A rich, middle-aged, single gentleman, a thorough enthusiast about foxhunting, had a nephew, a very straight-going youngster, who the "prophetic soul" of his uncle had decided should one day be _the_ man of the country in the hunting field, and second to none over our biggest country; and, to enable "Hopeful" to lead the van, the veteran mounted him on horses purchased regardless of expense. Furthermore, determined that no casualty in the way of breaking his own neck should suddenly deprive his favourite nephew of the golden sinews of the chase, the old Nimrod made a very proper will, leaving all his large property to his fortunate young relative. Things, indeed, looked rosy enough for our young sportsman. Youth, health, wealth, a capital seat, and fine hands upon his horse, any quantity of pluck, a thorough knowledge of hunting, and plenty of the best horses to carry him--who could desire more? Alas that it should be so! even the brightest sunshine may become overcast--the fairest prospect be marred--by causes never dreamt of by the keenest and most far seeing among us. At the termination of a capital season in the Midland, our youngster, not content to let well alone, and, like that greedy boy Oliver still "asking for more," unknown to his worthy uncle, betook himself to the New Forest in Hampshire. "Hopeful" was a sharp fellow enough, and he did not believe that all was gold that glittered; but he was under a very decided impression that wherever there was a good open stretch of green level turf it was safe to set a horse going. Alas! the luckless young sportsman was not aware that in the New Forest this is by no means a certainty, and one day, when riding to some staghounds, determined to "wipe the eye" of the field, he jumped a big place which nobody else seemed to care for, and, taking his horse by the head, set him sailing along the nearest way to the hounds. A lovely piece of emerald-green turf was before him; he clapped his hat firmly on, put down his hands, and, regardless of wild cries in his rear, made the pace strong. Suddenly and awfully as the Master of Ravenswood vanished from the sight of the distracted Caleb Balderstone and was swallowed up in the Kelpie's Flow, so disappeared "Hopeful" and his proud steed; both were engulfed in a treacherous bog, and, before either horse or man could be extricated, "the pride of the Shires" was smothered in mud beneath his horse. Next season, at a "coffee-housing" by a spinney side, where hounds were at work, an old friend of the bereft uncle ventured to condole with him on his loss. "Sad business," he said, shaking his old hunting chum warmly by the hand; "sad business that about poor Charlie down in Hampshire!"