and a gentleman who deals in fried fish soon clears off his little stock of delicacies, as likewise does a peripatetic vendor of sandwiches of a mysterious origin. The heroes of the night slowly walk up and down the course, wearing long great coats, beneath which we may see their naked legs, and feet encased in light laced shoes. Their backers are with them, and a crowd watches with curious eyes. At length the course is cleared, a bell is rung, and they are off. Six times round the course is a mile—six times ten are sixty. Sixty times must they pass and repass that excited mob. The favourite takes the lead at a steady running; he maintains it some time; he is longer than his opponent, but the latter is younger, and looks more muscular in his thighs. Both men, with the exception of a cloth round the loins, are naked as when born; and as they run they scatter the mud, which mud thus scattered descends upon them in a by no means refreshing shower. As round after round is run the excitement deepens; the favourite is greeted with cheers; but when at the end of the third mile he is passed by his competitor excites an enthusiasm which is intense. Now the bettors tremble; the favourite attempts to get his old position; he gains on his foe—they are now neck and neck—cheer, boys, cheer—“Go it, Jem!” is the cry on many sides. Jem the winner does go it; but, alas! Jem the loser cannot. It is in vain he seeks the lead. Fortune has declared against him, and in a little while he gives up—no longer the swiftest and fleetest of England’s sons—no longer the holder of the Champion’s Cup. One involuntarily feels for fallen greatness, and as Pudney was led away utterly beaten, I could not find it in my heart to rejoice. I left a crowd still on the grounds. I left Rowan still running, as he was bound to do, till he had completed his ten miles: and I left the White Lion, in-doors and out, doing a very considerable business. It seemed to me the White Lion was not such a fool as he looked, and that he felt, let who will win or lose, he with his beer and brandy would not come off second best. This, undoubtedly, was the worst part of the business. The race over, for further excitement, the multitude would rush to the White Lion—the losers to drown their sorrow, the winners to spend their gains; the many, who were neither winners nor losers, merely because others did so; and thus, as the hours pass, would come intoxication, anger, follies, and, perhaps, bitterness of heart for life.