SOAPEY SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR.

CHAPTER I.

OUR HERO.

It was a murky October day that the hero of our tale, Mr. Soapey Sponge, or more correctly speaking, Soapey Sponge, Esquire, was seen mizzling along Oxford Street, wending his way to the West. Not that there was any thing unusual in Soapey being seen in Oxford Street, for when in town his daily perambulation consists in a circuit, commencing from Aldridge's in St. Martin's Lane, thence by Moore's sporting-print shop, on through some of those ambiguous and tortuous streets that, appearing to lead all ways at once and none in particular, land the explorer, sooner or later, on the south side of Oxford Street.

In

Oxford Street acts to the north part of London what the Strand does to the south; it is sure to bring one up, sooner or later. A man can hardly get over either of them without knowing it. Well, Soapey having got into Oxford Street, would make his way at a squarey, inkneed, duck-toed sort of pace, regulated by the bonnets, the vehicles, and the equestrians he had to criticise on his way, for of women, vehicles, and horses, he had voted himself a consummate judge. deed he had fully established in his own mind that Kiddey Downey and he were the only men in London who really knew any thing about horses, and fully impressed with that conviction, he would halt, and stand, and stare, in a way that with any other man would have been considered impertinent. Perhaps it was impertinent in Soapey-we don't mean to say it wasn't-but he had done it so long, and was of so sporting a gait and cut, that he felt himself somewhat privileged. Moreover, the majority of horsemen are so satisfied with the animals they bestride, as to make them cock up their jibs and ride along with a "find any fault with either me or my horse, if you can" sort of air.

Thus Soapey proceeded leisurely along, now nodding to this man, now jerking his elbow to that, now smiling on a phaëton, now sneering at a bus. If he did not look in at Shackell's, or Bartley's, or any of the dealers on the line, Soapey was always to be found about half-past-five at Cumberland Gate, from whence he would strike leisurely down the Park, and after coming to a long check at Rotten Row rails, from whence he would pass all the cavalry in the park in review, he would wend his way back to Old Slaughter's coffee-house, along Piccadilly, much in the style that he had crawled along Oxford Street. This was his summer proceeding.

Soapey had pursued this enterprising life for many "seasons"-ten at least and supposing him to have begun at twenty or one-and-twenty, he would be about thirty at the time we have the pleasure of introducing him to our readers-a period of life at which men begin to suspect they were not quite so wise at twenty as they thought. Not that Soapey Sponge had any particular indiscretions to reflect upon, for he was tolerably sharp, but he felt that he might have made better use of his time, which may be shortly described as having been spent in hunting all the winter, and in talking about it all the summer. With this popular sport he combined the diversion of widow-hunting, though we are concerned to say that his success, up to the period of our introduction,

had not been commensurate with his deserts. Let us, however, hope that brighter days are about to dawn upon him.

Having now introduced our hero to our male and female friends, under his interesting pursuits of fox and fortune hunter, it becomes us to say a few words as to his qualifications for carrying them on.

Mr. Soapey Sponge was a good-looking, rather vulgar-looking, fellow. At a distance-say ten yards-his height, figure, and carriage gave him somewhat of a commanding appearance, but this was sadly marred by a jerkey, twitchey, uneasy sort of air, that too plainly showed he was not the natural, or what the lower orders call, the real gentleman. Not that Soapey was shy. Far from it. He never hesitated about offering to any lady, after a three days' acquaintance, or in asking any gentleman to allow him to go or send a horse to him over-night, with whom he might chance to come in contact in the hunting-field. And he did it all in such a cool, off-hand, matter-of-course sort of way, that people who would have stared with astonishment if anybody had hinted at such a proposal, really seemed to come into the humour and spirit of the thing, and to look upon it rather as a matter of course than otherwise. Then his dexterity in getting into people's houses was only equalled by the difficulty of getting him out again, but this we must waive for the present in favour of his portraiture.

In height, Mr. Sponge was above the middle size-five feet eleven or so-with a well borne up, not badly shaped, closely cropped oval head, a tolerably good, but somewhat receding forehead, bright hazel eyes, Roman nose, with carefully tended whiskers, reaching the corners of a well-formed mouth, and thence descending in semicircles into a vast expanse of hair beneath the chin.

Having mentioned Mr. Sponge's groomy gait and horsey propensities, it were almost needless to say, that his dress was in the sporting styleyou saw what he was by his clothes. Every article seemed to be made to defy the utmost rigour of the elements. His hat (Lincoln and Bennett) was hard and heavy. It sounded upon an entrance-hall table like a drum. A little magical loop in the lining explained the cause of its weight. Somehow, Soapey's hats were never either old or new-not that he bought them second-hand, but when he got a new one he took its "long coat" off, as he called it, with a singeing lamp, and made it look as if it had undergone a few probationary showers.

When a good London hat recedes to a certain point it gets no worse; it is not like a country-made thing that keeps going and going until it declines into a thing with no sort of resemblance to its original self. Barring its weight and hardness, the Soapey hat had no particular character apart from the Soapey head. It was not one of those punty ovals or Cheshire cheese flats, or curly sided things that enables one to say who is in a house and who is not, by a glance through the hats in the entrance, but it was just a quiet, round hat, without any thing remarkable, either in the binding, the lining, or the band, but still it was a very becoming hat when Soapey had it on. There is a great deal of character in hats. We have seen hats that bring the owners to the recollection far more forcibly than the generality of portraits. But to our hero.

That there may be a dandified simplicity in dress is exemplified every day by our friends the Quakers, who adorn their beautiful brown Saxony coats with little inside velvet collars and fancy silk buttons, and even the severe order of sporting costume adopted by our friend Mr. Sponge, is not

devoid of capability in the way of tasteful adaptation. This Mr. Sponge chiefly showed in promoting a resemblance between his neckcloths and waistcoats. Thus, if he wore a cream-coloured cravat, he would have a buff-coloured waistcoat, if a striped waistcoat, then the starcher would be imbued with somewhat of the same colour and pattern. The ties of these varied with their texture. The silk ones terminated in a sort of coaching fold, and were secured by a golden fox head pin, while the striped starchers, with the aid of a pin on each side, just made a neat, unpretending tie in the middle, a sort of miniature of the flagrant, flyaway, Mile-End ones of aspiring youth of the present day. His coats were of the single-breasted cut-away order, with pockets outside, and generally either Oxford mixture or some dark colour, that required you to place him in a favourable light to say what it was.

His waistcoats, of course, were of the most correct form and material, generally either pale buff, or buff with a narrow stripe, similar to the undress vests of the servants of the Royal Family, only with the pattern run across instead of lengthways, as those worthies mostly have theirs, and made with good honest standing up stiff collars, instead of the makebelieve roll collars they sometimes convert their upright ones into. When in deep thought, calculating, perhaps, the value of a passing horse, or considering whether he should have beefsteaks or lamb chops for dinner, Soapey's thumbs would rest in the arm-holes of his waistcoat; in which easy, but not very elegant, attitude, he would sometimes stand until all trace of the idea that elevated them had passed away from his mind.

In the trouser line he adhered to the close-fitting costume of former days; and many were the trials, the easings, and the alterings, ere he got a pair exactly to his mind. Many were the customers who turned away on seeing his manly figure filling the swing mirror in "Snip and Sneiders," a monopoly that some tradesmen might object to, only Mr. Sponge's trousers being admitted to be perfect "triumphs of the art, the more such a walking advertisement was seen in the shop the better. Indeed, we believe it would have been worth Snip and Co.'s while to have let him have them for nothing. They were easy without being tight, or rather they looked tight without being so; there wasn't a bag, a wrinkle, or a crease that there shouldn't be, and strong and stormdefying as they seemed, they were yet as soft and as supple as a lady's glove. They looked more as if his legs had been blown in them than as if such irreproachable garments were the work of man's hands. Many were the nudges, and many the "look at this chap's trousers," that were given by ambitious men emulous of his appearance as he passed along, and many were the turnings round to examine their faultless fall upon his radiant boot. The boots, perhaps, might come in for a little of the glory, for they were beautifully soft and cool-looking to the foot, easy without being loose, and he preserved the lustre of their polish even up to the last moment of his walk. There never was a better man for getting through dirt, either on foot or horseback, than Soapey.

To the frequenters of the "corner," it were almost superfluous to mention that he is a constant attendant. He has several volumes of "catalogues," with the prices the horses have brought set down in the margins, and has a rare knack at recognising old friends, altered, disguised, or disfigured as they may be-"I've seen that rip before," he will say, with a knowing shake of the head, as some woe-begone devil goes best leg foremost up to the hammer, or, "What! is that old beast back? why

he's here every day." No man can impose upon Soapey with a horse. He can detect the rough-coated plausibilities of the straw yard, equally with the metamorphosis of the clipper or singer. His practised eye is not to be imposed upon either by the blandishments of the bang-tail, or the bereavements of the dock. Tattersall will hail him from his rostrum with-" Here's a horse will suit you, Mr. Sponge! cheap, good, and handsome! come and buy him.” But it is needless describing him here, for every groom out of place, and dog-stealer's man, knows him by sight.

CHAPTER II.

MR. BENJAMIN BUCKRAM.

HAVING dressed and sufficiently described our hero to enable our readers to form a general idea of the man, we have now to request them to return to the day of our introduction. Mr. Sponge had gone along Oxford Street at a somewhat improved pace to his usual wont-had paused for a shorter period in the "bus" perplexed "Circus," and pulled up seldomer than usual between the Circus and the limits of his stroll. Behold him now at the Edgeware Road end eyeing the busses with a wanting-business like air, instead of the contemptuous sneer he generally adopts towards those uncouth productions. Red, green, blue, drab, cinnamon colour passed and crossed, and jostled, and stopped, and blocked, and the cads telegraphed, and winked, and nodded, and smiled, and slanged, but Mr. Sponge regarded them not. He had a sort of "bus" panorama in his head, knew the run of them all, whence they started, where they stopped, where they watered, where they changed, and, wonderful to relate, had never been entrapped into a sixpenny fare when he meant to take a threepenny one. In "bus" geography there is not a more learned man in London.

Mark him as he stands at the corner post. He sees what he wants, it's the checquered one with the red and blue wheels that the Bayswater ones have got between them, and that the St. John's Wood and two Western Railway ones are trying to get into trouble by crossing. What a row! how the ruffians whip, and stamp, and storm, and all but pick each other's horses' teeth with their poles, how the cads gesticulate and the passengers imprecate! now the bonnets are out of the windows and the row increases. Six coachmen cutting and storming, six cads sawing the air, sixteen ladies in flowers screaming, six-and-twenty sturdy passengers swearing they will "fine them all," and Mr. Sponge is the only cool person in the scene. He doesn't rush into the throng and "jump in," for fear the bus should extricate itself and drive on without him; he doesn't make confusion worse confounded by intimating his behest; he doesn't soil his bright boots by stepping off the kerb-stone, but quietly waiting the evaporation of the steam and the disentanglement of the vehicles, by the smallest possible sign in the world, given at the opportune moment, and a steady adhesion to the flags, the bus is obliged either to "come to" or lose the fare, and he steps quietly in and squeezes along to the far end, as though intent on going the whole hog of the journey.

Away they rumble up the Edgeware Road; the gradual emergence from the brick and mortar of London being marked as well by the telling out of passengers as by the increasing distances between the houses. First, it is all close huddle with both. Austere iron railings guard the subterranean

kitchen areas, and austere looks indicate a desire on the part of the passengers to guard their own pockets; gradually little gardens usurp the places of the cramped areas, and with their humanising appearance, softer looks assume the place of frowning ante swell-mob ones.

Presently a glimpse of green country or of distant hills may be caught between the wider spaces of the houses, and frequent settings down increases the space between the passengers; gradually conservatories appear, and conversation strikes up; then come the exclusiveness of villas, running out at last into real pure green fields studded with trees and picturesque pot-houses, before one of which latter a sudden wheel round and a jerk, announces the journey done. The last passenger (if there is one) is then unceremoniously turned loose upon the country.

We have often wondered whether the passengers in the omnibusses have any sort of knowledge of each other, whether the same people are in the habit of using the same vehicle at the same hour, or whether it is the same chance medley work with all the passengers that it is with ourselves. But to our story.

Our readers will have the kindness to suppose our hero, Mr. Soapey Sponge shot out of an omnibus at the sign of the Cat and Compasses, in the full rurality of grass country, sprinkled with fallows and turnipfields. We should state, that this unwonted journey was a desire to pay a visit to Mr. Benjamin Buckram, the horsedealer's farm at Scampley, distant some mile and a half from where he was set down, a space that he now purposed travelling on foot.

Mr. Benjamin Buckram was a small horse-dealer,-small, at least, when he was buying, though great when he was selling. It would do a youngster good to see Ben filling the two capacities. He dealt in second hand, that is to say, past mark of month horses; but on the present occasion Mr. Sponge sought his services in the capacity of a letter rather than a seller of horses. Mr. Sponge wanted to job a couple of plausible-looking horses, with the option of buying them, provided he (Mr. Sponge) could sell them for more than he would have to give Mr. Buckram, exclusive of the hire. Mr. Buckram's job price, we should say, was as near twelve pounds a month, containing twenty-eight days, as he could screw, the hirer, of course, keeping the animals.

Scampley is one of those pretty, little suburban farms, peculiar to the north and north-west side of London-farms varying from fifty to a hundred acres of well-manured, gravelly soil; each farm with its picturesque little buildings, consisting of a small, honey-suckled, rose-entwined brick-house, with small, flat pan-tiled roofs, and lattice-windows; and hard-by, a large hay-stack, three times the size of the house, or a desolate barn, half as big as all the rest of the buildings. From the smallness of the holdings, the farm-houses are dotted about as thickly, and at such varying distances from the roads, as to look like inferior "villas" falling out of rank; most of them have a half-smart, half seedy sort of look.

The rustics who cultivate them, or rather look after them, are neither exactly town nor country. They have the clownish dress and boorish gait of the regular "chaws," with a good deal of the quick, suspicious, sour sauciness of the low London resident. If you can get an answer from them at all, it is generally delivered in such a way as to show that the answerer thinks you are, what they call "chaffing them," asking them what you know.