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point is that the gentleman huntsman is more frequently than not dead beat before his fox, but seldom before his horse; in fact, as soon as the real difficulties presenting themselves in hunting begin to occur with a dying fox, such as short running, and shifting his point when foiled from going to ground, by the earths being stopped, or from being coursed by sheep-dogs, &c., and consequently reducing the pace by his luck or stratagems from a good holding scent to a cold one, the flying amateur shuts up; his mind runs too much upon what he has achieved, rather than what he has got to perform; if his horse has wind enough left in him to move on, a wild swinging cast, with the hounds' heads in the air, frequently finishes the exhibition; and away they trot, after ten minutes' conversation, to look for a fresh fox. I had heard that, amongst all the numerous amateur performers of modern days, Lord Gifford was not only a most indefatigable and quick hand in the field, but also, for his years, an excellent judge of hounds and hunting, and likely to make, some day or other, a really scientific huntsman. Consequently, prejudiced exceedingly in his favour, I started for the old H.H. country; and on Thursday, February the twenty-fourth, met the hounds at Farleigh House, which is situated about four miles to the east of the little market-town of Basingstoke. The morning was somewhat wild and stormy, and the hounds were a little behind their time at the place of meeting. At length they made their appearance, conducted by their noble master, and attended by three servants, one of whom, a lad, whipped-in on what I conclude was his lordship's second horse. The four horses connected with the establishments each wore a white front to the bridle, to distinguish them from the rest of the field at a distance-a necessary precaution, as in these days so many men riding with hounds are in the habit of wearing caps, and it is sometimes almost impossible at a distance, especially in a dark woodland country, accurately to discern upon all occasions a gentleman sportsman from Jack the whipper-in. The hounds, which consisted of eighteen couples and a half, were the big pack, and I should say, in my humble judgment, very full of flesh for the time of year, especially where the weight of an unshod animal must materially increase the annoyance of traversing, as these hounds do, occasionally vast beds of flints in their day's work. The field was not numerous, consisting of about thirty horsemen, of whom not above ten or a dozen were dressed in scarlet. The hounds drew several covers to the south of Farleigh House without finding, and at last found in a large wood of Mr. Blunt's, where a brace of foxes were quickly on foot; the hounds dividing several times in the course of the morning's sport. Without entering minutely into an unnecessary detail of this run, suffice it to say, that after bellowsing about from wood to wood, round and round, telegraphed from halloa to halloa by countrymen for about two hours, one of the foxes which had been found in the morning (for I will defy anyone but the great Wizard of the North, had he been out, to decide which it was) was hunted into the outbuildings of Dummer House, and killed in a pond close to the lawn in the front of the windows. It was an unfortunate thing that Mr. Terry, whom I had the pleasure of knowing for many years, and who resides at Dummer, was absent from home upon a visit to a friend's in the neighbour

hood. However, his son, who, like his father, is one of the keenest and best sportsmen in Hampshire, gave us all a good luncheon, which was the more agreeable, as the day was exceedingly cold, and the rain still pouring down, as it had nearly the whole of the morning, in torrents: the whole country looking more dismal than ever, composed as it is of large cheerless districts of bad scenting ploughed land, and never-ending woodlands. Amongst the whole field that were out, there was hardly one that I could recognize as belonging to the old set that I had used to know in former days. The Taylors, the Minchins, the Heyshams had all, I conclude, left off hunting, as none of them were to be seen as formerly by the cover's-side, in the good old days of Mr. John Villebois. It is now many years ago since I spent a most agreeable week with that fine specimen of the old English gentleman and sportsman: my horses, which were then lying at Newbery, were attacked with influenza, and he very kindly invited me to stay and hunt for a week with his own hounds, which were hunted by a man who was allowed to be one of the most scientific huntsmen of his day, Dick Foster, assisted by Shayer (or Sawyer, as he was always called) as first whip, an equally clever hand in his way. An extraordinary anecdote is related of these two men quarreling; and although they never spoke to each other, excepting formally upon the business relative to the hunting, for three years, they worked on together in the field without the slightest appearance of jealousy, and killed their foxes together in as workmanlike a style as if they had been the best friends upon earth. At the time of Mr. John Villebois' death, his pack, which he left by will to his brother Mr. Frederick Villebois, were taken into the Craven Country in Berkshire, from which stock the present Craven hounds have descended; Major Barret forming a new pack from drafts, composed however, in a great measure, of the old H.H. blood. Major Barret gave up the country about four years ago, and was succeeded, as I said before, by Captain Haworth previous to Lord Gifford's coming into the country. Although this is his lordship's first season in Hampshire, he is by no means a novice in the craft, having hunted the Vale of Whitehorse for several seasons; and previous to that he kept foxhounds for one or two years in Herefordshire. Amongst the sportsmen so well known for many years in Hampshire, I had almost forgotten to mention Colonel Frederick, who died a few years ago from injuries received from a bad fall from his horse two years before his death. This fine old sportsman was in his eightieth year; and although suffering great pain, used to ride hunting to nearly the very last. Independent of his being a first-rate sportsman, he was a most agreeable companion; and his connections, and luck of quarters when in the army, gave him an immense advantage in prosecuting his sporting propensities, not only in England, but in India and other parts of the world: he was as full of anecdote as he was of experience in all that relates to the chequered concomitants of a sportsman's life. Although a free liver in hot and cold climates, he never was known to have an illness before his last fall-hardly ever was known to have taken such a thing as a dose of physic, and to the day of his death his hair more resembled a boy's than that of an old man of eighty, for there was scarcely a white hair to be found in his head.

I went over on Friday, February twenty-fifth, to Sir John Cope's kennel at Bramshill, as I wished particularly to have a look at his pack, which I had not done for several years. The strength of the kennel is forty couples and a half, hunting three days a week, viz., six season hunters, two couples; five ditto, two couples; four ditto, five couples; three ditto, four-and-a-half couples; two ditto, nineand-a-half couples; one ditto, seven couples; and young hounds, eleven couples. By looking at the pedigrees, I saw that they were getting a good deal into Mr. Drake's blood, which Shirley informed me they obtained in the following manner:-Two years ago Mr. Drake had bred too many whelps for the quarters which he could command, and having nearly twenty couples ready to go out, gave them to Tom Wingfield (his huntsman) as drafts to sell. Sir John Cope was the lucky purchaser, and I believe got the whole lot for fifteen pounds.

Such chances of getting hold of what may eventually turn up trumps seldom occur to any master of hounds; for out of such a lot put to quarters some are almost sure to come up, worth double the money that the whole cost originally. Jem Shirley has now been huntsman to the Bramshill hounds fifteen years: before that, he was in Northamptonshire with Mr. Osbaldeston six seasons; coming to him from Sir Richard Sutton, in whose kennel he may be said to have been bred; and I must say that I never saw a better hand with hounds in my life than he was then. He is a universal favourite with the field, as also with his master; and although some of the young 'uns, who are never content unless hounds are continually flying, fancy he is getting slow, my humble opinion is, that if one of the new lifting artistes was put there in his place, the hounds, over so ticklish a scenting country as that part of Hampshire is well known to be, would seldom kill a stout fox after a run. The family of the Shirleys have been well known and respected by the foxhunting world for many years old Jack Shirley, the father of Sir John Cope's huntsman, was huntsman to Sir Richard Sutton, in Lincolnshire, for a great number of years, and considered one of the best hands of his day; previous to that, he was whipper-in to Sir Bellingham Graham, in Leicestershire. Young John Shirley, who was so cruelly murdered a few weeks since by some poachers, when assisting one of the keepers in watching a cover close to Raby Castle, was whipper-in to His Grace the Duke of Cleveland. He was well known in Hampshire, having hunted the H.H. when under the management of Major Barret for several seasons. The first whipper-in to the Bramshill hounds is Robert Tocock, a son of Tocock who was huntsman to this pack for a great number of seasons: he is a very steady good hand with hounds, and thoroughly knows his business.

On Saturday, February the twenty-sixth, I met Sir John Cope's hounds at Strathfieldsaye, the seat of the Duke of Wellington. It was supposed that there would have been an immense field out upon the occasion, as the Duke gave a grand dinner party the day before, when the gentlemen of the county were invited to meet the judges on the circuit. The morning, however, turned out one of the wettest, most stormy, and most anti-hunting that could well be imagined; and instead of a vast concourse of equestrians and pedestrians, only about forty sportsmen had courage to face the pitiless pelting storm. Mr.

Assheton Smith, who was of the party on the previous day, had gone home to meet his own hounds; and the worthy master of "the Bramshill" preferred riding home in his carriage to wearing a wet shirt on a day which turned out, as far as sport was concerned, a perfect failure. After drawing some time the covers on the hill to the east of Strathfieldsaye, there was a halloa, and the hounds going to it came upon the line of a fox, which, after running some time in cover, they killed. Report said it was "a commercial gentleman;" but that could have never been the case, I should suppose, as I feel convinced that, at any rate, under the sanction of such a man as the Duke of Wellington, so gross an insult to a master of hounds as putting down a bagman never could have been perpetrated upon the property. The hounds afterwards drew on through the rest of the Strathfieldsaye covers without finding. They then proceeded to draw the whole of the Speaker's, Mr. Shaw Lefevre's, situated at Heckfield; without, however, the hounds having the slightest touch of a fox. The day was now fast wearing, and a move was made towards Bramshill, where the weary sportsman met with a hearty welcome to refresh his inward man. After doing ample justice to the viands, and some of the very best ale that England could produce, the hounds were taken to draw the whole of the small covers about Bramshill Park however, we were doomed to disappointment; and although there was scent sufficient over the earths to enable the hounds 66 to speak to it" where a fox had been travelling about, we were unable to find him, and at three o'clock the hounds were taken home. On the Monday previous a circumstance occurred, which, although I have known several similar instances in the course of my life, is not of very frequent occurrence, viz., the joining together of two different packs of hounds when running their foxes into the same neighbourhood. On the day in question Sir John Cope's hounds met at Winchfield House, when they drew Tossel Wood, the rest of the Winchfield covers, and Lousy Moor all blank. They then proceeded to Dogmersfield Park, where they found a fox by the side of the lake. The hounds came away over the park wall, crossing the Farnham and Odiham road, through Varndell's coppice, skirting Horsedean Common to Wells, and away to Gravelly Wood. Here they fell in with the H.H. (with their master Lord Gifford), that pack having thrown off at Sutton Common, where they found a fox in the furze, which they brought away to Froyle, running him back to Sheep-house, and on to Gravelly Wood, into which cover their fox was viewed at the same time, and by the same person who had viewed Sir John Cope's fox. Here the two packs joined together; and having settled to one of the foxes, gave him a turn or two round the cover, and away for No Man's Land, where they killed him. Whose fox it was no one could determine; but we understood that Lord Gifford had only found his fox about twenty minutes, whilst Sir John Cope's hounds had been engaged with theirs for upwards of an hour. However, it does not much signify whose it was; the hounds killed him, and the greatest harmony prevailed. The way in which Jem Shirley dropped the command of his pack when they joined, being ready to turn the hounds to Lord Gifford, if required, was the admiration of every sportsman out, as well as the handiness shown by the hounds in coming away, when mixed, at the end of the day's sport.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMANN.

Sweet are the charms of a rural life,
With the sheep-bells tinkling round,
When the zephyr breeze, with odours rife,
Steals softly o'er the ground—
What joy to banish care away,
And all its fevered pains,

E'en though it be for one short day-
But, bless me! how it rains!

How sweet to muse by running brooks,
Or by the river's side,

To learn from them the lore no books
Can teach like that bright tide!
To stand, as Walton did of Yore,
From Morning's earliest light
Till shades grow dim upon the shore-
And never have " a bite!"

How sweet among the woods to rove,
With trusty dog and gun!

To track the game through copse and
Till sets the western sun!

Returning home with spirits gay,
Lit by the moon just risen-
"licence" by the way,

You lose your

And taken are to prison!

How sweet to tread the heather braes

With footstep firm and free!

To linger where the Fancy strays,

Mid Nature's scenery!

To watch the towering poplars wave,

Or lie beneath the beeches,

grove

And bless the bounteous Hand which gave

But zooks! I've torn my breeches!

How sweet, when summer skies are blue,

"A gipsying" to go,

With friends, a merry laughing crew,
Where gentle streamlets flow!
When on some flow'ry bank reclined,
And wine doth cheer the soul,

We leave the busy World behind-
But who will" post the cole ?"

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