o8 THE HUNTING FIELD 



lascivious eyes are starting out of his head, the roses 

 of his flabby cheeks have dissolved into number- 

 less little red veins, while his mulberry-coloured nose 

 has thrown out divers little knots and hillocks, all 

 indicative of devotion to the jolly god. 



Codshead has on the very coat — nay, we believe, 

 the very coat, waistcoat, breeches, and boots-^in 

 which he appeared fourteen years ago. The coat, 

 we remember, was the first dress one — the first 



"Bed by night, and chest of drawers by day," 



that appeared in our country, and of course produced 

 a corresponding impression. It then fitted him as a 

 coat should fit, easy and comfortable-looking, neither 

 too tight nor too loose ; the waist was where the 

 colonel's waist was, and if the collar was twice or 

 thrice the breadth of collars of the present day, it was 

 not a bit more ridiculous than the hem-like things of 

 our times will be hereafter. It was then a fresh, well- 

 favoured coat, and though we cannot say we admire 

 the cut, it nevertheless became the colonel. Alas ! 

 how changed are both coat and colonel ! 



There is nothing hurts a man's vanity so much as 

 the conviction that he is getting fat. So long as he 

 retains his figure and activity he may be any age, but 

 when this 



" too, too solid flesh won't melt," 



when relentless beef will load the neck, back, reins, 

 loins — all the places that used to be mentioned in 

 Moore's once indelicate almanack — a dreadful con- 

 viction comes over him, that — to put it in the mildest 

 form — he is not so young as he was. 



Against this terrible admission Colonel Codshead 

 has long borne up stoutly and manfully. — He will not 

 admit that he is an ounce heavier than he was twenty 

 years ago, and all because by dint of extreme exertion 



