porter and ale, in it than in any other, he holds it the best to live in. He acts the part of a brave soldier, but from a different incentive to that of the Frenchman. John has no pride in being a soldier, or pride in proving his nation a military one; he has no emulation to be thought to excel in military tactics; he is as averse to being driven back as the Frenchman is, but from a different cause. The latter is mortified lest it may tarnish his honour as a soldier-John, lest it might induce a doubt of his prowess as a man. The Frenchman cannot brook ceding to John, lest it might show him the better soldier. John cannot bear a repulse from Monsieur, lest it might shake an opinion he considers to be that of all others as well as himself, namely, that, to use his own term-"One Englishman can 'lick' three Frenchmen whenever they meet them." Doubtless, as man to man, and with their fists only to trust to, he could do so, and probably, as Bobadil says, "twenty more"-that is, one after the other. The English soldier fights bravely because he is naturally a brave hardy fellow, with indomitable bulldog courage, that will take no denial if he can help it; and that further, as a man, he fears no other, and hand-to-hand and foot-to-foot will yield to no other, unless nature itself gives way. Monsieur is alive to the honour of the soldier-John Bull to that of the man. Thus honour governs both; but do away with that feeling, and neither would long be worthy the name of men.

I have alluded to the numerous stabbings, poisonings, murders, and other crimes grown, we must regret to allow, so common among us. Within the time I began this paper, and this moment, are three instances-one policeman has been stabbed with a knife; another has had his brains literally smashed by clinkers (a kind of brickbat); lately, one in my presence was seriously injured from a blow given under the concealment of an angle in the wall. None of these cowardly atrocities would have been committed by any man or men who held the love of fair-play as a necessary attribute to one aspiring to the character of "a man.' "I do not go so far as to say that decrying pugilism and the prize-ring has brought on this laxity of fair, honourble, and manly feeling now so conspicuous; but I do say that calling that barbarous and disgraceful that among the lower orders fostered honourable and fair conduct, will go, if it has not already gone, a long way in producing the results we have seen. Men will have some mode of avenging their wrongs, vindicating their rights, indulging their emulation, and showing their superiority. The prize-ring was the rallying point of Englishmen to effect this; if they are therefore brought to think that a fair and manly encounter, man to man, so far from being an honourable mode of doing this, is a disgraceful one, the murderous knife will be resorted to, to take life, when simply a thrashing formerly quite satisfied a man for any grievance he felt he had endured from another.

The twaddle of "the brutality of two men standing up in cool blood and beating each other to pieces," which is about the phrase of the usual cant, is nonsense: it is certainly an encounter that is seldom carried on without hard blows on both sides, but it must be recollected it is not a mere "hammer and tongs" meeting, the result depending on which man can bear the most beating; but a trial of skill also, as to which man can stop the most intended compliments of this sort.

P

It must be further borne in mind, that pugilists are men accustomed to hardihood; their frames become, as compared with those of other men, as steel is to wood; so the blow that would half annihilate a mechanic, soft and sickly from sedentary employ, falls innocuous on the man prepared to receive it; and that which only produces short temporary confinement and suffering to the pugilist in high training, would be death to a man of usual habits and living in an ordinary way. Some reader may say it is easy for me to make light of the sufferings of a beaten man. If he does so, I beg to assure him I do not speak, as it is termed, "without my host"; for I am free to confess, that in return for a certain degree of arrogance on my part, and a rather undue appreciation of my own pretensions, I have endured two or three as sound thrashings as perhaps ever fell to the lot of any unprofessional individual.

I in no shape attempt to deny that the practices of the prize-ring became quite abominable, and, like the Augean Stables, required much purification; so did racing, from precisely the same cause, when the ever-to-be-lamented Lord George Bentinck, like another Hercules, took the work in hand: well he did it, and the turf now feels the benefit of his interference: it only wants some one to go on with the meritorious work. The prize-ring wants its Lord George-not to discountenance pugilists, but to hang, if the laws permitted, those who brought it to a means of robbery, instead of a manly exhibition.

The monument lately put up in memory of Tom Crib shows how the English nation estimate a brave man. The outcry lately made against pugilism was felt materially to affect the subscriptions to this work. Had such a design been contemplated when George the Fourth felt pride in showing foreign crowned heads the materials of which Englishmen were made of, thousands would have opened their purse-strings as followers of Royal bounty; nor would it have been held any disparagement to Royalty to countenance a well-earned compliment to a faithful subject and a brave man. Thousands have been and will again be lavished on testimonials to men who have not quitted or will quit the world, leaving as vivid recollections of their charities and kindly feelings, as did the humble Tom Crib, the pugilist: these proceeded from feelings soft as woman's, though, when brought in honourable contact with man, his indomitable courage proved that the Lion supporting the urn, is an appropriate emblem of the true heart of him whose ashes this urn is, in sculptured representation, supposed to contain.

Let us hope, therefore, that some influential denizen of our country will, with a heart truly British, have the moral courage to set pretensions to and manifestations of mistaken and maudlin sanctity at naught, and under proper auspices and proper modifications and regulations, revive a manly spirit among us-a spirit that produced a bearing in a Briton that other nations-nay, even our enemies had liberality enough to appreciate and candour enough to praise. Then again, will our countrymen hold it the contemptible act of the coward to take the unarmed or unsuspecting at disadvantage; and then over the social glass of English productions shall this toast be circulated"Palsied be the hand that holds the fatal drug, or coward's knife, to injure a fellow-man."

TURF PENCILLINGS.

BY THE DRUID.

"A hound and a hawk no longer

Shall be symptoms of disaffection;

A cock-fight shall cease to be breach of the peace,
And an horse-race an insurrection."

SONG OF THE CAVALIERS.

"I am a friend, sir, to public amusements; for they keep people from vice."DR. JOHNSON TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON.

Dulness sublime had laid her heavy hand on the metropolis when I returned to it from my midland counties' tour; and no hart ever thirsted more keenly for the water-brooks than I did for my annual trips to Yorkshire, and the sight of its favourite Zetland jacket once more on Knavesmire. The only consolatory sight in London during that melancholy ten days' probation was Rosa Bonheur's "Horse Fair," which takes up something like eleven feet by seven on the wall of the French Exhibition. If it does not rouse Landseer and Herring to some great national work, I don't know what will. The massive roan horse on the left, and the sturdy, close-cropped Gascon who bestrides one of the grey horses, are my favourite "bits," the latter especially so. Nothing can be better managed than the rearing horses in the middle, with the much-enduring chesnut by their sides, as they confer such a beautiful pyramid-like shape on the whole composition. The awkward trot of the pony is also capitally hit off; but the drawing of the grey horses' hind legs is a little stiff, and they have too much of the French diligence style about them to please an English eye. It bears date 1853-55, and is still capable of a great deal of finish. Cabinet Ministers and the relics of "the season' were still lingering fondly round it as I at last joyously packed my carpet-bag, and booked myself to Harrogate by the Great Northern, on the morning of Monday week. Our train was heavy with horses, and among them Oulston, who was Eborbound, under Maton's charge. Church Fenton station furnished a weary wait, and nothing in the world to look at. The last time I was there, three live otters (father and two sons)-which had been fished out of the Wharfe that morning, and were caged in three baskets, one above the other, on the platform-inspired some interest; but now there was only "still life" in the shape of a magnificent haunch of venison, whose gigantic hoof dangled temptingly from its basket. Harrogate looked bleak and dull when I reached it, and I felt thankful that I was not going to do more than sleep there each night. A stroll into

the concert-room, where the comic-man, as we used to say at Rugby, "pulled dreadful vacks," and made a sad hash of "The Milkmaid" and "Sally Sly ;" and a peep into the threepenny theatre, where "The Warlock of the Glen"--a man of six feet two, was bullying "Clanronald," and casting sheep's-eyes at the widow of Glencairn-kept me going till ten, and then I was only too glad to swallow my dainty mess of oatmeal-porridge, and put my limbs in rest for the night.

Tuesday was one of the windiest of mornings, and the sharp particles of dust, which careered about, were distressing to the last degree. The ladies were tacking here, there, and everywhere on the Harrogate racecourse (where an ancient weighing-post with a hook for the scales stands out in grim relief against the sky), as I crossed it, and their mushroom hats were almost doubled-up. There was nothing for it but to gird up your mantle and fly before it, and hence I soon found myself on the platform of the Starbeck station, amidst a host of arrivals and departures, of the sulphur-takers. The small Yorkshire railways entertain a most splendid disdain for time-keeping; but on this occasion we only lost twenty minutes, and made it pretty well up before we got to York. Rawcliffe Paddocks was the point to which all were making; and the Company certainly gave every one a hearty welcome, in the shape of a substantial luncheon and iced champagne. It must be nine years since I was in this neighbourhood, viz., the year (1846) when Poynton and Iago made such a splendid finish for The Great Yorkshire Stakes. That sale was held at a small place on the righthand side of the road, and the one-eyed Jeremy Diddler and Young Priam, who, if my memory does not fail me, was lame, were the shaky heroes of its stud in those days. The present establishment must be far the largest and most perfect of its kind in England. I counted about 94 boxes, and there were 14 others capable of being converted into them by the addition of a door. The meadows all round were perfectly alive with mares and foals, but the company round Mr. Tattersall was not so large as I had expected to see it. The sale began badly, as seven half-bred yearlings only brought about 11 guineas a piece, and not a mouth was opened to bid for two half-bred foals and eight blood mares, although two of them were served by the Flying Dutchman; and, in fact, only one of the latter description, a Reveller mare, who had been similarly honoured with his attentions, was sold at all, and she for 10 guineas. Hence the first five-and-twenty lots were done within an hour, and the sale was fearfully tame till a Storm filly, and distantly related to Canezou, was brought out, and Lord Derby's commissioner beat Mr. Gully and got her for 155 guineas. Mr. Padwick, who seated himself under the rostrum, and Mr. Morris had then a sharp contest for a chesnut Storm colt, which ended in favour of the latter, and thus matters became more brisk. There were some very nice young Burgundies, and I see that their sire beat Galaor for the head prize at Malton. The Young Chanticleers seemed also to have more length and size than his first two batches of yearlings; and there is no doubt, to look at them, that Flying Dutchman's stock will race. Barring the absence of a water-cart, which was sadly needed, it was a right pleasant afternoon. The average of the young Dutchmen was 165 guineas, and the 53 lots produced 4,761 guineas; but "The Company" must have been sadly out of pocket by their half-breds.

It was a sadly lowering morning when I again entered the train at Starbeck, and went the weary eighteen miles with the ten stations. As usual, we were kept another twenty minutes before ticket-collecting, which so worked on one of the farmer passengers, that he thrust his head out of the window, and, in the broad unshackled Doric of his county, sarcastically demanded of the railway officials to "bring us summat to eat and drink." Ten minutes of rain at eleven o'clock inspired gloomy forebodings; but the quicksilver thought better of it, and the afternoon did not belie its rapid rise. The Dundas Stakes were over, and the ten Oaks mares were just coming out as I reached the course. A very moderate lot they were too. Fanny Gray, however, has lengthened and grown not a little since I last saw her as Emma Bennett; but Mosquito, who is a very level but yet not a racing-looking animal, disappointed me, and so did Lady Tatton, who was not mounted till the others were almost at the post. Treachery is rather narrow and light-gutted, and we had the relics of Lord Exeter's stud in Besika, who is wonderfully like her half-brother Midas. I don't know what Norman could have been doing with his legs, as he was beaten early, and yet she was tremendously spurred on one side. Capucine is a well-grown pretty style of mare, and shows an immense deal of breeding; but still her back-build seems to stamp her as a non-stayer. She was very full of life on this occasion, and pulled so hard at Job Marson, that he was obliged to wait in front with her all the way, and she made everything safe the instant she came. He well might say that "she aimed at a deal more than he would let her do," and over this distance she will always be very dangerous. The toggery of Bullock in the Selling Stakes was very remarkable, and his filly took no part in the struggle, which ended in a glorious fight between Charmian and Haxby. The latter got up so close at home, that we at first thought it was a dead heat. Aldcroft rode him without spurs, and his groom slipped a huge muzzle on him the moment he was pulled up. The Convivial dozen were rather a mean lot. Aleppo I did not like at all; he is highish on the leg, narrow, and, like his sire Alarm, awkward at the starting-post, where he kicked up a fatal devilry on this occasion. Lord Glasgow's colt is a fine, well-furnished creature, but hardly a racer; while Manganese is a Birdcatcher all over, and very like her half-brother Paddy Bird. Mirage was a small but neat specimen of the Flying Dutchman blood, which finished first and third; but as regards racing looks, everything paled before Fly-by-Night, though he did not seem grown or thickened at all in the ten weeks since Ascot. I doubt whether he will ever improve very much, and his small feet are sadly against him, as he found in the Serbonian bog at Goodwood. "Ben, who seems to have quite superseded "Sim" at Malton, had to shake him a little at the finish; but he is naturally an idle horse.

The spectators were now all agog to see Rifleman, who certainly looked as if he had done a good amount of work, in spite of "The Squire's" ominous St. Leger warning last June. He is grown and lengthened, but with no great amount of girth. He was sadly lazy as he went up to the distance; but when Nat, by dint of no small amount of hustling, sent him out past the stand, his great raking stride, and the way in which he struck out his off hind-leg, à la Teddington, foreboded dire mischief to his confident pepperers, who looked aghast. The rest