There are many queer-looking people to be seen, in the oddest sort of clothes, from cap to boots. You cannot tell the rank of a person by looks, however. I have seen duchesses whose dresses didn't fit them at all, and countesses whose faces are so plain that they would stop a clock. I worshiped beside the wife of a "belted earl" at St. Patrick's Cathedral one Sunday, and her hat looked very much as if some one had sat upon it just before she started for church. The late Duke of Westminster, who was the richest man in the British Empire, had also the reputation of being the most slovenly. Dukes often look as if they were wearing "hand-me-downs," and the smartest-looking man in an assembly may be the worst rascal of the humblest rank. And that rule, I was told, applies to the race track as well as to other gatherings of mankind. I saw people who looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of Dickens or Thackeray, so old-fashioned were their garments, their hats, and their behavior. There were tall, gaunt farmers with fiery red faces; solid-looking burghers wearing silk hats and fringes of whiskers under their chins; jaunty military men, dashing young sports in riding habits, and hundreds of farmers in tweed and heavy woolen knickerbockers, nearly every one of them smoking a pipe. The stature of the men was noticeable. There are giants in Ireland in these days. Many of the women were very pretty and wore bright-colored gowns and sunshades that enlivened the scene. And several hideous old dowagers were very keen on betting, and pushed rudely to the front when the horses were running. You can always recognize a coachman, a groom, or a jockey in England or Ireland, and they were so numerous that they didn't interest us. The races were conducted very much like ours at home, and in the last one, as is usually the case, the horses were ridden by their owners. There was a field of sixteen, which caused confusion and delay at the starting post and a helter-skelter scramble along the track. Some of the gentlemen riders didn't come in at all, others were distanced, and the winners were greeted with tremendous applause by their friends and acquaintances, although very little enthusiasm was shown over the ordinary races. In no case did the winner receive a demonstration such as we consider essential in the United States. Mr. Richard Croker had two entries and should have won the second race, but Lucius Lyne, his Kentucky jockey, as the papers declared the following morning, went to sleep. He led the field easily all the way around and was cantering toward the wire without any show of speed when another horse under whip and spur overtook and overlapped him by a nose. As Croker's horse was the favorite with long odds, considerable indignation was expressed. He could have won the race without an effort; or at least that is what the men who lost their money on him say.