This hospitality went on for days; and we read, "The house contains more than two hundred individuals, who partake daily of the festivities. The Cistern of punch, under the management of Mr. Douglas, administered in the Servants' Hall on Tuesday, to the household and tenantry, laid many a brave fellow prostrate. The passages of the house reminded one of a Castle taken by storm, and the young Marquis, the Noble Host, and the Prince Regent, were toasted until articulation ceased. Many were found the next day in the subterraneous passages of the Castle, with symptoms of recovering animation. The punch was not out at 10 o'clock on Wednesday morning. "This Cistern, according to the history of the county, was filled with Cordial when John, Duke of Rutland, father of the present Duke, was born. The silver Cistern is 16 feet in circumference, holds 60 gallons, and is a matchless piece of Workmanship. Ale, at the rate of 21 strike to the hogshead, is now making, to be kept till the young Marquis comes of Age." This Saturnalia ceased on January 7th, when the Prince left on a visit to the Earl of Winchilsea at Burleigh; but whilst in the country, he was keenly scanned by the eyes of critical sportsmen, and the result, as regards his horsemanship, is thus given:-- "LETTER FROM GENERAL T. TO J. MC.M., ESQ., IN LONDON. Dear Mac, we are passing our time here most gaily, Events by the dozen are happening daily: We left Burleigh the 2nd--you never were there? The house stands in a quadrangle forty feet square; 'Tis built on a terrace, with fine freestone walls, On a level, 'tis said, with the top of Saint Paul's. WINCHILSEA, you know, 's a mechanical man. For having it measured, he's forming a plan. LONSDALE, you know, is a noble old fellow, With a fine open heart, and a capital cellar, We do just as we like, and have excellent cheer, For guests, horses, and dogs, are all treated well here. WALES would have a hunt, so we hunted on Monday, In spite of the fog, and the hard frost of Sunday. And O! some gentle Muse indite My bold, aspiring lay, While in hasty verse I write 'The hunting of that day!' Now I think on't, the task would be rather too hard, And you'll hear it describ'd by our Treasury Bard:-- For I watch'd him all thro' the field, and I saw He was scanning the picturesque look of a thaw, He hated a _Fox_ from the time of his birth, And ran foul of a _Pit_, as Reynard took earth. As for WALES, he soon staked a thorough bred mare, His legs, arms, and chest, were all quite _militaire_. A mere Bond Street rider, Tom Musters would say, Sits damn'd well by rule, as I told him one day; He's abroad in all cases not taught in _ménage_, And rides at a leap, as he would at a charge; In short, one might swear he ne'er hunted before, By his heading the hounds, as he would do his corps; And YORK on the fences made desperate attack,