He was
'All things by turns, and nothing long.'
Such was the gentleman elected to succeed the silent, matter-of-fact Mr.
Slocdolager in the important office of Master of the Laverick Wells Hunt;
and whatever may be the merits of either--upon which we pass no opinion--it
cannot be denied that they were essentially different. Mr. Slocdolager was
a man of few words, and not at all a ladies' man. He could not even talk
when he was crammed with wine, and though he could hold a good quantity,
people soon found out they might just as well pour it into a jug as down
his throat, so they gave up asking him out. He was a man of few coats, as
well as of few words; one on, and one off, being the extent of his
wardrobe. His scarlet was growing plum-colour, and the rest of his hunting
costume has been already glanced at. He lodged above Smallbones, the
veterinary surgeon, in a little back street, where he lived in the quietest
way, dining when he came in from hunting,--dressing, or rather changing,
only when he was wet, hunting each fox again over his brandy-and-water, and
bundling off to bed long before many of his 'field' had left the
dining-room.
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