196 NIMROD'S HUNTING TOUR 



household were all gone to rest, the Squire of Halston must have 

 had a good many turns round the meadow ; but, fortunately for the 

 post-boy, he never awoke, neither was he at all aware of what had 

 happened. 



To be serious. — What would become of Shrewsbury and Oswestry 

 races — what would become of half a dozen other country races, were 

 it not for John Mytton? What would become of the poor about 

 Halston ? What would his friends do for a lark ? All these 

 questions I am not going to answer ; but this I will say, that one 

 of these days he must stop short. Indeed, what with falls from 

 horses — run-away gigs — upsets in carriages — swimming his horse 

 over the Severn * — tumbling into the Severn — to say nothing of 

 twelve paces — being hugged to death by the bear, or his brains 

 kicked out by the Oaks filly — it is next to a miracle that he is now 

 alive. I am sorry to say, I am almost old enough to be his father ; 

 nevertheless, unless he minds what he is at, I must see him out. If 

 I do (as I have written my own), I will also write his epitaph. 

 It shall be plain and simple ; no weeping over the urn — not a word 

 about the disconsolate widow — no cherubims — nothing typical — 

 nothing to hint as to whither his soul is gone — no humbug, but 

 merely a record of the melancholy truth : — 



Here lies John Mytton ; his short career is past. 



The pace was quick, f and therefore could not last. 



From end to end he went on errant burst, 



Determined to be nowhere, or be first. 



No marble monument proclaims his fate — 



No pompous emblems of funereal state ; 



But let this simple tablet say, 



That, upon a much-lamented day, 



There went to ground beneath this mould'ring sod 



" An honest man — the noblest work of God." 



On Wednesday the 11th Sir Bellingham and myself took leave 

 of Halston, and went to Emral to spend a day with Sir Eichard 

 Puleston, one of the staunchest fox-hunters this country ever saw — 



* The year before last, Mr. Mytton swam his horse over the Severn, though 

 he himself cannot swim ; and a short time since he fell into one of the deepest 

 parts of that river out of a ferry-boat, and was only saved by a friend catching 

 him by one of his legs as he was in the act of getting under the boat. 



I Nil violentum est perpetuum. 



