Thus showing, what indeed experience has confirmed, that frosty weather is generally favourable to scent.

I have often been present in the society of sportsmen when the name and character of the late Mr. Meynell became the topic of conversation, and some confusion relating to himself and his descendants has been apparent, for which reason I herewith state what I know of this distinguished family.

The name of the great Mr. Meynell was Hugo. His son Hugo succeeded his father in the principal management of the hounds for two or three years, residing at Quorn Hall. His health failing, he was succeeded by the late Lord Sefton, the first of the consecutive twelve masters of the Quorn hounds, after the Meynells, to the present hour. During the period above alluded to (the residence of Hugo Meynell the younger at the hall), Mr. Meynell, senior, built a small house near the hall, in which was a passage from his dinner-room to his stables, without going out of doors; and Mr. Charles Meynell's horses also stood in these stables. Mr. Charles Meynell, whose life was prematurely cut off, was one of the best sportsmen of his day, as also a first-rate horseman, and he was the first man to ride a steeple chase of any note. It was from Barkby Holt to Billesden Coplow-the cream of the country; his competitors being the late Lord Forester, and Sir Harry Featherstone, both of which he beat, on his famous grey horse. The Mr. Meynell who now hunts Derbyshire, is the son of Hugo Meynell the younger, consequently grandson to the immortal Meynell; inheriting, as I am told, a large share of the science and discernment so eminently displayed by his grandfather. I have yet to see his hounds, and I am told I should lose no time in seeing them; and for two reasons-first, because they are well worth seeing, having a peculiar characteristic of their own; secondly, in these ticklish days of the fox-hunting world, it is hard to say how long any one pack may continue to exist.

The season of 1843 will live in the annals of racing as the period when its virtue was running its most memorable muck. I set this down as a fact posterity ought to know, and therefore record it here; but the reader is spared details. He will have read in the journals

of the day how fellows scant of coin were kicked out of the stand and subscription-rooms, and "serve them right.'

Despite of all philosophers may bellow,

Wealth makes the man, and want of it the fellow.

A

A truce however, with these matters, for a space at least. certain noble lord, who has really done the turf some service, malgré the eccentric way he has gone about it, is moved to spleen, as it hath been told me, that I speak with levity as concerning the existing crusade against the pagans who won't (or cannot) pay. Perhaps I hold him nimis acer, all things in account; but he means well, and that's a tower of strength in these days. So we will (by the reader's leave) permit him " with sword drawn and cocked trigger," to wage his warfare with those who remember to forget their obligations, and turn to Doncaster as a pleasure-tryst. Smelfungus loves to look on life through a pair of green goggles: be ours a better taste and discernment.

Harp of the north! that whilom Scott called to book for thy silence, give, O give one sweep of thy silver strings, and sing the daughters of Eborian Eden! Surely, Ŏ Doncaster, thou art blessed, prælata puellis beyond any mortal borough endowed with a mayor and corporation. While yet the opportunity remaineth, let me tell of the cheeks more fresh and radiant than rose-buds of Cashmere, eyes a thousand times more dazzling than jewels of Giamschid, that I have encountered in thy streets:

"And oh, the loveliness at times we see

In momentary gliding: the soft grace,

The youth, the bloom, the beauty, which agree,

In many a nameless being we retrace,

Whose course and home we know not, nor shall know,
Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."

Having said thus much for the heart, in common justice a word is due to its neighbour-the stomach. In catering for the gastric, "York, you're not wanting." I speak not of the intensity of thy spreads a theme fitted only for insipid villains, of "intolerable entrails"-but of thy manna which men call roast ham, thy heathery halcyons (mine is not the pen to write them grouse), whereof a single poult (at maturity) outvalueth a forest of birds of Paradise ! How I could go on (my mouth watering the while) recalling such savoury memories, and how I might-were not the impunity of the editor mingled with Christian consideration for the reader; moreover, there are five days whose sports are to be spoken of, so leaving the pleasing of the lute for the bray of the clarion, as Virgil has itnunc horrentia martis.

Monday the 11th ult. was the commencement (this year of grace) of the great northern turf anniversary. At noon the rooms were well attended (those rooms are the most characteristic and dashing appendages of a race meeting in England-why are there no more such?) and the town looked in a holiday "fix." Betting, however, was "uncommon bad," as a leg told me with a voice like the last sigh of a bagpipe; and therefore after doing nothing till hard

upon one, we went to the course. The beginning of the fun was a match with Blue Bonnet and Mania, wherein the former let Lye slip off her back, as any other mare might that would take the trouble. I have seen a good many loose men upon horses in my time, but Tommy is the superlative of the loosest. They say he knows pace well-certainly there is a "sign" about him that betokens he is "fast." Is it necessary I should say that the loss of her jockey was the loss of the race to Blue Bonnet-even if she could have won it-(which she could not)? or is it necessary for me to set down the details of the minor races, whose returns, in the Turf Register at the end of the volume, will serve the purpose of the turfite? I will take it for granted that the latter is negatived, and confine my notices to issues

of moment.

pre

The Champagnes, which generally furnish forth a prominent twoyear-old fancy, were won in a canter by the Cure, who we shall sently see was beaten on Thursday in a similar way, by one not even placed on Monday. The lengths brought about these differences; and here I repeat a call I have already made elsewhere, to the stewards and persons in authority at all race courses, to have accurate measurements made of each division of those used for the purposes of racing. Need I point out the "pull" such knowledge must give the knowing over the uninitiated? There were some promising nags in the Champagnes, the winner by no means the best of the bundle. He is not in the Derby, however, and no great interest attached to his appearance; and long before his Leger turn comes, we shall have favourites enow for the north.

Tuesday, that was to settle so many hopes and fears and theories, at last arrived; a most pleasant day, with more than its share of sunshine, and attended by excellent good company, as it shone upon the pleasant town of Doncaster. As nobody thought of anything but the "Sellinger" on the occasion, so my history of its progress shall relate solely to that great event. Needs it not be told how Cotherstone, having won the Derby, was straightway booked for this good thing. I raised my voice and cried aloud in ink, that it was not the course of wisdom to back him at odds to do what many a better horse could not. I pointed to all the certainties of the last dozen years that had fallen out quite the other way. Some followed my advice, some their own vagaries-with what fortune is about being shown. At the rooms on the preceding night he was not in such extreme favour as he had been in London on the last public day at Tattersall's. Nevertheless 7 to 4 was laid on him, while his confederate, Prizefighter, was at all sorts of odds from 25 to 1 to 5 to 1, and the Lucetta colt, backed at one time at 6 to 1, was laid against at another at 50 to 1! These three had all the Leger betting to themselves at Doncaster. On the day of the race Cotherstone was in statu quo of the over night, while Prizefighter was backed outright at 4 to 1, the best (or rather the worst) price he ever "fetched." The running for this important race I shall describe as I interpreted it; setting down nothing in malice, however wrong my premises may be.

After the usual parade in the paddock and on the course, the field, reduced from 127 to nine, mustered at the post, and with two false demonstrations got off. The lead was instantly taken by Holmes on Prizefighter, and the pace made very severe; his stable companion and Nutwith a couple of lengths behind him, and the other half dozen in a "ruck" astern; Lucetta last. As they crossed the hill the last crept up, and on the flat, at the mile post, he ran alongside of Cotherstone, where Robinson told me he "shut up" like a shot. The tactics of the encounter were still the same however as regarded the three, by whom the great moves of the game were made. Prizefighter was racing to win, if he could, as I believe in my conscience-if he was making play for the favourite, as some allege, a sorry tactician must have given the orders. Thus they passed the Red House turn, and swept into the run home. At this point, Aristides lay well forward, and some thought he was going to win, but he "cut it" like Lucetta, at the moment his hopes looked brightest. It boots not to deal with any but the leaders. At the distance, Prizefighter was going his best, Cotherstone waiting and watching. Half-way between the distance and the stand the former had shot his bolt, and, like an arrow from a bow, Nutwith flew to the front. In a few strides Cotherstone caught him-raced stride for stride till they were on the post, when Noble by a rush worthy of Robinson, or Chifney in his best days, won a few inches of lead, and so finished the finest race ever seen for a St. Leger, the third being only a neck from the second. I have said my thinking as affecting this eventful history; the reader will see that there were three chances that Cotherstone did not help his friends. Peradventure he could not (that, however, is not my opinion). It might not have been worth his while to beat Prizefighter" at the price"-perhaps, had he done his best, the issue would have been the same; but these are long odds against the layers of premiums-and the same they must expect to the end of the chapter. Nutwith being a private yeoman's horse, had, of course, no friends, and therefore the settling was an excellent one. Unless upon prominent favourites people have no chances to ruin themselves, or their customers.

Wednesday-elsewhere a "bye," was here a stirring affair. It opened with a dead heat between Aristides and Armytage for the Foal Stakes-won subsequently by the former-these two running a dead heat in ten days afterwards, at Liverpool, for the Grand Junction Stakes. But the business of the day centred in the Great Yorkshire Handicap-a famous betting round race, and a most sporting one over the turf. A field of sixteen-marshalled by Lord George Bentinck, as if he had been master of the horse to Xerxes-came to the post for it, and started-so to say-in a solid square. Every horse in the lot was backed at a good figure, and the industrious were out of their senses with excitement. The saddling bell rang at a quarter to five, and very soon after they were off. Semiseria made the running as hard as she could crack, Copeland riding to orders; but even when they had reached the Red House turn, the body of horses was as compact as when they left the post! In the straight ground it

was anybody's race-and at the distance not one was out of it. At the stand an awful crash of whalebone was heard, some of them of course being now disappointed; among these, Eboracum looking very well. From this point to the goal the three best weighted of the lot-Pompey, Lothario, and Venus-ran a smashing finish; the former winning on the post, and not half a length between the three. Venus, but for the 9lbs. extra for winning the Leamington stakes, of course must have won cleverly. There never was a more beautiful contest; and did the course of all handicaps run as brilliantly, I almost fear I too should become an advocate for such contrivances. Thursday-the Cup day-filled the town by breakfast time with pleasure seekers, and the course before noon with its accustomed holiday company. The rural people around Doncaster, in a radius of some thirty miles, affect this anniversary as their betters do the St. Leger; and it is therefore a gayer festival in the proportion that your rustic exceeds in the intensity of his enjoyment the drudges who make pleasure a business. Apart from these festive manifestations, the race, in consequence of Bee's-wing, whose custom of an afternoon it was to canter off with these cups, having retired from the turf into domestic life, was expected to be a very sporting exhibition; and Charles, the lion of the north, was backed as its champion. I pass over the minor events of the morning, and come to four P.M., and the appearance of the Cup field in their devoirs to the public. The number was ten, whereof one was Gorhambury, looking as fat as a Yorkshire chine, and as stiff as a Chelsea crutch. It was certainly not a creditable exhibition for the pride of the world's horse-fleshthat half-score; but we must not be fastidious in these days of handicaps. Semiseria, a very hard-working young lady, cut out the business in this instance-doing the first mile as if it was the T. Y. C., of course dishing Gorhambury's chine. When they had arrived within half-a-mile of home, Hesseltine let Alice Hawthorn gallop; whereupon she went twice as fast as any other could, and won by some twenty lengths. Bob's friends called to him to "walk in ;" but he is a prudent man. Hesseltine farms Alice Hawthorn from her owner at a rent of £100 per annum; this year volunteering £200, as I was informed. If Mr. Plummer should prefer a new tenant for the coming season, I beg to offer myself to his consideration. This was altogether an odd day; we have seen the cup won in a canter: Cotherstone did the same with £1800 worth of stakes; the Princess ditto with £640; and the Bishop of Romford's cob the like with the Innkeeper's Plate.

Friday-the end to crown-all-brought forward but one issue of account, the Parkhill Stakes-the north-country Oaks. Out of twenty-seven but five came to the post, and they backed Mania-first favourite, it will be remembered, for the ladies' race at Epsom, at odds to win. The result shewed that they were wrong, and much of the season's three-year-old running right; for Peggy, the companion of most of the good two-year-olds last year, won in a very racing-like form. Indeed I cannot more conveniently sum up this sketch than by calling attention to the remarkable truth of the season's running.