Machell's public 'tip was a very different one when he leapt the standrails at Ascot, after Knight of the Garter beat Friponnier, and said, "Now, we shall win the Derby." D'Estournel was as quiet and as like a racehorse as anything in the paddock, and walked about with his esquire Roquefort, who was a grand foil to him. Many Newmarket men still think that if he had kept his temper at the post he couldn't have lost.

The loss of his blood-vessel did not seem to have affected The Rake one whit as he walked. Still, we looked in vain for that extra length and tremendous second thighs which have been so much written about, and quite failed to find them. He has done fairly during the winter, and that is all. Those trainers who had seen him gallop at Epsom, declared that the game was quite up, as his severe blowing when he pulled up did not, as they thought, proceed from any clots left in the nose, but from the rupture of a blood-vessel in the chest. The place of Van Amburgh at the finish shows that he could not have been within pounds of his form, or else we are driven on to the supposition that Joseph Dawson had a far better horse in the stable and never knew it. They may have never. tried this year with the sheets off; but they must have learnt enough through gallops to avoid such a fearful mistake as that. For elegance and finish Julius had nothing to equal him; but there is no wear-and-tear look about him, and even those who remembered how he had gone bang up to Lord Lyon's head and brought out the white feather, did not fancy the St. Alban's blood. Mat Dawson's looks were reassuring enough, but three-quarters of a mile quite settled his pet; and that is another proof that it never does to trust to a line through Lord Lyon.

Wild Moor was a great, fine, raking horse, but, no doubt, a difficult one to train; and Marksman looked calm and business-like, with that compact, well-built back and middle. We missed four or five in the second parade in such a tulip-bed of colours, and among them FitzIvan and Gipsy King, but they seem to have been of no account.

D'Estournel gave the audience a trying time of it, and was very clever both with legs and teeth at the post. Then there was a slight hail shower (No. 4) to while away the time, and twice the Derby dog appeared. One was coaxed aside by the police when he was running very strong up to the corner of the enclosure, and the other stayed the distance, and "went in alone." To see the Derby there is no place like the hill, as you see the Grand Stand as well, and that excited mass of humanity when they uncover is a marvellous spectacle. One sixfoot fiver was well chaffed. They were not content when he took his hat off, but those behind shouted" Head off" as well! The race has been told and sung three hundred times already, and why dwell over that weary tale? A worse field has seldom started. Out of the thirty, more than half were disposed of before Tattenham Corner, and nothing looked better than Vauban as we watched them round the turn. The Rake was going a rattler on the low ground, and Marksman tearing away in earnest on the high. Gradually the Mexican blue began to give way, and up went Custance's arm; then to our eye Marksman led everything by a neck, and we thought it was all over, as he had quite the foot of Vauban. The reports all have it that Vauban led; but a friend just on the opposite side confirms our idea. The tactics seemed

to be to hold Marksman well in front, if possible, and never let him be collared. Vauban died off inch by inch, and Jemmy Grimshaw still kept the chesnut well in hand; but at that moment a rose jacket, which we had never observed on the low side, seemed to rise out of the very ground fifty yards from home, go up to the yellow, and fairly outstride him. Still the public would hardly believe it, and even when the "20" went up, some declared that it was a mistake, and that Marksman must have won. The latter cared to have no more of it the moment he was collared, and we must see more of his performances before we can be sure that he is a stayer. Toxopholite and General Peel were both Derby seconds, and yet they were mere cowards; and although Sittingbourne ran such a capital second to "The West," a mile and a quarter with a pace was as much as he fancied. It may be, the course was not to his taste; and we hope for better things from Vauban, however much "the Doctor" may take up his Blacklock parable over the mahogany, at his well-inked portfolio, or under the green-wood tree. A well-known "dusky" character was pitched out of the ring, and was subsequently found wandering among the lists and thus bewailing his lot: "Am I a murderer? they owe me thousands, and yet they won't let me stay in the enclosure."

And so ended the duel between the Eltham chesnuts. Mr. Blenkiron had been in a sad way, as his protegés failed him one after the other. At 3 h. 52 m. 20 secs. by Benson's chronograph, his trio bad sunk into a "blow-hard bay with a broken blood-vessel; a chesnut with a broken blood-vessel and doubtful kidneys, and at 66 to 1; and a chesnut with the strangest of tempers." And yet at the end of 2 m. 51 secs. 39-100ths of a second by "Hasluck's engine chronometer," whatever that may be, he had equalled Mr. Cookson's Kettledrum and Dundee feat, and a second Derby winner had blessed Eltham. May the new spot be equally prolific. It is somewhat curious that the first three should have been owned by the master of the Burton, an exmaster of the Linlithgowshire and Renfrewshire, and the master of the Badminton, and that the Oaks should also be won by a master of staghounds. The luck of young sportsmen is also most remarkable. Racing men of the old school have spent a turf pilgrimage like Lord Glasgow of more than forty years, and never had a Derby winner, and yet Mr. Chaplin wins it at his third essay, and the Duke of Hamilton gets up fourth at his first. A dreary night closed on a dreary day. The tradesman in the Strand, who had gone largely into blue-and-white silk handkerchiefs for Vauban's sake, must have been unusually depressed, and the rain quite spoilt the fun of the sight-seers, whose only erown of rejoicing is to assemble near the Wellington Statue, and watch the draggled roadsters returning from the fray. Mr. Belmore was "up" again that night on Flying Scud, and won the Derby for the 193rd time. His bay's legs are reported to be getting 66 worser and worser."

The Oaks day made up for the Derby one in weather, but we have always thought it the dullest afternoon of the year, and this 89th celebration gave us no reason to change our opinion. Achievement had plucked the heart out of the race. The Epsom people had only a poor tale to tell of their week's receipts, and certainly the old place did not look itself. The happiest-looking person who drove through it that morning was one of the noble lords, over whom the papers had mourned

so touchingly. The Durdans meadows did not look half so green and fair" as usual, and the walk was never more keenly watched, as policemen at each gate asked you to stand and show your ticket. The paddock seemed much fuller than it was on the Derby day, and in fact there was such a block at the one gate after the second race, that the police had to improvise another opening. The Yorkshiremen were there in great force, and very fond, but still rather suspicious of Bumblekite, whom the stable did not scruple to style a "clinker" if she would only try and not go mad at the post. She was very much liked when she came out, but her tail was never easy for a moment, and she had a peculiar way of putting down her fore-feet, and pacing rather than walking, which boded an explosion of some sort. In fact, this was so much expected of her, that when something in sheets was seen kicking up a devilry, there was a run towards it, but it proved to be Paris. Earl Zetland and Mr. Williamson were both at the saddling, and it reminded one of the old Voltigeur times. But for her temper, she is decidedly a fine racing-like mare, with some substance about her.

Sœur de Charité had no loins to speak of, and Romping Girl was big and plain, and rather short in her forehand. She was a good deal looked at in consequence of a joke as to her jockey-owner having "plunged" at last, and having backed her for a sovereign to get a place. Arapeile was a neat dark-brown, with no great size, and lots of quality; Bounceaway was small and more of a neat hack, and Minster Bell pretty, but rather a holiday sort of mare. Hippia had a large crowd round her, and but for a belief that she was in the same May-morn plight as Bumblekite, she would have been very heavily supported. She is a yellowish bay, barely Hermit's height, with a plain head set on a capital neck and shoulder, and very good in her barrel and couplings. In fact, she was quite a thick-through mare, and a wonderful contrast in point of elegance to Achievement, who seemed trained to a hair, with a coat like satin, and action as if she wouldn't crush an egg. A great deal was written about Hippia's hill-climbing, but she did not seem inclined to show it, and let off Achievement more easily in that part of the race. Seven out of the eight crossed the road together, James Mann, the winner of last year, being the only absentee on Bounceaway. From this point, the race was a splitter; one of the jockeys said afterwards that he "never was in a faster thing;" and the result was the Middle Park Plate over again, as regards Achievement. There she died away the moment she was asked to collar the rise at the finish, and here she did precisely the same again. Either her party have the blindest belief in the trying powers of Lord Lyon, or they can have never fairly tested her pipes at home. The excuse that there was no pace for the first mile seems to make matters only worse. If she couldn't breast the hill when the race was only run rather more than half-a-mile, where would she have been if it had been run from the mile-post. Echo may well ask where? The course was the worst in the world for her: a hill to begin with, and another to end with. Still we expect her to run, very fairly at Doncaster if the pace is such that she can "suffer" for the first mile; but it is very doubtful whether she can stay more than the D.M. if there is a pace. The result leaves matters in a very favourable way for Doncaster, as besides the mare, whose partisans will argue till they are black in the

face all the summer, Vauban, The Hermit, Marksman, The Rake, D'Estournel, Bumblekite, and Van Amburgh are all in it, and we shall have a regular Lincolnshire furore about Hermit's winning the double event. Epsom has done its part well, with two broken blood-vessels, and the defeat of "the greatest certainty since the beginning of the century," and Doncaster Moor must not be found lacking.

"Dick Webster and Shepherd F. Knapp have arrived" might very fairly supersede the woodcut of the rampagious horse which annually informs the London public that the Islington Horse Show is open once more. We confess we are a little tired of it, and that we rather sigh in the spirit for the freshness of that Saturday morning, when Citadel, Nutbourne, and Caractacus finished first, second, and third in a field of thirty-six; but still its pleasures do not pall on others. Last year the company made a very great thing out of it, and this year it has not only "drawn" as well as ever, but the secretary had to decline four basketfuls of entries. London never got the Battersea Show well into its head till it was nearly over; but it now looks forward to an Islington trip as regularly as summer and winter come round. Dick Webster was in great force, and whenever things slackened in the ring, he seldom failed to set them going again, flying round on Preston Dean or something else which he had the riding of. What his comic spirit most delighted in was a pony called "The Monkey." He would take it into the ring, and make it steady itself onto its hind legs, and hop over the hurdles; and when that performance was over, he would tell it to jump over the ring hoarding, and over it came, and followed him like a dog. Only one horse did that against his rider's will, as it took a panic, banged out of the ring, went over the entrance-gate "like a bird," and away to its stall under the organ. The horse which disgraced itself most was Priest, the third prize heavy-weight hunter. It perhaps showed its taste in not looking at hurdles in a ring, but it went fairly mad, to boot, raced wildly about with its lad, hadn't strength of mind to clear the hoarding, and was at last caught and expelled. The decision which gave it the orange ribbon was a most extraordinary one, as a plainer. headed and coarser imitation of a hunter we have seldom seen. In the hunter classes there was a terrible deal of trash-weight and inches for ever-but no style or quality: it would seem that the old saw that "action carries weight" is utterly forgotten. For a useful, hardworking pair for a twelve-stone man, there was nothing to beat Mr. Lucy's Goldfinder and Rural Dean, which had been taking their turns regularly all the season in the hunting-field. Goldfinder is not a very evenly-built horse, but as bloodlike as Savernake from nostril to heel; and Rural Dean is a fine steady jumper, and well known to fame in this hall. Beechwood, who two years since just beat Overplus for the head prize in the heavy weight class, was not held in honour, although he is as good as he ever was. Curiously enough, he began life in a coacher class, out of which Mr. Booth purchased him. Sprig of Nobility won his £100 honours fairly enough, though since he won at the Newcastle Royal Show he has not been a favourite with the judges. Mr. Booth sold his dam in foal with him. As a sample of English hunters, the 120 as a lot were very inferior; but country gentlemen and masters of hounds, as a body, do not care to send up their cracks for the chances of being beaten by mere fat-show horses, and having to dally a whole week in town.

The blood stallions were, with the exception of Captain Barlow's False Alarm, by Trumpeter, a very shady lot. The chesnut only requires time to enable him to hold his own in very different company, and if he can cast a few hundreds after his own mould, bar the gaudy fore-legs, he will do. Beckhampton, the second prize-taker, was an over-topped horse, with none of the liberty about him which hunter breeders require, and Newchurch was awful; while Pluto, one of the Eltham yearlings of '64, might have been known at the Antipodes by the Horror-like turn of his neck. The trotting stallions were a most motley lot-Yorkshire coachers, and Norfolk trotters, and cobs, all mixed; but they were headed by a very clever chesnut roadsterQuicksilver Shales; and then, as that type was exhausted, the second prize went to a stable mate, which was much more of a cob. Shepherd F. Knapp was amongst them, and his action gave him the third prize. We have heard of " "eye-openers," but it certainly did require one to believe that Captain Barlow's Lucifer and The Shepherd were the same height. The latter had stones of fat on him, as compared with last year, and "carried his tongue in his teeth" during his performances. We never saw him break so often; but when he did go along, the house fairly "rose at him," and it was something to remember. We were told that he liked being whistled at, and one or two of Dick Webster's chirrups seemed to freshen him up, but his driver adopted no such expedient in our hearing. It seems quite treasonable in such a horse to canter. Polly, great favourite here, stepped out wonderfully, and had quite an ovation as she retired. It was a very pleasant coincidence that the first Gold Medal ever given at this Horse Show should have been won by Mr. Jonas Webb, the son of the first chairman of the company.

The "trotting men" were great fun, as they ran quite jealous of of each other, and tried (as they do on market-days) to lay their "heart's delight" alongside the winners and outstep them. One of them, clad in a rusty jockey cap and a red waistcoat, was in great force with a son of the Champion of England for several years," now lunging him, now giving him "a buster" at the full length of his rein, and shouting like a wild Indian. A groom amused us much with an account of his journey: "I had a proper queer start," he said. "I was done out of five-and-six at London station. They says, 'Where's your ticket? you come from the country.' I says, That's my business-it's the horse that's come.' Then, how did you come?' I says, 'In the box; same room as did for horse did for me, so I shan't pay. You can't do me.' So they walked me off one way and mare the t'other. They says, 'We'll take you to the authorities.' So I paid. They tell me you can get that money back by haction, maister. Of course, you'll go agin the company. They won't come over me, as I told them-it's not the first time I've been in this great city." Our old rustic friend also quite took fright at the lady-riders; and we found him thus adjuring his master: "Don't put a female up-keep off 'em. Tak my advice; they'll look at her, and not at the horse. Ride the horse yourself, and follow her. Maybe, they'll look at your horse when she's gone by." Mrs. Beverley showed her horses off as neatly as ever, and she had some rather rough ones to deal with. One of them put her down at a fence; but Mr. Clayden (the chairman) and Mr. Leeds, who