Georgian era, suckled by an Irish spouter, brought up by an English barrister who was capable of better things, it was only the spawn of the "Bob Logic" blackguardism and "Corinthian" cachexy prevalent in those days of scarce-disguised dissoluteness-none the worse, though, for being undisguised, for

"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien

As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet"-

Well, the less often we all see it, the better.

To found a paper upon such a basis was clearly impossible; to ephemeralize it was easy enough. Bell's broke its head-the seaman swamped it. In short, Life in London ebbed but a very little while indeed; and a hundred guineas was readily accepted, to bury the bantling in merited oblivion.

Such, it is believed, was the origin of Bell's Life. How its resources were developed by D-y, by D-g, and by others; how it bloomed under the fostering care of Clements; how it grew, and became "big and burly," yet not "studious of ease;" how, in short, it became what it is-how it came to be considered an oracle, topping all the weekly things in the sporting line-how all this came about, needs not be narrated. No; nor need I take the trouble of sayingbecause everybody knows it-that it is an admirably-conducted paper, containing as comprehensive and complete a record of all that is going on in the sporting world, as it is possible to compile.

The only paper now remaining to be mentioned is The Field. Well done, well dosed, too, with capital, richly illustrated, its career was neither long nor brilliant, although costly enough. The fate of this pictured paper for "gentlemen sportsmen" was rather unlucky, rather premature; and it fell from the high position to which it aspired, certainly not for want of spirit, but probably owing to an appeal made and at an immense current and constant expense, too— to a class of readers not numerous enough to remunerate its proprietary, whose loss, I should think (for I speak not by rule of this print) must be written with at least three, if not four, ciphers, preceded by a highish figure. But newspaper people have ever plenty of pluck; and so The Field, it seems, is still backed by a plucky polyglot party-whether or not at fearful odds, I can't say, because I really don't know anything at all about the paper now.

If I were privileged, like a clever contributor to these pages, to publish my "confessions," too, the "Confessions of a Sporting Man,' I should be obliged to confess that, although they are all well enough in their way, I don't much like any of the sporting hebdomadalsthat is, for my own reading. There are some things in them that set at nought all ordinary notions of their decencies and proprieties. To be sure, I am old ("Old Grey," as they call me down at my old place in the country), and I may not be the best judge of what is opposed to good taste, or of what is at variance with good manners, or of what is repugnant to real refinement, or what has the sparkle and spirit of sporting. But, if I don't know what kind of reading other people dislike, at all events I know what I like to read myself. And I must say--although to be au courant with what is going on in

the sporting spheres from day to day, I can't do without my Bell'sI never am so much at home as when I sit quietly down with this monthly collection of sporting things in my hand. If the reason Why? were asked, I should say-Because at least it has always the negative merit of never having in its pages the objectionable things that are, of necessity, admitted into a fourpenny paper designed for "the diffusion of useful knowledge" amongst all (sporting) classes, but more especially for the delectation of the somewhat unscrupulous "million"-an aggregation of gentry who have tykes and tastes, dirt and diseases, not at all agreeable to the higher order, or, indeed, hardly to any cultivated, respectable class, whether fast or slow.

THE STRICKEN DEER.

The sketch in a back number of this publication is pretty; in fact, it is exquisite. But I don't like the subject of it. I know that a critic who objected to any subject whatever, that was not unquestionably low and grossly material, which this indubitably is not, would be only laughed at for his ignorance. We are, however, not all blessed with a taste for high art. Painters may be placed in a category by themselves, just as Poets are. The divine afflatus is bred and born in them both. Now, that is not precisely the case with me, certainly; nor is it so perhaps with most men. At any rate, in one word, I again say, the subject isn't "my sort." It is suggestive— not of mirth and jollity, but of sadness and sentimentality. For my part, I certainly was not born a poet or a painter; and my love of high art, as 'tis called, never elevated me to anything higher than the box of a mail coach, upon which, by the way, I have sate many a happy mile beside some of the best artists (vulgo drivers) of which Old England ever boasted in days the glory of which has gone by, but which days, with their enchantment, are written right plainly on the tablet of my memory. Well, give me a four-in-hand turn-out, and a pleasant subject, as I intimated before. It is a great mistake, though, to suppose sporting men are like Shakespeare's Beatriceborn to speak all mirth and no matter. Some of us are too much the other way. But even Dr. Johnson (I mean the dictionary doctor), who was a deal too serious, if not indeed almost melancholy mad at times even this great man and grave moralist liked things cheerful to look at, and would always have his rooms papered with the gayest patterns and the brightest tints. Now, the stricken, be it deer or darling, isn't at all cheerful. It is, on the contrary, a saddening sight, a picture that puts one out of spirits. So I vote, like a grumb ling old Opposition M.P. as I am, against engravings of stricken deers and all such sombre things.

It may be perhaps whispered that the writer of these few lines, the gossiping "Old Grey" himself is stricken. He may be a country gentleman plundered by a London money-lender, by a bill-broker, or other beggar-making blackguard. He may be a regimental officer merely-pining in comparative obscurity, without anticipated promotion, and seeing young CECILS every day put over his head. The being placed on the Staff may even seem to him now as distant as death, although almost as desirable as heaven. He may be, in short,

a disappointed man-and a poor devil. Well, well! I'll make you, good reader, my confidant. Expect little from the sympathies of the world, and you will not be much disappointed. Its conscience, too, is very like that of BAILLIE MACWHEEBLE'S-a very quiet one, that never did him any harm. The community's sympathy is not a thing in common: it is reserved entirely for itself. I remember reading the Mountain Decameron, and although it is a good many years ago, I am able to quote a sentence in support of what I have just said. It is this:-"As little as feels the bloody hyena's heart for this heart of mine, feels the general heart of a proud, pretending, highly-civilized community for any particular heart that ever bled or broke, is bleeding or is breaking.

See, Mr. Editor, what your artist, with his selection, is answerable for! "Old Grey" would never have groaned, and gossiped, and galloped over such a course, if it hadn't been for that stricken deer and its damnable suggestiveness.

STRONG MEN AND STRONG DRINK.

Stopping the other day at the Chesterfield station, chances directed my steps to the nearest house, which happened to be a humble-looking place with a mighty big name, called the "Midland Hotel." The host of "mine inn" -one of the finest men I ever saw in my lifein the course of a chat I had with him while my refreshment was being got ready-confessed that he had no taste for strong drink, seldom indeed drinking anything but one cup of coffee for breakfast and one cup at tea-time. He held that drink was the bane of condition, and that water-of which, he said, (and he said so in earnest) he never in his life drank but one glass when a lad, and that made him ill—was even more injurious to him, to his health, than beer and spirits, or tea and coffee, all of which he thought bad for everybody, if more than a very little indeed of them was taken. His notion seemed to be, as far as I could gather, that any quantity of any liquid whatever exceeding a pint a-day, divided into two equal parts, was at variance with health, whether in or out of training. He was shy of saying that he had ever been a pugilist; but I learned that he had made a very good figure both with and without the gloves at Sheffield, where he formerly resided. He is a quiet, shrewd man, not addicted at all to either joking or romancing; and I have no more doubt of the man's veracity about the very small quantity of liquid imbibed by him, than I have of any other respectable man's word. His authority, therefore, must be taken for what it is worth. Here is an innkeeper, a Boniface, a seller of strong drinks, no teetotaler, but who is a type of temperance. This is curious enough perhaps. But the thing to be noted is, that we have in this man of only two go-downs a-day a laurel-crowned hero, an athlete, always, as he says, and looks too, in the highest condition, and always rigidly abstaining, in a most remarkable degree, from all liquid, from every kind of beverage, not taking generally more than a pint of anything a-day. The fellow is as strong as a horse, and does not drink in a month much more than a Newmarket nag in training drinks in a day or two, little as it is.

"Oh-aye," said he, neither wishing to appear surprised, or still less to permit his domestics to suppose their lady had done anything contrary to his wishes. The result, however, of what he saw was an immediate wish to ascertain to what these preparations tended, or at least to what extent; for that an assemblage of persons of no ordinary number was anticipated, was clearly evident.

Mrs. Meredith had shown considerable tact in avoiding an interview with her liege lord prior to the arrival of the guests; for she knew Jack to be far too well bred to evince the slightest disapprobation of her conduct before them, and she also knew his generous and hospitable feelings would conduce to the same result. If she did apprehend any manifestation of his displeasure on the morrow, she felt the éclat of the neighbourhood would more than compensate for any little émeute that might result from it. She little knew the value of the heart she thus trifled with: far less did she know the inflexible and sturdy determination of its owner, in a rightful cause.

Jack, on finishing his toilet for the evening, strolled into the reception-rooms, to see the preparations made by his lady's orders. He entered an ante-room that on all ordinary occasions was used as a drawing-room. Certain minor embellishments to its usual appearance created little surprise, from seeing an unusual assemblage was expected. He walked to the door leading into the principal drawingroom: he found it locked. On demanding the key, he was told it was in the possession of his lady. Jack made no remark; but on the servants retiring, an energetic thrust of his foot burst it open, when, to his unfeigned astonishment, he found the really magnificent room enlarged by a temporarily-constructed apartment, fitted-up as an eastern tent, to be entered from a large window that opened on the lawn. Two extra chandeliers had been put up, in addition to the one in the drawing-room, and one of gigantic dimensions destined to illumine the tent in an equal blaze of light. The library had been converted into a dinner-room for the day; and in the large diningroom he found tables being decorated and covers laid for at least a hundred; and, judging from the first coup d'œil of the uncompleted arrangements, they were intended to display, in common phrase, (6 every delicacy of the season." From that moment, Jack made up his mind as to his future intentions; and a carriage coming round the sweep, he hastened to receive his guests. Mrs. Melville entering at the same moment, Jack showed nothing in his conduct or manner that could tend to any conclusion but that they had passed the morn ing as usual. The dinner for twelve, Jack had ordered prior to leaving home: it was, consequently, in character with the habits and

position in society of the donor; and his conduct and general demeanour were precisely what they would have been had the intended party beeu given with his entire approbation and consent. A peculiarity, however, in the manner of his lady did not escape his penetrating eye. There was a distracted air at times about her that plainly showed some apprehension as to the consequences of the bold step she had ventured on; and at others an over-officious attention to her guests, evidently entered into to avoid addressing her husband more frequently than absolutely necessary. All, however, passed off well. Jack never appeared in better spirits, nor did the honours of his table with more cordial and refined courtesy; so much so, that ere the ladies retired Mrs. Meredith had recovered her usual confidence and serenity. Jack, for many reasons, pressed his friends to sit over their wine longer than he usually did; and it was not till after he had heard the arrival of many equipages, that he assented to the proposal of joining the ladies. He found, as if done by magic during dinner, vestibule and staircase lined with exotics. Coloured lamps hung where lamps had never hung before; and on entering the ante-room door, that apartment, the drawing-room, and Grecian tent elicited a blaze of light that, it was evident, took his friends by surprise. The Grecian tent, with its rich silk lining and draperies, looked really magnificent; and, hurt and angry as Jack naturally felt, he could not but allow to himself that his wife, whose colour was a little heightened by excitement, was certainly the most beautiful woman in the room. An involuntary sigh escaped him, as the fear struck on his mind that so beautiful a casket did not contain the treasure of such a heart as he wished the chosen of his own to possess. He shook off, however, the corroding thought, and during the evening was the gayest of the gay, receiving the compliments paid to Mrs. Meredith's taste in her arrangements with well-acted signs of satisfaction and pleasure. Mrs. Meredith now fancied her triumph complete; and her spirits rose as the idea strengthened that any displeasure on the part of her husband had given way in contemplation of the éclat of the entertainment. She little, however, knew the command that husband had over any outward display of his feelings: still less dreamed she of the sweeping measures he could take when he found such necessary.

On retiring for the night, Jack made no allusion to the party. His lady, however, somewhat timidly remarked that she hoped he thought the little surprise she had planned for him had gone off well. "Nothing could be better arranged," said Jack. He then dropped the subject, and also dropped, or pretended to have dropped, asleep.

The next two days were occupied in restoring things to their usual state. Jack made no remarks, unless addressed, on the subject, and then made his replies without any manifestation of displeasure or reproach. The only alteration perceivable in his usual conduct was his being the greatest part of the day employed in writing, and his then starting for London, but without assigning any reason for so doing, either on going or on his return, which occurred on the third day of

his absence.

The next morning, at breakfast, Jack remarked to his lady, "You