Of all the scenes where rich and varied character is to be found in the metropolis and its environs, none can exceed that emporium for sharps and flats, famed Tattersall's, whether for buying a good horse, betting a round sum, or, in the sporting phrase, learning how to make the best of every thing. "Shall we take a tooddle up to Hyde-park corner?" said Echo; "this is the settling day for all bets made upon the great Doncaster St. Léger, when the swells book up, and the knowing ones draw their bussel:—Black Monday, as Sir John Lade terms it, when the event has not come off right." "A noble opportunity," replied Transit, "for a picture of turf curiosities. Come, Heartly, throw philosophy aside, and let us set forth for a day's enjoyment, and then to finish with a night of frolic. An occasional spree is as necessary to the relaxation of the mind, as exercise is to ensure health. The true secret to make life pleasant, and study profitable, is to be able to throw off our cares as we do our morning gowns, and, when we sally forth to the world, derive fresh spirit, vigour, and information from cheerful companions, good air, and new objects. High 'Change among the heroes of the turf presents ample food for the humorist; while the strange contrast of character and countenance affords the man of, feeling and discernment subject for amusement and future contemplation." It was in the midst of one of the most numerous meetings ever remembered at Tattersall's, when Barefoot won the race, contrary to the general expectation of the knowing ones, that we made our entré. With Echo every sporting character was better known than his college tutor, and not a few kept an eye upon the boy, with hopes, no doubt, of hereafter benefiting by his inexperience, when, having got the whip-hand of his juvenile restrictions, he starts forth to the world a man of fashion and consequence, with an unencumbered property of fifteen thousand per annum, besides expectancies. "Here's a game of chess for you, Transit," said Echo; "why, every move upon the board is a character, and not one but what is worth booking. Observe the arch slyness of the jockey yonder, ear-wigging his patron, a young blood of the fancy, into a good thing; particularising all the capabilities and qualities of the different horses named, and making the event (in his own estimation) as sure as the Bank of England:—how finely contrasted with the easy indifference of the dignified sportsman near him, who leaves all to chance, spite of the significant nods and winks from a regular artiste near him, who never suffers him to make a bet out of the ring, if it is possible to prevent him, by throwing in a little suspicion, in order that he and his friends may have the plucking of their victim exclusively. The portly-looking man in the left-hand corner (see plate) is Mr. Tanfield, one of the greatest betting men on the turf; who can lose and pay twenty thousand without moving a muscle, and pocket the like sum without indulging in a smile; always steady as old Time, and never giving away a chance, but carefully keeping his eye upon Cocker (i. e. his book), to see how the odds stand, and working away by that system which is well understood under the term management. In front of him is the sporting Earl of Sefton, and that highly-esteemed son of Nimrod, Colonel Hilton Joliffe,—men of the strictest probity, and hence often appointed referees on matters in dispute.

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Lawyer L——, and little Wise-man, are settling their differences with bluff Bland, who carries all his bets in his memory till he reaches home, because a book upon the spot would be useless. In the right-hand corner, just in front of old General B——n, is John Gully, once the pugilist, but now a man of considerable property, which has been principally acquired by his knowledge of calculation, and strict attention to honourable conduct: there are few men on the turf more respected, and very few among those who keep betting books whose conduct will command the same approbation. The old beau in the corner is Sir Lumley S——n, who, without the means to bet much, still loves to linger near the scene of former extravagance." "A good disciple of Lavater," said Transit, "might tell the good or ill fortunes of those around him, by a slight observance of their countenances. See that merry-looking, ruby-faced fellow just leaving the door of the subscription-room: can any body doubt that he has come off all right?—or who would dispute that yon pallid-cheeked gentleman, with a long face and quivering lip, betrays, by the agitation of his nerves, the extent of his sufferings? The peer with a solemn visage tears out his last check, turns upon his heel, whistles a tune, and sets against the gross amount of his losses another mortgage of the family acres, or a post obit upon some expectancy: the regular sporting man, the out and outer, turns to his book—

'For there he finds, no matter who has won,{1}
Whichever animal, or mare, or colt;
Nay, though each horse that started for't should bolt,
Or all at once fall lame, or die, or stray,
He yet must pocket hundreds by the day.'"

Two or three amusing scenes took place among those who wanted, and those who had nothing to give, but yet were too honourable to levant: many exhibited outward and visible signs of inward grief. A man of metal dropped his last sovereign with a sigh, but chafed a little about false reports of chaunting up a losing horse, doing the thing neatly, keeping the secret, and other such like delicate innuendoes, which among sporting men pass current, provided the losers pay promptly. Several, who had gone beyond their depth, were recommended to the consideration of the humane, in hopes that time might yet bring them about. We had now passed more than two hours among the motley group, when Tom, having exchanged the time o'day with most of his sporting friends, proposed an adjournment to Fishmongers' Hall, or, as he prefaced it, with a visit to the New Club in St. James's-street; to which resort of Greeks and gudgeons we immediately proceeded.

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We had just turned the corner of St. James's-street, and were preparing to ascend the steps which lead to the New Club, as Crockford's establishment is termed, when old Crony accosted me.

1 To all but betting men, this must appear impossible; but
management is every thing; and with a knowledge of the
secret, according to turf logic, it is one hundred to one
against calculation, and, by turf mathematics, five hundred
to one against any event coming right upon the square. In
the sporting phrase, 'turf men never back any thing to win;'
they have no favourites, unless there is a X; and their
common practice is to accommodate all, by taking the odds,
till betting is reduced to a certainty.