But this morning the place is all agog, and so transformed that it hardly
knows itself. The entire population, from the oldest gaffer to the
last-born baby, is out-of-doors; the two inns are thronged with guests,
and the road is lined with all sorts and conditions of carriages, from the
four-in-hand of the wealthy swell to the donkey-cart of the local
coster-monger. From every point of the compass are trooping horsemen, some
resplendent in scarlet coats, their nether limbs clothed in immaculate
white breeches and shining top-boots, others in pan hats and brown
leggings; and all in high spirits and eager for the fray; for to-day,
according to old custom, the Essex Hunt hold the first regular meet of the
season on Matching's matchless Green.

The master is already to the fore, and now comes Tom Cuffe, the huntsman,
followed by his hounds, whose sleek skins and bright coats show that they
are "fit to go," and whose eager looks bode ill to the long-tailed
denizens of copse and covert.

It still wants a few minutes to eleven, and the interval is occupied in
the interchange of greetings between old companions of the chase, in
desultory talk about horses and hounds; and while some of the older
votaries of Diana fight their battles o'er again, and describe thrice-told
historic runs, which grow longer with every repetition, others discuss the
prospects of the coming season, and indulge in hopes of which, let us
hope, neither Jack Frost, bad scent, nor accident by flood or field will
mar the fruition.

Nearly all are talking, for there is a feeling of _camaraderie_ in the
hunting-field which dispenses with the formality of introductions, its
frequenters sometimes becoming familiar friends before they have learned