In the Off-Season 273 



sporting prints, the gallant deeds of many a 

 well-known pack : 



" Not a square inch of the wall is bare, 

 Herrings and Alkens, all are there;" 



whilst facing us, as we enter, is a steeple- 

 chasing print, in which a horse is apparently 

 chasing his dismounted jockey, open-mouthed, 

 across ridge and furrow. There are also two 

 old coaching pictures, more gaudy than artis- 

 tic, flanking a realistic, if apocryphal, contest 

 between "bold Bendigo" and a certain gigantic 

 nig — beg pardon! coloured gentleman. "Rouge 

 et Noir" might be selected as a suitable title 

 for this : it seems all blood and black man ! 



Mr. Nemo, the proprietor, takes off his hat 

 — an article of attire in which I firmly believe 

 he goes to bed every night — and we duly in- 

 form him of the fact that we shall be willing 

 to part with a certain, or uncertain, amount of 

 earthly dross if he can supply us with a horse 

 that can gallop and jump a bit, and is decently 

 temperate with hounds. And here I momen- 

 tarily pause, and in the words of the immortal 

 Jorrocks say, "Oh, my beloved 'earers," where, 



