It came upon him quite by
surprise, for he expected to be immortalized in some paper or work of
general circulation, in which the Lords Loosefish, Sir Toms, and Sir Harrys
of former days might recognize the spirited doings of their early friend.
He wanted the superiority of his establishment, the excellence of his
horses, the stoutness of his hounds, and the polish of his field,
proclaimed, with perhaps a quiet cut at the Flat-Hat gentry; instead of
which he had a mixed medley sort of a mess, whose humdrum monotony was only
relieved by the absurdities and errors with which it was crammed. At first,
Mr. Puffington could not make out what it meant, whether it was a hoax for
the purpose of turning run-writing into ridicule, or it had suffered
mutilation at the hands of the printer. Calling a good scent an exquisite
perfume looked suspicious of a hoax, but then seasonal fox for seasoned
fox, scorning to cry for scoring to cry, bay fox for bag fox, grunting for
hunting, thrashing for trashing, rests for casts, and other absurdities,
looked more like accident than design.
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