We now turned a sharp angle in the lane, down which we were gently trotting: and on a large open piece of waste ground--the coarse grass, patches of thistles and rushes, being cropped by a few donkeys and a flock of desolate-looking geese--my eyes first saw the assembled members of “our hunt.” Deny it who will--it is a heart-stirring, gladsome, inspiring, _English_ sight, to witness a country gentleman and popular master in the field. There are his friends and neighbours, his tenants and yeomen, stout and true, his servants and dependents, met together for a noble amusement, and one which unites them in the bond of goodly fellowship. It has been well observed, “What is a gentleman without his recreations?” and, to alter the query slightly, it might be said, “What is a _country_ gentleman unless he be a _sportsman_?” Like a fish out of water, a bull in a china shop, a bear in a tea-garden, or anything else strangely awkward and much out of his element. There they were, in showy red and Lincoln green, in leather, cords, and kersey drabs; white tops, brown, and black; hats, caps, and thatch; some mounted and some afoot. From the high-mettled hunter with his shot-silk and glistening coat, to the rough and shaggy tailor’s pony; in short, all sizes, shapes, colours, and conditions, might be seen congregated, expectant, and prepared for our arrival. “Here they are!” shouted an urchin, perched on the topmost limb of a tree. “Here they are!” repeated he, hallooing to the stretch of his lungs; and then a whooping crew of his fellows took up the cry, making the welkin echo with their din. “Your servant, gentlemen,” said Will Sykes, touching the peak of his cap; and during a short delay, waiting the arrival of the Squire, he proceeded to point out the young hounds, making me an especial object of notice. “What’s his pedigwee?” lisped a pale-faced gentleman in spectacles, famous for riding hard along roads and over nothing but hounds at check. “By Osbaldeston’s Furrier out of Crafty, sir,” replied the huntsman. “By Fuwier out of Quafty!” repeated the interrogator. “Yes,” rejoined Will; “and I’m much mistaken if he doesn’t equal the celebrity of his father.” “What do you call him?” further inquired he of the ghostly countenance. “Ringwood, sir,” returned the huntsman. “Wingwood, eh?” added the questioner.