"Oh!-those dear little spaniels-or, stop-what are those fine large fellows, with black curly hair, that carry sticks, and go into the water?" "Newfoundlands?" suggested Tom.

"Yes; those are what I mean. attached creatures!"

I think they are such faithful,

"Make capital retrievers," he observed.

"Do they?" said she, as if she understood what he meant.
"I believe you," said Mr. Tom Sparshott.
"Yes."

"Pointers ?"

"Do you like setters?"

"Oh! very much-the dear pets! I should keep quite a pack of all sorts if I lived in the country, and have a place on purpose for them, and a man to take care of them, and all."

This speech so highly raised Mr. Sparshott's new acquaintance in his estimation, that he really considered her worth talking to, and he proceeded to edify her with a description of his canine establishment, recounting, in detail, all the pointers, setters, spaniels, terriers, and other dogs of which it consisted, with their several sizes, conformations, colours, and characteristics intellectual and moral. From time to time she interrupted him with questions and remarks, which he really thought very acute. Dogs led to guns and shooting, with all their ramifications of patent-breeches, double-barrels, copper-caps, and cartridges; and next came horses, entailing an elucidation of the turf, and a very extensive exposition of veterinary surgery. In the mean time Tom had become so much at home with his fair listener, that he more than once asked her to take wine, handed her plate, helped her to different things, and really behaved as the gallant reader would do, if similarly seated at a dinner-party. Occasionally, by accident, she dropped her handkerchief, and he actually picked it up for her. Indeed, they soon became on such terms of familiarity, that at dessert she unaffectedly told him, like a good fellow, to peel her an orange, and, when he had done so, gave him half of it.

When the ladies retired, Tom looked after her over his shoulder as far as the door, and, as she disappeared, gravely nodded his head,-an involuntary gesture, the external sign of a conviction that she was "one of the right sort." Mr. Sparshott, it is true, admired her principally for her mind, such as he conceived it to be; but her graceful figure, bright eyes, chesnut curls, and nice features, were "points" which had no little influence on his opinion of her.

We have said that Tom was a good-looking young fellow. Whether it was solely on this account or not that Miss Denham treated him with such marked favour, is uncertain; but it should be stated that she was aware of his worldly circumstances; that her own expectations, as she had brothers, were moderate; and that she was at an age when young ladies, who have only their charms to depend upon, will, if they are wise, endeavour to make the most of their time.

Bessy made a stay of some months at the 'Squire's, and Tom, during that period, had frequent opportunities of seeing her. Their intimacy went on increasing, till at length, when he called in of an evening, it was a common thing with her to mix his brandy and water for him, and to light and hand him his cigar. He now began to go to parties where he thought there was a chance of meeting her, and at these he would sit in a corner of the room, where she came every now and then to talk to him, or to bring him a book, of the sort that he liked, to

VOL. XVII.

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read during the quadrilles. Then she worked a cigar-case for him, and once she mended his shot-belt. Things having come to this, it will not appear surprising that the relation between the parties became ultimately decidedly interesting. Yes; such was the fact. The sportsman was winged, to say no more, at last.

Her visit being ended, Miss Denham returned to town. A melancholy, perceived, and of course derided, by all his friends, now seized on Tom. He was sometimes seen dawdling about in the fields-without his gun; he would wander by the river-side with no fishing-rod ; nay, he would even roam among the woodland solitudes by moonlight, when, not being a poacher, of course he could have no intent to destroy game, but where, by mistake, he was once actually collared by his own gamekeeper.

After having gone on in this way for some weeks, he all at once mysteriously disappeared. What had become of him was a secret; but, as Mr. Corduroy Toppes, when questioned on the subject, smiled and winked his eye, it was presumed to be known to that gentleman. The fact was that Tom had gone to London. He could struggle with his feelings no longer; and he went to throw himself at the feet of Bessy, and offer her his hand, his heart, and worldly estate, real and personal. Handsome, young, moneyed, of course he was accepted at

once.

There is a street leading out of Grosvenor Square,-there is a house in that street with a foreign name on the door; within a week after Tom Sparshott's acceptation,-for the lawyers interposed a brief delay between that and marriage: and oh what a settlement was made during that interval on Bessy !-within a week after he had thus committed himself, could an eye have penetrated the recesses of the house in question, it would have beheld Tom, even Tom Sparshott, taking a lesson in the Polka of a Frenchman!

In process of time Tom returned into the country. His friend Wilkins went to call on him. Wilkins was shown into the drawingroom-how changed was that drawing-room! The plates of horses and grooms had quitted the walls, which had been newly papered, and adorned with sentimental pictures; delicate rose curtains garnished the windows, iu which stood costly exotics; where fowlingpieces, fishing-rods, and boot-jacks were formerly standing or lying about, stood china vases, of no manner of use whatever; on a new rosewood table in the centre of the room lay elegantly-bound volumes, all red, and green, and gold, and a large illuminated album. A grand piano occupied nearly one side of the wall. The air, once redolent of the mild havannah, now breathed eau-de-cologne and rose-water. By a sofa, on which reclined a fashionably-dressed lady, sat an interesting young man, in a costume strongly resembling Prince Albert's,—as it appears on the backs of the music-books. He appeared to have been reading the last new novel, which he was holding in his hand, to the lady. On Wilkins's entrance he rose, and gracefully begged to introduce Mrs. Sparshott to him. Could it be possible?—yes, it was Tom Sparshott!

Wilkins could scarcely believe his eyes, he said he started as if he had been thunderstruck; but there were the same features, though composed; the familiar voice-but subdued and silvery. It was his old friend Tom-and Wilkins was going to slap him on the back; but a deprecatory gesture prevented him. Mr. Sparshott desired him to take a seat; and he sat on a chair of white and gold with a cushion

of crimson. They entered into conversation, which Tom himself turned from his once favourite subjects to Almack's and the Opera; to the confusion and discomfiture of poor Wilkins, who did not know one from the other. Then Mr. Sparshott rang for refreshment. It came -in the shape of sweet biscuits and some foreign wine. Where was the baked ham?-where the beer?-and ah! where the vessel of pewter to hold it, which would once have stood on that tray? This was too much for Wilkins; and he boldly said he should like some malt liquor, which was sent for; but not till Tom had looked inquiringly at his lady. And it was brought in a porcelain mug.

Mr. Sparshott took Wilkins over his grounds to show him the improvements he had made. These included the alteration of his stables to make room for a larger coach-house; and the demolition of his kennel, on whose site there was in course of erection a conservatory. Tom asked his friend to stop and dine with him. They took a small quantity of claret after the meal; and then went up to tea-actually to tea! After which, Mrs. Sparshott sat down to the piano, and sang some Italian airs, whilst Tom stood and turned over the leaves for her. Again, at times, Wilkins almost disbelieved his senses, when they told him that that correct young man in black, with his white waistcoat and neckcloth, was Tom Sparshott. Smoking was clearly out of the question; and he accordingly took leave at an early hour, with a load on his spirits that made him feel quite melancholy. The evening had been so "slow!"

He said that Tom, on inquiry, expressed himself happy, but in a tone rather of resignation than of gladness; and that his face wore that pensive expression which we often observe in reformed characters.

Once again he saw Tom, accompanied by his lady, passing by a skittle-ground. He stopped and looked wistfully over the palings; but a slight though sudden pull at the elbow seemed to tear him from the spot. He looked back, however, over his shoulder, and Wilkins thinks he must have seen him (Wilkins) making a grimace at him.

Wilkins saw him yet once more. It was at a family tea-party. There was Tom, once the free and easy-now the sober and demurehanding toast and muffins around to a circle of ladies. And this was the whilom noisy, rattling, dashing varmint, " Snorkey!"

Such was the end that this fine young fellow came to! He gave up his shooting; Mrs. Sparshott insisted on it. She would not let him stop out all day, and come home and go to sleep in the evening. He discontinued his hunting; she would not allow him to risk his neck. He no longer had his jolly parties; she could not endure a set of rude, riotous bears. His dogs he got rid of; she thought them disagreeable. He kept, indeed, a pair of horses, and a handsome carriage for that she approved of, but she would not allow him to drive. She would rather that he would sit with her. And she made him go to church and take a book with him, and find out the lessons for her, and attend to the service.

What was he to do? Destitute of any other resource, he was obliged to betake himself to books and study; and thus the jolly Tom Sparshott of other days, became, in the eyes of all the rollicking young blades in the neighbourhood, converted from a "brick" into a

spoon.

Alas, poor Sparshott! Alas, poor Snorkey! Beware, young sportsmen, beware of beauty! or one of these days you may be bagged like him.

GLIMPSES AND MYSTERIES.

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED CROWQUILL.

THE LODGING-HOUSE.

HE lodging-house. Observe it! Behold its mysterious-looking front, evidently once a fashionable house, in a fashionable neighbourhood,-the wideworn door-step, the ill-painted, massive door, the large lion-faced knocker, with its magnificent iron frown, fast falling under the influence of rust and promissory licks of paint! The old lamp-iron, straddling across the entry, tenantless and disconsolate, is flared out of countenance by the perking parish gas lamp; while the useless flambeau extinguishers, twisted and worn, are dropping from their hold!

The kitchen windows, that once were kept in continual blaze by roaring and hospitable fires, are melancholy and dusty: the rusty grate-the joint property of the whole house-has its magnificent swallow crammed with bricks, leaving but merely room for a small portion of fire to cook with. Why, in former years its cheeks would have burnt with shame and indignity at so miserable a blaze! The whole kitchen has a musty and underground smell, proceeding from the continual dab washes going on at the convenience of each occupant. The parlour, although second in importance, being nearest the door, we will speak of first. The blinds are dwarf Venetian: they were once green, but being wet-wiped for a long period, have got into a kind of pea-soup colour, with an irregular arrangement of ribs. The windows are cleaned up, as far as the lower frame is concerned, but the upper are neglected, which give a very dubious colour to the supposed white-holland blind that reaches down only that length-being one of the many lodging-house delusions, where they are furnished. The apartment is large and dingy, of no particular colour; the furniture few and far between, with a mirror of unpleasant reflections. The door looks, of course, into the passage or hall, in all lodging-houses: this, I believe, is always the same; being neutral ground, it is very much neglected, -the charwoman, from her hanging her old bonnet and ragged shawl upon, the hat and cloak rack, appears to be the per

mitted possessor. Pattens and clogs grow, I believe, in the dirt of these passages, as I never by any chance missed tumbling over something of the kind. The floor-cloth is perhaps one of the most curious efforts of genius displayed by the landlady, who is always contriving to place some hole somewhere else, so you are never certain which trips you up: this is more wonderful, since you cannot form a most distant idea of how it could be taken up or put down. The before-mentioned parlour is occupied by a young married couple, who have ventured into matrimony with a perfect reliance on chance, never having possessed any prudence or furniture. The bride still delights in all her virgin finery, and sets dressed all day and reads novels until the return of the male delinquent, who fancies, with the other deluded one, that his trifling salary will be always enough, and that matrimony altogether is rather a delightful leap. Their domestic economy is entertaining in the extreme; loins of mutton composed of four chops,

and half-legs, which are somewhat difficult to be recognised by family men: the red and white ordered in the delirium of the honeymoon, under the ancient names of Port and Sherry, have long since vanished, but the bottles remain under the sideboard as a warrant of respectability; in lieu of which, however, the galvanic pot of pewter reigns paramount, and the bride finds out that the "angelic man" smokes! A penny havannah does much to destroy poetry!

The lady, as yet having no family cares, may be seen in her little cottage-bonnet and neat morning dress, trudging briskly with her husband early in the morning to see him part of the way to business: