The latter, watching the line “fine by degrees and beautifully less” on the horizon, rather congratulated himself, that his chance was completely out, and that there was now no temptation for him either to exert his own energies, or draw upon the failing powers of Marathon in the pursuit of that which he felt could scarcely be called _pleasure_. He jogged along the lane accordingly, content enough, thinking what fun he would have on the grey, in the afternoon, with a second fox! But a few of us can have hunted much without remarking a peculiarity connected with the chase, that occasions constant irritation and annoyance to its votaries. Have you never observed, that if you lose your chance of getting away with hounds, whether from procrastination, inattention, or the laudable objection entertained by a rational man to ride at a large fence, do what you will, you only succeed in increasing the distance between yourself and the object you wish to reach? In vain you “nick,” and “skirt,” and ride to points that you think likely to be affected by a fox running for his life; in vain you “harden your heart,” and sail away boldly over the line of gaps already established by your predecessors; you are only tiring your horse, and risking your neck in a wild-goose chase. You diverge to a distant halloo, and find it raised by a boy scaring crows. You succeed by extraordinary exertions in reaching the group of scarlet coats and bobbing hats you have been following so long, and learn that they have been “thrown out” like yourself, and the further you go, the further you are left behind; till you hate yourself, as much as your horse hates you for not having judiciously joined the band of second-horse riders, and so jogged contentedly along in ease and safety, sure to come up with the first flight at last.