THE NEW TATTERSALL'S;

WITH A PORTRAIT OF

MR. RICHARD TATTERSALL.

BY CASTOR.

Erranti, passimque oculos per cuncta ferenti.

Messrs. Tattersall have the honour to inform the public that on and after Monday, the 10th of April, the weekly sales by auction will take place in their new establishment, near Albert Gate, Hyde Park, and the premises at Hyde Park Corner will be closed.

We borrow the above announcement from the heading of the last catalogue we took off the desk at the Corner, and thus gather officially that the ninety-and-nine years, which on signing would seem to sound like an eternity, has really run out. And what, moreover, ranks the expiration of this term as yet more remarkable is the little or no change which has occurred in the conduct of the business since its first establishment. We have still the Richard and Edmund Tattersall, the only two family names who ever dropped the hammer over a lot at the Corner. There is still the same dealing for horses on one side, and the laying of wagers on the other; the same motley grouping of sporting characters who have made this their head-quarters for the last century; with, it is grateful to add, the same unabated confidence in those under whose auspices, as a very birthright, the High Change of Horseflesh is administered. It may be as useful as interesting in the first instance to trace out, on the text-word of that suggestive inscription, Established 1766, as written on the corner-stone of the new building, the rise and progress of a firm so famous as to convey in its very title to the uttermost ends of the earth its purpose and associations. The French exquisite has been taught to mince out his Tat-ter-shall's as the very A. B. C. of his initiation into the mysteries of the turf or the glories of the chase; the more solid German rolls over the same Open Sesame! in deep heavy gutterals, flavouring the talismanic syllables with cloud-compelling incense from the well-bronzed bowl of his mighty pipe; while the Yankee speculator drawls over the good stroke of business the very echo conveys to his mind, as he washes it down with a brandy-snap or some other such curiously-flavoured a cocktail. Nay, we believe the wild horseman of the Prairie may have notion of sending his nag to Tattersall's, after a particularly fast thing with the buffalo, or the Arab, reclining at the door of his tent, calmly calculate what the Pride of the Desert might make if booked for a box on "Monday next." Fortune, too, favour us in the design to tell out the story of the new home of the high-mettled; for the life of the first Mr. Tattersall was written by a member of the Jockey Club, from whose memoir we may gather many a valuable fact; and in the first place as to the origin and opening of the concern in 1766: "Although there were

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