“On Tuesday last died poor Tom Moody, as good for rough and smooth as ever entered Wildmans Wood. He died brave and honest, as he lived—beloved by all, hated by none that ever knew him. I took his own orders as to his will, funeral, and every other thing that could be thought of. He died sensible and fully collected as ever man died—in short, died game to the last; for when he could hardly swallow, the poor old lad took the farewell glass for success to fox-bunting, and his poor old master (as he termed it), for ever. I am sole executor, and the bulk of his fortune he left to me—six-and-twenty shillings, real and _bonâ fide_ sterling cash, free from all incumbrance, after every debt discharged to a farthing. Noble deeds for Tom, you’d say. The poor old ladies at the Ring of Bells are to have a knot each in remembrance of the poor old lad. “Salop paper will show the whole ceremony of his burial, but for fear you should not see that paper, I send it to you, as under:— “‘Sportsmen, attend.—On Tuesday, 29th inst., was buried at Barrow, near Wenlock, Salop, Thomas Moody, the well-known whipper-in to G. Forester, Esq.’s fox-hounds for twenty years. He was carried to the grave by a proper number of earth-stoppers, and attended by many other sporting friends, who heartily mourned for him.’ “Directly after the corpse followed his old favourite horse (which he always called his ‘Old Soul’), thus accoutred: carrying his last fox’s brush in the front of his bridle, with his cap, whip, boots, spurs, and girdle, across his saddle. The ceremony being over, he (by his own desire), had three clear rattling view haloos o’er his grave; and thus ended the career of poor Tom, who lived and died an honest fellow, but alas! a very wet one. “I hope you and your family are well, and you’ll believe me, much yours, “G. FORESTER. “WILLEY, Dec. 5, 1796.” We need add nothing to the description the Squire gave of the way in which Tom’s last wishes were carried out, and shall merely remark that the old fellow kept on his livery to the last, and that he died in his boots, which were for some time kept as relics—a circumstance which leads us to appropriate the following lines, which appeared a few years ago in the _Sporting Magazine_:— “You have ofttimes indulged in a sneer At the old pair of boots I’ve kept year after year, And I promised to tell you (when ‘funning’ last night) The reasons I have thus to keep them in sight. “Those boots were Tom Moody’s (a better ne’er strode A hunter or hack, in the field—on the road— None more true to his friend, or his bottle when full, In short, you may call him a thorough John Bull).