fox himself and stuck its brush below his nose. His neck is very stiff;
and the exact Jackson-like fit of his coat, which almost nips him in two
at the waist, and his superlatively well-cleaned leather Andersons,[2]
together with the perfume and the general puppyism of his appearance,
proclaim that he is a "swell" of the very first water, and one that a
Surrey sportsman would like to buy at his own price and sell at the
other's. In addition to this, his boots, which his "fellow" has
just denuded from a pair of wash-leather covers, are of the finest,
brightest, blackest patent leather imaginable; the left one being the
identical boot by which Warren's monkey shaved himself, while the right
is the one at which the game-cock pecked, mistaking its own shadow for
an opponent, the mark of its bill being still visible above the instep;
and the tops--whose pampered appetites have been fed on champagne--are
of the most delicate cream-colour, the whole devoid of mud or speck. The
animal he bestrides is no less calculated than himself to excite the
risible faculties of the field, being a sort of mouse colour, with dun
mane and tail, got by Nicolo, out of a flibbertigibbet mare, and he
stands seventeen hands and an inch. His head is small and blood-like,
his girth a mere trifle, and his legs, very long and spidery, of course
without any hair at the pasterns to protect them from the flints; his
whole appearance bespeaking him fitter to run for half-mile hunters'
stakes at Croxton Park or Leicester, than contend for foxes' brushes in
such a splendid country as the Surrey. There he stands, with his tail
stuck tight between his legs, shivering and shaking for all the world as
if troubled with a fit of ague. And well he may, poor beast, for--oh,
men of Surrey, London, Kent, and Middlesex, hearken to my word--on
closer inspection he proves to have been shaved!!![3]

[Footnote 2: Anderson, of South Audley Street, is, or was, a famous
breeches-maker.]