dresses of those fair dames who lent
such richness and picturesque beauty to the old days dead now so long
ago in the far past. The fine-looking old planters too are decked in
their holiday suits, their powdered hair is tied into queues behind
with neat black ribbon, and they descend and mingle with their
neighbors, and discuss the coming festival.

Gay youths, in rich brilliant dresses, caracole up to the carriages on
fiery steeds, to display their horsemanship, and exchange compliments
with their friends, and make pretty speeches, which are received by
the bright-eyed damsels with little ogles, and flirts of their
variegated fans, and rapturous delight.

Meanwhile the crowd grows each moment, as the flood pours in from the
north, the south, the east, the west--from every point of the compass,
and in every species of vehicle. There are gay parties of the yeomen
and their wives and daughters, in carryalls and wagons filled with
straw, upon which chairs are placed: there are rollicking fast men--if
we may use a word becoming customary in our own day--who whirl in, in
their curricles: there are barouches and chairs, spring wagons and
carts, all full, approaching in every way from a sober walk to a
furious headlong dash, all "going to the races." There are horsemen
who lean forward, horsemen who lean back; furious, excited horsemen
urging their steeds with whip and spur; cool, quiet horsemen, who ride
erect and slowly; there are, besides, pedestrians of every class and
appearance, old and young, male and female, black and white--all going
to the races.

The hour at last arrives, and a horn sounding from the judges' stand,
the horses are led out in their blankets and head-coverings, and
walked up and down before the crowd by their trainers, who are for the
most part old gray-headed negroes, born and raised, to the best of
their recollection, on the turf. The riders are noble scions of the
same ancient stock, and average three feet and a half in height, and
twenty pounds in weight. They are clad in ornamental garments; wear
little close-fitting caps; and while they are waiting, sit huddled up
in the grass, sucking their thumbs, and talking confidentially about
"them there hosses."

Let us look at the objects of their attention; they are well worth it.

Mr. Howard enters the bay horse _Sir Archy_, out of Flying Dick, by
Roderick.

Mr. James enters _Fair Anna_, a white mare, dam Virginia, sire
Belgrave.

Captain Wate