one Star-Rider left; omnibus which forms
the Pay-Place, having on separate panels
Pay here for the Boxes, Pay here for the
Pit, Pay here for the Gallery, hove down
in a corner and locked up; nobody near the
tent but the man on his knees on the grass,
who is making the paper balloons for
the Star young gentlemen to jump through
to-night. A pleasant road, pleasantly wooded.
No labourers working in the fields; all gone
"t'races." The few late wenders of their
way "t'races," who are yet left driving on
the road, stare in amazement at the recluse
who is not going "t'races." Roadside inn-
keeper has gone "t'races." Turnpike-man
has gone "t'races." His thrifty wife, washing
clothes at the toll-house door, is going
"t'races" to-morrow. Perhaps there may
be no one left to take the toll to-morrow;
who knows? Though assuredly that would
be neither turnpike-like, nor Yorkshire-like.
The very wind and dust seem to be hurrying
"t'races," as they briskly pass the only
wayfarer on the road. In the distance, the Railway
Engine, waiting at the town-end, shrieks
despairingly. Nothing but the difficulty of
getting off the Line, restrains that Engine
from going "t'races," too, it is very clear.

At night, more Lunatics out than last
night and more Keepers. The latter very
active at the Betting Rooms, the street in
front of which is now impassable. Mr. Palmer
as before. Mr. Thurtell as before. Roar and
uproar as before. Gradual subsidence as
before. Unmannerly drinking house
expectorates as before. Drunken negro-melodists,
Gong-donkey, and correct cards, in the night.

On Wednesday morning, the morning of
the great St. Leger, it becomes apparent that
there has been a great influx since yesterday,
both of Lunatics and Keepers. The families
of the tradesmen over the way are no longer
within human ken; their places know them
no more; ten, fifteen, and twenty guinea-
lodgers fill them. At the pastry-cook's second-
floor window, a Keeper is brushing Mr.
Thurtell's hair—thinking it his own. In the
wax-chandler's attic, another Keeper is
putting on Mr. Palmer's braces. In the
gunsmith's nursery, a Lunatic is shaving himself.
In the serious stationer's best sitting-room,
three Lunatics are taking a combination-breakfast,
praising the (cook's) devil, and
drinking neat brandy in an atmosphere of
last midnight's cigars. No family sanctuary
is free from our Angelic messengers—we put
up at the Angel—who in the guise of extra
waiters for the grand Race-Week, rattle in
and out of the most secret chambers of
everybody's house, with dishes and tin covers,
decanters, soda-water bottles, and glasses.
An hour later. Down the street and up the
street, as far as eyes can see and a good deal
farther, there is a dense crowd; outside the
Betting Rooms it is like a great struggle at a
theatre door—in the days of theatres; or at
the vestibule of the Spurgeon temple—in the
days of Spurgeon. An hour later. Fusing
into this crowd, and somehow getting through
it, are all kinds of conveyances, and all kinds
of foot-passengers; carts, with brick-makers
and brick-makeresses jolting up and down
on planks; drags, with the needful grooms
behind, sitting crossed-armed in the needful
manner, and slanting themselves backward
from the soles of their boots at the needful
angle; postboys, in the shining hats and
smart jackets of the olden time, when stokers
were not; beautiful Yorkshire horses,
gallantly driven by their own breeders and
masters. Under every pole, and every shaft,
and every horse, and every wheel as it would
seem, the Gong-donkey—metallically braying,
when not struggling for life, or whipped out
of the way.

By one o'clock, all this stir has gone out of
the streets, and there is no one left in them
but Francis Goodchild. Francis Goodchild
will not be left in them long; for, he too is
on his way "t'races."

A most beautiful sight, Francis Goodchild
finds "t'races" to be, when he has left fair
Doncaster behind him, and comes out on the
free course, with its agreeable prospect, its
quaint Red House oddly changing and
turning as Francis turns, its green grass, and
fresh heath. A free course and an easy one,
where Francis can roll smoothly where he
will, and can choose between the start, or the
coming-in, or the turn behind the brow of
the hill, or any out-of-the-way point where
he lists to see the throbbing horses straining
every nerve, and making the sympathetic
earth throb as they come by. Francis much
delights to be, not in the Grand Stand,
but where he can see it, rising against
the sky with its vast tiers of little white
dots of faces, and its last high rows and
corners of people, looking like pins stuck
into an enormous pin-cushion—not quite
so symmetrically as his orderly eye could
wish, when people change or go away. When
the race is nearly run out, it is as good
as the race to him to see the flutter among
the pins, and the change in them from dark
to light, as hats are taken off and waved.
Not less full of interest, the loud anticipation
of the winner's name, the swelling, and
the final, roar; then, the quick dropping of
all the pins out of their places, the revelation
of the shape of the bare pin-cushion,
and the closing-in of the whole host of
Lunatics and Keepers, in the rear of the
three horses with bright-coloured riders, who
have not yet quite subdued their gallop
though the contest is over.

Mr. Goodchild would appear to have been
by no means free from lunacy himself at
"t'races," though not of the prevalent kind.
He is suspected by Mr. Idle to have fallen
into a dreadful state concerning a pair of little
lilac gloves and a little bonnet that he saw
there. Mr Idle asserts, that he did afterwards