SAILING AWAY.

NOT over the ocean, not topping the waves of the Atlantic, but sailing over the pastures and flying the fences, holding his conveyance by the head, and steering him straight at the best place in the fence. How we do like to see a man who can ride, a real horseman ! What a treat it is, to be sure! A man who takes his own line, and crosses the country with ease to himself and his horse; who can go a run (not ten minutes, but one hour and thirty minutes) with hounds, without getting several falls, nor laming his horse, nor filling him with thorns, nor covering him with spur marks from his shoulder to his tail, and tiring him. Drop yourself down with one of our crack packs in the North, and look round. You will soon spot our Customer. There he is, punctual to a moment; he is a bold Dragoon, and hails from the North. There is no need to see him canter his horse up a field. There is a something about him which denotes a horseman-his seat, his hands, the manner with which he holds his whip, the neatness of his white neckcloth, the fit of his coat, the way his breeches are put on, and his boots hung, the colour of his tops, his spurs buckled well up, not dangling about his heels like a French riding-master's, his bridle properly fitted, his saddle a plain-flapped one. He does not require a great lump of stuffing in front of his knee to enable him to remain in the saddle. When once placed in that most delightful of situations there he remains firm as a castle, and does not part company unless the good bit of stuff he rides should come down; and that, we need scarcely add, is not often the case with the Customer we delight so much to see sailing away at the tail of the hounds, turning as they turn, but never turning amongst them, with his eye on the leading hounds, and his heart in the right place. Observe in how workmanlike a manner, and with what elegance he puts his horse at a fence, at one moment popping him neatly over a stile, at another sending him at a thorn fence, with a widish ditch at the far side; now creeping down the side of that black drain (the terror of half the field, and mentioned as a spot to be avoided), and jumping up the opposite bank as though it was nothing. Now, pulling short into a trot, he nips over a flight of rails in the corner of the field as nicely as a deer bucks over a hurdle. He always gets a start, is always close to the hounds, but never overrides them, is not a bit jealous, and always glad to tell a stranger of any impracticable spots he may see him making for, and the best corner of the covert to go to for a start. He is ever ready to turn the hounds to the huntsman should the whips fail to be there. He is not too conceited to go through a gate if he can ease his horse by doing so. He knows exactly how far Tidings' overran the scent, and misled the pack driven by the jealous and ignorant horsemen ; and the huntsman, if he chances not to have seen what it was that caused his pack to be at fault, can always rely on what our Customer tells him. He knows that

which ninety-nine out of every hundred men who dress themselves in scarlet, leathers, and tops, and go out daily what they call hunting, which is looking at one another, and riding after the huntsman, without regard for the hounds, do not, but ought to know, which is when the hounds have a scent, and when they have not. He knows full well that a high-mettled pack of hounds, when pressed on by a large field of horses, will dash over the scent hundreds of yards. Now it is that the man who looks at hounds pulls up his horse, for he sees they do not carry the scent with them, but have flashed over it, and the fox has turned behind them. If only this were observed, we should perhaps not see the pack so often driven off the scent, and a good run spoilt. If men would look at the leading hounds, and not be racing one another, the sport would perhaps be better, and foxes would not stand so good a chance of escape. How often, indeed, does our enemy the fox owe his life to those very men who spend so much time, and spare no expense in their endeavours to take it. But to return to our Customer. He is 6 feet high, 13 st. in weight, and yet he, as a rule, can beat the rest-heavies, middles, and lights. Though the country where he hunts is renowned for hard riders, still there are none so good as he. He sits lighter on his horse than many a ten-stone man, can handle him nicely, and always keep a little steam in, in case of need, towards the afternoon. Some young friends of ours, jolly fellows, spend half their time on the ground, and lose a great deal of sport in consequence; but that does not enable them to see a run or hold a lead: it is good for their hatters, but must be poor fun for themselves. We see many who do not funk the fences, and who ride hard, and are called capital riders because they get two or three falls a day, but they do not see the run their heavy hands pull the good animals they ride on to the fences, into the ditches; their long spurs are never out of their horse's sides, except when they are in his shoulders; they hustle them uphill, they hurry them through the deep ground, they race them at every fence, big or little, and they stop them in the first fifteen minutes. Consequently, when hounds run where are they? A hunting run they may see fairly, as constant checks enable them to tumble and pick up again, blow their horse, and let him catch his wind again. Still, with all their racing, spurring, galloping, and tumbling, they are seldom in front of our Customer, who we see daily sailing away on his well-bred horse, looking at no one, with his eye on the hounds, and his head on his shoulders, never in a hurry, but always to the front. Long may he live to enjoy the noblest of sports, and show his numerous young friends (who, if they are wise, will endeavour to copy him) how to get to hounds the quickest way, how to keep up, and how not to tumble. NORTHERNER.

'PAULLO MAJORA CANAMUS.'

THEY found him close to Harington,
And killed him under Hayne;
And they declare, who saw the run,
They ne'er before saw such an one,
And ne'er shall see again.

'Twas over grass from first to last,
Nine miles as the crow flies,
They raced by Wooton Green so fast
The village rustics stood aghast,
With open mouths and eyes!

VIRG. E. iv. I.

Day closed. The afternoon was come;
Low dipped the western sun;

Some pulled their watches out, and some
Had turned their horses' heads towards home,
And some few lingered on.

For all the morning had been spent

In vain in Cradock Chase;
A ringing fox, a catching scent;

Slough, bog, and slush where'er they went,
It seemed a hopeless case.

The master's brow was overcast,
His eye ranged o'er the vale :
'Try Caxton Gorse,' he said, at last;
Will touched his cap, and trotted past;
And here begins my tale.

The gorse was reached: Leu in! Leu in!'
They spread, and take the wind;

It seemed a storm had seized the whin ;
Sterns flourished; all was life within;
A thousand on a find!

'There's famous drag; he must be here!'
Will sits upon his horse,

*

Waiting to give the welcome cheer;
But human hopes are kittle gear,'
They're out, and through the gorse.
'Good-night,' the master said; 'Good-bye,
And better luck next day;'

When burst a wild and thrilling cry,
That seemed to rend the earth and sky!

"Hark holloa! he's away!'

'Kittle gear,' a provincial idiom, meaning anything uncertain or capricious.

He'd jumped up in a grassy nook
Beside an open fold;

With whisking brush and saucy look
Down the hill-side his way he took,
Pointing for Scampton Wold.

Look! yonder o'er the hill he goes,
And now he sinks the wind;

Ah! see, he's mobbed by yon dun crows;
Full well he knows more dangerous foes
Are not too far behind.

'Here's the line, close by that old thorn;'
Will claps them on his back;
'That's heel, Jack, sure as you are born;'
One ringing blast upon his horn,

And to him' turns the pack.

They've got it now! the scent's breast high,
Heads up, sterns down, they're gone;
See! how the dappled beauties fly!
A moment wildly wakes the cry,
Then lulls the tuneful harmony,
And almost hushed each tone.

How Madrigal with Minstrel strives.
To outstrip the badger pie;
See, see, too, how old Nestor drives!
By Jove, if he'd a thousand lives,
To-day the fox must die!

Low bent upon his saddle bow,
His eye upon his hounds,

Will counts his fox as dead as though
His nose was nailed up in the row
Within the kennel bounds.

And close behind him press the field

In fast and furious race;

High rails are jumped that will not yield,
Blackthorns with yawners half concealed;
Hot blood is up, and hearts are steeled
To the one thought of place.'

Grim frowns the stile, hog-backed, askew,
Wedged in between two trees;
But finished hands can wonders do;
Light fingers steer the chesnut through
With enviable ease.

Observe that rasper, stiff and high,
New plashed, with out-turned spray;
The leader clears it, glass in eye,
And six more follow at a fly;
But ah! it floors the grey!

And now old blood begins to show;
Men whose wild oats are sown,
Who take it easy while it's slow,
But, when hounds run and mean to go,
Who still can hold their own.

See, yon gaunt man draws to the fore!
The brook flows dark and wide;
How sweetly Redwing, gliding o'er,
Lands lightly on the further shore,
And drops into his stride.

Ah, stream! hast thou no shallow nook,
That faltering heart may find?
Thrice happy he who back can look
From the past perils of the brook,
Towards those he leaves behind.

But what a sight! nine men half-crazed
Tempting the brimming flood;
Nine horses, floundering, struggling, dazed,
Nine riders half-engulfed, half-mazed,
Half-drowned in blackest mud.

And what shall be yon horseman's lot
On the raw four-year-old?

He skates, stops short, like one who's shot;
His fate is sealed, he's in! He's not!
One desperate effort lands him hot,

Instead of drenched and cold.

But mark the scene! Leaves gleam like fire Against the purple sky;

Upon the right the village spire,

And the grey gables of the Squire
In trees embosomed lie.

And ever onward trends the vale,
Lost in the misty shade;

And bull-pull grass and ant-hills tell]
Where Saxon herds were wont to dwell,

And Saxon oxen strayed.

And onward, too, holds the hot chase
Till Scampton Wold draws near.
Poor fox! his heart beats double pace,
His limbs half fail him in the race,
But, can he hold a little space,

The welcome earths are here.