and feebler type into which the pastime has
degenerated. This reflection occurred to
me recently with peculiar force when, as
the Ballyskelter Eagle would say, I had
been "enjoying a protracted sojourn in
the vicinity of this rising watering-place."
On this occasion I was privileged to see
what the real old healthy sport of
horse-racing must have been when it was
pursued simply for pleasure, and had not yet
become a matter of serious, and not always
cleanly, business.

Ballyskelter is a small watering-place on
the Irish coast, with a couple of hotels and
a few terraces, and a strip of sand along the
shore, which the Eagle is never weary of
celebrating as the Esplanade. The Eagle,
indeed, does more for Ballyskelter than the
vanity of the natives will acknowledge, and
never flags. As thus: "Yesterday the
Esplanade presented a scene of brilliancy and
animation that description could scarcely do
justice to. Train after train brought down
a succession of gaily-dressed visitors, who
promenaded on the noble Esplanade to the
music of Rooney's select band." Or it
might run: "The Esplanade is now in
its highest beauty; two new seats having
been placed, so as to afford rest and
refreshment to the languid promenaders. We
understand that it is to the munificent
exertion of Mr. M'Swiney that we are
indebted for pressing this convenience on
the authorities, who, to give them their
due, have responded cheerfully."

But we must distinguish carefully
between New and Old Ballyskelter, otherwise
we fall into ludicrously unfashionable
mistakes, and expose ourselves to the derision
of the Eagle. Old Ballyskelter is now,
metaphorically speaking, exploded. Old
and New Ballyskelter are the ancient and
modern towns, as any one may learn for
himself from the Ballyskelter Guide
(published at the Eagle office): the former well
away from the sea, a snug sheltered
village, with M'Ginn's Hotel, once very
select. New Ballyskelter, as we have said,
skirts the Esplanade, at the edge of which
is Muglin's Marine Hotel, a list of whose
guests appears in many newspapers. Then
there is Great Skelter Head, a really
noble and sombre object, which thrusts
its brawny shoulder out into the sea, and
staves off the ocean. Every one walks up
Skelter Head, which belongs to Mr. Murphy
and Lord Coblin, who kindly allow picnic
parties to bivouac on their grass. No
wonder that the Eagle calls the place "the
Brighton of Ireland."

Now it came to pass that Major O'Malley,
a sister of whom intermarried with young
Leopard, of Castle Leopard, that fine
substantial house up the hill, was on a visit at
Ballyskelter. The, major was a fine sporting
fellow, and, as is always the case in
Ireland, was speedily found out and
admired in the district. It soon came to be,
"That's the major, more power to him; a
fine fellow on a horse's back." Admiring
eyes of men and women follow such a dashing
sportsman.

In the centre of Old Ballyskelter was the
Common, sadly encroached upon now, but
still of respectable size. The old keeper often
spoke regretfully of "the sporting times
when th' Old Ballyskelter races went on
there, and when poor Captain Magan broke
his neck at the last fence. Ah, them were
the days!" Whether on account of that
unhappy casualty, or the general jollity of
which it was merely an accident, was
left uncertain. However, one day Major
O'Malley, and Young Leopard, and Mr.
Con Molloy—the best judge of a horse in
those parts—("now he'd take in the Lord-
Leftnant himself!" was the rather doubtful
compliment to his skill), rode over the
Common; and it was known next day that
the Old Ballyskelter races were to be
revived. There was infinite excitement;
subscriptions were promised; and every
carman who possessed that commonest of all
animals, "the finest horse in Ireland,"
entered him at once. Thirty pounds were
soon made up, Major O'Malley and his four
friends giving five pounds a piece, the rest
being made up of shillings and half-crowns
from the community. The Eagle worked
hard, grandly writing of "the Ballyskelter
Isthmian Games;" and for a week nothing
was spoken of but the coming races.

At last the day came round, heralded
by the excited trumpetings of the Eagle.
The proclamation of the Isthmian Games
did not go much beyond the parish, which
was ratter an advantage, as it made a snug
family party sort of affair. There was the
little Common—very poor in its material—
looking like a well-worn lodging-house
carpet, and about as large as Eccleston-square,
well crowded with natives and
critical countrymen; while the dispossessed
sheep and goats looked down wistfully from
little hills adjoining. A few poles adorned
with bits of calico marked out the course,
which was more characteristically emphasised
by the many hurdles, each fringed
with a highly disagreeable comb of
furze-bushes.