To-day I visited Ascot. Race-courses are similar every
where, and present the same objects; good horses, cruel
riders, knowing men, dupes, jockeys, gamblers, and a
large assemblage of mixed company. But this is a gayer
scene than most others; and every epithet, appropriate
to a course, diminutive or otherwise, must he in the
superlative degree when applied to Ascot. This is the
general, and often the only impression that most men
carry away with them.

Mr. Slick, who regards these things practically, called
my attention to another view of it.

"Squire," said he, "I'd a plaguy sight sooner see Ascot
than any thing else to England. There ain't nothin' like
it. I don't mean the racin', because they can't go ahead
like us, if they was to die for it. We have colts that
can whip chain lightnin', on a pinch. Old Clay trotted
with it once all round an orchard, and beat it his whole
length, but it singed his tail properly as he passed it,
you may depend. It ain't its runnin' I speak of, therefore,
though that ain't mean nother; but it's got another
featur', that you'll know it by from all others. Oh it's
an everlastin' pity you warn't here, when I was to England
last time. Queen was there then; and where she is, of
coarse all the world and its wife is too. She warn't
there this year, and it sarves folks right. If I was an
angelyferous queen, like her, I wouldn't go nowhere till
I had a tory minister, and then a feller that had a
"trigger-eye" would stand a chance to get a white