The above-named party was mounted at Melton by some friends; but, by giving fair notice, thoroughly good and well-made hunters can always be secured by any of the Midland hunting centres by those who do not care to rail their own horses from London. Market Harborough is still more accessible than Melton, being but two hours from London, and situated in the centre of a splendid grass country, hunted by Mr. Tailby; while a smart trot of eight miles would bring the sporting voyageur to Kilworth Sticks and the Pytchley, provided the right day was selected. Rugby, too, is equally accessible, and boasts a fair hotel, where the charges are not more extortionate than they are at Harborough, which is saying a good deal. The hunting in the vicinity of Rugby, however, amply compensates for a little overdoing in the matter of charges.
It is scarcely possible to go to Rugby the wrong day to get at hounds within a reasonable distance, and some of the meets of that admirable pack, the North Warwickshire, are frequently at such picturesque and convenient trysting places as Bilton Grange—now celebrated by the Tichborne trial, and sworn to as the place where the "Claimant" was not. However this may be, a straight-necked and wily gentleman is generally to be found at home, either in the plantations of the grand old demesne or close by at Bunker's Hill or Cawston Spinney, who is tolerably certain to lead the claimants for his brush a merry dance across the glorious grass country to Barby, Shuckborough, or Ashby St. Leger. The fences, too, in this part of the Midlands are just the thing for a lady's hunting, and, while quite big enough in most cases to require a little doing, they are by no means so formidable as those in High Leicestershire and the Quorn country. The old-fashioned bullfincher is rare, and double ox fences equally so, while there is a pretty variety of nice stake-and-binders, pleached hedges, and fair-water jumping, with an occasional flight of rails, big enough to prove that the fair equestrian's hunter can do a bit of timber clean and clever. In fact, I know no country I would as soon select for a young lady to commence regular hunting in as that in the vicinity of Rugby. Combe Abbey, Misterton, and Coton House are all sweetly English, as well as thoroughly sporting places of meeting, and the truly enjoyable trot or canter over the springy turf, which everywhere abounds by the roadside in these localities, and makes the way to covert so pleasant, has more than once been pronounced by hunting critics to be more desirable than hunting itself in parts of England where the road is all "Macadam," and the land plough, copiously furnished with big flint stones, such as one sees in Hampshire. Apropos of which charming country there is a sporting tale prevalent in this real home of the hunter.
A rich, middle-aged, single gentleman, a thorough enthusiast about foxhunting, had a nephew, a very straight-going youngster, who the "prophetic soul" of his uncle had decided should one day be the man of the country in the hunting field, and second to none over our biggest country; and, to enable "Hopeful" to lead the van, the veteran mounted him on horses purchased regardless of expense. Furthermore, determined that no casualty in the way of breaking his own neck should suddenly deprive his favourite nephew of the golden sinews of the chase, the old Nimrod made a very proper will, leaving all his large property to his fortunate young relative.
Things, indeed, looked rosy enough for our young sportsman. Youth, health, wealth, a capital seat, and fine hands upon his horse, any quantity of pluck, a thorough knowledge of hunting, and plenty of the best horses to carry him—who could desire more? Alas that it should be so! even the brightest sunshine may become overcast—the fairest prospect be marred—by causes never dreamt of by the keenest and most far seeing among us.
At the termination of a capital season in the Midland, our youngster, not content to let well alone, and, like that greedy boy Oliver still "asking for more," unknown to his worthy uncle, betook himself to the New Forest in Hampshire.
"Hopeful" was a sharp fellow enough, and he did not believe that all was gold that glittered; but he was under a very decided impression that wherever there was a good open stretch of green level turf it was safe to set a horse going. Alas! the luckless young sportsman was not aware that in the New Forest this is by no means a certainty, and one day, when riding to some staghounds, determined to "wipe the eye" of the field, he jumped a big place which nobody else seemed to care for, and, taking his horse by the head, set him sailing along the nearest way to the hounds. A lovely piece of emerald-green turf was before him; he clapped his hat firmly on, put down his hands, and, regardless of wild cries in his rear, made the pace strong. Suddenly and awfully as the Master of Ravenswood vanished from the sight of the distracted Caleb Balderstone and was swallowed up in the Kelpie's Flow, so disappeared "Hopeful" and his proud steed; both were engulfed in a treacherous bog, and, before either horse or man could be extricated, "the pride of the Shires" was smothered in mud beneath his horse.
Next season, at a "coffee-housing" by a spinney side, where hounds were at work, an old friend of the bereft uncle ventured to condole with him on his loss.
"Sad business," he said, shaking his old hunting chum warmly by the hand; "sad business that about poor Charlie down in Hampshire!"
"Sad, indeed," replied the veteran uncle, returning the friendly squeeze. "Who would have thought my sister's son would have ever done such a thing? Staghunting was bad enough," he continued, as the irrepressible tear coursed down his furrowed cheek; "staghunting was bad enough, but to go at it in Hampshire—I shall never get over it. As to his being smothered, of course that served him perfectly right."
Turning, however, from the above melancholy instance of degeneracy in sport to the pleasanter theme of the right locale in which a lady should commence foxhunting, I must not forget Leamington, the neighbourhood of which beautiful and fashionable watering place affords some capital sport to those who delight in "woodland hunting." The woods at Princethorpe, Frankton, and the vicinity, hold some stout foxes that afford many a nice gallop, while the country is rideable enough for a lady if she keeps out of the woods.