At a first glance you would hardly have called him thirty.

No doubt, when, on close inspection, you came to look into his eyes, you could see the hand of time.

Even if you believed the common assertion that he painted,--which it was very hard to believe of a man who passed the most of his time in the hunting-field or on a race-course,--yet the paint on his cheeks would not enable him to move with the elasticity which seemed to belong to all his limbs.

He rode flat races and steeple chases,--if jump races may still be so called; and with his own hounds and with the Queen's did incredible things on horseback.
He could jump over chairs too,--the backs of four chairs in a dining-room after dinner,--a feat which no gentleman of forty-five could perform, even though he painted himself ever so.
So much in praise of Major Tifto honesty has compelled the present chronicler to say.

But there were traits of character in which he fell off a little, even in the estimation of those whose pursuits endeared him to them.