i 3 o THE HUNTING FIELD 



goes slouching and muttering away to obey an order 

 to be called " willing." A man may never absolutely 

 refuse to do a thing, nor ever neglect to do it, and 

 yet be a most unpleasant and unwilling servant — one 

 that we would rather do a thing ourselves than give 

 an order to. 



It is related that one of the Dukes of Bedford used 

 to declare that he was never so happy as when he 

 awoke in the morning on a journey and found him- 

 self in a chintz bed, instead of the stateliness of 

 Woburn ; and we, in our humble meditative rambles, 

 often think, as the opening door of some great house 

 discloses the bedizened and bepowdered retinue of 

 servants, what misery, what hardship it would be to 

 have them calling us "master." We, who direct the 

 energies of willing and industrious hands, shudder at 

 the thoughts of ruling a handful of idle, overfed 

 lackeys. " What can they be all kept for," we some- 

 times think. Surely all the owners of these great 

 houses cannot be like the unfortunate Miss Biffin, 

 born without arms or legs, and incapable of doing 

 anything for themselves. And then a thought strikes 

 us that these are the necessary concomitants of 

 wealth and station, and hurrying on we thank our 

 stars that we were not born with a "sideboard of 

 plate in our mouths," as Dickens would say. 



" The servants are the gentlemen of England," says 

 Sam Slick. "Next to bein the duke," writes he, 

 " I'd sooner be groom to a gentleman that sports a 

 four-in-hand than anything I know of to England : 

 four spankin, sneezing, hosses that knows how to 

 pick up miles and throw em behind em in style — 

 g'long you skunks, and turn out your toes pretty — 

 whist — that's the ticket — streak it off like iled light- 

 ning, my fox tails ; skrew it up tight, lock down the 

 safety valve, and clap all steam on, my busters ; don't 

 touch the ground, skim it like hawks, and leave no 

 trail; go ahead handsum, my old clays — yes! the 



