Derby-such a Derby as regards its probable matériel as we have not yet had experience of. A positive multitude of horses may be said to be in training for it; at least they are appointed to their respective quarters, and will be applicable, should it be expedient to use them. So far the betting on that most popular of all schemes for speculation has not been of much account: the traffic at Tattersall's has found its way into new channels. There are now the Great Metropolitan Stakes, the Chester Cup, and several other races at the opening of the season, to divide the capital with the Great Surrey venture. The whole economy and market of the turf, in fact, is vastly extended. The Book Calendar for every year will henceforth be in two volumes; and, as the proprietors announce," the Sheet Calendar will be published throughout the year more frequently than hitherto." Newmarket will, perhaps, remain, as refers to position, in statu quo-that is so say, where it is and has been for some seasons. More racing there is not desirable: it would tend to enfeeble other meetings, and to crowd its own inconveniently. At the regal course, Ascot, we may anticipate a more brilliant tryst than that of '46. There sport, however, is certainly not the first consideration; for, except the Cup, it is not the fashion to bet much on any of its issues. And what of gallant Goodwood? So far as the calendar may be a criterion, its days of glory are far from numbered. For some more seasons, at all events, its great stakes are appropriately filled; and, come the worst, the progress of the popularity of racing will ensure it no small éclat. York is just returning to its pristine estate, and promises to be at least a generous rival of Doncaster, if not a dangerous one. And Doncaster-it must go on and prosper. The Leger is the best got-up betting race, for the time it is in the market, of any turf contrivance extant. It picks your pocket with all the adroitness and gentlemanly tact of a Barrington. You feel you must be done, because the Leger is almost universally a foregone conclusion, as far as relates to the betting lots. But nevertheless you wager: you go to the rooms, and are satisfied there is an out-and-out piece of sharp practice on the carpet; but you call your main. You may have luck, as they have sometimes who throw at hazard, but the après will beat Fortune; and in racing, particularly in the north country, the stables stand in place of the tables. Thus it will be seen, the subject of this our notice will apparently not be deficient in zest. There will be excitement enough for the most fastidious; this, too, independent, in a great degree, of that new racing sauce piquante-the handicap. I have not alluded to the places of sport made famous by that modern inventions of the enemy. The favour this system has acquired is, however, by no means ministered to in a proper fashion. And here, on the threshold of the season, I beseech the consideration of all the true friends of the turf to the method of its administration. Why is it anonymously got up? Why is it past all peradventure--wretchedly got up, if not more infamously? I have not space or inclination to go into the details of the handicap, the weights for which have lately made their appearance. That they are "quite athwart all decorum, any body with an eye to read, or an ear to hear the way the penalties are dealt out, must perceive. The time has come when the character and prosperity of the turf require that among its other efficient functionaries it should be supplied with public handicappers of known experience and integrity.

"WHO'S UP FOR THE RESCUE?"

ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY R. B. DAVIS.

"One material difference," says the venerable Mr. Taplin, "is known to exist between stag-hunting and every other kind of sport: the utmost fortitude and indefatigable exertions are here made to save; in all the rest, the summit of happiness, the sole gratification of local ambition, is to KILL: so that, at any rate, stag-hunting has the plea of humanity in its favour. In proof of which, the hounds are never known to run from chase to view, but every individual feeling is alive to the danger of the deer, who has so largely and laboriously contributed to the completion of the general happiness of the day. A secret inspiration operates upon every latent spring of human sensibility, and no difficulty, at the moment, seems too great to surmount for the preservation of a life in which every spectator feels himself most impressively concerned."

Our plate, then, by such authority, displays the very time and place for "this material difference" being carried out—a difference, by the way, that the tone of our author goes to assure us must be a proportionate advantage. Here, he appears to argue, you have all the excitement and ardour of sport, without any of its cruelties or blood-shedding drawbacks. The deer that's picked to run to-day shall live to run another day; while the field, who devote themselves to so harmless and innocent a pastime, can return home proof against the most fastidious of feelings and specious of pleadings. The great point, indeed-the finishing touch to the good run-is, that a death should not conclude the scene, just as, in fox-hunting, the summum bonum is that it should. Humanity, therefore, is its strong-hold; and, as a recreation approved of and increasing, we have to place it on record with this great virtue as the great agent of its success. By Mr. Taplin's reasoning, we perhaps ought; by our own, we the more certainly cannot.

The grand secret of modern stag-hunting is its convenience. Some might say, its splendour and clap-trap turn-out; or others, its speed and sail-away character; but, for our own part, we maintain the convenient to be its steadiest friend. Only look at the master or managing committee, for instance; and estimate the toil and trouble of one variety, compared with the other. Hounds, horses, and servants are, or ought to be, easy of management, either way. If it's a hound goes wrong, you draft him; a horse, you sell him; and a servant, you "sack" him: but the country, the foxes-the indispensable, without which there will be no fox-hunting-how does it run with those items? If you don't rattle and rout out the heavy, never-ending woodlands every other day, Sir Stephen Selfsafe swears he'll setto and kill the foxes, because you won't come and do so for him. If you "worry" the cream of your country, the stock in it becomes endangered, and you have to submit to the "Finance" the propriety of

building gorse nurseries, and employing an agent to rob the next county but one to furnish them. If you voted the wrong way, back the compliment's sent in death to the Duke's foxes; if you looked the wrong way, and cut the soap-maker's missis, out they take it in traps and guns on the Latherington property; and, in short, if you would go armed against a blank day, you shake hands with, and almost "hail-fellow" every fellow that has or holds an acre of land in the land you live and hunt in.

And now turn the pen-and-ink sketch over, and take a look at the master of stag-hounds on the other side. Here are his hounds, his horses, and his men, like his brother F.H. has them; and there, a little further on, are his foxes, or that he is well satisfied to take in place of them. These are his preserves, within two hundred yards of the stable and four of the kennel; and, thus provided, what cares he for neighbours and friends, or-just as likely-neighbours and enemies? Talk of the freedom of the fox-hunter! what can that be, compared to the independence of the stag-hunter? See, out he sallies, like a travelling tradesman, or another Noah, with all the necessaries of life packed up to accompany him! Saucy keepers he fees not, hen-roost robberies he fears not, and swaggering natives he knows not. Yet stay! just at the last moment Grazier Greensward thinks the comitatus a leetle too large, and so must decline the honour of the monarch of the chase being bade "Good speed!" on his premises. And what's to be done then? What now becomes of the independence of our self-providing and self-relying friends? One fool makes many; and if the grazier who had given his word sees reason to withdraw it, we may find it difficult to find a volunteer at so short a notice. Nonsense! for here's our host of the Garter, with a ten-acre close at the back of his yard that stretches right away for the Greensward preserve; or, again, not a quarter of a mile off, Crabtree Common, with a site and space equal to Ascot Heath.

This is convenience number one; the convenience of independence, when a man affords health, happiness, and sport to a whole country without feeling that heavy debt of gratitude the fox-hunter should, for being allowed to do so. Convenience number two, applies more to the field, and becomes associated very much with a certainty. The honourable Captain Rattletit, of the Guards, wants, what his man says two or three of his stud do, a little work, and accordingly rigs himself out for "a hunting morning." Sir John Cope meets one side of him, her Majesty on the other: and the Captain, as we have just stated, wanting a gallop, comes in this way to a decision. Sir John, perhaps, won't find, or if he does find perhaps Sir John's fox won't break; contra, "the royals" must find, and break too, and so Captain Rattletit appears in "the Post" as one of the fashionables who shone at the meet and showed at the take on Monday last. In an equal degree the convenience of certainty has its weight with Mr. Cent-or-scent, the City-broker, Squire Whole-hog, the Piccadilly dealer, or his friend Jack Evans, the tailor, from Bond-street. Here old Cent-or-scent, who is bonâ fide a bit of a sportsman, snatches a moment or two of ecstasy; here the swell dealer is sure of a fine show-off for his last long-priced one, and the tailor of as fine a display for himself. Mark the method too with which it is all done, and