the House of Commons, and the fashionable
world, is about to take the military command
of a province rather larger than France; and
the usual miscellaneous lots of animals for all
uses, fit for park, field, or state carriage,
brougham, tandem, fly, to breed from or
feed hounds. Sunday is a great day at
Tattersall's. The sporting aristocracy are
so oppressively hampered for time during
the rest of the week, that Sunday is the only
day they can find to buy horses and to make
bets. Their Sabbath desecration we fully
recommend to those advocates of Sabbath
observance whose attention has been hitherto
confined to tea-drinkings and country
excursions of pent-up artisans and their stifled
families. The aristocracy may have its Sunday
Tattersall's unquestioned; but the labourocracy
must not have its Sunday Crystal
Palace on any terms whatever.

Tattersall's yard—a square ill-paved court,
adorned in its centre with a painted cupola,
crowned with a painted bust of George the
Regent, over a painted fox—is crowded on
Sunday with gentle and simple. There is Lord
Bullfinch determined to buy Brookjumper, and
so is Ginger the horsedealer, who will run him
very hard; Tomkins in search of a pony for
his little boy; the Earl of Flower-de-Luce,
with his eye on a pair of greys for the
Countess's chariot; Mr. Bullion, ready to
secure Mr. Welter's cob, although it cost him
a check in three large figures; and Nobbler,
the gaming-house-keeper, who is on the
look out for a good-looking bit of blood, that
he may make useful either to win or lose.
There they are, crowded together—the learned
and unlearned, high-born and low-born,
the capitalist and the adventurer, the new
fledged man of fashion, and the broken-down
gentleman—beside a host of idlers, examining
each horse as he is brought out, with an
affectation of acuteness that is truly national.
Although there are horse buyers of all
grades, the well-dressed are the majority.
The slang style of attire has gone out.
The green coat and top boots in which
Thurtell and other murderers swaggered
on the race-course and the betting-ring is
out of fashion; and, if seen, generally covers
some decent north country farmer. Black is
the favourite wear. The neat-looking quietly
dressed man in patent leather boots and
closely-cropped whiskers, whom your country
cousin takes for a peer, is a horsedealer. The
bearded gentleman, ringed and chained,
magnificent in waistcoats and solid jewellery, is
an ex-quaker capitalist, and arm-in-arm with
the son of a Clapham dissenter; while sporting
publicans and keepers of betting-lists
affect a sobriety of dress and demeanour
which, five-and-twenty years ago, would have
been considered the mark of what in that
day was known as "A Methodist."

On Monday the auctioneer might, as he
passes through the crowd to the forum, be
taken for a barrister or a physician, or even
for a clergyman. "The Pride of Leicestershire"
is brought out; a big horse, with a scanty
mane, and no magnificence of tail, with
several marks of scars and bangs on all legs.
The Count de Volage, who is intent on carrying
back something to out-rival his friends
in the Champs Elysées, is astonished to hear
an animal of such unprepossessing appearance
introduced to the audience in a very few
words, and in a very few minutes, with very
little fuss, knocked down for upwards of five
thousand francs. The sale goes on; no noise,
no fuss, no wrangling; the auctioneer an
autocrat, before whom all give way. To
horses of priceless value, succeed others within
the reach of all pockets—some good, some
good for nothing; Volage secures a grey
pony, with a flowing mane and tail, that steps
along in a perpetual prance, at a tenth part
of the price of the grand bête de chase de
reynard, and makes an oration to surrounding
cads and grooms, which they don't understand
and much despise.

Seven or eight thousand pounds' worth of
horseflesh is disposed of with as much sober
seriousness, and not more unseemly excitement
than if it had been a sale of old China or
autographs. There are no disputes; the rules
prevent them; the fashion of the place is to
be respectable. The English admiration for
and imitation of lords comes out in the
universal mutation; when lords in top-
boots attended fights, drank deep at
taverns, and boxed in the streets, their humble
followers did the like. Now black-coats and
eyeglasses curiously fixed, are considered
the correct thing. How can any cad
venture to begin a stormy dispute when he
goes into Tattersall's gloomy office to pay
his money, when, perhaps, a cabinet minister
is warming his back at the fire? If any
excesses of language are ever permitted, it is
in the very ancient tavern that stands
within the premises opposite the gates of
the sale yard;—a tavern, the like of
which for thorough unchangeability of
character, is not to be met with even in the
neighbourhood of Temple Bar. One-storied,
with latticed small-paned windows; an
ancient bench on each side the narrow portal
to accommodate the foot-sore groom or helper
out of place, when not occupied by washing
tubs or cooking-pots. No gin-palatial style
has been permitted to deface either the
interior or exterior of this primitive tavern;
where perhaps the possessor of Highflyer
and founder of Hyde Park Corner, formerly
smoked the pipe of peace. The counter—
guiltless of brass, and dark with the beer of
three generations—bears the hieroglyphic
carvings of feather weights, who have since
grown into state coachmen of state dimensions.
All is dark, dusky, cobwebby, except
the beer, which enjoys the excellence incident
to a quick draught, and critical customers.
There is an ordinary, laid out in a supplemental
apartment adorned with sporting prints,