neither learn nor forget, but such of you as can do both or even either will benefit much by following my advice.' Many things have changed and happened in France since Louis XVI. entered rien' in his hunting diary on the day the Bastille was taken. The charming old names like the Cabinet de Monseigneur, the Route du Vert Galant, the Bouquet du Roi are only names and memories. Hunting is, alas! no longer the occupation of kings or the pastime of a Court. But a Bourbon prince still hunts the stag at Chantilly according to the ideas of the sixteenth century. Gaston-Phébus, his distinguished ancestor, is still the suzerain of vénerie. In this country, less than one hundred years has revolutionised-speaking broadly-our horses, our hounds, our methods, and our hunting fashions-least of all, perhaps, strange to say, our hunting dress. But in France, to have recourse to a metaphor, the valse seems never to have ousted the minuet and the pavane. CHAPTER XV THE EMPIRE AND THE REPUBLIC Remembrance wakes with all her busy train IN the following pages I only propose to make good some bird-of-passage impressions of a few days' hunting in the neighbourhood of Paris. They were most enjoyable days, and I cannot speak too gratefully of the kindness and courtesy shown me everywhere and by everybody. I shall not attempt to establish comparisons between French and English stag-hunting. They are things to be avoided by the writer, as, provided he can describe what he has seen, they may safely be left to the reader. Besides, where outdoor amusements and many other things are concerned, people should rest satisfied with contrasts. The comparative method often plays the deuce with one. You can, for instance, get a great deal of fun out of the Calpe hounds at Gibraltar, or, as I am told, out of punt fishing in the Thames. But both must be accepted as things by themselves. It will not do to be always comparing the Queen of Spain's chair to the Burton Flats, or a baited swim to the Thurso or the Awe. Instinctively, I suppose, a process of comparison is always going on. You cannot at will make your mind as blank and virgin as a sensitive plate. What you may have seen and done is always thrusting its more or less apt impertinences into what you may be seeing and doing; but, like Colonel Thornton of Thornville Royal in Yorkshire in similar circumstances, I set out for Calais with the open mind of a citizen of the world,' with nothing English about me except my accent. The shortness of my stay and the comfort and ease of modern travelling did not involve the preparations which Colonel Thornton saw fit to carry into execution in 1801. The Colonel, it may be remembered by those who have read of his exploits and appreciations, took a travelling carriage, six or eight couple of hounds, two valets, a gamekeeper and a huntsman, a terrier and a pointer, Mrs. T.,' as he persists in calling her, her trunks, and her maid, and he was much incensed with his coach-builder at having to leave behind a boat and a boat-carriage, owing to these carefully designed necessaries not being finished. All this was in my case meagrely represented by a pair of my own stirrup irons and long leathers; but I inspected my hunting wardrobe with very particular care, inspired my valet with a due sense of the issues at stake, and, of course, had my hair cut by a special artist. French stag-hunting was not new to me; in a sense I was about to renew an early and affectionate friendship. My riding and hunting education began in France. When I was about eight years old we went to live at Fontainebleau, and we lived there a great deal till the war of 1870 drove us away in a hurry. We only just got through Paris. The gates were closed a very few days later, and cattle were being driven into the fortified enceinte and were grazing in the ditches and on the slope of the glacis when we passed There were several quasi-Mrs. Ts, but I fancy this one was the lady who in 1806 rode a four-mile match on one of the Colonel's horses against a gentleman whose name I have forgotten on York racecourse. An immense concourse assembled, and great admiration was expressed at Mrs. Thornton's riding and the chasteness of her bloomer costume. She made too much play however with her horse and was easily beaten. Poor Mr., who probably could not help himself, was censured by public opinion for his lack of chivalry. through; people used to drive out to see them. Our house in the Rue Royale was actually tenanted by Prussian officers, who behaved very well and made a sensible use of everything and of the servants. Fortunately my father prudently buried a recent consignment of claret in the garden before he left. My first pony was black-a mare called Mignonne. She was bought at Chéris. I don't know how she was bred, but her shoulders were good enough to permit of her kicking high. Our groom-who used also to cirer the parquet floors was an ex-dragoon, an Alsatian. If the day was cold, clear, and sunny, he always warned me that Mignonne might be gaie. He was often right about this, and I was often kicked off. My father did not care much about the hunting. One fool follows another,' he used to say, and he seldom came out, or if he did went home early, so my education in vénerie was left to Isidore, who prided himself upon a complete knowledge of its martial observances and excellent mysteries. We had great fun together, and we were great friends. 6 Isidore was not an over-confident rider, but in his shiny peaked cap, alpaca coat, white duck trousers and straps, which was his costume on sunny spring days, he circumvented an academy canter down an alley as well as his neighbours. When I first went to school in 1864 Mignonne was sold. However, I always got out hunting when I came home for the holidays. I was soon promoted to independence and an an animal called Enguerrand,' just out of training, and after Enguerrand to a three-yearold called Flambeau,' and sometimes I was allowed to hire. Flambeau had a chequered career. He could run a bit' - an expensive accomplishment-and once managed to win a match either at Chantilly or Longchamps. Then he used to go stag and boar hunting, which he liked better - than the last two or three furlongs. When we all had to flit, bag and baggage, before the Prussian advance, my father did not go with us, but rode a clean-bred and most fractious chestnut mare named Catalina to the coast from Fontainebleau. I think it was to Dieppe. Isidore accompanied him on Flambeau. It was lovely weather, and both horses had good legs and feet, so they enjoyed it. Once they were all but shot at as spies by a zealous franc-tireur from behind a tree, but explanations were quickly forthcoming from the startled Isidore. Flambeau was soon after raffled for an unflattering amount at a bazaar in aid of an organ fund in Yorkshire. By that time he made a cheerful noise himself. The Fontainebleau hirelings were very moderate animals and suffered from chronic sore backs, but I remember one, a reputed Irlandais,' which was held in high esteem and request; and another of the now scarce colour known as porcelaine-a creamy white with black spots and flecks and a very pink nose. He was a well-shaped, self-advertising animal, and made a great show and commotion. Louis XIV., who liked pied chargers, would have looked capital on him, and Loutherbourg or Vander Meulen would have been pleased with their model. There was plenty of hunting; M. M. Aguado hustled the boar about; the Imperial Vénerie hunted the stag. The late Baron Lambert, as Lieutenant de la Vénerie, was for all practical purposes Master. He was very kind to me, and I looked up to him as one upon the pinnacle of human greatness. He invited me once or twice to the Vénerie, took me out for a ride on a Vénerie horse, and gave me a Swaine and Adeney cutting whip. Speaking from memory, I think he bought nice horses with plenty of quality for the men, and he always rode lean-necked, clean-headed, conspicuously coloured horses himself. I remember in particular a charming white |