A WEEK AT MELTON. 



" Mel-ton — Mel-ton Station/' a sound pleasant to the 

 ear of the weary passenger who arrives at his desti- 

 nation four hours after his appointed time^ though it 

 causes his spirits to rebel at the altered state of cir- 

 cumstances under which he makes his re-entry into 

 " Melton Mowbray, the Metropolis of Hunting/' after 

 a lapse of many years, causing memory to "hark 

 back/' and to recall the scenes of bygone days. 

 Where now the four reeking " tits/' the postboys in 

 blue jackets, the mud-bespattered chaise, the obse- 

 quious waiters, napkin in hand, who, having watched 

 " the gallop up the avenue," are in readiness to let 

 down the steps with a rattle, and bow you a respect- 

 ful welcome to the hostelry of your choice ? Gone like 

 the baseless fabric of a vision, leaving only ticket 

 collectors and railway porters to receive you when you 

 do arrive — a matter of congratulation to those who 

 are weak enough to put their faith in trains which are 

 advertised to meet at what are jocularly called junc- 

 tions. Man proposes to do many things, but adverse 

 fate disposes of his propositions with but scant cere- 

 mony. 



A forced sojourn at the Kentish Town Station is 

 not an incident to look back on with delight ; but, 

 leaving this dreary locality to its denizens, the iron 



