suppose the boldest thief would dare to present a 'Bank of Elegance' note to a tradesman, knowing it to be such; much less ought you to have been in such a hurry to give these men in charge, for there is an unmistakeable honesty of appearance about them, and much that indicates the true British Tar. Joseph Strand and Robert Short, you are both discharged without a dishonest stain upon either of your charac

A Consultation-Bell's Life in London-A Dinner at the Garrick Club-The Spider's "Crib"-Sporting Houses-Pedestrianism.

Our last chapter terminated after a conversation between Colonel Westerham and myself, on the subject of yachting. He continued: "Since my return to England, I have felt ten years younger; and my passion for the sports I enjoyed a quarter of a century ago is as strong as ever. You will find me as keen for any sport as I was

when a beardless cadet."

"You cannot do better," I rejoined, "than study Bell's Life in London, where every manly British game is chronicled. You will find articles upon racing, hunting, shooting, deer-stalking, angling, and salmon-fishing, that would do credit to the talented pens of Beckford, Delmé Radcliffe, Vyner, Grantley Berkeley, the late C. Apperley, Hawker, Scrope, and old Izaak Walton."

"I will pay every attention to your recommendation," answered the Colonel; and what say you to a visit to Tattersall's? a walk through some of the dealers' stables? I fear all my old allies are dead-the Elmores, and Mat Milton. A turn in the park; and we can then dine at the Blue Posts, or anywhere else you like, and drop into the theatre half-price, according to the old routine."

"Agreed," I replied; when my companion continued:

"But the arrangement I must leave to you: for I find Covent Garden is rased to the ground The Lane' no longer the Old Drury' of my day-a plague on both their houses'-and the Piazza Coffeehouse in the hands of Messrs. Robins, to be sold off, 'in consequence of the unlooked-for demand of the premises for the new Royal Italian Opera House.' Why, it's enough to make the ghosts of Garrick, the Kembles, Edmund Kean, and the great patron of the Piazza, Jockey of Norfolk,' rise from their graves."

"The revolution with respect to dinners, during your absence, has been wonderful," I continued. "Clubs, and latterly the Wellington, on the site of Old Crocky's, have monopolized all the bons vivants ; and, instead of paying a guinea for soup, fish, a steak, and a con

densed bottle of red-hot port, you can have an excellent dinner, with the best French or Oporto wines, for three-fourths of the money. I will wait until you have got over your predilection for the Blue Posts, Richardson's (now Clunn's), Limmer's, and the Hummums, and then give you a dinner at the Garrick and the Wellington, which will surprise you; not that I mean to disparage the first-mentioned houses."

"Let us strike a bargain," cried Westerham: "I will give you four dinners at my ancient gastronomic haunts; and you shall furnish the same number at your modern salons, holding the Clarendon neutral ground, where we can have a joint-stock affair."

"Done!" I replied; " and at half-past six I will be your guest in Cork-street. You will find the beef in as beautiful cut' as when you were last there."

The Colonel then took his leave, after promising to call for me, soon after one, in a hired tilbury; for he could not forget that, in the "days of his young blood," every aspirant to fashion drove that thenuniversally-admired vehicle.

Despite of my companion's former prejudices, he could not refrain from adinitting, as we looked through Anderson's and Quartermain's yards, that the breed of hunters and carriage-horses had not degenerated; and when, on the second day, after dining with me in the visitor's snuggery at the Garrick, surrounded by the portraits of old familiar theatrical faces, the dinner and wines selected with the utmost judgment and taste by the obliging and invaluable steward, to whom I had left the somewhat difficult task of ordering the feast, my companion yielded the palm to the modern establishment, by declaring it to be perfect.

Upon comparing our bills, I found, for the same dinner and equal quantity of wine, a balance of nearly twenty-five per cent. in my favour. 'Prodigious! as the Scotch dominie says.

After a week's enjoyment of my old chum's society, during which we visited many scenes familiar to our youthful days, I was obliged to leave London, to pay a long-promised visit into Kent. During my absence, the Colonel found himself quite as much out of his element as a fish on dry land; for few of the companions of his youth had been spared, and his Eastern friends preferred the luxuries of a warm bath, tiffin, a mulligatawny and curry dinner, and a hookah, at the Oriental or East India Clubs, to a visit to Tattersall's, Aldridge's, the Tennis Court, Lord's Cricket Ground, the Cider Cellars, or the sparring soirées at Harry Orme's. Alfred Walker's, Jemmy Shaw's, Ben Caunt's, Nat Langham's, and Jem Burn's. The result was, that I received a petition, signed "Alfred Westerham," urging me to join him in a sporting provincial tour-a proposition to which I gladly acceded, being anxious to quit the metropolis before the time arrived when, according to the authority of the late Beau Brummell, it became vulgar from "hackney coachmen eating strawberries." By the Colonel's special desire, we kept a diary, the principal points of which, agreeably to his request, I venture to publish. It will fully bear out the assertion I made at the commencement of this chapterthat the manly games of Old England have not fällen off.

My first intention was to have given the diary as noted down; but, upon mature reflection, I came to the conclusion that a narrative of

events, interspersed with dialogue, would be more entertaining, and perhaps more instructive. As a matter of course, I allude to the Colonel's remarks, which I trust the reader will agree with me in saying are extremely happy and apposite. A diary, too, with the exception perhaps of that of the inimitable, quaint Secretary Pepys, becomes dull and tedious; and as, in the present instance, I do not propose to preserve the red-tape routine of a regular journal-keeper, preferring to diverge from one subject to another, interspersing each with some characteristic anecdote, I trust that the form I am about to adopt will be palatable to the general reader. With this preface, I proceed to lay before the enlightened public "The Sayings and Doings of Two Quinquagenarians in Search of Sport." We read of journeys from Cornhill to Grand Cairo, from Boulogne to BabelMundeb, from Bermondsey to Belgravia: why should we not add a Cruize from the Isle of Dogs to the Isle of Wight; a Stroll from St. James's to St. Peter's, Margate; Wanderings from the West End to Whitechapel; or a Trip from Hungerford to the Essex Marshes?all of which places, and many more, we shall refer to in our rambles. "Chapter First.-The evening was delightfully serene, and groups of both sexes clustered together, draining the massive tankard, spinning yarns, conversing on affairs in general, or singing songs in a boisterous tone, when the arrival of two strangers in the snug tap-room of a quaint old hôstellerie caused a temporary sensation. The moon shone with a crystallized clearness; its beams came streaming through a narrow lattice, lighting up a dingy portrait of that honoured monarch, the founder of our rights and liberties. Or to drop from the height of romance, it was a splendid night in early spring, when Colonel Westerham and myself entered the bar of the old King John, Holywell-lane, Shoreditch; the following advertisement having struck my friend's fancy: "Mr. Hoile's (The Spider's) select sparring school for private instruction in the art of self-defence. Select Harmonic Meetings every Tuesday. "Fistiana" and "Fights for the Championship," kept at the bar." The latter part, like a postscript to a lady's letter, contained the pith of all, for Westerham delighted in looking over the records of battles of by-gone days, and was not a little gratified at finding that during his absence a most talented writer had produced a truly graphic work, in which the courage of John Bull is shown in its true light; which describes the gallant bearing of those brave men who have entered the lists for the envied belt, and enumerates the contests for the championship, with a vigour and originality quite refreshing in these days of mawkish sentiment and hypocritical cant. We allude to the last work referred to in the Spider's advertisement. Although I was never myself devoted to the prize ring, even in its most palmy days, I cannot but think that England will rue the day when the fist gives way to the stiletto. The sturdy old principle, "Let us fight it out, and then shake hands," is one worthy of the hardy sons of Britain; and to the indomitable courage of our islanders may be traced the glories that have ever attended their deeds of arms, in every quarter of the globe, whether by sea or land. The boundless ocean, the burning gorges of the rocky Indian passes, the well-wooded pine forests, and wide-spreading lakes of North America, the bush and rivers of Africa, the mountain scenery of the Pyrenees, the citron-groves of Portugal, the vine-clad hills of Spain,

the smiling valleys of France, the harvest fields of Belgium, the pestilential clime of China, the rugged steppes of the Crimea, have all borne testimony to the unconquerable prowess of our sailors and soldiers, men who know but one rule-to go in and win, and never trample on a fallen foe.

From the hero of Magna Charta we proceeded to other sporting "cribs," and as it would be invidious to select one from the number that exist in London and its suburbs, I will merely say that they seemed to be all upon an equality with respect to entertainment, and that the attention of the respective landlords and landladies to their customers was all that could be desired. The "bill of fare" was made out to suit a variety of tastes; there was singing for the lovers of music, ratting for the fancy, sparring for the amateurs of the fistic art, gymnastic exercises for the athletic, calisthenic feats for the military aspirant, shows of spaniels, terriers, and bull-dogs for the Corinthian order, a friendly squeeze for old "palls," a capital bottle of wine in the cellar, a famous draught in the bar, and a hearty welcome to all. The company consisted of patrons and professors of the fistic art, pedestrians, dog-fanciers, novices about to enter the ring, and amateurs of fashion. As my companion had paid his footing most liberally, by purchasing portraits of Nat Langham, Bob Travers, and others, distributing sundry glasses of brandy-and-water, taking tickets for at least a dozen sparring benefits, subscribing to the Pugilistic Association, adding his mite to a charitable collection for a poor widow, and ordering sundry “bird'seye" handkerchiefs, the colours of a recent brave though vanquished man, he was speedily surrounded by a host of individuals anxious to form his acquaintance. The names of some of them would have appeared eccentric on the Colonel's visiting list, and great would have been the surprise of his "clerk of the visits," had he followed the example of the bon ton, and kept an out-of-livery servant for that especial purpose, at finding the cards of the following distinguished individuals: The Wychwood Forester, The Enthusiastic Potboy, Jack the Barber, The Hackney Stag, Northumberland Bill, Little Tommy, Heavy and Handy, The Mite, The Tipton Slasher, Frome Bob, The Tiney, The Jolly Trump, The Chelsea Snob, Young Sambo, and The Flatcatcher. The sweeps (we allude to those of the chimney, not the owners of the betting houses, although equally black in their transactions,) had commenced their daily avocations before we reached home, somewhat fatigued in body, and suffering not a little in our heads from rank tobacco and adulterated spirits.

PEDESTRIANISM.

"Foot it featly."

Our next visit was to the well-known running grounds of Mr. Sadler, Garratt-lane, Wandsworth, where the spirited proprietor had offered several prizes, of considerable pecuniary and bona fide value, to be competed for. The first was a handicap, distance 440 yards, £3 10s. for the first man, £2 for the second, and 10s. for the third. The weather was extremely fine, and the assemblage of professional velocipedists and amateurs was considerable. The first heat came off at three

o'clock, when the following appeared at the starting points: Littlewood, of Marylebone, 30 yards start; Pearce, of Greenwich, 40; Andrews's Novice, 45; Barb (alias Shaver), 45. The latter beat Pearce by a few yards, the rest being no-where. After the above race a handicap of one-mile heats came off, for prizes similar to the foregoing, during which a most dastardly un-English proceeding was perpetrated. When Mahoney was in the act of winning the third heat, a cowardly ruffian in the crowd made a kick at him, which nearly threw him down. The greatest indignation was manifested, and a ducking in the nearest horse-pond would have been the result, had not the police interfered. How sad it is that every sport is marred by some miscreant. Villainy has long been prevalent in the betting-ring and upon the turf: if it once gains ascendancy in pedestrianism, the sooner foot-races are put an end

to the better.

While upon the subject, I cannot refrain from giving an account of a match for a hundred sovereigns, between the writer of this article and a gallant officer formerly of the 9th Lancers. I was dining at Old Crockford's in the month of July, and had indulged in all the luxuries of the table-turtle, venison, punch, champagne, and claretwhen the above-mentioned "light weight" made his appearance. During the time he had been in the army, he was known as one of the fleetest runners of his day, and having dined early, was likely to prove a formidable competitor to any, more especially to one who was slowly undergoing the process of digestion. After a slight pause, the new comer commenced the subject of pedestrianism, and finally offered to give any person present ten yards in a hundred, and run him for the same number of pounds. The challenge having thus openly been made, I was urged to throw down my gage, which, after another glass or two of claret I did, and the match was drawn up and signed by the respective parties. It ran as follows: "100 sovs. each, p, p., to come off in Hill-street, Berkeley-square, at 12 o'clock p.m., J. S, Esq., to give Lord W. L- ten yards in a hundred. Colonel S- and Lord F to be umpires, Count D— referee.” No sooner had our names been affixed to this document, than the odds rose to six to four against me, and which were finally increased to two to one. The condition and age of the competitors had been taken into consideration, independent of which, a report gained ground that I had been beat in a trial. The fact was, a very knowing gentleman had proposed to both of us to run to the bottom of St. James's-street. He first started off with Mr. S- and found him to be not only a fast runner, but in excellent wind. He then tried me; and as I was wary enough to see through the "artful dodge," I of course went at half speed, puffing and panting like a broken-down poster.

For the next hour I took gentle exercise, and five minutes before the clock struck midnight I was at my post. There had been a shower of rain, and the ground was so slippery that one of my backers fell when measuring the ground: this was looked upon as an unlucky omen, and five to two was offered in rouleaux in favour of the young one. "I shall give the words One, two, three, and away," said the starter, placing me ten yards in advance; "and at the latter you will both be off, running between the two umpires." While the course was being cleared (for so novel a sight as a