down in the eyes, or queried his back at the rotten banked brookor the good plater, like the farmer's boy, "whistles as he goes," or points a toe when he don't. Well, send him out of the string and into the catalogue.-Got by Partizan out of Castaway, by Camillus, and going for fifteen pounds-and going for fifteen pounds.-Why, he is worth more than double the money, if its only to talk about-and going and gone for fifteen pounds, to a Whitechapel butcher, or Peckham sporting man. He'll take the boy his rounds, or run in the cart, or rattle us down to H'Epsom, and do every thing so well and willingly that, as likely as not, it comes to "a bit of glory" once more. Mr. Grind-his-bones the baker, or Mr. Twenty-stun the butcher, has an old horse now in his possession, which he will back for five or ten pounds to gallop so many miles within the hour. Mr. Twenty-stun publishes this so often, or talks of it so loudly, that at last some doubly deep file in a small way, comes to a parley with him:

"Why, the hoss aint half a eye in his head, or a hounce a flesh on his back, or the ghost of a leg under him-for he stands over on all of 'em. You may see he is something worse than a bull, too, even in here, and aint a

"Never you mind about that. I s'pose you'll allow he's got a heart; or if you won't, my little boy here will be pretty soon able to find it out for you."

And the "leg" still doubts, and the butcher still brags, and the match is made-" My little boy" with a set of features only fit to be shown first at the Old Bailey, and then cast for "The Chamber of Horrors," being armed with unlimited orders touching the discovery of his horse's heart. Out the poor old fellow hobbles-stiff, sore, and sad, in every joint. Still the spirit's good, you know; and Bill's to "hile" him well to begin with. Time's up, and Bill dittooff he totters, but the "hiling" commences, and the warmer he gets the better he gets-something of the old form and stride will show itself the enemy's second best yet, and the h'odds all agen him. Despite age, work, and infirmity, the job may be done now, for the heart is as good as ever, and anywhere or anyhow,

"Blood will tell."

That this is the truth and nothing but the truth, we hope nobody can deny-viz., that the thorough-bred horse will play a good part at any kind of work in or out of harness; and yet in the face of it how often we hear the moralist declaim at the sin and impolicy of breeding so many animals for the mere purposes of pleasure and gambling! Put it just the other way, where there is no blood to tell: suppose, as some scientific men affirm, ploughing, as well as road waggoning, and other heavy draught work, could be done by steam; fancy the heavy lumbering cart-horse, made for the cart and nothing but the cart, being thrust out of his vocation to "the something else," to which the race-horse is so often turned. If you were to put John Jolly at full speed over one of his own fallow fields, he would fall exhausted at the other end of it. If you changed his cart-gear for cab-harness, and forced him into an awkward trot through the streets of London, the black mother would out before he had earned half-a

crown, and down he'd drop with a groan and a longing for sweet home. The cock-tail again, looking so full of beans and consequence, ready to lash out at anything, or run away with anybody; extend him in a struggle with the aristocrat, and see how quick he'd shrink from the whip, and throw up his game. "Once a captain always a captain," applies more or less to the roadster, team-horse, and every inferior description of animal; and so the thorough-bred has to sink to those who could never possibly rise to him.

In many of these gradations, the accommodating spirit and "readiness to oblige" is not treated with that return it should have. In the present case, however, it is not all contumely and neglect, for though the butcher and his boys may over-work and show little feeling for the "Light-of-other-days," they still have a certain kind of pride hin. Nearly every calling or profession is in some degree remarkable for a proficiency in an art by no means directly connected with its proper business. Aldermen, for example, become learned in eating, barbers in acting, fish-fags in swearing, medical students in half-and-half, and butchers in horse-flesh. Let the old screw be ever so palpable a bag-of-bones, there are sure to be some good points about him that defy all the wear-and-tear of time, and that old gentleman's disagreeable et cætera. Let the knee be ever so marked, the hock ever so seared, or the condition ever so bad, Young Milo has yet a varmint imposing way of setting his horse a-going, and keeping him at it, that acts like a coat of varnish on his gallant Rosinante. There seems, in fact, a kind of magic in the rattle of the tray. Horses, that in any other sphere or hands would look fit only to visit the slaughter-house on their own account, brighten up with their load on load of mutton and beef, and give the "go-by" to smart hacks and swell turn-outs. Talk, indeed, of flesh for concealing defects, or the black and yellow brightness of new harness for showiug off a meanish nag; what are these to the bustling knack of the butcher's boy, and the "hie! hie!" with which he clears all before him? He is not a handsome horseman, perhaps; but he has learnt the grand secret of making his horse look a vast deal better than he really is; and if that be not the summum bonum of the accomplishment, we have studied the elegant exhibitions of Messrs. Osborne, Anderson, Mason, and other such dandy dealers to very little purpose. What is the difference whether you show him off with just a toe of your polished boot on terms with the stirrup-iron, a squaring of the elbows, bending of the back, and delicate feeling for his mouth? -what matter whether it be so, or with the knees well tucked up, bridle hand almost at liberty, and whip one just ready for action; Pardon us the expression, but really there is a taste or so of gammon either way-not quite necessary maybe, but still hardly out of place in handling "a bit of blood."

A "YARN" ABOUT YACHTING.

BY THE EDITOR.

"Aboard! aboard!

66

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail."

HAMLET.

The great popular movement of our time has been, and is, the revolution in the means of transit for those who travel by land or by water. Steam has done it all." The road is clean forgotten, or only spoken of as people allude to hoops and marechale powder. The stage has gone to the dogs (not only in this our particular indeed, but as the rule). Coaching is more rare than aërostation. You may get a lift in a balloon, but a cast on the box-seat is out of the question. Elephants are more common in the streets of London than four-horse teams. You might as well expect to see the Elephant and Castle pass through Kennington gate as a turn-out after the fashion of the Age or the Quicksilver. It's all riding on a rail now-fifty miles an hour, and put the 'pikes in the bill. And not only is there no road-work, but there is nothing like it; not so much as a token of it left-I had almost said, not the ghost of a type; but I bethought me of Sir Harry Peyton. Yes! the patriot baronet still preserves the memory of the drag-but with that ominous grey team, sadly symbolical of death upon the pale horse. Now and then, to be sure, you see a four-in-hand at a race-course, or on some holiday occasion or other; but driving four horses for the intrinsic pleasure of the thing, putting a perfect equipage together, and working it artistically as an abstract pursuit or pastime, is no longer in favour. The whip-club, it is to be feared, has gone "the way to dusty death.' What, then, both ashore and afloat, has all ended in smoke? the ingenious youth of Britain no longer make their motto

"Navibus atque,

Quodrigis petimus bene vivere"?

Shall

Bound to the Derby, must they surrender themselves to the atmospheric; or, bent upon the Mediterranean, to cylinders and sea-coal fires? Forbid it, Phoebus, for the poetry of the thing, and thy countenance of "the ribbons!" Forbid it, Cytherea! for think, goddess, think upon the cabin of a steamer !

Is that a bower for Love to show his face in?

"I sink! I swoon! Oh, steward, bring a basin !"

Happily, it has not come to this pass yet. The melody of the bars, indeed, is no longer heard rattling through the winding village street, to the accompaniment of the guards' key-bugle. All memory of such music will probably fail as soon as the Post Horn gallope has breathed its last flourish. But, by grace of the queen of ocean, there is still a sail to woo her messengers, the Zephyrs. Galleys of beauty are there still, despite the fleets of floating furnaces which fright the Nereides from their propriety. The sport of yachting--the most national of all our pleasures-is careering on the flood of Fortune's spring-tide.

I

will not haul my wind here to make any comparisons which might be odious. I will but say that to this pastime, at all events, no legitimate objection can be made; for to it no cause of objection attaches. It is a frank, free, manly, healthful employment. Not that I mean to insinuate it behoves a public writer to hold his peace in all cases where he cannot speak eulogistically.

"Licet semperque licebit

Dicere de vitiis."

This is the doctrine of Horace; and his authority is good. But there is time for all things; and occasion will be found for dealing with those causes of offence which are spreading like a blight over the fields wherein our office lies, and threatening the fair promise of their harvest. Thus shall it fall out anon: for the nonce

"My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;"

so, with your leave, we'll spin our yarn anent yachts and yacht sailors, clubs nautical, societies naval, and all that appertains to Neptunus in his holiday capacity.

All hail to the yacht, the wherry, the funny-to all and every contrivance for ministering to the buoyant spirit!

"Ego, utrùm

Nave feror magnà an parvâ feror unus et idem."

A cruise is a cruise, in a schooner of three hundred tons, or a lugger of thirty; only let the bark be well found, alow and aloft. Indeed, among the fairy fleet of the Royal Thames Yacht Club, whose wagercraft, till very lately, were confined to 25 tons, were some of the finest sea-boats that ever swam. The match sailed by those vessels at Cowes, in 1844, during a hurricane, will long be remembered by all who witnessed it; to say nothing of those who formed the crews-an honour of which I had the privilege to partake. The whole spirit of aquatic amusements is eminently wholesome and hearty. It is social, of sound good-fellowship, calculated to call forth dormant energy, and to give impulse to healthy feeling. I am not an advocate for putting forward our national sports as important agents in promoting our national resources, or I might claim for yachting the first place among them all in that character. I leave national enterprise and industry to take care of their own interests, without much anxiety for the result. They tell us that to the turf we owe the excellence of our breed of horses; and to the taste for pleasure-sailing, many of the most admirable inventions in our marine. I am not going to gainsay it; nevertheless, when Englishmen discovered the convenience of travelling ten miles an hour in lieu of five, had Messrs. Place and Darley never imported their Arabians, I am of opinion some means would have been found to improve the pace of our horses; and even if Mr. White had never launched a flying Cowesman, it is probable Mr. Green would have hoisted the flag of British commerce in a tolerably ship-shape fashion.

Though we have had a regatta on the Thames-of which I shall speak presently-the season for yachting is still in the early blossom. With the present month it will put forth fruit; in the meanwhile we may not unmeetly canvass the state of the crops. The various pleasure dockyards are all activity: more vessels are on their stocks than at any