being conclusive as to the relative merits of the two, and was a dodging and (if the timer be correct) not a quick race. We believe there is no doubt that Marlow's orders were to make the pace as slow as Voltigeur liked till they were a mile from home, and then come right away, and endeavour to cut the young horse down—a performance of which Fobert believed his horse to be perfectly capable, as he candidly confessed after the race that he was as good as he could make him. However, “ Charley,” good and steady jockey as he is, was for once so elated at the idea of making an example of the young horse, that he went splitting away nearly from end to end, and found his horse so beaten when Voltigeur did challenge, that he dared not even move on him. Those who profess to know something about Voltigeur assert that this mode of running the race would have suited their horse still better, as his forte is speed. The appointed match course is two miles, or some five furlongs less than the Doncaster Cup Course, and as his lordship of Eglinton at once named the T.M.M. in the original challenge which he gave at Ascot, we should conclude that both parties look upon that distance as pretty suitable to their favourites. The additional year which has passed over their heads brings their relative weights 102lbs. nearer together. Although there is just the chance that Voltigeur may turn out in his four-year-old season as moderate as the great majority of Derby and Leger winners bave proved before him, it should not be forgotten that he had only one short preparation, as late as possible in the season, as a two-year-old, whereas The Dutchman has had strong work for three seasons, which is enough to take the edge off any horse's speed, and to give him a no slight twist in his temper into the bargain. Hence if both look well on the day, and the Voltigeur party show no symptoms of dissatisfaction with the four-year-old measure of their horse, we scarcely expect to see a point between them in the betting. The performances of the noble pair are as follows

Won. Walked over. Lost. Net amount. Flying Dutchman . 10

£17,775 Voltigeur. . ,... 4

£ 7,605 In addition to this net amount, a 500 gs. Ascot Cup and a 300 gs. Doncaster one must be credited to each respectively.

As the time draws near, we have little doubt that the match will create as much interest as the 3,000 gs. one between Hambletonian and Diamond, and we sincerely trust that nothing may occur to make it end in the mere tame transfer of a Californian “ monkey." We hear that the match arose out of some boasting on the part of Voltigeur's friends at the Newmarket Houghton Meeting, and that his party were a considerable time before they could agree to terms when Lord Eglinton forwarded the challenge. At present the Dutchman has the call in the betting. Sir H. H. Campbell nominates the flying Dutchman, while the sporting member for York, who won a heavy amount on him last year at Epsom and Doncaster, is understood to be Voltigeur's “ bestman” in the matter.

BROOK LANDS;

OR,
THE FIELD SPORTS OF THE WESTERNS.

BY LINTON,

CHAP. I. I was born at Brooklands, in the Vale of Berkeley; and a glorious vale is it! and will so remain, I fancy, to the end of the chapter, notwithstanding the outcry of lusty farmers for protection, democrats against game-preserving, and foxhunters against railways; bearing this undeniable fact in mind--that the farmers who ride the best horses, have the most buxom wives, eat the best dinners, and possess the richest land at the smallest possible rental, are, generally speaking, those who are the most discontented. Your hard-working, honest, upright, primitive farmer of the old school-now unfortunately as rare a bird as woodcocks in our vale-put trust in God, and have a hearty word for all men. This is, of course, a general observation. There are trumps in every pack. Your gentlemen farmers-God save the mark !-gentlemen! and why not? solely, that your sense, as your gentility, lies in the pockets of your white cords, not in your heads, or ancestry--no mind, no intellect; all for money, foolery, finery, and a vain attempt to vie with the ancient squirearchy: that's all. This is the protection they require. My beloved father-or perhaps, in sporting phrase, I ought to term him, my brick of a governor, dear old sportsman as he is !-had a sample or two of these classes on his estate. The one, farmer Barleycorn, an awkward sort of would-be squire among the village belles, has the “Bristol Times," addressed to him, “ Richard Barleycorn, Esq., the Shrubs, Gloucester;" he resides in a low-built farm-house, with a yew-tree before it, cut into the shape of a peacock; and I once counted nine laurels in his garden; therefore the dignified appellation of his mansion. His superiority in the eyes of the good people, his friends and fellow-labourers in the neighbourhood, consisted in his being always possessed of a few clear hundreds above his rental-a good possession, forsooth, yet not a cause for discontent, or a patent of nobility. He appears at the covertside mounted on a horse worth perhaps twenty-five pounds of any man's money, and rides sometimes recklessly, at others indifferently. My worthy sire approaches ; Barleycorn touches his hat: “Good morning, farmer,” says the governor. “Good morning, sir.” “Well, how are the times with you? This weather is glorious for fox hunting, and must be so for farming.” “Times are bad, sir; very bad indeed. These free-traders, den Beg your pardon, sir; I forgot you were one of them have half ruined us all. I gave a matter of fifty for this nag, sir.” My father looked up with astonishment. “Aye, Barleycorn, a nice horse." “ Yes, sir ; fifty, I declare all the money. I could have sold him for double the sum, sir, a year or two agone. But now, sir, they hexports um-no, I mean himports um-well, it's all the same- from France and Olland ; in fact, sir, there is nothing but foreign cattle in the country; and we have no chance with home-bred nags. Yes, sir, even turnips, I am told, come from Russia by tons weight; and of course we farmers cannot live. We are absolutely ruined by game and free trade.” “But you have your land almost on your own terms; and if you are likely to be ruined, why not give it up? I do not wish to have any one as my tenant who" "Oh, ay! but, sir—I think they have found.” And away goes the ruined squire Barleycorn; while daddy, putting his beautiful and sleek black hunter, the Black Prince, at an awkward stile, which lands him in the field with the hounds, says to himself, “ That uneducated, discontented braggadocio is a humbug."

The run over, the fox killed, my father returns leisurely homewards--he is old, and well contented with an hour's good hunting run—when he observes a respectable man of sixty or more, dressed as a farmer ought to be, leaning against a gate, superintending the penning of some sheep, “Here, Harry, my man,” he cried out; “how are you? Be good enough just to fasten my curb-chain. Thank you: that's a good fellow. How's your family? And how are you—thriving, I hope?” “All well at home, thank you, sir. We do not get richer; but I see no great reason to complain. Corn is low, true enough ; but my land is good, and my landlord better. So we must even do our best; and God will help us." And so he will, be assured, my honest fellow. I wish I had a larger farm to give you-you should have it. Good day--here's my hand. And thus, as he jogged on, he soliloquized : Would that men, instead of complaining of evils, hard enough to bear, would endeavour by double energy and industry, if not entirely to remove them, at least to prevent their becoming worse, True enough, the minority may now suffer from low prices. What then? The majority, who scarcely existed a few years since, now live. Game! I have given all my tenants permission to shoot hares and rabbits, and yet they would deny me the right of retaining a pheasant. I venture to assert that, without the preserve be overstocked, they do more good than harm to the farmer. The pheasant feeds on the grub and the ringworm, which would otherwise utterly destroy both turnips and wheat. Seven hares are said to consume the feed of one sheep; yet I question if seven pheasants consume sufficient game to fatten a fowl. Spare then my pheasants, and my crows —the farmers' friends. What of natural history is known by those who desire to abolish the game-laws? It is the abuse, be assured, and not a fair and sportsmanlike preservation of game which injures the tenant. What injures them far more is the self-annihilation of the old race of farmers, and the vain and absurd attempt to mix up with the manly honourable position of the English yeoman, both as regards their homes and habits, a dash of gentility, at which all the world laughs none more so than themselves. As for foxhunters and railways, some source of conversation is necessary at the covert-side, and it is as well to grumble at railways as aught else. And I admit they have done much injury to a noble sport-in the share line, however, and

W

not as regards the lines of earth thrown up through the merry vales of England. But I wander, railroad speed, from my subject.

I was born in the good old month of December, when rounds of beef and well-fed turkeys are devoured in abundance, and bright fires blaze in the hospitable halls of England's squirearchy

-in the most delightful of all periods for a sportsman, the merriest of all merry seasons ; hunting the fox in the morning, and the slipper at night, and many a pretty little morocco slipper have I run to earth, buried amid innumerable flounces: shooting woodcocks in low-bottom copse, and darts into fair deceivers sitting on silk ottomans. Ah! those were merry times, those Christmas gatherings; yet even then sadness will come o'er us if the silken purse be empty.

It was the day previous to that of Christmas-yet not exactly Christmas-eve, for the hour was about 2 P.M.--that I first saw the light of day. My admirable mother had been expecting for some days to add to the family circle of the Westerns; and the worthy Dr. Knox, located at Brooklands, had already eaten sundry good dinners, played several games of piquet with the squire, and swallowed sundry bottles of first-rate port to the health of the hoped-for guest, ere the expected event came off. On the morning of the day in question, however, his patient had become more restless and nervous-I conclude ladies are a trifle nervous on such occasions. Nevertheless, as the hounds met at no great distance, my father joined them. Towards the afternoon they found in a covert, some eight miles distant, and after a brilliant affair, without a check, killed in the open, near his own park, through which they had chased their fox. My mother's time had come; and when she heard the huntsman's horn, cheering on his merry pack, she felt cheered also; and I, Fred Western, was born_almost at the very moment that the varmint, dead beaten, gamely delivered up his life and body to his eager pursuers, I may therefore justly say I was born a sportsman; for as my good paternity entered the hall, elated by the first-rate sport he had enjoyed, brush in hand for the fox had been killed on his estate-the worthy nurse, with a fine addition to his family, as she pronounced me, in her arms, approached to meet him ; when, running the brush over my little face, and then kissing me, he declared I was born a foxhunter, and should be christened Nimrod. To this my mother objected, and I was named Frederick ; for all that, he said true; I am one, and ever shall be in heart, though the means be sometimes wanting. It is not my intention, however, to bore my sporting readers with any account of my infantine prowess in the field. Suffice, that the head of my house is an old English gentleman, whose ancestors did not come into this glorious country with William the Conqueror or any of his Frenchified followers. No; he can boast of pure, unadul. terated Saxon blood ; and from the top of his head to the sole of his top boot, he is an Englishman and a sportsman. His property, consisting of some four thousand acres of rich land, may be seen in the vale of Berkeley. The name of his place is Brooklands. His income is derived entirely from agricultural means; nevertheless he is no protectionist, save that he protects the poor and the unhappy, the widow and the orphan. He spends his income like a gentleman, lives on the very best terms with his neighbours, and is a churchman; yet he never oppresses those who disagree with or dissent from his opinions, either civil or religious. Add to this, he is a county magistrate, who administers justice; and for all that he goes a hunting, and rides in the front rank; and further, I, his son Fred, declare I believe him to be a good man and a true Christian, without any of the humbug or mouth quackery of those who imagine themselves fifty-fold his superiors. Should any sporting boys be inclined to knock up his quarters, I should suggest their running down by railway when Earl Fitz's hounds hunt our side of the county, which they do alternate months. If the meet be not very distant, they will be as certain as the sparks fly upwards, should they arrive on a hunting morning, to find the governer, about 9 A.M., standing, with his back to the dining-room fire, wiping his spectacles. He is a most aristocratic-looking old squire, stands five feet ten, is firmly though not robustly built, with gray hair, fine brilliant eyes, and a Roman nose-the only thing Roman about him. His leather unmentionables in the olden style are a trifle tight; and his tops somewhat of a tan colour, but the polish is undeniable, and the spurs bright as well-cleaned silver. His coat is large and baggy, with side pockets; but, altogether, there is no mistaking him for what he really is-a fine, kind-hearted old English gentleman and sportsman, who hunts with our Beau Duke of Gloucestershire, and dines with him too; and few are more welcome-for all that he votes for Lord John. Mr. Editor, should you feel disposed, come down to Brooklands; ask for the squire, my dad; tell him you come to breakfast; and if you be the man I take you for, be will say, “I am right glad to see you. Pray stay to dinner.” But recollect, first print this paper, or expect no hospitality from me, or Bessy either, or Jenny, our pretty laundry-maid.

My lady mother is precisely a fellow-mate for such a lord. She is a well-born, well-bred, refined and amiable lady, who enters with zest into all his pursuits, loves to see her husband and sons enjoying themselves, welcomes his frinds, and attends to his comforts. She has a companion and two pets—my laughter-loving sister Bessy, and a bright-eyed varmint of a Scotch terrier, called Wasp. The former would hunt as well as her father or brothers were she allowed, and the latter does frequently play truant from the ladies' boudoir, to follow the flying hounds. So much for my respected parents. I have introduced them merely to prove the stock from whence I come. At the period of my birth, and for many years subsequently, strict economy were terms unheard of and unnecessary in reference to Brooklands; the stables were well filled, the house rarely empty; for all that there was nothing approaching extravagance, and still less to lead to embarrassment. The years 'forty-five and 'forty-six-evil periods in history-came, however; and my good father, like wiser men, who saw the earth rise through a mile of his estate, to form the Gloucester railway, in an evil hour was palavered into making fortunes for his younger children. And, faith! the reign of King Hudson proved anything but a glorious one. He did make fortunes--that is, misfortunes for himself. As for his well-beloved sons'-Corbeau, his favourite black hunter; Brilliant, Bessy's favourite mare; and my dear mother's cob, Punch who drew a four-wheeler ; with