thee less, but that I love Tacony more?” Far from it.  Was it that I was steeped in ingratitude?  I trust not.  Ladies, oh, ladies!—­lovely creatures that you are—­think not so harshly of a penitent bachelor.  You have all read of one of your sex through whom Evil—­which takes its name from, her—­first came upon earth, and you know the motive power of that act was—­curiosity.  I plead guilty to that motive power on the present occasion; and, while throwing myself unreservedly on your clemency, I freely offer myself as a target for the censure of each one among you who, in the purity of truth can say, “I never felt such an influence in all my life.”  Reader, remember you cannot be one of these, for the simple fact of casting your eyes over this page affords sufficient presumptive evidence for any court of law to bring you in guilty of a curiosity to know what the writer has to say.—­To resume.

The race-course at Philadelphia is a road on a perfect level, and a circle of one mile; every stone is carefully removed, and it looks as smooth and clean as a swept floor.  The stand commands a perfect view of the course; but its neglected appearance shows clearly that trotting-matches here are not as fashionable as they used to be, though far better attended than at New York.  Upon the present occasion the excitement was intense; you could detect it even in the increased vigour with which the smoking and spitting was carried on.  An antagonist had been found bold enough to measure speed with “Mac”—­the great Mac who, while “Whipping creation,” was also said never to have let out his full speed.  He was thorough-bred, about fifteen and a half hands, and lighter built than my raw-boned friend Tacony, and he had lately been sold for 1600l.  So sure did people apparently feel of Mac’s easy victory, that even betting was out of the question.  Unlike the Long Island affair, the riders appeared in jockey attire, and the whole thing was far better got up.  Ladies, however, had long ceased to grace such scenes.

Various false starts were made, all on the part of Mac, who, trusting to the bottom of blood, apparently endeavoured to ruffle Tacony’s temper and weary him out a little.  How futile were the efforts the sequel plainly showed.  At length a start was effected, and away they went, Tacony with his hind legs as far apart as the centre arch of Westminster Bridge, and with strides that would almost clear the Bridgewater Canal.  Mac’s rider soon found that, in trying to ginger Tacony’s temper, he had peppered his own horse’s, for he broke-up into a gallop twice.  Old Tacony and his rider had evidently got intimate since I had seen them at New York, and they now thoroughly understood each other.  On he went, with giant strides; Mac fought bravely for the van, but could not get his nose beyond Tacony’s saddle-girth at the winning-post—­time, 2m. 25-1/2s.