It

famous horseman with the Brocklesby, and Garfit from Cheshire, make up the bench. The blood sires come in first, and for the third year in succession the big-boned Angelus takes the first rosette. is difficult to pass a horse of such power, but the top of his shoulder is rather heavy, and one cynic remarks that he "will want two men to ride him hunting." He is the property of Sir George Cholmley, the oldest horse breeder in Yorkshire, and from a Nutwith dam of Lord Exeter's, which was purchased as a draught-mare at Doncaster. Cathedral is another of the same size, with a dark, dappled chesnut coat and a hollow back. He once beat the winner in the East Riding, but it must have been " a fluke." Judges, like greyhounds, will "throw out a wild turn" at times. Laughingstock has been sent from Cumberland to have a slap at Angelus. Both have taken royal firsts, but the son of Stockwell's limbs are not quite big enough for his handsome top, and he gets no nearer than fourth. King Brian is second, and the neat, compact Wyndham, from Rawcliffe paddocks, to whom not a few, who remember how he "came to the rescue" in his racing days, hold most tenaciously, gets no mention among the ten. Comparatively few ex-racers of much standing come into the Yorkshire ring. We believe that Lanercost and Melbourne were both beaten in it, but they were never show horses, and that Weatherbit, whose hind-quarters were perfection, was third; but owners did not then care to send valuable sires to run the risk of being beaten, and of the exposure of a show yard, even with the privilege of making a deposit and taking them to stables in the town at night. Canute and Spencer had many a tussle at the Yorkshire. The latter was very deficient in action, while the former had more of a mare's forehand, and lacked spirit so much, that we have seen his owner publicly ginger him just before he went into the ring, and "deliver him" snorting like a hero. Among the coachers we look in vain for the old Cleveland bays, such as Howdenshire loved, and which once drew the heavy family chariots at six miles an hour. They have been gradually crossed up with blood sires, so that if any foal from a Cleveland mare falls smarter than usual, the breeder can cut its tail, and call it a hunter. In fact, a horse which a few years since was almost the champion of the hunting classes all over England, began his show life in a class for young coach horses. The winner on this day looked as if he had an extra cross of blood in him, and won easily enough. Two blacks, sire and son, the latter rejoicing in the name of Sir Edwin Landseer (whose summers are principally spent sketching at Chillingham Castle), headed the roadster class. There was only three years between them, and the sire had lost an eye, but

still the six-year-old was fairly beaten. Trotting sires' conductors are generally "a set of wild Indians," and show their horses' paces with remarkably jealous zest. They trot them with a long rein, and use words in an almost unknown tongue, and they will watch half a market day for a rival, whose owner has been "bouncing" in his advertisement, so as to lay their horse alongside of his pet, when he is giving him a sly trot, and thus make him eat or prove his words. Each medal recording a fresh victory is attached to a conqueror's neck collar, and one horse which came to Wetherby, and "took nothing by his motion," wore a breeching of medals as well, and looked more like a charger of the middle ages than a trotter of the nineteenth century.

The young hunters had not many among them which would "pass the college." One class was so afflicted with curbs and bog spavins, that when at last three were left in, it was proposed to set them aside, and go on with the next class, while Professor Spooner decided which was least unsound. One of the judges said, with quite an injured air, "I like one of the five we've put aside best, but then his bog spavins aren't of a size." Sir George Cholmley and his chesnuts have a rare time of it, and Bob Brignall, the "first cross-country jock" to the stable, shows them in "black waistcoat and pants." Many look at the splendid chesnut three-year old, Don Juan, and talk of cups in store. The riders are a study of themselves. One of them wears a black and yellow jockey cap, and is saluted with, Now, Fordham, wake her up!" as he tears round on his pony. Another in a grey cap looks so stolid over it, and sits so artistically (in his own eyes), that the judges cannot resist sending him a strong gallop three times round, for the pure enjoyment of the thing. He is so dreadfully in earnest during the performance, that he does not see them laughing, and his look of disgust when he is put among the knock-outs at its conclusion, is like the mien of the warrior in the song, at once "stern and high." Bob Mulcaster is as great an artiste with the leading rein as Bob Brignall in the saddle, and there is quite a buzz of delight when he leads out old Crafty, from Cumberland, "the heroine of a hundred fights," as the local papers delight to call her, and sends her along with her thin tail extended, like the old beauty that she is. We have seen fat men of eighteen stone strip to their work in obedience to the call all round the ring,-" Now, Franky, man, it's thy turn. Thoo'se a bit too fat for't job. Now, mettle up!" And away went Franky, top heavy, and "bad on thy pins," only to receive the consolation "thoo maks a varra poor tew of it." There was a man who had the knee in curb-chain action to

satisfactorily started in that murky orbit you have selected, the City. The favour I ask is, that you will allow your friends the pleasure of rendering you such assistance as may be necessary to complete the arrangements."

They looked straight into one another's eyes for two seconds, then they shook hands, and the thing was settled.

"Now, come and talk to the principal, or rather, I should say, the principal's uncle."

And, having detailed in a very few words his previous conversation with Mr. Rushworth, Lord Brighton left Smith with that gentleman, and walked off to exercise his fascinations upon another citizen.

CHAPTER XIX.

NEW ENGAGEMENTS.

To be the favoured cavalier in attendance upon a celebrated actress, or the honoured instructor of a duke in the mysteries of driving fourin-hand, are positions which may be justly considered as objects of legitimate ambition; but, like many other proud positions (the representation of a metropolitan borough, for example), when attained, they cannot be properly supported without much expenditure of time and money.

When, therefore, they had walked up and down the Burlington Arcade four times, and duly lamented the decay of female beauty since their earlier days, Lord George Atherleigh said to his companion,

"Bailey, do you want any money ?"

That gentleman replied, "I believe you; I just do," with an earnestness of manner that at once placed his sincerity beyond a doubt. "Then I vote we get some," said Lord George.

Pailey bowed.

"Did it ever strike you, Bailey, how neatly impecuniosity illustrates that beautiful old proverb, Two negatives make an affirmative.' For, if one man wants money, he may have a difficulty in getting it; but, when two require it, the thing becomes easy directly. Now, I should never think of asking a man to put his name to a bill for me except on the principle of an equal division of the spoils. The only question for us to consider, then, is, whether I shall draw upon you, or you draw upon me. If you can get the bill done, I should prefer the latter."

Bailey shook his head.

the Wiske. The hunter first prize winners are put together for the cup, and Lady Derwent has no chance with Iris, who seems to gallop everything down, and is ridden specially by the head groom, who "sends him out" to perfection. Mr. Thompson looks on at the side of the rails, and adjourns in due time to the Jewel House, to take his choice of a cup. His horse and the mare had met at Peterborough the week before, and the decisions correspond. If the judges had any doubt, they have none when they mount.

The hound show was held in a quiet spot in the park, just under the chain of woodlands which flank the grange. "The Bramham Moor and two-and twenty couple" is the hunting toast in these parts, and their name is one of the thirteen above the hound cages. Sixteen or seventeen huntsmen and whips from England and Scotland are there in scarlet, awaiting their turn to bring their lots on to the flags. Only one wears a cap, and hats and "pudding basons" are all the go. There was an old Yorkshire huntsman, Will Carter, who never could be persuaded into anything but a felt wide-awake even in the field, and placed a horn under the same ban. "Hard-riding Ben" from Lord Middleton's is there, but we miss old Tom Sebright, who fought many a good round with him at Redcar, Yarm, and Guisborough, in those pleasant summer days when the Cleveland Society held the lead, and gave such an impetus to agricultural meetings. John Walker, Harry Ayris, Charles Payne, Jack Goddard, Jack Morgan, and other celebrities, do not show; but Peter Collisson, a worthy successor to Joe Maiden over Cheshire, looks on from the stand benches. Old Will Danby is the patriarch of the day, and wears his 75 summers as lightly as a flower. It was he who said to a clergyman who rode a horse sadly out of condition, that he must keep him on chopped sarmons." He further expressed an opinion respecting a feeble foxhunter, that it was well he was going to put up for M.P., as "he is good for nowt else," a sentiment which a candidate can always quote in an electioneering speech with the certainty of a roar. Will seems to have come into the world only to send foxes out of it, as he was at it for just fifty seasons, and then, in his expressive words, "he lapped it up." He is great in dates, and if you ask him the cause of his vigorous old age, you hear that he has tasted nothing stronger than raspberry vinegar for seven-and-forty years. He "goes into less room" than he did, and in his neat black coat and waistcoat, white cravat, and drab breeches and gaiters, he looks his profession to the life. "I can sleep like a man, and eat any mortal thing," and "I never wore troosers in my life, and I never will," is his general sketch of himself. In this respect he differs from his

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successor in the York and Ainsty, who comes to the fête in grey trousers, and gets well joked about them, as he thrice walks up for a prize.

Thirteen kennels contend, but the prizes fall to the lot of four, and every county save Yorkshire and Lincolnshire is out of it. Lord Kesteven may well be in a high flow of spirits, and people may well wonder how he has achieved in six seasons what others cannot in a lifetime. There, too, on the front bench sit a bevy of fox-hunting peers,-Hawke, Macclesfield, Middleton, and Wenlock. Sir Charles Slingsby watches the brilliant fortunes of the Nelson and Comedy litter, and Mr. Thompson of "the Pitchley," as Mr. Bright once called it in the House, to the inextinguishable merriment of the landed interest, vibrates between the front benches and the horse ring. Mr. Hall, of the Holderness, rides up with a geranium in his button-hole, and "looking as hard as nail stubs," on Captain Gunter's grey Crimean Arab, takes his part in the fun. The hunting-field has no gamer or more battered hero, but he jests at his scars; and if his horse does roll over him and squeeze the breath out, his first impulse, when the lungs fill, is to ask to be helped on again. "John o' the Bedale," and nearly every other Yorkshire master, is on the back benches; but we miss the form of Mr. Foljambe, in his green coat, leaning on Mr. Parry, of the Puckeridge; and Captain Percy Williams, the Cresswell of the hound bench, and once a Jem Robinson of gentlemen riders, is not among them to-day. Jack Parker of the Sinnington, the very Zekiel Homespun of huntsmen, is not there to tell of the feats of his trencher-fed dogs; and that Tommiad of fox-hunting centaurs, Tom Smith, Tom Hodgson-with his big white hat and bigger white cravat-and Tom Sebright, are all in their graves. There are twenty-six couple in the entered hound lots, and Lord Kesteven wins them both. The Brocklesby kennel is second to him, and its representatives have not quite the quality that we have seen, and rather short necks. Lord Kesteven's have quality for ever, but they are too full of flesh, a very common fault in kennels. Still, with Foreman and Primate to help in one class, and Artful, Rally, and Stately in the other, they have it una voce. Four of Stately's stock come with her, and one of them, Seaman, who won at Thirsk the year before, is among the winning lot. Yarborough Nelson-a useful, bony dog, but rather lacking fashion in his neck and colour, and still holding the line as well as ever in his ninth season-wins the Stallion Hound Prize. Still some inquire, with amazement, why Lord Kesteven's Primate, and Lord Wemyss's Rummager do not beat him? However, the judges, and there are four of