes were stout in those days, and would stand before hounds for periods not known to modern history. It is related in "Jones's Diary of the Quorn Hunt," that in the year 1795 there was a run from Costock that lasted five hours and a quarter, in which only three lived to see the finish—a fast hunting-rate all through.

Without running the risk of being called an unjust laudator temporis acti, perhaps a dozen years ago Melton was as near the zenith of its glory as ever it was, or ever it will be. There the Old Club still mustered its Nestors of the chase, and the New its phalanx of woodland heroes. Some few members of each of these celebrated societies claim especial mention, and I cannot more characteristically present them than as they were drawn in a lyrical sketch which appeared at the time, from the pen of an accomplished scholar-himself not the least honoured of the company his muse has immortalized. The exordium of this modern Pindaric is singularly euphonious and characteristic. The author thus apostrophizes his muse:

"Glorious Diana! guide thy poet's strain:

I sing thy votaries, but I sing in vain

If thou refuse the feeling and the fire

To wake the numbers whilst I strike the lyre;

I sing thy sons, Queen of the Silver Bow-
Guide thou the pen, while I their virtues show.
Love's mother loved her Samos; but her court
Was kept at Cyprus-ever-loved resort.
Thy court, fair queen, is Melton! There are found
Thy temple, shrine, and throne-thy holy ground !”

Among the oldest and most popular of the Old Club was John Moorea gentleman who commenced his career in Leicestershire in the season of 1811, and closed it, full of honour, in that of 1845. Though still comparatively in the prime of life, he was considered the patriarch of the Quorn Hunt. Though never one of the very first flight, he always

went like a sportsman, whose head as well as heart was in the issue before him. In the poem alluded to his Pæons are thus sung:

"The glorious Nestor of our 'Pylian' fields—
And few such chiefs our modern Pylos yields:
Oh! this right hand its cunning shall forget;
Meltonia's sun in endless night shall set;
Diana's glories at one burst be o'er,

Ere we forget thee, good and generous Moore!"

Next, and not less in fame, as a staunch fox-hunter and a thorough backbone sportsman, was that Nimrod of the Emerald isle, Valentine Maher. But ere tribute is offered to that boon spirit, shall we not bring grateful incense to his altar who was the Magnus Apollo of the fane? Hark! how sings the Pindar of Melton the glories of its master of the revels!

"Who are the votaries that haunt thy shrine ?
First of the throng, see gallant Goodricke shine!
First, for on him Elijah's mantle fell;
Long may it grace him, for he wears it well.

"Next comes an annual pilgrim, Father Maher-
A steady, shining silvery western star.

First at the covert side, and first to see

Sir Reynard's likeliest course; each morn is he,
First at the bounteous board, and first to rise-
Wine is a mocker, and Val. Maher's wise."

Another worthy of the Old Club-still left to show how fields were won-was Sir James Musgrave:

"Musgrave! of open heart and generous hand,
Long as Meltonia lasts thy name shall stand-
Stand in the sportsman's annals, and in Fame's,
The mighty hunter, and "the good Sir James!"

And here, while venturing to speak of the "lights of other days," there is a name that I should deserve the bastinado did I leave out .. "Has Alvanley, the sire of many a joke,

Cross'd the dark ferry of which Virgil spoke ?

Gone, and not left a hearty wight behind
To match himself in body or in mind?
Gone, and not left a punster or a wit

To keep the light at which his genius lit?"

The New Club counted among its members some of the fastest of the fast. But before touching on them, there remains one noble disciple of the Vestal Queen, whose memory will ever be green and grateful with his followers, that must have a niche among his brother worthies:

"Rancliffe, shall thou unnamed, unnoticed be?

I name not hunting if I name not thee;
Pride of our country !'-thine the lib'ral board,
And lib'ral heart, with man's best feeling stored;
What hungry hunter ever pass'd thy hall,
And found no warder answer to his call?
Nor was it all, that heart and cheer were good-
Foxes ne'er failed us in thy Bunny Wood."

First, for many a reason, I would class Lord Kinnaird among the best of the New Club, as well as among the most deservedly popular; no man ever lived with Meltonians in more esteem and good regard; no

master ever left the Royal Hounds more sincerely regretted or more
justly. He was a sportsman and a gentleman every inch of him. . . .
"Scotia! I love thy sons in court or field;

In arts and arms they cannot-spell 'to yield;'
But ne'er hast thou for Southron pastime spared
A better, braver Nimrod than Kinnaird !''

Again, another chieftain of the company :

"Gilmour, forgettest thou that luckless day
When from Seg's hill old reynard broke away?
When in the torrent of the Vale, capsized,
Thou and thy steed were beauteously baptized?
Where, like Achilles from his ocean dip,

Thy heel gained vigour, and fresh force thy whip?"

At the period I write of, there was another club-so to call it-opposite the George, where a series of sets used to chum together. There was one radiant trio, consisting of the present Sir William Massey Stanley; his brother, Mr. Rowland Errington, who succeeded Sir Harry Goodricke as master; and Mr. Lyne Stephens.

"Lyne Stephens, hail! From Thames to coaly Tyne,
Our land can boast no better soul than thine."

Then, too, did the eccentric Lord of Curraghmore occupy Lowesby Hall, and the courteous chieftain of the isles-some less baronial hall than that of his forefathers in the "land of the mountain and the flood."

"A find.... I hear the music of the crew!
List!....'tis the bugle Mountford shrilly blew.
'He's off!' and 'forward, forward!' is the cry,
And strained is every ear and every eye.

And hearts beat high, and coursers snuff the wind;
Foul fall the laggard lout that holds behind.

But not behind will Robin's rider be,

In race or chace brave Waterford with thee.

And if Macdonald let the squadron pass,

And stop to watch the growing of the grass,'

Why, 'tis the world's eighth wonder! Come and peep:
Macdonald always flies, and scorns to creep.

No son of hers more shares fair Dian's smiles

Than that young chief, Macdonald of the Isles."

It is scarcely necessary to say that Mr. Francis Grant, in his admirable picture of The Melton Breakfast," has ensured posterity for the New Club. Beside the members pourtrayed in it already specified, there are living likenesses of Lord Wilton, Sir W. M. Stanley, and Mr. Rowland Errington. . .

....

What ever-smiling face now meets my view!

Sure Errington! 'tis Chesterfield! or you!"

Lord Forester, the bright particular star of the Belvoir, also forms one of the worthies in Mr. Grant's bevy; and the poet has given to the future, here and there, an Olympic champion, of which the painter has left no sign. For instance, who that knew Melton a dozen years ago but will bear witness to the truth and worth of this record of one who

was the philosopher and friend of the hunting field: who, when symptoms of " pounding" manifested themselves, pointed how best the bullfinch might be charged-and led the way.

"Shall Joe be all forgot? Diana! No!

I lose thy favour if I name not Joe.

I ne'er saw rasping fence or hedgestake bare,

That balk'd Joe Craddock, or his good grey mare.

I ne'er saw bosky brook or steeply linn,

But Joe would at it, over it, or in."

The lyrist's tribute, too, to Captain Ross is admirable, both in the spirit and the letter:

:

"Another highland laddie' comes across

The spirit of my dream-the gallant Ross!
Not he whom Pope belauded, liberal soul!
Nor he whose country house was at the Pole;
But one yclept Horatio-one whose style

Is at the Smite, like Nelson at the Nile.

Then why should lords and dukes all praise engross,
And none be given to thee, thou Man of Ross?'

*

Such was the metropolis of the chase when Harry Goodricke was king not without its crosses, indeed-but peopled with such a colony as rarely has been founded by the disciples of woodcraft. It has already become more cosmopolite, and the frequent stranger may now be seen in its streets, and eke its fields. The government is lapsing into a social democracy. After various phases-and, it must be admitted, "varios casus," in the sense Virgil applies the expression-during the vice-royalties that intervened from the death of the sporting baronet to the accession of the present sporting master, Melton is again the cream of English fox-hunting. The direction of such a country could not have fallen into better hands than those of Mr. Green, of Rolleston. He is a gentleman of very general, popular, and considerable local influence. Moreover, he has his heart in his work, and is a thorough practical man, both in the kennel, in the cover, and in the chase. His position as a landowner and a neighbour ensures him a certain prestige among the farmers; and his management evinces a prudence that always begets respect. In the Quorn country, at this instant crisis of the chase, may be seen the admirable adaptation of "The Hour and the Man." Mr. Green is only a subscriber to the Melton Hunt, I believe, to the amount of £100 per annum; the rate of subscription varying from £300 to £25-the latter being the lowest sum accepted. When he is out of pocket, it is only to call a meeting of the habitués of the hunt to secure the necessary supplies. Still, notwithstanding those affect Leicestershire who never did so before, Melton is an epitome of May Fair. To give a list of those who live in it, and visit it for the one grand purpose, would be but to recapitulate the catalogue of chivalry given in the fashionable returns of Almack's and the Opera. Of the Old Club, however, all had departed to the bourne which returns no travellers, so far back as 1844. The last of all the Romans was Sir James Musgrave; as choice a spirit, and as gracious, as ever shed life and light upon a boon company.

But, peradventure, our affair is not with by-gones. The fiery aspirant for a first-flight day, or month, or season, among first-flight men would