And now for the well-pleased John Standish Sawyer, came in what may be called the “sweet of the day.” His horse disposed of, two hundred and sixty-two pounds ten shillings in his pocket (for the Honourable Crasher’s word was as good as a bank-bill), and the wiry little grey under him, an animal for which he had not given a fourth of the above sum, and yet in whose pace and fencing he had the utmost confidence, with the additional delight of a certain find for the second fox—all these influences combined, were enough to put a man in thorough good-humour with himself. To do our friend justice, he was not of a mercenary disposition; but having been kept exceedingly short of funds during his youth, and in those hard times hunted under considerable pecuniary difficulties, he had insensibly imbibed a horror of what he called “riding upon too much money.” “A man must have good nerve,” he used to say, “who is not afraid to risk a couple of hundred every time he jumps a fence;” and I really believe he would shove a forty-pound screw along with greater satisfaction than the winner of the Liverpool. The grey was a right good little nag, easy to turn, quick at his fences, and thoroughly accustomed to his master’s hand. It is wonderful what a deal of time is saved by a horse that is pleasant to ride, and how rapidly a moderate galloper, with a fine mouth, and quick upon his legs, can slip over a country compared with an animal that may have the pace of a racehorse, but requires a segundo bridle, and a hundred-acre field to turn him in. Mr. Sawyer drew the curb-rein gently through his fingers, struck his heels down, and mingled in the crowd upon the best possible terms with himself.

As the smoking, laughing, chattering cavalcade trotted merrily along, he had an opportunity of scanning many well-known individuals whom his business avocations of the morning had prevented his hitherto recognising. “The talent,” as it is called, was present, from Melton,—Melton, once the very metropolis of the hunting world, now, thanks to railroads, rivalled, if not surpassed, by Leicester and Market Harborough; and yet, what a nice place it is! Who that has ever spent a season in the cosy, cheerful, joyous little town, but would wish to turn the stream of time, and live those golden days and pleasant nights over again?—would wish to be galloping his covert-hack once more through the fragrant air and under the dappled sky of a February morning, with a good horse to ride from Ranksborough Gorse or Barkby Holt, as his day’s amusement, and a choice of at least a couple of invitations, offering him the pleasantest society and the best dinner in England, for his evening’s gratification?

It is not more than thirty years since Nimrod wrote his celebrated “Quarterly Review Run”—the best description of fashionable hunting that has ever yet been printed, though many a hand, as light upon the bridle as the pen, has portrayed the same subject since then—not more than thirty years, certainly, and the ways of Melton are but little changed, only, of the dramatis person? there are not many left. Of those who charged the flooded Whissendine so boldly, the majority have already crossed the Styx. Nevertheless, a few of the old lot may still be seen ready, when the hounds run, to face “wood and water,” as of yore.

Mr. Sawyer, for an unimaginative man, was the least thing in the world of a hero-worshipper. As he rode along, contemplating from behind them the fine powerful frame and the slim and graceful figure of two Meltonians, who for many years have shone, a couple of lucida sidera, in the front rank, and of whom, indeed, so fast have they always gone, it may almost be said that
“Panting Time toils after them in vain,”

he was accosted by the pleasant, gentlemanlike personage with whom he had spent an agreeable quarter of an hour in the hovel, on that memorable day when his ambition had so completely “cooked the goose” of Hotspur with the Pytchley.

“Good-morning, sir,” said this affable individual, bringing his horse alongside of our friend, with a bow such as nobody in the Old Country could ever have perpetrated. “I thought you’d be out to-day, so I’ve a couple here for you to look at.”

When a nobleman not only touches his hat, but takes it off to you, at the same time offering you “a couple of horses to look at,” as if he were about to make you a present of them, such politeness, thought Mr. Sawyer, is rather overwhelming than reassuring. He returned the greeting, however, with his best air, and took off his hat in return, somewhat disconcerted, however, by the rude behaviour of Struggles and Brush, who were riding beside him, and who both burst out laughing.

The illustrious stranger, too—who, by the way, though still in a black coat, was “got-up” with the utmost splendour of which a hunting costume admits—looked rather surprised, and winked at the two irreverent laughers as they are certainly not in the habit of winking in the House of Peers.

“Is that a favourite one you are riding?” inquired Mr. Sawyer, who fancied he must say something, and could think, at the moment, of no more apposite remark.

“I don’t know much of him,” was the reply. “He’s only a five-year-old; and I haven’t had him a fortnight. A thundering well-bred one, though, and can jump like a deer! I gave a hat-full of money for him, without getting on his back; but we’ll see what he’s made of this afternoon, I hope. I should say, now, that he’d carry you alarming!”

Mr. Sawyer, whose conversational powers were soon exhausted, made no reply, but, more out of civility than curiosity, contented himself with scanning the five-year-old from his ears to his tail.

The illustrious unknown seemed to have no dislike to inspection: on the contrary, he courted further companionship, by producing the gorgeous cigar-case, and offering Mr. Sawyer a weed.

“You will find them pretty good,” said he, striking a light from a little bijou of a briquet that hung to his watch-chain. “I import them myself: it’s the only way to ensure getting them first-rate, and it certainly is the cheapest in the long-run.”

The cigar was indeed excellent. Mr. Sawyer thought this would be a good opportunity to draw his noble friend for a box. He might perhaps make him a present of a couple of pounds or so. At all events (as he said, it was the cheapest plan) there was no harm in risking the chance of having to pay for them. He asked him, accordingly, with some little hesitation, if he could do him the favour of procuring him a few?

“Certainly, certainly,” replied the other, in the most off-hand, good-humoured way possible. “You shall have them from my man. I’ll write to him to-night. How much shall I order? You can’t get anything like them at the money: they only stand us in five guineas a pound!”

Mr. Sawyer modestly opined “one pound would be quite sufficient for the present;” but he felt as if he had just lost a large double tooth. Without being stingy, it was not the custom in the Old Country thus to throw money away. He fell back upon Brush, sucking at the costly tobacco with considerable vehemence.

“Who is he?” said he, nodding towards the rider of the five-year-old, then cantering on ahead, and sitting well down in the saddle, as he prepared to “lark” over a large fence, to the admiration of the field, instead of defiling through the hand-gate.

“Why, you seem to k............