"Good heavens," she cried, as I felt the nervous grip of her fingers tightening into my aru," surely he is never going to change hands and shoot with his left ?"

"Hush," I whispered," he practises most things with both hands-he writes, draws, fences, and carves with his left; therefore, why not"At that very instant puff came the smoke from his barrel.

"Oh, bravo! look! he has got it-severely too!" she exultingly exclaimed, as Carter threw up his arms, and, reeling a pace or two, fell to the ground. His seconds and Perrignez were quickly with him, and, supporting him in their arms and undoing his waistcoat, exposed the wound. It was not fatal; the ball had glanced off his side, attributable only to his position; and, as it were, the cross-fire of Conolly's left: had it hit him from his right hand, it would probably have killed him on the spot.

Thus ended a duel, for which there was not the slightest necessity by any law or code of honour. It was a case from the beginning entirely for the police. The Master of the Ceremonies at the Establissement, instead of thrusting out Carter, should have detained him in custody. Conolly's gallantry was so much courage wasted; but the affair falling into the hands of the military, it assumed an international character, which the old soldier Perrignez determined should be settled by blood alone, especially as the Irish and English were the challengers. After a drop of cognac, and placing his arm carefully in an impromptu sling, Conolly and I rode together gently towards home, on the road to which we waved a kind and tender recognition to the lovely and eccentric Lola Montez. What a fate awaited her!

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

The mission of that return pair of posters is in these times clear enough. They have been to take the crack home again to his box at Ilsley or Russley, after his race for the Two Thousand; and had Dibden lived and written the High-mettled Racer in our generation, he might have made the contrast still stronger. The sketch is full of character, with the boy's horse fairly steadied by the storm, and the grey dragging, as a led-horse always will drag, at his bridle. Et mihi contingit adire; we have ourselves ridden over the Downs at all seasons and all times, from early morn until far into the night, when, with the blinding rain driving in our face, we have dropped the rein on our hack's neck at the cross-roads, and left it to his better memory to find the way to Wallingford.

The "business" of the road is becoming more and more of a myth, and one looks as hard now at a pair of posters as we did years back at a railway engine. Still, to be sure, we did leave Brighton last Autumn with Mr. Chandos Pole and that smart "birthday team" of chesnuts;

a ride that revived many a scene in our memory when "the journey" up was enjoyable as a day with hounds.

Never mind how long since when, with the Sporting Review fairly launched, and Nimrod, Craven, Grantley Berkeley, Delmé Radcliffe, and Lord William at work, we dared to paraphrase Goldsmith's Deserted Village:

Where steady posters might be found always,
A careful driver, and a neat post-chaise;
To hurl the Member up at tip-top pace,
To ease his conscience, or to keep his place;
The maiden flying from her guardian's rage,
In Hymen's Union venturing a stage-
These knew no more, or anxious fear or doubt,
As quick they signall'd for 'The first turn out!'

Of course, The Union was a coach on the road. Or, for the other side of the picture:

ran on.

No more is heard the mellow winding horn,
Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn;
No spicy change now waits for the Down Mail,
For, woe is me! The Gloster's on the rail,
No more is heard the busy cheerful din

In the full yard, that marks a thriving inn.
Unheeded here the ready ostler's call;
The only pair are weary of their stall.'
Silent the joke of 'Boots,' ne'er known to fail,
The keeper's whistle, and the post-boy's tale.
No waiter now bestirs him for the nonce,
To answer fifty gen'elmen at once.
E'en Bessy's self, the bar's fair boast,

The cook-maid's envy, and the bagman's toast,
Whose winning smile was so well known to fame
That for a ray each happy freshman came-
E'en she, so drear and hopeless is the case,
Has packed her traps, and bolted for her place!

The "keeper," be it understood, is the horse-keeper. And so it We thought a deal of those lines in those days, and a deal more when we nervously cut into next month's number and found them fairly in print.

But never mind, old boy, if you do get a wet jacket! for that other yellow jacket has landed a race at Newmarket, and the day's work is worth a golden guinea to you anyhow, let alone what it may be when you bring him back from Epsom.

REMINISCENCES

OF A COCKNEY.

BY FORWARD.

SECOND SERIES.-No. III.

HAYMAKERS.

What a delightful contrast is presented to the cockney when, in answer to his friend's or relatives' invite, he finds himself some score of miles from his accustomed haunts, and treading a natural carpet of the most verdant colour, instead of the hot hard pavements of the crowded City! Here he can move about at liberty, in lieu of being jostled or thrust aside at every step. No clouds of dust assail his parched throat and impede the due circulation of his blood, and the carrolling birds or cawing of the passing rooks contrast strangely with the ceaseless humming of the countless voices which greet his ears in the busy marts of the vast Metropolis. No rumbling of carts and waggons annoy him as he walks along; but should he meet a passing vehicle, his mind is cheered with the prospect of future plenty, and relieved from the anxieties of his daily cares and vexations. The waggoner's salutation, or rustic obeisance, presents a striking difference, compared with the nonchalance of the London carman, and calls pleasantly to his mind his present certitude of safety when opposed to his recollection of the dangers of a London street-crossing. No fears of pickpockets molest him in his solitary rambles, and with appetite renewed by healthy exercise, he returns to his quarters ready for the plain but substantial repast which awaits him. The ham and peas, with perchance a young chicken or duck, have an extraordinary relish quite unknown to him when dining in his City chop-house, or at his usual six o'clock meal, and he wonders at the difference, which really consists more in his changed avocations, than in the qualities of the articles themselves. He begins to understand Lord Byron's idea that boiled bacon and broad beans is a dish fit for royalty itself, because he now is in possession of that sauce which makes it appetizing. His cigar or pipe assumes a finer flavour, and the glass of wine, even if home made, relishes beyond all the viands he may meet with at Richmond or at Greenwich. The evening stroll, especially after a passing shower, prepares him for the crust of home-made bread and glass of old October, and he retires to his couch a contented and not a worn-out man.

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,"

sings one of our native poets, and with the rising of the sun he hears the summons to life and labour. A dip in the nearest stream, or, wanting that, a thorough sponge-bathing, cleanses him from the perspiration engendered during the night, and a visit to the cow-house enlightens him as to the difference between London and country milk.