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It was true, and joy it was 'twas true, that we were at rowings, sailings, feastings, and dancings together, but how comes it we were not at the great racings together? that neither you, nor your ministers, they who,

"——correspondent to command,
Perform thy spiriting gently——"

were at the grand muster of the North, the Doncaster meeting? Bernard, I tell thee all the world was there; from royalty and loyalty down to the dustman and democracy. Then such "sayings and doings," a million of hooks could hardly have had an eye to all. You have read of the confusion of tongues, of "Babel broke loose," of the crusaders' contributory encampment peopled by dozens of nations; you have seen the inside of a patent theatre on the first night of a Christmas pantomime, or mingled in an Opera-house masquerade; have listened to a Covent-garden squabble, a Billingsgate commotion, or a watch-house row; but in the whole course of your life, varied as it has been, active as it has proved, you never have, never could have experienced any thing at all to eclipse or even to equal the "hey, fellow, well met" congregatory musters, and the "beautiful and elegant confusions" of Doncaster town in the race week of (September) eighteen hundred and twenty-five!

I am not, however, about to inflict upon you a "list of the horses," nor "the names, weights, and colours of the riders;" but I cannot help thinking that the English Spy will not have quite completed his admirable gallery of portraits, and his unique museum of curiosities for the benefit and delight of posterity, if he omit placing in their already splendid precincts two or three heads and sketches, which the genius of notoriety is ready to contribute as her own, and which to pass over would be as grievous to miss, as Mrs. Waylett's breeches,{2} characters at the Haymarket Theatre, or a solution of Euclid by one of Dr. Birkbeck's "operatives."

Allow me, then, who am not indeed "without vanity," once more to "stand by your side," or rather for you, and to attempt, albeit I have not your magic pencil, another taste of my quality, by dashing off con amore the lions of the North.

2 There frequently occur circumstances in a younker's life
which lie never, in all his after career, forgets. I
remember a very worthy and a very handsome old gentlewoman,
the wife of an eminent physician, once being exceedingly
wroth, it was almost the only time I ever knew her seriously
angry, because a nephew of hers asserted all women were,
what in the vulgate is called "knock-knee'd," and almost
threatened to prove the contrary. Had she lived in our days,
the truth, almost on any evening on our stage, might be
ascertained, and I fear not at all to the satisfaction of
the defender of her sex's shape. Nature never intended women
to wear the breeches, and the invention of petticoats was
the triumph of art. Why will Eve's daughters publicly
convince us they are not from top to toe perfect?

As, however, some that attend my sitting are quite as difficult to manage as the conspirators of Prospero's isle, it may be as well if, like Ariel, I sing to them as I lay on the colours of identification. Bear in mind still, that I am a "spirit in the clouds," and, therefore, there can be nothing of "michin malachi" in my melody.

I love a race-course, that I do;
But then, good folks, it is as true,
Only don't blab, I tell it you,
I can't love all its people;
For though I'm somewhat down and fly,
Is slang gone out, sweet Mister Spy?
Of trade with them I am as shy
As jumping from a steeple.
Yet what with fashion's feather'd band,
And pawing steeds, and crowded stand;
Its sights are really very grand,
Which to deny were sin.
But then, though fast the horses run,
Few gain by "clone," and "done," and "done,"
For what a damper to the fun!
Those "only laugh who win."
Oh! what a mixture must we greet
In rooms, at inns, on turf, in street;
Be "hand and glove" with all we meet,
Old files, and new-bronzed faces!
With marquis, lord, and duke, and squire,
We now keep up the betting fire;
And then the guard of the "Highflyer"
We book at Northern races.{3}
3 A song would be no song at all without notes; I must
there-fore try a few. I can assure you they are not mere
humming ones. Allons—"all is not gold that glitters,"
neither is it all "prunella" that blows a horn upon the
stern of a coach. The "York Highflyer" I really am not to go
down gratis "next jour-ney" for puffing it is a good coach,
and the guard is a good guard, and he ventured a "good bit"
of money on the Léger, and was "floored," for "Cleveland"
was a slow one. However, it didn't balk his three days'
holiday, nor spoil his new coat, nor blight his nosegay. I
saw him after his defeat, looking as rosy as Pistol, and
heard him making as much noise as one; "nor malice domestic
nor foreign levy" could hurt him.