day is of the loveliest—a true "ladies' day"—the
country a charming corner. There is plenty of
local colour. It is in a green and rich country,
undulating, rising here into hills, falling there,
pretty to look at, as a mere view, with a pleasant
range of grey hills in the distance. The day is an
Italian day, the air balmy and delicious. Who
does not recal the glitter of a course, the
"mother-of-pearl" sparkle from bright bonnets
and brighter faces, and gayer dresses, that
seem to shine and glisten like feldspar under a
strong sun: the dark irregular fringe made up
of carriages, which meanders and straggles
afar off, and marks the line of the course—with
the "drags," temporary temples of opulence,
locomotive stands, in their way, and whose real
function now seems to be established. They are
luxurious race club-houses and buffets, stored
with all the good things of earth and air. But
we have besides local colouring in the cars of the
country, which swarm, drawn by every known
pattern of horse, and which can insinuate
themselves in all sorts of clefts and passages between
the greater monsters. At such a scene and on
such an occasion, the spirit of gaiety and enjoyment
seems to be enlarged, under the best
conditions, and with her rosy pinions flutters all
day long to and fro.

Now it is full time, rather, a good bit after
time; but we are none of your stop-watch
philosophers today. At the little modest
station, some four miles away, have been waiting
royal and vice-regal carriages—the scarlet
outriders so familiar to Ascot, and the gentlemen
of the hunt in their cheerful scarlet, and
the green-coated police. At last there is a cloud
of dust, and a roar—a surging of the multitude,
and an avenue opens. First the mounted
police, clattering and jingling, native soldiery
of the place, the green hussars of the country.
Then the scarlet stewards of the hunt;
then the vice-king of the country; popular and
admired for his magnificence, and style, and
sporting taste; for his banquets and balls, and
perhaps for his own good looks, and perhaps,
again, for those fine black horses which draw
his carriages and carry his outriders. Then
noblemen and gentlemen, aides-de-camp riding,
and a master of the horse; then scarlet liveries
and royal outriders, and then the pleasant young
pair, seen for the first time by thousands of the
honest Irish peasants. Then rise the shouts
and the waving of hats; then, too, it is seen
that the fair and delicate princess's dress is of
pale green, and that completes the victory.
On they go amid a swelling chorus, gathering
as it rises, and which utterly drowns a low hiss
or two, which a few ill-looking but baffled
Fenians try to make heard. There are criticisms.
"Nice lookin' craythur!" and "O,
Biddy, did you see the gown on her!" Then
do prince and princess appear on the grand
stand amid its glass and scarlet, and which is,
indeed, more like an opera-box than a stand.
They become introduced, as it were, to the
world en masse, and the air is again rent.

Then the racing begins. Competent judges
have pronounced it a very pretty course, with
"double ditch," and stone walls, and natural
fences, and banks, and every obstacle that could
be desired. English bookmakers complain that
there is no money to be got; but the truth is
the horses are mostly "dark," ridden by their
owners, or gentlemen friends, and their merits
are only known to a select few. Certainly the
few seconds of a race, the flashing by to hollow
pounding, the glittering of specks in the
distance—now seen behind the trees, now lost to
view, now reappearing over the line of the hedge,
now drawing nearer to us, nearer and yet nearer
—all to a roar of voices, gradually increasing as
they draw near, and come sweeping past the
stand in a rush, with the crowd closing in
behind—this spectacle has, for its length, more
excitement crowded into it than any other. The
course, we note, is kept in a pleasant, dégagé,
lounging fashion; and I observe that people
are so eager to see the "big Lep" over the
stone wall, that they scramble eagerly up on it.
When they see the horses charging at it "full
tilt," the parti-coloured arms of the jockeys, well
squared and sawing at their horses in the usual
characteristic manner, a panic seems to seize
them, and they turn round in a wild manner
to see how they are to get down. Paddy,
in the frieze coat, has been left in charge of
the "Lep," with a light stick, and grows frantic.
"Get down, every mothers' son av yes! D'ye
see the harses comin'? Ah, you Bundhoon,
you!" This was addressed to one of his own
rank, who, indignant at the insult, turns round
under the wall to resent it, but hears the coming
thunder on the other side, and darts back, only
in time. The ardent amateurs are flying in all
directions; but one unhappy woman is caught,
and ridden over. One skilful artist here shows
his jockeyship; for his horse trips at this
jump, but recovers, nearly sending the rider
over his head, who luckily catches his horse's
neck, and hangs on literally at one side. The
horse rushes on, the rider tries gallantly to save
himself, and, after hovering some seconds
"between the stirrup and the ground," and
failing in two or three attempts, at last lands
gallantly in the saddle, to a cheer from the
applauding crowd.

By this time the race is over, carriages and
drags burst open as if they were hampers
themselves, and give up meats, and salads, and
champagnes, and all the delicacies of the earth; and
when the great race named in honour of the royal
guest of the day is over the sun has begun to
decline, and it is time to depart. But now everything
looks different. Moistened eyes see everything
with a heated and obstreperous loyalty.
So, when the procession is again formed, and the
royal lady in green passes by, the progress is
indeed tumultuous and triumphant. A vast
number of unrecognised aides-de-camp insist on
making part of the procession, and rush by the
side of the carriage, their hands on the door,
waving their hats and caubeens in the face of
the object of this homage, and bellowing loyal
cries. The effusion is supreme—alarming