rally fastish. That he had them at his will in an extraordinary way I infer, because I can safely say I never saw a horse baulk with him, and I saw him ride hundreds, and used to amuse myself with observing him and his tactics. He had a fine voice, knew his business to a T, and was one of the civilest beings living.

Jack Ward was the second whip-a civil, quiet, and younger man, who, from the excellent management the hounds were under, had but little to do in the field: however, he did that little well. He had a slack style of riding, but was always in his place.

Our old schoolman's narrative of a good old English run with the Pytchley, whereof (his modesty to the contrary notwithstanding) pars magna fuit, is so racy that I am fain to give it in the capacity of a renovator for weak nerves. Let the easternmost cockney that ever attempts the Queen's hounds at the "Magpies" peruse it before he sets forth to do his devoir. Then, mounting his own spurs and some other individual's horse, putting his heart in his heels and his reliance upon Providence, though the Thames or Hampton Court Palace should lie in his line, he'll have a shy at it, if he lose his stick."

or

Stanford Hall, the seat of Mr. Otway Cave, is at the confines of the Pytchley country, as well as of the county of Northampton, touching upon Warwickshire. It is a neutral draw between the Quorn and the Pytchley; the former drawing it, if it chance to fall in their way when in the Harborough country. The house is, or was, a large old-fashioned one, but a most comfortable-looking residence, with, however, little or no pleasure-grounds, and sheltered with but few trees. As I saw it upon this occasion, it was the picture of a fox-hunting quarter, standing in a district, which, for miles and miles, is an unrivalled champaign. The covert, or rather coverts, are strong gorse: one stands above the house on a gentle rise, as you approach from Northampton; the other, below, in the exact opposite direction. It is a fixture which always excites considerable expectation, as it generally holds a fox. There is no chance of his hanging, and, in short, there is nearly a certainy of top sport, whether it be as old Beckford has it, "short, sharp, and decisive,' this most splendid one, combining every feature which can well be conceived of fox-hunting in all and each of its best traits. It was the first week in March, and the winds had been sufficient to air without drying the country. More than usual interest, too, was felt, as it happened to be a sort of spare day with the Meltonians and Sir Bellingham Graham's men ; and it was known that they were to muster pretty strong on the occasion. We, at Northampton, sent our horses over night to Welford. The morning rose fine and fair; and, after a twenty miles' gallop, which, by the way, three of us who rather slipt in, did in a time that a wager might have been lost and won on, we found the hounds on the move from the house to the upper covert, and a field with them that was a great deal more imposing in appearance than pleasant to contemplate, with reference to probable consequences. King evidently did not relish the look of it, and he was also little pleased at being told by Mr. Otway's groom that when out soon after it was light, with some of his horses, he had seen a fox cross from the lower to the upper covert. It was hardly possible to arrange or control such a crowd; and the upper covert was drawn blank-though of the groom's story being correct, some of the best of these universally good hounds

gave evidence. The lower covert was the next try, and on the way most energetic remonstrances were made to the field not to crowd, or come within some hundred yards of the gorse. It was stronger than the upper, but not so large. We were able to obtain fair play for it, but still it was drawn blank. Long faces were plenty; but King had heard some of his trusty myrmidons speak in the upper covert in terms which assured him that the vermin was still there, or at no great distance; and he said he felt confident we should yet find, if the horsemen would keep aloof, and not cross a particular small road or waggon track which he pointed out with some difficulty.

This was managed; and he took his hounds into the gorse about half way up, when, strange to say, at the very furthest point, after a few challenges (they must have come right on him, for they burst all at once into full blaze), away went as fine a dog-fox as ever was tallied, and which the groom swore was the same he had seen in the morning. He turned short down the side of the hedgerow which bounded the bottom of the gorse; for, had he gone fair away, they would not have made twenty minutes' work of it, so close were they on him. In the bottom he luckily got some trifling advantage, and he slipped out again down to the house, and the small clumps about it, leaving the lower gorse untouched. The field burst away, too, like sky-rockets, and, meaning not to interfere, rode wide of the clumps; but pug had gone such a pace that he, too, had cleared the clumps along a hedge or brook, or wet-ditch side, unnoticed, before them; and thus, unfortunately, the whole mass nearly crossed, and over-rode the scent; so that when King, with the hounds, came out, there was not a touch or vestige. Although supreme that day, for Lord Althorp was not out, it could not have been said of King (Charles) that he was a merry monarch, for I think I never saw so angry a man; and as if in despair and to rid himself of the nuisance of the crowd, he spun Bluebeard over the brook and hedge (a yawner) and halloo'd his hounds.

Whether he thought the fox must have been headed (it was anything but his line, so dreadfully pressed as he was) I cannot say; but at this very moment there was, quite clear of the lower gorse, a halloo on a small rise about half a mile ahead. The lucky King had here saved the day. He got like lightning to the halloo; and though two or three of Sir Bellingham's men (youngsters), who seemed bent on mischief, followed him, still it was no easy matter to catch Bluebeard, with a field's start or so. The field, at least the bulk of it, kept up the hedgeside, crossed the brook at a gate, and got away to the left as they could. The hounds being now well on the scent, and beginning to go, there was just time to get to them, and no more, cre the pace became serious, and the crowd so great, that I think the first mile was the most dangerous thing, from people following over fences, and coming so close, that I ever experienced. I heard Mr. Davy loud in deprecation more than once; and there certainly was much occasion for it.

At length, the goodness of the pace, and the number of the falls, cleared the way; and those that could and would ride fair, had a chance to enjoy the glorious grass country we were almost racing over. He held on the first few miles in the direction of Lutterworth, though still in Northamptonshire, to the village of Shawell, when he turned to the left, short, in a parallel line with the road from Rugby to Lutterworth. Here, going

into an orchard, over an ox-fence, my nag struck a hidden rail, and over we came together against a tree; luckily, however, I managed to keep hold of his head. The orchard led into a farm-yard, which opened upon the road; and when I got there, I just caught sight of Wood, nearly two fields ahead, as he was, for a wonder, not in front. Him I kept in view, hard set to do it, and dreading every moment to be flung. When just above Brown's Over, puggy luckily crossed the Avon, when the hounds checked for an instant or two; and as the last were taking soil, I got up. The river was not very wide or difficult; and another slight check, and a field or two of cold hunting on the other side of it, allowed my horse-a good one-to catch his second wind.

The line was now evidently for Coombe Abbey, Lord Craven's, and over the whole of the beautiful Warwickshire country, which may be best described as lying-as, indeed, it does-between Rugby and Nuneaton. He took us, if not best pace, certainly the very next door to it, over this brilliant expanse of champaign. Coombe Abbey, or more properly speaking, the plantation next us, lay on a slight rise from the grass vale we had spun across, and in the field next this were (the first we had seen that day) four ploughs at work. This headed our resolute fugitive; and without hesitation he turned away full stretch, till near upon the town of Nuneaton, where, bidding adieu to Warwickshire, more than twelve miles of the finest part of which he had brought us over, he seemed to have made up his mind to take sanctuary in Leicestershire; but whether he was out of his reckoning or not, I am not prepared to say he pointed by Burbage; and without check, or even condescending to touch cover or hedgerow, he absolutely stood before the hounds over about eight miles of grass in the line for Lutterworth, where he was raced into in the middle of a large enclosure, after a run of two hours' and twenty minutes, during which he was computed to have covered nearly thirty miles.

The last twenty minutes were the fastest of the whole thing; and I never saw, in the same space and time, so many falls or so many horses disposed of. About a dozen-among whom were Mr. Gurney on a nag like a cart horse (but what racer could have gone before him?); Mr. Davy, on his celebrated old white horse; Mr. Mowbray, on Beningbrough; King and Wood, the latter on an animal few other men would have seen that run with-were well up. Some half-dozen or so dropped in just after the "whoo-whoop," and claimed place; the rest. were all dead men, so could tell no tales. The mischief-makers were all among the last lot. King told me that he had the grim satisfaction of riding over one of the worst of them, a flashy fellow on a fiery grey horse, as he lay smothering in a deep out-ditch, supplicating help in terms that would have melted the heart of a grindstone; "but," said the incensed huntsman, "I told him the undertaker might fetch him, for ."....King told me this was one of the very best runs he had known in thirty years' experience. . . . To our thinking it was not only fit to put before a King, but worthy a congress of emperors. . . .

me.

...

"Igneus est ollis vigor, et cœlestis origo
Seminibus,"

says our old school fox-hunter, is the motto he should have selected for the Pytchley Hunt in his time, in the palmy reign of my Lord

Althorp; and as we know it had golden days of a later date, it is but fair to class it as le brave parmi les braves. As to the firstthat is, the fiery vigour—they eminently possessed it then and since ; and if it could not, neither may now be, proved to the satisfaction of logic that they are of heavenly sort, they can boast of godlike sport, which is some claim to glorious attribute. In common parlance, he observes, however incorrectly, we say, "a heavenly day,' and the like; and, of a verity, there never was, to sportsmen's eye, a more heavenly sight than that same Pytchley pack of hounds. I am not in possession of its list of names and pedigrees; but the son of Lord Spencer, and the successor of the Wards, could find but little difficulty in getting the best blood to be found in the best of the kennels of England. They were the fullest size of fox-hounds, though under in appearance, Lord Fitzwilliam's or Colonel Berkeley's ; but, when taken altogether, they were the best loined and coupled animals I ever saw which might, to the eye, abstract from their actual height when looked at attentively. There were among them a good many iron-grey pies-not blue-a colour which, as far as my observation has led me to form an opinion, stamps more real good hounds than most others. In the field their discipline was perfect. I never saw the least disposition among them to riot, or unsteadiness of any description. Northamptonshire was not then, nor is it now, the exclusive country for men who, like Sir Charles Cropley in "The Poor Gentleman," "hunt in Leicestershire, for that's the thing." But it was frequently visited by the élite of the sporting world, both exclusive and otherwise; and it used to be often in the mouths of the old resident sportsmen, when they happened to hear that any such had arrived, Well, I dare say they won't like our country, but they can find no fault with our hounds, let them have been where they may." And this was, in plain fact, a self-evident truth. I never saw hounds that could hunt, and go at the same time, in the perfect style they did.

(To be continued.)

SPORTING REMINISCENCES IN ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

BY A FRENCH NOBLEMAN.

After a most agreeable séjour at Park, I took my departure, via the great metropolis, to Melton. London was now quite deserted, not more than half a dozen men at Crockford's, and the Clarendon was nearly untenanted. I was, therefore, quite delighted at the prospect of leaving town, the morning after my return to it, for that beau ideal of a sportsman's paradise-Melton. The rail took me at a good steady pace as far as Syston, where I got into my britchka, and after an agreeable drive of an hour, reached the head-quarters of the Quorn hounds. Rooms had been prepared for me in a cheerful looking house near the George inn, and I had a cover laid for me every day at the residence of a

noble lord, who, whether on the race-course, in the field, on the box, on the deck, or in the ball-room, is second to none as a thorough-bred sportsman, and a most polished gentleman. My horses, the majority of which I had hired from Mr. Tilbury, of Mount-street, stood close by my lodgings, and of course my first visit was to them. Here I was joined by the nobleman I allude to, and some other gallant sportsmen, with whom I passed the afternoon, looking at the splendid studs that Melton boasted of. There are few finer sights in the whole world than the hunting stables at this celebrated place; and I know no more "green spot" in memory's waste, as your Anacreon writes, than that which is associated with my week at Melton. Hospitality shines pre-eminently forth: there was not a day in which I did not receive most kind and pressing invitations, not only to private houses, but to the clubs; and as for mounts, I was offered enough to have lasted one the whole season. There is an

additional charm (to me, at least) at Melton, which is, the society of ladies; for, after a day with the fiercer sex, it is most agreeable to pass the evening with those who are made to temper man. A party at écarté, a struggle at chess, or even what is called in your country a round game with the daughters of Eve, are most delightful and soothing, after a hard run, a blank day, where the jealousy and other evil passions of man have been excited. Of the riders I will merely offer a brief description: "There is nobody better than Lord Wilton," every man will tell you, that knows anything of hunting in Leicestershire; and certainly for judgment, seat, quickness, and good nerve, the noble earl stands preeminent. Lord Gardner cannot be beaten-he goes like a bird; and from the first day he went to Melton to the present time, there are few men who have seen more runs. Mr. Gilmore is the Crichton of the heavy weights it is quite one of the wonders of the world to see the place he ever holds when business is to be done. Colonel Wyndham, late of the gallant Scots Greys, often surprises the hunting world over the fields of Leicestershire, as did his brave corps open the eyes of our Emperor on the plains of Waterloo. Captain Oliver, late of the Blues, cannot, figuratively at least, be placed amongst the "heavies" with the Quorn: he goes to work in the right form, uniting judgment, courage, and strength. His brother, still a "sodger officer," disproves the usual fallacy, that military men cannot ride. Look at Lords Cardigan, W. Beresford, Macdonald, Gifford, Sir David Baird, Honourables Augustus Berkeley, Charles Forrester, Messrs. Lovell, Vyse, Francis Berkeley, &c. Lord Howth is one of the neatest and best riders over the country I almost ever saw, and is always" there or there-about." Sir David Baird can ride a bad horse better than any other man in the United Kingdom; his nerve is No. 1 letter A, and no mistake. You see I quote some of your sporting idioms. Messrs. Leslie (brothers) are admirably mounted, and are daily earning fresh laurels. Count Batthyany is too popular a man in Leicestershire to pass unnoticed; and, as a foreigner, I have a kindly fellow-feeling towards him. Nothing can exceed his love, his ardour for the chase; and, considering that his education did not commence in England, he really deserves the greatest credit for the position he now holds in the sporting world. Lord Archibald St. Maur is a thorough-bred sportsman, and, being well mounted, does the thing in quite the correct form. Lord Rancliffe, the prince of light weights, goes as well as he did in the year 1815, when, during the congress of Vienna, his lordship was always one of the first with the pre