When I had got down, they pressed around me until I could scarce breathe, crying congratulations, Comyn embracing me openly.  Mr. Fox vowed he had never seen so fine a sight, and said many impolitic things which the duke must have overheard . . . .  Lady Carlisle sent me a red rose for my buttonhole by his Lordship.  Mr. Warner, the lively parson with my Lord March, desired to press my hand, declaring that he had won a dozen of port upon me, which he had set his best cassock against.  My Lord Sandwich offered me snuff, and invited me to Hichinbroke.  Indeed, I should never be through were I to continue.  But I must not forget my old acquaintance Mr. Walpole, who protested that he must get permission to present me to Princess Amelia:  that her Royal Highness would not rest content now, until she had seen me.  I did not then know her Highness’s sporting propensity.

Then my Lord March called upon the duke, who stood in the midst of an army of his toadeaters.  I almost pitied him then, tho’ I could not account for the feeling.  I think it was because a nobleman with so great a title should be so cordially hated and despised.  There were high words along the railing among the duke’s supporters, Captain Lewis, in his anger, going above an inference that the stallion had been broken privately.  Chartersea came forward with an indifferent swagger, as if to say as much:  and, in truth, no one looked for more sport, and some were even turning away.  He had scarce put foot to the stirrup, when the surprise came.  Two minutes were up before he was got in the saddle, Pollux rearing and plunging and dancing in a circle, the grooms shouting and dodging, and his Grace cursing in a voice to wake the dead and Mr. Fox laughing, and making small wagers that he would never be mounted.  But at last the duke was up and gripped, his face bloody red, giving vent to his fury with the spurs.

Then something happened, and so quickly that it cannot be writ fast enough.  Pollux bolted like a shot out of a sling, vaulted the railing as easily as you or I would hop over a stick, and galloping across the lawn and down the embankment flung his Grace into the Serpentine.  Precisely, as Mr. Fox afterwards remarked, as the swine with the evil spirits ran down the slope into the sea.

An indescribable bedlam of confusion followed, lords and gentlemen, tradesmen and grooms, hostlers and apprentices, all tumbling after, many crying with laughter.  My Lord Sandwich’s jockey pulled his Grace from the water in a most pitiable state of rage and humiliation.  His side curls gone, the powder and pomatum washed from his hair, bedraggled and muddy and sputtering oaths, he made his way to Lord March, swearing by all divine that a trick was put on him, that he would ride the stallion to Land’s End.  His Lordship, pulling his face straight, gravely informed the duke that the match was over.  With this his Grace fell flatly sullen, was pushed into a coach by Sir John and the captain, and drove rapidly off Kensington way, to avoid the people at the corner.