It was now necessary to retrench. I gave up hunting the county, lest the county should repay it in kind, for I was now getting into its debt. I laid down my horses and took up a gun, leased a shooting-box, and rented a manor, somewhat too far north for me, for after a few moves, I ascertained that the game had been drawn before I took to it. It was useless therefore to try to beat--the dogs, for want of birds, began to point at butterflies. My friends, however, looked for grouse, so I bought them and paid the carriage.--Pay again! Other experiments I must abridge. I found Pugilistic Sporting, as usual--good with both hands at receiving:--at Cocking the “in-goes” were far exceeded by the “out-goes:”--and at the gaming table, that it was very difficult to pay my way--particularly in coming back. In short I learned pages of meanings at school without trouble, but the signification of that one word Sporting, in manhood has been a long, and an uncomfortable lesson, and I have still an unconquerable relish of its bitterness, in spite of the considerate attentions of my Friends---- [Illustration: “POINTER AND DISAPPOINTER.”] “From Sport to Sport they hurry me To banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me They think that I forget.” [Illustration: A STEEPLE CHASE.] [Illustration: A POLITICAL UNION.] THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT! “So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt’s consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir,--here is the picture!”--LYDIA LANGUISH. O days of old, O days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balk’d and valour stalk’d On high heroic stilts-- Where are ye gone?--adventures cease, The world gets tame and flat,-- We’ve nothing now but New Police-- There’s no Romance in that! I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read, Or Radcliffe how to write; That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloister’d quite! Would I had never drunk so deep Of dear Miss Porter’s vat; I only turn to life, and weep-- There’s no Romance in that! No Bandits lurk--no turban’d Turk To Tunis bears me off-- I hear no noises in the night Except my mother’s cough,-- No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house No shape,--but owl or bat, Come flitting after moth or mouse,-- There’s no Romance in that! I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman’s press; Instead of looking thin and pale, I’m growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale-- There’s no Romance in that!