A Week at Melton. 43 



miles, and tlie weather not calculated to allow of 

 dawdling by the way, I did not mount my hack until 

 half-past ten, and then, as I ride to cover, I overtake 

 a number of magnificent horses, a group of eleven 

 attracting my special attention, such as I have rarely 

 if ever seen together, each in charge of a well-dressed 

 groom or second horse man, of sedate appearance as 

 befits these who bestride animals of such value. One 

 amongst this number takes my fancy captive. A pow- 

 erful black horse, with a '^ hog mane ^' — a fashion 

 which appears to be coming in vogue again — as hand- 

 some as need be, as fresh as paint, and ready to jump 

 out of his very skin from light-heartedness ; a noble 

 animal, and fit to carry any man in the best run that 

 ever this grand country can afibrd, if he has the pluck 

 and nerve to ride a nag which I should say, from ap- 

 pearances, would be likely to go a trifle fast at his 

 fences. 



Arriving at Wartnaby Hall in good time, I see, for 

 the first time, " Tom Firr," with eighteen couples of 

 fine hounds, and, as I look them over, I am told that 

 the huntsman of the Quorn is the very best in the 

 world ; and I am bound to say he looks altogether a 

 " workman ^^ able to handle the tools in first-rate 

 style ; and I accept the statement of his abilities, 

 coming, as it does, from a Master of Hounds in whose 

 judgment I place implicit reliance. 



Amongst the earliest to arrive is Lord Wolverton. 

 Entering the hall under the friendly auspices of Major 

 Whyte-Melville, I have the pleasure of being intro- 

 duced to Mrs. Turner, to Mr. Cop eland, the Master of 

 the Quorn, and to Captain Farley Turner. 



Wartnaby Hall is the heau-ideal of a hunting-box 



