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stale. Lara is another proof of the uncertainty of race-horse speculations. He was picked up last year, by a dealer, at sixty sovereigns ; and I would not now undertake to buy a horse to beat him, at the price of 1,000 guineas.

You will, perhaps, have seen, in the newspapers, a ridiculous article, stating that Baron Biel had made a match with Prince Puckler for £1,000 a-side, to ride against each other for the distance of 600 miles, in six days-the Baron on an English horse, and the Prince on an Arab. The fact is, the Prince offered to make the trial between horses of the different breeds, and Baron Biel accepted the challenge -the particulars, such as amount of stakes, weights, &c., to be settled on the Prince's return, which had not taken place when I left the country. As for their riding themselves, it never was contemplated by either; but, if it does take place, I should be inclined to lay odds on the English blood.

I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,

A LOVER OF THE TURF IN ALL COUNTRIES.

P. S.-Your REVIEW is received in the parts which I have visited, and very much approved of.

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"LIMNINGS FROM LIFE." - No. 2.

"AND what has your journey in search of the characteristic produced?" we inquired of our cunning designer, whom lately we encountered in the regions of May Fair, evidently bound on a cruise, taking notes." "Presque rien," was the reply: "the town is a howling wilderness-at four, p. m. St. James-street, from the Palace to Piccadilly, could only afford a single evidence that the Westend was inhabited and that in the shape of a solitary stanhope in front of Crockford's." "So set it down," said we; - and look on the picture he hath drawn. Fishmongers' Hall "hides its diminished head" (typical, peradventure, of present dwindled glory), but the stanhopeis not that portrayed to the life?

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AUTUMN ON THE ARNO.

FLORENCE SEPTEMBER MEETING, 1839: TUSCAN SKETCHES, SOCIAL AND SPORTING.

BY AN ENGLISH TURFITE IN ITALY.

""Whence come you?' said my host, who cherished rather a formal and antiquated method of speech. ""From the Pythian Games, said I.'"-PELHAM.

TOWARDS the close of a day, one of the latest born of September, a travelling britchka whirled into Florence through the Porta San Frediano. Crack! crack! crack! was the burthen of the postillion's song, or, rather, of his whip, as he dashed down the Long Arno, rattled past Schneiderff's gorgeous caravanserai, to the inexpressible discomfiture of a host of myrmidons, waiters, and scullions, drawn up in array, without the doors, to allure the traveller into their far-famed hospitium. La Ponte Santa Trinita is passed: a renewed cracking of the ponderous thong, mingled with the jingling of the bells on the harness, and the foaming steeds were checked before La Loranda del Pelicano, in the Piazza Santa Trinita.

Out of the carriage leapt nor less nor more a personage than mine excellent self. Away again rolled the britchka. For one moment I stood alone on the threshold of the old and gloomy palace of the Montecatinis; in the next, I cast open a door on my right hand, and entered a small room, around whose roughly-distempered walls hung portraits of racers, all painted, and admirably painted to boot, by my friend Charlie Hamilton, of that ilk. Here appeared Perry's Goldfinch, and, as his pendant, a Turkish stallion, in a glen of wild and savage scenery, and attended by two ferocious-looking Turks. Over those glass-doors (within whose mysteries of mysteries are carefully treasured the registers and annals of the Florentine Jockey Club) mounted guard the notorious Tickle Toby-alias Tom Paine, by Prime Minister, alias Tybalt, by Thunderbolt-with Lowenberg's trainer grasping the bridle, and the jock at his side ready for the

mount.

A bronze lamp, with four burners, was suspended over a long table, which ran the length of the apartment. A remarkably dingy and dusty sofa, stuffed with horsehair, claimed, in one nook, as a vis à vis in another, a yet more ordinary and vile-looking chest of drawers, of painted deal. In the two other corners of the room stood marble tables, whereon were strewed, in heterogeneous confusion, racing calendars; odd numbers of THE SPORTING REVIEW; half-a-dozen hats; the general stud-book; three or four umbrellas, and as many canes; the Groom's Oracle, a bottle of Cognac, and a ditto of Adam's nectar, flanked by a file of tumblers; Smith's Observations on Breeding for the Turf; and piles of the Regolamento della Societa Anonima Florentina per le Corse di Cavalli."

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Luxuriously ensconced in arm-chairs, on either side of the table, were some ten or twelve individuals, of supreme celebrity in the sporting circles of Florence. At the head of the table (with a cigar in his mouth, a glass of brandy and water at his elbow, and a volume open before him, in which he was assiduously registering an entry) sat enthroned a portly man, of apparently forty, somewhat given unto stoutness, of a fine and intellectual countenance, and an open brow, on which candour, intelligence, and sincerity were most strongly marked. Joviality and good-humour, mingled with a spice of voluptuous recklessness, held their revels in his full and laughing eyes, and proclaimed him a kindred spirit-one for the wassail-bowl and the banquet, and one to laugh at destiny; one to drain to the dregs enjoyment's draught of the present.

He was dressed well, but plainly, and sans pretension; and, altogether as much unlike an innkeeper, and as much like a gentleman, as Bagot or George Anson (and of all my countrymen, I cannot name two more distingué or gentlemanly in appearance,) is Silvestre Gasperini, the secretary of the Jockey Club at Florence. On his left was Baron Lowenberg, a very good-looking German, with the light hair and clear complexion that characterize his countrymen: opposite to him was Charles Poniatowski, well known as the principal and the most liberal supporter of the turf: on his right was his brother Joseph-in years a boy, but in talent and worldly experience and calculation a sexagenarian. Near him were Augustus Valembreck, and Piero Dini, (the founder of the society) and Messrs. Celani, Libri, and Coppi.

Two natty and knoscient-looking coves stood near the window, rigged out in brown cloth inexpressibles, with gaiters to match, falling well over the instep, and superlatively wrinkled; white kerseymere waistcoats, blue bird's-eye mufflers, and cut-away green coats, with sporting buttons. Each and either brandished a jockey whip in one hand, and twirled a white tile in the other. The worthy with a broad round face, like the moon at her full, is Jackson; and his pal, with a somewhat sinister obliquity of vision, is James Huband-an out-andouter, a thorough trump, and nothing but a good un! Ushered into the world with but a wooden spoon in his chaff-box, he chopped it away, long since, for a silver one; and ere he chants psalms, not horses, in Paradise, his silver spoon will be transmuted into a golden one-yea, and a weighty one to boot. He deserves his success, if industry and indefatigable perseverance ever merited aught in this world-for industry is the true science of alchymy; and fortune lay in his way, and he found it.

When at Florence,

"Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
Collegisse juvat"

let them, the would-be-driving youth, apply to Huband; for not another man in Florence can turn out, in the superior style that he does, such neat equipages, such clever cattle, and such steady drivers. Choose, of the ninety tits in his stable, the spiciest clippers; down with the dibs: he will serve you right well. With him you will be satisfied, and to me grateful for the recommendation.

One word, also, for honest and excellent Joseph Gangee (who I see, even now, chaffing and deep in conversation with Lowenberg); his English saddlery, and whips, and clothing, are superlative; and his string

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