The race is to be “under the saddle,” and the long list of competitors which had been announced has dwindled down to the old and far-famed Lady Suffolk and the young and unfamed Tacony.

A stir among the “rowdies” is seen, followed by the appearance “on the boards” of Lady Suffolk.  I gazed in wonder as I saw her—­a small pony-looking animal—­moving her legs as though they were in splints, and as if six miles an hour was far beyond her powers; soon after, Tacony came forward, the picture of a good bony post-horse, destitute of any beauty, but looking full of good stuff.  The riders have no distinctive dress; a pair of Wellington boots are pulled on outside the trousers, sharp spurs are on the heels—­rough and ready looking birds these.  The winning-post is opposite the stand, the umpire is there with a deal board in his hand, a whack on the side of the stand “summons to horse,” and another summons to “start.”  The start is from the distance-post, so as to let the horses get into the full swing of their pace by the time they reach the winning-post, when, if they are fairly up together, the cry “Off” is given; if it be not given, they try again.  When speaking of the time in which the mile is completed, the fact of its commencing at full speed should always be borne in mind:  sometimes false starts are made by one party, on purpose to try and irritate the temper of the adversary’s horse; and in the same way, if a man feels he has full command of his own horse, he will yell like a wild Indian, as he nears his adversary, to make him “break up”—­or go into a gallop; and, as they are all trained to speed more by voice than by spur, he very often succeeds, and of course the adversary loses much ground by pulling up into a trot again.

On the present occasion there was no false start; the echo of the second whack was still in the car as they reached the winning-post neck and neck.  “Off” was the word, and away they went.  It certainly was marvellous to see how dear old Lady Suffolk and her stiff legs flew round the course; one might have fancied she had been fed on lightning, so quick did she move them, but with wonderfully short steps.  Tack, on the contrary, looked as if he had been dieted on India-rubber balls:  every time he raised a hind leg it seemed to shoot his own length a-head of himself; if he could have made his steps as quick as the old lady, he might have done a mile in a minute nearly.  Presently, Tacony breaks up, and, ere he pulls into a trot, a long gap is left.  Shouts of “Lady Suffolk, Lady Suffolk wins!” rend the air; a few seconds more, and the giant strides of Tacony lessen the gap at every step:  they reach the distance-post neck and neck; “Tacony wins!” is the cry, and true enough it is—­by a length.  Young blood beats old blood—­India-rubber balls “whip” lightning.  Time, five minutes.