w as London ever witnessed since its palmiest days of
tilt and tournament. I say nothing of the ladies, their commingled
charms, or gorgeous attire; I only noticed that during the gayety in
the square, previous to starting, their recognition of each other, and
the beaux of their acquaintance, there were plenty of

"Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimples sleek."

This celebrated club congregated every fortnight, during the gay
season of May and June, and spent the day at the residence of one of
their number, within twenty or thirty miles of London, returning in
the evening, exactly in the order they had set out.

Master Moody, the driver and proprietor of the fast Windsor Coach,
had, as said, been the tutor of these aristocratic charioteers, who
placed themselves under his guardianship, and had been taught to
handle "the ribbons" until declared perfect in the noble science. He
had consequently imbibed much and many of the _airs_ and _graces_, and
manners of his pupils.

Being anxious to have a ride beside this great man, I was at
Piccadilly long before he started, and by a pretty handsome douceur to
his cad, had the supreme felicity of obtaining a seat on the box, and
certainly was well repaid for the extra expense of sitting by
Corinthian Tom.

He was a tall fellow, and had a severely serious face; was dressed in
the extreme of driving fashion; wore delicate white kid gloves, and
the tops of his highly-polished boots were white as the lily. In
short, his whole "toggery" was faultless--a perfect out-and-outer. He
was truly a great man, or appeared to fancy himself such--for he
rarely condescended to exchange a word, except with an acquaintance,
and even then, it was with a condescending, patronizing air; and he
smiled as seldom as a Connecticut lawyer. Although sitting close by
his side for twenty miles, not one word passed between us during the
whole journey.

The nags driven by this proud fellow were as splendid as himself;
finer cattle never flew over Epsom Downs, the Heath of Ascot, or
Doncaster Course--pure bloods, every one of them, and such as might
have served Guido as models for his famous fresco of the chariot of
Apollo; but Guido's steeds, although they are represented tearing away
furiously, are lubberly _drays_, compared with the slim, graceful,
fleet stags of Tom Moody.

When the cad gave the word--"all right," Tom started them w