the servants' hall, kitchen, and stables, whence the groom instantly ejected Smith's charger, filling the vacated stall with the horse belonging to the physician. The man on his return said: "Miss Perkins has taken the other Mr. Smith up to my mistress's bedroom, sir," stifling, with much effort, his inclination to laugh. By heavens, this is too ridiculous!" cried Mr. Marsden, absolutely rushing out of the room, to see what was going on in his lady's bedroom. We must now see how it had sped with our son of Crispin 66 up stairs," "and in my lady's chamber." We left him waiting in the library to be summoned to the presence of Mrs. Marsden. After waiting a short time, Miss Perkins, the lady's maid, came to him, and, in her most silvery tones, said, "I am sorry to say my lady feels herself so much indisposed to-day, that she has not left her bed, but sends her compliments, and requests you to walk up, sir." "To her bedroom!" said Smith, with a look and tone something between surprise and bashfulness. "Yes; if you please, sir, to follow me." A thousand thoughts whirled through the bewildered brain of Smith; he began to think that the lady must have seen him, and thought him (as Richard concluded Lady Anne did) "a marvellous proper man.' Involuntarily he smoothed the hair down on his forehead as he ascended the stairs, nor could he help casting a glance at the memorable sky-blue satin waistcoat. On entering the bedroom, which struck him as a kind of elysium he never had seen before, he stopped short (his confidence, even in the effect of his waistcoat, deserting him), and stood gaping, in utter bewilderment of mind, to the equal bewilderment of Mrs. Marsden and the abigail, as to the strangeness of his manner. The doctor's avowal, however, of his medical friend's manners not being very refined, at once recurred to Mrs. Marsden's memory, which at once accounted for his Cymon-like manner and look. "Good morning, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Marsden in a soft tone, that poor Smith hardly knew how properly to interpret; "I thank you for your prompt attention." "Your servant, ma'm," said Smith, timidly. A titter from the London-bred lady's maid would probably have risen to a laugh, but it was checked by a look from her mistress. 'My illness," said Mrs. Marsden, smiling, "is not, I trust, of a very serious nature, and I have no doubt you will be able to restore me to perfect health without much trouble. I feel a little feverish," added the lady, presenting a hand that to Smith it appeared profanation to touch; however, summoning up every energy of mind and body, he took the offered hand, but dropped it immediately. "You do feel hot, ma'm," said Smith. A feeling of disgust at his vulgarity that she could not control, took possession of the lady. "Excuse me, sir," said she, "but really your manner is most singular. May I ask, are you ill?” a ray of suspicion flashing across her mind that he was stupid from drink. "I am quite well, thank you, ma'm," said Smith; "and I hope you will be so soon." "I think," said Mrs. Marsden, again extending her hand, "you will find my pulse fuller than you could wish." Smith scarcely knew now whether he stood on his head or heels. To be twice offered the hand of a beautiful woman in the prime of life, and in her bed, with the utmost modesty could, as he thought, be interpreted but in one way. He took it, and with the same look that had made such devastation in the heart of Mrs. Smith, he pressed it between his own. A half scream was uttered by Mrs. Marsden."Wretch!" ejaculated the lady, and violently pulling a bell by her bedside, she cried out, indignantly, "Perkins! Perkins! command the footmen instantly to expel this man from the house. Mr. Marsden, sir, shall be acquainted with your conduct. Leave the room." Poor Smith would gladly have made a speedy exit; but as he was on the point of quitting the room, Mr. Marsden and a body of domestics in the family livery entered it. "Kick him down stairs!" cried Perkins; "the wretch has insulted my lady." It was in vain that Smith attempted to expostulate. He was rudely collared by the footmen-a scuffle ensued, in which he was overpowered by numbers. At last, by a desperate effort, he threw off his opponents, and, as if pursued by the demon of destruction, flew down the stairs, and blessing his stars on finding his horse on the hook instead of in the stable, mounted him. He was seen galloping from the house, as if the same demon was still at his heels. Mrs. Marsden was in a state of alarm; but, on calling her husband to her bedside, matters were soon explained. The true medical Mr. Smith was now introduced, and a merrier party were never seen in a sick chamber. As for poor Smith, of trumpeting notoriety, how he accounted to his wife for the tremor in which he arrived at his home, was never known; but the whole story of his retreat and flight was carried to the town by the errand-lad, who saw it; and for months the unfortunate wight was almost a prisoner in his house, for no sooner did he shew his nose out of it, than he became the laughing-stock of every urchin in the parish. THE MYSTIC SERENADE. WHAT gentle force unlocks the chains of sleep, Amid such sounds ?-Drink, drink! and be increased, G. D. THE BYE-LANES AND DOWNS OF ENGLAND, WITH TURF SCENES AND CHARACTERS. BY SYLVANUS. Reminiscences of York.-Knavesmere Race-course.-The Manor-house at Heslington. The Druggist's Shop in Mickle Gate.-Charley Robinson." Old Smelt."-Robert Ridsdale.-Merton Racing Establishment.-Gully.-Captain Frank Tailor.-Scott, the Jockey.-Frank Maw, the Dealer. THERE is no town in England more thoroughly imbued with the genuine spirit of racing than the grand old city of York; and in none have there been greater exertions or more princely liberality displayed of late years for the encouragement of the noble pastime by all ranks, shades, sects, and sexes, than in venerable Ebor. The ground at Knavesmire is admirably adapted by nature, and will bear comparison with the most eligibly-situated arena for the purpose in Great Britain; and now, since the improvements in draining and rounding the elbows of the old line have been effected, may justly be pronounced as perfect a race-course as turf and ingenuity, and, above all, unremitting attention on the part of the racecommittee, can make it. Within a lounge of the city, with a distinct and pleasant route for foot-passengers across the fields, the scene of action is gained without fatigue or expense; whilst the pride of ecclesiastical architecture towers over a series of waving foliage, hallowed ruin, fat pastures, and the winding, silver waters of the Ouse, completing a scene singularly rich in rural beauty, antiquity, and historical association. York is the metropolis of hospitality. The inns-called, in modern parlance, hotels are unequalled for sterling comfort, civility, plenty, and moderation in charges. Such glorious examples of the ancient English inn do not exist in the same number in any city or town as here; whilst the old-fashioned shops, filled with the best and every variety of merchandize, luxury, and ornament, display to the lounger a continued bazaar in his promenade, and offer no slight temptation to his powers of self-denial. The cathedral is a theme too lofty to be even touched upon in a roadside sketch, like the present; though the gorgeous pile, completing, as it does, the "pomp of the view" to the beholder of York, looms too grandly on our memory to suffer us to omit all mention of it. Within a few miles of York, embowered in the rural, primitive village of Heslington, is situated a glorious old dwelling, inhabited by Major Yarburgh, a steady and staunch patron of the turf, and not unfrequently a successful competitor on it. The manor-house is said to have been a hunting-lodge of the Virgin Queen, and is as quaint, national, and baronial a mansion as the most fastidious antiquary could desire, and is, worthy the high by-gone honour imputed to it. Embattled, moated, and ivy-grown, the old house, built of red brick and stone, and now become grey and dappled by the mellowing hand of time, is embosomed within high, yet carefully clipped groves of yew and holly, and is as befitting an abiding-place for a true English squire of lineage, and eke a turfite of the patrician school, as can be well imagined. The interior is pannelled with dark oak, and famous for its mighty ale; whilst the snug paddocks, sheltered and fenced from the rich pastures of ancient swarth, are celebrated as the "dropping" places of many a once high-mettled racer. Here, with an ample fortune, and hardy frame, and innate love of sport, it were meet and in character to see the stalwart proprietor of the domain, peradventure leaning over the hand-gate on a summer's evening, complacently regarding the graceful creature, half buried by her flowing, untrimmed mane, lounging towards him, with the frolicsome foal at her foot,-musing, probably, in dreamy speculation upon his Derby horse at three short years hence. But, if you will step with me into yon druggist's shop in the city, on our return to the patriarchal, home-like hostel-the Old White Horse, in the Pavement-and converse for a quarter of an hour with the feeble, nay, deformed little gentleman (though the plainness of language is intended in anything but a spirit of offence,) who is perched upon yon high stool, and regaling his nose from the huge, coffin-like box of black rappee-possibly making out an invoice for Scammony or Epsom salts-you would not suppose him to be actuated by the same spirit and yearning for sport that moved the stout squire of Heslington. Yet neither in the breast of the latter, nor in the heart of a Mellish or Nimrod himself, was ever the genuine love for a race, or pluck in contributing towards it in money or exertion, more fully developed than in the big heart of that little tradesman of York, seated on the high stool in the murky, drug-scented den in Mickle Gate! Poor Charley Robinson!-for who is there, having any acquaintance with the turf, to whom thy name is unknown? Who does not mind thy puny frame and more than manful exertion in the cause of sport? And who does not regret thy premature departure? From the feudal, turreted old manor-house at Heslington to a smoke-dried, dwarfish druggist's shop in Mickle Gate, though a wholesale one, is a wide step; but, in the thorough mental attributes of a sportsman; in liberality, in time, and money for the good of his native city; in conviviality, drollery, tenacity in backing and sticking to his horse, the little man had ten to one the best of the major. Emanating from the young, the unemployed, and the wealthy, the love of sporting is tame and of too easy a conquest to bear a comparison with the unwavering affection displayed by the unfortunately-formed individual, occupied in business, whose portrait we are drawing. With him it was a sacrifice, though a willing one, throughout; yet the love of sport was in him, and urged him to do a manful devoir for old Ebor ere he was run to earth, of which the whole country is well cognizant. "Little Charley Robinson" was known to every one, from Mr. George Lane Fox to old Tommy Life, and had the entrée of the Hall and Saddle-room alike. At a race time, when any of Scott's horses were the favourite, as they occasionally were, the little fellow was the gamest supporter in the ring, and would give the quietus to many a burly leg by snapping him for a round sum in backing his fancy, when they thought he had "done." Not five feet high, he would face Gully or the devil with equal indifference, and over a bottle of old port could scarcely be beaten fairly. "Walls of flesh," thews and sinews, bone and muscle, were denied him; but the heart compensated for the loss of these, and more. But it was in rousing the city to repair the course on Knavesmire, and to "come out" like inhabitants worthy the second city in Britain; in collecting subscriptions for large stakes, and in subscribing most handsomely himself, in addition to devoting his time to the furtherance of these views, that Charley finished his racing career, and left a name honoured by every one to whom the turf and prosperity of York are of the slightest interest. As an amateur antiquarian, friend to theatricals, music, agriculture, and good citizenship, equally with being an honourable English tradesman, he was alike celebrated for his love for the turf; and when he died, it is safe to say no man was more missed or regretted by all classes in old Ebor than the worthy little fellow of whom I have thus inadequately etched my slight memoir.-Requiescat in pace! Besides the little wholesale druggist's, there were, in my day, many retail shops in York, wherein you might purchase half an ounce of cayenne and "get pepper" to a "pony" on any great race pending, from the sedate, tranquil old gentleman who served you,-if known masonically, that is. There was a sporting, smellfungi old character, habited in drab integuments and a flaxen wig, who dealt in chemicals, and seemed a very "deacon of the craft;" so methodical and combed into respectability did he appear, as you made known your solicitation in his line. But give him a three-quarter look,-a glance "across the flat,"-and insinuate, "I say, doctor, what can you lay against "Syringe" for the "Nursery ?" then wouldn't the old gentleman's eye flash with an arch-deacon-like gleam? Or say, "Doctor, I want to back a horse in the Ebor Handicap for a tenner," "-probably one at Malton, a stable lad from the lot not impossibly being, at the very moment, in the doctor's little back parlour, discussing a plate of corned beef and horn of October; after having told the worthy old citizen that your fancy was indisposed, and that he might "lay"-wouldn't he then make a rush at you over the counter, and book before you you could "done!" They were all more or less inoculated with the true vaccine of the John Bullish propensity to trade and sport simultaneously. Even the old Quaker tea-dealer in the square would take a point more than the betting on John Scott's Ledger horse; yea, even on the good steed "Solomon" for a "fiver," would he venture-and stake! whilst many a bootmaker would give you a pair of boots, and any tailor a coat to "return fifty" on their fancied outsider in Scott's lot for the Derby. say But old Smelt, the "Clapham-town-end" bred, unctuous publican of the Shambles, did the city "business;" he making a "thoosand poond" book, and having a five pound lottery to boot; and it was at his house of an evening that the sporting Yorkites met to read his Tattersall's list, and, if betting was dull-to play a bit of "three card loo," at which the tub-bellied old Boniface was a "dab hand," |