Wadsworth's hounds. I was staying with him at the time, in company with
my friend Senator Cabot Lodge, of Boston. The meet was about twelve
miles distant from the house. It was only a small field of some
twenty-five riders, but there was not one who did not mean going. I was
mounted on a young horse, a powerful, big-boned black, a great jumper,
though perhaps a trifle hot-headed. Lodge was on a fine bay, which
could both run and jump. There were two or three other New Yorkers and
Bostonians present, several men who had come up from Buffalo for the
run, a couple of retired army officers, a number of farmers from the
neighborhood; and finally several members of a noted local family
of hard riders, who formed a class by themselves, all having taken
naturally to every variety of horsemanship from earliest infancy.
It was a thoroughly democratic assemblage; every one was there for
sport, and nobody cared an ounce how he or anybody else was dressed.
Slouch hats, brown coats, corduroy breeches, and leggings, or boots,
were the order of the day.
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