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she descended and found her father and the abhorred Milano waiting to conduct her to the chapel. Shuddering, and almost sinking to the earth with agitation, she was led to the holy sanctuary.

There was no priest in readiness to perform the ceremony!

Surprise and displeasure filled the breasts of the Conte and Duc at this unexpected obstacle; and the former was about to despatch a messenger to the adjacent monastery for the abbot, who had promised to perform the rites, when a monk entered the chapel, and, addressing the Conte, exclaimed

Signor, the Abbot of San Carlo has just expired in convulsions, but here is a Senior Brother who has been sent by the fraternity to solemnize the nuptials."

A ray of vague hope darted across the desolate heart of the bride as she beheld the friar advance, whose face was closely muffled up in his cowl. She pondered upon the mystic incident of the morning, and flattering sensations of hope agitated her bosom. Milano commanded the monk to commence the ceremony: the Conte and Lorenzo led forward the trembling victim, when suddenly the officiating priest, closing the sacred volume, shouted, in a shrill and unearthly tone, the word

"REVENGE!"

And, with the velocity of lightning, drawing a poniard from the folds of his garment, plunged it to the hilt in the heart of the bridegroom. Milano staggered and fell. A shriek of dismay burst from the appalled group, and the Conte rushed forward to seize the motionless assassin.

"Hold!" murmured he, in that peculiar voice which Rosolia had heard in the morning. "Hold! touch me not. I am no mean bravo-no hired assassin. I do not intend to fly you!"

Then, with a majestic wave of the hand, he tore off the cowl and monkish weeds which concealed his form and features, and displayed to the enhorrored gaze of the expiring Milano the ghastly but still wildly beautiful countenance of Agata di Valozzi! A groan of agony issued from the lips of the Duc, as she approached him.

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Revenge for revenge-deceit for deceit-blood for blood!" uttered she, in a solemn tone. "Thou knowest me, Salerno! Thou diest, and I too am avenged. I have already wreaked my own wrongs-I shall now also wreak thine!"

And before the speechless and terrified spectators could interfere, she drew another weapon from her vest, and buried it in her bosom ! A hollow laugh of delirious anguish passed her lips as she fell near the prostrate form of Milano, and, murmuring the word "Revenge!" her spirit fled.

Milano-the guilty Milano-expired by her side, and the blood of the beguiled and the beguiler mingled in one purple stream!

Rosolia had swooned and been carried up to the hall by her brother, where the horror-struck Conte now followed. The awful and harrowing event of the night, and the impressive fates of Agata and Milano, explained by Father Cipriano, the new Abbot of San Carlo, affected

his mind so deeply, that the most desirable change took place in his character nor was it many weeks ere he cheerfully consented to the nuptials of Rosolia and her faithful lover, whose succeeding days were happy, for they were possessed of that inward

66 Peace, which goodness bosoms ever."

THE ASCOT CUP DAY.
BY CASTOR.

Gentle reader, you have been to Newmarket of course? "Why you see, Mr. What-ever-you-choose-to-call-yourself, I am not what is termed a thorough-racing man, and it's a very long-" "O! I beg your pardon, but you needn't explain; in fact, you have not been to Newmarket." "Not so fast, Mr. Writer, not so fast; I have been there, though to be sure I did not see the races, for I was on my way to Norwich in the mail." Then, Sir, I beg leave to say again that you have not been to Newmarket; and now (you'll excuse me), have you ever been to Epsom? I say nothing of going through the town; but did you ever see the Derby run for? What a question! I should think I have, too; why I saw Priam, Mundig, St. Giles-" Ah! that's quite sufficient; you make it almost a regular thing, and have by this time, no doubt, found some excellent excuse to make to your conscience, or your wife, for the trip. By-the-bye, you won five pounds on the race, I think, in Plenipo.'s year, and made no little brag about paying expenses; but, entré nous, you lost it the very next, and what's worse, you haven't had a turn since. And now, third and lastly, for the grand point we have been aiming at. I shall not insult you by asking the question once more-" of course" you have been to Ascot? Not all on the selfish plan in this case, for your wife- "I have not got one." O, you miserable wretch! though a Benedict looking over my shoulder swears you are a very lucky fellow; but attend to me, if you please-you have a sister or two, a cousin, a lady love-There, pray don't contradict me again; the devil's in it, you would not go to Ascot without a fair one or two under your protection-no, no, I'm sure you could not; and now I appeal to all, gentle and simple. Ladies and gentlemen, very knowing men, who can tell us the names of horses and jockeys, almost before they see them-ay, and the winners, too, if you'll only believe them; and you, whose "ignorance is bliss," who know nothing about the racing, and care less, one and all, did you ever see? were you ever at any meeting where you so thoroughly enjoyed yourselves as on that Thursday you annually mark out as an alba dies, on Royal Ascot's Heath?

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Here the man who really delights to see the thorough-bred horse in his best form, and his friend, who scarcely looks at the winner of the Cup, are equally at home; here are sights for every description of sight seers. First and foremost in our list stands-one need

hardly name what throws such a lustre over Ascot above all other Olympic plains-Her most gracious Majesty, who, with her royal suite, on no occasion to be seen at greater advantage, is well worth travelling hundreds of miles to behold; the Master of the Buckhounds in full costume, with his badge of office; and (quite as great a man in his way) the Royal Huntsman, the elegant Mr. Davis, such a master of his business, and so very much of a gentleman. Again, the crowds of youth and beauty that grace the most splendid stand in the world, or the line of carriages on the right of the run-in; from a seat, too, on one of these, the race may be seen nearly from end to end, and from the same place the saddling, cantering, and every preparation, in fact, without any hurrying to and fro; the convenience of the public being consulted here to a much greater degree than it is at any other meeting.

This, I fancy, makes one prefer Ascot. Who, I would ask, ever saw the Derby from start to finish? Place yourself on the Epsom Stand, and you certainly catch a bird's-eye view of the race, though but little more; while to look the horses, or some particular favourite over, see them canter, and then be back to the stand in time for the race, is next to impossible; at least if they get them off, which I most cordially hope they will continue to do, in the double quick time they did this year. The plan I prefer is seeing all up to the start, and just previous to their drawing up for that awful moment, rattling away to the top of the hill; from which station perhaps the most important part of the race may be witnessed. Still there is at Epsom a confusion which the oldest stagers cannot clear up. Only look at the saddling for the last Derby: Cotherstone, Gaper, Gamecock, Winesour, Sir Gilbert's pair, Theobald's, cum multis aliis, were recognized; but where was the horse that so many had once placed their hopes in, and to which some few still pinned their faith-A British Yeoman? Why, saddled, as every horse should have been, in front of the Grand Stand, and taking his canter with the others, when some had given up all hopes of seeing him at the post.

At no meeting are the numbers of the starters, with that of the winner, better managed than at Ascot; this system is now becoming pretty general, though, strange to say, the authorities at Epsom have not yet taken the trouble to let the many-headed know the jockeys weighed for the great race of the season. That numbers are necessary to distinguish the different nags, in addition to the colours in which they are ridden, few will attempt to deny; for instance, let us take the nominations as given on the card for the New Stakes at Ascot this year-No. 1 is Mr. Shelley's fil., black with a white cap; No. 2, Mr. Shelley's Omphate, black with a white cap; No. 6, Mr. Wreford's colt, by Camel, out of Margellina, black with a white cap. Out of the three, only one shows, which certainly any racing man, seeing "Young John" up, might, without much fear of being wrong, put down as the Camel colt. But all are not racing men (pity they should be); and how the deuce could the tyro tell with any degree of certainty from his card what it was, had he not the black board to look to? From that he finds that neither No. 1

nor 2 are among the field, but that No. 6 is. This not only saves much confusion, but prevents no little foul play and trickery; for let a man be ever so green, by keeping his eyes open he may make sure of a start for his money, which, according to the present P. P. rules, is not be forgotten. The name of the winner, too, proclaimed immediately after each race, is a great boon to all parties, but particularly so to the unsophisticated, who, a few years back, often returned home little wiser than they started, and who looked for the account of the races at which they had been present in the next morning's paper before they could satisfy themselves as to what started and what won. The year that Caravan, or rather Robinson, won the Ascot Cup, by as fine a display of jockeyship as ever was witnessed, I saw on the stand money paid over (the parties entire strangers to each other) on the supposition that St. Francis had won; Caravan being third as they passed, and, as most people thought, out of the race. And when Amato won the Derby, though there was plenty of shouting from the locals in one quarter, hundreds were certain Ion had won. This confusion, or something worse, is now put a stop to-thanks, many thanks to Lord George Bentinck, who has in a few years done more to organize the Turf, and make things as they should be, than any individual either of the present or the past.

The Cup day this year was not anything like so brilliant as the same day last season: the sport perhaps was on the whole better, but the threatening state of the weather on the morning, with a consciousness of the two superlatively miserable days that preceded it, damped the ardour of thousands. This was certainly a heavy blow in itself, but when coupled with the fact (generally known), that the Queen would not be present, spoilt what would have otherwise been the most brilliant day ever beheld at Ascot. It is to be hoped her Majesty will not break through a custom adopted by so many of her predecessors; indeed the mere mention of the place almost instinctively calls to mind the presence of royalty, who have so long been wont to make the sport there "the sport of kings."

The racing commenced with a stake of 100 sovs. each, for which three showed: Murat with Nat, and 5 to 1 on him; Sam Rogers on an Elis colt of the Duke of Richmond's; and Mac on that brute in every respect, Highlander-the horse that was to have won the Derby, and nobody knows how much in addition to it. Mr. Theobald has another Derby nag, known as Humbug, but vclept, in allusion to his fair proportions, " Little Humbug." Now were I an advocate for changing the names of race-horses, or what people at times take to be such, the one I should recommend for the brown horse would be, "Great Humbug;" who was started for this stake, I presume, to see if the Derby running was "quite correct," which it proved to be to a nicety. There is a joke told against the master of Stockwell, that on a certain occasion Macdonald was riding a nag from that stable, who, like Highlander in the present instance, had very little to do with the race, still at every turn, even up to the distance, when quite beaten off, the cry of the owner was, "Mac's a coming!" "Mac's a coming!" and come he certainly did, though a very long way

behind. But to the race: Murat waited on the Duke's colt to the stand, ran with him to make a show of a race of it, and won in a canter by a length.

Her Majesty's Guineas brought four to the post; Rogers again making play on Gander at his best pace to the brick-kiln, where Gander found he had got "goose," and retired in toto. The Kate Kearney colt now went to the fore, and increased the pace, for "bad was the best" with the Colonel's nag; at the distance Lord Lowther's Silvertail colt ran up, and the pair of three-year-olds had the rest of it to themselves, the Newmarket horse, under the direction of Bartholomew, winning very easily by two lengths. Ma Mie was a bad third. 6 to 4 against the Kate Kearney colt, who I should fancy would be none the worse for a month's rest; he has had anything but an idle time of it since his debut at Coventry.

The Mickleham Hall was a match between Gaper and New Brighton, which, if we credit all the capital reasons why it was so near a race between the pair at Newmarket, was a certainty for Gaper, the more so as New Brighton was two lengths from him on the Tuesday over the Swinley Course. The betting, however, finished at only 6 to 4 on Gaper, and we had as fine a race for it as ever was seen, New Brighton keeping his neck and shoulders in front to the turn, where it was vice versa; within the distance they commenced a terrific struggle, of which the favourite had evidently the best, but cowed just at the finish, and was beaten by rather more than a head: Nat. for Lord Chesterfield, and Rogers for Lord George. Running every day in the week, I rather imagine, does not suit the Bay Middletons.

This brought us to the race of the day, the Cup, but not near so interesting as we had last year. St. Francis, from his Tuesday's performance, was thought but little of; Robert de Gorham was all wrong; while Ralph, on the other hand, being "all right," was in high favour. His stable companion, John o'Gaunt, having declined putting in an appearance, we had only four to the post-rather below the average for the last four or five years.

..J. Robinson.

S. Shifney.

Lord Albemarle's ch. h. Ralph, by Dr. Syntax, 5 yrs.. Mr. Pettit's b. h. St. Francis, by St. Patrick, aged.. Lord Verulam's b. c. Robert de Gorham, by Sir Hercules, 4 yrs ..W. Cotton. Mr. Holmes's br. h. Vulcan, by Verulam, 6 yrs... ...J. Day, jun. Before entering into a description of the race it may be as well to give an account of the Saint's doings for this and the Vase. In 1839, ridden by Conolly, he ran second to Caravan for the Cup, beaten only by a head, after a magnificent race, to which I have already alluded. In 1840, his grand season, he won the Vase, ridden by Robinson, and the Cup ridden by Chifney. In 1841 he ran a dead heat with Flambeau, for second place for the Cup, Lanercost winning it. In 1842 he won the Vase, ridden by Robinson, and ran third for the Cup, won by Bee's-wing; and this year he was not placed for the Vase, and second for the Cup. The first time, it will be observed, he started for both without winning one of them. His appearance with old Sam on him reminds me strongly of other days: his wiry varmint form, with the long swish-tail, plain snaffle bridle, and the yellow continuations of the master-hand who steers him, are

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