afternoon, as reclining at ease in the shady quiet tent, waited on by fair and gentle hands, soothed by the sympathy of sweet Mrs. Montague Forbes (whose first husband, the late Mr. F., had been a sad invalid), I learned from the energetic conversation going on around me how the contest went, and, without even the trouble of looking, was made aware of the changes and vicissitudes of this all-important match. To complete her entire subjugation of my indolent nature, the artful widow herself proposed that I should light a cigar-" they all liked the smell so much in the open air ;" and Mrs. Montague herself had once smoked "a whiff at one of her brother's, and it did not make her the least ill !” So I lay back upon my couch; and as I watched the fumes of my fragrant Regalia wreathing into the summer air, I realized to myself the advantage of the position enjoyed by the Grand Turk, who, I have been given to understand, spends the greater part of his existence in the charming society of his wives, varied only by the equally intellectual pleasures of the hookah.

But the match goes on; and the fair spectators, generally in superlatives, exclaim upon its incidents and events.

"Gracious!" says one, clasping her hands," that duck, Swaddles, has caught the blacksmith out! How charming! How delightful! How heavenly! I'm so glad! Fanny, an't you?"

"How beautifully Mr. Quivering bowls," is the response of that artless damsel, who is supposed to entertain a lurking predilection for the attenuated scholar. "I'm sure Ripley must win; and think of their only having ten against the others' twenty-two. So noble,

isn't it?"

"Let me put this cushion a little more under your shoulder, Mr. Nogo," says my enchantress, with a smile that makes me forget the match, the blacksmith, the rapidly-stiffening joint and probable lameness to come-all and everything save those sunny ringlets and that peachlike cheek. I feel as I used to do about Kate Cotherstone, and, as I had since thought, I should never feel again. The moments flew in a blissful dream of bright eyes, mellow sunshine, balmy breezes, and soft tones-all these blended charms combining to produce that delightful languor which can only be experienced in the enjoyment of bodily repose accompanied by such accessories. What cared I that Ripley won in a second innings with five wickets to go down? that Bagshot played as never mortal played before? that Swaddles (I quote once more from the Ripley Watchman) " again retired from his wicket without troubling the score?" or that the exhausted players were to adjourn to an impromptu dinner in the very tent where I was now luxuriating except in so far as the latter arrangement promised to interrupt my delightful tête-à-tête with the widow ? The shouters shouted; the band played; Joe Bagshot, in consideration of his making sixtyeight off his own bat, was carried round the ground on the shoulders of his confederates; the cloth was laid, the ale broached, and the dinner ready; but instead of being stunned by toasts, overwhelmed by hurraing, and stifled by tobacco-smoke, I was lolling comfortably in an open barouche in the moonlight, and set down by Mrs. Montague Forbes at the door of Joe's parsonage after a drive such as seldom falls to the lot of a maimed and unsuccessful cricketer in this work-a-day world.

(To be continued.)

380

STAG-HUNTING IN SOMERSET AND DEVON.

BY 8. C.

(Continued from page 346.)

An extensive woodland, pierced by several rides, sweeps up the acclivity of a sloping hill. On the N.E. corner, towards Nettlecombe, the large timber has been cleared, and a square patch of ground, covered with low coppice, cuts sharply into the forest by which it is bounded in two directions. On the third or east side are farm buildings surrounded by stately trees; and above, to the north, lies the open country bordering on the moor, From this piece of coppice the eye, ranging over the tree tops below, takes in a wide prospect. To the left the view is circumscribed by masses of foliage, but in front are the cultivated lands, and undulating downs, stretching away towards Dulverton, and to the right, through various openings, we catch glimpses of the brown moor. The country seems alive with spectators: in the fields skirting the wood are scattered groups of horsemen, and the banks are topped by whole lines of pedestrians, looking in the distance like belts of young firs. Sheltered by the stately trees from the heat of the mid-day sun is a knot of sportsmen from the neighbourhood of Dulverton. One, who seems laying down the law to the rest, is a well known character, to whom, if report is true, the stag-hunters are much indebted—he combines the art of Esculapius with the woodcraft of Diana; every moorland track is said to be familiar to him by night and day, and though the ruck may scarcely find him within hail, he is always at hand to repair any damage to a first flight man. Next him is an old soldier and sportsman, whose courage has not been tamed by age, and whose hunting cap is usually in the van

"Albeit the blanched locks below

Are white as Dinlay's spotless snow."

His son, who is near him, follows his father's steps, and it is said that not finding anything else at Oxford hard or high enough, he was fain to a ride at the Ensham turnpike. Not far from them is T, a wellknown horse-dealer, mounted on a fine, but somewhat fiery-looking animal. Two, with whom we are already familiar, complete the group: they do not, either of them, look ready for a start; for one is sitting on the ground, with his back against a tree; and the other, with his hat over his eyes, is bending backwards to the crupper, to avoid an oak branch at which his hack is nibbling; while the dark grey, and wellbred carriage horse, are led up and down in the shade of a spreading beech a few yards off. Yet hounds are heard, full cry, in the wood, and Sam's cheery voice comes ringing up the leafy avenues. Listen to that answering sound from the farm; a smothered muffled cry, like voices in a dream, as if an imprisoned pack was impatient to get free; and so it is.

This is Slowley Wood, one of the largest covers in Somerset, and the operation of "tufting" is going on. Were the old pack thrown into these large woodlands, where several deer are lying, they would separate and draw on different scents; the young hounds would riot after foxes or hares, where no whip could reach them, and no power on earth would get them together again. Besides, the fatigue of hunting for so long, through hot close thickets, where scarcely a breath of air can penetrate, would tire the dogs before the deer broke. Two or three couple of old steady hounds are therefore selected to draw, and the rest shut up in some convenient place. When the stag breaks he is sure to be seen by some of the beaters, or people stationed round the wood, and the pack is then laid on. Nor is so much time lost as a foxhunter would imagine, for the deer rarely makes for a point at full speed directly he breaks, but, unless closely pursued, canters quietly on, often stopping, and sometimes even lying down. So much in explanation of tufting, which though very necessary, is hot and tiring to hounds and huntsmen, and somewhat tedious to the field.

"Good heavens!" said the stranger, recovering his natural position in the saddle, as his hack evinced some intention of lying down— "Good heavens!" exclaimed he, pulling out his watch, with a tremendous yawn; "it is past twelve, and here we have been two mortal hours, after bucketing as hard as we could the ten miles from Dulverton; besides hurrying over breakfast-a most detestable proceeding." Ah," said the doctor, 66 we may wait two hours more yet; Slowley Wood is no easy place to get away from. In old times I have known half the day taken up with tufting, before we could get the stag we wanted. An old stag will try all kinds of dodges, before he is forced out of cover. When closely pressed he will go to the lair of some other deer, rouse him up with his horns, and lie down in his place; and will thus often make every young male deer, and every hind, quit the cover before he shows himself. In those days we could afford to be fastidious, and were sure that our "warrantable" stag had been harboured: now we take what we can get; and if we have a stag at all I shall be satisfied. It is a fine thing to see an old fellow seven or eight years old break; but a young male deer of three or four gives the longest run." "The

"I should like to see a stag break," replied the stranger. other day no one saw him; and the first time I was out the hounds met at Emmett's Grange to hunt the two crack Exmoor hinds, which were harboured, even at daybreak, in early morn. These hinds stood the pressure from without' during many a long run in the last season. Punctual " as lovers to the moment sworn' were the early ones; Sam, master, and pack, at the Grange-justice done to the steward's spread.

"Away! away! to the mountain's brow,
Where the deer are wildly bounding,"

was the jocose and hearty shout of the many, and the start was made. I, with some others who were "a little too late," saw them emerge from the house. A smart trot then ensued, and we steadily gained upon them, and entered the Deer-park as the "hinds were roused" upon the hill, and faintly heard the echo, Away! away!-the old line-gallant

day. At this moment we got to work, and were getting on terms with them; but, alas! in making our point for the hounds we were entangled in those horrid deer-park bogs-Sam with joyous shout, and hounds dashing in view at a morning pace. It requires but a moment to decide our fate and feelings. Again, fancy a fond look" ahead"—you see the sporting tenant (who by-the-bye knows every stride of the moor) leading the way smoothly through the disgusting morass, with joyful note of "War bogs! follow me-keep the old forest track-skirt the wet ground!" Oh! what a charm to know such a country! There they go! Now, well out of the deer-park-not to return—we find ourselves nearly two miles in arrear in an opposite direction, a deep ravine between; hinds, hounds, and the few--the tenant, Sam, master, and young Ke going at a racing pace, just making an angle to the Horsen and Sherdon Hills, leaving us in the pleasant situation of taking "a last fond look" at Sam, his pack, and friends.

"'Tis time now for sober reflection," said one of the anxious lookers-on.

"Yes," replied the Master of the N.D.H.; " but as to the future, I hope. My hounds are in the barn at Yard Down,' below the Northmolton ridge. Let's away to Long Wood' for a fox."

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Agreed," was the universal voice; and we finished the day with Russell's foxhounds, illustrating poor Nimrod's maxim, that the best, and often the easiest way is with the hounds. This over, curiosity grew stronger and stronger still as to old Sams finish with his deer; and we learn at the end of the first six miles, over a hilly and rugged country, and at a rapid pace, the tenant's half-bred (hack) "shuts-up." The master, Sam, and Young Ke are still pressing on, but left to their fate as to the country. This is unfortunate, as the hounds approached Sir P. Acland's hill property from the forest. A high boundary wall, with deep drop and brook, had to be crossed-hounds in sight and full cry. Sam, not up to the hunting-gate away down, the select few push off the coping stones of the "terrible high wall." This difficulty over, and the fence cleared, a greater one ensues. The hounds have cleared the hill-top, and are now out of sight. Then follows the dilemma. Sam, with some emphasis, exclaims, Now we want the farmer. Here's a go! in a wild mountain country, beset with bogs, hills, and deep combes (valleys), and no roads!" Speculation is rife; advances a point down-wind is made. They can't go this pace long up-wind," exclaims Sam, in almost breathless speech; but, alas! it is only in advance of the then apparent truism, "that the more certain place to find the hounds is at the kennel,'" whither Sam and the Master were bent upon winding their way without hounds or horsemen. To be brief, as I find I am a little diverging-but who can help it-the hounds could not have run over less than twenty-five miles of hard hunting country, and were repeatedly viewed "when running all alone in their glory" (over at least ten miles of ground) as they crossed the roads, hills, and mountains. In the latter case Mr. Knight's cattle herds had a splendid view of the deer and hounds, but no horsemen, while crossing the chains for the well-known Badgworthy cover. At this point they were met by an old veteran stag-hunter," who has been heard to say that " he would not cross his home field to see a stag turned out of a cart-(horrible in the extreme)-while there are so many wild ones in our covers."

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Himself a master of a "merry pack of dwarfs," with his usual salute, and musical voice, he cheered them "on to him" over another five miles of hill and heather waste" (reserved for the harbour and breeding of the blackcock and poults), to the Brendon covers. Here he was singularly met by Sam and the Master on their route for the lost pack and kennel. The veteran's charge given up-night drawing onhounds whipped off-Sam's doleful tales of the wall story-absence of the farmer-the racing pace-the leading hounds wanting-the glorious start-all told, with promise to meet at "the veteran's house to hunt the Oar Stag," Sam, with the Master, turned for home (Linton); grumbling as he went, leading a tired but valued steed, counting again and again the remnant pack, numbering among the absent the choice and leading hounds, who had either killed or lost their deer and were already at the home of their fathers, "the kennel," to receive Sam's "fallen voice and lamentations," in an "unknown tongue," of "Oh! my fast 'uns, what a finish!" But to return.

"Riding to hounds is all very well," said another of the group, "but you can't always do it in this country-I've seen it tried fifty times. I remember young N. F, or one of the K-'s, I forget which, hearing two or three young fellows inquiring about the locality of the bogs. 'Oh, bogs!' said the other, it's all humbug; there are no bogs on Exmoor: come with us, we go with the hounds.' Well, away they went, and uncommonly well and pluckily they rode, ahead of us all; but unluckily we came to those very Chains, the old hands took a wide berth and caught the hounds the other side; but nothing was to be seen of the young ones; and it was not till we had killed, and were coming back, that we met them looking like chimney sweeps. horses and men covered with black mud. A stranger pounded in this way runs the risk of wandering about the moor all night, particularly if a fog comes on."

"Don Quixote even would object to that sort of night-errantry," said another; "but don't you remember old Sam's first season? when we drew Haddon, and some one showed him the doctor, saying, There Sam, there's the best man for you to follow.' Follow!' cried Sam; I follows my hounds.' 'Well, but Sam, if you get into the middle of Haddon you'll never get out.' 'Never seed the place I couldn't get out of,' replied Sam, and in he went. However, he had not gone far before he was completely fixed: the hounds got away, and we never saw Sam till the evening.'

"Then if you have a run like the one from Haddon to Glenthorne," said the barrister, looking up from his tree," when the stag was taken in Mr. Halliday's garden, unless your horse is something more than mortal, you cannot live with hounds. No one saw the whole of that run; I was with them as far as Symonsbath, and could get no farther. E took a line to Badgery, and saw the finish, but no more. truth is, the deer constantly take the same line, and those who know the moor well can hit it off. Knight used to have horses at several points, and knowing every inch of the moor, could always pick up a fresh one."

The

"Ah," said T," and what horses his were to be sure! thoroughbred, and turned out on the moor they could go up and down hills, and cross bogs, like Exmoor ponies."