THE HORSE AND THE HOUND SHOW. 141 



Saunterer — "the black 'im/*' as tlie legs called him, the 

 truest made horse of them all, with his well-knit back^ 

 his fine shoulders, his wicked little head, and thin, blood- 

 like neck. And then those legs, not big- ones, your lord- 

 ships, for he is not a big* one anywhere, but as clean as 

 paint, and as hard as iron. Turn back to your Calendars, 

 erudite Mr. Weatherby, and trace all he • has done. Ga 

 back to memory, Mr. Dawson, or ask your next-door 

 neighbour all he could do ; and you, Squire Jaques — the- 

 " melancholy Jaques" for once, as you stand by him in 

 the box and reflect how readily you ^^ got out" of him^ 

 *' He aint big enough for ^em /" comment the knowing 

 North Ridingers, with a palpable emphasis on the abbre- 

 viated 'em ; while we fear terribly this contemptuous tone 

 is directed especially to the judges. The plain coaching* 

 Neville can never do after that ; and Cavendish, a better 

 nag to show as one would fancy, is kept at home. The 

 Cure, however, an old friend hereabouts, has a heartier 

 welcome, while the trio hang to him nearly as long as they 

 did to De Clare. He is certainly a fine-topped " big little 

 horse,'' wearing wonderfull}^ well for his age and all he 

 has done, and full more of muscle than flesh. Mr. Hob- 

 son is especially struck with him, and gazes on him more 

 as a new love than an old friend. If he had only a prop- 

 under him " to perpetuate the breed of the sound and 

 stout !" — but, alas ! his forelegs absolutely bend and 

 tremble as he tries to stand still ! And as one looks at 

 them, so bad are they now that it is hard to imagine they 

 could ever have been good. Yet The Cure has his party, 

 as he makes way for the lathy Hospitality and the big^ 

 barrelled, short-tailed General WilHams, a good racehorse 

 fashioned into a hunter, but not quite up to the Middles- 

 bro' mark of any such association of excellence. 



