patience, and I will soon explain that to you, Guy. About a fortnight ago, not more, I was reading the newspaper after breakfast, when my old uncle walked into the room with a letter in his hand, which he eyed from time to time with a most doubtful look. Here, Jem,' said he, holding it forward to me, 'is a letter' marked "immediate" on the cover. It was enclosed in one to me from a Mr. Nosyde, evidently some lawyer, with the request that if you were not with me, it might be forwarded to your whereabouts without delay, as the matter was very urgent. I hope, my boy, you have not been getting into any trouble unknown to me, or attempting to hide it from me. However, here it is.'

"I took it hurriedly from his hand, and instantly opened it; whereupon I discovered that it contained a smaller one, the direction of which was evidently written by a lady. I determined, in order to relieve any suspicions of my good old uncle's, to read them aloud. The first was as follows:

DEAR SIR,-I beg to enclose you a letter from poor Mrs. May, the wife of your very intimate friend and school-fellow Guy May. Her condition is most critical, and she cannot, I fear, survive many days; therefore, I trust, upon reading her note, you will be of the same opinion as myself, that not a moment should be lost in trying to render her this last and painful service. Anxiously awaiting your receipt of this, and reply, "I am yours faithfully,

'W. NOSYDE.'

'To J. Wadham, Esq." The smaller one, which showed by its trembling penmanship, great symptoms of her sad state, ran thus :

'Bryanstone Square, London.

"MY DEAR MR. WADHAM,-I am now on my death bed. May God in his mercy and goodness only spare me for a short time longer, although I feel I cannot die before I have accomplished my design, and made a holy effort to save my dear, lost, unfortunate husband, and heal the wound unintentionally inflicted. I have one favour to beg of you, it the last I shall ever ask of any one in this world; let me entreat you to grant Hasten to me at once, that I may communicate it to you, before too late; for my sand of life has nearly run out, and I grow hourly weaker. God will reward you, Mr. Wadham, and oh! how grateful and happy may you yet make two hearts. I cannot write more, but believe me ever, your sincere well-wisher and deeply obliged friend, AGNES MAY.'

it me.

"My worthy old uncle had already heard from my lips much concerning you; indeed, during our private chattings of a winter's evening, I may say I had told him everything, even the crushing secret at your last interview with her. I had now nothing to add. The good man took it immediately to his warm kind heart, and as if it had been appealed to, set to work to make preparations for my instant departure, which I need not tell you took but a very few minutes. Now, my boy,' he exclaimed enthusiastically, as the trap drove round to the door,' be off, and do the best you can for the suffering lady. Let me hear from you from London, if only a few lines; and as you may want money, take these. Don't on any account lose time.' I pocketed the bank notes, and made the best of my way to Edinbugh, which, by the help of one of his best horses, I reached two hours before the mail started, and in time to secure an outside seat; you know the rest. I accepted the duty as if it was one commanded me from above, and all hearts beat high with the hopes of my success. Mr. Nosyde shook me cordially by the hand, for him at least, apologising with professional humility

for the trouble I had been put to, at the same time presenting me with two hundred pounds, to be placed to your credit; one of which you have had, and now here is the other."

"But," said I, as I folded up the necessary evil," did he send me no message, nor anything about me?"

"Nothing, Guy," he coolly responded; "he merely remarked in his apology, by way, I presume, of complimenting me, that he knew of no one but myself that had the slightest control over you, or could reach your impenetrable heart; as for himself and others, all were equally afraid of your temper and violence, and would not have the slightest chance with you of succeeding. I have succeeded, have I not, Guy?"

"You have, dear Jemmy, thoroughly," I warmly replied, placing my hand in his; "I am completely vanquished. I only wish that this d-n chaise would fly, instead of dragging its slow length along like a

snail."

"We are going a terrific pace, Guy, and here you see we have just reached the outskirts of London.'

I was insensible to locality, and merely sighed forth, "Oh, God! if we should be too late!" He answered me faintly, also with a sigh, "Ah, that is my only fear!"

THE CHORISTERS.

ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY E. CORBET.

Here they come with a crash! topping the fallen beech and making the glade ring with the echo of a good old English tune, free from bounce or boasting, or sickening sentimentalism. Chorus, my lads! Have at him. What a head they carry, throwing their whole hearts as well as lungs and tongues into their song! Away they fly-how they warm to the music-and now they have fairly warmed to the tune and skim over the pastures at a pace that tells, as they crash through a bullfinch, top a wall, fly a park-paling, or plunge with a dash and splash into some cold grimy brook. Talk of national songs, or even some of a more doleful strain, and what are they compared to this genuine heart-warming, soul-stirring old English tune of Nature's own composing, to whom all other composers are and ever will be but milksops! A tune that horses, hounds, and men of all sorts and condition by instinct take to-and the ladies as well, for if we omit them we shall have the whole army of fair amazons double thonging us-headed by "huntsman Diana with his bow and quiver, rosy round face and hunting address" as an old sporting farmer of our boyhood loved to paint the fair Goddess, when giving vent to his pent-up feelings after a Hunt dinner and sundry glasses of punch, to be joined in with a thundering chorus from a jovial band of choristers, on his appealing to a stout brother on his right, with a sonorous voice, which answered freely enough to the call of" now, then, chorus, Tommy."

Long has this good old English tune of the Choristers lived among us, and long still may it be handed down from generation to generation. May the horn of the hunter and the chorister's song echo in our woods and glades, till the blast of the last trump; for in spite of a few Methodist parsons and humanity humbugs, some selfish gamepreservers, and mischief-making keepers, this good old tune has done more for good-fellowship, manhood, and gallantry than any other melody ever chanted.

"HERE'S

SPORT INDEED!"

BY LORD WILLIAM LENNOX.

SHAKSPEARE,

CHAP. CVII.

Autumn has now set in, and the month of October to the sportsman is a busy time; he may now commence a campaign against the pheasants, and if a lover of the "noble science," he may pass many a happy hour cub-hunting, looking forward to the 1st of November, when foxhunting may be said really to begin. Upon this day the Quorn hounds have their annual meet at Kirbygate, and from this date the meets of all the staghounds and foxhounds appear regularly in the London newspapers. Many of our ancient and modern poets have described the charms of Autumn, as will be seen from the following extracts:

"Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,

As though he joyed in his plenteous store,

Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad
That he had banish'd hunger, which to fore
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore:
Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'd
With ears of corn of ev'ry sort he bore;
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,

To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had gold."

So wrote Spencer, the great master of personification, when painting the genius of the season; and Chatterton follows in the same strain:

"When Autumn bleak and sunburnt do appear
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,

Bringing up winter to fulfil the year,

Bearing upon his back the riped sheaf,

Keats, too, in beautiful imagery describes Autumn as

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel."