COLONEL BERKELEY 137 



Foxcote. Four seasons had passed away since I saw them last, but 

 found them very much in their usual form — very business-like 

 looking animals, and (considering I had so lately seen the Duke of 

 Beaufort's) appearing in very fair condition. We had no sport on 

 this day, but in the course of the season this pack have had more 

 than their share ; and a day or two before I met them, they had 

 done what is w^orthy of i-ecord — they divided, and each lot killed 

 their fox at the end of ten miles. I have also been informed that 

 they had several good runs in the dry weather ; and on April 25th, 

 (their last day) they ran a fox two hours, and killed. 



The Colonel not being " before time " — as we call it on the road — 

 I had a good opportunity of looking over his pack. On my observing 

 a hound called Selim, I said to a friend who stood near me, that I 

 was certain he was of Mr. Ward's sort. " No, he is not," said one 

 of the whippers-in ; "he was bred by Lord Darlington." — "Yes, 

 he is," said the other, "he is got by Mr. Ward's Sentinel." The 

 huntsman, William Lepper— late head whipper-in to Sir Thomas 

 Mostyn — was absent from illness ; and one of the whippers-in had 

 liked to have been absent also, as he had a very narrow escape for 

 his life, and all from want of the finger. He put his horse gallantly 

 enough at a strong rail with a ditch on the other side, and, instead of 

 letting him take his own way, he gave him what is called " a lift " 

 with the curb bridle, which very nearly lifted his rider into the 

 realms above. The horse got entangled in the rail, threw him over 

 his head, and then leaped upon him — avoiding him as much as lay 

 in his power. One of his feet, how^ever, struck him on the head, 

 and the blood flowed copiously. I immediately got to him, and 

 examined the place, but finding the cut in an oblique direction, I 

 assured him he had nothing to fear ; so he mounted his horse, and 

 went on. Very few whippers-in are qualified by nature or art to 

 ride in curb bridles. 



On Sunday the 13th, I bade adieu to Alscot, and went to Mr. 

 John Lucy's to dinner, where I was asked to meet two or three 

 sporting friends, and to be near the Warwickshire on Monday. I 

 had, however, had enough of the Warwickshire, being convinced 

 that from some cause — had meal, I presume — they were incapable of 

 shewing anything worth putting myself to inconvenience for, so sent 



