forget my kindness and attention. To have Nimrod as a friend for ever! said I to myself, then indeed shall I have my deeds in the chase chronicled, and gain that sporting notoriety which, in those days, I own, I coveted. I now again turned to my self-satisfied friend, and proposed that he should accompany me to the barracks to partake of luncheon. This he politely declined, stating that his "light chay-cart" (as he called it) had been sent back to London; that finding he was so near the town of Bagshot, where he had some business, he should proceed there and either leave his gallant grey there for the night, and proceed to town by the coach; or, after an hour or two's rest, ride the animal to town. "Never unmindful of business, my lord," said my new ally; "my name's known in Bagshot and the vicinity, and I have no doubt my day's sport will turn to profit." "Unquestionably," I replied, still imagining he was alluding to the works of his talented pen. I then took my leave, but not without first giving him my name, which turned out to be superfluous, as he had already ascertained it from the huntsman, and assuring him that at any time my brother officers and myself would be happy to see so distinguished a Nimrod at the barracks. "I thank you for the compliment," responded my friend; "there's nothing like combining business and pleasure. Unfortunately, my cards were left in the light chay-cart; but my address is well known to the world at large. And if ever, professionally or privately, I can be of any service to your lordship or friends, you may command me." I doffed my hat, and turning my horse's head towards Windsor, pictured to myself the flaming paragraph that would probably appear in the sporting papers, headed, "Wonderful run with His Majesty's Stag-hounds," with a full, true, and particular account of the "nine" that were in at the end of the day. In the meantime, having some slight personal acquaintance with a neighbouring provincial editor, I concocted an article in my head on my road home, which I reduced to writing as soon as I reached the barracks. "On their own merits modest men are dumb." So thought Dr. Panglos, and following his erudite authority, I made slight mention of myself, merely naming myself as one who, with the celebrated sporting rider Nimrod, the huntsmen, whippers in, &c., were in at the end. The paragraph appeared; it was on a Friday morning; I purchased at least a dozen papers; for the editor, thinking that "my modesty," like that of Tom Thumb (I mean the original, not the General" of that ilk") "was a flambeau to my understanding," had given us more credit than we deserved, describing us as having kept all day with the hounds, and having, like "two young Lochinvars," "Swam the Thames river where ford there was none." The Sunday papers, published in time for Saturday evening's coach, were to reach us by dinner-time that day, and, having given orders for two copies of each sporting paper to be sent me, I awaited with no little impatience the arrival of the trumpet-major with the papers. "Six newspapers for your lordship." I opened them all in turn, and great was my surprise to find, instead of the long-looked-for account, the following pithy paragraph:-"We stop the press to say we have just received a communication from Nimrod (C. J. Apperley, Esq.), begging us to contradict a paragraph that appeared in a provincial paper of yesterday, stating that he had formed one of the field with his Majesty's hounds last week." This talented author adding, "that unless, like Sir Simon Roche's bird, he could be in two places at once, the thing was impossible, he having been out on the very morning mentioned with the Warwickshire hounds." To this was added the following note by the editor:-"We rather suspect the original paragraph in question, was a regular paid for Day and Martin impudent puff, inserted by one of the 'hard riders' mentioned in it." To use a sporting phrase, I was regularly "at fault," nor was the mystery dissolved until the following morning, when a letter reached me by the post; it contained a printed card, postage ten-pence for a double letter, for in those days Rowland Hill's "penny wise," and as far only as revenue goes, "pound foolish" plan, had not been introduced. I was about to throw the card into the fire, when a small note fell from the letter; picking it up, I found it ran as follows:-" Mr. Bugsby's compts to Lord Leunix, and in thanking him for his kindness last Monday with the hounds, begs to enclose a few cards." "Bugsby," I exclaimed to a brother officer; "what does this mean?" "See here," he replied, reading the card in a solemn and pompous tone "Killing, no murder. "BUGSBY, Puce, bug, and black-beetle extirpator! One trial will suffice! Copy the address! Fleeance avaunt! Sleep unalloyed; I cannot attempt to picture to my readers my shame and annoyance, to have made myself the dupe of a flea extirpator, a bug destroyer, a black-beetle exterminator. I could have fleabottomized the wretch. I, however, consoled myself upon my narrow escape; for had Mr. Bugsby accepted my invitation to Windsor, I should not only have fête-ed him at the barracks, but have probably introduced him to the equerries' table of good old George the Third. For some months I studied Lavater, and should not have now thus written myself" down as an ass," had I not the excuse of youth and inexperience to bring forward in my favour. I had, too, the example of one of Shakspeare's finest-drawn characters; for, as the fat knight says "I was three or four times in the thought" that the vulgar cit could not be the highly talented Nimrod; and yet the sudden surprise of my powers drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason. See, now, how wit may be made a jack-a-lent, when 'tis upon ill employment: It was not for a year afterwards that I found out the cruel hoax that had been practised upon me. One of the party assembled at the breakfast I have alluded to in the commencement of this anecdote, had, "by way of a lark," spread abroad the story that Nimrod was expected to join the hunt; and having seen, upon his road through Colnbrook, a "chay-cart"-with the words, "Bugsby, puce extirpator, Clerkenwell, London"-pulling up at the White Hart, with a veritable cockney in it, and hearing from him that a flea-bitten grey (not an inappropriate colour!) was waiting for him at Slough, identified the party with the celebrated and talented Nimrod. When I discovered how I had been duped, all I had left me was to exclaim, from Pers. Sat. -Nimis uncis Naribus indulges. Or, as Dryden gives it- "You drive the jest too far." THE PRINCESS; WINNER OF THE OAKS. ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY J. F. HERRING, SEN. Well! here we are in July-a clear month after Epsom, and our first embellishment, as a matter of course, the winner of the Derby. That's all very well as far as it goes. Agreed, "here we are in July;" but what is the winner of the Derby? What's he got by? Where's he been trained? Where was he bred-and how old is he? Dreadful ignorance that, as if the veriest lout alive didn't know that no horse, mare, or gelding but a three-year could run for the Derby. Still we do put the question, and expect to have an answer from twelve of our enlightened fellow countrymen just about the time this number of our magazine makes its appearance; it is really extremely provoking fixing things in this way, and looks as if the learned gentlemen, instead of having any proper consideration for us, were determined to spite us, and so by trying the action on the first of the month, let us give the decision of "the momentous question" just a month after date. We owe them a turn or two as it is, and mean some of these days to be even with the whole profession, from my Lord Chief Baron down to the Crier of the Court. We have taken all sorts of opinions upon the matter that has been worrying us for the whole of this hot month-should we give the winner of the Derby, or should we, ought we, to consider Running Rein as the winner of that race? A disinterested friend, who had drawn him in a lottery, had not the least doubt about it. Most assuredly we must; every man was innocent till he was found guiltythat was the common law of the land, and what is law for the man is law for his horse. But just suppose he should be found guilty-how then? Give them both, advised our friend the artist, both in one plate, like the two kings of Brentford smelling at one. 'Pon honour, that simile is worn threadbare, and we here make a vow not to use it again for at least ten years to come. Both at once-" the honours |