second day in the forest there was a run to Porlock and Horner Wood, the hind being taken near Holnicott, the seat of Sir Thomas Acland. The pace was very great, and those who expressed determinations in the - -། second day in the forest there was a run to Porlock and Horner Wood, the hind being taken near Holnicott, the seat of Sir Thomas Acland. The pace was very great, and those who expressed strong determinations in the morning to do or die, were never seen over the forest wall on the Porlock side: about five only saw the run and the finish. The season finished with a most extraordinary burst over the North forest, and back to Badgworthy, running into the hind in the open in thirty-three minutes, computed distance nine miles. On this day also a hind was run up and housed at Porlock, followed only by three hounds, and no man with them. The hounds that took their deer at Badgworthy, had before their thirty-three minutes sharp work just mentioned, taken an old hind, after an hour's gallop, from Brendon to Badgworthy, and back to Farley Coombe. I should almost fear that the season was protracted too long; the hinds in calf must have been quite heavy after the first week in May: perhaps this will account for the take of deer being so large on the forest; if it was so, I should be sorry for it: it would have been better as I said before, to have thinned by means of the gun, than hunt the game at such a disadvantage. Those who were in the West for this spring's hunting, are looking forward to the autumn in pretty sure hopes of excellent sport: indeed, with such a pack, and (at present) no lack of deer, it must indeed be bad fortune that can prevent it. The stag-hunting will begin probably about the 12th of August on the forest, about the beginning of September on the Quantocks, and finish in the Dulverton and North Molton country. Out of the twenty-seven deer taken during the past hind-hunting, seven have been saved alive and put down in the Bray covers, Sir P. Acland's property, from which, in former times, many a fine stag has been roused. I only hope that they may again be able to boast of a prosperous herd; if not, I know it will not be the fault of the present English-feeling proprietor. ONE OF SOMERSET. THE MERRY MONARCH. ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY J. F. HERRING, SENR. "H'Epsom, sir? The Derby! Now's your time, sir; here you are. Plenty o' room, plenty o' room for another outsider. You'd better get on, sir; you had, indeed." Such was the greeting that usually welcomed the latest arrivals as they shook themselves out of the train at Kingston-then and there to mount the hacks they had shown the judgment to send on, or to mount whatever seemed to suit best, if they had not been guilty of that extravagance. Such, too, were the words that rang again and again in the ear of one Epsom-bound traveller, like the edict of an oracle. There was plenty of room for another outsider, and now or never was the time to get on; but where-how-which—we looked in vain at the pair-horse of the genius who had uttered these memorable syllables for a solution of the question, and from him to another equally strong in the lungs, to find what was on the cards. What was what, forsooth, was not? Some thirty or forty ready to try their luck with the wonder that came out at two to one. Young Eclipse, for instance, who really ought to be backed at very long odds, if it were only for the sake of the "two negatives make an affirmative" principle, of running badly indeed in public, and a great deal worse in private. Or Little Jack at a hundred to three, though to be sure he does look far more like a butcher's hack than a racehorse; still, as he is out of Chance, we won't say he's altogether without one. John Davis again, who won a heat of a Selling Plate yesterday, and why therefore shouldn't he win the Derby Day? Or Clear-the-way, who walks lame with every leg he has to his body-a capital omen, mind you. Phosphorus only went queer with a single pin, and yet we all know what he did; how much the more, then, should we expect from one with not a sound limb under him, and Jem Robinson on the top of him! Such reasoning as this, however, will not tell beyond the family circle-not even with the gentleman that has acknowledged the warning cry, who, trusting rather to his own opinion, goes, like a true Briton, and sacrifices another five in support of Old England; in return for which he certainly does get what would satisfy many as zealous a patriot-a good place. It is now five long years since an out-and-out outsider has raised himself all in a minute by winning the Derby. Coronation, Attila, and Cotherstone were all first favourites, and Orlando a pretty good one, though not so high as he really ought to have been. The last great unknown, then, was Little Wonder, trained by this same veteran, Mr. Forth, and winning under very similar circumstances to those which attended the triumph of the Merry Monarch. The Solace colt and Doleful were equally understood to be the horses of the stable, and the two actual winners nothing but a brace of makeweights, that only came to the post out of compliment to their more talented companions. It is, in fact, somewhat remarkable, putting Scott's lot out of all consideration-a matter, by the way, that this great house appears to be gradually doing for itself-that the strongest stables in England, Forth's, Dawson's, and John Day's, should have run first, second, and third for the last Derby, and every one of them with what was generally estimated to be their worst horse. Doleful stood at fifteen to one at starting, the Merry Monarch not mentioned, Mentor at forty to one, Annandale at fifty to one; Weatherbit at seven to two, and Old England at twenty-two to one. So much for private tests and trials, things which we never had much faith in, and of which we shall not stay to dilate on here, but proceed to the particulars of the nag Mr. Forth, or rather that good sports |