erent
characters ever to be brief.

Seymour, poor fellow, was just now under rather adverse circumstances,
for he had arrived here but five days, and had been confined to his
bed during the four last of them, having caught cold from wet feet,
which I regretted the more, as he had but little chance, in such a
country, of ever again enjoying the comfort of dry ones. When I
arrived at his hovel he had just come down to his sitting-room, and I
think I seldom recollect a more comfortless, or ludicrous scene
either. Till this moment, I suppose, he who had roughed it as little
as any one, was now looking pale, wretched, and emaciated, with his
slender, gentlemanly figure crouched close upon the comfortless
fire-place. Should he have the energy to stir for anything, his nicely
arranged hair was instantly dimmed with the cobwebs and dust which it
gathered as it swept across the low ceiling. On the dark and damp
floor was scattered a number of splendidly bound books, with a
Wilkinson's saddle. Along the wall was tidily arranged an extensive
collection of Hoby's boots, and a hat-box, imprinted with "Lock, Saint
James' Street," but which article was now converted into a temporary
corn-bin, and was nearly full of black oats.

CHAPTER II.

It is but yesterday, when I felt that to be "a pot-hunter"[1] was the
lowest step of degradation; and I was quite right, for then I lived at
home; my father had an admirable kennel of pointers and spaniels, a
couple of well-stocked manors, and a zealous keeper. But, since then,
"a change came o'er the spirit of my dream," and my finances not so
flourishing that I could keep up a shooting establishment on the
footing which I have hitherto enjoyed. At present I am provided with
sustenance at the cost of one shilling a meal; but should I procure a
dinner elsewhere, which seldom happened, or my fishing-rod prove
effective, which it never did, a proportionate deduction ensues in the
cost of my repast.

Once or twice, as September approached, it crossed my mind that this
kind of economy was not entirely to be overlooked. But, no, no! True,
I had got under a cloud, and "my house-hold gods lie shivered around
me;" but, to become a pot-hunter! I had not fallen, nor would I fall,
so low as that. September has arrived, and I have!

To entertain a proper feeling on the subject, I am fully sensible that
a gentleman should only destroy game, which, when killed, is
thoroughly useless to him; and be