maxim, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” An answer to a simple question soon put us in possession of the “great secret.” It was to a noble Baron who was about to preside at the Pontefract sessions we were indebted for a pleasing relief to a tedious journey; and while we acknowledge his lordship’s kindness and urbanity, permit us to add that there was not a sentiment uttered by him in our presence to which we do not heartily respond. We are sure it will be gratifying to our _milling_ readers to hear that although the fight which has given occasion for this episode was announced to take place in the district of Pontefract, formerly represented by a _milling_ member,[12] neither our noble companion nor any of his sessional coadjutors offered any interference. At Doncaster we had our “_tout_” (we hope he will excuse the use of a professional title), for whom we immediately sent, but he was profoundly ignorant of the all-important place of rendezvous――a fact at which we rejoiced, as it was clear the necessary secrecy had been observed. However quiet at Doncaster, at Sheffield, Nottingham, and all the surrounding towns, even to Manchester and Liverpool, all was bustle and commotion. The Fancy, of all degrees, were on the alert, and the roads, on Sunday evening, leading to Doncaster, were thronged, not only with pedestrians, including no small proportion of “hard-ups,” but with vehicles of every imaginable description――flies, phaetons, gigs, and fish-carts, all laden to dangerous excess, and with a perfect disregard to the qualities of the horses engaged in the service; it seeming to be an admitted principle that on such occasions the _tits_ were not only “warranted sound and free from vice,” but masters of any indefinite proportion of weight. As Doncaster was the grand _débouche_ through which the cavalcade must necessarily pass towards the “fixture,” the innocent inhabitants were soon enlightened respecting the approach of some extraordinary event, the character of which was quickly divulged. The whole night long the rattle of wheels, the pattering of horses’ feet, and the shouts of the anxious throng, proclaimed the interest which was felt, and the wild spirit which was abroad. “The Selby road!” was the cry; and on crossing the Don, at the foot of the town, a short turn to the right threw the nags into the right direction, to the no small gratification of the collector at the turnpike gate, although rather to the discomfiture of many who had the “bobs” to “fork out;” but fights are of rare occurrence nowadays, and for such a luxury expense is no object.