The sad only hate a joke.  Now, my friend Rory is in no sense a sad fellow, and he loves a joke exceedingly.  His anecdotes of the turf are all racy; nor do those of the field less deserve the meed of praise!  Lord F____ was a dandy sportsman, and the butt of the regulars.  He was described by Rory as a “walkingstick”—­slender, but very “knobby”—­with a pair of mustaches and an eye-glass.  Having lost the scent, he rode one day slick into a gardener’s ground, when his prad rammed his hind-legs into a brace of hand-glasses, and his fore-legs into a tulip-bed.  The horticulturist and the haughty aristocrat—­how different were their feelings—­the cucumber coolness of the ‘nil admirari’ of the one was ludicrously contrasted with the indignation of the astonished cultivator of the soil.  “Have you seen the hounds this way?” demanded Lord F____, deliberately viewing him through his glass.

“Hounds!” bitterly repeated the gardener, clenching his fist.   “Dogs, I
mean,” continued Lord F____; “you know what a pack of hounds are--don’t
you?”

“I know what a puppy is,” retorted the man; “and if so be you don’t budge, I’ll spile your sport.  But, first and foremost, you must lug out for the damage you have done—­you’re a trespasser.”

“I’m a sportsman, fellow—­what d’ye mean?”

“Then sport the blunt,” replied the gardener; and, closing his gates,
took Lord F____ prisoner:  nor did he set him free till he had reimbursed
him for the mischief he had done.

This was just; and however illegal were the means, I applauded them for the end.

Our friend B___d, that incorrigible punster, said, “that his horse had
put his foot in—­and he had paid his footing,”

B___d, by the bye, is a nonpareil; whether horses, guns, or dogs, he is
always “at home:”  and even in yachting, (as he truly boasts) he is never
“at sea.”   Riding with him one day in an omnibus, I praised the
convenience of the vehicle; “An excellent vehicle,” said he, “for
punning;”—­which he presently proved, for a dowager having flopped into
one of the seats, declared that she “never rid vithout fear in any of
them omnibus things.”

“What is she talking about?” said I.

“De omnibus rebus,” replied he,—­“truly she talks like the first lady of the land; but, as far as I can see, she possesses neither the carriage nor the manners!”

“Can you read the motto on the Conductor’s button?” I demanded.  “No;” he replied, “but I think nothing would be more appropriate to his calling than the monkish phrase—­’pro omnibus curo!’”

At this juncture a jolt, followed by a crash, announced that we had lost a wheel.  The Dowager shrieked.  “We shall all be killed,” cried she; “On’y to think of meeting vun’s death in a common omnibus!”