It was high noon in the great world of London--that is to say, it was about half-past five P.M.--and the children of Mammon were in full dress. In the streets, gay, glittering, well-appointed carriages were bowling smoothly along, with sleek horses stepping proudly together, and turning, as coachmen say, on a sixpence, guided by skilful pilots who could drive to an inch. Inside, shaded by parasols of the most gorgeous hues, sat fair delicate women, dressed to the utmost perfection of the art, with aërial bonnets at the very back of their glossy hair and dainty heads, bent down as they reclined upon their cushions till every upward glance shot from beneath those sweeping eyelashes bore a tenfold shaft of conquest against the world. Anon taper fingers in white kid gloves were kissed to a dandy on the pavement, and the fortunate dandy bowed, and sprang erect again, a taller man by an inch. ’Tis always judicious to _appear_ on the best of terms with smart ladies in coroneted carriages. Bond Street was in a state of siege--“Redmayne’s” looked like a beehive--“Hunt and Roskell’s” resembled a flower-show--country cousins were bewildered and overcome--quiet old gentlemen like ourselves were pining for their strawberries and their roses--wearied servants meditated on the charms of beer--the narrow strip of sky overhead smiled blue as the Mediterranean, and the tide of carriages in Piccadilly was like the roar of the ocean. In the Park, though the space was greater, yet did the crowd appear no less--double lines of carriages blocked up the drive by the Serpentine, and unassuming broughams with provokingly pretty faces inside halted perforce amongst the matronage of England, defiant in the liveries and escutcheons of their lawful lords. In the Ride the plot was thickening still, and half a country seemed to be gathering on “the broad road”--we speak literally, not metaphorically--mounted on steeds worth a prince’s ransom, we ought to say, but here our conscientious regard for verity compels us to stop short, and to remark that although every now and then our eye may be gladdened by that most beautiful of all spectacles, a handsome woman on a fine horse, yet in many sorry instances the gentlemen of England, who “sit at home at ease,” effectually prevent their wives and daughters from enjoying a like sedentary composure, by mounting them on the veriest “_rips_” that ever disgraced a side-saddle. “He’ll do to carry a lady,” they say of some wretch that has neither pace nor strength nor action for themselves, and forthwith gentle woman, blest in her ignorance, tittups along, nothing doubting, upon this tottering skeleton. Fortune favours her own sex, but _if_ anything happens a woman is almost sure to be hurt. No--to carry a lady a horse ought to be as near perfection as it is possible for that animal to arrive--strong, fast, well-shaped, handsome, and fine-tempered, his good qualities and his value should correspond with the treasure and