dosia is very merciful, and gives us some law at breakfast-time. I am generally the last, and, if I dared, would be later still, for, somehow, I am more tired when I get up than when I go to bed. At about 11.30 the wickets are pitched, and_by 12 o'clock we are at work. The weather has been fine, and almost too hot. Unluckily, I have always been on the losing side, but we have had capital matches. You will care more for a description of the folk, their names, weights, and colours, than for any account of the matches, which are the engrossing subject here; and yet I think you will like to know the sort of life it is. There has been a cricket match every day, and as it generally lasts till dressingtime there is really very little time for anything else. Then dinner is succeeded by preparations for "tableaux," which are in their turn followed by dancing. I honestly confess that I think this is too much of a good thing. On one or two occasions, when the cricket was over sooner than usual, we were instantly had in request for croquet matches, in which the ladies certainly excelled. Theo. Edmonstone is the best croquet-player I ever saw. I wish you could have seen how well she put down that conceited young puppy Parker. It was as good as a play. You must know that "Happy Parker," as he is called, considers himself an awful swell. He is rich, rather good-looking, and has been, I am told, the spoilt child of fortune. He is in the Blues, and is made a fuss with because he has lots of money, good horses, good shooting, and a good temper. He thinks the whole world is ready to be his humble servant. He had never been at Garzington before, and scarcely knows Edmonstone, never saw Lady Theodosia, and was once introduced to the second girl, Nina, who holds him in special aversion. I never saw any one so cool, free and easy, and off-hand as he is. He swaggers about as if he was bent on showing off his paces, and behaves as if he was the most intimate friend of the family instead of what he is, almost a stranger. One night, when Theo. Edmonstone had been looking after

some of the guests, and had been getting partners for some of her country neighbours, and was standing alone and apart from the dancers, "Happy Parker" comes up with an air and a grace, and in a cool, offhand way says to her, "You're doing nothing; would you like to dance with me? Come along." To which she quietly replied, looking him full in the face, "No I thank you; that would indeed be one degree worse than doing nothing." He looked awfully sold; but he had found his match, for she is the last girl to stand any nonsense of that sort, and it is time for him to be brought to his bearings. You talk of not having a moment to yourself. Like Miss Miggs, you consider you are always toiling, moiling, never "giving satisfaction, never having time to clean yourself-a potter's wessel;" but what would you think of this life? It would kill the strongest man in no time at all, and would flog Banting out of the field. You are hunted from cricket to croquet, from croquet to tableaux and charades, and then to dancing, and the intervening time is devoted to dressing and dining, and you are lucky if you get to bed by 4 o'clock A.M.; for, after the ball, we men adjourn to the smoking-room, where we wind up the festivities with cigars and cooling beverages, and talk over the events of the day, and criticise some fair débutante who has blossomed for the first time at the Garrington Ball. To-night, the last of the series, we wound up with Sir Roger de Coverley, sang God save the Queen and Jolly Dogs all in chorus, and gave sundry cheers for Lady Theodosia and the house of Edmonstone.

'But now about the "other folk." The house has been as full as it can hold, and several men sleep over the stables, your humble servant among the number. Lord and Lady Camelford and their son and daughter, Lady Blanche Ross and her husband, Lady Georgina Roach and her two daughters, besides the Thompsons, those very pretty Miss Nashes, and Lord and Lady Fairlight, and some country neighbours. There are, of course, a lot of men,

As

"loose men" as Lady would call them, some of whom are invited because of their skill at cricket. Tom Lee and young Drystix are among the number. nsual, Tom Lee is the autocrat of the cricket-field, the ball-room, and smoking-room. He lays down the law in the most insufferable manner, and considers no one has any right to do anything of any kind without his permission. I cannot imagine why he is asked everywhere, for very few people like him, as his cool indifference with regard to the likes and dislikes of his neighbours almost amounts to impertinence. His success last year when he was on the Northern Circuit has made him more unbearable than ever. But as he is too unpleasant a subject to dwell upon, I will tell you about the tableaux. Lady Fairlight and the youngest of the three Miss Nashes were the belles. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful than Lady Fairlight as Mary Queen of Scots at her execution. Lady Camelford's daughter and the Miss Roaches were her maids of honour, and young Lord Tufton was the executioner. Lady Fairlight was dressed in black velvet. In the first tableau she appeared absorbed in prayer while her maids of honour stood weeping around her; and in the second she was in the act of giving her beads" to one of her ladies. I never saw anything like her expression in this last scene. It was a combination of resignation at her own sad fate and tender compassion for those she was about to leave for ever. The next tableau was from the "Rape of the Lock," in which the youngest of the Nashes represented Belinda. She was exquisitely dressed, and as her forehead is low the effect of her hair being drawn off away from her face was exceedingly good, especially as she has a good brow. Altogether with powder, and flowers jauntily set on the top and side of the mountain of coiffure which she wore, and with patches, and sac, and short petticoats displaying a small foot and neat ankle, she was as lovely a sight as could be seen. Tom Lee did his part well. His

VOL. XI.-NO. I.XII.

unwhiskered face came in admirably for such a tableau. He was capitally dressed, and so were Miss Nash's two sisters, who filled up the background. The last tableau was of Elaine as she was borne along in her barge. Ellen Pendarve's fine outline came out beautifully as she lay upon the bier, and Lord Camelford's masculine head and features with the addition of a snowy beard well represented the "dumb old servitor who steer'd the dead "upward with the flood."

In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter-all her bright hair streaming
down-

And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
Down to her waist, and she herself in white
All but her face, and that clear-featured face
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead

But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.'

I am not sure it was wise to finish the tableaux with one so sad-for it was not easy to shake off the impression quickly, and it was only by a kind of an effort that we returned to jollity. However, we did manage to recover ourselves, and were as jolly as ever, dancing away merrily to fiddle and fife. Our charades were even better than the tableaux ; and some of the acting was admirable. Young Drystix made a first-rate conspirator in "Counterplot," and Lord Tufton a capital man milliner. The passages between him and Theo. Edmonstone were admirable. "The Peer," as Tom Lee, his bear leader, calls him, has a quantity of black, greasy-looking hair, a bright colour, good features, and an incipient moustache, which he is always manipulating tenderly; and altogether he well represented that peculiar class of mankind which is devoted to measuring tapes and laces by the yard and to proffering their goods to the fair sex in the most irresistible manner. It seemed to me quite his métier to unfold silks and satins, and assure the purchasers that they were "the newest style," the "most fashionable," "quite distinguished," &c., &c. Theo. Edmonstone's contemptuous banter of him, and reckless inconsiderateness in making him display his goods, without the remotest intention of purchasing any, exhibited

K

to the life the mode in which some ladies of our acquaintance conduct themselves in certain shops which profess to provide them with all that is requisite to their success and reputation in society. And now, dear mother mine, I must shut up and get to bed, for Edmonstone and I are off early to-morrow on our way to the North. I will write to you again as soon as I can, but if we are worked as hard at Stapleton's as we have been here, I shall not have much time to write. What a pity and a bore too, it is that some of the kindest-hearted and most good-natured people in the world make life such a toil to themselves and their friends. There are people who are always striving to get fourteen pence out of every shilling, and so there are others whose sole object is to get more hours out of every day than is to be got, and so it is all "hurry scurry after amusement of some kind.'

Arthur and Sir Archibald set off early, and travelled as luxuriously and comfortably together as it is possible in this most luxurious age. By dint of proper precautions, in direct contravention of the orders and regulations issued by the directors, and in contempt of the penalties and anathemas annexed to any infringement of those orders, the two friends were able to propitiate the guards so as to secure for themselves the undisputed and undisturbed possession of one compartment, in which they slept and smoked and talked and read as they felt inclined; and in due course of time they arrived at their destination, where they had been invited for grouse-shooting and deer-stalking. The nickname by which the Lodge' was known among a certain set of familiar friends was 'Liberty Hall,' because the owner and master of it piqued himself upon allowing every one to do just what he liked, and neither more nor less than he pleased. The bee might be as busy as he would, and the drone as idle. It was from Liberty Hall that Arthur despatched his second letter to his mother.

'DEAREST MOTHER,-It seems to me the world is always in extremes. At Garzington we were never allowed a moment to ourselves. We were hunted from pillar to post, never might be sulky or indulge any wayward fancy of one's own; and here we are allowed to do what we like, go where we like, and indulge any passing mood. I have been here a week, and have very little to tell you; but you will rail at me, and return to your old charge against all men, and say that they can never be pleased, if I say that I do not think the absence of all rule and law, as it exists at "Liberty Hall," conduces to one's comfort. The fact is, than when the master of the house surrenders his right to plan and devise for the amusement of his guests, every one is at a loss to know what to do, and the practical result is that we either go about amusing ourselves in a "shillyshally" kind of way, or else submit to the dictation of some ruling but less scrupulous individual who forces his own views upon others as to what is or is not the thing to be done. We have at this moment an instance in point. Hervey Gray, a cousin of our host, presumes upon his relationship, and absorbs all the "gillies," and directs us all with much more imperiousness than his cousin ever would assume. At the beginning of our visit we were left very much to ourselves, and had each of us a gilly of our own, and whatever else we wanted, but there was no plan-no combination,and it did not answer, especially as the master of "Liberty Hall" is not himself much of a sportsman, and has taken "the Lodge" more for the honour and glory of the thing than for his own special love of sport; but now Hervey Gray rules us with a rod of iron, and, though fond of shooting, but very ignorant of the noble art of deer-stalking, lays down the law for us, for the keepers, for the gillies, for everybody and everything, and his law is not always good or pleasant. In short, I am altogether rather out of humour, and think that it is possible to have too much of one's own way, and that Hervey

front row of those crowded seats behind. There! Now the curtain has risen, and the faces are, with but few exceptions, turned towards the stage. It is a strange motley collection of individuals, from almost every class of society, you see before you. The pit of a theatre is a sort of neutral ground upon which all classes may meet. The semi-genteel go there, because it is more respectable than the gallery; the young theatrical lover, because it is cheap; and the genuine playgoer, because it is the best place for seeing and hearing in the house. Let us criticise some of the characters, and then, I think, you will allow the truth of my assertion.

That elderly man who has attracted your attention is, without doubt, a highly respectable farmer, from the midland counties. His son has told him what 'jolly fun' the Strand burlesques are; and, being in London for the first time these ten years, he has come to see and hear for himself. Twenty minutes before the doors were open he took up his position in Surrey Street. He went in with the rush, and struggled into a front place, and for the haifhour before the curtain drew up, entertained his neighbours by telling them it was nineteen years since he had been inside a theatre, and that plays were plays when he was a boy.

You may have noticed, my dear Lounger, suffer me to remark, by way of parenthesis, that the longer the interval that has elapsed since the speaker has been inside a theatre, the louder he usually is in depreciation of the present style of the drama, and in lamentations at its degeneration; and if you care to carry the notion further, and make a broader application of it, you may safely lay it down as a rule in connection with the British snob that the less he knows about a thing the more noisily and vehemently he depreciates it.

However, to return to our elderly man. Look at the perplexed expression on his face. He can make nothing of the rhymed jokes in the burlesque, and is trying to ferret out their meaning-no easy

matter, my intelligent companion, even for you at times, I imagineand behind him you will perceive a good-natured looking fellow explaining the jests and repeating the puns until they enter the thick head of the farmer in a confused and mangled way. Listen.

'What's that?' asks the countryman, in a hoarse whisper. 'What did that young woman in boy's clothes say?'

His question is unheard, in a roar of laughter at something on the stage, and he repeats it.

ha,

Said she was meal-an'-coaly-ha, ha!'

He, he, he! Why?'

'Don't you see-meal-an'-colymelancholy-eh? Ha, ha, ha!' 'But, you know, I don't see why she should say it.'

''Cause it's in her part.' 'Well, but I remember seeing Macready in—'

'Hush,' Silence,'' Turn him out,' shout his neighbours. But though silenced, by the expression of his countenance I opine he is still struggling over that pun, though there have been a dozen better ones since. When our bucolic friend returns to his native pastures, you may rest assured that, in giving his account of the burlesque at the Strand, he will have a good deal to say about the actresses, accompanied by mysterious nods and sagacious winks; but if questioned as to the words, he will pronounce a very unfavourable opinion respecting them. See, however, there is something he appreciates: it is a song, the tune of which he has heard at three music halls, and on all the barrel organs, in the week he has been in London; he recognises it as an old acquaintance, is proportionately delighted, and laughs heartily. But, talking of laughter, turn your attention now, my observing friend, to the woman who sits next to him. I will answer for it there is no one enjoying the evening's entertainment more than she. From the moment the curtain drew up a broad grin settled on her homely face, which has never left it up to the present time. Do you observe, whenever the supernumeraries are