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based upon the price of provisions, the current wages of the day in the merchant service, and the period for which the men's services may be required. This system, if universally agreed to be acted upon, would prevent extortion and bickering on one hand, and all that dissatisfaction on the other, caused by different scales of dissimilar arrangements. While upon the subject of nautical amusenents, a few remarks upon the contest for the "Blue Riband" of the Thames may not be out of place. The aquatic sports of 1870, commenced with one of the most exciting rowing matches ever recorded. Nothing daunted by a succession of defeats, the gallant Cantabs came to the watery stage on the morning of the race, apparently in the best possible condition, vigorous, ardent, and determined to regain their laurels. Those who have never seen an eight-oared match between the Oxford and Cambridge crews, have yet an envious pleasure to indulge in. It is no puerile work, nor simple pastime of a summer's day, but one of the most manly and noble of our English sports. The critical eyes of the best and most accomplished rowers in the land are always present

"To note their errors

And extol their skill."

Amongst the thousands of spectators who assembled on the banks of the river to witness this famous race, how few amongst them knew the amount of labour and training that was necessary to bring those crews to that admiring state of perfection to which they bore so faithful a resemblance. Few are aware of the serious business each man undertakes when he submits to rigid training for one of these renowned rowing matches; but, could they peep behind the curtain, they would then give credit to the praiseworthy exertions of the men whose aim and study is to have their way to victory and fame. There are many calls on patience and on temper intermixed with those rehearsals— much toil and self-denial, ere a man can be declared a fitting subject to contest in public with the ablest rowers of the day. And it must not be forgotten, in extolling the victors, that the vanquished have alike endured the toils and hardships of strict training; but for these there is not often left the solace of sympathy. They are, nevertheless, entitled to commensurate credit: they, too, have their warm admirers ; and many a generous heart will congratulate them upon their creditable exertions, and endeavour to soothe their disappointment with expressions of tender fellow-feeling, which always fall with welcome softness and alleviation upon the ears of a vanquished crew. The result of the past race was neither inglorious nor unsatisfactory to any; but, on the contrary, infinitely-though not equally-glorious to all concerned. July is a delightful month for the fisherman, and how well has the poet described its charms:

"Through sunbright lakes,
Round islets grey,

The river takes

Its western way;

And the water-chime

Soft Zephyr's time

Each gladsome summer-day.

"The starry trout,

Fair to behold,
Roameth about
On fin of gold

At root of tree:

His haunt you may see,

Rude rock or crevice old.

"And hither dart

The salmon grey

From the deep heart

Of some sea bay;
And, lashing wild,
Is here beguiled

To bold autumnal play.

O'tis a stream

Most fair to see,

As in a dream,

Flows pleasantly;

And our hearts are woo'd

To a kind sweet mood

By its wondrous witchery."

Never shall I forget my first day's salmon fishing in Scotland; when, in company with one Geordie McAllister, I landed a salmon of four. teen pounds. It was said that in early life Geordie had been a poacher, and that he almost rivalled that redoubtable hero, Donald Caird; for he could

"Wire a maukin,

Kenned the whiles o' dun deer staukin,
Leisters kipper, makes a shift

To shoot a muir fowl in the drift."

He had, however, fortunately repented of his former wicked career, had reformed thoroughly, and could now boast that he had "a wee house well filled, a wee bit land well tilled, and a wee wife well willed." With McAllister, then, I proceeded to a favourite trout stream; the wind was south, which, according to the old saying, "blows your fly into the fish's mouth." After an agreeable ride, during which I antieipated a grand day's sport, and had already pictured to myself my rod bending under the weight of a ten-pound trout, I reached my destination. While preparing my tackle, and singing to myself the angler's distich

"Then up, fishers, up-to the waters away,

Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey,"

I was horrified at finding that the stream had been lately disturbed. "What can have happened!" I exclaimed. Aweel, I think I can give a guess," replied my guide, "it's just the dogs;" at the same time pointing out to me a pack of otter hounds returning from the part of the water where I had looked for my greatest success. With shame be it spoken, the agitated waters were not more ruffled than was my temper. Determined, however, not to be daunted with my bad beginning, I made sundry attempts, all of which proved fruitless, having fished for hours without even stirring a fin. Geordie then informed me that within three miles there were several salmon pools, so I lost

no time in proceeding there; but then, again, my evil genius seemed to preside. The wind blew so high that I could not get my fly to lie on the water; towards evening it lulled, and my patience and perseverance were rewarded. A salmon rose, seized the gaudy bait: then, with watchful eye and cautious hand, did I play with him; he dashing and springing under the rocks, struggling to break my tackle, then leaping out of the water to free himself from the fatal hook; at last I landed him, a fine salmon of fourteen pounds. How truly might I have then exclaimed, in the language of post-prandial orations, "This is the proudest moment of my life." The gathering mists of the evening now began to darken the valley; so I despatched Geordie for my sheltie, which I had left at a bothie near the trout stream, and proceeded according to his directions to follow a sheep-track. For some time I continued my path; but the sky became suddenly overspread with dark filmy clouds, succeeded by a grey haze; a mizzling cold rain, id est, Scotch mist, came on, which speedily increased to a severe drenching shower. Wandering from my track, I found myself upon a heather-covered moor, which would have made an excellent rendezvous for Hecate and the witches in Macbeth. Nothing now was to be seen but its bleak swells of barren ground, interspersed with marshy pools of water, and an occasional clump of the indigenous tenants of the Highland woods, the mountain pine, and gloomy Scotch fir.

"The wind blew as t'wad blawn its last,
The rattling showers rose on the blast:
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed.
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed;
A night a child might understand

The deil had business on his hand."

So, after proceeding for more than a mile, drenched to the skin in this Tam O'Shanter night, over a dark peat moss, the raging noise of waters told me that I had reached the Burn. A small patch of swampy ground alone divided us. I was about to cross it, when a bare-legged, red-shanked Highlander appeared on the rock, holding a torch of bogpine. "She canna gang that way, she canna cross the burn, she's in a spate." I had heard of a spate, but the reality beggars all description. The river, which in the morning had been the calm rushing of many streams, was now a wild sea, the boiling black water roaring and foaming from bank to brae. Hesitating how to proceed, and finding myself gradually sinking in the miry swamp, green with treacherous verdure, the thought of the fate of Ravenswood in the "Kilpie flow" came over me, when I was quickly awoke with my reverie by the stentorian lungs of the highlander, "Quick, quick, the bog is no' above knee-deep; follow me 'gin you please, tak tent to your feet." Attending to his instructions, I with difficulty reached the pass, and, making a desperate spring, cleared the yawning chasm; but, my foot slipping, I fell into the foaming abyss, and should have furnished the dreadful catastrophy writer of the daily papers with an awful accident, had not the hardy mountaineer seized me with his bony hand and dragged me safely to shore.

The Epsom meeting, which took place early in June, was more fully attended than ever, thousands being conveyed by rail and road to the

Downs. Those who remember the Derby Day some fifty years ago cannot fail to be surprised at the change that has taken place, more especially with respect to locomotion. In bygone days a carriage and four, chaise and pair, gig, tilbury, phaeton, or riding horses, were indispensably necessary to convey the frequenters of the race-course to Epsom, and the charges were five guineas a pair for horses, exclusive of gates, postboys, ostlers, and baiting. The charge for luncheon was equally high, and at least five hours were passed upon the road. Now, for a few shillings, a man may travel from Victoria or London Bridge to within a five minutes' walk of the grand-stand, and he may breakfast comfortably in London and be back again for a drive or ride in the park. Upon the last Derby Day many preferred the road to the rail, and no pen can convey an idea of the crowd the whole length of the road from London to Epsom, so we must leave the reader to imagine this moving scene. Equestrians mounted on every species of horse, from the park hack down to the spavined Whitechapel "dog-horse.' Every pair of wheels that the town and its suburbs could produce must have been put in requisition for the occasion: donkey-carts, go-carts, enlarged and exalted barrows, waggons, large and small, shatteradans, shandrydans, unsociable sociables, old post-chaises doing duty for flies, newly-painted "buses," vans, befringed and becurtained, formed the plebeian class of vehicles; while among the higher orders might be seen the barouche with four greys, the aristocratic (6 drag," the waggonette with its two high-stepping bays, the phaeton with horses cheap at £300, the well turned out "Hansom," the neat dennet, the snug Brougham, and the pony-carriage with two liliputian Shetlanders, worth, as the saying goes, "their weight in gold; "their weight in gold;"as for pedestrians they were as plentiful as blackberries.

Sport in France has been carried on with great spirit, and here we may record an extraordinary match, if such it can be denominated, which took place in 1854, on the racecourse at Longchamps, near Paris, and which confirmed the superiority of English-bred horses over those of Eastern extract, on a point upon which the partisans of the latter rest their hope, namely, the quality of endurance. The fertile columns of Bell's Life" supply the particulars, from which it appears that one Genaro, a Spanish runner, had challenged all the horses in the world to beat him for endurance, the conditions being that neither himself nor the horses should come to a walk, the race being at an end as soon as that should take place; no limit was fixed for the termination of the match. Ten of the equine race were brought to the post to contest the match with the unfortunate miscalculating homo, who, having run a distance of twenty-six miles, seven furlongs, fell exhausted. The conditions of this singular encounter are described thus: "Sunday, September 26th. Challenge of 2,000 francs, offered by Genaro, the Spanish runner, against all horses in a race of endurance. Conditions of the race: Genaro on foot; all horses engaged against him, mounted by their riders, to start together. The horses to be continually either trotting or gallopping, and Genaro running; either Genaro or the horses falling, to be lifted up and set going immediately, and whoever at the end shall have made the greatest number of rounds, consequently gone the farthest distance, to be declared the winner. Entrance 20 francs. The winner to pay 200

francs to the second, the third to receive half the entries, the fourth to save his stake. Thirteen subscribers.'

1. Mr. Power's b. g. Loto, by Lottery (English), aged

2. Mr. Murray's br. g. Old Ireland, by Magpie (Irish bred), aged

8. Mr. Smith's ch. h. Taurus (Arab)

4. Mr. Robin's b. m. Sultana (Arab)

5. Genaro

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The grouse season is fast approaching, and many a sportsman will rejoice when he can, after a hot London season, exclaim, "Once more upon the mountains, yea once more." No one can visit the heath-clad hills of Scotland without being reminded of the words of the poet, which come with a glowing charm to the mind :

"Lands may be fair ayont the sea,

But highland hills and lochs for me."

And even the man who takes no pleasure in grouse-shooting or deer. stalking cannot fail to be delighted with the lovely romantic and rugged scenery of the Highlands. Those who do indulge in these pastimes, which are at once so healthy and spirit-stirring, feel an indiscribable joy in a brief sojourn among the mountains, penetrating into the deep and dark covries in search of the magnificent and noble stag, or wandering over the heathery moor in search of the red and feathery-footed bird of this land of mountain and mist. Then there are the unruffled lochs and rapid-running rivers, where the salmon, grilse, sea-trout, whiting, and yellow-trout, are to be found in all their native purity.

THE

ISLINGTON HORSE
(From The Mark Lane Express.)

SHOW.

Time and the hour steal on throughout the darkest night, and the seventh annual show of horses at the Agricultural Hall commenced on Saturday even before the doors were open to the public. It is customary to open before the play begins; but this time the public were kept waiting a quarter of an hour at the entrance-gate on Islington Green to find on their reaching the ring some of the first batch of hunters drafted. At first a blue mist prevailed throughout the Hall, so that you viewed everything as through smoked glass, and you were in doubt whether there was a total eclipse of the sun going on, a display of firewerks had taken place, or that Mr. Pepper had been engaged to give an unreal phantom-like appearance to the whole thing. In the mist we descried Lord Portsmouth and Coventry, or their ghosts, who proceeded with the judging of the first and second classes of hunters before they were joined by Mr. Chaplin, who, like the idle

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