Vindicating his character as a philosopher, by this profound reflection, my friend withdrew into the privacy of his own stable, and I betook myself to mine; there, having expressed a qualified approval of my stud’s general appearance, I decided to ride “Tipple Cider,” as being the best of them, and then retired to my apartments, to order dinner and prepare for the morrow. I was a little disappointed, I confess, to discover that the bird was flown. I fully expected Miss Merlin would ere this have returned to her quarters at the Haycock. Also, I was a little tired with my journey and the late racketing in London. I am a quiet man, and I call supper after the play the height of dissipation. So I went early to bed, looking forward with keen excitement to the morrow. The morning broke delightfully, promising one of those soft, fragrant days of which I have never seen the counterpart in any climate but our own, and which, alas! are rare even here. A calm, grey winter’s day in England, with a faint southern breeze, and occasional gleams of sunshine descending on the distance, in perpendicular floods of gold, has always seemed to me the very perfection of weather. The hounds were to meet at half-past ten. I was dressed and at breakfast a full hour before. To me, as to all bachelors, this is a very important meal. I like to enjoy it comfortably, in my dressing-gown and slippers, before placing myself in the confinement of boots and breeches. I like to prop up the _Morning Post_, or the last _Quarterly_, or one of the magazines, against my coffee-pot, and feed my mind alternately with my body. Now a mouthful of ham, then a prophecy of Argus (pretty sure to be right) on the next great race; or a bite of toast, and a sentence on the Cotton question; or chip my egg and break the ice of a new story in _Fraser_, at one and the same time, washing the whole thing down with a draught of such coffee as no servant but my own, I verily believe, is capable of concocting. I have seen some men breakfast, and that in apparent resignation, with a button-hook in one hand and a fork in the other, a wife calling to them in the passage, children running in and out of the room, the gardener waiting for orders at the door, and their hack snorting and pawing on the gravel in front. I suppose “the back,” as the adage says, “is made for the burden.” I am not ungrateful, when I reflect on sundry burdens that have not been made for my back.