1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

VOLTIGEUR.

Martha Lynn

1. Eclipse-Spiletta-Regulus-Godolphin Arabian.

2. Rachel-Blank. G. A.

3. Frenzy-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

4. Matchem-Cade. G. A. 5. Eclipse, &c. G. A.

6. Her grand-dam, Miss Roan-Cade. G. A. 7. Rachel-Blank. G. A.

8. Pot 8 o's-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

9. Highflyer-Rachel-Blank. G. A. 10. Dungannon-Eclipse, &c. G. A. 11. Saltram-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

12. Diomed-Spectator mare-dam by Blank. G. A. 13. Eclipse, &c. G. A.

14. Grand-dam sister to Regulus. G. A. 15. Maiden-Matchem-Cade.

16. Ruler-Flora-Riot -Regulus. G. A.

17. Mercury-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

18. Woodpecker-Miss Ramsden-Cade. G. A. 19. Cora-Matchem-Cade.

20. Frenzy-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

21. King Fergus-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

22. Highflyer-Rachel-Blank. G. A.

23. Highflyer, &c., &c. G. A.

24. Diomed-Spectator mare-dam by Blank. G. A. 25. Highflyer, &c., &c. G. A.

26. Eclipse, &c. G. A.

27. Pot 8 o's-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

28. Woodpecker-Miss Ramsden-Cade. G. A. 29. King Fergus-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

30. Atalanta-Matchem-Cade. G. A.

31. Rosalind-Phenomenon-Frenzy-Eclipse, &c. 32. King Fergus-Eclipse, &c. G. A.

G. A.

OUR LEICESTERSHIRE BUDGET.

The Masters of Quorn-Mr. Assheton Smith's Levée in Leicestershire-A Run with Sir Richard's, and ditto with the Duke's-Generosity of Lord CardiganA distinguished Stranger.

I have now nearly a fifty years' recollection of the Quorn country, and when I recal the best things done in the best times I cannot discover any period at which the noble science was carried on in a more sportsman-like, systematic, and satisfactory manner.

Mr. Assheton Smith was, and happily still is, a trump. In many points Sir Richard Sutton more resembles that great maestro than does any other master of my time. As a rider perhaps Mr. Smith was the more daring and dashing; but even in days when a second horse was a rara avis he had far less consideration for his steed than Sir Richard. In the absolute sovereignty of the field—which a master, if he is to show sport, must insist upon-they are closely alike. In judgment, in enthusiastic ardour, and in hatred of any unfair advantage over the fox, no two sportsmen ever more resembled each other. Mr. Osbaldeston had great dash in riding to hounds, but perhaps less judgment than either of the other two. Sir Bellingham Graham's great weight requiring horses of great power and substance prevented his ever taking, or at least holding, that prominent place in a run which he was at least always aiming at. Lord Southampton was a graceful and most gentlemanly rider; and he acquired in the Quorn country that knowledge of hunting that has rendered him so justly famous in his own. Lord Suffield would have appeared to greater advantage as a rider to hounds had not his noble brother-in-law, Lord Gardner, invariably taken the master's place, and by his light weight and intrepid dare-devil style, always distanced master and huntsman, and kept the first place. Henry Greene, the only Leicestershire man that ever was master, was as near perfection in all points as any man I remember. Dear old Tommy Hodgson, name ever loved and revered, though he rode like a centaur (if centaurs could be said to ride) in the Holderness country, never rode at all in Leicestershire. He was a capital whipper-in. Some laid the fault to his everlasting brown coat and old-fashioned knee-caps; but the true secret was, Tommy was in love all the while he was master of the Quorn, and had special injunctions from his ladye fair-if he was not under a vow-never to jeopardize those precious long limbs of his by riding at timber! Yet what glorious sport did he show us! With him hunting was indeed a science, and his lagging habit was often of more real service in the field than the go-a-head hard-riding of masters who hunt for riding's sake and nothing else. Talking of timber reminds me of Mr. Osbaldeston's hatred of carpentry. Height, width, depth, of

any other obstacle never daunted his manly heart. I have seen him take leaps that reminded one of the "facilis descensus Averni" rather than put his horse at a rail. Mr. Assheton Smith, on the other hand, used positively to revel in jumping timber. Some saw him do what, but for the ardour of the chase, would have made even him "look before he leapt." His hounds had, after a long chase, run a capital fox from scent to view. The fox made for the rick yards of a village; and a crowd of young men and maidens, old men and children, were doing mischief, bothering the hounds in every way. The spolia opima would have been lost had not Mr. Smith, galloping down a grass field, charged a sixbarred white gate into a narrow lane, and, with scarcely space to gather up his horse, charged the opposite gate out of it-a six-barred one too, and a rising leap! In a moment he was just where he was wanted; the crowd stood paralyzed with wonder. At the moment of his charging the second gate a well-meaning clodpole was in the very act of swinging it open. Another instant and the horse and dauntless rider would have been impaled. "Darn it," said the rustic, "what's the use of hopening a gate for a flying ossmun?" Those gates are still standing, and never do I pass them but the form of that gallant horseman flits across the lane. A quarter of a century had rolled by since that Byard's leap, when Mr. Assheton Smith brought his pack once more into Leicestershire. He was on his way to visit his friend Sir Richard Sutton, then reigning over the Burton country, and it was arranged that he should sojourn for a day or two with his pupil and friend, the honoured squire of Rollestone. Mr. Greene at once resolved a meet should take place. One thousand and eighteen horsemen assembled to pay their respects to the Nestor of the chase, and rarely was a crowned head received with greater honour. Prince Ernest of Saxe Coburg, a large number of the aristocracy, and almost every midland sportsman attended this memorable meet. Sport was not practicable, perhaps it was not desirable or desired, with such a mighty cavalcade. All were richly repaid by a sight of the veteran sportsman whose name had become a Leicestershire household word. Time had turned his brown hair, not to "mournful grey," but to patriarchal white. In every other respect the "Tom Smith" of other days was before us; and if he did not feel proud of this most marked compliment ever paid to a master of hounds, his heart is rather smaller than I take it to be.

I sketched two average runs in my last budget; I will now describe two that may be pronounced something above the average.

The first was with Sir Richard Sutton from Widmerspool, on Friday the 5th. The first find was at Wynnstay covert; but this fox after a fifteen minutes' burst was lost. Owthorpe Plantings soon turned out another, and the beautiful style in which he commenced gave promise of a regular treat. His first point was Cotgrave Gorse, then to Cotgrave plantations, then back to Owthorpe, by Knoulton Wood and village to Hickling (pace beautiful). Leaving Hickling he pressed on to Upper Broughton, crossed the brook, and scudded away "right merrilye" over the pastures to Nether Broughton; then leaving Clawson on the left he made for the hills, passed Helwell Mouth, and seemed bent on keeping his pursuers in the highlands.

Sportsmen who know that country will imagine there was some work to be done to live with hounds going their best. Crossing Nine-acre

Lane he was shortly at Salford Wolds, where tailing became perceptible. Hence over Hose Cliff, by Piper Holt, Harby Hills, to Eastwell, where he was mobbed by the rustics, and where, but for a dexterous move of Day, he would propably have been lost. Stathern Point was his next resource; and, pressed hard, he quitted this for Barkstone Wood; ejected from which he sought an asylum at Belvoir, but was run into in the Old Park. Time two hours and thirty-seven minutes. For further particu lars of this truly excellent run we advise our readers to consult a good

map.

My second sketch is a run with the Duke of Rutland's, the fixture Belvoir Castle. A very large and admirably mounted field, including the castle guests, the Meltonians, and a strong gathering from all quarters assembled. Whatten Thorns furnished a really good fox, as will be seen in the sequel. Muston Gorse (where the poet Crabbe was generally seen botanizing when the hounds were in that quarter) was his first point, whence diverging to the left he took his course over the Nottinghamshire border. Langar, Harby, Hose, Hichling, Colston Bosset, were passed in quick time. Near the latter place he crossed that treacherous stream abhorred of sportsmen, which men call the Smite, but which hunters have often pronounced to be the Styx. A ducking here comes, they say, "quite nat'ral." At least half a score leading men tried "the cold-water cure," amongst the rest the enthusi astic Lord Cardigan. Offers of aid were plentiful as blackberries in October, and, as the Netherby baronet has it, they know the reason why." Four years ago, in jumping the Welland, the gallant colonel's horse missed footing, and soused into the turbid waters with his rider under him. The moment was a critical one, but in extremis spiritual aid was at hand. A brave-hearted priest of the church militant plunged into the stream and fished out the peer militant from the oozy bed. The priest well remembers that day, and so does the peer, for every anniversary of it brings the former a cheque for £100. But we are forgetting our run in this pretty little episode. On the present occasion, however, Lord Cardigan did not require help, lay or spiritual; but drenched as he was, he was one of the most ardent of the pursuers towards Upper Broughton. Here the fox again made down the Vale for Clawson. "On Clawson Hills the paths are steep," but at a bursting pace he climbed them; and could he have shaken off the hounds as he had shaken off a great portion of the field, he would still have left the latter something to talk about. Crossing the ridge he made for that beautiful ravine 'ycleped Holwell Mouth, and for five minutes ensconced himself safely in its covert. A most acceptable breathing time occurred here, when "the echoing horn" again put every horseman on his mettle. Holwell village was next passed, then Goadby Covert without entering, and right a-head for Scalford. Here he was unfortunately headed; and after a short détour again threaded way back to Holwell Mouth, as the French say, retournant sur ses pas. The field had been dead beat for the last quarter of an hour, and Goodall was obliged to call some rustics to aid him in stopping the hounds; for like Sir Gabriel in the legend, or Fitz James in the "Lady of the Lake,"

his

The head most horseman rode alone."