Olden Times. 



I i 



Gurney, " Why, those Leicestershire men can't turn, 

 can they?" "How the devil should they," says 

 Dick, " when they have a pound of starch in their 

 collars ?" 



One of the frequent attendants in the The Pytchiey 

 field, although he did not come to Pytchiey Brummeii. 

 in those days, was Mr. Small, of Clifton, who was one 

 of the neatest of men in his dress, and quite a beau in 

 his way. He had a round-crowned hat, which fitted 

 him like a hunting-cap, a pepper-and-salt coat, leather 

 breeches, beautifully cleaned, which buttoned high 

 above the knee, boots shining like polished ebony, 

 very short tops, and narrow leather boot garters, with 

 small silver buckles. He had two black mares, so 

 much alike that it was difficult to distinguish one from 

 the other. The ears of both were cropped, and he 

 rode both in a martingale, neither of them wanting one. 

 He was as particular about the appearance of his 

 horses as he was about his own. His bits and stirrup- 

 irons were most highly polished ; and he had an old- 

 fashioned saddle, the pommel low and back, and the 

 pannels of plush. Whenever his horses travelled, he 

 had stuffed pads to hang on the pillars of the stall, to 

 prevent the hip bones being chafed. Altogether he was 

 the neatest and sprucest man that ever graced the 

 Pytchiey hunting field. 



We could relate many more anecdotes The End of the 

 of those times, but enough is as good as a ^'^ *^^^^- 

 feast. As everything in this world, however charm- 

 ing, is doomed to decay, so the Old Club, the scene of 

 so much conviviality, harmony, and good fellowship, 

 yielded to the inexorable hand of Fate. Some be- 

 came old ; some became slow ; some took to war ; 

 some to wives ; a general blight prevailed, and Pytch- 

 iey was no more. 



Turn we now to the Forest, " where Recollections of 

 William Rufus was by Tyrrell slain." the New Forest. 

 'Tis said of old people that they recollect events long 



