racing under any circumstances. It is too confined, too irregular of surface, too oval, and too redolent of household flavour. The sport on the 8th ult. was chiefly hurdle racing; the performers being for the most part officers of cavalry quartered at Hampton Court. A very fearful collision occurred at one of the hurdles, between the horses of Mr. A. Ricardo and Mr. Rowlands (the well-known steeple-chase rider), in which the latter gentleman was all but killed outright.. "what is a gentleman without his recreations!"

But

There is a

Catterick Bridge Races are altogether professional. capital course, lots of material from the crack Northern stables, and your Tyke takes to the turf as naturally as a salmon to the sea. This meeting has latterly improved greatly, and goes on fast to perfection under the fostering hand of Mr. Jaques, a true friend to the great national sport. The late anniversary took place under unfavourable skyey influences, and the long-continued rains made the running ground terribly heavy. The two days' sport, however, was ample and good. Lord Eglinton opened the ball, winning the Brough Stakes with De Witt. There were six races during the first day; whereof the most important was the Champagne (two-year-old) Stakes, won in a field of five (all placed) by Mr. B. Green's Arab; the same gentleman having won them last year with Beverlac. Mr. B. Green, however, was both first and second this time; he is certainly in high force-or fortune. The second day, also, was full of running; though the details are not sufficiently interesting to call for especial record.

The second week of April brings us to the Newmarket Craven Meeting. The opening "fell upon a day" long to be memorable in our annals. The tenth of that month was selected for the establishment of a Republic in the kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The projectors, however, had reckoned without their hosts." Those who went out to see a Rebellion had not even a decent spectacle for their pains. The whole turned out a burlesque, upon the principle and scale of" Bombastes Furioso" the general, by Mr. Feargus O'Connor; his "brave army," by the members of the Chartist Convention; the scene, Kennington Common . . . . . The audience were horribly disgusted. A critic, habited in a fan-tailed beaver and scarlet tights, who was inhaling a calumet of ungenial peace, remarked of the performance to a friend at his side: Vy, Jim, this here's the queerest gammon I ever see'd; blow'd if it an't Lane and Valker, and no mistake."

The state of the metropolis, as the journals had it, kept folks at home, and Newmarket Heath without tenants. The weather was not of the best either, so we will hasten to the sport and dispose of it, looking to fairer fields anon. A couple of Handicaps served for the sparring before the serious business began. The first weight-for-age Stake was the Hinchinbrook, of 100 sovs. each-but for animals of what age? It was run for by three-year-olds, but of this the published conditions in the" Calendar" say nothing. Why should this be? The winner was Lord Sandwich's Cypher. For the ionday's Riddlesworth, Col. Peel's Lola Montez walked over; besides which there were other walks over, and so a wretched beginning ended. Tuesday, by grace of the Handicap, brought forward more company; nevertheless, the character of the day was sombre. Colonel Peel won its Riddlesworth with Lola, beating Franconi in a canter. Have the glories of the Riddlesworth clean passed away for ever? We then had a shoeking bad exhibition for the

Willesden Paddock Stakes, won by Armin in a canter, to which succeeded the Newmarket Handicap, ninety-six subscribers, whereof seventy-one paid, and thirteen went- —a baker's dozen started for a handicap made by all the talents for ninety-six! As if to constitute a fitting climax, this weight for quality contest was won by St. Demetri, the extreme scabies of the ring, a steed regarded as safe as if he had already found his place of rest in the stomachs of the Quorn or the Pytchley. Nobody would have him at any price.... Whole bunches of fingers were burnt in consequence. "St. Demetri," said an authority of great influence, "is hopeless."...For the future let it be a turf maxim that in the tender passion, as in the handicap, eadem est ratio-in both cases it is lawful to " hope when reason would despair."

66

I pass over matches and stakes and the like, the interest of which, if any, was only temporary, and merely touch on matters accountable either in their action or consequences. Wednesday was not quite barren of such instances. After three small affairs, the Column was run for; 26 subscribers, and seven to the post; the winner was Ellersliein the lists Mr. Adams's Ellerslie. In the nominations for the Column Stakes, 1848, as published in the " Book Calendar," Ellerslie, or rather the colt by Euclid, out of Red Tape, appears as Mr. Webber's. After the race, the payment of the stakes was disputed on the ground that the person by whom the winner was named is a defaulter for bets. The Jockey Club, however, declined to interfere, and so the objector took nothing by his motion. As a general act of amnesty and grace seems in operation as regards defaulters, levanters, nobblers, and every species of turf malefactors, one may as well save oneself the trouble of any remark upon the subject; communism is the charter of the ring-it repudiates capital punishment; the want of ready money is a man's misfortune, not his fault. Still, I venture respectfully to suggest that it would be as well if the actual social position of a racer were known when he is presented to the public. One has a conventional right to ascertain something about strangers that solicit our countenance. Mr. Le Chevalier d'Industrie calls upon me with a letter of introduction from my friend Sterling, of the firm of Three per Cent. Consols and Co., Lombardstreet, and I ask him to a family dinner. I trust the principal in the transaction. Had he handed me a card from Messrs. Rouge et Noir, of Bury-street, St. James's, I should have handed him to the nearest police constable. Why has a horse the privilege denied the human animal? Will all the Derby nominations be presented at Epsom by competent gentlemen ushers-and if not, why not? . . . . Corsican-sent from the great northern stable to take "lines"-ran a good second, but the trial proved a negative as regards his racing qualities.

Thursday was anything but agreeable on Newmarket Heath, whatever it might have been elsewhere. Its " feature" was the forward movement of a Derby outsider, the Duke of Rutland's Fiddler, on the strength of his beating a most miserable lot; to be sure he beat them "like sticks," but sticks they were; Goodboy, the second of the ruck, being" nowhere" on Monday for the Handicap, with 5st. 131b. on him. Corsican won a 100 sovs. Sweepstakes, 8 subscribers, because no one but Lord Glasgow would start for it; this was all-all that is of the racing worth allusion, but it should be said that in the town, before dinner, they got up the steam so high as to back The Fiddler at 25 to 1 for the Derby. Friday set in all smiles and freshness. The running began early,

so as to allow an early movement homewards. This was the most significant day of the meeting. First, we had a walk over for a Sweepstakes of 100 sovs. each, for three-year-olds, D.M., with the usual weights, and so forth, by Lord Clifden's Loadstone. To this stake there were ten nominations, including Corsican, Nil Desperandum, Cervus, Sesostris, and five others. Does this walk-over throw its shadows before? The nobleman at the head of Mr. Mostyn's division of the Goodwood stud is Lord Dover in the English peerage-Viscount Clifden is an Irish title. For the Port two only showed-Conyngham and Red Hart. The former won rather cleverly, ridden most artistically by James Robinson. His owner was far from sanguine as to the result-the more agreeable, therefore, was the surprise; I wish him a succession of such emotions. With this race I close my notice of the Craven week. It was not a good one. However promising a list may look upon paper, the result is full of jeopardy. The turf abounds with contingencies, the most vexatious of which is the system of compromise, now become so favourite a game with some of the most eminent hands. In racing, as at whist, some look to honours, others to tricks. . .

The First Spring Meeting fell too late in April to admit of any detailed notice in the present number. Still a word or two on its chief event must claim place under any circumstances. Let me preface that slight allusion to the Two Thousand Guineas race with a reference to the commencement of this article. Subsequent to that moiety being put into type the prediction I therein venture to essay has come to pass, out-running even my most sanguine expectations. On the 23rd ult. there appeared in the sporting journals advertisements from two "RACING LOTTERY OFFICES," one actually in work, the other to open in a few days; the pair putting forth a brace of schemes on the approaching Derby and Oaks, the prizes in which exceed SIXTY THOUSAND POUNDS! The South Sea bubble had its "moving accidents by flood," the racing lottery promiseth similar results "by field."

"The earth hath bubbles as the water has."

Easter has seldom set in less seasonably, or, to express it more unexceptionably, less agreeably than on its last anniversary. As it fell so late in the year we might have expected a better result, but "the times are out of joint;" thus we had midsummer in the ides of March, and winter at the feast of Easter. The First Spring Meeting occurred during this harsh weather; and though in sport it was all that could have been wished, the skyey influences were anything but favourable. This important racing week being the last of April, and moreover brimfull of incidents, forbade a notice during the present month of its general details. The epitome here offered must entreat the reader's consideration on the score of the " press" of business

Its leading feature was the race for the Two Thousand Guineas Stakes, bearing as it did, and does, on the policy as well as the probabilities of the Derby. For this event there were thirty-one nominations, counting among them the élite of the Derby betting-field. Five ran for it; a fine race, won by Flatcatcher. I pass over all that was done and said in a bad spirit. The facts are these; let those draw deductions from them who have faith or credulity enough to believe that turf premises have any connection with turf syllogisms. Flatcatcher, at 4 to 1, beat Glendower by a neck, Blaze by a length and a half, and Fern by three

lengths; Sunnyside a bad fifth. As two-year-olds, Flatcatcher won the Woodcote in a canter, and ran third for the Criterion to Loadstone, receiving 3lbs.; and Glendower started five times, winning four races, and running second to Assault for the New Stakes at Ascot, carrying 5lbs. extra. Blaze not being in the Derby, I pass and come to Fern; this animal claimed on rumour; which lied-as usual. Sunnyside is not worth commentary.

Now how does the Two Thousand leave the Derby? Loadstone was "scratched" just before the race. As he beat Flatcatcher, giving weight, the deduction would be that he ought to beat him upon equal terms; he ought, therefore, to have won the Two Thousand, had he started, being in his two-year-old form. Surplice, another non-acceptor from the same stable, has defeated Loadstone; and so has Assault, another of Mr. Green's Derby "lot." The effect of all this in-and-out running will be to give Surplice public prestige. My own impression is, there must be something to début at Epsom better than we have yet seen out, unless the breed of our race-horses has gone back. The twoyear-olds of last season, that were brought to the post, were all moderate; or they would not have been so often so close together. Look for a Derby scientifically played: the cards are in experienced hands; the game will be a keen one. Nevertheless I anticipate the defeat of the talents, and that the rubber will ultimately be decided by the turn up of a trump.

At this very stupid season of the year, when all nature is beginning to be gloomy and miserable, when all nature, in fact, gets wet through every other day, when the hedges are bursting with new leaves and the fox-hunter with disappointment, when the horns have done blowing and the roses are just beginning, it's really melancholy to sit down and write about the past with so poor a prospect for the future.

"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer," &c.

Will Shakespeare put that sentiment very properly into the mouth of an ambitious and disappointed man; he himself was too fond of the craft to have felt any discontent at “ the season of the year. Why, George Payne, and several of our neighbours, have actually retired from the gay and thoughtless world-which is "all too wanton and too full of gauds"-into the woodlands, hounds and all, just to wind up with a week or a fortnight's amusement until they get somewhat accustomed to the change. Yes, my dear fellow, if you have any sympathy with the tastes of a market gardener-if" (for different men have different opinions), you loves cabbages and he loves inions"-then rejoice in this summer weather; hang up your buckskins, and

Go, amble up and down Rotten-row, kiss the end of your gloves to a dozen or more spooneys like yourself, instead of kissing your mother earth once a week, and return home to your spring chickens and early peas. Give me my hard winter exercise, and I'll be quite content with hard winter fare. How differently you and I apostrophize this season! how differently we construe the poet's meaning

"Ver adeo frondi nemorum, ver utile sylvis."

Yes, my

So useful for woodland hunting! "Nunc frondent sylvæ." boy, they're ringing to a tally-ho, as bold reynard is viewed crossing the rides of a forest, and taking for a full half mile at a time to the open. However, far be it from me to disparage the woodlands; they are very pretty hunting, as times go; and it's a much more invigorating amusement than sitting at home at ease, anyhow. Horseflesh is the thing; and if your stud is not utterly and irrecoverably done up by the heavy state of the country through March, I'd advise your getting as much of it as you possibly can. There's another thing to be considered. I dare say you may have been out some fifty times or so, and seen about two or three runs; those rather slow, and somewhat of a ring: in the woodlands, if you love hunting, you may see it to perfection, provided the season be wet, which this is. I love to see hunting myself; and if I could not see it in the open, if the fences were too big or the pace too good, I would go to the woodlands--to see hounds work, without the bother of looking for a gate or gap, or taking the chance of being jumped upon, now's your time. Get a nice quick goer, with a light mouth, and cut out the work, and then you'll be able to get through the London season among your sporting acquaintances without being necessitated to bounce so outrageously that you do no credit to yourself and get very little from them.

I said March had been a wet month here; I have seen rain, and been in water, but the opening of last month beat all the rain and water of my experience. This county is not a dry one at the best of times; the soil, a good stiff holding clay, is well calculated to try the very bottom of your horse, and it occasionally gets to the end of him before you are aware of it. The first I remember well; Misterton was the meet: not one single break in the clouds from 9 o'clock till 12, one incessant pour --not gusty, in fits and starts, but a warm continuous rain, which defied all pea-jackets and overalls, and made acquaintance with you by sheer perseverance. In the midst of this bewitching shower, which, by the way, lasted till nearly the end of the month, like Canning's shower at Killarney, we found in Misterton Gorse. The fox was a large one, and not only large but bold, for he went away in the face of two of the very ugliest clods I ever saw; a pitchfork added nothing to their natural beauty, and the yells they raised, as pug made for their wheat, might have frightened a Bengal tiger. Nothing daunted, however, he went straight between them, and they really have much to be grateful for that they were not ridden over in the eagerness to get after him. These amiable youths might be quite sure that no living body would have ridden over the wheat that day if there was any way of avoiding it; and if there was not, that their presence there would not have prevented it. It is a very uncommon thing indeed here ever to see a man in wheat at all: the grass is quite heavy enough; not only that, there is a prejudice against it and when some good-natured farmer determines on setting a bad