And having mentioned the name of Bishop Bloomfield, let us give another specimen of his ability to check any improper intrusion upon his dignity and position. He was a very young man when first he came into this diocese, and some of the older clergy rather presumed upon this. There were at that time many among them who would cross the country, and take a five-barred gate as if it were that fortieth article of which Theodore Hook spoke to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford. The bishop one day met a number of these black-coated Nimrods. The scene was not far from Manchester. After dinner, some of the old incorrigibles persevered for a long time, with marvellously bad taste, in talking of their dogs and horses, and nothing else. His lordship looked grave, but was silent. At last, one of them, directing his conversation immediately to him, began to tell him a long story about a famous horse which he owned, and “which he had lately ridden sixty miles on the North road without drawing bit.” It was the bishop’s turn now, and down came his sledge hammer with all the force of a steam-engine. “Ah,” he said, with the most cutting indifference, “I recollect hearing of the same feat being once accomplished before, and, by a strange coincidence, on the North road, too: it was _Turpin_, _the highwayman_.” Warner’s long range was nothing to this. It was a regular stunner. The reverend fox-hunter had never met with such a rasper before. He was fairly run to earth, and did not break cover again that night, you may be sure. The idea of a Church dignitary, for such he was, having had Turpin for his college tutor, was a view of the case which he had never studied before, and old _Tally-ho_ left the table fully convinced that his spiritual superior was more than his match even at the _lex Tally-ho-nis_. The same annoyance was never attempted again. The lesson had its effect upon more than one.