"Off" is the cry: away they go again; Tacony breaks up--again a gap, which huge strides speedily close up--again Tacony wins.

Time, five minutes five seconds.
All is over, rush to the cars, &c.

Remarks:--first, the pace is at the rate of twenty-four miles an hour; second, the clear old lady, who was only beaten by a length, is long out of her teens; is it not wonderful, and is she not glorious in her defeat?
Fancy Dowager Lady L---- taking a pedestrian fit, and running a race along Rotten Row with some "fast young man;" what would you say, if she clutched his coat-tail as he touched the winning-post?
Truly, that dear old Lady Suffolk is a marvellous quadruped.

Reader, as you do not care to go back again with the Rowdies and Co., we will suppose ourselves returned to New York, and I can only hope you have not been bored with your day's amusement.
Among the extraordinary fancies of this extraordinary race--who are ever panting for something new, even if it be a new territory--the most strange is the metallic coffin: the grave is no protection against their mania for novelty.

In the windows of a shop in Broadway, this strange, and to my mind revolting, article may be seen, shaped like a mummy, fitting hermetically tight, and with a plate of glass to reveal the features of the inanimate inmate.