chronicle; but Priam's was the last year in which his sight was perfect. You would meet him on the summer Sundays, led by a little girl up and down the Brompton lanes, with a posy in his button-hole, "to show 'em I've been in the country;" and he walked so well that he would say, even at seventy-seven, that he wished he "could get a match on yet, to walk five miles in the hour." Still, his heart was broken by the thought of being in the workhouse, and the sad contrast to old days. Even when he was almost dying, he thought he was with his lot again at Hampton, and asked for some Champagne! One of his sons, who was principal groom to Napoleon Bonaparte, died at Scutari, in 1854, or else it was fully intended that he should end his days in France, with his grandchildren. That, however, was not to be and the pauper's grey jacket was his lot to the last. By the kindness of an old lady who had felt some interest in him, he was not "rattled over the stones-nobody cares for a pauper's bones"-but found a quiet resting-place at Brompton Cemetery. In his time he was a very fair jockey, and a strong waster. Over and over again, he would walk from Hampton to Hyde-park Corner, and have his hack waiting there, to ride back-a stretch of leg from which modern jockeys would shrink in dismay.

Manchester confirmed Dawson's good opinion of the somewhat coarse Hadji; still Duneany's company, even giving 2lb., is not a great thing to keep till just on the post, though Cotswold's defeat by half a length at 191b. for two years was better. The neat, lengthy Underhand gave us a slight foreshadowing of Newcastle in the Tradesmen's Cup; East Langton kept up the undoubted superiority of the Derby horses over the Oaks mares this year, by cutting down Tunstall Maid; Monsieur Dobler the unlucky got the Salford Borough Cup; and, strange to say, Admiral Harcourt did not run a single horse. Middleham, after being without races for exactly twenty years (when Malvolio and Tommy Lye, won, after in vain trying to overhaul The Commodore and Tommy Nicholson at Stockton), made a good start again, ten going for the two-year-old race, and fifteen for one of the handicaps. Rosabel, a plain-looking and rather ragged chesnut, drew first blood for Newminster in the Ascot Trial Stakes, where Northampton had ill-luck with his stirrup-iron. After the Ascot Derby, the Newmarket men declared more and more that Mentmore should have come through with the cripple in the spring, and tried to break him down or chop him up in his unprepared state; and certainly to let such a creature as Mentmore make a final effort up that hill, and then an "exciting issue," does not look Leger-like, even in this day of small things. Sedbury's victory in the Vase is one of that long list of utter flukes which racing men treasure up. "The little black rabbit" had a turn in, and having once imbibed the notion that he could stay little, it is doubtful whether the stable will ever quite get it out of their heads. Four-leaved Shamrock seems to have a patent for third or fourth place. The trial of the Short-horn colonel's Hesperithusa was one of the truest that Middleham Moor has known, and her pretty head was accordingly seen in front for the Hunt Cup. Colonel Towneley has the West Australian and Augur blood principally among his young things, and we only trust that the Oateses (more deserving brothers do not exist) may be as lucky in their livery for him, as Joe Culshaw has been with Master Butterfly and Victoria. These are the genuine style of racing men we require. The Hunt Cup will look

well with a background of Royal Agricultural and Smithfield medals. Saunterer's appearance in a race has now lost its interest, and he was quite among the ignobile vulgus here and John Osborne wasted to 7st. 121b. for Rosa Bonheur, the first time for many a month that he has got below 8st. Wells's orders to make running on Fitz-Roland no doubt cost him the Biennial at the hands of Eclipse, and Ancient Briton again proved that in the present dearth of good whips, he would be invaluable to any country. Hepatica and Zitella took the Voltigeur blood to the fore, and the latter was run well home by a Newminster colt; Happy Land, even in half a mile, being regularly smashed up from the start.

The card seemed so dull on the Thursday, that we felt that we would gladly have stopped at Eton all day, and watched the lads playing at cricket, or pulling to Surley Hall. Across the park there was nothing but still life, except when "twinkled the innumerable ear and tail" of the troops of deer. Scarcely a carriage was to be seen; the flag was down at the castle; the publicans and their spouses growled loud and deep as they drew you a cider glass in the bar; along the road the very best booths had laid in so little ginger-beer, that it was exhausted before 12 o'clock; and, in short, everything but nature, great as usual in her Berkshire ferns and her brackens, seemed in a universal sulk. The four-in-hands alone drew up well in front of the stand, eight strong. Badminton's, with the Duke and Duchess on the box, was side by side with Mr. Morrell's, which was a perfect cluster of staunch Old Berkshire men, secretary, new master, old, and all, while the yellow drag of Sir Michael Shaw Stewart headed the line nearly opposite the winning-chair. Knights of the foray, seeking what they might devour, issued from the grand stand at intervals, and dragged those well-filled drag stores; but the Ascot race-course harmonies seemed absent, and "Hoop de Doodem Doo" from the sooty melodists was the stock piece of the day. Donkey Jemmy, or the Gong Donkey (as Dickens has him), and the other Bohemian varieties, were at once sparse and dull. As they said in the Reform Bill spasm, "The Queen has done it all.” Sedbury and Arsenal

War

were both saddled and led about to the last at the bottom of the course; though why the former should come out, except to make a little worry in the stand when news came up that he was there, it was very difficult to see. Arsenal looked bigger and coarser than he did last year. They say that he was lame in the hock, and blistered hip and stifle as well. Sunbeam had lost a good stone since Epsom, and Gildermire had put some flesh on. Commotion looked staring in his coat and silly in his temper, which did not last beyond the first two months of the season. lock's short leggy style was most un-Ascot-like, and we thought on what a very different animal we saw Alfred Day, wearing the "bonny blueand-silver," four years ago, when poor Job, on Kingston, drew up at the distance to try conclusions with him. The absence of Skirmisher (whose Whip race last year has half ruined him), Vedette, and Blink Bonny, had plucked all the heart out of it, and we would as soon have gone botanizing as stand to look at it. There was more to see on the hill afterwards, when the two-year-olds saddled. North Lincoln had a perfect Waterloo-square round him, and two groups in it especially struck us. There was the "civil and religious liberty one" of the Premier and Baron Rothschild inside, and on the outside were Davis (alas! that a Cup day should lack him in the scarlet!) and Jem Mason-the incarnations of

the present and the past schools of perfect horsemanship. Hughes's knee, which almost prevented his limping into the enclosure at Epsom, has laid him on to the sofa at last, and he does not dare to hope to leave it before Doncaster. The affection is an enlargement on the joint, and is, we fear, hereditary, as one of his brothers is lame from it. Ashmall, who is running into luck at last, took his place to-day, and "the oldest inhabitant" said that he had never seen such horse saddled at Ascot. Musjid reminded us slightly of Arsenal, but he is bigger than he was at three years old; hocks, gaskins, back, and everything are grand, and if we mistake not, there is both a Cup and a Derby horse there. The Earl of Scarborough bred him at Tickhill. Still it struck us that he is a little tender in the fore-legs. Marionette looks soft, Brother to Chanoinesse was as tucked up as a weazel, and we did not care to look twice at Lord of the Manor. Mazzini reminds us not a little of M. Parr's Mortimer, and will, we think, be useful some day; and Sharper was quite backward, and merely came for a trial. The two Newminsters finished second and third; and as Rawcliffe now holds the best blood in the kingdom in its hands-in fact, the only good scion of old Beeswing which fate and the foreigners have left us-we should be very glad to hear of them getting rid of The Dutchman, and trusting to their own horse.

Our note-book was sadly short when we left the Heath. In vain did we thread our way in and out among horses and men for two weary hours, without once stopping to rest, or even speak to a friend; but the meeting "would not work." As good luck would have it, we were seated in the return train under the cold shade of Windsor Castle, when the door opened, and in dashed the sable valet-interpreter of the King of Oude, after stowing his royal party away. His excitement at that moment was confined to a leaden token, or carriageadmission, which he had carried away from the course, and which he seemed to consider it high treason not to restore. On this point the guard made him happy. We should fancy that he lives on the same terms with royalty as the boy who swept out "Cuffey's Parliament" did with "the member for all London," &c., when they held their meetings, A.D. 1848, in John-street, taking the morning paper to himself, and telling the above member, whenheremonstrated in the presence of ourselves and others in the gallery, to "just bide a bit, and let me finish." Most confidential communications took place at the carriage-door, and he seemed to have been "Chorus" to them all day. He had certainly done his duty, for we never saw a man perspire so much; it stood in glittering beads, as emblems of his allegiance, all over his neck and forehead. We like to hear foreigners talk of sporting. One of them told us, on the road to the Derby, "that thimble-rig man he not take me in-I give him charf." And then there was another, a German. Talk to him every September, and away he goes: "When the honting season does commence I feel so excoited. I shake, when I sleep, in each part of my body. I dream of de fox. My brother he sleep in same room, and he hear noise in my sleep. He say what for you so excoited? It is well you not married, or youfwake your wife. I say I do hunt, I do see the fox. I cannot help it. I ride, I jump hedge and ditch-I do dream of it de long night through." Our friend here was full of what he had seen, and we were nothing loath to encourage him. "I trust his Majesty has enjoyed the races," said we,

as an opening. "Oh very much moosh-most beautiful."

"Where were you?" "We did come late by that train, and we go into the Queen's stand below; but dat was full, and there was luncheon laid out -ham!" And here the excellent Mahometan pulled up for an instant. On again. "The King he say to me, What for the people stare so? Do they take me for wild beast? I say, Oh no, your Majesty; it is the ladies, your Majesty-they look at you because they all love you." "Who won that last race?" "I cannot tell you. It was Zi-dam. No, dat was not de name. Gyd-see-ah! that was it; thank you. It was beautiful race. I be so pleased. I see him on the left side. He make just von great plonge, and then he take it in a minute. That was de race. I like dat Fisherman. I see him come forward, and then he in his place. But de Gyd-see-that is de horse-he win in a minute, and I do scarce see it. What a beautiful horse that Lincoln !—such a sweet white facewe all like him so. But that Fisherman, he make us larf-his back just like a knife. Dey must give him no hay and corn for a week." And so these commentaries ended. I should have had four pages at least out of him, but the guard found out that there was some fun going on, and cruelly invited him into the break, "drew" him all the way to London, and I saw him no more.

Rosabel and Zitella made a clipping contest of it at Hampton, and certainly, however distinguished the Doctor may be at cures, he is no hand at making a good objection. What a form this makes of North Lincoln, who gave Rosabel 9 lbs., and could really have given her 15 lbs. up the Ascot hill! Newminster had another throw in with Minster and like West Australian, his winners seemed to come as thick as blackberries in a fortnight. The latter was in force at Newton with Adelaide, a rather leggy one, while Hesperithusa had dropped her seven-league Hunt Cup boots, and Captain White, true to his old Lancashire cocking recollections, got a rare stakes with Gilliver, "pace clipping from end to end.”

Newcastle was a bad meeting, although the company was very great on the Northumberland Plate day. The ground was like flint, and the course anything but level; and it appears to have been cut up in winter. That nice even-made horse Underhand gave Fobert a turn, by winning the Northumberland Plate at 17lbs. more than he did last year. No horse has won it twice in succession before, except St. Bennett, who seems to have fetched, in his old age, just half as much as the £10 Muley Moloch. Fobert has luck with this Plate, as he won it three times for Lord Eglinton, making five times in thirteen years. Schuloff, the winner of the Tyro, is in the Derby, and will be found a smart one before the end of the year. He is not only backward, but was shut out at the distance; and if Basham had not pulled his mare out of the way, Ashmall would have been sent over the rails. Peto's win in the Corporation Plate was solely owing to his being clear of the two or three who cannoned about the T.Y.C. post, and broke Pelissier's neck in the ditch.

Abingdon brought Rosabel out in her old form, with that clever and civil young jockey, J. Goater, on her back. He will not, we trust, lose anything by having cut his Findon connexion: Wells has not; and really won everything before him at Chelmsford. It was the same story for him at Stockbridge, with Musjid, Fitz-Roland, and Beadsman. The former is a horse that we should feel rather in

clined to throw up, and keep strictly for the Derby. He looks as if he never would have great pace; and Merryman, quite a two-year-old horse, must be a rock a-head to him on the Champagne, although there are rumours that both of them belong to Sir Joseph Hawley. Of Fitz-Roland's Leger chance we have no great notion, as he looks a mere handful. If great care is taken of him, The Kelpie will not be far off there. When are we to have the great point settled, whether Ignoramus can really stay two miles? Here he certainly ran the distance, but took nearly a minute more than a four-year-old at 8st. 4lb. ought to occupy.

The histories of Cherokee, the dam of North Lincoln, and its sire Pylades, are quite a romance. In 1852, Baron Rothschild bought the dam of Orestes from Mr. Hobson, with Pylades by Surplice at her foot, and she was sent to Iago. In the spring of the next year the young one cut the front of his fetlock with a flint, and became so useless that the Baron gave him back. He grew into a leggy sixteen-hand threeyear-old, hardly fit, from his looks, to cope with 6st., and was travelled one season (1855) in Lincolnshire. At four years old he was made fresh, and sent to Lincoln fair, where he was sold by auction for £15; and soon afterwards he died, perfectly unregretted by his county. Mr. Hobson had put Cherokee to him, and had North Lincoln out of her; and she was then served by Orestes-whose death, by-the-bye, was occasioned by being cast in his stall, and injuring his spine. He then sent her with another mare to be sold by Mr. Curtis, at York. The other mare was sold, but she found no customer; and eventually got, by private contract, into the Rev. Mr. Nevile of Thorney's, hands, who wanted to make a hack of her, when she proved not to be in foal. As soon as North Lincoln turned up trumps, three or four were after her, but could not find her. Mr. Hobson was one of them; but he had no better clue than the rest, till the man who sold her remembered that the price had been paid by a cheque through the Brigg bank. The cashier was consequently applied to; and on looking back, he found that it was Mr. Nevile's cheque. Accordingly that gentleman was at once, but very cautiously, sounded. He had not the most earthly idea that the mare was Cherokee, but simply that she was no great roadster, in consequence of a sand-crack, and was seemingly barren; and he therefore said they might have her back at the price he paid. Accordingly, back the mare came to Mr. Hobson again; and she has been just covered by The Cure, who is at present the great Lincolnshire pet. It is said that Earl Fitzwilliam has offered Mr. Hobson £500 for her in vain, and that the latter has refused £1,000 from Baron Rothschild for his half-share in the flyer. The latter was not fully found out by his stable before Epsom; and they were not very sweet on their chance there, from the fact of his having such a habit at exercise of jumping the road when he crossed it. He gathered himself up, and did the same in the race, which lost him some two or three lengths; but he could well afford that, though such a propensity might have been fatal if he had been in the Derby. It seems that Baron Rothschild and Mr. Hobson each thought that the other would have put him in that race, so between two stools he has fallen.

George Brown "has joined Schedule G"; and we have been told that Mr. Hildyard's celebrated grey cart-horse, who won at Salis