THE BLACKSMITH 197 



would re-enter Brighton by the longest route, so as 

 to display the faultless pink on the faithful white. 

 Then young ladies sitting in bay and balcony windows, 

 bending over novels, or laps full of work, would 

 exclaim — " Oh, dear ! there's that orrid Mr. Spoonbill 

 coming home from hunting ; " or — " Oh ! I declare 

 here's Captain Green on the white horse, looking 

 so nice." 



Then Mr. Spoonbill having lingered by the way, 

 answering every inquiry any one would have the kind- 

 ness to put to him relative to the run, would at last 

 render up Claudius to the hands of Mr. Boss, and, 

 repairing to his lodgings, would re-arrange his curls 

 and whiskers, and, putting a most deceitful little 

 macintosh over his scarlet coat, would go clonk, clonk, 

 clonk, with his spurs on the flags the rest of the 

 afternoon, a cross between a post-boy and a heavy 

 dragoon. 



But, Lord bless us ! what a way out of our ground 

 this mention of Claudius Hunter has led us. We 

 have been taking a canter on Brighton Downs, and a 

 ride through the town, instead of sticking to the hero 

 at the head of our paper. Well, here goes at him 

 again. 



Elijah Bullwaist is a full flowering specimen of 

 the old tribe of "horse and cow leech," and for the 

 benefit of posterity we will impale him on our sheet. 

 Bullwaist's monstrous bulk is further increased by a 

 profusion of foul, filthy clothes. He seems as if he 

 carried his whole wardrobe on his back. Peering 

 above his nasty rusty black duffle frock coat, we see 

 as many dirty waistcoats as would serve the grave- 

 digger in " Hamlet." Above the rusty-stained 

 unwholesome duffle, with its broad binding, parting 

 from its seams and sides, is one of those ancient 

 abominations, a Witney coat, with large mother-of- 

 pearl buttons. It was once white, but the days of its 

 whiteness are long gone by, and it is now a sort of 



