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're 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,

G G

1

Wallingford Hall is the place for a couple of months of an open winter.

The village is long, unsightly, dirty, to the eye of the uninitiated: the well-entered at Crick Gorse or Kirby Gate knows there is no galloping without dirt, and no happiness without galloping. A steep hill, the Wallingford Arms, and the old moss-grown, mouldering park-wall on the opposite side of the road, is all that the traveller remembers. On the top of the hill are the iron gates, through which the village urchins peep at the mysteries of the big house. Those village critics are severe, and quiz as daintily as lords-in-waiting. Not a carriage rolled in, not a horseman in scarlet disturbed the echoes of their street, without some testimony of their scrutiny. The loves of Mrs. Flamborough and Mr. Lavender, the pink-shirted valet, was food not sufficiently stimulating to village stomachs: and long before I had collected facts for my little story, the whole place was quite conversant with the discomfiture of the rival lions of our Christmas party.

Inside the gates of Wallingford Hall all was repose-the green and polished lawn, a mossy bed for gnarled and twisted oaks, which, like twin giants on either side of the gravelled drive, strive to embrace, but scarce successfully. A glimpse of oriel windows and gable ends tells of oaken panels and dark passages within, and grim old warriors or more lettered statesmen, on canvass not removed since the days of good Queen Bess. The antiquity of Wallingford is not a thing of time, but part and parcel of itself, born with it in its infancy. It never was younger, we feel assured; and it never can grow older than it is to-day. There are glades about it, too, in its chase or park, that would make a stage for "As you like it," where the lone and melancholy stag is wont to steal, and the "fat and greasy herd of citizens" pass by-where the Shakspearean troop might have carried their faithfulness and simplicity to muse upon their experience of worse natures.

66

However, the noblest study of mankind is man," unless we except woman, our first and only love, made for us and kept for us, a peerless flower that blooms but for a season, and few there be that gather it.

Cecil Compton is a gentleman. Mr. Poole is not his tailor, that I am aware of. He is not a gambler, and does not go to Paris for a dinner at the Trois Frères. Nor did his grandfather make one guinea by brewing, banking, blacking-making, or any other of those commercial speculations, which are raising a monied aristocracy upon the backs of the legitimate gentry. To do the old gentleman justice, he had done something towards increasing the incumbrances of an already-burdened estate. But as the house, with all its beauties, is not large, Cecil Compton makes a happy home of it, upon about four thousand a-year. He is good-looking, good-tempered, hospitable but unostentatious, with sufficient pride to prevent his doing a dirty action in the absence of higher motives had they been wanting; enough of a reader not to dread a wet day or a winter's evening, and the best sportsman in the country.

Lady Mary Compton is a golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty, of two-andtwenty; wilful and wayward; a lady in her own right, and invading the rights of others so bewitchingly that it is a pleasure to be wronged by her. On the present occasion she lounges in a comfortable fauteuil by the fireside; on her right hand stands a small tea-service of antique china, on her left an unfinished frame of worsted work; opposite to her

lounges her husband. The room they occupy is a small octagon, empannelled with oak, and ornamented with choice books in richly-carved cabinets. Proof-prints of good modern pictures, hung round the room, proclaim it more of the gentleman's study than the lady's boudoir. It contrives the double debt to pay. They have not been long enough married to require separate sitting-rooms, and fashion has never dictated otherwise than agreeably to them. They both do as they like; and up to the present time they prefer each other's society to that of any other person.

"Well, Mary, who's coming here this Christmas?"

"My dear Cecil, you know as well as I: Lord and Lady Wynyatt, Beverley, the Salisburys, Sir Walker Wythyn, and Herbert Corry; and then I think we are about full, with Harriet and my sister Fanny."

"I don't think you like Herbert Corry."

"He is so full of himself that he has neither time nor thoughts for us." "Fond of himself? no, surely not; at least he goes miles--" "Well, I cannot stand that wholesale sort of hero. But here comes Harriet; you may give your own description; I'll give mine; and let's have her opinion of his merits."

"I'll bet anything Harriet falls in love with him before he has been here a week."

"And I'll back that stupid Sir Walker Wythyn, and his money, against all Herbert Corry's good looks, talents, taste, &c."

"Done!" And here Harriet Compton entered the room.

She was a magnificent girl; in complexion, a contrast to her sisterin-law; her brother, in temper and disposition, but with more thoughtfulness, common sense, and less guided by impulse. The Baronet might be proud to be backed to start for such a prize. Those who knew him better than Lady Mary might have guessed with what chance of winning.

"Harriet," said her brother, "you've often heard of Herbert Corry. Everybody gives him the same character, do they not? The bestlooking, best-dressed man in town; does everything to perfection-acts, sings, waltzes; and Mary doesn't like him.""

"That I can easily believe; for he is not a bit like you, Cecil."

"I don't like him, because he is so abominably popular with men ; and the qualities which make him so are not admirable in my eyes,' said Compton. "He certainly is handsome, and dresses well; but he thinks too much about it, and all his accomplishments are made subservient to his own vanity and love of admiration."

"I never have seen him, so I really cannot tell; but 'tis fortunate he is not a favourite with our sex, or he would soon lose his populaityr with yours. Who is Herbert Corry?" This was said rather abruptly, and perhaps for the first time in their lives they recollected that they never had heard.

There are thousands of Herbert Corrys floating about in society. He was of the aucune famille; and like many others of that same large family, he had made himself somebody. He had a father and mother, it is presumed; but he never alluded to them. An Indian uncle left him a "genteel competency" (1,500 a-year, paid quarterly), and a troop in crack regiment did the rest for him. He was all that Cecil Compton said, and more. No man's party was complete without him. He drove