collar and the saddle seem both alike a labour of love to him. When he asks-as is often the case-" Is there anybody here to give instructions about this horse?" he pauses expectantly, like another Brutus, "for a reply ;" and if no reply is made, he looks like a person disappointed of a treat as he directs (according to the invariable practice here) the animal to be withdrawn, that he has not had the satisfaction of selling him. I may observe that he is the only man of the horseauctioneer lot whose style of dress appears to me in keeping with his vocation. He doesn't dress as some of the others do-either like an undertaker's man, or a would-be man of fashion. It must have cost him a great deal to part with his time-honoured top-boots; but he still clings to the white cravat with its snowy scarf-like folds; and the cut of his trousers is a proclamation against the profanity of any other fashion than such as equestrians and men of his order adopt. In knowledge he is a living Racing Calendar from 1820 down to 1845.

DIXON'S (RYMILL & GOWER).

The presiding genius here in the selling-box a dapper-looking, youngish man, although by accident made a seller of horses in the city of London-unquestionably belongs to the goods-and-chattels auctioneers, common all over London. His model, if any, appears to have been formed at Machin and Debenham's, at the Mart, or Izod's, or some such place. His "going" and clipping the Queen's English with popgun-like rapidity of utterance is characteristic. His appearance and manner are those of a smartish, bustling shopman. Dressed in orthodox black, with an unexceptionable flower of some sort in his buttonhole, the neophyte's tout ensemble is picturesque in its way. Warren's hero of £10,000 a-year was a fop and a fool-a fact that cannot be affirmed of the gentleman at Dixon's, who, I believe, is a highly respectable man, in every sense of the word. My business is only with man"Notandi sunt tibi mores!" urges Horace, you know; and I can't say that comes up to my standard. He appears steeped to the lips in London-in its tone, in its language, in its ways:

ner.

"Urbem quam dicunt Romam putavi

Stultus ego, huic nostræ similem—"

His air and diction are decidedly cockney; and his style of selling, although his habits are stabularian, smacks a good deal more of the till-and-counter than of the stable, to say nothing of " the noble science.' 'Tis Barbican all over! That it is, however, by no means ill-suited to his customers, I can easily imagine: I daresay it suits the section of miscellaneous Barbican buyers, whom he has a good deal to do with, and whose favourable opinion it is of course his interest to conciliate. At any rate, I should be ashamed, even though it related only to the look of a man, of indulging in anything like ungenerous criticism-to say nothing of an humble auctioneer evidently not being the quarry for even the most condescendingly unscrupulous sportsman, or Grub-street scribbler, to let fly at. Nor would I wantonly hurt the pride and sensibility any man breathing-in Barbican, or, for the matter of that, in either

of

Great Britain or Little Britain; at which latter locality my sketchy illustrations have now just arrived-for we are at

ROBINSON'S.

The president at this place is Mr. Basham, a young man on whom the mantle of his respected father-in-law, Mr. Robinson, has descended. He is new to office, but hackneyed enough in the routine of Robinson's, for he breathed there the air of Little Britain when only a little boyyears before his investment with the toga virilis. I should judge from what expression there is in his face that he is not only wide-awake, but, like the fabled weasel, it would be rather difficult to catch him asleep. His grey eyes, though not at all what are called "piercing," are all but ubiquitous in the sphere of the selling stable-yard. However dense the surrounding crowd there may be, not the shadow of an expression significant of a bidding seems ever to escape the lynx-eyed auctioneer of Little Britain. He sees everything with half an eye. To him, literally, every wink is as good as a nod. In this respect young Jack Basham appears to have no other superior than the so-called "old" Fred Mattam. The modus operandi in the auctioneer's pulpit (a place always crowded, by the bye, with people who have no business there), of the individual to whom the hammer (and I may add, the daughter, too) of Ben Robinson has descended, bears a strong similitude to that of his civic neighbour and brother-auctioneer at Barbican. They match as well, if not better, than the two west-end auctioneers. It is, indeed, noticeable that there's one pair at the east-end, and another pair of another sort at the west-end-each pair stepping well together, with action peculiar to the part of the town where they stand. But let us look for a moment at Basham in his box. It is Thursday, and he has to sell 140 horses. See how closely they are packed-two in each stall! How he is straining that poor weak voice of his! how he saws the air, too! and how vigorously he is waving and flourishing, with an odd sort of semi-circular motion, his hammer-hand, while expatiating on the merits of the mare, whipped up the yard into galvanic vitality

"Ten guineas for the bay mare!" he says, "ten-fifteen-heleven -going for heleven guineas-good figger-very hansum-capital gore -the last time! (continuous semi-circular flourish of the hammer-hand, allegretto, and every other variety of appropriate gesticulation) "the last time FOR" ("for" is always emphatic in Basham's elocution) "the last time FOR heleven guineas!"

The bay mare is knocked down to a gentleman in corduroy breeches, with unmistakeable costermonger characteristics. The next lot is a grey gelding

"What for the grey geldin'-a capital gore?" (Basham in his box ignores bad goers: they're all not simply good goers, but "capital goers.) "Sixteen pounds is bid for the grey geldin'-goin' at sixteen sixteen and a half. Run him down once more!-17-18-£18 10s. --first-rate 'unter, I can assure you-£18 10s.-19-£20 !"

This "'orse-a first-rate 'unter," is bought by some lucky fellow for £20! The next animal to be knocked down dirt-cheap, we are told by the tame lion of Little Britain, is a "faton-'orse, farst, quiet in 'arness,

and" (of course) "a capital gore!" He was regarded as a phenomenon, and fetched fifty-five guineas-a high price in this place.

Basham is of the same school as his Barbican neighbour, Gower. Neither of them is profoundly versed in orthöepy; and Priscian's head is so often punched, that if Lindley Murray were alive, he would be sadly scandalized. There's an unsuitable exuberance of manner in both; but Basham is the pleasantest performer of the two. His expletive, "I can assure you," is racy in its way, and of course deceives nobody; because all auctioneers are privileged "to give to lies the confidence of truth." Still I must think that this sort of thing should be laid aside. Selling horses and sending forth flimsy figments have not necessarily any more connexion than a horse-chesnut and a chesnut horse. Some reticence, too, a little respectable reserve, would be a great improvement. The "secresy and discretion "-of which the imputed default, according to Sir Charles Napier, served Sir Francis Baring and Lord John Russell as a stalking-horse for shelving the hero of Syria-the secresy and discretion, so necessary to be observed, need never be sacrificed; but that's quite a different thing from the practice that I complain of.

"All common exhibitions open lie,

For praise or censure to the common eye:

And I must say, Basham's style appears to me altogether in bad taste. He is like a broken-winded horse, trying to do ten miles an hour, with hardly pace enough to travel more than two. It is Hurry in convulsions: it is Effort falling at every fence. Like his Barbican brother, he says too much, and don't say it well. At neither Tattersall's nor Aldridge's is one's taste offended, or one's common sense insulted by the feeble, foolish flummery of "I assure you!" and its "damnable iteration" of "fust-rate 'unter," or "'ansum'ack-capital gore!" and all the rest of the vernacular vapidities characteristic of cockneyism's vulgarest phases. We never hear at either of these places anything so superlatively ridiculous as assurances, repeated ad nauseam, and first-rate horses to be sold for fifteen pounds: and if there's no reserved price, or the reserved price has been bid, the term employed is simply "He is to be sold." That's quite enough, without the prolix ending, repeated over and over again, "to the best bidder"-" I assure you, gentlemen, to the best bidder." But, to my mind, Basham's manner altogether, from beginning to end, is in bad taste. I mention it because it is worth noticing, as presenting such a very remarkable contrast to the tone and the quiet way of doing business pursued by such men as Bartleys, Shackell, and indeed all the decent, respectable dealers in London. If not positively painful, is it not anything than a pleasing picture to see the bustling breathlessness, and ugly, transparent exaggeration which seem to be the fashion of the city repositories? Ought not a fussy manner, and a puffing-off that a man must be green indeed not to see throughought it not to be discontinued? This sort of thing should be obsolete now, even in Barbican and Little Britain-close as they both are to condemned Smithfield, and its savoury amenities, with its crowd of unkempt

copers.

(To be continued.)

OLD POODLE.

BY YOUNG PUG.

TO THE EDITOR,

SIR,-As a pendent to my pen-and-ink illustrations, I send you some improvised rhyme on the subject, written by a friend of mine whom the gods have not rendered poetical. The only merit the thing has is, that it is founded on facts. I know that the incidents related actually occurred. It remains only to inform the reader that the versified hero is the Atlas of Aldridge's, mentioned before by, Sir, Your obedient Servant,

Well, now for

OLD POODLE.

JOHN BULL.

At Aldridge's, on sale-days, Old Poodle may be seen,
Hammer in hand, and choker white, as big as any king;

The trade are there, and hope to get some bargains, I've no doubt,
But Fred's upon 'em-"There's a ring, egad! they shan't knock

A poor old broken-back'd 'un once to the hammer was brought, Poodle looked and looked again, said "Hang it! I've been caught." Some knowing cove, with a knowing wink, says, "Master! one run down?"

"No, no!" says Fred, "take that Hos back, and turn him gently round."

This really happened: 't was well tried to do the artful trick ;
But Fred's awake-at least sometimes he does seem pretty quick.
Last Monday night this self-same dodge on him was tried again,
And a horse arrived with a well-told tale, as if brought up by train;
Fred took him in so carefully, and put him in a box,

But Mr. Allen's doors, it seems, have very shaky locks:
The creature was in agony, felt faint, and wanted air-
It made a bolt into the yard, and proved poor Fred's nightmare.
Egad! how I should like to see the chaunting auctioneer,
In the dead of night, half in a fright, with optics not too clear-
Winking and blinking, candle in hand, cautious all the way,
Shivering, shaking, efforts making to catch the horse astray.
This done, Old Fred, with visage pale, runs with all his might,
To jump in bed and get a snooze for the remainder of the night.
In the morning, out the horse was brought to take some trial runs,
But his back was broke-how stale the joke! "Put him in the back
slums!"

TURF PENCILLING S.

BY THE DRUID.

"A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!"

Turf prospects-Leading owners-Trainers-Great Handicaps-Newmarket and Doncaster, &c., &c.-The late Mr. Orde-Race exactions-George Francis and the list men-Like master like man-The Derby nags-Jockey arrangements.

After all the forty-horse power jeremiads, which were sung without ceasing during the dreary December of the Great Exhibition year, it is pleasing to find that the turf has still some slight symptoms of animation left. With the exception of Lord Strathmore's, all the secessions, with which fierce rumour threatened us, have tapered away to nothing. Lord Exeter, instead of hanging up his narrow blue stripes and black cap" in his entrance hall at Burleigh as a relic of glorious days gone by, has not only got about a score and a half of horses in training, but has nominated six yearlings in the sixth Newmarket Triennial stakes, and four foals in the '54 St. Leger. Sir Joseph Hawley, after a retirement from the turf of exactly seven weeks, has also again affixed his name to four nominations (one a sister to Aphroditè) in the former stake; and from a glance at the list of the "Fyfield House" horses in training, we find that A. Taylor returned from the eventful sale, with some four or five more than The Confessor in his charge. The Duke of Richmond also seems determined to have another taste of his Red Hind and his Homebrewed, before he takes to Southdowns for the remainder of his natural life; and Lord Clifden still holds on gamely to a baker's dozen, in the hopes of a second Surplice.

As far as we can see, the prospects of the turf were never better. Lord Zetland's team (which includeth Lightfoot the eunuch) is larger than it ever was. Lord Ribblesdale and Mr. Macgennis have more than filled up the niches left by Lord Strathmore and Colonel Peel. Lord Westminster is about to bring the Eaton yellow jacket, which long flaunted so gaily at Doncaster, out of its shelf again. The Bedford stable is seasonably strengthened by the Gratwicke importation; and Earl Durham and Lord Bolton appear among worthy John Osborne's masters. "Likely enough one of John Osborne's!" used to be the invariable reply of a dry-spoken, long-sighted friend of ours, when we used, some six or seven years ago, to ask him on sundry Grand Stands-"What's that beaten off?" but the tables are quite turned now, and may they long keep so.

According to the lists of Bell's Life, something like 950 thoroughbreds are in training in Great Britain "at these presents," and the crack stable of the day seems determined to keep up its prestige if possible, by the victorious "Have his Carcase " claim which it has put forward