Mr Meadows deigned no other answer to this speech than a look of contempt. “I fancy, Sir,” said Morrice, “you are fond of riding, for all your good horsemen like nothing else.” “Riding!” exclaimed Mr Meadows, “Oh barbarous! Wrestling and boxing are polite arts to it! trusting to the discretion of an animal less intellectual than ourselves! a sudden spring may break all our limbs, a stumble may fracture our sculls! And what is the inducement? to get melted with heat, killed with fatigue, and covered with dust! miserable infatuation!--Do you love riding, ma'am?” “Yes, very well, Sir.” “I am glad to hear it,” cried he, with a vacant smile; “you are quite right; I am entirely of your opinion.” Mr Simkins now, with a look of much perplexity, yet rising and bowing, said “I don't mean, Sir, to be so rude as to put in my oar, but if I did not take you wrong, I'm sure just now I thought you seemed for to make no great 'count of riding, and yet now, all of the sudden, one would think you was a speaking up for it!” “Why, Sir,” cried Morrice, “if you neither like riding nor walking, you can have no pleasure at all but only in sitting.” “Sitting!” repeated Mr Meadows, with a yawn, “O worse and worse! it dispirits me to death! it robs me of all fire and life! it weakens circulation, and destroys elasticity.” “Pray then, Sir,” said Morrice, “do you like any better to stand?” “To stand? O intolerable! the most unmeaning thing in the world! one had better be made a mummy!” “Why then, pray Sir,” said Mr Hobson, “let me ask the favour of you to tell us what it is you do like?” Mr Meadows, though he stared him full in the face, began picking his teeth without making any answer. “You see, Mr Hobson,” said Mr Simkins, “the gentleman has no mind for to tell you; but if I may take the liberty just to put in, I think if he neither likes walking, nor riding, nor sitting, nor standing, I take it he likes nothing.” “Well, Sir,” said Morrice, “but here comes supper, and I hope you will like that. Pray Sir, may I help you to a bit of this ham?” Mr Meadows, not seeming to hear him, suddenly, and with an air of extreme weariness, arose, and without speaking to anybody, abruptly made his way out of the box. -- Mr Harrel now, starting from the gloomy reverie into which he had sunk, undertook to do the honours of the table, insisting with much violence upon helping every body, calling for more provisions, and struggling to appear in high spirits and good humour. In a few minutes Captain Aresby, who was passing by the box, stopt to make his compliments to Mrs Harrel and Cecilia. “What a concourse!” he cried, casting up his eyes with an expression of half-dying fatigue, “are you not accablé? for my part, I hardly respire. I have really hardly ever had the honour of being so obsedé before.” “We can make very good room, Sir,” said Morrice, “if you chuse to come in.”