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But nigh two hours the open kept,
As stout a fox as ever stept.
That morning, in the saddle set,
An hundred men at Tar Wood met;
Though rumour says of that array
Scarce ten lived fairly thro' the
day.

Till mid-day's sun had made the ground

Fit treading for the foot of hound,
Compelled their pastime to delay,
They whiled in chat an hour away:
How bitter over night the frost-
How many a joke without it lost.
Ah! how shall I in song declare
The riders who were foremost there?
A fit excuse how shall I find
For ev'ry rider left behind?

There, reckless of the pain, he sighed

To think he might not onward ride: Though fallen from his pride of place,

His heart was following still the chase;

He bade the huntsman to forbear
His proffer'd aid, nor tarry there-
"Oh! heed me not, but ride away,
The TarWood fox must die to-day.'
The rear pull'd up with one accord,
Assiduous to assist a lord;
Some say their steeds were sorely

blown

Such idle falsehoods I disown.
Valentia fell: nor he alone-
Here Jem in his career was thrown:

It seem'd while riding Cokethorp by, His heels they in the breast-plate

As though there were no fence to

fly; Though slash'd and sluic'd with many a drain,

Yet seemingly one open plain, And he who clears those ditches wide

Must needs a goodly steed bestride. From Bampton to the river's bounds

The race was run on pasture grounds,

Yet many a nag of blood and bone
Was heard to cross it with a groan;
For blackthorns stiff the fields di-
vide,

With watery ditch on either side.
By Lechlade's village fences rise
Of ev'ry sort and ev'ry size;
And rotten bank and tott'ring wall
Were crumbled by the frequent fall.
Some planted deep in corn-field
stand,

A fix'd incumbrance on the land;
While others prove o'er post and rail
The merits of the sliding scale.
Ah! much it grieves the muse to
tell

At Clanfield how Valentia fell;
He rode, they say,like one bewitched,
Till headlong from the saddle
pitched;

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*Jem Hills' horse. †The huntsman's second horse.

The under whipper-in.

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In dingle deep poor Fungus fell,
A plant that loves the water well;
For minutes ten or thereabout
He bathed, and then he floundered
out;

By application of spur-rowel, Charles rubbed him dry without a towel.

As on the pack by Kelmscote flew, What meant those coats of scarlet hue?

Who were those by the neighbouring wood,

Who heedless of the scouring stood? The Valley of the White Horse pack, While idle steeds their riders back, Impatient range the covert round, Their morning fox as yet unfound; That huntsman's horn and echoing cheer

Was music to the strangers' ear, And they who felt the pace too

hot

Sought gladly there a resting spot. Thus fleets, when they no more can bide

The fury of the wind and tide,

If chance some tranquil port they

spy

Where vessels safe at anchor lie, There seek a shelter from the gale, With helm reversed and slackened sail.

Thus patriots faint of heart, who deem

Some honest measure too extreme, No longer to their colours true, Take refuge in the "juste milieu." The speed of horse, the pluck of

man,

They needed both who led the van. This Holmes can tell, who thro' the day

Was ever foremost in the fray;

And Holloway, with best intent,
Still shiv'ring timber as he went ;
And Williams, clinging to the pack,
As if the league were at his back;
And Tollitt, ready still to sell
The nag that carried him so well.
When younger men of lighter
weight

Some tale of future sport relate,
Let Whippy show the brush he

won,

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(To be continued.)

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CHAP. XVIII.-LOVE AND MYSTERY.

Christchurch Meadows by Moonlight-The Lovers surprised-Bonny Barbara in Florence-Flickering Lights and Shadows of the Past - The Present and the

Future.

The dome of heaven was radiant with the starry sphere-the grey clouds travelled quickly past the silvery moon-while o'er the landscape and the rippling Isis gleamed a streaked light of vivid mystic blue, and ever and anon it tinged the outline of the rising ground, or spread its cheerful brightness o'er the silent glade; and, save where a flickering light denoted the collegian's latticed chamber, the classic meadows of Christ Church breathed a fragrant stillness and a soft repose.

The

It was autumn time and evening tide. The vesper bell had rung its parting note; the domini were mostly caged in comfortable quarters, discussing the merits of old port; and the merry student had closed his oak, to consecrate the night to friendship, sack, and claret. studious book-worm pondered over his tomes; and the black-lettered magii of the schools met in conclave, to decipher the arrow-pointed hieroglyphics of Egyptian lore.

Along the banks where Isis winds its way, o'ershadowed by umbrageous foliage of varied hue, there came a youthful pair upon the sight, and, as they passed and pressed the velvet pasture, their light step and silvery tongues denoted they were lovers, secking the solitude of sweet, refreshing nature and of eve, to hold communion of kindred thought, to pledge their mutual vows of love, and breathe the inspiration of the soul.

It was not the first time that Fitzgeorge and Mary Jessop had been seen wandering by Isis's classic stream, courting the stillness of the silvery mead. Their open, undisguised, and accredited attachment left no room for prying curiosity, suspicious reports, or idle misrepresentation. Old Frank Jessop had given his consent to the attachment, and meant to promote the union as soon as he could; but, as yet, he had not communicated his intention, or that of the lovers, to Wilton Burney; and, although the lovely Mary bore Jessop's name, and had always been considered his daughter, old Frank felt convinced that Wilton Burney had an equal, if not a stronger, claim to be consulted in the disposal of her hand.

"Dear Mary," said Fitzgeorge, "you acted nobly in rejecting the tempting present. Be assured that the jeweller would find the right

owner,

"It matters little if he does or not, dear Julius.

Such a gift from a stranger, who concealed his name, could only be considered an insult.'

"And if he had avowed himself," inquired Fitzgeorge, with some alarm, "would that, Mary, have rendered the present more acceptable, or have lessened the indignity?""

"No-on the contrary; for if, as I suspect, it came from the royal libertine, I think the insult more offensive."

"You are a deal girl, and worthy of all my devotion. But tell me, Mary, what said old Frank to your illustrious conquest.

"He said what his good, kind, affectionate old heart prompted him to say, but what it would not be proper for me to repeat-at least, in his language-lest I might be guilty of treason."

"Let it pass, Mary. The time may come when I shall be justified in resenting this offence, and proving my gratitude to your dear old guardian, who has been a father to you and a kind friend to me."

"To everybody, Julius; to everybody. Frank Jessop, under a rough coating, has a warm, indulgent, and generous heart; he is one of the best men that ever breathed; and if he is not my father by law, I am sure that I am his daughter by love. It distresses me, Julius, and I am sure that it distresses both him and you, to entertain doubts which we have no means of elucidating. Ever since the visit of that mysterious old Crone of Thorpe Glen, I have noticed an unusual dejection in my father's spirits, and a visible alteration in his manner towards both of us; not that he is less affectionate and kind in conduct and in speech; but occasionally he is more abstracted and reserved, and talks to himself. Yesterday I overheard him say It cannot be ; the old hag must have invented the tale to impose upon us both; and yet-' Here he paused for some time, and then, heaving a deep sigh, he said- It were better it should I'll hie me to the wold, and know the worst.' And this

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"It is strange-very strange. We are the children of mystery, Mary we live in the world, and among the world, and yet I sometimes doubt if we are of it. That you are an angel, I am sure,' said Fitzgeorge, playfully; "and that I am some mythological hero in disguise, I feel quite certain. How we either of us became wanderers on this earth is enveloped in deep mystery; but fate, my dear Mary, which brought us together, evidently intended us for companions; and some day or other the gods, who alone seem to know our true history, will draw the veil aside, and show us who and what we really are."

"But if the discovery should produce any transformation of what we are!" said Mary, somewhat apprehensively. "It might be more agree

able to remain in our present doubtful but happy state.'

"I have often thought of that," replied Fitzgeorge: "it might be the source of great misery to one or both of us. If, for instance, Mary, you should prove to be some rich man's heiress, and I should continue to be the poor student I am-"

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Stop there, Julius: I will not allow you to conjure up such an impossibility, nor will I permit you to hazard the unjust conclusion I think you were arriving at. No, Julius; if I were a rich man's heiress, I would enrich the man I loved before I married him, that I might insure his confidence and secure his regard."

And, by all the saints!" said Fitzgeorge, pressing her hand to his heart, "if I were peerless among peers, having no equal in wealth and honours of nobility, I would pledge my hand and heart to love, honour, and cherish such a noble-minded girl. In proof whereof," he continued, "I affix this my hand and seal," impressing his words with his lips on the glowing cheek of the beauteous Mary.

"A very rude act in deed," said Mary-"in the open air, Julius," she added, by way of qualification. However, as we are neither of us likely to be rich or peerless, I fancy we may omit the usual covenants by default."

"Not so, Mary; I mean to propose a very heavy liability on both sides, namely, that, notwithstanding any untoward circumstances, or objections that may arise or any change of circumstances whether for good or ill, that may occur to the contracting parties, they hereby bind themselves to become-(shall I insert the obligation, Mary?" said Fitzgeorge. She was silent, but he felt a slight pressure of the hand, which he took for assent, and proceeded)—“ man and wife, within the space of-three months shall it be from this time, Mary?"

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Julius, Julius!" exclaimed the lovely girl; "you are hurrying on without due consideration of time or circumstance. We must consult my father: you know that he will not oppose unreasonable objections; but, for heaven's sake! if it be possible, let us clear away some of the mystery which surrounds us; before we become irrevocably united, we ought both of us to know who or what we are."

"If our union, my dear girl, is to rest upon that condition, I fear me the delay will be insupportable, at least to me. Of your history, Mary-and I speak it feelingly-I know enough to know that I can have no expectation beyond the possession of the woman I adore: to me you are everything as I see you- lovely, virtuous, amiable, and affectionate. What right have I to look further or expect more? Our love has not been of sudden growth, Mary: it commenced in the spring of life, and has bloomed over three summers of delightful intercourse. We have no secrets, no concealments of our own; and, if we look forward to some discoveries connected with our parentage, they ought not to influence our actions, let them be as they may; nor should they delay the happiness which is within our grasp."

"My heart accords with yours, Julius; you know it, and it would be affectation in me to deny it; but my mind quails under the apprehension of disclosures which might wound your pride, or prejudice you in the estimation of worldly people. How could you bear to have it said that you had married a-God knows who?-the adopted daughter of a stable keeper?-the child, perhaps, of-I dare not utter what I think." And she clung to him for support, while tears and sobs denoted the agitation of her feelings.

"Mary, dearest Mary, do not drive me to distraction," said Fitzgeorge, pressing her trembling form to his own agitated bosom; "you know as much of my history as I know myself; you can have no disclosures to fear that ought to raise a blush upon your check-none that can ever taint your pure unblemished and beloved character-none that can ever wound your husband's honest pride, or prejudice his future pursuits in life-none, Mary, none that I may not participate in and feel humbled by comparison."

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