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I did not set off from home, two miles the western side of Bath, till a quarter before ten, the morning being so unpropitious, and I only arrived in time (a distance of nine miles) to see the fox break away for Amswell, across a very strong country to Beach-wood, by Lansdowne Monument, on to Northstoke and Weston, where we lost. Quære, What fox could this be? We never, in my remembrance, save once, found in Dryham-wood, and my gentleman this time takes us to within two miles of Bath, as if his point were Milsom-street! I shall say naught save Honi soit qui mal y pense ; for I will not be the person to surmise a bagman with such hounds as the Duke of Beaufort's.
Of the performers with Mr. Horlock's I can have little to tell they are meagre indeed; and-with the exception of Sir L. Glyn, who goes straight, determinedly, and with judgment; Mr. Hale, who can hardly be called one of this Hunt; and Mr. John Fuller, a neat and bold horseman I know [not of a single person who can be said to ride to hounds.
Bath, which is the emporium of this Hunt, is wofully short of performers: indeed it might be said that its hunting, like its fashionability, if not entirely gone, is at least fallen into "the sere and yellow leaf." I will allow Jack Langley is still alive, but grown nervous and stale to be sure his former exploits serve to make him garrulous over his grog; but he is not the Jack Langley of former years. I can remember when Jack Langley, the sporting attor
ney, on Selim, and John Taylor, the sporting parson of Wottonunder-Edge, on Aladdin, were like two stars the "Castor and Pollux" of the Duke's field. Alas! where art thou, John Taylor?-the noble, the wild, the prodigal, the agreeable! the fond son, the faithful friend, the generous benefactor! the prince of fox-hunters!!...... In the cold grave!!-May the turf lie lightly on thee, John! and when the last trumpet shall summon thee to thy great account, I ween there will be naught else for the Accusing Angel to find against thee, save a too great fondness for foxhunting, company, and mirth. For me, my dear departed friend, "I ne'er shall look upon thy like again." The other cognomen Jack, his turn is not yet come for an epitaph, and he is too good a fellow for me ever to wish to do it. In God's name, let him enjoy himself with recollections of the wild sprees of former years! I have found him a faithful friend and an able legal adviser: he is the last of the Old Bath sect of sportsmen, and may he long live to enjoy his patriarchal honours !
It will be expected I should say something of Mr. Horlock, who is the proprietor and huntsman of these hounds-in doing so I shall
ing-I have yet to learn where Mr. Horlock's fox-hunting researches have found so isolated a principle. We are indebted to him for keeping a pack of foxhounds accorded: but is he not indebted to us for country, and are not the advantages reciprocal? and I will ask, can a man expect to ride churlishly and alone through a country, and expect to find sport? I would not be harsh, but truth will find its way. However, let us hope for better things; I have every reason to think we may. I will allow that a country ill preserved may throw a damp and a cloud across a man's appearance, which, could we read him right, might be far other wise than what I here term a sort of misanthropy in fox-hunting.
Frost again, Mr. Editor, does not lighten my recollections. Tuesday, with the North-Somerset at Rodney Stoke, we found the ground so bound up we could not throw off.
Friday, with the same at Barrow-wood, and with very inauspicious prospects, we had a most beautiful five-and-forty minutes, and killed in the open. I understand, on this same day, Mr. Horlock, from Budlow Furze, had an equally good thing.
regret for the loss of fox-hunting loses itself in a deep feeling of sympathy with the worthy and benevolent Duke. But, Sir, I drop my pen-pleasure should not enter into the house of mourning and sorrow.
The melancholy conclusion of the Duke's season led me into Dorsetshire, where, on the 24th February, I met Mr. Farquharson's at Butterwick, a celebrated meet in their hunt. We immediately found, and went away; and, after crossing three or four fields, we lost, in what I should say, a most disgraceful manner ; and, had I no other opportunity of judging of these hounds, I should have left them with a feeling of great disappointment. We now drew a small gorse covert close at hand, and immediately went away with a gallant fox. The country we crossed, from being a perfect stranger, I will not attempt to describe, save that it was the deepest, most filthy, and miry it has ever been my lot to gallop over. In the course of the run we passed through the grounds of that excellent sportsman, Mr. Yeatman (Stock House), of whom more anon, and eventually killed two miles beyond Sturminster, Dorset. The time I arrived at the meet was so late that it precludes me from giving anything like an accurate description of this Hunt; but from the fleeting glance I had of it, I should say dead slow!"
I told you, Sir, in my last that I should relate what I saw with the Duke of Beaufort. We look forward, and have a presentiment and perception of brilliance and enjoyment-how wofully are we deceived! Death with his ruthless hand has entered into the bosom of the Duke's family, and snatched from it one of its fairest and most amiable members. Alas, alas! Lady Isabella Kingscott is no more! The VOL. III.-SECOND SERIES.-No. 13.
Picture to yourself Ben and Solomon, the exact similitude which I dare say you have seen pourtrayed on the walls of our small country public-houses. You will observe in the little glass pictures two or three old
fashioned heavy-looking men in scarlet. Ben and Solomon only want the French horn to complete the portrait of fox-hunting in its olden days.
On Friday, with Mr. Yeat man at Compton, we had a most brilliant thing, crossing nearly the same line of country, and killed close by his own house.
I did not hunt, Sir, until I again met Mr. Yeatman at Leigh Common, near Wincanton, on the Tuesday following; we threw into Cucklington planta tions, and without dwelling a moment, pug bolted, and we had the fastest five-and-forty minutes to Gillingham (where we killed) I have almost ever seen. We next drew the Stourton coverts, passed a mile and a half Alfred's tower, and found close adjoining the road from Warminster to Bruton.
Now then, shall I say that I witnessed with surprise and delight the way in which these hounds did their work, and carried their fox through the longest train of woodlands I know? He broke at last (always meaning to do so) from Pen Forest, crossed a deep country to the aforesaid
Cucklington; stopped not a moment, but headed away without a copse of an acre to disguise him to Hendstrich Ash (a distance of seventeen miles), where unfortunately we changed our fox, and lost.
To speak of the merits of Channon, the huntsman, is almost superfluous: as a woodland huntsman he is perfect, and in the open country, although Will Long may be superior, Channon is sturdy and indefatigable. The assistance these hounds derive from their courteous and oblig, ing master, Mr. Yeatman, is very great; his "gang-a-long!" whilst in full cry, is cheering to the heart, and the most spirited halloo I have ever yet witnessed.
I came towards home with my horse dreadfully fatigued, and my own outward tabernacle not in the very best repair; but I shall look back with feelings of the deepest pleasure to this day, and overwhelming ones of re spect and admiration to the master of these hounds.
I shall conclude with three cheers to the Blackmore Vale and Mr. Yeatman!I am, Sir, &c. SOM-ER-SET.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, WITH A PRESENT OF ARTIFICIAL FLIES.
WHEN Sweet Spring, my friend, shall smiling
Pour her soft and pearly dew,
And shall fill each grove and valley
Then shalt thou, again delighted,
To the swift brooks haste away;
Bid the worm in anguish twine.
When the western breeze is blowing,
And the sun thy sport befriending,
Then take thou thy pliant angle,
Soon the trout, a noble victim,
All his art and strength he tries;
Thou the sedgy banks shalt roam,
Richmond, March 26th, 1831.
A DORSETIAN SKETCH.-No. VII.*
"That mother's cheek is paler now,
Than when he last caress'd her ;
There's an added gloom on that widow'd brow
Since the hour when last he bless'd her."-A. A. WATTS.
"Nor youth can bribe, nor virtue ward the blow."-SOMERVILE.
"WHAT! again in your red
coat, Ernest? again going out hunting? and leaving me five whole mornings alone, without once seeing you from breakfast till dinner time? Oh! Ernest, Ernest! he never could have been a happy man who first invented fox-hunting!"
Such, Mr. Editor, was the exclamation of the young, the lovely, the devoted wife of Ernest St. Vincent one morning as
he entered the breakfast room in
"Say rather, my love," replied her husband, fondly kissing her, "that he never could have possessed such a wife as I have the happiness of calling mine! Believe me, Emmeline, it is a blessing the possession of which I duly appreciate without losing; the more especially when I call to mind the many who are induced, nay driven, to seek in the sports
*No. VIII (the last of the Series) in our next.
of the field that recreation which the temper of their firer, and therefore better, halves deny them from enjoying at home.— Such, however, can never be my excuse for thus leaving you; but you know I promised Sinclair to shew him a week's sport when he came to us, and am compelled on that account to adopt the scarlet so frequently. When he is gone, however, I will dedicate two mornings weekly-(a very fair allowance, Sir)-throughout the season to you and my boy."
"Which is the only reason then I can have for heartily wishing Sinclair was gone now,' replied Emmeline smiling, as the former made his appearance at the door.
"Emmeline!" exclaimed St. Vincent, rising from table, "you only want one more Brush I believe to complete my Boa, which I intend you should wear whenever the hounds throw off here."
Only one, dear Ernest; but, as you love me, don't run any risk to win it. It was merely because you wished it that I ever acceded to such a request; but, oh! do not, do not be too bold!" And then turning to Sinclair, she added, "Do not let him be rash: promise for his sake, for your own, nay more for my sake promise you will not let him run headlong into danger."
"I need not promise," said Sinclair, "for your wish must be his will, and when there's a will you know there's always a way!" and he left the room.
St. Vincent too had reached the door; but before he opened it he looked back. Emmeline was standing before the fire with one little foot on the low fender,
* The most
and her head reclining on her hand, which was resting on the marble mantel-piece, while her beautiful blue eyes were fixed in softness and in sorrow on his departing figure. Who, Mr. Editor, would not have paused on such a scene as this!" I know not how it is," he exclaimed, turning back, and clasping her to his bosom, "but your look, Emmeline, quite unnerves me this morning-what makes you so sad to-day, love?"
"I know not," she replied; "but a voice within whispers that sorrow is now in store for me.”
"Oh ! nonsense, nonsense, Emmeline! why should I meet with more danger now than at any other time? Do not give way to these unnecessary alarms; you quite unman me. We shall be back in all probability early; and now, my love, farewel! you will kiss my boy for me!"
"Oh! Ernest!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him, "promise me once more you will return in safety. Think what my sufferings will be if any harm happens to you :-think too of our boy-of the infant I shall ere long give birth to :-think of this, of me; and, when tempted to act rashly, think always, Ernest, of your Emmeline!" and hiding her beautiful face in his bosom she burst into a flood of tears - tears such as angels might have envied......if angels ever wept!
They have been sad together,
THE HON. MRS. NORTON*.
The two gentlemen were soon mounted, and on their way to the covert side, which before they had gained, the gloom which his
undying one" of all this gifted Lady's compositions.