way to the cover we are to draw, he will probably come in for his share of condescension, being one of a certain party whom the politic master is anxious to conciliate by every means. As we approach, the old lord, seeing a man in black trousers likely to ride into the middle of the pack, roars out, "D-n it, tailor! don't ride over the hounds. For Heaven's sake, sir! learn to ride before you come out again to annoy us." The Doctor was, luckily, too much occupied in steering his Rosinante to hear much, if any, of this harangue; and as he at this moment turned round and made himself known, his lordship put a new face on the matter, and, riding out of the rank, said, with much emphasis on the most emphatic words, "My good friend Wickers, how are you? Delighted to see you out. How are all at home? Your mare seems fresh; if any one else were on her back she would kill half my hounds. Not one man in a hundred could ride her."

At this moment the field was augmented by the arrival of two men in pink, who came galloping up, and were greeted as Mr. Whackford and Will Bigboy. The former, a delicate-looking person, quickly exchanged his gruelled hack for a large hack mare, whose appearance pleased me much; while the latter, a very small man indeed, placed himself on the back of a little wiry grey mare, which I afterwards found out to be an extraordinary creature, though not more so than her

master.

"Throw 'em in, Jack!" says Tom Slide; "we can't wait any longer for Pelican."

"Have at him, my darlings! That's it, my good hounds!" cheers the huntsman.

A whimper is heard on the right, followed by "Get to Ranksborough ; get away, get away, hounds," from the second whip.

At length a distant "Tally-ho" resounds a-head, to which is instantly added, "For'ard, away, for'ard!" and now the excitement begins. Each man manœuvres to obtain as good a place as possible for himself, and away we splash through the dirtiest of rides towards a strong wicket-gate, which, when opened, will afford room for one horseman to pass without much danger of spoiling both his knees. Lord Shamwell has managed to get tolerably forward, and urges his over-fat mare along at a good pace, calling out continually to those in his rear, "Gently, my good fellow, gently! there's no hurry. We're all right; don't come too close!"

By this means most of the field are kept back; but Mr. Whackford, who has, by dint of splashing the very correct leathers of his friend Bigboy, and filling young Tom Hogskin's mouth with a hoofful of mud, arrived near his Lordship, seems determined to get on a little faster than the plausible old Peer would wish; and, therefore, choosing a place where the road is a little wider than usual, he sticks his spurs into his mare's sides, and rushes past the titled master at a furious pace, covering both him and his horse with a goodly coating of mud.

"Thank you, my good fellow; thank you!" sings out his Lordship, at the same time internally cursing the too eager young man; but Whackford is an embryo millionnaire, and has some influence in the county for which the Honourable Mr. Shamwell will be a candidate at the next election. In due time the old Lord arrives at the gate, and calls out, " Now, my good friends, for Heaven's sake, some one open the gate!"

Bigboy, who is next him, will see him dd first, and then he won't; and at length Tom Hogskin pushes past, and performs the kind office for the antiquated sportsman, who rewards him with the following, "Thank you, Tom; thank you! I'll do as much for you some day, my good boy. You shall never want a father while I live!"

The whole party now emerge from the riding into a stiff piece of plough, where the hounds are striving to carry the scent over the cold fallow, while each anxious horseman tightens his girths, in readiness for whatever may happen.

"Hold hard, gentlemen; pray hold hard. Hold hard, Mr. Whackford, don't ride over the hounds!" exclaims my Lord, as the gentleman on the black mare seems anxious to hunt the fox himself.

"D-n it, Sir! where are you going to," roars Tom Slide, and with good reason; for our friend the Doctor is borne along upon his highbred 'un into the midst of the pack.

"Who's that, Tom?" says my Lord.

"It's Wickers!" answers Slide.

"D-n him," continues the old Lord; "he's always playing the devil! I wish he'd learn to ride."

"That's it, by the Lord Harry!" says Jack, as the hounds hit it off along the headland. "Hark to Juggler! there hark! for'ard, away, for'ard!"' "Ware wheat, if you please, gentlemen!" holloas his Lordship, turning his mare right across a field of the said grain. "Never mind me, my good friends; that's the line, don't mind me."

Meanwhile Slide, followed by Whackford and the Doctor, is sailing away at the tail of the hounds; while to the right may be seen the elder Hogskin, indulging his little thorough-bred in a steeple-chase with Bigboy. My friend the Squire, like an old hand, is easing his nag through the holding plough, and the fag-enders and servants are seen nailing along a parallel road to our left, headed by a man on an old dun mare. Who can he be? Oh! that is Mr. Helvellyn Caulker, the wiseacre, the Solomon, the man who knows everything of the hunt. He sometimes manages to know a little more than everything, and he is sure to come up at the first check, having viewed a dozen foxes, or seen the hunted one headed by sheep. The country begins to improve, and with it the pace, though still the latter is anything but fast. Slide (of whom I may as well say here, that a more gentlemanly, sportsman-like fellow, I never met with) is still going well; but Whackford and the Doctor stick to him a little too close to be pleasant. The latter is in truth borne along against his will by his plucky mare; while the former goes because he knows no better, careless of hounds, horses, and his own neck to boot.

"This way," says Tom Slide, turning old Mulberry away from s high newly plashed hedge, and shaping his course towards a low rail in the corner; but Whackford thinks he may for once possess himself of the lead, and with all powder he crams the big mare at the fence, calling out lustily, "This 'll do, Wickers! this 'll do very well."

Whether he trusted in his own or his horse's strength, I know not, but they both failed; for hardly had he uttered the above sentence, when his mare chested the barrier, and rolled with her rider into the next field, to the no small amusement of all who were near enough to see. This exploit of Whackford's cost him dear; for his mare damaged her shoulder so much, that, as I afterwards heard, she was not fit for work

again during the rest of the season. The pace was just getting good when the hounds threw up their heads in the road, and Whackford, who had by this time picked up both himself and his mare, jumped a high wall, and lit in the midst of the pack, as they were trying to hit it off along the road side.

"D-n it, Mr. Whackford, you'd better go home, and not ruin half the hounds in this way. For Heaven's sake, Sir, get out of the way!" resound from the master and others in authority, until the unfortunate subject of these kindly remarks is forced to slink into the background, and hide his diminished head.

The roadsters now come up, headed by Helvellyn, and their number augmented by our friend Pelican and a bagman, who, having borrowed a posting-saddle at a neighbouring inn, has mounted his buggy horse to join the hunt. Helvellyn pushes and sidles past everyone, and hustling up to the huntsman, as if he were the master himself, he says, "Vis way, Jack, vis way; a boy told me he saw ve fox passing frough vat flock of sheep only five minutes ago!"

"Now then, young Helvellyn, what the devil are you pottering about? You can know nothing about it; for you didn't see a yard of the run!" puts in the old Lord, who rather likes a joke at the expense of his kinsman. "Bring 'em this way, Jack."

After casting half over a large grass enclosure, they hit him off under the hedge, and slow hunting ensued for some minutes, during which our friend Wickers had an opportunity of distinguishing himself, showing off his mare, and bringing into play the soapy qualities of Lord Shamwell. Between two large pastures there ran a narrow ravine, through which there was but one practicable road, and that a very narrow one, and made very slippery by the passing of the cattle. Here we threaded our way with considerable caution, and just as his Lordship had arrived at the steepest part of the declivity, the Doctor's mare came against him with such velocity as almost to overturn both him and his mare, and continuing her way at the same speed, in two bounds she was up the opposite side. The Peer was astonished, but quickly perceiving to whom he was indebted for so good a shaking, he called out "Well done, my good fellow; well done! You managed your mare very well." Then turning to Bigboy, who was following him, he said aside, "I say, Bigboy, Barnacles can't ride."

But Barnacles had heard neither the first nor the last part of the old Lord's oration, and we are bound to suppose that, in such a case, ignorance is bliss. No longer, however, have we time to talk; for after passing the dyke, the pace improves, and each one has as much as he can do to keep his place. I see my friend the Squire gradually working his way into a forward position, and the coolness with which he has hitherto nursed his horse begins to give him a decided advantage. He is now going side and side with Tom Slide, close to the hounds; while Whackford and Bigboy begin to drop behind, and the only men who keep their places are the two Hogskins, Barnacles, and the bagman, who rides right well. See! he sits his horse well at yonder oak stile; 'tis an awkward place, but he goes well over, and seems to know what he is about.

"He'll go to ground," says Tom Slide; "he's making straight for the earths in Lead Mill Dingle. No! he turns to the right; he's too hot for the cover; if we've luck, we shall kill him."

Skirting the Lead Mills, our fox makes his point for Whiteroad Wood, through which we press him best pace, and he again faces the open, going over a beautiful bit of country. The distance and pace now begin to tell a tale, and the elder Hogskin drops reluctantly astern, his little horse's bellows being out of repair. Tom Slide and the Squire are still side by side, followed closely by Tom Hogskin, Wickers, and the bagman, all going well, and the Doctor's mare just allowing her rider to get a pull at her.

"Tally-ho!" screeches Tom Slide. "Yonder he goes, under the hedge in the field with the cows."

"He's dead beat," adds the Squire; "he won't last long at this pace." The scent grows hotter each moment, and the hounds are racing for blood. A barren common is before us, for which our fox seems to point, and now we view him clear of the enclosures, taking his way over the middle of the open heath. On the common the scent becomes colder, and the hounds have much difficulty in making it out at all. By dint, however, of some lifting, and no little encouragement, they continue to hunt him over the plain, to the mouth of a large sand-hole, full of rabbit burrows, in one of which "sly Reynard" has taken refuge.

"We'll have him out, my good hounds!" says Tom Slide, driving his too eager favourites from the mouth of the burrow with his whip. In vain the Squire intercedes for the life of poor Reynard, for my Lord Shamwell's hounds are so frequently regaled with dug-out foxes that they seldom taste any others. By this time the fag-enders begin to come up, and among them of course the sage Helvellyn. Pickaxes and spades are soon procured, and the process of digging-out commences in earnest. The majority of the field are leading about their panting steeds, and inhaling the fumes of a fragrant Havanna. The Exquisite is seated on the ground at some little distance, regaling his jaded steed with a feed of oats, which he providently has carried with him in his pocket handkerchief. Tom Slide is on his knees at the mouth of the earth, working away with a pickaxe; while young Helvellyn stands by, making a great deal of noise, but of course doing no good. Barnacles, wishing to see a patient, has left us; and the bagman is anxiously pressing forward to watch the proceedings more closely. As yet no one has heard his voice, and all are inquisitive to know who or what he may be, who has shown so many the way through a clipping run.

At length Tom Slide declares his conviction that "it is no use," and consequently all prepare to turn towards home, upon which the bagman, opening his mouth for the first time, says to Helvellyn Caulker, "It's a pity no one has a ferret in his pocket; he'd soon turn him out!"

At this speech every one was convulsed with laughter, in the midst of which the poor bagman thought fit to beat a retreat.

This attempt at digging-out lasted during two long cold hours, and when it was over, everyone was glad to take the shortest way home. Ours lay in the same direction as that of the hounds, so we moved on in company with Lord Shamwell, Slide, Helvellyn, and some others who travelled the same road. During our ride a little incident occurred, which, as it furnishes the last anecdote I shall be able to relate of Lord Shamwell, I must not omit. We were jogging quietly along the turnpike road (my friend the Squire in deep conversation with the Peer), when we met a gentlemanly-looking young man riding slowly along. The Squire stopped, and shaking hands with him, inquired kindly after

his father and mother; upon which the old Lord also halted, and holding out his hand, said, "Aye, my good fellow! how is your worthy father? how are all at home?"

"Very well, I thank you, my Lord," replied the young man.

"Give my best compliments to your father!" continued his Lordship. "Good day!"

"Good day!"

Our horses were hardly in motion again, when this delightful old nobleman turned, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I say, Wheatland, who the devil is he?"

Soon after this we separated, and my friend and I arrived in due time at Cwrw Hall, where we found everything to comfort us after a hard day; and after a proper interval, we found ourselves in a warm diningroom, with a good dinner before us, to which we did ample justice.

To Lord Shamwell and his hounds we must now for a season bid adieu. From the time of which I have now written to the present, I have never seen them; but I have no doubt that, if they still exist, they go on just as they did then. That very few Lord Shamwells do exist, I have reason to believe; and I trust I may express a wish, that if, in real life, any such personages do actually figure, their places may speedily be filled up by men such as my good friend Wheatland, of which good old sort we have at present sadly too few samples.

Wallingford Hall is a pleasant place; we all of us like it, and more than ever at Christmas. Nor must you associate with that cheerful time of year, when bills prevail, any idea of what is called an oldfashioned winter. I do not say that it was not as enjoyable as other places under such circumstances; but as hunting was, at all events, the ostensible motive of most of its inmates, and peculiarly so of those interested in my present story, we always prayed that an oldfashioned winter might remain so. When the weather was fine, that is open, and muggy (to speak in real Saxon), Wallingford was the gayest little village in existence. Whether the dry stabling attracted the masters, or the wet skittle-ground the men, from morning to night the village inn was a scene of life and confusion. In the morning, hunters in well-arranged clothing were either starting for the cover-side, or skittishly exhibited their impatience at their rider's delay over the one half-cup more of Mrs. Jobson's bohea, or her still more seductive cherry bounce. In a word,

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