“Ay! even in the fount of joy, Some bitter drops the draught alloy,”
and our friend, with many feigned excuses, and a dejected expression of countenance, lingers behind his companions, and plods his way homewards alone.
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IT is needless for me to observe that Mr. Sawyer was one of those individuals who are described in common parlance as not having been “born yesterday.” He had lived long enough in this superficial world of ours to recognise the prudence of “keeping his own counsel,” just as he kept the key of his own cellar at The Grange; and he would no more have thought of entrusting his dearest friend with the one than the other.
Accordingly, when he felt certain ominous thumps against the calves of his legs, which denoted that “Hotspur was suffering from palpitation of the heart,” he resolved to conceal if possible from every eye that untoward failing of so good an animal. And, with considerable judgment, he waited till his friends were out of sight ere he dismounted, and led his jaded steed into a barn, which he espied at hand, there to recover himself a little under shelter, and then, if possible, to make his way home in the dark, and trust to chance for some excuse to account for his delay, when he met them again at the dinner-table.
Perhaps the reason is, that in these fast times condition is so much better understood—for we cannot admit the uncomplimentary excuse that hounds do not run now as formerly—why horses _stop_ so much less often in the hunting-field than they did in the palmy days of Musters and Assheton Smith, and “the d—d Quornites,” who were always either “showing” or “being shown the _trick_” some fifty years ago. _Then_ a hunter’s reputation was as fragile as a sultana’s, and was guarded as jealously. Not only must he be “_sans peur_,” but also “_sans reproche_.” And the efforts of these lords to preserve the character of their treasures were as ingenious as they were ludicrous. One facetious nobleman actually got a tired favourite home next day right through the streets of Melton, disguised as the middle horse of a cart-team; nor did all the lynx-eyes, ready to watch for the “casualties” consequent on a clipper, discover the identity of one of the best nags in Leicestershire, under the weather-beaten winkers and shabby harness of a four-horse waggon. Mr. Sawyer trusted to the cloud of night for the same immunity.