A Knight-Errant

About a hundred and thirty years ago, when the third George, whom our
grandfathers knew in his blind dotage, was a young and sturdy
bridegroom; when old Q., whom 1810 found peering from his balcony in
Piccadilly, deaf, toothless, and a skeleton, was that gay and lively
spark, the Earl of March; when bore and boreish were words of haut
ton, unknown to the vulgar, and the price of a borough was 5,000l.;
when gibbets still served for sign-posts, and railways were not and
highwaymen were--to be more exact, in the early spring of the year 1767,
a travelling chariot-and-four drew up about five in the evening before
the inn at Wheatley Bridge, a short stage from Oxford on the Oxford
road.

A gig and a couple of post-chaises, attended by the customary
group of stablemen, topers, and gossips already stood before the house,
but these were quickly deserted in favour of the more important
equipage. The drawers in their aprons trooped out, but the landlord,
foreseeing a rich harvest, was first at the door of the carriage, and
opened it with a bow such as is rarely seen in these days.

'Will your lordship please to alight?' he said.

'No, rascal!' cried one of those within. 'Shut the door!'

You wish fresh horses, my lord?' the obsequious host replied. 'Of
course. They shall be--' 'We wish nothing,' was the brisk answer.

'D'ye hear? Shut the door, and go to the devil!'