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now half consumed, is all that remains of the florid owner of Goldfinder, whose name (after knowing him by sight for years) we asked for the first time as he passed out of the Doncaster enclosure on the last Friday with Cook. The friend who then informed us who he was, lately remarked to us that he never knew him till he came to the judge's chair at Chester, and asked whether Goldfinder or Talfourd had won the Chester Cup, and looked as if the victory of his own horse anything but suited his book. By an error of the press last month, we were made to say that Mr. Montague Chambers asked 1,000gs. instead of 500gs. for his defence; and we hear that Mr. Sergeant Shee (whose substitution for Sergeant Wilkins, who is said to be nearly well again, was anything but a happy one) received 300gs. for his services. A phrenological lecturer, who delivered a sort of discourse on, and took a cast of the wretched man's head, as he lay in the dead-house, considered that the rolling motion of his head and body, as he tripped along the corridor to his doom, was “ the natural language of love of approbation”; and that “his tripping on his toes with a cat-like motion was the result of very large secretiveness.” Who but he would have stepped out of his cell on to the gallery, and back again, even when he was pinioned, to have a look at his funeral procession as it formed! It reminds us of the poacher, of Dead Man's Corner, near Dunchurch, who saw his own funeral pass out of a heather shed one night, with his mother and brothers following it, and went home and died within two days. Palmer's winnings commenced in The Dutchman's year, and Doubt was one of his first race-horses. This mare was trained by Saunders, whereas The Victim and Young'un were under Eskritt's charge. His brothers were fond of this latter amusement, and the three once got up a steeple-chace, in which three of their horses ran, and Walter's won. It would have been well if he had stuck to this, as, whatever The Dutchman may have won for him, he lost on Hobbie Noble, and from that Derby Day his sorrows began.

Epsom seems to have left very few general impressions behind it, except that Fly-by-Night was not “intended that journey," and was not fit to run a yard, although everyone in the vicinity of the stable were on him, and are suffering in consequence from a raw quite as deep as the Songstress one. A great book-maker, it is said, stood £8,000 against him in one bet, and a clinker against Cannobie, and two well-known confederates never ceased peppering Fazzoletto to the last. Wentworth's defeat was a sad disappointment to his owners, who bid fair to be a good accession to the turf, if this throw out does not disgust them. All“ the ground” excuses come with a bad grace from Danebury, whose twin constellations can try a horse as well as anyone out, and must have known, from the look of their there was not a symptom of staying about him. No wonder they kept him out of sight to the last moment on the day. The race was run to suit him, as it was a very slow Derby. For nine-tenths of the way the speed was very great; but it slackened so for two or three hundred yards, that, according to the jockeys, they "fairly stood still." The Day party won scarcely anything with Mincepie, as Aleppo beat her so easily the day before, that they dared not back her Oaks chance. Poor Sly's riding of Melissa was something awful; the very jockey


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boys roared over it with contempt; and, certainly, how Lord Clifden could let his other jockey (Job Marson) look on in plain clothes while nearly £4,000 of stakes were thus fooled away, is a perfectly incomprehensible mystery. Perhaps it was good-naturedly to make up to Sly for not having the St. Leger mount on the Clementina colt, when he came ready dressed to the course, and was taken behind the weighing-house by Isaac Day to receive a long explanation as to why “ The Vicar" superseded him.

Beverley had a copious uninteresting style of meeting ; but the Yorkshire trysts lose half their interest, to our mind, from the low scale of the handicaps, which shuts out their senior jockeys so completely, and we sigh for the good old times when “ Alfred Highflyer”' used to tell us of the deeds of Slashing Harry and Henriade, and nine or ten of the Yorkshire seniors rode in every race but the Maiden Plate. Sulpitia showed some running at last ; and, thanks to the handicap system, twenty-five horses (thirteen of them two-year-olds) showed for the Scurry, and owned a leader in Lady of the Lodge. Blink Bonny again ran to her form, and had, so it was said, an offer of £3,000 from Lord Londesboro' refused for her, on the ground that £5,000 (the sum at which Manganese was, according to rumour, offered to Baron Rothschild) was the thing for her. We doubt whether Mr. l'Anson will not have repented before this time next year, and we should be sorry to take her and £1,000 to boot if we could get Magnifier. The master of this fine colt, in his white hat, was one of the principal objects on the Great Western platform, as we took our places for Ascot on the Tuesday. This leviathan apparent is a young Yorkshireman, the son of a farmer near Catterick, and was, we believe, first put into money through John Osborne's advice in The Dutchman year. Since then he has had horses on the quiet with three or four trainers, and has latterly been the great prop of Tom Dawson's stable. He is fast winning his title to be a second edition of the “ All-knowing Jackson, whom Johnson has so immortalised. But we are on our Ascot way, and very dull it is in comparison with what it once was. The poor, crazy, railway-hating clergyman did not stand, with uplifted eyes and folded arms, under his wonted tree as we passed Hanwell; and we thought that the company must be crazy, when they posted up in their Windsor station that one-horse vehicles which had the entrée of their yard charged £3 3s. to Ascot and back, and a two-horse one £5 5s.! It is hardly reputable for them to sanction such a monstrous attempt at imposition. The Park, as we walked across it, seemed a perfect desert ; all the world had gone by Staines, and fairly lined the cords when we reached the Heath, and found Spindle saddling. She hardly presented the look of a winner, as she stood there, leggy and light, and quivering like an aspen. Wells's 7st. 4lb. days are over, and so J. Ĝoater had a winning mount, and performed well. Apathy is a blood-like, tall-short horse, with a nice Roman head, and a confused style of blaze on it, leggy and long from the hock to the ground -a style of make, in short, which was not served over this course. The Borderer's lad was one of the smallest we have seen for some time, and a strange contrast to his long-backed steed.

Alderoft's back, by-the-bye, has hardly recovered yet from its Chester shake, and his hopes with Bird-in-Hand, whose mane was as dishevelled as one of Mr. Parr's cattle, were quite disappointed in the Triennial. The horse had a select Richmond party round him, as Gill saddled him among the heather, through which we waded to take stock of him. His head and neck are nice, but he is not a better style of horse than he was last year, and the hot hard ground quite stopped him. Wells, in all the glory of a new saddle, bestrode the lengthy and coughing Cannobie, who wants another year over his head, and more distance than he had here. The hurrying at the start overset him, and, though Wells thought he was winning as they crossed the road, the hill fairly stopped him. There is not enough about Aleppo; Peter Flat is a most tucked-up, herring-gutted animal, and Pit-a-pat is clever-a trifle short and leggy, perhaps—and has lost that tendency to load on the shoulder which we thought we observed last year. Fly-by-Night had shed that wondrous black-satin bloom which made us suspicious of him at Epsom, and looked hard and well after his strong Leatherhead preparation. His good shoulder, and high and strong quarters, served him to a nicety up the hill, and he fairly cut it down like a scythe when“ Ben" set him agoing. Such a poor lot as the Stakes animals one seldom sees; and even Mr. Stanley's veteran specimens of the Old England and Venison blood, with mere bagatelle hampers on their back, could do nothing. Flyby-Night then emerged once more from his promenade at the top of the hill, and was drawn up at the Swinley post with Yellow Jack-one of the most perfect-backed horses we know-and a great chesnut rasper called Grampian, with a most frightful head, own brother to Stilton, and standing over quite as much ground. Alfred Day stuck close to the black all the way round; and even when they got to the bottom, it struck us that Yellow Jack was not going like a winner, in spite of his strong lead, and the post-verdict did not surprise us. Making allowance for the disadvantage of making his own running, and putting a 5lb. beating and a 5lb. penalty into the scale, Yellow Jack has a slight pull over Fly-by-Night, and makes us still believe that the latter could not, under any circumstances, have beaten Ellington for the Derby. Fly-by-Night's off fore-leg went about three strides beyond the chair, and the red handkerchief which was tied round it for a slight support, sent home several with the impression that it had got frightfully cut. The four-year-olds were a poor lot, and the winner Shoreham, whom Nat rode with no little determination, was, as Tom Taylor said of him, “ anything but a beauty," and not half the size of his kindred. Habena looked a poor bandaged creature; but Rogers must have thought it a good mount, or he would not have wasted to 7st. 13lb. for her, a thing he has not done for many a day. Pettit never expected that he would draw the weight, and was on the course dressed to ride. William Butler looked sadly black at her reverse; and if his countenance be any index, no man bears defeat worse, and seems more disposed to snap the jockey's head off. When Græculus Esuriens, who always seems as if his hinder parts did not belong to him, and cannot get over more than a T.Y.C., finished third, one may judge of the strength of the field, Claret ran a good horse; but he is one of the tall-short breed, who find no mercy here when they try to get home. Corcebus has straight

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plain quarters, which do not please the eye; but he is a great slashing horse, who will have his "good thing" yet. His break down (if it

“ was one) was not palpable to my eyes, and he kept walking up and down long after, at the top of the hill. Sultan is a very sweet-looking animal, with an unusually nice head, and a great contrast to Fisherman, who looked especially rough and shabby. Aleppo slipped his horses like a greased flash of lightning, just as they passed the post, and it seemed the work of an instant for him to get 150 yards a-head. In fact, I never but once saw such a long slip, and in that case also the slipper “came back" within the distance. The weights must be sadly against the four-year-olds, &c., in this race, as they hardly ever win it, whereas only seven three-year-olds have been successful in the Cup during the last fifty years. It could not be otherwise. Who would believe in the hopeless dulness of those who pretend to look after the meeting, when they make a four-year-old give away 25lbs. in tro miles, and 23lbs. in two-and-a-half. Sydney we did not see, bat he was much better liked than the Surplices usually are. the carriage company we espied very few notables, with the exception of Mr. Sergeant Parry, who came to air his new dignity in the interval between the private swearing-in and his public recognition in the hall of William Rufus.

Wednesday was warm and balmy, and the Rugeley-bred colt, the last of the Sir Hercules race, brought Mr. “ Hope's” colours cleverly through the Fernhill Stakes, while Saucebox, who never loved a hill, went down before Middleton at 2st. for the Guineas, and Victoria, that unworthy sister of West Australian, cleared a cool thousand in the Coronation Stakes. Saraband again ran gamely, but he could not touch Forbidden Fruit (a cheap purchase at Mr. Jacques's sale) for the Royal Hunt Cup, who did the ring no small credit by its first favouritisni.

The Windsor station was rather more lively on the Cup day, and those natty “Fortnum and Mason” baskets were in great force. On the Heath the crowd was very large, and there was little chance for anyone by the side of the cords to see much. Astrologus, on whose behoof a nice-looking colt called Raphael made the running, nobbed Hungerford for the Visitors' Plate; and if the old chesnut cannot run a colt of that stamp, weight for age, it is high time that he was reproducing his beautiful forehand and fine length at some stud farm. Fandango's and Rifleman's lameness had quite plucked the heart out of the Cup; and, confident as John Osborne was, many did not fancy that Manganese could stay, and, certainly, we did not see that improvement in her since last year which rumour, that most ignorant of guides, assigned to her. Lord Clifden's pair of Surplices had a feeble, tucked-up look, and were very ill calculated for a strong twoand-a-half miles. Winkfield, like all the Alarms (who are running well this season), is a well-knit style of horse, and Saucebox seemed fresh and well after his travel over the same distance the day before. Thanks to Simony, who led them along till she was fairly pumped out, and could scarcely trot home, the pace was anything but bad, and, marvellous to say, considering the quality of the cattle, only 14 seconds slower than in “The West’s” great year. At the bottom of the hill, Manganese was still going strong, and Wells was worrying her as he had craftily done throughout, by going up to her girths at intervals, and making her pull her very head off. All the pull, however, was quite out of her, half way up the distance, and then Winkfield, who had crept quietly up from the bend, made his effort, and sent “ S. Walker, licensed victualler," almost beside himself with joy. He seized his horse by the bridle, and led him right up to the presence of his Royal Missus, waving his hat above his red curly head again and again, as the ironical cheers stimulated him to fresh vocal exertions. It was rather an odd, though a not unnatural, ruffling of the calm dignity of the Court party. John Osborne and his party (Jackson dropped £700 over it) were sadly disappointed at the defeat of the mare, but she was unanimously voted a " love of a creature" by the ladies, who lost gloves by the dozens. She is sadly hotheaded, and the weather was not in her favour for other reasons. A very attractive-looking field came to the post for the New Stakes, though there was nothing whose stamp pleased us so much as Goldfinch, whose style of going reininded us, in its power and precision, not a little of his sire Orlando. Kingmaker, a great black son of The Baron, might have been any age to the eye, and is big, powerful, and slow-looking, and a great contrast to the springy little Dutchman by his side. One of the lot (Mr. Saxon's) was the smallest thing we have seen at the post for many a day. Gilliver was a neat style of animal, so called, we conclude, after the great cock-feeder, for whose science the captain had no small love. The winner was very impetuous at the start, and broke away once or twice. It is rather remarkable that Mr. Howard's horses were second and third, and that they were the highest priced lots at the Rawcliffe and Greville sales last year, and that both cost 460gs. The eighteen-hundred-guinea Lord of the Hills did not show, and his companion, Broadcloth, had two days' severe illness in London, where he had arrived with Fóbert and George Oates, which sent him back without a start.

The rain, which had threatened the whole afternoon, came down with no little force before the ring had recovered their surprise at the result; and a dull wet day on Friday, on which Mr. E. R. Clark won one race and claimed a winner in another, and little Secret bowled over the Prince of Orange, and Lord Nelson was last to Theodora in the Great Western Plate, wound up the meeting. The papers may say what they like, but we fancy that we never attended a Quller or less speculative one. The added money is anything but copious. The Triennial Stakes seem to be fast dying away on their native ground; but, as the Stand receipts will fall into the Race Fund in 1858, we may hope to see the list considerably amended. As it was, the present meeting had scarcely any direct bearing on the St. Leger or Derby.

Death has been busy with several well known in turf circles during the month. Mr. Harry Biggs has long ceased to be a turfite, though well remembered as the owner of little Red Rover, who ran Priam in for the Derby. Mr. Herring has lost his second son Charles, who has worked with him on his pictures for some years past, and was, considering his age, one of the most accomplished artists of the day, both in horses, the human figure, and still-life. His elder brother has, we are glad to hear, quite recovered from his ophthalmia, and

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