What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look
where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for
it but to take the bridle road up the hill, and try what we can discover
on the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife on my own
horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of
a man's legs on either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up
the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels,
leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of
creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were
cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn't look
heartbroken over his own misfortune.
For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the bridle
road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken horse halts behind _me_.
Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy procession passes a
Somersetshire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us;
and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without
stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh
Hall. The Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of _his_ voice:
"Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder."
I translate (for my wife's benefit) from the Somersetshire language into
the English language.
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