country cannot but bring back to you the memory of the merriest, ay, and the happiest, if not the sweetest moments of your life. Mounted, with a good start, in a grass-country, after a pack of foxhounds, there is no discord in the melody, no bitter in the cup—your keenest anxiety the soundness of the level water-meadow, your worst misgiving the strength of the farther rail, the width of the second ditch. The goddess of your worship bids your pulses leap and your blood thrill, but never makes your heart ache, and the thorns that hedge the roses of Diana can only pierce skin-deep.
Wasn't it glorious, though you rode much heavier then than you do now,'—wasn't it glorious, I say, to view a gallant fox going straight away from Lilburne, Loatland Wood, Shankton Holt, John-o'-Gaunt, or any covert you please to name that lies in the heart of a good- scenting, fair-fenced,
