against Bracken, 10 to 1 against Little Harry, ditto Ilex, ditto Hercules, 100 to 6 against Sweetness, 20 to 1 against Cock Pheasant, and 6 to 1 against the brace-Pancake and Rackapelt. As usual with such encounters, it was "confusion worse confounded." In as prepense a piece of plating as ever came off on Moulsey Hurst, Little Harry was hammered in first-the tip of the tail little more than within sight.

The Ascot Derby Stakes of £50 each-half forfeit-for three yearolds; colts, 8st. 7lbs. ; fillies, 8st. 3lbs.--the winner of the Derby 10lb. extra; the winner of the Oaks 5lbs. extra ;-Swinly course-fifteen subscribers. Betting-2 to 1 against Marley Hill, 5 to 2 against Bobby, 3 to 1 against Marley Hill ("haud meus hic sermo"), and 4 to 1 against Phaeton. This, the wind up of the list, had nearly been the same of the lives of the jockeys. Marley Hill, the favourite, has only a single "pceper" in his head; so he ran foul of Bobby, and tumbled on his ears and knees. Being a heavy colt, he was soon up and at it again; but not so poor Tim Templeman, who, by even sticking to his steed with his spurs, could not keep his saddle, and came to his mother earth as if never again of his own accord to rise from it. Phaeton, last in the market, was first in the finish.

Wednesday, as if to mark the moral of its tenure, opened with the Coronation Stakes-won by "Mishap." The Fernhill Stakes was a walk over by Bessie. I omitted saying that for the Coronation Sortie was the favourite.

A £100 Handicap, of £2 each-£100 douceur-John of Burges was backed to win, at one point against him; which Calamus did at 5 to 1 against him.

The Royal Hunt Cup, valued at £200 for intrinsic worth and design -New Mile-sixty-one subscribers at £10 a piece; twenty-two ran, and four were placed. Betting-2 to 1 against Alembic-a podrida of intermediates, and 15 to 1 against Brocket. Brocket was first; King of Trumps, second; colt by the Emperor-dam Begum-third; and Alembic, last.

The second year of the Fifth Ascot Triennial Stakes, of £10 each, with a bonus of £100-New Mile-forty-three subscribers-had a field of seven. Betting-7 to 4 against Champagne, and 2 to 1 against Meteora; the filly the winner.

The third year of the Fourth Ascot Triennial Stakes, of £10 each, and a bonus of £100-Mr. Bowes's West Australian (thus in the Book Calendar), with 5 to 1 on him, won by four lengths.

A £50 Sweepstakes-£10 forfeit-Delia won by a neck. Thursday-by grace of the Royal presence and heavy rain-produced a prodigal crop of umbrellas. After the accustomed " pomp and circumstance," the performance opened with the St. James's Palace Stakes, for three-year-olds; Old Mile; eighteen subscribers. It was run a trio -9 to 1 on Prince Arthur, and 3 to 1 against Baalbec. "Baalbec," says the newspaper report, "headed Prince Arthur at the Stand, and won, hard held, by a length. Time and place considered, it was a curious coincidence that the Turk should beat the English Prince.

The Visitors' Plate Jujube won by a length, and Mulligrubs was fifth. Ecce iterum-" what's in a name?"

Here again is "confusion worse confounded." To follow in the Book Calendar, appears-"A PIECE OF PLATE, value Five Hundred Sove

reigns, the gift of His Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias' -a trophy now.

"In the deep waters of the "-Danube-" buried."
Present edition.

A Gold Cup, value Three Hundred Sovereigns, the surplus in specie, with £200 added from the fund-eighteen subscribers-was run for by half a dozen. Betting-6 to 4 on West Australian, 3 to 1 against Rataplan, 7 to 1 against Kingston, 15 to 1 against Orestes, 20 to 1 against Talfourd, ditto Cobnut, ditto Nabob. The finish was a struggle "for the dear life "-won by the winner of last year's Two Thousand Guineas Stakes, Derby, and St. Leger, &c., &c., by a head-Kingston being beaten by this length, and a weight above the flying West Australian of nine pounds.

For the New Stakes-two-year-olds-there were forty-four named, and a field of a baker's dozen. The odds were 6 to 4 against Border Chief, 3 to 1 against Flatterer, 5 to 1 against Mary, and 8 to 1 against Monge" boots" in the books. Bad as his place in the ring was, it was first in the race.

The Windsor Castle Stakes-Hospodar, with 7 to 4 on him-won, hard held, by eight lengths, beating Balmoral and Woodcote in their places. Of the twenty-four named, three started.

A Sweepstakes of £50 each-half forfeit-for three-year-olds, Swinley course, nine subscribers, came off a match between Boer and Pelham-even betting. It terminated as the runners are here placed. The Windsor Forest Stakes, Meteora walked over for, and the list

was ran out.

Friday-the climax of Ascot's ill-betiding in its last anniversary; and to sum up the shocking bad account, "a glass of sherry, with a few spoonfuls of water, was charged at a shilling in the Grand Stand, and, in fact, everything was paid for at the rate of a hundred per cent. more than its value."

A Sweepstakes of £50 each-half forfeit-for three-year-olds, Old Mile, nine subscribers-Epaminondas, with 3 to 1 on him, won from Weathercock and Eccleston.

The First Class of the Wokingham Handicap-twenty-six subscribers, last three-quarters of the New Mile-brought out fourteen. Hobby Horse, 5 to 2 against him, the winner.

The Great Western Handicap-twenty-four subscribers-eleven runners-5 to 2 against Miss Bolton, 4 to 1 against Phaeton, 5 to 1 against Roebuck, 6 to 1 against Diana, and 7 to 1 against Hero. The two last in the odds made a dead heat of it, and thus divided stakes.

Her Majesty's Plate Rataplan, 6 to 4 against him, won, beating Epaminondas and Sharavogue by a neck.

The Second Class of the Wokingham Brocket-7 to 4 against him-won, beating nine.

The Borough Members' Plate of £50 Little Tom-6 to 1 against him-won, beating seven.

The Sweepstakes of £20 each, for two-year-olds, The Bonnie Morn walked over for-wherewith ended the Meeting. My moral pour l'avenir

"Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of man

The things that are not?"

SHAKSPEARE.

The peace of 1815, now broken after an uninterrupted course of nearly forty years' duration, has, to a certain extent, at least as far as its officers are concerned, altered the constitution and, so to speak, the morale of the British army. This is more particularly the case in the cavalry regiments, which, seldom going abroad, and enjoying a routine of the pleasantest quarters at home, have become the resort of a number of fashionable gentlemen, who can thus combine the excitement of a profession with their favourite pursuit of doing nothing. Far be it from us to affirm that they do not make good soldiers; on the contrary, the greatest authority of the age has been known to declare, that when work was really meant, "his smartest dandies proved to be his best officers ;" and we have ourselves had occasion to remark, that those who are most careful in their dress are often most reckless of their bodies. No man took such pains with his adornment as that prince of hussars, the Marquis of Anglesea; no man exposed himself in the field with such utter disregard of life and limb; and, not to multiply instances, we may say of these petitmaître heroes, as Clarendon says of the dashing race of Villiers, that they have ever proved " prodigal of their persons." In time of war, men work their way by hard fighting, or rather, by that immunity from hot lead which some enjoy, whilst their superiors are shot off, and erased from the Army List, up to the highest ranks of the profession, and no man asks whence they come, or what may be their birth, education, and antecedents. Nothing is then more serviceable than the cavalry officer; but in time of peace no fashionable club can be more exclusive than a light-dragoon regiment, and the newlyreceived member of the mess requires to be showy as well as staunch -a dancing dandy as well as a fighting hero. Under these circumstances, a commission in such a corps is at once a passport to the very best society-society which, without this "open sesame," would be as hermetically sealed to the ambitious "parvenu," as was ever the cave of the Forty Thieves to the enterprising woodman; and consequently amongst the sprigs of nobility, and cadets of ancient race, who officer one of our Hussar or Lancer regiments, a sprinkling is ever to be found of names unknown to Burke or Lodge, those heralds of modern days; and some perhaps not the least agreeable and talented

of the mess, however familiar they may be with the pedigree of last year's Derby winner, would find it very difficult to identify their own grandfathers.

Such was Frank Morrison when I knew him, first as the most dashing cornet even in the dashing Light Dragoon regiment to which he belonged. We were all quartered at Brighton, and I had many opportunities of studying the character, and admiring the brilliancy of one who was an enigma to most societies, as he was the favourite of all. No one in the regiment knew anything whatever of his antecedents. He had been appointed to the corps through the interest of a general officer, since dead; he seemed to have no relations, no belongings, no friends; to have come from no particular county, and hunted with no particular pack of hounds. The last-mentioned fact was pretty sure to be elicited amongst the youngsters the first day after mess, their favourite occupation being foxhunting, and, when deprived of that amusement, talking about it. He was supposed to have a mother-no extraordinary peculiarity in the human race, and to write to her once in six months-no great stretch of filial piety; but beyond this vague conjecture, all that was known of Frank Morrison was comprised in his own person. Like Horace's modelhilosopher, he was self-contained-" totus teres atque rotundus." My rst introduction to him was on the race-course at Brighton. I had remarked a particularly good-looking young man, with an effeminate expression of countenance, relieved by a dark pair of moustaches, paying devoted attention to a young and titled lady, the reigning beauty and "bright particular star" of the place. "Ah!" thought I, "a regular lady's man that! thrown away in the Lancers! he must be a sad muff on a horse!" And having some slight acquaintance with the lady, I ventured to ask her the name of her cavalier, the instant he quitted her side.

"Good gracious!" said Lady Jane, in her pretty way, "don't you know Frank Morrison? I thought everybody knew Frank Morrison. Dear me! he's the nicest creature! I'll introduce you to him. You should hear him sing. I'll bet you any amount of gloves on him for the hurdle-race!"

And, sure enough, on looking at my card, there was Mr. Morrison's Lovelock amongst the seven starters for that neck-breaking event, and, moreover, his owner to ride! Lady Jane, like a thorough woman, was evidently determined to stand up for her favourite because he was her favourite; so, declining her liberal offer of a wager, I proceeded to the weighing enclosure to see the gentlemen-jockeys stripped and prepared for their arduous undertaking. Good heavens! what a funk most of them were in! at least, if not so their countenances shamefully belied them. Cornet Swivel had finished three glasses of sherry (six to the bottle) without apparently being steadied in the least degree by such potent refreshment. Poor lad! he had pluck to face a battery, but no more nerve than his mother's lady'smaid; as how should he? sitting up till four o'clock every morning over broiled bones and large cigars, with a ricketty constitution at nineteen! Mr. Pevensey, a squire of the county, and as good a man as ever rode to hounds, seemed so utterly taken aback by the novelty of his position, in a short silk jacket and leathers, with a May sun

over his head, and the course beneath his fect as hard and slippery as a dining-room table, that he appeared conscious of nothing in the world save a doleful vision of Mrs. Pevensey (who had all along, to do her justice, set her face against the whole thing), attired in a widow's cap and knee-deep flounces of crape, and seven little Pevenseys asking when that tall gentleman was to be "their new papa." Even Major Mandrake, who had seen service in every quarter of the globe, and, to use his own expression, "feared neither man nor devil," began to think he was an old fool for surmounting his grizzled locks and scarred forehead with a jockey-cap, amongst a parcel of boys, and that it would have been better to remain "decently interred, sir, in the ditch at Sobraon, than break one's neck in such a d-d foolish amusement as this!" In short, they all seemed uncomfortable except Frank Morrison, and he alone looked as neat as a pink, and as cool as a cucumber throughout. How I had misjudged him when he appeared in his silken jacket and well-fitting et ceteras! Barring his handsome womanly face, he was a workman all over. He had saddled his horse, and adjusted his tackle with his own hands. He had his weight right to a pound, and his book full to the bottom corner of the last leaf, before his antagonists had half done fumbling, and altering, and wrangling, and comparing; and he alone, of all the lot, ventured to lark his horse over the hurdles at the distance-post, ere he gave him his breathing-canter past the ladies in the Grand Stand. I can swear he looked up at Lady Jane as he shot by; and I can't swear, but I think Lady Jane pressed a rosebud to her lips, that, if it ever had belonged to her bouquet, was now completely detached from it. Even gentlemen-jockeys are to be got off at last; and notwithstanding two false starts, and much bad language on the part of everybody concerned, the lot came away at the third attempt, and rode, considering all things, far better than anyone had a right to expect. At the last hurdle the race lay between Mr. Pevensey, Major Mandrake, and Frank Morrison (Lady Jane looked rather pale, but talked incessantly), Cornet Swivel was well up, and had he remembered to sit a trifle further back, would not have been put hors de combat in so inglorious a manner. Mr. Pevensey and the Major saw nothing but each other; and whilst they were running their horses out, and flogging, and flurrying, and kicking, Frank Morrison glided stealthily inside of them, and sitting quietly down, won upon the post by a neck, Robinson himselt could not have done it better. When he entered the Stand, once more attired as he had previously been, in a costume as far as possible removed from the sporting, and taking his place by Lady Jane, received her congratulations as calmly as if he had not won seven or eight hundred, I saw at once that the successful jockey was a man of some force of character, and determined to cultivate his acquaintance accordingly.

I dined that evening at the mess of the Lancers, and was there introduced to Mr. Morrison. I found him the life and soul of the party. Nobody could tell a story so well-nobody sing so good a song. The Colonel appealed to him about a disputed point of strategy at Borodino, and Cornet Swivel deferred to his information alone as to the last main that had come off in the cock-fighting neighbourhood of Shrewsbury.