MARTINGALE enters upon a sketch of French character, which he holds very low, chiefly on grounds of a sporting nature. Ever see such dogs?--ever see such horses?--ever see such riding and driving?--ever see such grooms and coachmen? You should go to one of their steeple-chases and look at them tumbling about. The last time, at La Marche, white and red cap came pounding along fifty miles an hour, and pulled up short at the brook to inquire for the _bridge_. [Illustration] "_Ou est le pont, Messieurs? Mon Dieu, je vais perdre! De grace, ou est le pont?_" and another man got with his horse on to the top of a bank, where he stopped for a quarter-of-an-hour without being able to get off again, until at last the crowd flicked the unfortunate animal with their pocket-handkerchiefs into a state of madness, when he jumped down, only it was on the wrong side, and his rider gave up the adventure. MARTINGALE was also very severe on the cavalry, whom he described as tailors mounted on bad cart-horses, and unable to stand for a moment before British heavies. HOOKER endorsed the criticisms of his friend, and called attention to the cavaliers who pranced up and down the drive. Certainly it was rather a ludicrous contrast, both for men and cattle, with our exhibition in Rotten Row. The horses were mostly weedy, leggy, tucked up brutes, all mane and tail, and worth about two pound ten each. One young fellow, a tremendous dandy, galloped up and down on a gray Arab-looking pony that an English gentleman would have put his little boy of twelve upon. The styles of riding were various. There were the _haute école_ men, who rode very long, and showed all their saddle in front of them, and the Anglo-maniacs, who rode very short, and showed all their saddle behind them. Some gentlemen seemed disposed to tie their legs together under their horse's belly; others projected them on each side of his chest like the cat-heads of a man-of-war. They all rode on the curb, with a grasp of iron, holding the snaffle in the other hand, perpetually nagging and spurring and hustling the wretched animals about, till they did not know what to be at. HOOKER'S honest Yorkshire heart swelled with bitterness all the time. "They oughtn't to be trusted out with a horse," he said. "It's a shame, by JOVE! They drive like a butcher, and ride like a chummy on a moke" (HOOKER meant to say, a sweep on a donkey; but he always prefers idiomatic expressions, which add great vigour to his discourse). "However, I won't be unjust to the Mossoos. They can cook a good dinner, and no mistake. Come to-night, old fellow, and dine with us in the Rue Montorgueil. There's HAYCOCK of the 190th coming, and we shall have some of CLICQUOT'S Champagne." Good. We will be there. [Illustration] * * * * * A MUSICAL PUMP.