The Trotter, 



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burst suddenly upon my view, a glorious memento of past ages, in 

 all the grandeur of ancient British architecture, its outline clearly 

 defined in a cloudless blue October sky, which formed the back- 

 ground of the picture. It needed now very little stretch of the 

 imagination to fill the tableau with, living forms — the bold crusader, 

 the stalwart knight armed for the tournament, and the lady of high 

 degree with falcon on her fist — all seemed to meet me as I rode 

 over the old bridge that spanned the moat which encircled the house 

 and gardens. But as I approached nearer to the building, the signs 

 of dilapidation became more apparent ; the place seemed deserted, 

 the clatter of my pony's hoofs, as I rode across the large, empty, 

 grass -grown court-yard, struck a chill to the very heart 3 and the 

 only living actor in the scene, save some poultry and pigeons, ap- 

 peared to be my pony, myself, and a purblind old mastiif, who was 

 chained under a horse block by the stable-door, and who greeted me 

 with a deep-mouthed bay, the echoes of which fairly startled me. 

 This brought out a helper from the stable-yard, who took my pony, 

 and I followed him to the stables, anxious to see what they were 

 like, and how they were filled. 



However much tlie house and the rest of the premises might be 

 neglected, this was not the case witli the stables. They were new, 

 capitally arranged, and kept in the greatest order. Four hunters, 

 which had just been straightened up after their morning's exercise, 

 in first-rate condition, every one of them up to sixteen stone, were 

 standing in clothes and bandages 3 and a perfect model of a gig- 

 horse occupied a fifth stall, while, on the door of a loose box at the 

 end of the stable, I read the redoubtable name "Morgan Rattler," 

 written in gold letters under one of his plates. One of the prettiest 

 little fox-terriers I ever saw came bustling down the ladder from the 

 loft above (where he was very busy hunting after rats) to welcome 

 a strangerj and under the manger of the gig-horse lay a favourite 

 <nter-hound bitch, suckling tliree puppies. I never was ir a better 

 .<ix-stall stable in my life, nor one that seemed to be kept ni better 

 order. The stalls were roomy, the partitions high, and each stall 



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