i 9 4 THE LIFE OF A SPORTSMAN 



have not seen Stephen Goodall), is worth riding fifty 

 miles to see. Every one says he is perfect in the field, 

 and has, what can be said of few, only one fault elsewhere. 

 He is rather too fond of his Lordship's good October. The 

 meet at Cream Lodge Gorse was such a sight as I never 

 thought I should see but more of this when we meet. 



" Yesterday I made a very ' bad cast,' as old Dick says. 

 I missed seeing a fine run with Lord Lonsdale's hounds 

 by oversleeping myself, and got well punished for so 

 doing. When I ought to have been half-way to cover, I 

 was at my breakfast, and by endeavouring to follow the 

 two last men out of Melton, but generally two of the first 

 in a run, on their cover-hacks, as I imagined, I got over 

 head in a brook, and was obliged to return without 

 seeing a hound. They proved to be Mr. Assheton Smith, 

 called here, par excellence no doubt, Tom Smith, and Mr. 

 Vansittart, both mounted upon hunters. 



" I was much disappointed with Melton I mean the 

 town, which is a poor place, but it contains many good 

 fellows. I dined at the Old Club the first day, the 

 members of which appear to live together after the 

 manner of brothers, and just as sportsmen ought to live ; 

 no midnight revelling to shake the nerves. In fact, I am 

 told a pint of wine is the usual limit with many of the 

 best men at Melton. 



" To-day I went to church, a beautiful specimen of the 

 florid Gothic, with very pretty chimes, and was amused 

 as well as edified by the rector, Dr. Ford. When I say, 

 ' amused,' I must tell you why. He would not suffer the 

 clerk to murder the second and fourth verses of the psalm 

 of the day, but read them himself, evidently partaking 

 of the poetical inspiration of the author of them. It is 

 really abominable to hear our clerk at Amstead murder 

 and miscall this fine language, ' the howl in the dessart,' 

 for example. But enough of this. After church I 

 walked through several stables in the town, and saw, as 

 you may suppose, many fine horses. To carry my weight, 

 Mr. Forester's stud pleased me most. They were chiefly 

 brown geldings, that colour being prevalent in Shropshire 

 (where he generally purchases his hunters), with those 

 got by the Hundred House Snap, his favourite blood. 

 Cholmondeley's horses were very perfect, and just suited 

 to his weight. By the way, I remember a Christchurch 

 man, out of his county, saying that whilst he was staying 



