86 AN AMERICAN FARMER IN ENGLAND. 



may make a goodish brush at the start, you know, sir, but 

 they can t sweat it through, . . no, sir, they can not. . . 

 They are a bad lot, you may depend, sir never can make a 

 good fight.&quot; 



&quot;Pshaw, man! there s something else to be done in the 

 world than fighting.&quot; 



&quot; But a man isn t worth much at any thing else if he can t 

 fight when he is put to it, if you please, sir.&quot; 



&quot; Nonsense ! there s good stuff in plenty of men that never 

 show fight don t you know that *? But you might bet on this 

 man s being a fighter look at his scars, and you see his right 

 arm is gone ten to one he lost it fighting.&quot; 



&quot; Well, that does look some at plucky it s a fact, sir 

 so-ho, lads steady whoo ! Now then, Blazer ! look alive !&quot; 



These last words were for the red-headed ostler of the 

 Queen s Arms. The four fresh horses with blankets over their 

 harness stood waiting; Blazer looked most intensely alive, 

 and in a marvellously short space of time the old team 

 was unhitched and walking off unattended to the stable ; my 

 brother was saying a few kind parting words to the French 

 man, who answered that he trusted that they were repre 

 sentative of the sentiments of all the good American people ; 

 the free-trader handed me his card, saying that he observed 

 that I had an agricultural taste if I should be passing through 

 and could find it convenient to call on him, though not 

 in that line himself, he thought he could show me some 

 things in the neighbourhood that would interest me. The 

 coachman had forgotten us, and all about him, in a kind 

 of doze, as he said, of the brown mare. Making an estimate, 

 I guessed he was, with regard to the Queen s Head bar-maid, of 

 the exact height she was in her stockings, and the exact 

 weight to which he cou]d bring her if he could have the 

 training of her for a month. His mind seemed totally 



