Read in bowers or at firesides

Read in bowers or at firesides

Read in bowers or at firesides

Talk of epic poems, read in bowers or at firesides, what poet’s description of a battle could make the blood boil in delirious excitement, like a seat on a long-striding hunter, clearing every obstacle with firm elastic bounds, holding in sight without gaining a yard on the flying pack, while the tip of Reynard’s tail disappears over the wall at the top of the hill!

And, lastly, tired, successful, hungry, happy, the return home, when the shades of evening, closing round, give a fantastic, curious, mysterious aspect to familiar road-side objects! Loosely lounging on your saddle, with half-closed eyes, you almost dream the gnarled trees grow into giants, cottages into castles, ponds into lakes. The maid of the inn is a lovely princess, and the bread and cheese she brings (while, without dismounting, you let your thirsty horse drink his gruel), tastes more delicious than the finest supper of champagne, with a pâté of tortured goose’s liver, that ever tempted the appetite of a humane, anti-fox hunting, poet-critic, exhausted by a long night of opera, ballet, and Roman punch.