The great event at Market Harborough was no exception to this general rule, and the important day was ushered in by about as unpleasant a morning as any gentleman could desire for the purpose of exposing himself in a silk jacket and racing leathers about the thickness of kid gloves. Frequent storms swept across the sky, bearing with them heavy showers of mingled sleet and hail, which stung the unprotected face like pins and needles. It was a bad day to see; a bad day to hear; above all, a bad day to ride. Struggles observed: “It was lucky they were not out hunting.” Behold, then, between the storms, under a delusive gleam of sunshine, about two P.M., half-a-dozen canvas booths erected in a large, sloppy grass-field, within a few miles of Market Harborough. Behold, congregated around the same, a motley group of tramps, list-sellers, vagrants of every description, gipsies, and card-sharpers. Behold a few jolly yeomen and farmers, pulling their wet collars over their mouths to concentrate the fumes of that last glass of brandy, and poking their horses about in the crowd, to stumble ever and anon over certain mysterious ropes, placed, for no apparent purpose, in everybody’s way. Behold two or three carriages of the gentlefolks herding together, as if rather ashamed of their company, and a pretty face or two, amongst which you may recognise that of Miss Dove, a little paler than usual, peeping out from under a multiplicity of wrappers, with an air of vague astonishment, the owner having been on the ground for more than an hour, and nothing done yet. Behold also Mr. Tiptop, galloping his master’s best hack as fast as the animal can lay legs to the ground, in the direction of a dripping marquee, near which there is a little knot of gentlemen in waterproof clothing, who seem to constitute an assemblage of their own. Let us lift the dank, heavy sackcloth, and peep in. Mr. Sawyer, paper-booted, silk-capped, and clad in a gorgeous raiment of plum-colour, with face, too, on which the cares of an empire seem to sit, is “spread-eagled” in a weighing machine, vainly trying to keep his spurs off the wet straw, and to nurse on his uncomfortable lap a saddle, a bridle, a breastplate, a martingale, five pounds of dead weight, and a whip, of which the top is ornamented with an elaborate and massive design. He is what he calls “weighing in”; and the process appears to be troublesome, not to say painful. Behind him, and preparing for the same ordeal, is Major Brush, tucking himself and his under-garment, with considerable difficulty, into a pair of extremely tight leathers, he having selected this most inappropriate shelter as his dressing-room.