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From Howell Wood come, they to Stapleton go,
What confusion I see in the valley below;
My friends in black collars nearly beat out of sight,
And Badsworth's old heroes in sorrowful plight.
With my, &c.

'Tis hard to describe all the frolic and fun,
Which, of course, must ensue in this capital run;
But I quote the old proverb, howe'er trite and lame,
That the looker-on sees most by half of the game."
With my, &c.

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Then, first in the burst, see dashing away,
Taking all on his stroke, on Ralpho the grey,
With persuaders in flank, comes Darlington's Peer,
With his chin sticking out, and his cap on one ear.
With my, &c.

Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall,
Lying close in his quarter, see Scott of Woodhall;
And mind how he cheers them with "Hark to the cry!"
Whilst on him the Peer keeps a pretty sharp eye.
With my, &c.

And next him, on Morgan, all rattle and talk,

Cramming over the fences comes wild Martin Hawke;
But his neck he must break surely sooner or late,

As he'd rather ride over than open a gate.

With my, &c.

Then there's dashing Frank Boynton, who rides thorough-breds,

Their carcases nearly as small as their heads;

But he rides so d-d hard, that it makes my heart ache,

From fear his long legs should be left on a stake.

With my, &c.

Behold Harry Mellish, as wild as the wind,
On Lancaster mounted, leaving numbers behind;
But lately return'd from democrat France,
Where, forgetting to bet, he's been learning to dance.
With my, &c.

That eagle-eyed sportsman, Charles Branding, behold,
Lying in a snug place, which needs scarcely be told;
But from riding so hard, my friend Charley, forbear,
From fear you should tire your thirty pound mare!
With my, &c.

And close at his heels, see Bob Lascelles advance,
Dress'd as gay for the field as if leading the dance,
Resolved to ride hard, nor be counted the last,

Pretty sure of the speed of his fav'rite Outcast.

With my, &c.

Next, mounted on Pancake, see yonder comes Len,
A sportsman I'm sure well deserving my pen;
His looks in high glee, and enjoying the fun,
Tho' truly I fear that his cake's over done.
With my, &c.

On Methodist perch'd, in a very good station,
Frank Barlow behold, that firm prop of the nation;
But nothing could greater offend the good soul,
Than to Coventry sent from the chase and the bowl.
With my, &c.

Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather,
Charles Parker and Clowes, come racing together:
And, riding behind them, see Oliver Dick,
With Slap-dash half blown, looking sharp for a nick.
With my, &c.

On Ebony mounted behold my Lord Barnard,
To live near the pack now obliged is to strain hard;
But mounting friend Barny on something that's quick,
I warrant, my lads, he would shew you a trick.

With my, &c.

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Then smack at a yawner falls my friend Billy Clough; He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough; While Pilkington near him, cries, "Pr'ythee get bled:" "Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head."

With my, &c.

But where's that hard rider, my friend Colonel Bell?
At the first setting off from the covert he fell.

But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry,
In respectable style, the good temper'd Harry.

With my, &c.

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The two Lecs, Harvey Hawke, Frank Soth'ron, and all, Are skirting away for Stapleton Hall;

Whilst far in the rear behold Overley Cooke,

Endeav'ring to scramble o'er Ample's wide brook.

With my, &c.

Far aloof to the right, and op'ning a gate,

There's a sportsman by system who never rides straight;
But why, my good Godfrey, thus far will you roam,
When a pack of fine beagles hunt close to your home?
With my, &c.

Safe o'er the brook-but where's Captain Dancer?
Oh! he's stopping to catch Sir Rowland Winn's prancer;
But what is the use of that, my friend Winn?

If on foot you attempt it, you'll sure tumble in.
With my, &c.

On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank,
At a very great distance behold Bacon Frank,
So true's the old maxin, we even now find,
That Justice will always come limping behind.
With my, &c.

See Starkey and Hopwood, so full of their jokes,
From Bramham Moor come, to be quizzing the folks;
And when they return the whole chase they'll explain—
Tho' they saw little of it-to crony Fox Lane.

With my, &c.

Lost, spavin'd, and gall'd, but shewing some blood-
For from Coxcomb's poor shoulders it streams in a flood-
Behold Mr. Hodson, how he fumes and he frets,

While his black lies entangled in cursed sheep nets.
With my, &c.

If his name I pass'd over I fear he would cavil-
I just wish to say that I saw Mr. Saville:

And with very long coat on (a friend to his tailor),
With some more Wakefield heroes, behold Mr. Nailor.
With my, &c.

A large posse see in the valley below,
Who serve very well just to make up a show;
But broad as the brook is, it made many stop,
It's not ev'ry man's good luck to get to the top.
With my, &c.

Now all having pass'd, I'll to Ferrybridge go,
Each event of the day at the Club I shall know;
Where bright bumpers of claret enliven the night,
And chase far away hated envy and spite.

With my, &c.

Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe;
'Tis but meant as a joke, not intended to sneer;
Come, I'll give you a toast, in a bumper of wine,
"Here's success to this Club, and to sport so divine!"

And the hounds of cld Raby for me.

I arrived at home on the 10th ef April, and left it again on the 15th for the New Forest. I was to have taken up my old quarters under the hospitable roof of Sir

Hussey Vivian; but he was deprived of the pleasure of receiving a large party of his friends at this time, by being obliged to attend His Majesty in London. I had received

many kind invitations from Mr. Nicoll to visit him in the winter; but knowing that his table would be filled at this particular period-the grand finish to the hunting season -I intended joining the party at the inn at Lyndhurst; but his kindness over-ruled me, and I spent one of the pleasantest weeks of my life under his roof. Here, however, I must pause. Numerous would have been the jokes, countless the anecdotes-for John Warde was with us— -that I might have gleaned for these pages in those gay-spent festive nights;" but all must now be silent. The hand of Death has snatched away one who presided at the feast, and the house of feasting has been a house of mourning. In a few months afterwards, the wife of our kind host and the mother of his nine children died in giving birth to a tenth, and Mr. Nicoll lost what nothing can replace.

"Oh! that the Omnipotent," says an Englishman, on such an occasion as this, "had formed me for a tree, an herb, a blade of grass, or a stone! Oh! that I had been an oak, a beech, a palm, or cypress of the forest, or any thing incapable of pleasure or of pain!" But there is a nobler sentiment than this from the pen of the immortal Cicero: "Were the Gods," says he, "to offer to repose us once more in the cradle of our infancy, should we accept or renounce the proffered boon?" Thousands would hesitate before they decided upon the choice for such afflictions as these render life nearly worthless. But, why do they happen? Aye, that is a question which philosophers have asked, but which philosophy could never To one question, how ever, they do reply. Where is


the man who will say to a certainty there is a life to come? He is not to be found! but it must be so. God must justify his ways to man. However, as we live among scenes of the deepest distress, I am all for making the best of present time; for, as the Poet so beautifully sings-

"In such a world, so thorny, and where


Finds Happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some prickly sorrow at its side. It seems the part of Wisdom, and no sin Against the law of Love, to measure lots With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus

We may with patience bear our mod'rate ills,

And sympathize with others, suffering. more."

Impatient, however, as mankind are apt to be under calamitieswhich, after all, are but the condition of their existence-yet contrasts give variety to life. Did we never taste what is bitter, we should know nothing of the sweets. Where, then, can there be a greater contrast than between the large rich fields of Leicestershire, and the sterile, heath-clad surface of a Hampshire forest? Notwithstanding this, there is something in a forest which calls to mind pastoral and hunting.ages long since gone by, but of course congenial to the feelings of a sportsman; and as, according to the doctrine of Aristotle, the love of the beautiful is implanted in us by Nature, every man-sportsman or no sportsman -must feel instinctive pleasure in such a scene as Monday the sixteenth of April presented to us at the meeting of Mr. Nicoll's hounds. The morning was most propitious; Nature appeared in very gay attire; and, exclusive of ladies, upwards of three hundred horsemen, from all parts of England, formed the motley group. Amongst these,

the following conspicuous characters composed Mr. Nicoll's party:the great John Warde; the no less celebrated John, commonly called Jack Wormwold; Mr. Spurrier; Mr. Foljambe, master of the Lincolnshire fox-hounds; Sir Harry Goodricke, and Sir Bellingham Graham. Mr. John Moore, as usual, was also in the neighbourhood (at Mr. Compton's); a considerable party of sporting men at the Inn at Lyndhurst; and Billy Butler, being his forty-second appearance. The Leicestershire Dons did not bring their own horses, but were very respectably mounted by the well-known Mr. Tilbury, who sent eight hunters to Lyndhurst for their use.

To give an account of sport with hounds on this occasion will not do now, as, at any rate, it would be at Icast a year old; but on the first day we were saved from one of the evils attending April fox-hunting, by the keen eye and activity of Mr. Foljambe, who jumped off his horse just in time to save a vixen fox, which gave suck, from falling a prey to the pack. After the hounds were taken away by Mr. Nicoll, she was put down, and, although apparently injured by a gripe on her back, she trotted away as if nothing had happened.

April fox-hunting never can be good; but this was a most scentless week, even in the New Forest, where hounds generally catch a scent by some means. To cut the matter short, we had but one pretty run out of four days' meeting; but we saw a deal of good huntingpicking it out by the inch-and we witnessed great skill in our hunts

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man told us last night, that, to make a huntsman perfect, his lips should be sewed together, I never saw hounds lifted better than these have been this day." To say he lifted them off the ground, would be too figurative an expression, even for my style; but he certainly did it to a charm, and his scream was thrilling and good. However, we might as well say Horace was a stupid fellow, and Demosthenes no spokesman, as to say Mr. Nicoll is not a huntsman; for he is one: but what cannot a master-mind like his accomplish-particularly when directed principally to one point?

In the absence of sport, there is always something to amuse in the hunting field; but here, as in most other places, idleness is too often the parent, if not of vice, of mischief. My readers will recollect, that, in my last account of a trip to the Forest, I related a few anecdotes of a Mr. Wise, formerly a coachman on the Southampton road, but now living in retirement. on his carnings-with a hunter or two in his stable-and by his appearance, in the full enjoyment of what all-bounteous Nature has provided for those who can afford to pay for it. It was he who so much amused Sir Francis Burdett in my presence, with a dissertation on the new and old school for the driving arthimself, as his appearance denotes, belonging to that 'yclept the Old. There is, however, something so original about Mr. Wise, something so apparently artless and ingenuous in his conversation and demeanour, that must ever tend to amuse; and he did not escape the attention of Mr. John Wormwald. "Is there a public house near?" said Mr. Wormwald, as we were all assembled around the pack in C

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