This exponent of the Code Olympique is himself an eminent authority of the Jockey Club. What do we gather from his pleading as here quoted?......That "bets on the Derby are especially made p.p. contrary to repeated declarations and resolutions of the Jockey Club." Is the inference to be drawn from this that the Jockey Club does not recognize" play or pay" betting on the Derby? that it does not practise that system? That its members do not receive when those with whom they wager have no "play" for their money? That their "resolutions" limit all betting liabilities to issues in which each party shares the possibility of winning?......I wish the case dealt with had been one less intrinsically obnoxious to objection: there is a reverent decorum in the rule-" All bets are void on the decease of either party," which needs no illustration..... The arbitrator has founded his decision upon the turf -or ring-modus, which declares that, "As A could not win his bet, he could not lose it," and quotes the aphorism-" Mors ultima linea rerum est." Now if the logic of this argument leads the way to a solution of the principle of the law based upon it-then, unless horses backed for their engagements start for them, it is manifest their backers cannot win." It won't do to argue that there was a possibility of their starting I say such a pretence avails nothing, and I am prepared with my Latin to prove the authority of my theory-" De non apparentibus (non-starters) et non existentibus, eadem est ratio"...... What a monstrous fact of folly-and something worse-is the policy of horse-racing in the middle of the nineteenth century! The turf is without law-because there are none to legislate: betting is without faith-albeit a few of the credulous still frequent "the Corner," because the system of the listhouses is not rust." But we shall manage these things better byand-by. Nothing stands still in Nature-all is progress

"Thus runs the world away!"

COPENHAGEN.

THE FAVOURITE CHARGER OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF WILLINGTON. ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY C. B. SPALding.

BY CASTOR.

No more in the trembling air trumpets are sounding,
No more with elastic step war steeds are bounding;
Calm beats the pulse in the old horse's breast,
While thousands who knew him are taking their rest;
That each in his turn takes, the rest of the grave-
The dread of the coward, the home of the brave;
Full oft the old charger looked death in the face,
Like the Hero who rode him, but never disgrace.

Of all the great winners that we have from time to time given in our pages, none ever carried his rider home to victory with such general éclat as Copenhagen. Scarcely one, perhaps, who looks on his portrait but will be able to say what he did, and how he did it; still, though Copenhagen of all others may the least require them, we yet think it

only right to offer the usual particulars as to pedigree and performance our readers may now be in the habit of looking for.

Copenhagen derives his name from the city in which he was foaled, his dam having been taken out there in the expedition of 1807, by the late General Grosvenor. Like most of our celebrated horses, he was not only thorough-bred, but very fashionably bred, being by Meteor (by Eclipse), out of Lady Catherine, by John Bull, dam by the Rutland Arabian. The turfites of those days will recollect the renown of the Meteor and John Bull blood, as well as the Olympic honours it brought to the Grosvenor family. The General, however, did not keep Copenhagen for any length of time, but sold him to the Marquis of Londonderry, then adjutant-general of the Peninsula Army, who sent him, with other horses, to Lisbon early in the year 1813. While here he was selected and bought, with another horse, by Colonel Charles Wood, at the price of four hundred guineas, for his Grace the Duke of Wellington, with whom he soon became, as he continued, an especial favourite. In the battles of Vimiera and Waterloo the Duke, we believe, used no other horse; and in the latter, it is said, was eighteen hours on his back, but Copenhagen gave little signs of being beaten, for on his rider patting him on the quarter as he dismounted after the battle, the game little horse struck out as playfully as if he had only had an hour's canter in the park. For endurance of fatigue, indeed, he was more than usually remarkable; and for the duty he had to fulfil as proportionately valuable. However hard the day, Copenhagen never refused his corn, though he eat it, like the Roman of old, at full length on his couch.

For many years Copenhagen was one of the most interesting of the "sights" at Strathfieldsaye, on which domain he was pensioned off, and where he at length died in illustrious old age. It was not, though, the stranger alone who asked for the famous old horse; the Duke himself rarely omitting to visit him, and the ladies of the family making him, as he deserved to be, an especial pet. And it would have been extraordinary had they not; for, in addition to his well-earned renown, Copenhagen had one of the surest and best characteristics of true courage -an extremely good and docile temper. He was, in fact, one of those "noble creatures, as the high-born dames delighted to call him, who liked being noticed, and who kissed hands and eat his apples with all the grace becoming the scene and the occasion.

Copenhagen, in colour a full rich chestnut, stood scarcely more than fifteen hands high; he possessed, however, very great muscular power, and, as will be seen from the engraving, had nearly all the good useful "points to be looked for. His general appearance rather favoured the Arab cross in his pedigree, which his lasting quali ties tended yet more to confirm. From his size he was not much adapted for crossing a country, though we believe the Duke did occasionally ride him with hounds. But in any field he must have sustained that repute for gameness with which the old-fashioned sportsman spoke of his favourite, and in a line that would not be ont of place on the tomb of Copenhagen :

"THE ONE GOOD HORSE WHO CARRIED HIM THROUGHOUT THE LONGEST

DAY,"

THE UNSUCCESSFUL MAN;

OR,

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF TILBURY NOGO, ESQ.

BY FOXGLOVE.

CHAP. XVIII.

"Give me mine angle. We'll to the river, there.
My musick playing far off, I will betray

Tawny-finned fishes; my bended hook shall pierce
Their slimy jaws, and as I draw them up
I'll think them every one an Antony,
And say, Ah, ah! you're caught."

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

Let it not be supposed by the reader, to whom I have so openly confessed my many follies and vagaries, that my whole life, as a quiet invalid, on a visit to a country clergyman for the restoration of his health, was nothing but a series of such morning adventures and midnight freaks as those I have recorded in connection with my débût as a "gentleman rider." Other and more contemplative pursuits served to fill up my leisure hours; and whilst Bagshot was engaged with his clerical duties, which no temptation could ever induce him to neglect, I had abundant opportunities for the restoration of my health and improvement of my intellect in his grounds and library. A book in the open air, whether it be a "Dissertation on the specific gravity of Fluids," or the last number of "Punch," is infinitely more agreeable than the same volume perused in an arm-chair; and many a delicious hour did I enjoy, reclining at my ease in Joe's delightful garden, basking in the sunshine, or dozing in the shade, inhaling the fragrance of his roses, fanned by the breeze that stole over his new-mown hay (a second erop, of which the owner was justly proud), and lulled by the hum of what Dr. Watts piously denominates the "busy bee"-but with whom I never can help sympathising as a thorough idler, like myself. All this, with the page of instruction spread open on my knee-too often disregarded in my intense emjoyment of the surrounding atmosphere-made a paradise of indolence, to which the addition of a "real foreign cigar" left nothing to be desired, not even "the black eyes" which, according to Tommy Moore, in conjunction with "lemonade," constitute the Persian's idea of a future heaven. Nor were these orbs, albeit of languishing blue instead of sparkling black, very far distant from the bower I so constantly frequented. From the parsonage to Topthorne Lodge was but three miles as the crow flies; and at Topthorne Lodge, need I say, Mrs. Montague Forbes was staying with her bachelor brother on a prolonged visit? Between the two houses, and within easy reach of either, lay a broad and picturesque sheet of water, called Cowslip-mere; beneath the sedgy banks of which the gigantic

T

pike loved to doze away the dreamy hours of noon, whilst the lake's unruffled surface bore punt and pleasure-boat noiselessly above his haunts. Here did I acquire my only knowledge of the Waltonian science; and here, under the tuition of mine accomplished host, did I progress rapidly in the contemplative art of trolling. But was the shark in miniature, the scaly monster of the hideous jaw, the only attraction that lured me to these golden waters? Was it a pure admiration for Nature, or an unalloyed love of sport, that led me to inclose my person in duck continuations, turned down collars, a straw hat, and a tailless jacket-a costume which it is advisable for gentlemen to abandon when turned of thirty-or had I truly "other fish to fry"? Was there another bait to which I was the unsuspecting gudgeon? Even so Antony, "broad-fronted" Antony, despised not to dress the hooks of his serpent of old Nile"-the "first gentleman in England" had his Virginia Water; nor are we to suppose that he was destitute of some fair minister to carry his landing-net-the " monks of old" were anglers to a man, as the site of every ruined abbey and monastery vouches for, with its neighbour, the trout stream; and although inveterate bachelors, they were anything but callous to the charms of the other sex" if ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men ;" and with such worthy examples before our eyes, it is not too much to say that "fishing and flirting" may be coupled together with as much justice as any other two unconnected pursuits. Behold me, then, embarked on the crystal surface of Cowslip-mere; the waters glistening in the sun like burnished gold; the summer-breeze sighing in the distant woods that fringe the lake; the wood-pigeon ever and anon pouring his plaintive note from their cool shady depths; the lazy plash of oars falling drowsily on the contented ear; and the low, sweet, pleading voice of Mrs. Montague Forbes completing the spell that pervades the whole enchanting scene. Our craft is a roomy broad-bottomed punt, warranted not to upset with any amount of romping; and, if pace be no object, sufficiently handy to be guided (I can hardly say propelled) by two short, sturdy oars

"Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm."

Our crew consists of the syren aforesaid, her brother the squire (who, not without grumbling, takes his share of the locomotive labour), Joe Bagshot, and myself. Four rods, supplied with all the mechanism of multiplying reels, patent lines, and ill-fated natural bait, are sticking out in every direction for the entrapping of some unwary fish; whilst the spare paraphernalia which encumbers the bottom of the boat would lead you to suppose that a war of extermination had been declared against the cold-blooded denizens of the deep. Need I add, that, in such society, a well-filled hamper, containing cold pie, hard-boiled eggs, and bottled porter, was not forgotten? The 'Squire is toiling at the oars, and his broad face (never of the palest) is now in hue like the setting-sun. Mrs. Montague Forbes reclining in a graceful attitude upon the "well" which contains the living, but doomed, gudgeons preserved for "bait," is shading her handsome face with a gorgeous parasol, and doing the agreeable most diligently to my unworthy self, who am lying with my face to heaven, and my straw hat protecting my eyes, in a state of indolent satisfaction, having left my rod and line to

trail over the stern, and take its chance of an erratic fish that may accidentally fancy the treacherous morsel it offers. But of no such idleness is Joe guilty. Ever keen in all matters of sport, from rat-catching upwards, he is now standing like a Colossus in the bows of our boat (if bows those can be called which need only proceed in a contrary direction to become the stern), and dexterously does he fling out the glittering bait with as much energy and precision as that of the fly-fisher, who directs to an inch the gaudy imitation, which I have always marvelled should be taken for a real insect by the hungriest of trout.

"Under the bank, Joe!" grunts the labouring squire. "Just where those weeds are parted, I had hold of a monster yesterday; but I did not give him time to gorge."

Whirr goes the line, strong enough to hold a crocodile, and in flops the bait at the exact spot designated; ere the circling eddy has widened into repose, the reel is rapidly spinning off its coils, and though he scorns to complain, I am sure it is burning Joe's nervous fingers as it slides through his grasp. Out comes Topthorne's watch, for he is punctilious to a degree in all matters of this kind; and he imposes on us an ominous silence during the prescribed five minutes allowed for the doomed fish thoroughly to digest his unexpected repast, nor will all the impatience of his companions, to whom this pause of expectation appears an age, ininduce him to abate one second of the accustomed "law." At length, replacing his watch in his fob with as much importance as if his hounds had just settled to their fox, and he had been preparing to minute their performance, he laconically observes: "Time! Joe, wind him up!" Forward I rush with the landing-net, dripping a liberal shower-bath in my hurry on the very piquante summer-toilette of Mrs. Montague Forbes-a piece of awkwardness which, with the proverbial sweettemper of a lady when angling, passes unnoticed and unreproved. Joe works his reel like the handle of a barrel-organ, the rod bends to a semicircle, an unexpected resistance threatens destruction to the whole fabric; the lady opines that "Mr. Bagshot has only hooked a weed after all," and for a few moments we are at a dead lock. "The brute is sulky," says Joe (Would a biped be sulky to find a silver fork in his omelette soufflée ?) We must wait till he moves." Again there is a tumultuous rush under water. Joe draws him in warily and gradually; a white side appears for an instant above the surface; I make sundry ineffectual thrusts with the landing-net; the 'Squire swears; Mrs. Montague laughs; and everybody speaks at once. Luckily the boat is anything but what is termed "crank;" so, notwithstanding all our endeavours, we cannot upset her; and as the 'Squire snatches the net from my unskilful hand, amidst Joe's expostula ions, and Mrs. Montague's entreaties "to be quick" I tumble over the neglected oars, and find myself prostrate in the bottom of the boat, alongside of an enormous struggling monster two feet and a-half in length and fourteen pounds weight (angler's measure and computation !), whose ghastly maw, grinning defiance with its double set of sharp-pointed teeth, stamps him carnivorous and cruel as his negro-fed prototype of the tropical ocean. Then what exultation and satisfaction! what reciprocal compliments on our mutual skill, and expressions of wonder and admiration at the size of the fish! The 'Squire votes it high time for luncheon; and we propel the craft, not without difficulty, to a commodious landing-place. The