top-boots terribly worn and patched, and his old red coat awfully stained and soiled. We always had a passing word with him, for the sake of “auld lang syne.” He never seemed to be downhearted, but maintained his independent character to the end of his days. There are, we trust, other old stagers left who will join us in saying, “Peace to the memory of old Abraham Lowe.” {160} And talking of hunters, we were, in those days, occasionally visited by Nimrods of another sort, of the very race of the Centaurs themselves. We speak of the Cheshire squires of the old times, before railways were thought of, and when Macadam was a theorist. A Cheshire squire was then a remarkable peculiarity of the “old-fashioned English gentleman.” He was proud of his family, of his house, of his grounds, of his horses, of his dogs, and of everything belonging to him. But he was especially proud of his county, and his county was especially fond of him. He seldom passed beyond its borders, except when a fox led the hounds over them. He was constant in his attendance at the Hoo-green Club, where the conversation, not dazzlingly intellectual, generally ran upon proud Cheshire, and its right to be called proud Cheshire, with an occasional episode upon horses, dogs, the crops, the weather, and “the next meet.” A long frost in the winter was a terrible interruption to the comforts and habits of these gentlemen. At such times they would, although not often, get as far as Liverpool, to lay in a stock of wine and so forth. You might always know them. The Cheshire squire, when perambulating our streets in the old times, wore a low crowned hat, a cut-away green coat, and a stripy sort of waistcoat, buckskins, and top boots, looking very like what, in these days, is vulgarly called “a regular swell.” There were some curious characters, very original, spicy, and eccentric among them. How well we recollect old Sir Peter Warburton. He was for many years the master of the Cheshire Hunt. For some reason or other there was not much love lost between him and the people of Knutsford. One day, when the hounds were at fault, a sudden “Tally ho!” was heard from a distant hill. “Who’s that?” said the baronet. “A Knutsford man,” answered the huntsman. At the same moment a favourite dog gave tongue, and led off the pack in another direction. “Hark to Jowler! hark! hark!” shouted Sir Peter, adding with a most uncomplimentary emphasis, “I’d rather believe that dog than any man in Knutsford!”