"There's some as like it one way and some another," said old Timothy, "but Tom he'd set his mind on a hunting funeral. The hounds war to be in at the death, as he called it, and the good men who rode hard and straight war to be there too, and give a view holloa after parson had said the prayers. Would parson mind? Tom had asked. But the squire told 'im not to vex hisself, for the parson war of the right sort, and would understand that fox-hunting and the Church war both the glory of Englishmen. Then he asked, did Tom, that his favourite old horse, him as he had called Old Soul, was to follow behind ready saddled as for a day's hunting. And then, when all was settled to Tom's mind, he and the squire shook hands and said good-bye to each other. The squire," continued my old guest, "war a right proper man, masterful but kind, knew his own mind, but war faithful to them as had been faithful to him, and what he promised Squire George allus did. He was iron as to promises--said little, but stuck to a promise as if it had been the last word of his mother, folks said. So in November, a matter of a few days after poor Tom had died, they buried him accordin' to his instructions, and all the good fellows that had followed the hunt, and seen him show them rattling sport fine days and foul days alike, came from far and near to do him honour. And when they shouted, after lowering Tom's coffin, there war no irreverence in the job whatever. People now," continued Timothy, "don't understand sport. They think 'tis only fit stuff for a daily paper, and mayn't come nohow to church or touch Church goings on. Oh, but Lord love yer!"--and my old friend drew himself up straight in his chair--"they thought different then, and they gave Tom a view holloa, for all they were worth, did the hunt, and stood there reverent and pious over his grave bareheaded alongside, till the woods and hills fair rang with their voices. No harm," said my old friend, "war meant, and no harm war done, for God Almighty wouldn't make foxes if he didn't hold to fox-chasing." As he spoke, Master Theobalds got up. "Good-bye, marm, and thank you kindly," he said. "It does me good to talk of the old days and of the old goin's on. It kind of brings back a bit of sun to me." As he spoke the old man rapped his stick feebly along the old cement floor of the monks and crept out of the door. My big dog looked after him and growled, for the tapping of a stick is a thing that few dogs can stand. What strong men for good or ill, I argued, they were, those men who saw the end of the eighteenth and the birth of the nineteenth century. How brave and undaunted! They fought England's quarrels over Europe, and they died in Spain, and won on the plains of Waterloo. How narrow they were, how intolerant, and how brave! Surely fox-hunting taught them some of their endurance and courage, and the long days over woodland and moor gave them strong muscles and brave hearts, and prepared them for the hardships of war.