that ever was witnessed. It is the chorus of a hunting song, not the old "There's nothing CAN compare To hunting of the hare!" but a regular ballad, built by the local bard of the country in honour and glory of Trumper himself, descriptive of his superlative qualities, his keenness -his gameness-the worth of his hounds, with the usual flourish about his love of the poor and all that sort of thing, the chorus of which is "May Trumper live a thousand years, a thousand years, And I be there to see." This is the stock song of a certain set in our country; the farmers sing it, the ale-houses roar with it-it comes belching out of the beer-shop doors-the clods hum it at the smithy, and altogether it is just as well known as the cross in the market-place. If I have heard it sung once in Trumper's presence, I have heard it sung fifty times, and have often wished for the pencil of Thackeray to sketch the delightful complacency with which he sits listening to all the handsome things that are said of him. But richer far is the twinkle of his eye and the sly chuckle of his face as he prepares to let off the well-accustomed joke. It is a fine piece of acting. The first time over he merely puts on a wise face and cocks his ear as if surprised at the proposition, and considering whether, if he is to take a lease certain, he may not as well ask for twelve or fifteen hundred years. Then he listens while the song recites the stoutness of his horses and the mettle of his hounds, when he begins fidgeting his great patent cords about in the arm-chair, as if unable to sustain the idea of separating from the darlings at any time; but when the chorus again bursts forth, limiting him to a paltry "THOUSAND YEARS,”. his feelings quite overcome him, and starting from his seat, he exclaims at the top of his voice, "I DON'T LIKE TO BE STINTED!" amidst the uproarious plaudits of the delighted company. Hooray! hooray! hooray! hooray! Reader! what say you to "One cheer more for old Trumper!" HOORAY! "Confound it," continued Tom, rousing up with the excitement produced by this last recollection, "I'll be hanged if I won't put these thoughts upon paper-make an article for Bell's Life, the Quarterly Review, or some of the periodicals." So saying, he snuffed the thick-wicked cauliflowerheaded candles, stirred the fire, arranged his paper, and when he had got all ready he found his thoughts had taken flight and he could not catch any of them. He therefore went to bed instead. CHAPTER VIII. THE STOUT-AS-STEEL HOUNDS. PEOPLE who fancy all the dirt and discomforts of life are centered in large towns, have only to visit the small one of Sludgington to satisfy themselves of their error. One would think that a place through which a two-horse coach can barely pay its way thrice a week, would be tolerably free from the noise and din of bustling places; but not even the "White Horse" in Fetter-lane, or the old "Bull and Mouth," in their noisiest, dirtiest, most coaching times, could surpass the disquiet of the Goldtrap Arms. Long before daylight Mr. Scott was aroused by the roll of carts, and the most unearthly yells proceeding from the drivers to their horses; a sort of guttural sound, that seemed to come up from their very stomachs, much like what one hears aboard a steam packet. Having once commenced, the nuisance was repeated every halfhour or so, either at the front or the side of the house, both of which passages his bedroom commanded, until it seemed as if all the carts in the world were grinding about the Goldtrap Arms. Sleep with such a noise was impossible, even if his old friend the cuckoo clock had not kept jingling, clattering, and chiming, in the intervals unoccupied by the carters. He was curious to see what could cause such commotion, and availed himself of the first dawn of day to look out of the window to see what sort of a morning it was, and look what the carts were loaded with. Of course they then suspended operations for a time; and having tired of staring at the closed shutters of the chemist's opposite, and the sign of " Isabella Jenkins, licensed dealer in tea, coffee, tobacco and snuff," at the side, he again crept into bed, thinking the transit was past, and he might yet sleep off the head-achey discomforts of the night. No such thing, however. Just as he was dropping into a doze, jingle, jingle, jingle, went the works of the old cuckoo clock, bang flew the doors, out pounced the bird, and cuckoo cuckoo! cuckoo! sounded with the most provokingly prolonged monotony. When it ceased, two cats on the top of Isabella Jenkins' house commenced a serenade that was enough to disturb the whole town. "Flesh and blood can't stand this!" cried Tom, turning deliberately out of bed and groping for his razor. "I'll abate two nuisances at once; So, stealing quietly on to the staircase where the clock was, he very soon returned with its weights in his hand, leaving the cuckoo to flounder itself down at its leisure. Up then went the window, and bang! bang! went the weights at the cats, causing them to start in the midst of a most uproarious frolic, and run helter skelter over the pantiles in contrary directions. Singular as it may seem, notwithstanding the constant noise the thing kept up in the house, neither Cake nor Madame missed it; at least Scott heard nothing about it, and the house is too small to allow of any commotion without it being heard "all over." He heard no observation about the cuckoo clock having suspended payment—no sudden exclamation, "Law me! what's got the cuckoo clock weights?" nothing, in fact, to indicate anything "out of the common.' Nor was there anything in the bill, though it had almost every imaginable item printed, from pipes and baccey down to ginger beer. When one gets into a place, how it magnifies, and how one feels part and parcel of it! Though there never was a more contemptible place than Sludgington, still, like a vapouring bully, it had forced itself into something like importance; and it was only when three or four strides of the old mare took Scott clean out of it up the road towards the hills, that he was satisfied what a regular "cock-o'-my-thumb" place it was. How beautiful everything looked-magnificent, we might say, the noble mountains, in all their pure and placid grandeur, swelling over each other till the snow-clad points of the highest seemed to touch the very sky. The goats and sheep browsing |