or five mile run; if they should so far have escaped the spear and pistol of the horseman.

But after all, no "snow sport" is to be compared with sleighing. So soon as the winter has set in in earnest, and the frozen snow leaves no perceptible difference between the corduroy roads on land, or the ice-roads of the rivers; the carriages are superseded by the sleighs, and wheels exchanged for runners. Then how beautiful is it to bound over the spotless expanse, behind a pair of spanking bays, buried up to the chin in fur, and your spirits dancing with the ecstatic feeling always produced by the bright clear sky and bracing breeze of a fine winter's day, to the merry music of the silvery sleigh bells.

"Hilloa, Thompson! where are you bound?"

"To the world's gathering at Point Levi, to be sure. Where else should a body be going, with a fine Christmas day over head, and a sleigh meeting in front of his nose?"

"Well come along then. Let's have a spurt to the Point," and at the word, away we go; the sleigh, riding as slick as a greased lightning streak, over the snow; and the horses, well used to the game, straining every nerve for victory.

After a smart burst we reach the Point, and here a scene as picturesque as novel, opens at once upon our eyes.

Across the broad expanse of the St. Lawrence, a line of branchless pines bears testimony to the care with which the "keepers of the roads," have sought and marked the best and strongest highway to the city of Quebec, which occupies the hill before you, whilst a constant crowd of passers to and fro, on foot, on horseback, and in sleighs of every description, bear witness to the necessity of such a caution. The busiest scene however is enacting on this side of the river, immediately before you.

There is a "sleigh meeting" at "the Point," and the St. Lawrence presents all the appearance of a fair. Groups of Canadians, in their gaudy, but picturesque dresses, are passing to and fro between the several booths, which put their gayest colours forth as an attraction, and fling their flaming pennons to the breeze. Sleighs of all sorts, and folks of all degrees, are flocking to the spot. Here comes the Swell in his elegant swan-shaped carriage, drawn by four bits of blood.-There goes the steady parish priest, toddling along behind his rough Canadian pony. All is life and animation, every new comer is hailed with a thousand greetings, jokes, and welcomes. Fresh parties constantly arriving to fill up the place of those, who ever and anon depart upon some pre-concerted expedition.

* Point Levi, commonly called "the Point," is a projecting headland on the St. Lawrence, immediately opposite to the city of Quebec.

By yonder scarlet booth, that with the flaming yellow flag, where the pot is boiling, and the sausages frying at the fire close by, is a group well worthy of attention. They are hack sleigh drivers, who are waiting upon the ice with their carioles for a fare. They are certainly queer-looking, but most picturesque characters,—with their grotesquely painted leather coats, and gaudy girdles, hairy caps, russet-coloured moccassin boots, and though last, not least, their gaily decorated pipes. Their carioles and horses are in good keeping with their own peculiar style of decoration. The carioles with their shining paint, and bright fantastic bordering, half filled with ample buffalo-robes, lined with resplendent scarlet. The little rough Canadian horses, with the white frost flakes speckling their shaggy hides, and the long icicles hanging from their muzzles; their harness covered with thick rows of bells, and tied with party-coloured top-knots, from which the glaring streamers wave to and fro, with their least motion. Meanwhile their smart-looking masters are variously employed, some seated on the sides of their sleighs, carelessly lounging and smoking their short pipes, others, with violent gesticulation, disputing the respective merits of their steeds, brandishing and cracking their thick whips, or busying themselves about the arrangements of their harness.

A sudden bustle thrills the throng,-voices are heard in loud and angry argument. Two of the most ill-tempered and rascally of the fraternity, have made a match, and are now getting up their "danders" for a race. Rude is the riot, and most unmannerly the repartee, as the respective partisans proclaim their champions. One, a little dingy unshorn individual, with only one eye; the other, a great lumbering mass of most forbidding-faced humanity.

See, they are up. "Ho!" and off they go, with a wild chorus of "hurrahs!" behind them, and in an instant dash into the centre of the throng, which, used to such intrusions, opens at once a clear and ready course for them, and then as quickly closes on their track.

Their harness bells ring forth a wild accompaniment to their flight, instead of jingling to their usual tuneful measure. Their steel shod carioles roll hollow thunder on the sounding ice,--and the sharp clicking sound of the horses' hoofs,-the shrilly screamed "Holloa," and the loud cracking of the whip, mingle in uproar with the howl of some luckless dog, upset by the resistless fury of their course.

Now they are close to the marquee, which they must round, to turn again their course towards the place from whence they started. Hah! the one-eyed man goes too fast for the turn,-see, he has passed his rival, -now he pulls sharply round. Take care!-now with a bound the horse is round the tent, but he has struck a spot of treacherous "glare ice," and the jerking swing of the vehicle proving too much for him, away they go to leeward, man, horse, cariole and all, sliding

sideways along the slippery course for yards; whilst the "big 'un," turning more carefully, makes strong running homewards.

Soon " Cyclops" is up, and on his legs again, with his one eye looking ten thousand very thick volumes, as he lashes the sides of his panting nag. Now, go along "big 'un," and don't keep looking back so! He'll soon be near you. There-1 told you so-now you're beginning with the whipcord.

It's a good race.

"One eye" is picking up his lost ground, though still a long way in the rear. The course is clear, and "big 'un," looking wel! for home. Oh! Lordy! Look at yon old apple woman running right in front of him! He must be over her. No, his horse shies. Look! he has run right into that green booth, where they are having dogmatches and cockfights. What a scattering there is! See now, the cockfighters are pelting "big 'un," with large lumps of ice and Now, he returns it them with interest; and, in the meantime, "Cyclops," "thundering o'er the plain," is proclaimed winner by the shouts of his assembled fellows.

snow.

66

Big 'un," has lost the race, and he is getting mad. See how he lays about him with his heavy whip in spite of the bangs which the cock fighters are dealing him. He shouts to his brethren of the whip and bells, and in a moment a small, but gallant band, rush to the rescue. The fun is growing serious. Sticks are opposed to whips, and fists to sticks; the skirters keeping up a constant fire of ice-lumps. Down goes one. How they all fight around his body; quite " à la Patroclus"-Oh! what a squeal was there. Bless me! the fighting dogs have seized the fallen foe !-Come, let us make haste, and separate them, or they'll eat him up!

Why!-dear me !-they've done-It's all made up. Never saw so quick a thing in my life. There is the poor man who was floored. Gracious! How the dogs have mauled him. His comrades are supporting him.-but whither? To the doctor's, doubtless-no-guess again. To the Rum-booth.

Well, to be sure,-this is a SNOW-SCENE!

WILDRAKE.

THE STATUTES AFFECTING THE TURF.

BY A BARRISTER AT LAW.

An act of parliament having been passed during the last session of parliament (3 and 4 Vict., c. 5), which will have the effect of removing some of the restrictions previously imposed by the legislature on racing. A short summary of the law, as it stood before the passing of this