I pulled up;
and as the animal was restive and my servant a bungler, I called for
assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who stood at
his door with a tankard in his hand. He came readily to assist me,
followed by his wife, with her bosom half open, a child in her arms,
and two more at her heels. I stared for a moment as if doubting my
eyes. I could not be mistaken; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the
ale-house I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern
spouse, the once trim and dimpling Columbine.
The change of my looks, from youth to manhood, and the change of my
circumstances, prevented them from recognizing me. They could not
suspect, in the dashing young buck, fashionably dressed, and driving
his own equipage, their former comrade, the painted beau, with old
peaked hat and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My heart yearned with
kindness towards Columbine, and I was glad to see her establishment a
thriving one. As soon as the harness was adjusted, I tossed a small
purse of gold into her ample bosom; and then, pretending give my horses
a hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl with a whistling about
the sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed off like
lightning, and I was whirled out of sight, before either of the parties
could get over their surprise at my liberal donations. I have always
considered this as one of the greatest proofs of my poetical genius.
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