_June 6th._--This day the sun is fairly on duty again. Rode to the course on Long Island, the third day of the present meeting, to witness a race which had called up North and South to arms. Trifle--a little mare of Colonel Johnson's, the Nestor of the American turf--had come on from Virginia to be entered against Shark, the property of Captain Robert Stockton, about to run his first four-mile race, a horse much was expected from. Alice Grey, the mare which I had seen beaten easily by Trifle at the fall meeting, was the only other entry expected to be made good; so that the thing was considered as a match between the two horses first named. For the only time I saw ladies present in considerable numbers, and was sorry that the gallantry of my sporting friends had not provided them with a more becoming stand. All was tiptoe expectation; but the anticipated sport fell through, owing to the ill condition of Shark. He was, from some cause or other, as completely out of order as an animal could well be, and ought properly to have been drawn. His spirited owner was, however, absent in Europe, and the friends who acted for him decided that he should do his best. Two heats, run in very indifferent time, decided the affair; and the little pet of the Southerners was once more hailed _victrix_. FOOTNOTE: [11] Racking is a sort of shuffling gait, easy, I believe, to both horse and rider, when both are broken to it, and much followed throughout the West. THE HUDSON. With expectations highly raised, and for a long time cultivated and encouraged by an eager inspection of all the prints I could collect, and a perusal of glowing descriptions in both prose and poetry, did I at length wake on the morning which was to introduce me to the beauties of this vaunted river. My first act was to rush to my window, and throw open shutter and sash. It was six o'clock, the sun was up, and the sky cloudless; thanking my lucky star, which had prevailed to my wish, I hurried through my toilet, and away to the foot of Courtland-street, from whose wharf the steamboat Champion was advertised to start at seven A.M. Punctual to the hour, we slipped our moorings, and in a minute were gallantly heading up the Hudson, breasting its current at the rate of fifteen miles per hour. Hoboken and its Elysian fields were passed like lightning. Casting one backward glance, I perceived Jersey city floating indistinctly in the golden haze of morning; whilst the yet more distant heights of Long and Staten Islands, with the dividing Narrows, showed like two dusky clouds with a pathway of silver drawn between.