6 MEMORIES OF THE SHIRES 



the end of the year, whilst Handley Cross and 

 Katerfelto will grow again every spring to claim a 

 fresh batch of readers. In spite of this defence of 

 sporting literature, I am bound to admit there are 

 not many writers of the higher class who can be 

 strictly called hunting men, but we have Beckford, 

 Surtees and Whyte Melville of whom we may be 

 justly proud. 



MELTON 



Melton is the fox-hunter's Mecca, and he should 

 make his pilgrimage there before he dies. Other 

 parts of England have their bits of good country, 

 but nowhere else is there a centre surrounded by 

 glorious hunting ground. 



An old-world market town, cosily nestling in 

 the river valley, from which the gently rising hills 

 roll away on either hand. The modern convenience 

 of an excellent train service makes it possible now 

 to return to London after a day's hunting from 

 Melton, but railways have not yet destroyed the 

 glamour of the past. We can imagine the gay 

 bucks dashing out to the meets on their hacks, and 

 the rattle of the post-chaise on the cobble-stones 

 that brought a new arrival from town. 



Many things have changed, but the beautiful old 

 church must have looked much the same a century 

 ago, and most of the houses clustering beneath its 

 stately shades were in existence when George the 

 Third was young. 



The ancient character of the place has altered 

 very considerably within the limits of my memory. 

 There was a quaint, respectable air about the town, 

 dna each shop looked like a dwelling-house whose 



