192 SPOUTING REMINISCENCES [1825 to 



red coat coming, win cling along at a snail's 

 pace, the wearer evidently disregarding the 

 sprinkling. ' He is a sportsman,' thought I ; 

 ' and see, he wears drab breeches — a sure sign of 

 one !' The wearer drew nearer, and, to my sur- 

 prise, I found they were drab fustian trousers, 

 instead of drab kerseymere breeches. He was a 

 man somewhat stricken in years, with a grave 

 and thoughtful countenance. His dress con- 

 sisted of a plain scarlet frock coat, a lilac silk 

 waistcoat, kid gloves, the aforesaid fustians, 

 and boots which we call Wellingtons ; and 

 certainly they were Wellingtons in every sense 

 of the word, for the wearer was neither more 

 nor less than the illustrious Arthur himself. 

 As he advanced towards the blacksmith's shop, 

 my red coat caught his eye, and, at the same 

 moment, my eye caught his undeniable nose. 

 There was no mistaking him, and I took off 

 my hat to the greatest man of the day. His 

 Grace advanced towards the shed, acknow- 

 ledging my deference with a bow and a good- 

 humoured smile, and finding that the hounds 

 would come to the place where we then were, 

 he followed my example, and put himself and 

 horse under it, where we stayed chatting to- 

 gether until the rain was over. As we left 

 the shed a stage-coach drove by, the pas- 

 sengers on which and coachman recognising 



