The Press.
London, England, 1858-11-13 00:00:00

sparting.

THE GREAT SCULLERS' RACE between Thomas
White, of Bermondsey, and Harry Clasper, of New-
castle•upon-Tyty?, came off on Tuesday ; the distance
to be rowed being from Putney to Mortlake. At
fifteen minutes past three the men rowed to the
centre of Putney-bridge, and at eighteen minutes
past the hour, after a couple of abortive attempts, a
beautiful start was effected. White's first stroke
was a miracle—he seemed completely to lift his boat
out of the water, the effect of which was to give him
an immediate advantage over Clasper. In six
minutes from leaving Putney-bridge White was off
the Crab Tree two or three lengths in advance of
Clasper. Hammersmith-bridge was next reached in
nine minutes thirteen seconds, White increasing his
lead. At Barnes, in nineteen minutes thirteen
seconds, White, who had the race all to himself,
frequently turned his head to witness his competitor's
vain but plucky attempt to overhaul him, but
White was now sure of victory, and the winning post
was reached in twenty-three minutes twelve seconds
from the time of starting ; Clasper being about 130
to 150 yards to the rear. During the race it was
evident that Clasper stood no chance with his
opponent, who was by twenty five years his junior ; but
it must be confessed that, for a man who has seen
forty-eight summers, he acquitted himself most
creditably. At starting the betting was 2to 1
on White, hut• in a few minutes after the race had
commenced it was " a guinea to a gooseberry."
SPORTING VICISSITUDES are exemplified in the
death of ➢lr. Ridsdale. Years ago he had a hundred
horses and was worth thousands; he died with only
3d. in his pocket, and a subscription saved him from
a pauper's funeral.
ENGLISH LOVE ow FIELD SPORTS is thus depicted
by a contemporary :—The first Napoleon designated
us a nation of shopkeepers, and, so far as our com-
mercial habits and enterprize justify the appellation,
it is not a misnomer; but we are also a race of
sportsmen—from the little urchin who," with crooked
pin, baited with one unwrithing ring of a dead worm,
and attached to a yarn-thread, his rod of the mere
willow, or hazel wand, stands on the low bridge of
the little bit burnie during all his play-hours, as for-
getful of his primer as if the weary art of printing had
never been invented, day atter day, week after week,
month after month, in mute, deep, earnest, passionate
heart, mind and soul-engrossing hope of some time
o: other catching a minnow or a beardie," to the
wealthy noble or commoner, who is owner of a stable
of bunters, and two or three score couples of noble
fox-bounds—English boys and English men love the
pastimes of field, flood, and fell. At the proper
seasons the merchant leaves the counting-house and
'Change, the tradesman his counter, to tempt the
trout from his deep haunts, or put up the covey
in the stubble and the red grouse on the moor lands,
or follow the trail of the fox with flee►-footed hound.
It is a well-known fact that some of the most skilful
anglers, the surest shots, and the boldest riders at a
five-bar gate are men, the far largest portion of
whose time is spent amid the throngs of our com-
mercial and manufacturing cities and towns. If we
take another section of the community, the aristo-
cracy, the men of independent means, and our agri-
cultural population—not the mere labourers, how-
ever—this. enthusiasm for field sports is almost um-
versa!, and its indulgence is considered as much a
maker of duty as more serious occupations. It is to