the hills, much to the disgust of the ancient race
of shepherds.

It is scarcely necessary to observe, that on Brighton Downs there are no
blank days, but the drawing is a real operation performed seriously
until such a time as the company having all assembled, say at half-past
seven o'clock, when, if the unaided faculties of the pack have not
brought them up to a form, a shepherd appears as the _Deus ex machina_.
In spite of all manner of precautions, the hounds will generally rush up
to the point without hunting; loud rises the joyful cry; and, if it is
level ground, the whole meet--hacks, hobbie-horses, and hunters--look as
if their riders meant to go off in a whirlwind of trampling feet. There
is usually a circle or two with the stoutest hare before making a long
stretch; but, on lucky days like that of our first and last visit, the
pace mends the hounds settle, the riding-masters check their more
dashing pupils, the crowd gets dispersed, and rides round, or halts on
the edges, or crawls slowly down the steep-sided valleys; while the hard
riders catch their nags by the head, in with the spurs, and go down
straight and furious, as if they were away for ever and a day; but the
pedestrians and constitutional cob-owners are comforted by assurances
that the hare is sure to run a ring back. But, on our day, Pussy, having
lain _perdu_ during a few minutes' check, started up suddenly amid a
full cry, and rather too much hallooing. A gentleman in large mustachios
and a velvet cap rode at her as if he meant to catch her himself. Away
we all dashed, losing sight of the dignity of fox-hunters--all mad as
hatters (though why hatters should be madder than cappers it would be
difficult to say). The pace becomes tremendous; the pack tails by twos
and threes; the valleys grow steeper; the field lingers and halts more
and more at each steeper comb; the lads who have hurried straight up the
hillsides, instead of creeping up by degrees blow their horses and come
to a full stop; while old hands at Devonshire combs and Surrey steeps
take their nags by the head, rush down like thunder, and slily zigzag up
the opposite face at a trot; and so, for ten minutes, so straight, that
a stranger, one of three in front, cried, "By Jove, it must be a fox!"
But at that moment the leading hounds turned sharp to the right and then
to the left--a shrill squeak, a cry of hounds, and all was over. The sun
shone out bright and clear; looking up from the val