rising and falling with his whip, beating responsive to the horse's action with the butt-end against his thigh. His new scarlet coat imparts a healthy hue to his face, and boots, and breeches hide the imperfections of his legs. His hounds seem to partake of the old man's gaiety, and gather round his horse, or frolic forward on the grassy sidings of the road till getting almost out of ear-shot, a single "yooi doit !—Arrogant!” -or "here again, Brusher!" brings them cheerfully back to whine and look in the old man's face for applause. Nor is he chary of his praise. "G-oood betch!—Arrogant !—" g-oood betch!" says he; leaning over his horse's shoulder towards her, and jerking his hand to induce her to proceed forward again. So the old man trots gaily on, now making of his horse, now coaxing a hound, now talking to a "whip," now touching or taking off his cap as he passes a sportsman, according to the estimation in which he holds him.

As the hounds reach Whirleypool Windmill, there is a grand rush of pedestrians to meet them. First comes a velveteen-jacketed, leatherlegginged keeper, with whom Tom (albeit somewhat suspicious of his honesty) thinks it prudent to shake hands; the miller and he, too, greet; and forthwith a black bottle with a single glass make their appearance, and pass current with the company. Then the earth-stopper draws nigh, and, resting a hand on Tom's horse's shoulder, whispers confidentially in his ear. The pedestrian sportsman of the country, too, has something to say; also a horse-breaker; while groups of awe-stricken children stand staring at the mighty Tom, thinking him the greatest man that ever was seen.

Railways and fox-hunting make most people punctual, and in less than five minutes from the halting of the hounds by the Windmill, the various roads leading up to it emit dark-coated grooms, who, dismounting, proceed to brush off the mud specks, and rectify any little derangement the horses or their accoutrements may have contracted on the journey. Presently Mr. Soapey Sponge, and such other gentlemen as have ridden their own horses, cast up, while from the eminence the road to Laverick Wells is distinctly traceable with scarlet coats and flys, with furs and flaunting feathers. Presently the foremost riders begin to canter up the hill, when, as the poet sings,

All around is gay, men, horses, dogs,
And in each smiling countenance appears
Fresh blooming health and universal joy.

Then the ladies mingle with the scene, some on horseback, some in flys,
all chatter and prattle as usual, some saying smart things, some trying,
all making themselves as agreeable as possible, and of course as cap-
tivating. Some were in ecstasies at dear Miss Jumpheavy's ball-she
was such a nice creature-such a charming ball, and so well managed,
while others were anticipating the delights of Mrs. Tom Hoppey's, and
some again were asking which was Mr. Soapey Sponge. Then up went
the eye-glasses, while Soapey sat looking as innocent and as killing as
he could. "Dear me!" exclaimed one,
he's younger than I thought.”
"That's him, is it?" observed another; "I saw him ride up the street;"
while the propriety-playing ones praised his horse, and said he was a
beauty.

The hounds, which they had all come to see, were never looked at. Mr. Wyndey Waffles, like many men with nothing whatever to do, was monstrous unpunctual. He never seemed to know what o'clock it

was and yet he had a watch, hung in chains, and gewgaws, like a lady's chatelaine. Hunting partook of the general confusion. He did not profess to throw off till eleven, but it was often nearly twelve before he cast up. Then he would come up full tilt, surrounded by "scarlets," like a general with his staff; and once at the meet, there was a prodigious hurry to begin, equalled only by the eagerness to leave off. On this auspicious day he hove in sight, coming best pace along the road about twenty minutes before twelve, with a more numerous retinue than usual. In dress, Mr. Waffles was the light butterfly order of sportsman On this occa-once-round tye, French polish, paper boots, and so on. sion he sported a shirt collar, with three or four blue lines, and then a white space followed by three or four more blue lines, the whole terminating in blue spots about the size of fourpenny pieces at the points; a once-round blue silk tye, with white spots and flying ends. His coat was a light jackety sort of thing, with little pockets behind, something in the style of Mr. Sponge's (a docked dressing gown), but wanting the outside seaming, back strapping, and general strength, that characterised his. His waistcoat, of course, was a worked one-heart's-ease mingled with Fox's heads, on a true blue ground, the gift of-we'll not say whohis leathers were of the finest doe skin, and his long-topped pointed toe'd boots so thin as to put all idea of wet or mud out of the question.

Such was the youth who now cantered up and took off his cap to the rank, beauty, and fashion, assembled at Whirleypool Windmill. He then proceeded to pay his respects in detail. At length, having exhausted his "nothings," and said the same thing over again in a dozen different ways, to a dozen different ladies, he gave a slight jerk of the head to Tom Towler, who forthwith whistled his hounds together, and, attended by the whips, bustled from the scene.

Epping Hunt, in its most palmy days, could not equal the exhibition that now took place. Some of the more lively of the horses, tired of waiting, perhaps pinched by the cold, for most of them were newly clipped, evinced their approbation of the move, by sundry squeals and capers, which being caught by others in the neighbourhood, the infection quickly spread, and in less than a minute there was such a scene of rocking, and rearing, and kicking, and prancing, and neighing, and shooting over heads, and rolling over tails, and hanging on by manes, mingled with such screamings from the ladies in the flys, and such heartysounding kicks against splash boards and fly bottoms, from sundry of the One gentleman, in a vicious ones in harness, as never was witnessed. bran new scarlet, mounted on a flourishing pie-bald, late the property of Mr. Ducrow, stood pawing and fighting the air, as if in the sawdust circle, his unfortunate rider clinging round his neck, expecting to have the beast back over upon him Another little wiry every moment. chesnut, with abundance of rings, racing martingale, and tackle generally, just turned tail on the crowd, and ran off home as hard as ever he could lay legs to the ground; while a good steady bay cob, with a barrel like a butt, and a tail like a hearth-brush, having selected the muddiest, dirtiest place he could find, deliberately proceeded to lay down, to the horror of his rider, Captain Greatgun, of the royal navy, who, feeling himself suddenly touch mother earth, thought he was going to be swallowed up alive, and was only awoke from the delusion by the shouts of the foot people, telling him to get clear of his horse before he began to roll.

Hercules would fain have joined the truant set, and, at the first commotion, up went his great back, and down went his ears, with a single lash out behind that meant mischief, but Mr. Sponge was on the alert, and just gave him such a dig with his spurs as restored order, without exposing anything that anybody could take exception to.

The sudden storm was quickly lulled. The spilt ones scrambled up; the loose riders got tighter hold of their horses; the screaming fair ones sunk languidly in their carriages; and the late troubled ocean of equestrians fell into irregular line en route for the cover.

Bump, bump, bump; trot, trot, trot; jolt, jolt, jolt; shake, shake, shake; and carriages and cavalry got to Ribston Wood somehow or other. It is a large long cover on a hill-side, which parties, placing themselves in the green valley below, can see hounds "draw," that is to say, run through with their noses to the ground, if there are any men foolish enough to believe there are women who care for seeing such things. However, there they were.

"Eu leu, in!" cries old Tom, with a waive of his arm, finding he can no longer restrain the ardour of the pack as they approach, and thinking to save his credit by appearing to direct. "Eu leu, in!" repeats he, with a heartier cheer, as the pack charge the rotten fence with a crash that echoes through the wood. The whips scuttle off to their respective points, gentlemen feel their horses' girths, hats are thrust firmly on the head, and the sherry and brandy flasks begin to be drained.

"Tally ho!" cries a countryman at the top of the wood, hoisting his hat on a stick. At the magic sound, fear comes over some, joy over others, intense anxiety over all. What commotion! What indecision! What confusion! " Which way ?-Which way?" is the cry.

"Twang, twang, twang," goes old Tom's horn at the top of the wood, whither he seems to have flown, so quick has he got there.

A dark-coated gentleman on a good family horse solves the important question" Which way?"-by diving at once into the wood, crashing along till he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, when the scene opening to " open fresh fields and pastures new," discloses divers other sections struggling up in long drawn files, following other leaders, all puffing, and wheezing, and holding on by the manes, many feeling as if they had had enough already-" Quick!" is the word, for the last of the tail-hounds are flying the fence out of the first field after the body of the pack, which are running almost mute at best pace beyond, looking a good deal less than is agreeable to the eyes of a sportsman.

"F-0-0-r-rard!" screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy, some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing to know if there was any thing on the far side.

Now Tom tops another fence rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird; still "F-o-o—r—rard!” is the cry-away they go at racing

pace.

The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the end, and many-the fair and fat ones in particular-seeing the hopelessness of the case, pull to their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a view. Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward, though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go the smaller the point of the telescope becomes. The pace is awful;

many would give in but for the ladies. At the end of a mile or so, the determined ones show to the front, and the spirters and "make believes" gladly avail themselves of their pioneering propensities.

Mr. Soapey Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, the great striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, and taking his leaps safely and well. He now shows to the front, and old Tom, who is still "F-o-o-r-rard-ing" to his hounds, either rather falls back to the field or the field draw upon him. At all events they get together somehow. A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on each side, tries their mettle and the stoutness of their hats; crash they get through it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten branches resembling the outburst of a fire. Several gentlemen here decline under cover of the trees.

“F—0—0—r—rard!" screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fence and lands in the field outside the plantation. He might have saved his breath, for the hounds were beating him as it was. Mr. Sponge bores through the same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done to clear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake.

The field is now reduced to six, and two of the number, Mr. Spareneck and Caingey Thornton, become marked in their attention to our hero. Thornton is riding Mr. Waffles' crack steeple-chaser "Dare-Devil," and Mr. Spareneck is on a first-rate hunter belonging to the same gentleman, but they have not been able to get our friend Soapey into grief. On the contrary, his horse, though lathered, goes as strong as ever, and Mr. Sponge, seeing their design, is as careful of him as possible, so as not to lose ground. His fine, strong, steady seat and quiet handling, contrasts: well with Thornton's rolling, bucketing style, who has already begun to ply a heavy cutting whip, in aid of his spurs at his fences, accompanied with half frantic "g-u-r-r-r along !" and inquiries at the horse of, "Damn you, do you think I stole you?"

The three soon get in front; fast as they go, the hounds go faster, and fence after fence is thrown behind them as easily as a girl throws her skipping-rope.

Tom and the whips follow, grinning, with their tongues in their cheeks, Tom still screeching "F-0-0-o-rard !—F—0—0—0—rard!" at intervals.

A big stone wall, built with mortar, and coped with heavy blocks of stone, is taken by the three abreast, for which they are rewarded by a gallop up Stretchfurrow pasture, from the summit of which they see the hounds streaming away to a fine grass country below, with pollard willows dotted here and there in the bottom.

"Water!" says our friend Sponge to himself, wondering whether Hercules would face it. A desperate black bullfinch, so thick that they could hardly see through it, is shirked by consent, for a gate which a countryman opens, and another fence or two being passed, the splashing of some hounds in the water, and the shaking of others on the opposite bank, show that, as usual, the willows are pretty true prophets.

66

Caingey, grinning his coarse red face nearly double, and getting his horse well by the head, rams in the spurs, and flourishes his cutting whip high in air, with a 'g—u—u—ur along! damn you, do you think I"--the "stole you" being lost by their disappearing under water just as Soapey Sponge clears it a little lower down. Spareneck then pulls up.

WHETHER beggars have more love for each other than lawyers, actors, politicians, or any other class of people who live by their wits, may admit of a question; but all agree that the race is a thriving one, and to thrive as this world goes-is to be happy. The poet, however, in the celebrated song quoted above, makes their happiness consist in their actual poverty. He says

Oui, le bonheur est facile

Au sein de la pauvreté;

and, with a noble scorn, rejects the creature-comforts on which too many rely

D'un palais l'éclat vous frappe,

Mais l'ennui vient y gémir.

On peut bien manger sans nappe;
Sur la paille on peut dormir.

This is all very well for the Miltons, the Andrew Marvells, and the De Bérangers, but professional beggars entertain very different notions. As much seeming poverty, but as little of the reality as you please, is their motto. They are careless about table-cloths and indifferent to the luxury of eider-down, but they look for substantial meals, and when they do sleep on straw take care there is always plenty of it.

Still the bonâ-fide beggars are satisfied, if not with poverty, at all events with the position which they create for themselves.

Brome, a dramatic writer who seems to have entered fully into their sentiments, makes the hero in his comedy of the "Jovial Crew," exclaim, "Beggars! they are the only people can boast the benefit of a free state, in the full enjoyment of liberty, mirth, and ease; having all things in common, and nothing wanting of nature's whole provision within the reach of their desires."

66

The Criado," ," who wrote the life of Gusman d'Alfarache, and had his own experience to guide him, offers the following testimony:

"La vie d'un gueux est un morceau sans os, un enchaînement de plaisirs, un emploi exempt de chagrins."

And Dekker, who seems to have constituted himself the master of the ceremonies to the whole confraternity, declares that "To be a beggar is to be a brave man, because 'tis now in fashion for very brave men to beg. The whole kingdom is but his walke, a whole city is but his parish, in every man's kitchen is his meat drest, in every man's celler is his beere" (a good deal of this is true also of the modern policeman), "and the best men's purses keep a penny for him to shew."

It may be objected that this view of the beggar's condition is merely a poetical one, and that men become beggars only from necessity; but I apprehend, if one of the tribe were able enough to write their history,