friend being on one side, myself on the other. She made eleven points, and five brace and a-half of pheasants fell. A man who was employed by the "churl" as hedger, gate-repairer, and spy, stood watching, as he thought unseen; but we saw his brown" wide-awake" surmounting his cunning, fawning physiognomy, as it moved every now and then behind its russet screen of foliage. We spared neither age nor sex, and gave the same quarter as I hope ere this has been awarded to the Sepoys. We bagged another stray cock before reaching my friend's house at five o'clock, and we were fully satisfied with our sport. The wind was tremendously high and noisy, and I conclude the birds could not hear our approach. My friend's gun missed fire twice-owing, as I told him, to want of cleaning; and I missed a cock pheasant myself, which any child might have killed. It was so easy that I cannot imagine what I was doing. I shot under the bird: he lost a tail feather with the second barrel. I have frequently shot with my friend, who was an excellent marksman; but he astonished himself, and I certainly never shot so well before nor since. That day is recorded as a bright spot in Memory's "waste," and I hope that many such have not only been noted in the game-books of my readers, but that many far more prolific await them, and that pheasants and woodcocks, teal and mallard, may again and again fall to their guns.

Wild geese seldom alight in this neighbourhood, although occasionally passing at a great height. In Northumberland, towards the eastern coast they used to feed regularly upon the stubbles, generally keeping in the centre of the field, with a sentinel on duty. Major whose great hobby was the pursuit of wild geese, used a bullet cut crosswise into four, in order that the angular points of the ball might cut through their thick feathers. He used an old mare as a "stalkinghorse;" and throwing a sheet over himself, he went upon all-fours to personate a foal, and when near enough to the unsuspecting birds, his ghostly attire was doffed, and they fell to the gallant Major's explo sion. A friend of mine was driving along the turnpike-road one day in winter, with the snow on the ground, and intently watched the grey mare and foal forming a very white picture altogether, and shortly afterwards had a hearty laugh with his friend at his eccentric proceedings, in a warmer and more hospitable situation, over a bottle of claret.

Ireland is the place for snipes and woodcocks; while Wales, Devonshire, and many other English counties, are not to be sneezed at. I became intimately acquainted with the snipes of the Isle of Ely and the fens around Cambridge, many years ago, when an undergraduate of that University. I have said enough of November and its fogs, its frost and sunshine and high wind, and lest I should appear long winded, conclude for the present.

Spring is here once more, and almost tottering on the verge of early summer. The primroses have ceased to bend under the tread of the Pytchley foxhound, as he runs the last ring of the season, amid the Kettering woodlands. Jem Hills looks with anything but the calm eye of a botanist on " them stinking violets" in Wychwood Forest. The time-honoured echo at Irby Holmes no longer gives an answering cheer to Tom Smith of the Brocklesby. Will Goodall chafes at the thought of the "piping times of peace" to the foxes, and longs to be routing them out of Piper's Hole. Tom Sebright is no longer seen waving his spotted favourites into Hunt's Closes, but reckons up at leisure the noses of his thirty-fifth Fitzwilliam season; and Joe Maiden counts the days till he and his "new left leg" will be once more "up" and at the cubs, which have "gained a birth settlement" in the pleasant glades of Trentham. Even The Tiverton have kept their "Rest and be Thankful" fixture; the merry "New Foresters" have killed their May fox, and the cavalry squadrons-scarlet, black, and green-who were wont to draw up so regularly to their morning parade, are disbanded, till the leaf shall be once more brown and sere. The relentless tap of Mr. Tattersall's hammer, from twelve to three each Monday, is well nigh breaking the heart of many a stud groom, who sees his " tidy lot" dispersed to all points of the compass, and speculates, by way of relief, on what "the guv'nor" will pick up next season. "Old Jack Shaw," "Warwick Dan," and "Billy Priest," have quitted their respective countries, and transferred their tattered scarlets and rusty hunting caps to less congenial haunts; and " Here's a true correct list of all the running horses, names, weights, and colours of the riders," is the only view-halloo they are guilty of, now. In short,

"Nat, and Sam, and Sim, and Ben,

And all the other riding men,"

are the indisputable "masters of the situation." A month ago, and they could nearly bring down ten stone on the scales; but now eight seven has all the best of them, when they get in to try their weight.

Weary wastes and Sangrado banquets have been their portion, and they are still living like hermits, and working like horses against the wily assaults of "fatty depositions." Their reward has come at last; the little heroes, who lay two hours ago, cigar in mouth, boiling their last pound off under a pile of blankets, are here on some breezy downs, and cool, calm, and pale, as if sweaters were to them things unknown.

We care not to speculate whither Mr. Herring's mind was straying when he composed the background of this picture. It may be, that "embowered among the Surrey Hills the pleasant" race-course of his fancy lay. Perhaps he has sketched it in Yorkshire, and thousands of breathless Tykes are lining the cords in the distance, and sporting their croons on their beloved "spots" like men. It does not look like a moor rich with recollections of some eighty St. Legers; no Rubbing House, Devil's Ditch, or white betting posts tell of Newmarket; and it bears no traces of those Lammas Meadows which Guy Earl of Warwick and old grey Isaac loved. But a truce to such hypotheses. The animated nature before us gives scope enough for enthusiasm and reflection. Mr. Herring has brought all his manhood to his hand, and embodied on canvas, in these his greatest efforts, that intensely earnest love and observation of the noble sport to which the current of his being has set, since he first essayed to wield a mahl stick, and dashed in the outline of a St. Leger winner. Who but one who had fairly revelled in the heart-stirring influence of a race-course could have daguerrotyped four such scenes from memory? What a life-like tableau is here, as trainer after trainer removes the sheets, and at last displays to the world and the "prophets" the result of many a weary month of thought and anxious care, and the subject of such countless hopes, fears, and paragraphs, as bright as a star," and "fit to jump out of his skin!" The Zetland spots occupy the post of honour in the centre, and their wearer gives his breeches the conventional hitch as the black-brown is led out by his white-hatted tutor. A long bede-roll of victories has been won by poor "Job" in that right popular jacket, since it used to make its modest appearance on the little North Riding race-courses; and the hollow-backed Castanette and her illustrious first-born, Fandango; Voltigeur, the wearer of the double wreath, and the only horse who ever brought The Dutchman to grief; the muscular Augur; the elegant Comfit; the dashing little Roman-nosed miler Hospodar; and the game Zeta, have had their plates nailed in turn, as winning tokens, on the stable doors at Aske. Its once great northern rival, "the tartan," is placed hard by; and a rich mottled brown, bearing no slight resemblance to The Dutchman, and a perfect master-piece of foreshortening, to boot, glances round in his dark green sheets, as if anxious to bear his part in the little committee into which his trainer and jockey have resolved themselves. A noble host of winners have worn that green livery in their day. It was stripped from Bellona, Pompey, Eryx, and Knight of Avenel, when they were led out for many a desperate fight; and The Potentate, Elthiron, Blue Bonnet, and Van Tromp did it even still more honour. But there is another mysterious consultation behind that slashing blood-like bay, with the Melbourne reach, who has just been stripped on the right, and "Frank," or some one very like him, is receiving instructions as to when he is "to come." The "all black," which peeps forth from under his greatcoat, is suggestive of

On

that long line of Streatlam Castle yearlings, among whom Mundig, Cotherstone, Daniel O'Rourke, and Fly-by-Night were not the foremost, and whose "senior wranglership" fell to the lot of "The West." the extreme left (as French legislators say), a white-faced chesnut is lashing playfully out as the sheet is whisked off, and the jockey comes towards him, saddle in hand. "The Grafton scarlet," so rich with recollections of Whalebone and Whisker, of Pastille and Turquoise, in the good old Duke's life; of the Flatcatcher, Beverlac, and Assault trio in '47; and of Teddington, The Ban, and Aphrodite in later years, is to bear his banner to-day. The buff and purple stripes of "Bedford's Duke to matching prone" is just rising the hill, on something of the Taurus, Oakley, or Minotaur stamp ; behind, a chesnut, who is to carry the fortunes of Lord Exeter, and the "narrow blue stripes." The silken fray could not have lacked a representative of that stud, be it Stockwell or one of the descendants of Sultan or Nutwith, else the very ghosts of Augusta, Beiram, and Greenmantle would have risen to upbraid. A "Glasgow chesnut" is advancing boldly in front of the pair carrying that never say die "white body and red sleeves," on which luck has smiled so seldom, since Jerry and Acteon were living names in the race-lists; and the blue and yellow cap of "The Baron" of Mentmore, whose turf career so far has been cheered on by a Sydney, Leopold, an Orestes, and a King Tom, is seen with his jockey "up" in the distance. Lord Clifden and the " all straw" have been as little forgotten by our artist here, as Surplice, Pelion, Poodle, and Melissa have been by their antagonists on many a race afternoon. Another jockey in the "red and blue sleeves" is bending forward in his saddle, to whisper to the trainer of a muscular bay, who seems to resent the hold which his groom still keeps of his head. He fain would be free, to try and do what Priam, Zinganee, Don John, Prizefighter, Glaucus, Hornsea, Lady Wildair, and a host of others have done for the racing fame of Bretby before him. But the last bell is tinkling out its summons, and the scene shifts to the starting post, whither we must follow the "terribly high-bred cattle."

A FALSE START.

"Now the third bell is ringing out
Its summons for the fight;

And many a heart is leaping
To the mouth of many a wight;
Amidst that mighty multitude,
There's scarce a mind at ease,

From peers within the Judge's Stand,
To peerers in the trees."

Here we have them again, in most admired disorder, and a hum from "the fortuitous concurrence of atoms" on the stands proclaims that the red flag is still unlowered, and that "it's a no go." The chesnut, with the white and red sleeves, has got his head up, and is rushing wildly away, as if determined to be in front some part of the race; tartan is creeping along, Eclipse-fashion, with his head between his legs, and almost pulling his jock out of his saddle; "all straw" arches his neck and plays this" follow my leader" game on the off side; while the stout bay keeps him in countenance, and has his head sawed round accord

ingly by the iron arm which is to guide his destinies. "Red spots" looks as if he, too, would like to join the runaways, but his jockey is too quick for him, and he does not get off after them as he could wish. Оп the left hand all is action, and yet not one of the five seems to be breaking away in the same style; while on the right we have a much more quiet party. Buff and purple stripes calmly looks on at the fugitives, as if wishing they would run themselves out; "all black" coaxes his beautiful bay not to go and do likewise, and he contents himself accordingly with a little restless leg-shifting; while the chesnut behind him performs a sort of Astleyan antic, and, getting on to his hind legs, gently beats the air, just to be in the fashion. The massive chesnut pacing majestically towards him indulges in no light fancies, and looks, in short, as if he thought the prospect before him much too serious for any such trifling. But the truants have come back; the flag is down at last; opera glasses and straining retinas follow their track, as they stream, like a flight of swallows, along the flat. The T.Y.C. starting post is passed, and now they close their ranks for

It is anybody's race at this point. The "Grafton scarlet" jock is just a neck in front, and pulling his horse well together, as if determined to cut down the field, as he has been trying to do for the last half-mile, or "know the reason why!" His tartan foe on the left takes a different view of the crisis; "all black" is, in his eyes, the only dangerous one in the race, and so thinks blue stripes, to judge from the glance he is throwing at him, as he challenges and comes up, stroke for stroke, on the extreme outside. Tartan has got some powder" still left, but it is as much as the bargain if he is not just reached on the post. "Red spots" is still pulling hard; "blue and yellow cap" seems anxious to go up between the leaders, and make his run before he is wanted; and "all straw" is going comfortably next the rails, well laid up, and too near to be pleasant for those who have laid against him. Red body and blue sleeves has taken up his whip; and it is plain to see that buff and purple stripes has come to grief, as his black is pitching in his stride, and he dare not move on him. As for white body and red sleeves, we doubt his living the pace, or getting through such a ruck of horses. Here is, in truth, the poetry of motion. Two may think of "shutting up," but the others are going as only thorough-bred horses can, and yet the artist's cunning skill has communicated those symptoms of failing power to their stride which tells that some of them will die away in their jockeys' hands before they are half up the distance. "Hats off!" is the roar from the Grand Stand. Now the