we did, and his sale rather carried out what a breeder once said to us: "Take chesnuts as big as a mountain and as much white as you can get on them to Doncaster, so that the buyers can see them well-those are the things to sell." Border Knight, another Adventurer, made 900 gs. to Mat Dawson's victorious nod (which nailed four out of six successive lots for 2,370 gs.); six Adventurers that week averaged 578gs.; Alderman Copeland, who had waited most patiently on Mr. Tattersall's left, drew Fitzmalcolm (125gs.) at last; and we liked Harvest Home by Warlock, although only 155gs, far better than her thousand-guinea half-brother Harvester of. last year. It was a great sale-eighteen at 377gs. The stud has unfortunately lost its mares Sister to Cambuscan and Caterer, and eleven are put to Adventurer, six to Colsterdale, two each to Warlock, Rataplan, Kettledrum, and Thormanby, one to Parmesan, and three, including Cousin Bet, to Blair Athol. Lord Derby's (all fillies, bar one,) were not a nice lot till we reached the King-of-Trumps-Basquine filly; The Thormanby-Star-of-India was like a King of Trumps, and looked likely to go, and the Cape-Flyaway-Wood-Nymph filly (250 guineas) did that famous Whitewall time-keeper a world of credit. It will be strange if he doesn't get mares next year. The only colt was by the same horse from a Gratwicke mare, and Mr. T. Dawson pounced on him, as he well might, cheap at 350gs. Two years had done a great deal for the four-year-old Newminster colt, and quite swelled him into a handsome country horse. Old Canezou, his dam, is still alive, and they hope she is in-foal by De Clare. The sale of Derventio by Citadel," the property of a lady," brought out Mr. Hill in great force. He was good-looking enough in all conscience; but a drop of the Sortie blood is always objectionable. "No Blacklock about him, Doctor?" suggested Mr. Tattersall, and at it Mr. Jackson went-400-500-600! "You're very fond of the ladies, Jackson," said Mr. Hill; but the pace was too good to inquire, and at 750 Mr. Hill was in himself. "Now go on, partner!" 810"Well, you give us another ten !"-"No I shan't; but a gentleman here looks like it; and the next time Mr. Tom Dawson opened his mouth Mr. Tattersall closed with him, and expressed his pleasure at having sold Mrs. Scott's colt so well.

The racing was dreadfully dull that afternoon, and everyone agreed that Thursday required "burnishing up with more brass," a new Cup, or something. Get rid of that wretched Spring Meeting, was the general suggestion to the body-corporate, and throw all your money into this one, or "the Jockey Club will be down on you by Jove, they will." The list men were seeking whom they might devour all the afternoon, and modern Nell Gwynnes, wandered among the step stands, offering the odds as they would an orange. Friponnier danced away from Romping Girl, who was looked at with peculiar interest, in consequence of her Epsom dead heat with Achievement, and people wondered whether 2st. would now bring them together over the St. Leger course. The Earl was very cleverly beaten by Pace, and of course the losers said that if Fordham had been up instead of Cannon he would have won-a very comfortable way of consoling yourself at another's expense. Prince Soltykoff, who had bought very spiritedly

during the week, won the Portland Plate under a high weight with Bounceaway, giving 27lbs. to the leggy Sir Oliver, who ran the only dead heat of the meeting, a second with Belphegor.

The Sale-field next morning was full of odds and ends. There was the Wild Wind, a very likely-looking horse for a country stallion; Hospitality, of whom it is said that he was once sold for a £10 note; and Virago, the chesnut queen of '54. Mr. Clark, of Howden, bought her, and Sir George Chomley (who has put 19 mares to Hubert, 6 to Theobald, 4 to Angelus, and 1 to Loiterer) was vexed at not having added her to his chestnut store, and only refrained from bidding because he thought that his son intended to have her. Plaudit did not appear, and the pert little lad at The Proctor's head_suggested on inquiry that he was "Kept at home to make a hunter of." We did not like the Hon. Stanhope Bankes' Buccaneers; but there was a very pretty brood mare, Miss Tennyson; and of all the Blair Athols of the week, and in fact of all the yearlings, we saw nothing to beat the colt out of Skycutter. It was curious to see the street crowd turn aside to Mr. Woodmansey's window to look for the Cup, but it was gone to the Moor. It was a local design-a model in fact of the old Hall Cross in gilt, and with silver figures of women or goddesses (connection with Doncaster unknown), and two pudgy knights in armour and on horseback at the pedestal. As an inspiration, it was a very imperfect one. Mr. Greaves towered above all the pedestrians as he walked to the Course, and we hear that he has joined the Pontefract Town Council, and will be Mayor in due course, like Mr. Robinson of Richmond, the brightest gem in whose civic chair was that he had ridden for the Derby. The racing opened with a narrow escape from a dead heat between three for the Park Hill. It always is so a wretched entry in point of quality produces the grandest race. Court Mantle, a colt, with remarkably beautiful quarters, was not quite fit, and Pace caught him at the finish of his 100 sov. race, with a stealing Robinsonian rush, which was beautiful to see, although Daley's seat would be all the better if he would ride with rather a longer stirrup. The confidence which his fine Epsom luck gave him has brought him out in his true colours. Michael de Basco seems a regular peaky half-miler, and looked as if he had come fresh out of a vapour bath.

Vauban went so short in his canter, that the Duke might well make a run of it up to Parry to inquire about him. John Scott never knows what's before him when Taraban is going to start, and he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw him thrust his great head (which is as big as Haco's) in before the Two Thousand winner. He has certainly inquired into the Goodwood Cup form pretty deeply, as he has now beaten both the first and second for it. Jem Perren was very facetious over the wine part of the business. They once tried whisky to the chesnut, but the effects passed off too soon, and since then they have stuck to port, as it lies in him longer, and feeds the Dutch courage. This Doncaster port is so good, observed Jem, that "he drank it all, and never left me a drop for myself." His friends couldn't persuade Mr. Scott to show himself in the stand, or he would have had a thundering cheer. He had been cheered for horses like The West, and

"

he did not care for such honours in connection with Taraban, and so back he went to his quiet chair in Mr. Johnson's room. "The Wizard" is unchanged: give him the tackle and half a chance, and whether they are Two Thousand winners or Derby winners, they must look out for danger from Whitewall. Then came the Cup; but we thought, as we looked at Beeswing, that we did not care to have the name used twice, and we were faithful to our recollections of a very different mare, as, with her ears screwed back and Cartwright up in the blue-and-white sleeves, she went flying round that top turn to take the measure of the St. Leger or Cup crack year after year, be it what it might. Hermit looked less nervous than he did on the Leger day; but he refused for a time to pass between the winning posts as he went down to canter, with as much pertinacity, as Mr. Henley objected to the "hard and fast line." Surplice was once equally stupid about crossing the tan road in his Epsom exercise, and a Newmarket commissioner rued the day that he saw that fit of temper, and made so much of it. Strathconan was not fancied, and after the telegraph men had put up "Cannon," and then "Cameron," they got right with "Challoner" for the grey." Lord Glasgow's number was also put up, and then taken down. The Badminton chesnuts, both dark, but of quite a different hue, looked very well with Perry and Prangle up. Goodwood was good to know by his white face, and there was quite a buzz as the mare came on with Kenyon in the chevrons. Hermit turned round and followed her, as if ashamed of his temper, the moment she came past. In the race they were not divided, and they were third and first when they went over the hill, and landed in the straight. The grey had been closing up from the Rifle Butts; but he and the whole lot were quite out of it at the finish, and the Derby and St. Leger winners ran home by themselves, the mare never giving the chesnut a chance. Mr. Chaplin was perfectly convinced if he had entertained any doubts before. We hear in fact, that he was quite thankful that now people can't come to him all the winter and say, "if Custance had only come here or come there, he would have won the St. Leger." We cared to see no more, and fled to the train. Two women were having a terrific set-to opposite the Mansion House. They had quarrelled in a 3d. fare cart coming from the races; one had dragged away all her opponents gown from the waist downwards when she pulled her out of the vehicle to fight for a "quid," and was trying to gouge out her eyes when they choked her off. We left Doncaster to the enjoyment of the scene, and the antici pation of a Monday's lecture on "Phrenology illustrated by specimens of the lower animals." It was, indeed, a blessing to get rid of the noise and riot at last. The everlasting hills,

"Where the black-cock takes wing,

And the fox-cub is bred,"

looked still more calm and beautiful as the evening shadows closed in, and the weary week was ended.

PETERSBURGH

OR,

PASTIMES;

RUSSIAN RAMBLES.

PART III.

(Concluded.)

"Be of good comfort, Tuxfordo mio. There is little fear of a spill; and, if so, the roads are soft-the ditches not profound. True this is not precisely the travelling of other days, in our fatherland, where we were wont to slip over twelve miles of macadamised roads and four posters in an hour. What then? I prefer it to a journey in the Great Western Railway of the days we live in, when first-class passengers are not half so well treated as hunters, nor second-class half so well as pigs. Moreover, we keep time, which the Great Western express never does."

"By St. Hubert," exclaimed my friend, as he held on like grim death. "Oh! my bones. By jingo, we shall be over."

"Not a bit of it," said I; "hold tight-you will soon be accustomed to the motion."

These few words passed as we sat in a telega on a bundle of hay, drawn by three bony little horses-now trotting, now galloping, twelve verstes, at times more, each hour. A telega, be it known, is a species of long box, without springs, perched on four wheels, entirely open to the elements, such as they were, and looking as if every jolt would scatter the planks asunder, and leave its cargo in mud or snow, while every rut or stone or turn on the road, owing to the rapidity of pace we travelled, being springless, sent us now whirling bodily to the right, then to the left, the wheels being at times quite off the ground, now on the one side, now on the other.

"Hold tight, old boy," said I, as we whirled round a sharp corner, and entered a desolate pine forest some miles in extent.

"Hold on!" he replied; "more easy said than done. I am bruised all over already. What madness brought me to this outlandish country?"

"Madness, my dear fellow! Good sense, you mean. You wished first to kill some Russian small game. Has rot our sport been firstrate? And now we are en route again for the capital of all the Russias, while next week you shall kill a bear. A good supper and sixpennyworth of diachylon plaster will set you all right. So no grumbling. Here! just swallow a spoonful from my flask."

Delightful travelling, is it not? I had scarcely handed the flask to my agreeable companion, who took a good pull of its contents, when bang we went, over an unseen fir-log lying on the road. The vehicle bounded like a deer in the air. I had just time to clutch the telega with both hands, and save myself, when I beheld my amiable companion, bottle still in hand, fly into the air, and then roll over on a bank of snow and mud. The pace meanwhile was

so great, that it was impossible to stop the little horses in a moment; and when we did so, we were at least a quarter of a mile from where he had fallen. To return as fast as possible, and help the Don from his unpleasant position, was my first thought. Haply, he was only wet and muddy; and it was therefore utterly impossible to resist laughing, which I did to my heart's content, loud and long. The more I laughed, however, the more angry he became, and I must admit used language not quite fit to repeat in the chaste pages of Maga.

Nothing would ever have induced him to cross the Channel had he thought it possible to be upset in the midst of a Russian forest. The people were absolute savages-the roads required macadamising-snow he believed fell throughout the year he did not leave home to be killed-was this a Russian pastime ?-he believed his leg was broken, though he walked about briskly in anger. Return to the telega? no not he; he would walk to Petersburg. Confound such wooden boxes without springs! not a bone in his body that was not dislocated.

"Well," said I, endeavouring to repress my hilarity, "the walk is a long one, at least twenty-five verstes; moreover, the road, as you justly observe, is not very good: let me also remind you that these forests are filled with wolves, and they are not particular as to whether human flesh belongs to the male or female gender; add to this, the bears have scarcely as yet selected their winter abodes. It occurs to me, that if you desire to kill one ere you leave this, as you term it, savage and hateful country, it would be as well not to put yourself in a posi tion of allowing one to kill you. Here, take another pull at the flask, of which I see you have been careful, notwithstanding the upset, or I should rather say your upset. It is not every one who comes off so easily; but then your bed was soft."

With such persuasions I induced him once more to mount our frail carriage, and we journeyed on, after changing our little horses twice, safely to the City of the Czar. I must confess I now rarely meet my kind-hearted friend, in the great Babylon called London, at Newmarket, Epsom, or Doncaster, where in due senson he is sure to present himself, that I do not ask him tenderly about his broken leg, dislocated bones, and graceful summerset in a Russian forest. His reply on these occasions is graphic: "Go to the d-1, you rascal; we had a pleasant time of it."

Meanwhile, as we travelled on to the Russian capital, I endeavoured to lead my companion from all his thoughts of recent disaster, and beguile the way-side with some perfectly true little historiettes connected with the sport of bear shooting, on which he was so anxious to try his hand. Certainly they were not precisely of a nature to create ardour in one whose nerves were not particularly well strong: nevertheless, they were warnings of what he might expect, and what, if possible, he ought to avoid; in fact, it had the effect of creating rather than diminishing his desire to find himself face to face with Bruin.

"Not two years since a well-known sportsman left Petersburgh for the purpose of shooting a bear which had been marked in the neigh bourhood of the city. Being keen, and a great lover of the sport, he decided on going alone, as far as the shooting was concerned, taking with him the peasant only who had harboured the bear, and who chanced, for the time being, to be dressed in a rough fur coat not dis