three thousand brave fellows blown to atoms in the course of a few months from various other disasters. These things, however, are the fate of war, and are set down to the general account. I regret to say, the Honorable Captain is occasionally a severe sufferer by the gout, and perhaps none the better for foreign climates; but, when tolerably well, no man can enjoy himself more. To the frankness of the sailor, he unites the address of the man of fashion and of the world; it is impossible to imagine a more agreeable companion. I must also style him-although a sailor, and very near-sighted-a capital hand across a country, and very fond of a bit of blood. I was truly sorry to hear his horse died after our good run, but I think condition was not so good as the Captain's nerves. Mr. William Williamson (brother to Sir Hedwith)-commonly called Billy Williamson-deserves notice as the most straight-forward rider of this Hunt, and a very popular character wherever he goes. He is a second Ajax-fearless and intrepid; and being six feet high, with great strength, and in the bloom of manhood, he is just the man to get to hounds over a stiff country, on a good horse. There is, however, some truth in what the farmer said about the cast iron nag. He certainly is too severe upon his horse, and does not pick his ground enough for a man of his weight to live with hounds to the end of a good run. He should recollect he rides fifteen stone, and is, what is called, long in the legthough none, perhaps, the worse for that. Billy Williamson is one of the right stamp of young men, and I wish it were possible he could stock half the counties in England with his sort, We are hard to beat now-at least I hope so; but then we should be invincible. Mr. Harland, of Sutton Hall, Yorkshire, a member of this Hunt, is a very pretty performer over a country, and had a very neat stud for a man of his light weight. They appeared either quite thorough-bred, or within a toucher, and three of the four were purchased of Mr. Ralph Lambton. His condition also was, I think, the best I saw in Durham. In consequence of the unfavorable and uncertain state of the weather, I did not see several of the members of Mr. Lambton's Hunt, and I fear my chance of doing so is now out. I have received several pressing invitations to renew my visit; and indeed such was the hos pitality of the county of Durham, that if I had taken them in turns, I might have spent the next twelve months among my newly-acquired friends. As I said before, there is a gulf between us, two hundred miles wide, or they might depend upon my being amongst them again; for they answered all NIM NORTH'S description of them, and a little more. On the morning on which I quitted Sedgefield, I met Mr. Bowser's harriers about four miles from Rushyford Inn. This gentleman resides at Bishop Auckland, about ten miles to the westward of Sedgefield, and at about equal distances from the Raby and Sedgefield Hunts. He himself was out, in a scarlet coat; but his hounds were hunted by an amateur, and what in this part of the world is called a Statesman-Anglicè, a Yeoman. The Statesman here was the well-known Tommy Chapman, whom I afterwards saw with Lord Darlington's hounds, Knowing him to be a sportsman, I tried hard to get a wrinkle or two out of him as to the country, &c.; but John Burrell's lingo is plain English to his, and nothing but a glossary could have enabled us to hold sweet converse. It sometimes happens that our Southern Statesmen are difficult to comprehend; but Tommy Chapman would puzzle the Devil himself unless he were bred in Durham. On this day I recognized in the field the young Oxonian whose horse I had blooded at the end of a fine day's sport with Sir Thomas Mostyn's hounds two years ago, and by which the life of the poor animal was saved. I did not then know his name, but found it to be Gregson, and was informed that he had a pretty property in that part of the world; was likely to make a good sportsman; and was much patronised by Mr. Ralph Lambton. I hope he will not forget the grueling he gave the Oxford hack, but cherish it in his memory as a hint not to persevere when it is evident that nature has said "enough." I have not much to say about Mr. Bowser's harriers. I saw them to disadvantage, having just gotten a draft from another pack, which did not at all match to the eye. I was given to understand they bear a good character for sport, and they have a fair country; but having no scent, I could form no opinion of them on this occasion. Report also speaks well of Mr. Bowser, their owner; and Tommy Chapman is worth having a peep at, even if a shilling were the forfeit. After my hare-hunting with Mr. Bowser, I had the pleasure of visiting Mr. Duncombe Shafto at his fine seat at Whitworth, where a large party was assembled. As it is the general custom of the present day for hunting men to be clad in scarlet in the evening as well as the morning, I appeared at dinner in that costume; and, luckily for me, the Very Reverend the Dean of Durham had taken his departure a few hours before, having been staying in the house for some days. My bit of pink would have formed an awkward contrast to his grave attire, and the more so, as it happened to be the only one in the room. Although Mars and Venus are his reputed parents, yet, according to the fancies of the poets, the little God of Love had neither father nor mother, but succeeded immediately to Chaos. Be this as it may, the history of Love commences with the history of mankind, and our first parent shadowed out the fate of his descendants. Indeed it is written in the fates that, once in his lifetime, every son of Adam shall be vanquished by a woman! We cannot escape the gentle passion; and it has been clearly displayed, that neither the wisdom of Solomon nor the piety of David could make fight against it. Who, however, can marvel at this? It is supposed by many, that, when the Maker of the universe created woman, he rested from his labour, as if his wisdom and skill could not surpass her, and his plastic power had done its best. Thus it is that we only turn over four leaves in the Bible before we are informed that "the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair, and they took them wives of all which they chose." Here then, it seems, match-making began. Amongst the party at Whit worth was Mr. Harland, of Sutton "There was not half a kiss to Who loved another best." For once it appears I guessed right. In three or four months afterwards this happy couple were man and wife, and here I think they shewed their sense. Long courtships are stupid things, and voted slow. Besides which, delays are dangerous; for it sometimes happens that beauty is but short-lived; and what then?— "Soon fades the rose; once past the fra grant hour, The loit'rer finds a bramble for a flower." The English of which is the Loves and Graces sport not in wrinkles, nor does pleasure dwell upon the faded lip. I am quite certain that the love of the sexes is the master-piece of Nature, and the period of courtship the very quintessence of life. "When Fancy tells her tender tale, And Passion swells her gentle gale," even a cabbage garden is an Elysium; but how much heightened must this pleasure be amidst all the refinements of fashionable life! For my own part I confess, when I see two ardent lovers together, I not only have a strong sympathe tic feeling, but no small share of envy at their happy state. Racing is associated with the name of Shafto, and on the sideboard at Whitworth I saw several racing cups. They were won by a horse called Whitworth, by Agonistes-a very fair racer, and the sire of many capital hunters. Mr. Shafto still breeds thoroughbred ones, and I was told has a clever two-year-old colt by Whisker, out of his St. George mare. as Mr. Thomas Shafto (commonly called Tom Shafto), brother to Mr. Duncombe Shafto, is a very conspicuous character in the Lambton Hunt, and may be truly termed a dear lover of for-hunting. He has fallen under my observation in some of my previous letters as having possessed, as well having made a hunter of, that very celebrated horse, the original Clipper, on which that fine rider, Mr. Lindow, for so many years starred over Leicestershire. The temper of this horse was very violent, and he gave Mr. Shafto a great many falls before he completed his education. Falls, we know, are awkward things, and not unfrequently do they damp the ardour of young sportsmen, and give them a distaste for the rough, though noble, amusement of foxhunting; but when I relate an anecdote of Mr. Thomas Shafto, who will assert that, with such men as himself, broken bones or fractured skulls would be even as a feather in the scale against the impassioned delight of this noble science? Twenty years since, Mr. Tho mas Shafto was a Captain in the North York Militia, and quartered in the Sister Kingdom. Having obtained leave of absence, he took • Shakspeare. his passage in a Liverpool packet, and attempted to cross the Channel on his return to England. The propelling power of steam was then unknown-at least to nautical uses-and, by the violence of adverse winds, the vessel could not keep her course. Being driven near shore, with but little prospect of weathering it, the Captain of the packet thought proper to apprise his passengers of their imminent peril-adding, indeed, that he had no hopes of saving them from a watery grave! Captain Shafto was accompa nied at this time by one of his brother officers, and both heard the dreadful tidings at the same moment. Captain Johnson, much to his credit, fell on his knees, and began to implore the Throne of Grace; and doubtless Captain Shafto did the same, as soon as he recovered from his dread surprise. But such is the infirmity of corrupt nature, that mortal man can with difficulty renounce the pleasures of this world, nor persuade themselves they shall find still better in the next; and this must have been the case with Tom Shafto. There cannot be a doubt but on this trying occasion Lord Darlington and his fox-hounds, as well as his friend Ralph Lambton, flitted across his fancy; for in the agony of the moment he did not exclaim, like the jailor in the Bible, "What shall I do to be saved ?" but, sitting up in his bed, he heaved a sigh, and addressed his brother officer in the following words, "I say, Bob,no more Uckenby whin*!!" Surely this was the ruling passion strong in death! On another occasion, Mr. Thomas Shafto afforded an instance of the prevalence-we might al most call it dominion-of any par- "I ; Mr. Thomas Shafto is a single man, and at present resides with his elder brother at Whitworth. He is an excellent judge of a horse a good sportsman, and rider ; and, what is more, a very good fellow. To the eye, it must be allowed he has some personal peculiarities-the straight-cut coat; boots and breeches by no means good; a little of his friend Sir Tatton's style about him (by no means a bad one, reader!), and he rides a race nearly as well. As for myself, I liked him much. There is not an atom of humbug about him; but if there was, I must esteem him for thinking of fox-hunting in his last moments—at least, in what he had reason to believe would be his last. I was much pleased with my visit to Whitworth, and very much regretted I could not repeat it. Mr. Shafto and his Lady (sister to the present Sir Robert Eden, of Windlestone, in the county of Durham, Bart.) are first cousins to each other, and appear equally gifted with that suavity of manner that renders the marriage state delightful. On Thursday, 14th of Decem• A favorite covert in Lord Darlington's Hunt, near Catterick Bridge, ber, I turned my back upon Durham, and went to visit a Shropshire acquaintance who resides at Yarm, and whose name is Flounders. I was, when at his house, within a very easy distance of the far-famed Hurworth hounds, which met the next day at Croft Bridge, on the Great North Road, and which bridge, I before mentioned, divides the counties of York and Durham. As it was, I was too late for dinner; but I at one time despaired of getting to my friend at all, and by a circumstance worth naming. The distance from Darling ton (which I passed through) to Yarm is five miles, for which I allowed myself somewhat about half an hour, the road being none of the best, but I did not reach it under an hour. The delay arose from my meeting something, which I could only compare to a moving hell. Excuse my profaneness-if such it can be called-for I cannot find any other simile. This turned out to be a locomotive steam engine, which, running parallel with and close to the road, so alarmed my back, that it was in vain that I tried to make him face it. This, however, is not to be wondered at; for a horse is naturally a timid animal, and this machine was enough to alarm the Devil himself, if he had met with it, as my horse did, out of his own country. The night was dark, which increased the terrors of it and it really was a frightful object. The noise of the wheels-perhaps twenty pairs-the working of the engine, the blazing fires of blue and yellow hues, the hissing of the steam, and the black-faced wretches, with their red lips and white teeth, running to and fro, all conspired to heighten the re semblance, and my astonishment increased the more when I reflected on such a nuisance as this being suffered so close to a turnpike road. The only way in which I got past it at last was to get my horse into a hole, with his tail towards the machine; but I never saw an animal so alarmed. I was surprised, however, to hear Mr. Flounders say his carriage horses passed it without any fear the first time they met it; but this may be attributed to the winkers on their bridles, and their heads being coupled closely together, as in harness. On passing through Darlington I saw several coaches that travel on the rail roads. They are drawn by one horse-the resistance being trifling; have a box at each end of the carriage, for reasons that are obvious; and by their dirty appearance, seemed quite adapted to the passengers who travel by them. On Friday morning, Mr. Flounders accompanied me to Croft Bridge, to meet the Hurworth hounds, which place was about eight miles from Yarm. We took the cross roads; and on my observing to Mr. F. on the hardness of their materials, he told me there was a vein of basalt that traversed that part of England, to the extent of about sixty miles, and which is supposed to be the most durable stone we have. We passed close to a very magnificent building, which struck me with astonishment in this retired part of the country. This was the hotel at Middleton Spa, on the pro perty of Mr. J. G. Lambton, who represents the County of Durham in Parliament. It is not only a stupendous but an elegant build ing of this description, and detached are stabling and coach |