took up their stations to see him go away. Hark! he is up; every hound in the savage soul of chace is at him, 'But ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; With one brave bound the copse he cleared.' Out he came, and seeing the crowd in groups everywhere, stood for a moment motionless, gave one gaze round, and bounded back into covert. After threading the woods and snuffing the taint in all directions he headed back, and heedless of the crowd of footers, charged right through them, going away to Salcombe and Kingston, over the hill to Loddiswell, and taking the line up the vale of the Avon river, made his way from wood to wood to his home in the wilderness of Dartmoor Forest. The manoeuvre of Antony Payne had been carried out to the very letter. The field, with Colonel Fat their head, giving a lead to the ladies, left the valley, and by lanes and byways got to Loddiswell, a good eight miles from Slapton. Bridget, however, watching her time, and seeing the Colonel well forward, slipped back at a merry pace. Charles Mohun was at the upper bridge of Ireland Creek, waiting with impatience for the ring of hoof: his listening ear and still more eager eye were at last gratified; for there came in the very flesh, and rare too in its way, the bonnie Bridget on her Dartmoor Galloway, and away to the New Jerusalem to recruit in hot haste for the long ride she had before her. The banquet had been laid out for those that came not, and brought to mind the Sic vos non vobis of the Latin day. To do Colonel Fjustice, it was a brave spread. In the centre was a venison and game pie, called a Batalia pastye,' rich and savoury, the contents of which shall be given from the identical recipe now in its antiquated phraseology lying before us, and treasured by the Mohun descendants: The bottom of the pye to be well larded with bacon and 'the Marrow of two bones,-Venison from the hanche or necke thickly 'slyced,-boned Hare-Partridge- Pheasant,-Quails and Larks 'trussed,-with 4 sucking Rabets,-3 or 4 Sheeps tongues,-3 or 4 'Sweet breades,-Lamb and Cock's stones and combes, boyl'd, blanch'd and slyc'd,-with Oysters and Anchovies,-and savoury balls of force'meat-the whole seasoned with pepper salt and spice, and the Liquor 'White Wine, Gravey and drawn Butter.' (Sic.) There is the famed Batalia pye, which should have been spelt Battaglia ;' and an eager battle did Tony's men wage on it. But his caution, like that of quick-witted Antonia, in the Juan Memorabilia-Come, come, "'tis no time now for fooling,' was prudent; and that same prudence dictated to him to stow away one or two Battalia pasties in one huge pocket, and some bottles of wine in the other, then to horse and away. The road to the River Dart, in order to avoid the Stoke Fleming detachments, lay by Slapton Upper Bridge to the old mill, turning by Watergate towards Blackawton. The bridge had an ་ embattled gateway, now replaced with one of wood, having a marsh on one side and the lake on the other, and thus commanding the pass. Colonel F—, on drawing bit at Loddiswell, missed the widow, and, suspecting something wrong, galloped back, collecting his retainers by the way. The two parties met on the bridge; the Colonel saw his rival, and guessed the whole truth. It was a sharp pang, and when his eye rested on Bridget, it spoke little of love. The Royalists were well armed; and the Roundheads, unprepared and in small numbers, could not stand a moment. The Cornish giant, with his seven-feet-four powers of height, hurled the rebels right and left into the marsh and lake, and collaring Colonel F―, dragged him from his horse, and from his enormous height was enabled to lift and bind him at full length hard and fast at the top of the arch, reading him a stinging lecture, spiced with strong expletives, on the infamy of a broken word. On-on by Blackawton to the creek at Dittisham, amongst friends, where boats were in readiness; and not waiting for the night, and in order to forestal the alarm that would be given, with a fast running ebb tide down the Dart they went. The ping, ping of the Roundhead sentinels were occasionally startling; but the widow was well cared for, and in chosen company, and getting safe within protection of Kingswear Fort, they ran into the harbour. Sir Thomas Fairfax was never inclined to be severe in his conduct towards the Royalists. This escapade, however, of Charles Mohun irritated him, and the rage of Colonel F -acting as a spur, the General moved directly with his whole army to Dartmouth. The garrison refused to surrender, and the town was stormed. Kingwear Fort was taken, then the town; Townstall Church and Mount Boone fell, and the remnant of the garrison, with Charles Mohun at their head, retreated to the castle, situated at the extreme point of the promontory, at the very edge of the shelving rock of glassy slate, and washed by the sea at high water. It was a hopeless case; but brave hearts never despair, and Charles Mohun was not disposed that Bridget Cudlipp should be the prisoner of Colonel F. Calling on his men, he headed a vigorous sally from the fort named Gallant's Bower, and was the first that fell, shot through the head. Heu miserande puer !-manibus date lilia plenis. Fairfax behaved generously and like a gentleman-a trait that ever distinguished him from the other Radical Roundheads. He personally protected the widow; and the Cornish prisoners, with Payne the giant, were set at liberty, with money allowed to carry them home. The amount was returned by the Grenvilles, with a letter to Fairfax in acknowledgment of his courtesy. But time at last sets all things even,' and at the Restoration the Merry Monarch' appointed the Cornish giant to be one of the yeoman guard, with a pension; and when John Grenville, Earl of Bath, was made Governor of the Citadel of Plymouth, Payne was placed therein as a gunner, and he died in his old age at his native place of Stratton. Bridget Cudlipp passed the remainder of her days in the Manor House at Stoke Fleming, that may now be seen near the church, for ever silent and for ever sad.' Colonel F, however, did not appear again on the scene. The Grenvilles and the Mohuns were too powerful to contend against; their influence prevailed, and, like the Regicides, his country knew him no more. Mercy and peace having become the order of the day, the Royalist and rebel parties at Slapton, in the blessedness of mutual forgiveness, shook hands over a fresh tankard and another Battaglia pye; but the sign of the old hostelry was changed once more, and for the third time. To indicate the harmony that now reigned in the neighbourhood of Slapton Sands, in full oblivion of the past, and by way of a compromise of faith and doctrine, in imitation of ecclesiastical convocations, the gaudy sign was set forth of the Lion and the Lamb, with the following pertinent lines as a declaration of honourable compact : If the Lyon show'd kill the Lamb, We'll kill the Lyon, if we can, But if the Lamb show'd kill the Lyon, Happy and facetious West! M. F. H. A RUN IN THE WOLDSHIRE COUNTRY IN 'Now the varmint is spied as he crosses the ride, A tough old campaigner I trow; Long, limber, and grey, see him stealing away- G. J. WHYTE-Melville. I AM Commissioned to recount the events of a run in the Woldshire country which took place three seasons ago. I must accordingly ask my readers to accompany me in imagination to Hunters' Hall, situated in Woldshire, where I am staying for the purpose of hunting. My small stud, consisting of two promising five-year-olds and a hack, is quartered in the village close by, under the care of a battered specimen of the groom race, who has been with me ever since I entered the army, and who entertains, when tipsy (which, I regret to say, is not seldom), an exalted opinion of the animals under his care, which occasions contradiction, ending in many a saddle-room fight. One morning in the latter end of December I wake with the pleasing consciousness that the weather has changed from being everything that is objectionable to the sporting mind to something more hopeful. I proceed leisurely with my toilet, and go downstairs to find my subaltern despatching a most heterogeneous breakfast. I follow the example, but in a milder way, and at 10, mount my covert hack, a clever pony bought out of a baker's cart for the sum of twelve pounds, and thrown into the bargain was a colley pup, who eventually had to be hung for treating sheep, as the shepherd to whom I gave him said, 'terrible rough." I go on and leave my friend to follow. Grey-dappled clouds overhead, a sweet earthy smell (caused by the steady rain of last night), and a southerly wind, with just a touch of east in it-all this promises so well for sport, that it makes one forget, in the joyful anticipations of the future, the frost and snow of the past fortnight. As I canter along, swinging back the hunting gates in the scientific manner that Leicestershire men will tell you is never thoroughly learnt out of the shires, I fall in with many small and big sportsmen on their way to Sure-Find Pastures; small schoolboys are very numerous on their long-tailed, long-suffering ponies. How glad those ponies will be when education reclaims her unwilling disciples, and they are handed over to Sister Trix to finish the season. A couple more fields, and I am at the place of meeting. Hounds have already come (they meet at the good old-fashioned hour of 10.30), with George, their huntsman, on a powerful black horse, in their midst -a beau idéal of a huntsman, with his keen eye, intelligent, bright face, strong seat, and cheery, ringing voice. The Master soon follows. The Hon. Captain Cromwell, looking bored, is the next to come, followed by others in rapid succession. Last in arriving, but first in the enthusiastic admiration of the field, is the lovely Duchess of Covington, well known for her true love of sport. As the hunter-like chestnut she is riding comes swinging up at an easy canter, there is a pleasant smile on every one's face, and the Master turns to the huntsman with, Now C you can go on;' so we trot on to Sure-Find Pastures. A few moments later, and a sharp-looking bay hunter, carrying a slight girlish figure, ranges alongside the Master. The rider of the bay is well known in the hunt, and right proud it seems of her, as well it may be; for there have been but a few good runs the last three seasons with the Woldshire in which Lady Honey Hill has not been seen riding in the front rank in the quiet sportsman-like way so peculiarly her own. Lord Solom Wood comes up at a gallop, his hack in a lather, and his hunters nowhere to be seen, having missed their way in some unaccountable manner; luckily they appear just before hounds find. Lord Solom Wood, who seems keen, mounts his grey as first horse, and as hounds get away with their fox, I see him in the interval of adjusting a troublesome stirrup-leather giving some strict directions to his second horseman, which, however, were not attended to. Lord Tansor and his brother, young Daregowell, are more punctual. Hounds are in covert, and I take a look forward over the beautiful undulating country spread out before me. How pleasant the large fields look, and how easy the fences-at this distance. I changed my mind, however, on that point before the day was over; the only fault being too much plough, which will make it killing work for horses if hounds really run. I go to the farther side of the covert. I am the only one who has chosen this point. "Yoick in! have at him there!' George's fine voice rings through the covert; not a hound speaks. I am afraid we are going to draw the pastures blank, for the first time this season; but hark! Shiner gives a faint whimper, then Vanquish takes it up with greater confidence, and gives the others, who firmly believe in her, the benefit of her knowledge. Every hound is now speaking, and each man believes his wishes are at last to be fulfilled. Cigars are thrown away, stirrup-leathers righted, and every man races for the point from which he thinks he will get the best start. Captain Cromwell, Lord Daregowell, and some others, are away to the right-hand side of the covert like lightning. Hold hard, gentlemen!-spoiling your own sport again'-to those who have gone forward to try and get a good start-hold hard, if you please!' roars the Master in an agony, lest his beauties be over-ridden ere they settle to their work. At the same moment the musical chorus ceases, and there is a perfect silence. I have remained in my old place, trusting fortune will be in my favour. There he goes, slinking quietly through the fence beside me, pointing straight for the Lime Pits. I begin counting twenty, when Tally-ho!' yells an excited schoolboy, home for the holidays. The boy has headed him! No! though the holloa was too soon, our fox is a plucky one, and it only makes him change his stealthy trot for something a bit faster. 'Hold up!' and the huntsman crashes through the stiff wattle fence which incloses the covert. 'Now then, young sir! where did he break?' The schoolboy, to whom this remark is addressed, at once puts on an expression that is intended to convey the idea that he could not tally, even if he tried. However, George does not wait for the answer; for at that moment Vanquish, who has been feathering just outside, speaks to it in a firm voice, showing how glad she is to be again on the line of the cunning varmint who has so skilfully evaded her in covert. 'Hark, together!' toot toot, goes the horn, and every hound is out of covert, slipping quietly away, proving how good the scent is; now and then an eager, tremulous note from a young hound tells the unhappy ones who are far behind that they must ride indeed to catch them. George, I, and the holloaing schoolboy have got a good start, riding a little to the left of hounds, our only companion for a few minutes being the Master of the neighbouring pack, on a cleverlooking bay, who, in spite of his one odd leg, I would 'Chance against any other animal in the field. Should any one, seeing with what ease he and his odd-legged nag cross a country, try to follow him, they would find it required all they knew to hold their own with this grey-haired sportsman, whose hands any man might envy. The rest of the field are on the wrong side of the covert, and a narrow hand-gate leading out of it keeps them back. Some one has tried to open the gate, and got his whip tightly caught, and he and his horse-a cross-grained colt who can't go forwards and won't go backwards-are the recipients of no small amount of bad language. Those whose feelings of |