The other races are much the same; there are lots of entries:  the horses are in splendid condition, and the riding is superb.  What is better, everything is emphatically ‘on the square.’  No pulling and roping here, no false entries, no dodging of any kind.  Fine, gallant, English gentlemen meet each other in fair and honest emulation, and enjoy the favourite national sport in perfection.  The ‘Waler’ race, for imported Australians, brings out fine, tall, strong-boned, clean-limbed horses, looking blood all over.  The country breds, with slender limbs, small heads, and glossy coats, look dainty and delicate as antelopes.  The lovely, compact Arabs, the pretty-looking ponies, and the thick-necked, coarse-looking Cabools, all have their respective trials, and then comes the great event—­the race of the day—­the Steeplechase.

The course is marked out behind the grand stand, following a wide circle outside the flat course, which it enters at the quarter-mile post, so that the finish is on the flat before the grand stand.  The fences, ditches, and water leap, are all artificial, but they are regular howlers, and no make-believes.

Seven horses are despatched to a straggling start, and all negotiate the first bank safely.  At the next fence a regular snorter of a ’post and rail’—­topped with brushwood—­two horses swerve, one rider being deposited on his racing seat upon mother earth, while the other sails away across country in a line for home, and is next heard of at the stables.  The remaining five, three ‘walers’ and two country-breds, race together to the water jump, where one waler deposits his rider, and races home by himself, one country-bred refuses, and is henceforth out of the race, and the other three, taking the leap in beautiful style, put on racing pace to the next bank, and are in the air together.  A lovely sight!  The country is now stiff, and the stride of the waler tells.  He is leading the country-breds a ‘whacker,’ but he stumbles and falls at the last fence but one from home.  His gallant rider, the undaunted ‘Roley,’ remounts just as the two country-breds pass him like a flash of light.  ‘Nothing venture, nothing win,’ however, so in go the spurs, and off darts the waler like an arrow in pursuit.  He is gaining fast, and tops the last hurdle leading to the straight just as the hoofs of the other two reach the ground.

It is now a matter of pace and good riding.  It will be a close finish; the waler is first to feel the whip; there is a roar from the crowd; he is actually leading; whips and spurs are hard at work now; it is a mad, headlong rush; every muscle is strained, and the utmost effort made; the poor horses are doing their very best; amid a thunder of hoofs, clouds of dust, hats in air, waving of handkerchiefs from the grand stand, and a truly British cheer from the paddock, the ‘waler’ shoots in half a length ahead; and so end the morning’s races.