again, all owing to his "belief in coincidences." "Knight of St. George," said he, "is '9' on the card-it is 9 years since an Irish horse won the St. Leger, and therefore the Knight is going to win it." Under this impression, he sported and won £200 at 10 to 1. In the Municipal, Davis, it was said, fancied Dirk, and he seemed to fill two pages and a-half of his book with "two ponies to one" against De Clare after they had gone up to start.

Thursday is now nearly as strong as any other day, and this year it was quite equal to them. Boer was rather currish when he met Gamekeeper, and Orinoco made play after the first furlong was run out of the eight, and was never headed again. Surely timing must be a queer system. Hospodar got rid of his brace before the Intake turn, and cantered home by himself, and next day the same course was run by him and Andover at full speed, and yet the horologist of The Life made only 2 secs. difference. Chicken had such a tremendous trial the week before, that the Richmond men were perfectly positive on the subject; the presence of Andover, whom they set down as nothing, greatly aiding them in the odds. Dervish's star was so paled, that, even for a mile, people were not keen to take 10 to 1 about him. John Day never looked prouder than when he led Andover, whose coat shone again as he walked round the enclosure. It was quite palpable, however, that he was a little too fat, and there is a slight weakness about the loins, which rather unfitted him for his heavy 9st. 5lbs. hamper. The party still seemed confident, and as Mr. Gully put his hand on his withers, and gave Alfred his final instructions, I never saw the old man look so noble. What a rare King John II. of England he would have made! A friend accosted him as he returned with "Well, Gully, you won't win to-day. "THE CHICKEN' beat you once, and he'll beat you agian." At the finish I had only eyes for Dervish, as I had the greatest curiosity to see him finish. He came opposite the Stand in very good style with his head right up in the air, which I am told by racing chief-justices is "still his custom of an afternoon." Toots's Chicken could not have more effectually polished off Mr. Dombey than the Chanticleer one did the lot here. His half-sister, who carried 3lbs. less and performed that great feat at York, was quite tailed off, as was expected after her Tuesday's work. The grey is thus sire to three of the quickest two-year-olds out, and I quite expect to see him take the pas of the Dutchman, who has, I am told, not thickenned the least since he got to Fairfield. Saraband and Marchioness made the finest finish of the meeting, and went at it head and head for the last half-distance. The mare is a fine lengthy Melbourne, and was rather backward. Saraband, who was a little too big at York, seemed as if he too wanted time, as he has evidently been hurried in his work since then, and not only looked tucked up, but was damp all over when he came in. Something as usual got left at the post, an epidemic which began at York and has gone on ever since.

His

The Cup Day was quite shorn of its charms when the fatal truth was confirmed, that "Westy," the hero of the Ascot Cup and £13,410 besides, was really on the retired list at last. owner, it was said, bet an even £500 with Mr. Payne at York that he would beat the mare; but his infirm legs could never

have stood such ground. Scott had taken enormous pains with him for this grand finale, and he was quite in his Leger trim again, and at least 8lbs. better than he was at Ascot. On soft ground, I verily believe that he would have tanned the mare's jacket for her at last; but on this point as many jockeys and trainers think one way as another. Scott says he never trained any horse at all to be compared to him, but thinks that perhaps for a mile Velocipede was a trifle speedier. Frank Butler took his saddle down to Goodwood, and gave him a good trial there; but as his attempts to waste have not as yet been successful, he would not have ridden him in the Cup. They tell me that at the end of a three-mile sweat, if the horse was only touched, he could go out like a rifle-ball from the string, and that he never seemed to tire. Stockwell is in work for the Whip, where Kingston meets him, but he was not forward enough for Doncaster, so Virago spoilt the Cup, as she did at Goodwood. Hospodar was quietly following Andover up and down in the Town field, as I wended my way to the course, and certainly the contrast was very great between the lengthy elegant Derby winner and the tight little Yorkshire hunter, who has a rare back and thighs, and the highest turn of speed I ever knew for a horse of his stamp. Once off, he rattled Andover along in rare style, and Alfred had to use the prickers before he felt quite sure of overhauling him; but stride told, and the little chestnut was just beaten a neck. Had the bay carried a 5lb. penalty, it would have quite turned the scale; but Andover's race, it must be remembered, on the previous day, had been more severe, and he was not so fit for a mile, perhaps, with both fresh and in form, there can be rarely half a stone between them. One of Andover's backers, on the preceding day, made a clean bolt of it to the station, and gave a crown to the cab-driver for the extra pace. His victim pursued him in cab No. 2, and when the levanter found that dodging him from platform to platform was useless, he darted off, with the victim in full cry, across the Crimpsall meadows. Another man I know won a small sum of some soi-disant "ring-man," and could hardly recognize him again, as he changed his coat and hat with a pal, but he was collared as he sneaked out of the stand. Honeysuckle looked very plump and well, but she had a wretched lot against her; Rosaline and Omoo especially had grown in inches, but not in form. The former roarer could hardly live much beyond the Red House; and now came the roaring burst of "the black cloud" which has hung over and obscured the merits of Acrobat, and tortured the ring, and nobles to boot, beyond their strength for eight long months. The pace, which was paltry at York, when he and Ivan last met, was a thing of earnest here, which was all in favour of Van Tromp's firstborn, and yet when "Sim" came up, and regularly set Acrobat going, he went as fast again, and finished pulling double. There was a dead ominous calm, amid which Lord Derby, who had arranged with the Clerk of the Course to run the race 10 mins. sooner, that he might catch the afternoon train, quitted the stand, and drove off in a cab, which was ready waiting, to the station. Had West Australian met the mare in the next race, and his lordship stayed, the scene would have been one that not twenty Harry Broomes could have repressed. Back came the horses to scale, Ivan leading, and Acrobat in the wake

of Scythian; but no demonstration was made till the Derby jacket was fairly in front of the Grand Stand, when some silly fellow gave a cheer. Twenty hisses at least drowned it, and Wells and Marson glanced back in astonishment at poor "Sim," who sat as pale as a sheet, with his left arm bowed and resting on his thigh as usual, enduring a regular battery of hisses and abuse. Counter cheers then arose, and opposite the nobleman's stand the uproar was in full chorus. Ivan and Scythian stopped the way farther on; so Templeman, seeing there was no time to be lost, jumped off before he reached the weighinghouse, stripped off his saddle in no time, and threaded his way, as best he could, through the fast closing angry groups. John Scott, who had come to the horse's head, was not so lucky. “He's smiling; look at him," roared some indignant Acrobatian; and that was enough. The battle had begun, and poor John, cut off from the weighingstand, retreated towards the side door of it, the Secretary of the Spring Meeting and one or two others just getting to his side in time. Luckily, Harry Broome was hard by, and on he rushed like an avalanche to the rescue, making a regular lane for himself, and striking so vigorously that he not a little astonished one or two of his own side. The battle then became general in the space between the two stands; General Broome doing prodigies of valour, and Messrs. Adkins, Coyle, an eminent counsel, and Scott's Doncaster friends (who were fit to cry afterwards at such an insult to their old neighbour) working like men till poor Scott reached the welcome door. Harry Broome, who declared that he was so out of form that he could scarcely have stood twenty minutes, mounted guard on the steps, reminding not a few "outsiders" of the days when the "lionhearted Jackson" and his twelve picked men kept the Abbey doors at George the IV.'s coronation. The crowd still rushed so recklessly into the space, that they did not seem to know that Scott had escaped, and was looking down from the weighing stand, at intervals, on the struggling mass beneath, and for nearly ten minutes they hustled each other in the most frantic way. The groups outside were not idle with their tongues. Young blades who did not join the fight gave opinions that "it served him right, Demmy!" on which a furious Scottite instantly dared them to prove their words, or engage in single combat then and there. Another Scottite got up on a form to make a speech, and was just, with outstretched finger, requesting his auditors to "tak a just view of Acrobat's running at York. You see Ivan ", when some one came under him, and, saying "Shut up," gave him such a dig in the waistband that Cicero swiftly descended from his eminence, gasping. Another of the opposite persuasion, with a face perfectly purple with passion, and in an agricultural garb, clenched his fists in impotent rage, and performed a savage Cherokee dance in front of the Nobleman's Stand. "Come down to me, you rascals," he shouted, "come down! Oh, if I had nobbut my old gun I'd shoot you all. Come down, if you're half men!" Another with a great blue umbrella that Mrs. Gamp would have loved, and performing a pas seul the while, went feeling about with it over the heads of the crowd, and requesting to have the head of Lord Derby, or any other " of them aristocrats " pointed out to him, forthwith, that he might "smash it." At last, after a quarter

of an hour, came a calm; a false report went round that Lord Derby had vaulted over the rails, and that seemed to satisfy the malcontents, who condescended to soothe their feelings by watching Virago. Young John nudged his father after she was saddled, and said, Now, father, be off up the Stand; for if she makes a mistake, they'll be wanting you next;" and away went old John accordingly. However, the mare gave Kingston no chance; and, when Amy had landed a £50 pot for Aldcroft, and a good deal more for her friends (Why was Rylstone so crushed by the handicappers each day?), the crowd walked in thoughtful mood home, pondering over such a row as has perhaps never before been seen on a race-course. Ruby and Nelly Hill's match, at 8st. 7lbs. each, never got into the card; and very few saw the former walk over. The weight was too much for Nelly, but she is far the quickest starter of the day, and Virago the slowest. In fact, at Worcester she was six lengths a-head of her field in an instant, and seemingly converted a very good into a very bad start.

The riot, and its origin, is about as difficult of explanation as the meaning of "THE PRINCESS OF THE BURNING EYES; OR, THE MARE JINGLE AND THE LUMINOUS HAT," which I see underlined at one of the saloons. My impression is that early in the spring Whitewall got very much crabbed on finding that a large party out of the stable believed, on very good authority, that Acrobat was far better than Dervish, and had backed him heavily for the Derby accordingly. At last a very gencral belief in the fact arose; but, although thousands were laid out on the horse, the odds were laid so keenly by parties who knew pretty well about the stable, that (in spite of his match and the Chester Cup) he never rose above 20 to 1. Dervish, too, showed such wonderful speed in his sheeted gallops, that the pair were most probably never tried; and the stable either believing, or not choosing to disbelieve, that Dervish was best, scratched Acrobat for the Derby, and effectually punished the parties who first backed the horse. Had they prepared and started him, there seems no earthly doubt that Andover would have had to do his very utmost to beat him. Dervish's sad Epsom display annoyed "the gentlemen in the hole" still more; and the pertinacity with which the stable stuck to him even after his Goodwood mess, and the direct line which was thus afforded the public of the merits of the two, through Arthur Wellesley, had not a soothing effect. The son of Ithuriel seemed fairly ham-strung, and no plucky believer was found to offer £4000 or so for him, and thus test the stable's real St. Leger belief in him. Dervish, it is true, at last faded into insignificance, but the roarer Boiardo (whom Alfred Day declares to have been winning the St. Leger, till his legs failed) took his place, and yet Acrobat, only third in the trial, wins at York as cleverly as ever horse won. It was reported that all three were to run on their merits at Doncaster; and Sim says, and no doubt with truth, that "they may hiss till they're hoarse, but I could not get the horse an inch forwarder." To this, the public answer-The stable did not want to win with him, because it would either prove that they had made a fearful mistake about their best Derby horse, or had not chosen to try them, that they might have a good excuse for scratching the animal, who had been taken liberties with. Scott's

friends assert that the St. Leger course was too long for the horse, and that a mile and a half is his forte. It is difficult to believe this, as he covered the Chester Cup course very cleverly, and was ridden to boot by a little monkey who belonged to the winner's stable, and who stood to win nearly a monkey on that winner. Hence, he was made to race against every horse that came to the front, and finished a good third after all such usage; in fact, such was John Scott's dismay at seeing his orders defied, that he collared the lad and shook him till his teeth rattled again. In the Doncaster Stakes too, the horse did not show the slightest signs of having had enough, and, therefore, we cannot accept the short-distance theory, but incline to the belief that he had not done enough work to win a St. Leger. The stable must have known this, or they would never have brought him out, and given him a two-mile gallop over the hard ground on Thursday night, to make the Doncaster Stakes safe on the following day. Well might the great and wise Newmarket tout keep shouting to John Scott on Langton Wold, for some weeks past, when he saw how little work the horse did, "Send him along John Scott-send him along; or he'll get you into a row before you're many days older." Well, too, might a great Yorkshire sportsman, in the first outburst of vexation at the riot, vow and protest that he would race no more!

The Songstress-bitten tykes were quite as angry as the Manchester men, and a match between Acrobat and Ivan, at the St. Leger distance, will alone set the question at rest.

NOCTES VENATICE.

BY SCRIBble.

CONVERSATION THE SIXTH.

Uncle S.-At last, my dear boy! I am delighted to see you. Now there's a prospect of my hearing what sort of sport you have had in Scotland.

Nephew.-Oh, the public accounts are tolerably correct, as to

that.

Uncle S.-If by "public accounts" you mean the lists of killed and wounded in Bell's Life and The Field, I suppose they are; but I feel very little interest in knowing the amount of shots fired by the Hon. Captain Grouser, or the number of head that fell to the guns of Lord Coppercap and his friend and toady, Major Flint. I should like to hear something about the heather, the dogs,_the_straight powder, the hill-side bivouac, and the mountain breezes; Ben Lomond, Ben Nevis, Loch This and Loch T'other-something that St. John or Whyte Melville might have written, or my friend Gêlert could have told, with glistening eye and ringing voice. If I were young again, and on the hill-side, I think I could have cooked up a dainty dish from such a bill of fare.