Marengo's foot (Napoleon's Waterloo horse), do their trophies. Tom is no chicken, for, for nearly thirty years back, the county of―had the benefit of his talents in the capacities of whipper-in and huntsman. He is quite of the old school, is a famous covert huntsman, and admirable in the kennel. His voice is melodious and powerful beyond expression; and although some say he is "rayther" slow, justice compels me to say, that these remarks emanate from those modern Nimrods, who prefer racing from some new gorse to another at least so long as they get a good start-to finding a good woodland fox, hunting, and killing him. While the party from the park are looking over the kennel, we cannot do better than give a slight sketch of the life of its huntsman.

Thomas was the son of humble yet industrious parents, and at a very early age was taken into the employment of a sporting farmer, as a flaxen-headed ploughboy. Tom's love for horses and dogs soon attracted his master's attention, and an occasion occurred which gave our hero a taste for that sport which in after life he indulged in. One day the hounds met within a quarter of a mile of the farm, and the sporting farmer, having a young horse to sell, desired Tom to lead him down to the place of meeting. Our embryo huntsman accordingly attended to his orders; and whilst his master was vaunting the prowess of his steed, desired Tom "just to get upon him, and trot him down." In a second our young hero vaults on the horse's back, and, like a second Ducrow, manages him without a saddle, and a snaffle-bridle rather of the halter form. "Now give him a canter, young one," exclaims the expected purchaser. "That will do; now jump off, put a saddle on, and let my groom take him over that fence." "Please, sir," responds Tom, I'll take him over;" and no sooner had he got permission, than away cantered the urchin, putting his horse not only at the fences, but at a flight of hurdles, and a style in the most workman, or rather workboy-like manner. "That will do, youngster; here, there's a crown for your trouble; you'll make a rider in time. Tom's master (having added fifteen pounds to the original price of the horse, for the gallant way in which he took his fences) completed the sale, and presented the delighted boy with a golden guinea. That guinea Tom has to the present day; following his mother's advice, that as long as he kept it he would never want for money, he placed it in his master's hands; eventually, when our hero became whipper-in, he had the gold coin inserted in the centre of a silver punch-ladle, where it remains to this hour. Within a few months of the event we have just recorded, the purchaser of the horse wanted a groom-boy to take into Leicestershire with him. Tom was appointed to the situation; the straw hat, smock-frock, and leather gaiters, were doffed for a livery hat, well cut frock coat, and leather unmentionables. After a time Tom was selected to ride his master's second horse, and as he had by nature a quick eye to a country, was never out of his place when wanted. For many years our hero remained in his situation, respected by his master and by all that knew him. Towards the end of his fifth season, an event occurred that proved his good genius was ever present with him. A

steeple-chase was to take place, four miles across the country, open to all riders. A leading man of the hunt had entered a four-year-old colt, and having been disappointed in his rider, proposed to put Tom

on.

The lad having got his master's sanction, willingly accepted the offer, and was about to weigh, when a country black-leg, of the very darkest hue, called the boy aside, and, after some little preliminary "chaff," showed him ten guineas, as the price of throwing over the race. Tom indignantly refused the proffered reward, and lost no time in publicly declaring the name of the man who had attempted to tamper with his honesty. For this upright conduct Tom was liberally rewarded by the "golden" opinions of many, while the black-leg equally received his due for his roguery in a neighbouring horse-pond. Tom rode and won, much to the delight of the assembled field. No sooner had he dismounted, than an eminent London horse-dealer offered to engage him by the year, at a handsome sum, as his steeple-chase rider; but our hero preferred the hunting-field to the race-course, and shortly afterwards his good conduct was rewarded by his being engaged as whipper-in to the pack of hounds he now hunts. His master having gone a little too fast, gave up Melton, and, taking to a rural country, brought Tom with him, where he soon got him the situation we have mentioned. After some years' experience, Tom was promoted to the place of huntsman; and nothing to this day gives him greater pleasure than "harking back" to that period when, like O'Keefe's merry ploughboy, "he whistled o'er the lea." I will conclude this slight sketch; but, in the words of Byron, "Before I do, Tom

Here's a double health to thee."

Return we from the kennel. The party who have staid at home have passed their time agreeably, if not profitably; battledore and shuttlecock in the long hall, bagatelle and trou madame in the gallery, or a pool of billiards; while many have devoted their day to writing letters, and despatching certain long doubly-crossed letters, written in a sort of patte des mouches hand, to their numerous friends in town and country. What heart-burnings, quarrels, and bickerings would ensue, if, by a fairy's wand, you could lay open all these familiar epistles to the party assembled in the house!-A palais de la vérité, however well it may sound in theory, would be a miserable dwelling in practice. Fancy the mass of scandal, illnatured comments, illiberal remarks, tittle-tattle, gossip, inuendos, uncharitable sayings, that are accumulated in one small box in a large countryhouse, headed, " General Post."

To take up the thread of my narrative: the morning of departure arrives; you descend to the breakfast-room with a heavy heart-all taking leaves are disagreeable; often painful; you eat your meal in silence; one after another the guests depart; your carriage is announced, you get into it, and vent your humour upon your valet for not having packed it properly. As you reach the lodge, you discover that your writing-case has been left behind; while he walks back to recover it, you sit moodily in that state of ennui that always follows great and pleasurable excitement. Your journey appears dull; you

find fault with the postboys, grumble at the ostlers; the smiling landlord finds you less communicative than on your road down, and, what is more painful to his feelings, less liberal in your order-a crust of bread is all you ask for, instead of a mutton chop, roast chicken, and bottle of sherry. You reach London-Crockford's is shut for repairs you console yourself with a dinner in the coffee-room of the Clarendon and the remembrance of your host's parting words— "Write and propose yourself, whenever you have a week to spare."

THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR 1843.

BY ROSLYN CAWDOR.

Farewell to the last lingering beams of the sun
That closes the year's latest day;

Farewell to the hours that for ever are gone,
Farewell to both sombre and gay.

Let the care-freighted bosom that ponders the past,
With hope hail the bud of the year;

Nor dread, soul-despondent, afraid and aghast,

The shape which its progress may wear.

True! Death may await thee, and number thee out
In the scroll of the tomb-shrouded dead;

True! the winding-sheet's folds may enwrap thee about,
And a tear to thy memory be shed;

Yet look to the inmost recess of thy breast,

Lest the rank seeds of sin flourish there,

And drive from thy bosom the soul-slaying guest,

That withers the heart with despair.

That foe, when compelled from its home to depart,
Will leave thee all peaceful and pure;

And fearless thy soul may await for the dart
Each mortal is doomed to endure:

Till then, all thy moments serenely may glide,

When piety sweetens thy woes,

And thy morning, that rose when the storm loved to chide,
Shall set in a glorious close!

IRISH HOUNDS AND THE MEN WHO

RIDE то THEM.

BY VENATOR.

THE DHUHALLOWS.

Having been for many years in the habit of reading all the sporting works that emanate from the London press, the fact has often struck me as being strange, that I have never seen in any of them a detailed account of the state of sport in the sister kingdom. That this has arisen not from lack of matter, or from the uninteresting nature of the subject, but from an apathetic indifference on the part of the Irish sportsmen, in not giving an account of themselves or their doings, is, I think, indisputable; therefore, as one who has enjoyed many a glorious run in that country, I shall endeavour to rescue them from the oblivion in which they rest at present, and show them forth as faithfully and truly as I am able.

That the Irish, taken as a nation, are passionately addicted to hunting, any person who has seen the peasant take his horse from the plough, and follow the hounds as far as he could, will readily acknowledge; and that many pursue it to the great detriment of their private affairs, is equally undeniable; but, as all human systems are subject to abuse, we will not look at its minimum of evil, but rather at its maximum of good.

With this apology for turning up ground that has heretofore been untilled, I shall proceed to my subject, and unkennel the packs for the readers' especial behoof.

We have all our likings and dislikings, prepossessions and predilections. This is the case, from the peer, pronouncing upon the flavour and vintage of "Lafette's best," down to the coal-porter, who pins his faith upon a cauliflowered-pot of Dublin stout. Were I metaphysically inclined, I might hunt up this principle through all its doublings in the human mind, and found therefrom a theory, on a basis of long words, which would be just as sensible as the generality of those with which the public, now a-days, are illuminated. It is in accordance with the principle, that I have selected the Dhuhallows as the first pack with which to breathe my scribal nag, not because their deeds in the annals of hunting fame entitle them to such precedency, but

* Our friend "Venator" must have overlooked (he cannot have forgotten) the late lamented Shamrock-a true son of Erin, and one whose theme was ever national.-EDITOR.

H H

from the recollection that it was with them I first took the field, in all the glory of boots and breeches; and with them did I hunt until compelled to exchange the red coat for the black gown, and pig-skin for parchment. To them for a short time did I return, when circumstances enabled me once more to enjoy my favourite pastime; but must here acknowledge that even the semblance of a hunt, in happy boyhood, could create a more rapturous excitement than the most splendid chase of after-years. It is now, when in the decline of life, and when the lapse of time warns me that this world and all its joys are fleeting fast, and that I must soon be run to earth, that this truth forces itself on my mind-that it is in youth life has its dearest charms, its sweetest moments-when the world appears one great kaleidoscope, in which, although its brightest tints are changing, that change is "ever charming, ever new"-when the mind, like a magic mirror, reflects but what is fair and lovely, and, so that the sun is shining bright in the heaven, heeds not the clouds that gather near the horizon. I can recall to my mind, as it were but yesterday, the ecstatic joy I felt upon being presented with a horse by my father, for my own sole use and benefit, as a reward for attaining some collegiate distinction, when but fifteen-the state of fidget on the night previous to a hunting day, lest my new boots should not be spotless, and my thorough conviction that the horse would be unable to go, unless stuffed with oats to repletion on that evening-my pride at being told by the seniors that I was a "good boy"-the huntsman's injunctions to "hould hard, never fear, and stick to him," are still ringing in my ears, and I would that they were reality. Alas and alack! how gladly would I "try back!" but the fates deny it, and Clotho ceases not to turn her spindle, and unroll the thread of my existence. Now for my task.

The Dhuhallows (so called by a misnomer peculiarly Irish, the kennel not being in the barony of Dhuhallow, but that of Fermoy, fully as much of which is hunted by them as of the former) possess a large district in the very middle of the county of Cork, including the central part of the vale of the Blackwater-decidedly the richest and most thickly-inhabited by a resident gentry of any district of equal extent in Ireland, the effects of which are manifest in a system of agriculture far superior to what is generally elsewhere seen in that country. These hounds were originally in the possession of Colonel Wrixon, of Bally Giblin, the father of the present Sir William Beecher, the husband of the unequalled actress, Miss O'Neill. They were supported entirely at the expense of their liberal owner, who hunted them with such success, that they were at that time decidedly the "Quorn" of Ireland; which circumstance, coupled with the farfamed hospitality of their owner-a virtue universal in the neighbourhood-induced strangers to flock from all quarters to the adjoining town of Mallow, so that, in fact, it was the prototype of the modern Melton. It was at that time that the celebrated "Rake's Club" was established-perhaps the most extraordinary on record, the rules of which would be sufficient to make a Puritan of the present reign of saints congratulate himself, that he did not live in such an age of sinners. I will enumerate a few of them.