an those of Leicestershire.
Nowhere can you see horses better bred or fitter to go; and he who rides
a-hunting on _fat_ horses must himself be _fat_.

The V.W.H. hounds, on Mr. Hoare's retirement in 1886, were divided into
two packs. Mr. T. Butt Miller hunts three days a week on the eastern
side, with Cricklade as his centre; whilst Lord Bathurst has sufficient
ground for two days on the west, where the country flanks with the Duke
of Beaufort's domain on the south and the Cotswold hounds on the north.
Mr. Miller retains the original pack, and a very fine one it is. Lord
Bathurst likewise, by dint of sparing no pains, and by bringing in the
best blood obtainable from Belvoir, Brocklesby, and other kennels, has
gradually brought his pack to a high state of excellence.

Turning to the week's programme for a man hunting five or six days a
week from Cirencester, Monday is the day for the duke's hounds. Here you
may be riding over some of the best of the grass, where light flying
fences grow on the top of low banks, or else it will be a stone-wall
country of mixed grass and light plough. In either case the country is
very rideable, and sport usually excellent. The Badminton hounds and
Lord Worcester's skill as a huntsman are too well known to require any
description here.

On Tuesday Lord Bathurst's hounds are always within seven miles of the
town, and the country is a very open one, but one that requires plenty
of wet to carry scent. Though on certain days there is but little scent,
in favourable seasons during recent years wonderful sport has been shown
in this country. In the season of 1895-6 especially, a fine gallop came
off regularly every Tuesday from October to the end of February. In '97,
on the other hand, little was done. There is far more grass than there
used to be, owing to so much of the land having gone out of cultivation.
The plough rides lighter than grass does in nine counties out of ten,
the coverts are small, and the pace often tremendous. Every country has
its drawback, and in this case it lies partly in bad scent and partly in
the fences being too easy. Men who know the walls with which the
Cotswold tableland is almost entirely enclosed, ride far too close to
hounds: thus, the pack and the huntsman not being allowed a chance,
sport is often spoiled. Occasionally, when a real scent is forthcoming,
the hounds can run right away from the field; but as a rule they are
shamefully over-ridden. The fact is