The whole of Ballyskelter is congregated
in the centre of the course; and there are
Young Leopard and Mr. Murphy, stewards
of the course, cantering about with hunting-whips
and hessian boots, and exhibiting
the highest animation. At one corner
a pleasant little fiction is carried out—the
Stand—where are three carriages and half a
dozen jaunting-cars, which hold the select
beauty and elegance of New Ballyskelter.
We have none of the vulgar surplusage—
the booths, merry-go-rounds, theatres, and
the like; simply a tent or two for drink,
and a barrow or so for nuts and oranges.
The racing is what we have come for.

There is a crowd gathering down at a
green post, which is the starting-point, and
here is found the most original character of
the day, Dan Quinion, the starter, a very
corpulent official. This gentleman, with a
little flag in his hand, walks about, attended
by a worshipping crowd, who watch his
eccentric motions with amazing interest
and delight. Only two horses are going to
start for the present race—the Ballyskelter
Handicap—Mr. Murtagh's Fiddlestick and
Mr. Molloy's Cruiskeen. The first is a
tall and very fiery bay, ridden by a dowdy
amateur in blue satin; the second is a little
scrubby black horse, with a decayed tail
and jocular kind of bearing, and ridden
by a knowing jockey, whose colours are
described, in the correct card, as all white;
and white indeed they are, for the gentleman
rides in a white waistcoat and
shirt-sleeves. This pair arrive at the post,
surrounded by the whole company of the
course, who stand in front, and never
dream of getting out of the way. Every
one gives directions to each of the jockeys,
according to his respective partialities;
every one pats the flanks of the bright bay,
and of the screwy black with the decayed
tail. The starter, Mr. Dan Quinion, who is
himself directing jockeys, horses, crowd,
and all the world, implores, "Ah, keep
back, will yer. My heart's broke with ye
all; stand aside, and let them run clear!"
while, "Hould her, Andy, till the big lep!"
"See, Andy! Take the wind out of the
bay at oncst!" are the contradictory
directions showered on the rider of
decayed tail, who evidently represents the
popular interest. Suddenly Dan, flourishing
his flag, gives a wild Indian whoop:

"Whoroo, boys! Away with yees!" And
giving "a skelp" with his flag-stick to the
black, as he flies by, a start is
accomplished; not only a start of the horses, but of
all the spectators, who set off at full speed
after the competitors, before them, beside
them, screaming and whooping. Over the
hurdles the horses go in fine style, no
refusing, blue leading handsomely. But
every one has confidence in the little black
horse, and in white shirt-sleeves, who
plainly knows what he is about. There is
a miniature Tattenham-corner near home,
where several jumps are close together,
and there we see as gallant a struggle as
could be conceived. "Mangy tail," as some
one near me calls him, comes working up,
whip, spur, and arms going as hard as
ever whip or spur went. Blue satin looks
back nervously as he rises over the last
fence, is collared as he touches the ground,
amid a roar of delight, the two come in
almost together, "mangy tail" winning by
a nose. It is amazing to watch the
enthusiastic recklessness of the crowd; later in
the day it is scarcely surprising to learn
that poor Larry was knocked down, and
Mick run over and half kilt.

I pass over succeeding events to come to
the sporting feature of the day, namely, the
hack race, the contributions to which are
made by about a dozen carmen, who have
entered their favourite cab and car horses.
All visitors to Ballyskelter will recal the
rows of well-kept cars, smart horses, and
frolicsome drivers, who joke and fight with
each other, and drive their beasts down
steep hills with equal recklessness. They
are funny, rollicking, forward fellows, and
are complimented with a staff of police to
look after them specially. And the sporting
members of this body have sent the
little brown filly and Tim's grey horse, or
Pat Molloy's spavined mare, or the bay pony,
to the post, riding themselves, or getting a
knowing friend to put his leg across. Many
is the half-crown put on, not to make money,
but to express the modest pride and
confidence with which these gentlemen regard
their champions. I protest, such a gathering
at the post never was seen; such backing
on each other; such kicking up of
frisky colts, and such jockey uniforms.
Every one, however, had whip and spurs,
intended strictly for use, and not for
ornament. Again Dan struggles to the front
with his flag, swearing hard, and at last
lets them go, with his favourite war cry,
"Whoroo, ye blazers! Away with yees!"
and away they do go. A capital race. Two
down at the first "lep," two more at the
next, the grey working up and passing the
little pony, the dark filly working up to the
grey, then a grand struggle home between
the three, whips, bits, spurs, elbows, heads,