the preceding evening, there lay the linen in orderly heaps carefully smoothed, and, to borrow the language of the laundry, mangled.' If any one, after reading this authentic narrative, dares to doubt the existence of supernatural agency we have indeed written to no

purpose.

Newmarket has ceased to be out of season for some weeks past, and the bustle of the training time is now at its height. We have delayed so long to sketch the town during the dead months that to do so now would be as completely out of place as were we to offer the readers of Baily' a story the component parts of which were Christmas time, holly, mistletoe, and blazing fires. Let us in a few words describe the last moments of that dreary period which just ended, when Out of Season' might still be the term applied to the great training town. The sight on the platform at the Eastern Counties Station is a pleasant one to the man wearied with the long, dull interval that has elapsed since last he wended his way to the classic town to which two counties lay claim. We take it for granted that he has not previously set foot on race-course since winter broke, save perhaps on the City and Suburban or Northamptonshire day, so that his palate has merely been whetted for the sport, and he gazes curiously from the window of the carriage in which he cosily reclines, eager to recognise the old familiar faces of those who delight in horseflesh, and never, consequently, miss a Newmarket meeting. He gazes on a somewhat motley group, it is true, as well-nigh every type of sporting society has its representative on the crowded platform. The betting men proper are not of engaging aspect, although even to this rule there are some notable exceptions. You would not care about trusting yourself in a dark country lane perhaps with that broad-shouldered, blackvisaged man, whose shifty eyes wander with suspicious frequency to the neck-pins and guard-chains of the people around, as if at some period of his career a livelihood had been earned by an occupation still more precarious than that he pursues at present. You think you would prefer not playing at cards with that shabby-genteel, sneaking, used-up looking being whose eyelids and lips droop and twitch so constantly, and whose long fingers are never still. It may be that your judgment is not at fault. That gentish' man with the swarthy face, the dirty hands loaded with rings, and the diamond studs, has been 'broken' once and again before now, and is probably once more on the high road to that ruin from which he will speedily extricate himself again. Our friend with the flaring neckcloth we know of old, as well at Catterick Bridge as on Newmarket Heath. We cannot divest ourselves of a notion that some carelessness on the part of officials at Hanwell has permitted his presence here to-day, so wild is the expression of his eyes, and so impetuous his bearing. The flowery epithets strewn by his neverceasing tongue would scarcely pass muster in a Belgravian saloon, but for all that this very rough diamond is not not so bad as he 'seems,' and his comrades tell many a story to prove that, despite

an unprepossessing exterior, his heart is in the right place. There comes the Admiral,' with a footman at his heels bearing a pile of wrappers. May we catch a glimpse of the great turf arbitrator on the Shoreditch platform for years and years to come, for you may be sure, when the time arrives for that tall form to be missing, then will arrive evil days for the Turf. There is Mr. Payne, another of the old school of sportsmen, of which, alas! so few remain. Let us hope that a good week is in store for the black and white stripes,' and that Newmarket Heath may yet ring with the name of some Fyfield steed capable of emulating the feat long ago accomplished by Glauca. Here stands the stalwart leviathan whose shoulders at least are well equal to bear the load of responsibility and anxiety inseparable from the dignity of the leader of the Ring. That singularly tall man, who reminds you of President Lincoln, is a noted owner of horses and bookmaker. He is deep in conversation with the owner of a sensation Derby horse, with whom the 'talent' are sadly out of love. What a sensation there would be at the Rooms to-night if the owner of the Drum' was to bid a commissioner put a couple of thou' on the safe-un !

As the hour draws nearer at which the train will start on its slow journey to Newmarket, intending travellers pour rapidly into the station. Still they manifest marked reluctance to take their seats, and up to the last available instant little groups will be scattered about the platform, talking and laughing loudly, or exchanging mysterious communications in a studied undertone.

The Fourth Estate is strongly represented, some of its members particularly conspicuous for their gallant attire, brave in silken scarves and raiment of gorgeous hues, and all preternaturally knowing and important in their conversation. Well, well! let the little foibles and follies of the profession' pass unnoticed, for despite dissensions and strife, and discord now and again amongst the brotherhood, they are not on the whole unkindly disposed one towards the other, and there are many good fellows and clever men amongst the turf-writers. By-and-by the warning whistle is heard that announces to stragglers hurrying up in Hansom cabs that they have missed the train, and with a jerk and a bang the long row of carriages moves slowly away, rolling through the suburbs, and gradually increasing speed as the green hedgerows and fenny pastures tell us that the open country has been reached. Three hours of cigarsmoking and Sunday literature are to be got through before the wished-for haven is reached, and reclining comfortably on a pile of rugs we can pass the time smoothly enough, our meditations interrupted only when the train halts at some small station, by a voice in the next carriage exclaiming, in hoarse tones, 'A nick, by — !' the meaning of which technical expression we of course quite fail to understand. Then as the evening shades are beginning to fall on Newmarket, we glide into the well-known station, and learn from the bustle at its door, and the throng of gazers in the main street, that to-morrow the loved old town will be once more In Season.'

In or out of season, however, Newmarket has always a certain charm about it that to our fancy is lacking in every other great horse-racing town. There is a business-like air about the heath that is wanting on the great Yorshire courses, York and Doncaster, notwithstanding that each of them is in its own way delightful. To our fancy, the week's sport in the July Meeting, when the other side of the Ditch is the venue, is the most delightful that the racing man enjoys in the whole course of the year. It is true that, with three or four exceptions, the stakes to be run for are unimportant in their character and of no great value; but there is a pleasing compound of matter-of-fact Newmarket, picnicking, country meetings and Yorkshire enthusiasm about the proceedings that renders a journey down in the hot summer season something very like an imperative duty. Be the sun scorching as it may, the branches of the plantation afford full protection from its rays, and if the racing is, like the plantation, a little shady,' there is endless amusement to be obtained by any one who has a soul beyond betting in the contemplation of every tuft of green turf, with its busy swarm of insect life called into existence by the July warmth, in the sight of the clouds of palewinged butterflies that now and again flit in mimic regiments around the sweet-smelling wild flowers that grace the top and banks of the Ditch. Never have we enjoyed those lazy, happy, careless, quarters of an hour when tobacco tastes so rarely that it seems a sin to expel the entrancing vapour from the lips and nostrils, and all the happiness of the opium-eater is experienced without dread of the inevitable Nemesis that awaits him, more perfectly than on the top of the Ditch. There, with the distant hum of the Ring in our ears (and how much pleasanter is the sound when distance lends enchantment to it), the song of the larks overhead, speaking of peace and fidelity and happiness, we have lain entranced from hour's end to hour's end. There, in the calm and gentleness of the summer's afternoon, we have mused, and vowed, and built castles in the air innumerable -the easiest and pleasantest labour that can be assigned to the mind of man. There we have made those mental promises of future welldoing to which a man is so prone to commit himself when in the state of beatitude produced in certain minds by the combined influence of the soothing weed, pure air, solitude, and a digestion improved by the tonics that Newmarket breezes afford. No matter if these promises have not been subsequently fulfilled. There is the memory of their having been at one time honestly made with which to flatter our own self-esteem, and we are grateful, therefore, to the place which induced such unusual acts of virtue, and so bestow a sincere blessing upon Newmarket.

S.

ON HER MAJESTY'S SERVICE.

THE casual visitor to the Halls of Wolsey, intent on the fading glories of the cartoons, the intricacies of the maze, or the glories of that avenue whose milky cones' are now in their height of splendour, will be apt to think that his survey has been complete, when, after a long and weary hunt for the lions of the place, he retires to take his ease in his inn and to finish his day in the manner prescribed by custom to every true Briton-the siesta sacred to pipe and glass. But with just a glance around those cool cloisters, 'branched like mighty woods,' their shade sacred to the declining days of decaying names, and a veritable bower of scandal, propriety, and exclusiveness: along that broad walk whose silence is broken at intervals by the hollow reverberations of the tennis-court close at hand, and through those fantastically-wrought gates which look down the chesnut vista, so gay with Lord Westmorland's colours; and our way lies straight before us to that tranquil enclosure where the warrior steed rests, after his honourable toils, in royal state, and the seclusion of a happy valley, free from all cares save those which delight nursing mothers, receives the stud-matron into a dignified and unbroken repose. A quiet as placid reigns here as in that stately pile by the river, and the jealously-walled paddocks are deep in rich herbage, where mares and foals of high degree stand staring wistfully at us as we pass by; while from their cincture of stately trees, undeveloped as yet into that exuberance of massive foliage which the summer hour shall mature, comes the clear fluting of the blackbird the St. Swithin of birds-to welcome the coming as he speeds the parting shower. The Lords of the Harem are in readiness to receive our salaams, and St. Albans, somewhat lighter than his wont after his labours of love, yet not the less to be approached with the respect due to so mighty a potentate, glares round upon us with somewhat of malice yet in that evil eye, and forces upon us the conviction that, whatever time and gentleness of rule may have done towards civilizing the noble savage,' the padded chamber is at times no useless precaution against a by no means saintly temperament. Young Melbourne, to whom we make our bow for the first time, stands before us the type of substance as St. Albans and Cambuscan are of quality; and looking upon the sturdy brown (not without a somewhat melancholy recollection of his best son, The Earl), we are carried back to the old Glasgow days when Aldcroft brought 'crimson and white' to the rescue, and loud and clear rang Jackson's shout of Lord Glasger wins!' Sadly as his accident has marred the symmetry of old Melbourne's son, we lose sight of its effects in our contemplation of his powerful, well-knit frame, magnificent quarters, and short steely legs, and feel that he is no unworthy successor to Orlando, albeit cast in far different mould to the departed bay. Those ancient rivals, Cambuscan and Ely, have met here again to wage a more peaceful though not less eager competi

tion for the honours of successful sirehood; and although on the Turf the delicate chesnut faded before the evergreen bay, like their namesakes of the woods, yet we cannot doubt that the Newminster horse will have his ample revenge at the stud. How often did the fortunes of the fight vary between them, and how great was the contrast still existing in make and shape and all the attributes which distinguish the high-mettled racer.' Cambuscan, long and low, of delicate constitution, of sedate and regal carriage, and action low and sweeping; Ely, short, corky, robust, of gay and gallant bearing, with bounding elasticity of stride. Such were they of old; but while time has developed the frame of the chesnut to magnificent proportions, and has added substance without subtracting quality, the bay seems to have enjoyed the good things of this life, like Dives, in days gone by, and the beautiful' would seem to apply more truthfully to his neighbour than to himself. Mentmore, from whose lips the cup of pleasure is often so ruthlessly dashed, seems in no way to repine at his lot, and on the principle, we presume, of not muzzling the ox that treadeth out the corn, he has been permitted to claim for his own two pledges of love, whose names are duly registered in the Royal Catalogue. A bay, with two chesnuts following for their afternoon walk, first attracted our attention to the yearlings, and their leader, a most unmistakable Orlando out of Jacqueline, we at once put down for a speedy one, while for neatness and action there were few to compare with the little chesnut Saunterer filly out of Volley, whose union with the Birdcatcher horse we anticipate will be as successful as with Orlando. A lady of highest lineage and most illustrious relationship brought up the rear, and Bay Celia, if she has given pledges of greater size to posterity, has thrown nothing to her many lovers of higher quality. Beside her the little Kettledrum filly, neat as she is, looked sadly cut of place, and more at home in couples' with the Mentmore-Rosebud filly and her half-sister out of Garnish, neither of which stud-matrons have as yet achieved distinction during their sojourn in the Royal Paddocks. Two pretty fillies by St. Albans out of Catawba and Lady Anne- the latter for choice,' as the racing echo goeswere next paraded for our inspection, and then the sister to the speedy Pericles with all that high quality and level lines of beauty which Newminster has so indelibly stamped on most of his offspring. The Venus filly hardly gave such promise as we might expect from her breeding, while the half-sister to The Knave was one of those regulation' mouse-coloured Wild Dayrells, rather on leg, but still giving fair promise of speed in company well and duly selected. Following her with long, swinging, racing-like stride, came the queen of that gallant coterie, a wholecoloured bay filly by Stockwell out of Julie, whose future destination will not be reached without much and grave anxiety and liberal relaxation of purse-strings on the part of the purchaser. With many of the good points of her illustrious relative, Julius, she is endowed with far greater degree of substance, and her muscular frame is more