A coper's confession. 97 



whicli I had beaten every thing- else out of sight, and the 

 coui-ag-e and readiness with which my poor horse did go 

 as long- as he coidd go, all rose to reproach me. Under 

 any circumstances, my case was unpleasant in the ex- 

 treme j but what renders it still more so was the unpala- 

 table truth that would force itself upon me — the horse 

 wasn't mine ! 



What followed I need net dilate upon. I had found 

 out his failino- — he wasn't immortal. Let me merely add 

 that, on my way back, I fully sympathized with that 

 unhappy gentleman who, tradition reports, once advertised 

 for " an agreeable companion in a post-chaise." I am 

 afraid indeed just now to name the sum I would have 

 given for any one of any kind — the amiable man who 

 employs his " Kentish fire " in shooting the foxes, or the 

 right reverend gentleman who runs his muck against 

 the race-week providing they promised to rigmarole 

 incessantly on the road, should not have been 

 refused a seat by my side. My friend, who, on first 

 seeing me, imagined I had sold his favourite, an idea on 

 which I was quickly compelled to sell him, bore it like an 

 English-man or a Spartan woman, only remarking on my 

 concluding, '' He died. Sir, the death of a hero, for he 

 died on the field." Offering' consolation at such times is 



o 



always a ticklish affair : some vulgar-minded men would 

 tender it in a pecuniary sense ; but the sufferer, with his 

 mind harassed quite enough already, is very apt to 

 take any such intent as an insult, and I am sure my good 

 tact and consideration will be properly appreciated when 

 I declare I did not. 



That night I went to bed with the full determination of 

 never trying another horse without I actually wanted one ; 

 but maybe the reader has heard the story of '^ the Jolly 



H 



