Next day he entertained a dozen friends, amongst whom was the master of the hunt and Frank Buckland. Nothing was talked about but fox-hunting. “I think,” says Mr. Moore, “I must make yesterday my last day’s hunting.” Shortly after he consulted a celebrated surgeon, at Carlisle, about his shoulder. The joint was found “all right,” though the muscles were pronounced strained and hurt. Nothing could be done for the pain but to grin and hide it. He went to the Castle Compensation Meeting, at Carlisle, in which he took an active part. Then he went to sit on the bench at Wigton, for he was a Justice of the Peace for Cumberland. After that he had twenty friends and relatives to tea and supper. “I hope,” he says, “that I shall never forget my poor relations and friends.” Notwithstanding the intense pain in his shoulder, Mr. Moore continued to hunt. The year after his shoulder had been dislocated, he invited the Cumberland Hunt to meet at Whitehall. About sixty horsemen were present. They breakfasted in the old hall and then proceeded to mount. Mr. Moore was in low spirits because of the pain in his shoulder, and at first he did not intend to join his friends. But Geering, his coachman, urged him to go, and Sir Wilfred Lawson joined him in his persuasions. At length Mr. Moore’s favorite horse, Zouave was brought out, and with his arm in a sling and a cigar in his mouth he consented to mount. Mrs. Moore and Lady Lawson ascended the tower and saw the brilliant red coats ride away through the park. The array of horsemen passed on to Watch-hill and found a fox. He was viewed away, and went across Whitehall-park, close under the wall of the west-front garden, followed by the hounds and riders. It was a sight not often to be seen. The day was splendid, although it was in November. The sun was shining and the red coats, jumping hedges and fences amidst green fields, brightened up the picture. The fox went up the hill, out of sight of the gazers from the tower, and was lost in Parkhouse covers. Again the hunt proceeded to Watch Hill and found another fox. Away it went almost in the same direction, passing through Whitehall Park with the hounds and hunters at its heels. There was a slight check at Park-wood. Then it took straight away for Binsey, went up the side of the hill, and passed on to Snittlegarth, and was lost at Bewaldeth. It grew dark. No more could be done that night. No fox had been killed, though the hunters had got a splendid run. Mr. Moore returned home with his arm in his sling, though nothing the worse for his day’s exercise. “It was,” he says, “a very enjoyable day. I do like a day’s hunting. I always feel more light and buoyant after it.” It was his last hunt. The various surgeons to whom Mr. Moore applied did not give him any relief from the pain he suffered in consequence of this accident. He bore it throughout the year, 1868, during the time he was Prime-Warden of the Fishmongers’ Company.