rank closed the fugleman; and as they rounded the Red House turn, Chertsey had taken the lead from him, followed by Pantasa, Miss Sarah, The Pacha, Mentor, the Baron, and Weatherbit. The pace was now very earnest, and before the distance was reached, the field was virtually reduced to five, of which Miss Sarah was the best -the Baron, Pantasa, The Pacha, and Mentor, the latter being the first disposed of. As they neared the stand the race was clearly between The Baron, Miss Sarah, and Pantasa; and in this form it finished after a most exciting struggle, the Baron winning by a length-pretty cleverly, and the mare beating Pantasa half-a-length for third. Though the judge did not officially place them, the Pacha was fourth, Weatherbit fifth, and, I think, Mentor sixth. Most of the others were stopped before they reached the enclosure: of course Robinson did not persevere with such a brute as Clear-the-waysave only to be in time to get out of the course in the event of there being another race to run. People said this and that, as usual, about what might have been first, had the running been differently made; but my conviction is, the best horse in the field won. Sorry am I that it was thought advisable his mouth should-after the issue-be submitted to a jury of veterinary surgeons for their verdict on his owner's honour. The very objection in such cases is a grievous suspicion in such cases, I say, because Mr. Watts bred the colt, and must have known, of his own knowledge, whether he was or was not three years old. Such he pledged his honour that he was, to all intents and purposes, by entering him for a three-year-old stake, and those who urged the examination raised a doubt as to the credit of his solemnly inferred assurance. What brought about the necessity for examination to test the ages of race-horses? The admission of persons to the turf who never could be supposed to have any legitimate right to support racing establishments. For this reason an honourable man has more than once been exposed to a very degrading insinuation; and out of this practice will yet come grave consequences. I know what course a high spirit is likely to adopt towards him who may, however cautiously, raise a possible doubt of his honour.... The Stakes, worth £2,500, were the whole of Mr. Watts's profit by the transaction: his son, they say, was a good winner. Thus have two consecutive Legers gone to Ireland, won by Irish-bred horses-a great triumph, and I doubt much whether the repeal of the legislative union would be hailed more enthusiastically than was the result of this victory by the Paddies assembled at Doncaster. There was no race after the St. Leger.

THURSDAY brought fair tidings of the settling-though some heavy accounts were left to stand over-to Tattersall's; a place, like the floor of another place not to be mentioned, that may be said to be paved with good resolutions. However, no one, who saw the gusto with which the ring set to work the moment the enclosure was tenanted, would have supposed there was a doubtful penny on any antecedent engagement. The feature of the day was the Great Yorkshire Handicap, on which the industrious figured away as if it was the last Handicap that should ever come out of the wheel of fortune. The Scarborough Stakes were allowed to come off without

more notice than if they had been on the tapis on the Scarborough sands, the "Great Yorkshire" finishing with 2 to 1 against My Mary, 3 to 1 about As-you-like-it (who kicked as if she didn't like it-the race), 5 to 1 Trueboy, 7 to 1 Stomacher, 6 to 1 Glossy, 6 to 1 Extempore, and Old England scratched. Eleven went; of which Glossy made the running as far as she could, which was to the straight ground. Here My Mary went in front, stood the course stoutly-considering she carried between three and four stone less than the weight common to her year, no wonderful achievement-and won as she pleased. Had it been a weight-for-age race, the places could scarcely have been on worse terms. For a 200 sovs. Sweepstakes, worth £500, Chertsey beat Weatherbit; and so all the work of the day ended.

FRIDAY-despite the morning rising unpromising, though the afternoon was fine-drew a very large holiday party to the town at an early hour. All the neighbouring gentry were present, and also a vast amount of the neighbouring yeomanry and peasantry-an attendance that well becomes an exhibition of national sports. The Cup was the nominal attraction-a tryst of good fellowship the actual object and in this wise it turned out. A merrier or more hearty company could not have been got together; a more unsubstantial racing spectacle could not have been witnessed, than the Cup. The rest of the sport was good. There was a very fine contest for the Two-year-old Stakes, won by Sir Charles Monck's Filly by Velocipede out of Garland; and though Miss Sarah carried off the Parkhill in a canter, there was much curiosity to see whether she could conquer Hope-for the Leger she had disappointed it. The Cup with its one-and-twenty nominations brought four to the post, and as Sweetmeat was backed at even to win, we understand that the ring took little heed of it. The fields for the Ascot and Doncaster Cups should instigate Mr. Hume, or some other financial reformer, to call for the abolition of Queen's Plates. Of the race it remains to say that Miss Elis set off with a lead of several lengths, thus going nearly to the distance, where she threw up. Thereupon Sweetmeat went in front, with Pantasa next him, Alice Hawthorne coming with her vast stride at their heels. Having caught them, Bumby, who rode her, seemed uncertain how he should avoid running over them, so he pulled her first to one side and then he hauled her to the other; and while these manœuvres were in operation, Sweetmeat passed the chair first, by a length easy. I don't mean-let it be clearly understood-to impute anything to anybody in this race, saving most vile equitation to the jockey of Alice Hawthorn; and that, I take it upon my conscience to declare, was the most flagitious I ever saw, no instance excepted. There were rumours, indeed, abroad; but I repudiate them: all I ask, in common charity to the backers of this mare, is, that should she ever run again, Mr. Salvin or Mr. Hesseline, or whoever the office rests with, will remember that the race of post-boys is not quite extinct, should he ever be in difficulties for an artist to ride her.... Here close we the narrative of a very brilliant meeting: it had its dark shades, of course, or how would the lights have been thrown into such dazzling relief? It

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ended, too, full of good promise for another season.

The new stew. ards are the Marquis of Normanby and Mr. E. M. Mostyn. Better could not have been selected. The materiel of sport offers well also: the arena of its celebration will be as nearly perfect as anything can be expected on this side of Olympus.

"LAST SCENE OF ALL!"

ENGRAVED BY S. ALLEN, FROM A PAINTING BY H. ALKEN.

"High waving the brush, with pleasure half mad,

Roaring out 'Yoicks! have at 'em we've killed, my lad!"

In a state of delight far exceeding all bounds,

See the huntsman once more in the midst of his hounds."

Search the world over, and you will not find so pure a sport in any or every particular, from find to finish, as fox-hunting-a sport we "love but for itself alone." True, unalloyed, health-giving, carebanishing pleasure, practised without one selfish motive, without a hope or a thought of pocket or pot-hunting. And now confining ourselves to Old England, can we venture to say as much for any other leading pastime, in which anything like equal excitement, not to go beyond that, is created? Will the book-making, double-dealing, unnaturally heightened anxiety of the race-course bear the scrutiny? Has not the thought of what a glorious figure the leviathan he is trying to land will make when he opens his basket on returning home, a place in the beating heart of friend Piscator? Is pride a feeling quite unknown to the dead shot, as he starts his forty brace of grouse on the Fourteenth of August to his many friends in the south? Or-or-or (shame that such things are; pity 'tis they're true) can it be with any regard to pounds, shillings, and pence that so great a majority find their way to his fishmonger in Piccadilly? Has the Prize Cup no charms in the eye of the Royal Thames Yachtman, or are the Gold Couples and Goblet of no consideration to Messrs. Graham, Goodlake and Co.? Yes, in nearly all sports, as in business, men will look forward to something "by way of return:" from the turfite who counts his thousands in expectation when he sees his favourite on the rise, to the fly-fisher who calculates his fives and tens on the same plan, when he sees a rise at his favourite; from the "first oars" who sports his medal and modesty, to the cricketer who takes his laurels out in "grub and bub" at the cost of the vanquished, we have them all with similar views towards the finale: i. e., something to carry home, no matter whether it be taken in pounds sterling or in "the pound of flesh." Even the merry harriers are constantly associated with the virtues of currant jelly, as tried on a well-roasted, well