“Hollo, my good friend; how are you?--d--d glad to see you in England,” vociferated a loud, clear, good-humoured voice, one cold morning, as I was shivering down Brook-street, into Bond-street. I turned, and beheld Lord Dartmore, of Rocher de Cancale memory. I returned his greeting with the same cordiality with which it was given: and I was forthwith saddled with Dartmore’s arm, and dragged up Bond-street, into that borough of all noisy, riotous, unrefined, good fellows--yclept--‘s Hotel. Here we were soon plunged into a small, low apartment, which Dartmore informed me was his room. It was crowded with a score of masculine looking youths, at whose very appearance my gentler frame shuddered from head to foot. However, I put as good a face on the matter as I possibly could, and affected a freedom and frankness of manner, correspondent with the unsophisticated tempers with which I was so unexpectedly brought into contact. Dartmore was still gloriously redolent of Oxford: his companions were all extracts from Christchurch; and his favourite occupations were boxing and hunting--scenes at the Fives’ Court--nights in the Cider Cellar--and mornings at Bowstreet. Figure to yourself a fitter companion for the hero and writer of these adventures! The table was covered with boxing gloves, single sticks, two ponderous pair of dumb bells, a large pewter pot of porter, and four foils; one snapped in the middle. “Well,” cried Dartmore, to two strapping youths, with their coats off, “which was the conqueror?” “Oh, it is not yet decided,” was the answer; and forthwith the bigger one hit the lesser a blow, with his boxing glove, heavy enough to have felled Ulysses, who, if I recollect aright, was rather ‘a game blood’ in such encounters. This slight salute was forthwith the prelude to an encounter, which the whole train crowded round to witness. I, among the rest, pretending an equal ardour, and an equal interest, and hiding, like many persons in a similar predicament, a most trembling spirit beneath a most valorous exterior. When the match (which terminated in favour of the lesser champion) was over, “Come, Pelham,” said Dartmore, “let me take up the gloves with you?” “You are too good!” said I, for the first time using my drawing-room drawl. A wink and a grin went round the room. “Well, then, will you fence with Staunton, or play at single sticks with me?” said the short, thick, bullying, impudent, vulgar Earl of Calton. “Why,” answered I, “I am a poor hand at the foils, and a still worse at the sticks; but I have no objection to exchange a cut or two at the latter with Lord Calton.” “No, no!” said the good-natured Dartmore;--“no, Calton is the best stick-player I ever knew;” and then, whispering me, he added, “and the hardest hitter--and he never spares, either.”