were the turnings round to examine their faultless fall upon his radiant boot. The boots, perhaps, might come in for a little of the glory, for they were beautifully soft and cool-looking to the foot, easy without being loose, and he preserved the lustre of their polish, even up to the last moment of his walk. There never was a better man for getting through dirt, either on foot or horseback, than our friend.

To the frequenters of the ‘corner,’ it were almost superfluous to mention that he is a constant attendant. He has several volumes of ‘catalogues,’ with the prices the horses have brought set down in the margins, and has a rare knack at recognising old friends, altered, disguised, or disfigured as they may be -- ‘I’ve seen that rip before,’ he will say, with a knowing shake of the head, as some woebegone devil goes, best leg foremost, up to the hammer, or, ‘What! is that old beast back? why he’s here every day.’ No man can impose upon Soapey with a horse. He can detect the rough-coated plausibilities of the straw- yard, equally with the metamorphosis of the clipper or singer. His practised eye is not to be imposed upon either by the blandishments of the bang-tail, or the bereavements of the dock. Tattersall will hail him from his rostrum with -- ‘Here’s a horse will suit you, Mr Sponge! cheap, good, and handsome! come and buy him.’ But it is needless describing him here, for every out-of-place groom and dog-stealer’s man knows him by sight.