192 REMINISCENCES OF A HUNTSMAN. 



yellow stubbles on the first of September, full of par- 

 tridge; lier fresh green meads by the river-side, and 

 her sweet-breathed cows ; the old picturesque ruin of 

 the nunnery, close to her house, and looking on to the 

 river, and the cool, sparkling, bubbling spring that 

 issued beneath it, never frozen in winter nor dry in 

 summer, its cresses ever green when all around was 

 parched and dry, steadfast in surrounding verdure 

 as Catholic to the olden faith, — that faith unchanged 

 amidst the change of years. 



About two in the day ray kind old friend expected 

 me to look in for luncheon ; my dogs to the bubbling 

 spring, and then myself to her cool stone parlour and 

 the hospitable table, spread with a good brow^n loaf 

 and the freshest butter, an ample cheese, perhaps some 

 cold meat, and then a cold homely-made plum pud- 

 ding such as your cook won^t give you at home, but 

 once tasted becomes a viand to swear by for ever 

 after. Poor Mrs. Church grew blind, and died, after 

 the operation of couching, before 1 left Harrold Hall. 

 Then the cool sojourn by the river-side in fishing for 

 bream, and the delight I derived when, stretched 

 on my lawn in summer, or from the drawing-room 

 window, I beheld my stud of goodly hunters, eighteen 

 or twenty in number, wading up to their shoulders 

 on a hot afternoon into the swift running stream at 

 the foot of the garden to cool their legs, get rid of 

 the flies, and crop the juicy green weeds that waved 

 above the shallov/s. There is many a scene from 

 Harrold deeply impressed on my recollection, and 

 many a well-remembered face still living I should 

 joy in seeing again. Though I was there but seven 

 years, it seems as if in that period I had lived 

 the greater portion of my sportsman's life, and taken 



