from home, that he could not give Artillery 4lbs. Artillery was silenced as they swept past the centre of the stand; and "Job," glancing back at the chestnut, as she caught him, stride for stride, sat down on his horse, and gave him the whalebone in right good earnest. "The mare! the mare wins!" rang from the troubled Yorkshiremen, as she came all but level with their favourite's head. Another stride, and they were past the chair, closely locked together; and we bore part in the universal feeling that Richmond had been defeated, and could hardly believe our eyes when "25" was hoisted. Those who were, like ourselves, in the grand stand usually give it to the inside horse whenever it is a near thing; but the same impression pervaded the occupants of the other stands, and even those who stood by the post. Never were the Yorkshiremen in greater extasies: they fairly danced round the horse, as he walked back to the weighinghouse; they patted "Job" and Abdale on the back, till they must have been sore; they wiped the horse with their pocket-handkerchiefs, to carry away the precious essence; they shouted “Richmond yet!

Now, Richmond lads, another cheer!" and so on; and, in short, gave way to the most unmitigated hilarity. It struck me that their horse was a little big; and he was very damp when he pulled up, which gave great scope to the wielders of the handkerchiefs. His hacky quarters have become rounded; and, taking him all in all, he is the very type of a well-knit English stayer, who would have been foremost amongst the best in the great four-mile days. Wakefield's finish was one of the weakest and most bustling pieces of riding we have ever seen, and a good match to Sly's performance at the Oaks. Neither in this race nor the Oaks did the stable behave handsomely by their jockeys; and they have been rightly served-out for it. They made Job Marson stand down, at the Oaks, in favour of Sly; and here, instead of letting Crouch, who had won the Warwick Cup on her, and can easily scale 6st. 11lbs., have the mount again, they allow Wakefield, who has not ridden below 7st. 2lbs. for years, to waste himself to a perfect skeleton for the mount. Many professed great surprise that they did not give Wakefield his orders to use the 291bs., and force the running; but I have no doubt that their waiting orders were correct. They knew that Fandango was anything but a fast horse, and that they could race with him, and beat him for speed on the post, but that it was rather a dangerous game to indulge such a glutton with a pace, as he never knows when he is beaten, even under 8st. 12lbs. The fault was not in the orders themselves, but in giving them to a second-rate man, whose nerve must have been pretty well wasted out of him to execute; and if the mare had only been brought thirty yards sooner, she must infallibly have won by a good neck. The time was something like 25 seconds less than the race is generally run in; and if Marson, finding that Melissa so resolutely refused to make a pace, had not come away despite all the weight, half-way up the distance, even Artillery would have beaten him for speed as well. One does not in fact know what to wonder at most, the Zetland stable having nothing to force the running, or the Clifden's stable's choice of a jockey, and can only conclude that the former trusted to Melissa to play the game for them. Artillery's running was very remarkable, and there seems some truth in the stable's St. Leger comment, that Basham lay too far out of his ground,

or Warlock should never have beaten, or Bonnie Scotland coupled him. However, all is well that ends well, and with two other races the most successful of Doncaster Meetings came to an end. Our clothes were once more packed up, the skirmishes and struggles at the station were safely got through, and we turned our backs on the pleasant little town for another long year.

The ensuing week was full of very pleasant "little goes." Prince of Orange made light of Pantomime, at even 18lbs. for the three years, in the Leicestershire Handicap; and Lance did his three miles for the Queen's Plate, against Lady Tatton, as well as he did his three-quarters at Doncaster. The mare was more successful at Pontefract, where Fisherman was not "i' the vein ;" and Mr. Mellish swept everything before him, with Adamas, Tame Deer, and Pope Joan, at Beccles, where racing propensities have slumbered for some seven years. The Mayor and the Committee would, however, have shown themselves better and wiser sportsmen, if they had not got up a stupid fussy contest with the Vicar, because he did not wish to have the church-bells rung on the occasion. It does not advance the interests of the Turf, to fight for such anise and cummin as bellringing, at the risk of offending the prejudices of neutrals; to say nothing of the religious world, who fairly hug the memory of Palmer, as a blessed type of what all racing men must of necessity be. Fulbeck's defeat by British Queen, at 3st. for his year, was the event of Walsall; £550 was added, and produced good sport at Cardiff; and the handicapping at Manchester was remarkably successful. It seemed quite strange, when we walked over Kersall Moor, the other day, to find The Grand Stand a Sunday-school, and to see the children walk from it to a church, which seems built exactly on the site of the late T. Y. C. post. But a very slight remnant of the course remains. We are glad to observe that Mr. Topham has made 8st. 12lbs. his raising weight for the Great Autumn Cup, and it is to be hoped that Messrs. Johnson and Frail will soon follow suit at their meetings; and as regards the Cesarewitch, we doubt whether Isaac Day's Simon Pure is as yet in the market.

Cub-hunting seems to have been prosperous everywhere, and the cubs are as plentiful as the grouse have been scarce. One new hunt is being formed, and they have, we hear, laid out eighty pounds on foxes at something like thirty shillings a-head. Joe Maiden has been sticking gallantly to his cub-hunting, and is as cheery as ever, with his left leg in the grave; but we fear there is only a slender chance of his being able to ride to hounds again. Joe is very active on his walking leg, but he at present wears a bent one when he is on horseback, and has his crutch at hand when he alights. His subscription has progressed well; but we trust it will be much larger yet, as a finer specimen of a huntsman worthy we do not possess. It is hard-lines for a man to be cut down with so many years still left in him, but it is perhaps preferable to the agony he suffered for season after season with his leg. He was not out once with the North Staffordshire all last season, and Mr. Davenport, the master, acted as huntsman. The first injury arose from his slipping with it into a copper in the Cheshire kennel. A wound was thus formed in the calf which refused to heal, and in after-years the leg was broken from a fall, which ren

His

dered recovery hopeless, and it was taken off below the knee. career began when he and Will Staples (now a comfortable sixteen-stone publican at Lea Bridge in Shropshire) weighed about 8st. 71b. each, and whipped-in to Sir Bellingham Graham. His son, Joe Maiden, is whipping-in somewhere in Ireland, and old Will Danby is now the huntsman of the Hurworth pack. There is a rumour that Earl Fitzwilliam's hounds may hunt four days a-week this season. Harry Sebright is now whipping-in to Cox with the Duke of Cleveland's hounds, and one of the Tredwell's (a family as inexhaustible in the hunting-field as the Edwardses once were on the turf), has taken his place at Mr. Lumley's. Yorkshire has two wonderfully rising huntsmen in Ned Owen, of the Badsworth, and Ben Morgan, in Mr. Willoughby's country; the latter especially has quite astonished the Tykes by his riding. Tom Rance, of the Cheshire, still sticks to the whipper-in line, as he has done for these seventeen years there under Joe Maiden, Markwell (who has no hounds now), and George Whitmore, and he has few rivals, if any, in that line.

The Duke of Beaufort will, we believe, hunt his own hounds whenever he is out; but Will Stansby, who formerly whipped in to Will Long and then hunted the Worcestershire, is with them now as first whip. Will Long, who resides at Bertha Cottage, at the edge of Badminton Park, is often out cub-hunting with his old favourites. Nothing could be kinder or handsomer than the Duke's letter to him when he retired on a pension last season. He served four Dukes of Beaufort, and whipped in to Philip Payne for seventeen seasons, and then hunted the hounds for eight-and-twenty more. We hear that Mr. Assheton Smith is better, but it seems doubtful whether he will ever mount the scarlet again. He was not with his hounds last year, except in a carriage, and left everything to George Carter, whose son whips in to Tom Sebright. So far, the Harboro' country is without hounds. It is said that a fair-sized draft from Mr. Sutton's hounds were offered as a present to a gentleman in that neighbourhood after the last April sale, but that he declined them. The late Sir Richard's stud-groom is with Baron Rothschild, and old Tom Day is in residence at Quorn, whither Dick Burton has, we believe, also removed. Boothroyd has a strong task before him, and we trust to "report good progress" by the time November is out.

ENGRAVED BY J. H. ENGLEHEART, FROM A PAINTING BY H. L. ROLFE.

Pike and Perch, two of the most sporting fish Piscator ever struck, come happily associated. The former, according to Ephemera, is in "his body comely to look at; and if he could hide his head, his green-and-silver vesture would attract many admirers." Mr. Nobbs, another authority, writes thus on the sport he affords at