HORSEMANSHIP.
A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight put both
horse and man into amazement. Some said it was a great crabshell
brought out of China, and some imagined it to be one of the pagan
temples, in which the canibals adored the divell.
--TAYLOR, THE WATER POET.
I have made casual mention, more than once, of one of the Squire's
antiquated retainers, old Christy, the huntsman. I find that his
crabbed humour is a source of much entertainment among the young men
of the family; the Oxonian, particularly, takes a mischievous
pleasure, now and then, in slyly rubbing the old man against the
grain, and then smoothing him down again; for the old fellow is as
ready to bristle up his back as a porcupine. He rides a venerable
hunter called Pepper, which is a counterpart of himself, a heady
cross-grained animal, that frets the flesh off its bones; bites,
kicks, and plays all manner of villainous tricks. He is as tough, and
nearly as old as his rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, and
is, indeed, the only one that can do any thing with him. Sometimes,
however, they have a complete quarrel, and a dispute for mastery, and
then, I am told, it is as good as a farce to see the heat they both
get into, and the wrong-headed contest that ensues; for they are quite
knowing in each other's ways, and in the art of teasing and fretting
each other.
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