drags to Windsor, went miles to be steward to a steeple-chase, had fought a duel, been in the watch-house, was exquisitely clever, witty, handsome, and unexceptionably dressed; but he was a tuft-hunter, and selfish to a degree. He prostituted his time and talents to the honour of being walking-stick to various scions of nobility, and drove a thriving trade in the profession he had adopted.

Breakfast is my favourite meal, in a house like the Comptons'. Not a mouthful of toast to two of fog, as in town at this season of the year, but a good wholesome tea and coffee affair, with home-made bread and butter, and domestic poultry on the side-table. It really is a comfort to think that you may be excused from getting drunk upon port, to get sober upon claret, now-a-days, if it be only for the wolfish appetite with which one comes down-stairs the next morning. I respect the man who makes a good breakfast. There is more virtue in a morning appetite than most people imagine. Our ancestors were great over night; but they turned out early, for they had no inducement to sit long. Now breakfast at Wallingford Hall is as pleasant as any breakfast in the world. On the present occasion it was peculiarly so. The guests were not all assembled, but they kept dropping in one by one, in a comfortable way, which showed the rules of the house to be anything but stringent on the score of early rising. Sir Walker Wythyn had long been trying to take off the edge of a keen appetite by impartial application to hot rolls, devilled turkey, tea, marmalade, and other condiments. His scarlet cutaway and leathers proclaimed his intended pursuit for the day. He was a sportsman of rather the heavy school; strong top-boots, loose leathers, outside seams, and a broad-thonged whip.

Herbert Corry leaned against the mantel-piece, with a cup of tea in one hand, and a light hunting-whip in the other, the thong of which bore the same proportion to the Baronet's, as the rest of the apparel of the one bore to that of the other. It might have been about a quarter of a century in advance.

"Wythyn, I see you eat breakfast."

"So would you, if you took the exercise I do; but I don't think you've been out shooting since you came down."

"I should bag a brace of incumbrances, turnip-tops, and an unap peasable appetite.

"Well, I prefer that, to shivering, as you do, at the 'Red House,' with Archibald Halfcock, for the sake of winning a hundred or two; or even standing in a ride of the Marquis of Mayfair's covers, to shoot barndoor fowls till your gun's red hot."

"Very likely; though Sir Walker Wythyn's excellence at anything he tries his hand at is proverbial," said Corry, with provoking coolness, "Beverley, don't you hunt to-day? The hounds will be here in a few minutes; so if you mean to dress you won't have too much time; unless you're like me, and mean to provoke Wythyn by not eating any breakfast."

"I shall go out just as I am," said Beverley. "I've nothing to ride but a pony. But here come the hounds"; and as he spoke the pretty Mrs. Salisbury and the fat and vulgar Lady Wynyate rose from the tab. Lady Mary Compton was already in her habit, and Harrriet Compton entered the room in riding costume at the same moment.

"Oh Mr. Beveriey, if you are going to ride a pony, I shall enlist

you for myself and Harriet. Mr. Corry always takes care of himself; and Sir Walker's music is not in woman's tongue on a hunting morning."

"I shall escort you with pleasure," said Beverley, "though you do Corry injustice. He hates it, and has been teased into going this morning against his inclination; and Wythyn, since his arrival, has put himself into training for the Lady's plate."

Whilst this sort of conversation is going on, the hounds approach the large iron gates we have described. In the middle of the pack sits a slight long-backed, short-legged man, of about eleven stone, on a magnificent brown horse, fired on both hocks, and with a blemish on the off fetlock before, which showed more hard riding than much work. On the outskirts of the crowd are a couple of whips, whose heavy thongs every now and then announced their duty with a "Gar away there, Skrummager!" and with a simultaneous descent on Skrummager's flanks which sent him to the rear, to watch for a more auspicious opportunity for quarrelling. They were light, active-looking young fellows, of the true midland-county cut, admirably dressed and turned out, with a cheerful word for their friends, an unbending smile for the gamins of the village, and the military salute of the Wellington pattern for the subscribers. On every side were grooms of every sort, leading and riding horses of every shape, colour, and condition. Gentlemen in scarlet, with here and there a black coat of the old school, poured in troops into the breakfast parlour, to partake of the débris of our halffinished breakfast; whilst on the lawn, cherry brandy and the circling stirrup-cup found votaries of every degree. Servants were busy amongst the professionals with bread and cheese and beer; whilst farmers, who have no appreciation of smoothly-shaven lawns and neatly-raked flowerbeds, allowed their weight-carriers to walk unconcernedly before the windows of the Hall, doing more mischief in five minutes than the gardeners could repair in as many hours. Poor Lady Mary! she loved her lawn, and must have felt it acutely.

Cecil Compton was already in the saddle-the picture of an English sportsman in the present day. No puppyism, no tightness, no smartness of colour or anything else; and yet widely removed from that loose rakish style of costume so recherché with the pretenders of middle life and his horse, like himself, had a combination of pace and duration quite allegorical. Sir Walker was mounting a magnificent brown, while he directed one groom to take a second horse to Turniptop Gorse, and another to ride on to the Chesnut cover, should the fox break from Wallingford in that direction. Herbert Corry sallied from the stable-yard on a thorough-bred chesnut mare, of which he would have thought more had there been no such person in existence as himself. Faultless in appearance even to a fault, dispensing his smiles not niggardly, it was impossible not to admire so much gilded presumption and well-disguised egotism.

As they rode on at a foot pace to draw the coppice at the back of the house, both the Baronet and the tuft-hunter were engaged in serious meditation. Wythyn looked at his brown horse's quarters, and declared his conviction that he was as handsome out of the stable as in it. Then he caught sight of Harriet Compton, physically, as she rode along before him, and he registered a mental vow that she was a magnificent

creature, and would look well in the dining-room of Saint Wythyn Castle, North Wales, as its mistress, where he was a small king, and had a literal principality for his rent-roll. His drag and his hebdomadal dinner at Greenwich rose before him, and almost shut out the lady; when at that moment he caught sight of, what he naturally called, "that ass Corry," on his chesnut mare, doing the agreeable to the semiselected of his soul (such as it was); and that determined the Welsh baronet at once to cut out the southern dandy. He went the length of wondering whether Miss Compton knew one hound from another, or whether she had sufficient memory to retain the pedigree of his favourite mare Blazeaway. Then he passed in review his seat here, his shootingbox there, his town-house, his hounds, his horses, his male friends, with their amiable propensities for blind-hookey, grilled-bones, and gin-punch, and sighed as he made up his mind to sacrifice it all for the love of Harriet Compton.

Herbert Corry's reveries took the same line; but here the vision of the fair spirit was less distinct than in the Baronet's mind. He thought of his boots, and they suggested brilliancy and pliability; of his own singing, which suddenly suggested a sweet voice, that most excellent thing in woman. He thought of forty-thousand pounds which would fall to the lot of the possessor of his host's sister, and of the good connexion attached to the sacrifice: but he thought, too, that fortythousand pounds and a good position might be paid for too dearly with the price he would have to give for it. As he shortened his stirrups, he caught sight again of a very neat leg and foot, and made up his mind to wait a little longer before he threw the handkerchief.

"I do believe that barbarous Welshman thinks she has a fancy for him. What a joke!" said Herbert Corry.

"The hounds are away," said Sir Walker Wythyn to himself, “and I do believe that egregious ass Corry is leading, on the chesnut mare; I'll see if I can't cut him down, at any rate"; and away went the Baronet after him.

"The race is not always to the swift, or the battle to the strong,' thought Beverley, as he cantered along a grass lane, with a line of gates, by the side of Harriet Compton and Lady Mary.

Hunting is your true Christmas amusement in a country-house. It carries off everybody for the day, and furnishes an after-dinner topic of conversation, when others flag. When the frost came, which of course it did in process of time, it drove the men to the billiard-room, or to the preserves, which were but badly stocked for such men as Wythyn and Corry. Well, something must be done for a house full in frost, particularly as they showed no intention of moving themselves or their studs from the village stabling. A ball and some private theatricals? The very thing! What an inexhaustible subject of conversation and speculation.

"Who'll paint the scenes?"

"Oh, Corry, to be sure; he paints capitally."

"Who'll act the Irishman-we want an Irishman ?"

It's a thing never wanted long, Madam, out of his own country, nor a Scotchman either," said a splenetic old gentleman, a member of the family.

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Irishman? Corry, to be sure. Did you never see him as Sir

Lucius O'Trigger? He's a splendid brogue, and he'll have plentiful of time to wash his face after Othello. He's rehearsing now with Cecil. What a clever fellow Corry is!"

Here a chorus of ladies and gentlemen agreed so enthusiastically with the last speaker, that there was some danger of his hearing the discussion. But he is a clever fellow, and nobody knows it better than himself.

"Who's coming to the ball, Lady Mary?"

"Everybody round here; Lord and Lady Feedbeef, Lady St. Famish, Lord and Lady Harrowgate, Sir Frederick Trust, the Swallowfields, all the squires and most of the clergy."

"What a party! What sort of people are the wives of the clergy?" "Not more extraordinary than the clergy themselves; but they are Harriet's pets, Sir Walker; so pray do not abuse them."

Here Mrs. Salisbury had a fling at the "dowdies," as she called the matronly old ladies of the midland counties; and the rest of the party admitted that they certainly were "sights," especially the Vicar and Rector's ladies. They received altogether, however, very kind and gentle treatment at the hands of our hostess and her friends, considering what figures ignorance or religion induces many to make of themselves; and compared with the ordinary turn of modern conversation, it was highly charitable.

The night of the ball arrived. Herbert Corry was performing rather an elaborate toilet, He had seen symptons of the Baronet's "serious intentions," as they are politely called; and though he had not made up his mind, he had no idea of declaring not to start. Miss Compton had piqued him, and she was quite handsome enough and recherchée for the credit of a flirtation. He had profited by the frost to make himself agreeable; and as the weather got colder, he got warmer. By the night of the ball he was almost in love; and when he saw the Baronet leading out Harriet Compton for the first quadrille, he thought himself quite so.

Herbert Corry's conduct on this occasion enunciates a great truththat we admire objects more according to the estimation they are held in by others, than by our own opinion of their excellencies.

Happily for the sensibilities of nervous persons, existing fashions preclude the possibility of any great absurdities. People are "sights," and that's all. The consequence is, that as Lady Mary's guests arrived, there were scarcely any characteristics sufficiently marked for quizzing, The great people wore very old dresses, and looked very blaze; the little people wore very new dresses, and looked proportionally happy. All the squires wore under-waistcoats, some brighter than others; and a redundancy of shirt-frill and white kid marked a lengthened residence on their own estates. All the parsons looked alike; abstraction was at a dead stand-still; the specific differences, save in size and height, were so small. Here a stout, burly-looking man, with a bald head and short glossy side-curls, buried in collar and white neckcloth, affects literature, and has translated Dante, with the assistance of his daughter. There a soft, smooth-spoken divine, an everlasting smile upon his countenance, looking in love with the world, but especially with himself as a part of it. He affects the courtier and bon vivant; his propriety and dinners are proverbial; he talks well,

but too elaborately. The merest trifles become important, from the air with which he discusses them-the last novel, and the last day; Jesuitism, and the frost; the Derby winner, and the visitation sermon. He's all things to all men. Of course, all these men are pluralists. All the women are dressed in blue or white; some because 'tis new, others because 'tis old. One only has ventured upon a salmon-coloured skirt, with maroon velvet body; and that is the translatress of Dante, who has a fine bold head, no vulgar prejudices, and fears nobody. The country gentlemen talked over the last run, and the Cheetham Hill Turnpike-trust; while all the women bespattered one another, and made six enemies for one lover.

In the September number of this periodical, a sporting gnostic contributed a capital article about "English Horse-dealers." It is now proposed by a practised hand to follow (although it must be at an humble, if not an immeasurable, distance from the "Druid ") with some descriptive and discursive lines on the subject of those auction-marts in London which have grown up into dimensions a good deal greater than were ever dreamt of in days when the grandiloquent Taplin seasoned his ponderous books about the veterinary art with amusingly grave cautions against ever having anything to do with repositories, which were represented as little better than dens of thieves. We who live in the year of grace 1856 have given the go-by to this grandmammaism. The intelligent public complain-and we think not altogether without justicethat it was the practice for years and years, of people who knew nothing at all about the matter-of prejudiced persons actually ignorant of the branch of honest industry trod by traders in horses generally, and practically quite unacquainted with the principles as well as with the regular course of the horse trade-to make statements respecting the mode of dealing, and to publish books upon the subject, which are nothing but a tissue of stupid untruths from beginning to end. But from such illnatured nonsense and enormous libels the able and interesting article to which we have already alluded is entirely free, and we have to thank its well-informed writer for some very interesting particulars about that form of industrial development which is displayed in the production of what may be termed the raw material-about the trade or traffic in a commodity for which the united kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland has earned a high distinctive character, defying all competition, and distancing every other country in the world. We limit the few lines we are going to write now to the London Horse Repositories. These great marts have clearly a place in our urban system-although, of course, their position is not precisely so