Let us pause for a moment and look about us. The sight that presents itself is rather a dreary one. There are half-a-dozen dark green caravans, the thin wreath of smoke that issues from the tiny chimneys pressed down and scattered by the heavy atmosphere and drizzling rain of a November noon. Quantities of damp straw litter the muddy ground in all directions, and, what is much worse, there is an unmistakable smell of damp straw whichever way we turn. A couple of dingy wooden erections inscribed with legends written in chalk to the effect that Bury sausages may be had within. We peep cautiously through the half-opened doorway of one of them. The interior cannot be called inviting, as nothing is to be seen save a brazier of smouldering embers, and a broken wooden chair. It is clearly too late for Bury sausages. Let us proceed. The caravan of a wandering photographer, its front fairly hidden by dozens upon dozens of sixpenny portraits of the size that pedestrians in the Euston Road know full well. We recognize the lineaments of more than one Newmarket celebrity, and marvel at the courage they have displayed, firstly, in submitting themselves to the tender mercies of such an artist; and, secondly, in permitting their portraits to be hung side by side with those of the scores of obtuse, of brutal, and of idiotic faces that invariably form the overwhelming majority in displays of the kind. This stall is German enough in its character. There are the same clumsy wooden figures, the same shadowy dolls, the same cloudy, greasy mirrors in tawdry frames. Neither are the musical instruments of dismal tone lacking, nor the wooden firearms, which so speedily get out of order and leave their gallant bearers defenceless; and, as abroad, there is good store of pictures, scriptural and otherwise, alike questionable in taste, the saints gorgeous in crimson or yellow trousers, the ladies somewhat lavish, to our puritanical notions, in the display of their redundant charms. We have exhausted the sights of the fair, and turn away to seek amusement elsewhere; but anon the visit shall bring us into trouble, and voices and eyes will alike be lifted to reproach us for forgetfulness and want of gallantry in the matter of fairings.'

And now we may fairly say that we have told all we saw out of doors during our first afternoon at Newmarket. Stay, Martin Starling without a red coat should not pass unnoticed-the novelty, indeed, is of so startling a nature, that for a moment the well-known wielder of the whip almost escapes recognition; but save in the case of this worthy, not one face do we encounter in our frequent perambulation of the town, with which, as a race-goer, we are familiar. Where is everybody? what is everybody doing? There is no race meeting on to-day to take them from home, and yet they are not to be found on the heath, and the street knows them not. Is each Newmarket man's home emphatically his castle, in which he shuts himself up under lock and key, issuing forth during the meetings alone, to prey like an ogre of old upon defenceless strangers? Are they all engaged in some unhallowed amusement or pursuit that will not bear the light of day? It is true that from time to time

subtle rumours have reached us, that at Newmarket (appropriately enough) there still take place, once and again, those Battles of 'the Spurs,' which our forefathers loved so well. But enthralling as such combats may be, they cannot surely compel the attendance of every man the town contains. The problem is a curious one; we will smoke the calumet, and muse and sleep upon it.

Souvenir! she's that gray filly in front, and she has just come 'home from York Spring. Oh, yes! she beat Shafto easily enough; ' and they'll have to make haste to keep in front of her at Epsom. The brown Vatican colt has no name, but he looks like running a 'bit.' Halloo! where are we? and what's all this ringing in our ears about Souvenir and Shafto? Oh! to be sure, we are in bed at the White Hart at Newmarket, and it is Sunday morning, with the sun shining brightly in at the windows. But what in the world made us dream of those old Richmond horses that we used to watch crossing the roughly-paved street as they wended their way towards the Out Moor?

Tramp, tramp, tramp! the ring of hoofs surely enough, and hoofs of racehorses too. No doubt the once-familiar sound had caught our half-waking ear, and in an instant our mind was far away in the home of our youth. Need it be said, that, heedless of spectators over the way,' we dart to the window and feast our eyes upon the beauties as they walk past in long and well-kept file towards the heath? The youngsters look as youngsters in a crack stable should look, even at this trying time of year; and the boys on their backs are neatly clad, and, like their bearers, look as if they were well done by. Both are creditable alike to the trainer of Hermit, and Vespasian, and the bonny black Knight, who will himself depart to-morrow to do battle on classic Warwick ground.

Anon, breakfast despatched, we smoke the cigar of impiety, and determine that for once in a way we will set custom at defiance, make the most of our holiday, and decline to go to church. Surely he who breathes fresh air so seldom may be pardoned if he exchanges the air of a church (damp perhaps), and the sermon of a clergyman (it may be the best in the world) of whose abilities he knows nothing, for the great discourse preached by Nature-a discourse that makes no distinction of creed or sect, but ever tells a story of mercy and goodness, inculcates a faith and belief such as no mortal voice can possibly convey to thinking man? But first let us sit awhile in the coffee-room window, and inspect the groups of those who, in a better frame of mind than ourselves, pass up and down the high street.

Sunday morning in Newmarket appears to be pretty much the same as it is anywhere else. There are quiet, happy-looking family groups bent churchward. Papa, a trifle stiff and pompous, perhaps; mamma, a leetle too conscious, it may be, of the bonnet and of the sensation it creates (shall we say, of the anger it causes?) amongst beholders of the softer sex. The young ladies look conscious,

mince, and giggle gently-a laugh in Newmarket streets is strictly forbidden, as giving evidence of fastness.' The young gentlemen are as uncomfortable as young gentlemen always appear to be in country towns, when garbed in their best array. Under the eyes of the sweet sex they stiffen, and walk as if an enchanter's wand had for the nonce conferred upon them wooden legs. Relieved from the inspection of such fair enslavers, and confronted with their fellowmen, they adopt that indescribable swagger seen only in the case of church-going and returning swains in country places, and bear themselves like the gay gallants they are.

Well, peace be with them all! Now that the bells have ceased tolling we will sally forth for a stroll, and, wrapped in the warm embraces of our trusty Ulster,' dare, for a time, the breezes of the heath at the top of the town. There, despite of a gale that would make the mast of a seventy-four-gun ship quiver, we will wonder and admire as the sun bursts through the rain-clouds, and holding hat to head, gaze on the long melancholy rows of white rails, never seen before by daylight save when they were lined with carriages and horsemen and oi polloi of the racecourse. What rudely-fashioned objects those telegraph-posts are, to be sure; and surely those boys playing at pitch-and-toss under the lee of the stables would be much better at church. Here a guilty qualm hints to us that the subject is not one that we can well venture to handle; so we struggle on, with the wind rumpling our flowing locks, and taking our breath, and ruffling our temper, until nature can bear such rude assaults no longer, and we hasten back again, wondering where all the dogs can be located that are howling so dreadfully; what the report of a gun on a Sunday morning means; whether the nursemaid with the two infant charges is not ashamed of herself for running the risk of their catching croup in such a tempest; and pitying the poor White Lion for the loss of his mane-the whole of the crop of leaves, namely, erst born by the shapely tree that fronts the portal of that wellknown hostelry. Then the remainder of the day passes merrily in the company of pleasant people; and, ever anxious to view the town from different points of view, we walk up the middle road to the plantation just as the sun is setting behind Newmarket in the autumn afternoon. The smoke is hanging over the famous training town in a fleecy cloud; the lights and shadows are charming; the country round about picturesque enough; and we cannot but marvel that some enterprising photographer has not availed himself of such classic views as this and The Bushes,' advertised them well, and realised a little fortune by the sale.

Waning space warns us to hurry over this preliminary picture of Newmarket out of season. We avoid, therefore, more than a passing allusion to the pleasant hours of smoke and whiskey spent in the cheery White Hart apartment devoted to such evening joys, and the horsey talk of the Sunday-evening droppers-in there. A second morning sees us at our old point of vantage at the coffee-room window, watching the children hurrying at the last stroke of nine to

school, slate in hand, and we are bound to add, to the credit of the rising generation of Newmarket, apparently without reluctance. Then we drop in upon our old acquaintance the barber; and he tells us, as he exercises his craft, that so many of this, and so many of that trainer's team have departed for Warwick; and in justice to him let us add that his very straight tip about Pladda for the Nursery 'comes off.' The single spark of excitement running through the town is in connection with the elections, and the favour in which the father, the late Duke of Rutland, was held, seems to have been transferred to the son, for Lord George Manners is evidently a very hot favourite indeed, and one whose partizans are not disposed to hedge at any price. The allurements of the coming contest have apparently exercised an evil influence on the business of the Thespians at the Public Hall, and we fear that the houses' drawn by The Mother's Dying Child' and 'The Dead Hand' at that temple of the drama would not be sufficiently remunerative to recompense the company for their talented exertions.

If possible, Newmarket on Monday is more like a city of the dead than it was on Saturday. We stand at the entrance to the White Hart yard and puff a fragrant weed, glancing now up, now down the town, and ever, Sister Anne-like, murmuring to ourselves that there is nobody coming! Stay, here comes John Daley, trotting down the hill on a brown pony, with a saddle buckled behind him. It is not difficult to guess his business this fine morning. We gaze up and down, up and down, for ten minutes more, and, for all the life we see, might as well be in the middle of Salisbury Plain.

Then our thoughts and feet travel once more heathwards, and we wander out again, eagerly inhaling that pure bracing air, that is, to our fancy, ten times more invigorating, more cheering, more hungercreating, and more quickening to body and brain, than all the seaside breezes that our shores can boast. We lounge quietly--quite alone, mind you, for here lies the great charm of the walk-along the wellremembered road between the Cambridgeshire and Cesarewitch finishes, oft travesed before, with feelings widely different to those which render everything about us to-day so bright and pleasant. There is ample time to moon as much as we please; to stop every ten yards or so and gaze around; to pick up stones and throw them at the saucy yellow buntings that flit before us, alighting every now and then to gaze curiously at the intruder, waiting until his footsteps are close upon them, then, like a coy maiden, flying his approach. A vast flight of chaffinches, a few linnets, too, amongst them, if our eyes deceive us not, are feeding by the wayside, filling the air with their pretty calls, pleasing the sight with their brisk movements and the flutterings of their tiny wings. As we approach the gate near the Cesarewitch finish, a hare, so large that at first sight we marvel somewhat as to what manner of beast may be emerging from the wilderness of the heath, comes cantering towards us, apparently heedless of danger, until, suddenly conscious of the presence of man, puss stops, pricks her ears, and turning, spins away down the

course with the speed of a racehorse. We wish her good deliverance if it so happen that next week she be called upon to seek safety from Ask Mamma, or Hecate, or Jewel.

What a peaceful, half-wild, half-pastoral scene it is! The Bushes rise up clear and distinct against the keen sky beyond; the stand, weather-beaten enough by this time, is so silent, and lonely, and deserted, that for all notion it gives of having ever been tenanted, it might as well be some gaunt rock in the heart of a pathless desert. Down in the direction where the ring hold their mart at race times there is a vast flock of sheep with their tender and his dog, the only living things in sight; and before, and behind, and around, spreads out the great heath, the Belgium of racing battle-grounds-that great heath, the love for which grows upon any one who loves horseracing with his whole heart, as grows man's love for woman. Farewell, dear heath, until the pleasant sun of spring once more shall smile upon your charms, and we, a willing captive to your fascinations, shall once more press the springy turf that forms the Rowley Mile.

(To be continued.)

S.

THE DERBY DIFFICULTY.

'To be, or not to be.'

THE present aspect of affairs with regard to the question which serves just now to keep alive the usually dormant excitement among turfites during the 'silly' season, threatens, if protracted, to lead to such serious complications, and so thoroughly to upset the general order of things as they have existed for years past, that some discussion of the merits of the case, so far as the racing public are concerned, may not be considered out of place in these pages. For the sake of sentiment alone, there are but few among the great body of our countrymen, be they race-goers or not, who would not regret the suppression of a national race, such as we are wont to consider the Epsom Derby, putting aside the fact of its general influence on all classes, and the interest and attraction centred in its decision. But it cannot be expected that sentiment should prevail in an age of which utilitarianism is the most prominent characteristic; in which turf speculation has become a recognized calling, and the proprietors and controllers of racing schemes have risen from comparative obscurity to a position alike conspicuous and lucrative. Therefore in the discussion of the subject we must needs leave sentiment out of the question, and confine ourselves to bare facts and their probable issues; and we must also dismiss from our minds any bias which a perusal of the strictures of eager rival partisans in the sporting press may have led us to adopt. And although at the present time it seems hopeless to expect that any compromise can be effected before