in his habiliments as if he were going to a wedding? Who ever went out chassing with a party of middle class Frenchmen, and can assert that he has ever met with one specimen who had taken the trouble pour se faire la barbe, or even to run the mane-comb through his matted locks, or to wash his grimy-looking digits previous to his presenting his amiable person at the rendezvous.

I was quite ridiculed when I let out one morning that I never left my room, even in travelling, without having first of all performed-although I am no dandy-- ma toilette complete, and discussed my matin, which usually consists of a small cup of coffee and a biscuit, or a bit of bread about twice as big as one's thumb, followed by one cigar, if I have time, let the hour of rising be what it will. I must say I should not like to turn out-even to wade about the morasses of "La grande Fôret de Chatillon "--with clods of mud of a week's standing on my trousers and gaiters, as some do; nor to endure that up-all-nightish feeling which must necessarily accrue to any one who emerges from the sweltering atmosphere of his nightly couch, without undergoing that most sanitary of restoratives a cold sponging-bath.

One would be led to imagine that there was a perfect rivalry among some of the French chasseurs, as to who could make himself the most outré of caricatures: perhaps one man appears to have taken Robinson Crusoe as the model after whom he may have designed his sylvan dress and accoutrements; whilst another has, without doubt, been stage-struck by the picturesque effect given by the monstrous hat of some Alpine brigand. But of all the ridiculous figures that have ever presented themselves to my wondering eyes, in any country, at home or abroad, the chasseur of whom the following is a perfectly true portrait was the most stunning-Upon a figure tall and gaunt, as that of the redoubted knight of La Mancha, were displayed a black crushed hat of enormous dimensions, which overshadowed a physiognomy of rather a gingery complexion, the whiskers belonging to which had been shaved-I won't say clean-leaving as ornaments a huge pair of moustaches, an imperial, and a royal resembling the tuft upon the chin of the most hirsute billygoat. Next came a blouse, into which had been let, upon the breast and shoulders, a goodish quantity of puckered work, resembling the plaiting upon the smockfrecks of the country chawbacons in England, and ornamented up the front by a row of glass buttons, which were perfectly useless, as the blouse was made to pull on and off like a shirt ; a pair of rather seedyish-looking trousers encased what Hammond, breeches-maker, would designate as "a pair of dicky-formed pegs," the ends of which were crammed inside a pair of rather loosely-fitting Wellingtons, which, old as they were, had been pressed into the service of la chasse, to resemble, as much as it were possible to make them, a regular pair of long jack-snipers. So much for the dress, and now for the accoutrements, which consisted of a large net gibecière or game bag, suspended across one shoulder; whilst the opposite one was graced, so as to correspond, with a small otter-skin bottle containing wine, and a horn powder-flask, attached by a green cord; slung across the back, was a regular cornet-à-piston; and to match it, on the other side of the wearer's body hung a short heavy dog-whip; the fusil, to which the never-failing bandoulière or leathern strap was attached, graced the left shoulder, and completed the tableau vivant of this vrai chasseur.

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I followed to the chase this sporting gent upon one occasion, the pack consisting of four dogs, two of them bitches, bred purposely, as it was affirmed, between the hound and pointer, for the purpose of reducing the chasing propensities of the former to the standard of la chasse à pied. Both, however, were in whelp, and had arrived, although it was only the middle of the hunting season, at demi terme as the French call it. The other two were a couple of little roquets, or curs bred in the streets.

As to sport, of course we had none; nevertheless the pack found a roedeer, and hunted him a bit, even if we were so mal-adroit as not to get near enough to it to shoot it. Of music we had plenty, in the shape of little voluntaries upon the cornet-a-piston, whenever any uneven ground presented itself, which might ensure that most disagreeable of all obstacles to effective chasing in deep woodlands-an echo.

As soon as our day's sport was concluded, and the lengthening shadows of the mountain tops began to extend themselves across the frozen valley, and the agueish-looking wintry sun hastened to conceal itself behind the gloomy forest, reminding us of the necessity of driving twelve miles before we could reach our homes, we made the best of our way to the little cabaret where our cart and horse had been put up in the morning; and whilst I attempted to protect my outer man from the freezing winterly blast by putting on a heavy pea-coat and railway rug, my friend enveloped himself in one of really the best coats I ever met with in my life for the purpose of keeping out bad weather in an open dog-cart: it was made of the skins of the long-haired black monkey, the very same description of hanimal wot the old showman used to tell us, in the good old days of the veritable wild-beast shows before they were called menageries, came from "Senigal in Hafrică." And upon the wearer inquiring how I liked his costume, I frankly told him I admired it exceedingly, and should have no objection to make a swap; but that it was sadly deficient in a certain appendage, namely, a long tail; but that addition even ought to be a matter for consideration, as it would in all probability entirely do away with the natural character of the thing, for as he now stood before me upright in his hairy garb, he certainly bore a most undeniable resemblance to that monarch of monkeys, "the great satyr of the woods."

(To be continued.)

ST. HUBERT'S DAY.

BY SCRIBBLE.

St. Hubert happens to be one of those saints least appreciated by the sinners of the present time-why I never could make out. He was the father of foxhunting-at least, he shares that honour with the St. Wards and St. Meynells of our own day. He was a first-flight man, as far as archery could make him so, in his own country, Aquitaine, and

would doubtless have been so in Leicestershire; but no one appreciates his merits in England: it is in Germany alone that, like other dogs, he has his day. That day is the 3rd of November; and I wish very much, courteous reader, to enlighten you upon the mysteries and ceremonies of this auspicious festival.

I not unfrequently receive from aged spinsters, on the 14th of February, pale-pink effusions, dated St. Valentine's Day. A haunch of venison is often announced to me in a manner which makes me feel that St. Margaret, virgin and martyr, is a much more important personage than my respected parents imagined. Young Straightlace, the new curate, has a little whist and oysters for a select few on St. George's Day, which his worthy but ignorant rector only knows as the 23rd of April. But no one ever yet gave me a mount on St. Hubert's Day, though I have been at the cover side, on another man's horse, on the 3rd of November. This induces me to believe that nothing is known to the British youth of this sporting character; before, therefore, entering upon the heavy business of a German Treibejagd, and the other mysteries of the festival, I must give a sketch of St. Hubert's history, and the pretty little allegory it contains.

Aquitaine, or what you know (if you know anything) under the name of Guienne (for even in 825 A.D. it was not quite so extensive as heretofore), was a very fine and well-wooded province of the south of France; on one of its finest sites, and overlooking a magnificent prospect of wood and water, was a baronial castle, such as is scarcely to be seen save in North Wales or the pantomime of Jack-the-Giant-Killer. In this chateau lived one Sir Hubert; and it was about as uncomfortable and gloomy as loopholes, moats, portcullis, and oubliettes could make it. Sir Hubert-for he was not yet sanctified-lived comfortably enough in his roomy mansion; he thought of nothing, talked of nothing, dreamed of nothing but sporting: he was the strictest preserver and greatest enemy to poachers of the ninth century. Though he despised the leather breeches and top-boot glitter of the affair, his whole soul was in it. His castle showed it. His hall so old was hung around with every weapon for the destruction of wild quadrupeds, from a bear to a weasel. The only song he knew was Mr. Paul Bedford's favourite ditty"The chase, oh! the chase, oh! the chase!"

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he was a master of hounds, an M.F.H.- -or rather would have been, had he lived now.

That was a religious age; people went to church, kept the feasts, sometimes the fasts, and were neither high church nor low. But oh! Sir Hubert, you would hunt on the fast days; like the under-graduates at Oxford, there was no lecture on those days; but your fast days were nearly numbered.

Sir Hubert sat in a fine large hall in the castle : rushes covered the floor, and like luxuries surrounded the room.

"Roger," quoth he, "we must hunt the stag to-day."

Roger was a lean, hungry-looking dog, in sandals, a belt, and a dogwhip, and he considered himself rather well got up.

"Roger," quoth he "we must hunt the stag to-day."

"To-day, Sir Knight?" Roger was not so keen-besides, he had a conscience.

"Aye, to-day; why not?"

Does his honour forget that this is Ash-Wednesday?".

Here the Baron let fall such a heavy expletive on the subject, that Roger stood aghast.

"Am I to uncouple the hounds, Sir Knight?"

"Ya wohl," said the Baron; for though living in Aquitaine, Sir Hubert was a Hochwohlgeborener Deutscher, and smoked and drank, and drank and smoked, and smoked and drank, and smoked again.

So out came the knight with the hounds, and the couples, and the bugles, and the boar spears, and the couteaux de chasse; and out came the retainers and beaters, and a crowd of hangers-on unequalled by anything useless, save one's attendants on an Irish snipe bog; and out came the Baron himself, horse and all; and a slashing-looking fellow he was, in his doublet and hose, and boots with long toes; and, by the look of his eye, and the determined way in which the smoke from his meerschaum curled round his nose, I would rather not have been the boar that met with him.

The Baron was out a considerable time that day. The chasse was by no means satisfactory: whatever he had seen he kept to himself: he sent away his venison and potherbs untasted, but he made a lamentable hole in his best bin. His retainers knew nothing, or would know nothing, about the business; they had been separated from the Baron; and Roger, who remained with him, was gone to bed.

From that day his love for the chase gradually subsided in three weeks he did not even affect it, though his absences from home were as frequent as usual. He grew more particular about his " aves and "paters," and might almost be called a religious man."

His own version of his conversion was as follows :-

On the day in question, Ash-Wednesday, he had started in the face of saints and sinners, determined upon a first-rate chasse. Through brake and briar he wandered; he beat every lair in the forest; he tried for a boar, a wolf, a deer, a fox, a hare, until he would have given his hand to have seen even a squirrel. Never was such a day! He anathematized the whole country, dismissed his attendants, and smoked a pipe.

He was about finishing this latter occupation, when, through the dim glades of the forest, he saw coming towards him a hart; it was of great size, of beautiful shape, and milk-white colour: it continued to approach, though evidently perceiving him. Within a few yards of Sir Hubert it stood still, whilst he fitted an arrow to his string; he was about to draw the bow, when his hand fell, for between the horns of the animal was a golden crucifix. It was no mortal stag, and Sir Hubert was for once subdued.

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What the stag said, or what Sir Hubert did, nobody knows. only know that he first of all gave up hunting on fast days, and very soon afterwards altogether. As soon as Lent was over, he retired to the forest of Ardennes, and lived" cleanly" to the end of his days. His love of good living made him Bishop of Liege, and his alms and his piety made him a saint in the Romish Calendar.

Roger, I grieve to say it, was given to drink; consequently on the very night of his late master's canonization, he got more drunk than usual. "When the wine is in, the wit is out," is a well-known proverb; I trust, therefore, Roger, in what he then related, was not imposing

upon the credulity of the servants' hall; on the contrary, it is to be hoped, for Roger's own sake, that the other proverb on the same subject, "In vino veritas," was exemplified in Roger's explanation. Upon the white hart being mentioned, he winked his eye, "White hind, ye mean," quoth he. There was nothing so odd in a mistake like this, but that it might have passed. However, Roger was too talkative, and the rest too inquisitive, to let the matter drop, and before the end of the evening the white hind with the crucifix proved to be a very beautiful and innocent religieuse, with whom Sir Hubert fell in love. The price of her companionship was the sacrifice of his venatorial inclinations; he was to assist her in her works of charity and devotion, and to leave the beasts of the field to their own devices. An amicable arrangement was entered into, upon terms of this nature; and the benedict gave up his hunting and shooting, to devote himself to the cultivation of the lady's tastes.

Sir Hubert the foxhunter was one of the finest fellows of his day, St. Hubert the devout, as is too often the case, was an unmitigated humbug.

One of the most amusing days, morning and evening, I ever spent upon the continent, was dedicated to the mysterious memory of this canonised forester.

On the borders of Guelderland, not far from the banks of the Rhine, or rather near where it assumes the name of the Waal, stands the small town of Clèves. Situated amidst hanging woods and gardens, surrounded by charming walks and avenues of a fine dry soil, it makes a sort of Bath, Leamington, or Cheltenham to the Dutch merchants and traders of Rotterdam or Amsterdam, who occasionally come here, with their wives and daughters, to rusticate in the neat lodging-houses, or countryfied-looking hotels, which are situated in the environs of the

town.

The season was long over: the tide of tea-drinkers, and the feet of dancing women, had wended back their way to the land of fog and fabriques. I still lingered on; and having made some excursions in Rhenish Prussia, found myself again at Clèves about the beginning of November, 18— A.D.. The third of that month being, as I said before, the day dedicated in the calendar of saints to Hubert, formerly of Aquitaine, I was anxious to see in what manner the credit of so great a sportsman and humbug was to be maintained. It was by the kind invitation of one of the principal chasseurs of the neighbourhood that I obtained permission to be present at these Eleusinian mysteries.

The morning was to be ushered in by a glorious Treibejagd and dinner; the evening was to be consummated by a ball and supper, to which were attached some very curious proceedings; and as Germans are remarkable for their love of abstract principles, tobacco, and dancing, there is possibly some connection between them, though I do not see it.

After a very hearty meal of sausage-rolls and coffee, with a schnaps, which ranks as an element with earth, air, fire, and water, we sallied out to the rendezvous. Of chasseurs there might have been twenty; of riff-raff, or beaters, about a hundred. Every man had a bobtailed pointer, a gun, with a very broad green leather strap (which reminded me of Tom Cooke and Caspar) a large game-bag, in the net of which might be seen loaves, cheese, knuckles of ham, butterbrodchens, and