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A THOROUGH-BRED ONE FALLING AT HIS FENCE.

WE

E have the pleasure of submitting to the inspection of our Readers a subject from the pencil of LAPORTE, engraved by ROMNEY, which does both these eminent artists considerable credit. As all those sportsinen who so kindly honour us with their patronage will have an opportunity of forming their own opinion as to its merits or defects, it requires no comment from us: yet we cannot refrain expressing our own admiration of the performance, which is a combination of ease and nature. We won't believe any man could so well depict this very frequent contretems of the field, without having seen it exemplified in his own precious person. The broken rail, shattered by the impetus of the performers, and the position of the poor panting horse, evidently struggling not to injure his master, and the ludicrous phiz of the master, who seems to have been grassed before he could say "Jack Robinson," turned up towards his Bucephalus, as if entreating him not to crush himself and his hopes at once, are exceedingly well pourtrayed. The mortifying sight of a more fortunate

SIR,

brother moving down the hill, and cruelly leaving the grassed one to his fate; and the cautious look of the other cove as he wheeled off for a bit of timber of easier manufacture; taking timely warning by the fate of our hero, that "he that exalts himself shall be abased," are natural incidents, and naturally expressed. The surrounding country is also in good keeping. The fate of our hero in being grassed is la fortune de la guerre, and what every trump must sooner or later expect to experience. Indeed a true Nimrod, whose heart and soul are in the chase, we are sure, so far from disliking such accidents, would be rather proud of them; for the service of the field is an honorable service, and a few wounds gathered in it, instead of being marks of disgrace, ought to be considered like the warrior's wreath, and should adorn the brow of every veteran, as so many proofs of enterprise and courage. That such little affairs, however, if they happen to our Readers, may end without the interposition of an Esculapius, is our ardent wish.

MR. OSBALDESTON'S MATCH-BY TASSEL.

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.-Henry the Fourth.

Am just returned from that great centre of attraction during last week-Newmarket; and as I believe that some account of Mr. Osbaldeston's great match may be interesting to most of your readers, even though the Daily Papers are already crammed with the description of it, I herewith transmit my version.

The day, which was originally fixed for Monday, was altered so suddenly and with so short a

notice to Saturday, that I, in common with hundreds more, was nearly prevented from witnessing this extraordinary undertaking: but as the articles of the match stated that it was to be done during the Houghton Meeting, I rather wonder that the first-mentioned day should ever have been proposed. No sooner did my eyes perceive the alteration than I placed myself by the side of our two-fisted rural wagoner, an αυτοχθων of a drags.

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A THOROUGH-BRED ONE FALLING AT HIS FENCE.

Rublished by MA. Pittman Warwick Square London Le 12837

IRomney Sculp

man, equally ignorant of the use of gloves, whip, or pocket handkerchief; and being (thanks to the dice of fortune) safely landed in London, I shortly found myself on that first of coaches the Cambridge Star, at the shoulder of that first of coachmen Joe Walton. I have before, in the MEMORANDA CANTABRIGIENSIA, introduced the uninitiated of your readers to this artist; and I believe that that description might serve up to the present day: he is apparently not a month older than when I was last on the woolsack with him: the black boot is still pulled up to the knee; the coat is still of the same cut and cloth; the face as healthy, the form as wiry, the nerve as strong, the eye as clear and why?......it is wrapped up in a nutshell...... Walton is a sober

man.

Not a hack, not a pair of posters (under three guineas) were to be procured in Cambridge for the Saturday: therefore, on the Friday evening, the old Bury Unicorn transplanted me to Newmarket, where, under the auspices of my old ally, Jack Merchant, the very Lope Tocho of landlords, a comfortable bed was shortly booked, and I was up before day-light, and off without breakfast, to see the most daring match that ever was undertaken against that treasure of senior wranglers and pest of ennuyés -TIME.

With regard to the completion of the match opinions varied: but, as a sporting friend (whose lot is fallen in that blest land where fox-hunting is known) wrote to me last week, "All those men who ride but little say he will lose; all those who

The

ride much say he must win easily: give me the opinion of the latter." The betting, however, was high in his favour at the Rooms on the Friday evening, and Mr. Osbaldeston himself went snacks in a bet of 1000 to 100 that he did it in nine hours. betting changed very much in the inorning, which was raw, wet, and miserable: and as our friends in the Rooms had the advantage of us quiet men who go to bed, they had the first information from the weather office, and exclafined loudly against the completion of the match.

At seven o'clock Mr. Osbaldeston, accompanied by Mr. T. Thellusson, his umpire, and Colonel Charitté with Mr. Bowater on his behalf, appeared at the Ditch Stand, where a very thin sprinkling of company (although not of rain) awaited their arrival. The Stand was cleared, except of those intimate with the parties concerned in the match; and the watches of the umpires being set and locked up, at thirteen minutes past seven Mr. Osbaldeston mounted Emma (a winner at Bedford, ni fallor) and started. I had not seen the Squire since he hunted the Thurlow country, and whether I am grown eight years older myself, or whether it really was the case, he was not in the least altered, except having less colour and being a trifle lighter in weight. The dress was a black velvet cap, purple silk jacket, and doe-skins; and I was surprised, considering the wetness of the day, that he did not think flannel a necessary substratum. He wore a broad riding belt with whalebone round his waist, which, toward the end of the day, proved a great support

:

to his back his saddles were covered with lambskin, and he rode remarkably snug and short. His leg, in which he received his dreadful accident, is not quite recovered, and he still laces his right boot; and the thought of losing his character for invincibility, or his 10001. to Col. Charitté, never came across his brain. A wooden horse-block turfed over was erected in front of the Stand, but owing to the impossibility of making the horses approach it, was not used, and he had a leg given him up each mount. He did not ride the exact Round Course, which is some furlongs under four miles; but by going outside it, getting into the Beacon about Choke Jade, touching on the Bunbury Mile, and coming home close to the Ditch, he made it a four mile course, and at the end of each round changed his horse.

On his second horse, Paradox, he nearly met with a serious accident: he started sulkily, and all but rubbed his leg against the wall of the Stand. This was, however, soon taken out of him, for the Squire, dropping himself into his seat, let the Latchfords well into him, and the horse finished his round admirably.

Now mark the effects of Condition. On Oberon, a little horse he bought of a farmer for fourteen pounds, he went round in eight minutes twenty seconds. Hear this, ye horse-masters, and remember the three indispensables towards a good horse-1st, Buy him: 2d, Put him in condition: 3d, Ride him. He completed twenty-five and a half miles in the first hour.

In the tenth round the worst part of the day's work occurred.

The celebrated Clasher, the conqueror of Clinker and Captain Ross, broke down a short distance from home, and trotted in in a sad state. In two hours forty-eight miles were completed.

With Coroner I feared a mischance, and perhaps an inquest: he is notoriously sulky, shook his head, said "no!" and evidently did not like the work cut out for him; but by starting several horses with him, he did his part honestly and well: still he was a dangerous horse to rely upon-a sort of Gentleman who shuts up if you spur him.

After the fourteenth Mr. Osbaldeston drank a mouthful of weak brandy-and-water, the first nourishment he had taken.

In the fifteenth Emma ran on the wrong side of a post coming down the Ditch, but the Squire, wide awake, turned her, and made his ground good.-He finished the eighteenth round (seventy-two miles) in three hours.

In the twentieth round he mounted the best horse he rode during the day, Mr. Gully's Tranby; and, before he finished his match, he gave him a good benefit, riding him four heats, and nobly was he carried by him.

The twenty-first round was the quickest hitherto performed, being completed on a little weedy mare, Fairy, in eight minutes eight seconds.-In four hours he completed ninety-two miles.

The twenty-fifth round was done by Lord Lowther's colt by Acorn, the neatest nag a man would desire to cross, although not of a racing cut; and his blooming condition does Mr. Rogers great credit.

At the close of the twenty

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