upper part of mud, with gorse stuck along the top, and there is a gutter
on each side. Jorrocks, seeing that a leap is likely, hangs astern, and
"Swell," thinking to shake off his only opponent, and to have a rare
laugh at the Surrey when he gets back to Melton, puts his nag at it most
manfully, who, though somewhat blown, manages to get his long carcass
over, but, unfortunately alighting on a bed of flints on the far side,
cuts a back sinew, and "Swell" measures his length on the headland.
Jorrocks then pulls up.

The tragedy of George Barnwell ends with a death, and we are happy in
being able to gratify our readers with a similar entertainment. Already
have the best-mounted men in the field attained the summit of one of the
Mont Blancs of the country, when on looking down the other side of the
"mountain's brow," they, to their infinite astonishment, espy at some
distance our "Swell" dismounted and playing at "pull devil, pull
baker" with the hounds, whose discordant bickerings rend the skies.
"Whoo-hoop!" cries one; "whoo-hoop!" responds another; "whoo-hoop!"
screams a third; and the contagion spreading, and each man dismounting,
they descend the hill with due caution, whoo-hooping, hallooing, and
congratulating each other on the splendour of the run, interspersed with
divers surmises as to what mighty magic had aided the hounds in getting
on such good terms with the warmint, and exclamations at the good
fortune of the stranger, in being able (by nicking,[4] and the fox
changing his line) to get in at the finish.

[Footnote 4: A stranger never rides straight if he beats the members of
the hunt.]

And now some dozens of sportsmen quietly ambling up to the scene of
action, view with delight (alone equalled by their wonder at so unusual