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 old fashioned 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,

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.

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

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."

66

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 tab. Lady Mary Compton was already in her habit, and Harrriet on entered the room in riding costume at the same moment. Oh Mr. Beveriey, if you are going to ride a pony, I shall enlist

pt

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