g and care nothing about
hunting. On the other hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy
Spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us
on every side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a
check occurs--when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when the
bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from
the lips of exasperated sportsmen--we fail to take any further interest in
the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in the direction of a grassy
lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and
find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow
the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a
village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss
their heads, and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The
hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are
actually singing a French song--when in one moment our merriment comes to
an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a loose stone, and
stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first
attempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itself--a tendon is
strained; the horse is lame.

What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look
where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for
it but to take the bridle road up the hill, and try what we can discover
on the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife on my own
horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of
a man's legs on either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up
the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels,
leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of
creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were
cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn't look
heartbroken over his own misfortune.

For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the bridle
road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken horse halts behind _me_.
Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy procession passes a
Somersetshire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us;
and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without
stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh