ROYAL ASCOT.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 27, 5 July 1890, Page 8

ROYAL ASCOT.

(See illustration, page 13.)

SCOT —Koya] Ascot —is the culminating point fc' ie London season, after which it begins gradually to drop off. As its royal title in'i timaies, it is the king of race meetings. ■2- Ladies who would shrink at the idea of going ' *'° Newmarket or even the Derby dream of As-Bt* , Ascot months before the great week comes, for there is a whole week’s racing, anil each day is smarter than the last. Brains are racked and money poured out like water to procure something in dress that shall paralyse mankind with a speechless admiration. That is by the ladies, of course. But even foi men the light silk-lined dust-coat, the unapproachable unmentionables, and the white top hat with a gauze veil, not to mention the shiniest patent leather boots, are indispensable. The misguided individual who went down in a round felt and shabby get up would probably be refused admission to the sacred precincts of the ‘ Lawn,’ where the rank and fashion of the world disport themselves by special invitation of the Committee. Of course there is the less select grand stand, lawn and paddock, where for a trifle over £2 per day Mr Tom, Dick, and Harry wander about in equally smart array to their betters, and where most of the ready-money business is transacted. In a prominent position is Tattersail’s, where you may enter on payment of an extra guinea, and if you are known to any of the betting fraternity—‘ bookers ’as they are familiarly called—you may bet—on the nod—to any amount. ‘On the nod, ’ being translated, means that the transaction is closed by a nod on either side, no payment being made by winner or loser till the following Monday. One portion of our- magnificent illustration represents the starting for the heath. This is generally one of the most delightful parts of the day’s proceedings. We are certain we are going to make heaps of money. We are on the top of our dear friend Lord So-and-so’s drag (or perhaps he is only Smith, the grocer), and sitting next us is the girl we danced half a dozen dances with the night before, and who flirts so divinely. How lightheartedly we chat, and how joyous are our laughs ! The trees never looked so green, and the sun has surely never before shone so radiantly. How the four horses spank along, and what a brave show we make as we dash through the country villages, where the inhabitants have evidently taken a whole holiday for the pleasure of looking at us. Then we arrive on the heath, and, showing our emblazoned invitation cards, pass on to the sacred-to-Royalty lawn, followed by the envious glances of our less favoured friends. If it fs Smith the grocer, Smith must be a very millionaire, for this lawn is the veriest Holy of Holies. What a crowd there is ! The Marquis of Hartington and Lord Rosebery talking r acing lore as if politics were uninvented. The sturdy elderly Duchess of Montrose, betterknown as Mr Manton, a lady who knows more about the turf than almost any one, barring perhaps Lord Durham, who is the centre of a group of friends, who congratulate him on his latest essay on the turf, contributed to the ‘new’ Review. He is president of the Jockey Club. Handsome but dissipated looks Lord Ailesbury as he wanders about nodding shortly to a man who looks like a prize-fighter, but who is a twice-told millionaire in the person of Mr Abingdon Baird, ironmaster and racing man. The pair had some serious quarrels anent matrimonial affairs, but they soon made them up. Amongst the ladies we notice prominently Lady Randolph Churchill, the most witty and lovely woman in town. She has a large crowd around her. Lady Dudley, magnificently dressed, as usual, in a simple gown showing oil' every line of her magnificent figure. Miss Langtry, beautiful and smiling, and Mary Anderson with Mr Navarro, Miss Terrv and her sister, and that most beautiful of women, Maud Millet, attended, as usual, with her mother; lords and ladies too numerous to mention. We have not half looked round in fact, when the cry is raised, ‘ The Prince! the Prince !’ Everyone rushes to some part of vantage to watch. With a magnificent mounted escort the Prince and the ever young Princess, with their girls and boys, drive up in four-horse state landaus with outriders and equerries in great magnificence. Then racing begins, and we rush off to make wagers. The Hunt Cup is the great thing of the day on the Wednesday’s racing. It was of great interest to Australians this year, as there were some Australian horses in it—Lady Betty, who was third favourite, and Ringmaster. Neither of the equine colonials distinguished themselves, however, the first mentioned being ninth and the latter tenth amongst the twenty-four starters. Our illustration shows the field sweeping by the Grand-stands—all well together. It is impossible to tell who will win, but just as they pass the last stand three clear away from the ruck. Lord Hartington looks jubilant, for his Morion is winning easily, and Colonel North’s face falls as he realises that Philomel, the much-fancied, is only second, while Miss Dollar is third. Many people take a house at Ascot for the week. They cost from £lOO to £250, and a ‘ box ’ in the Royal stand runs into another £lOO, so to do Ascot as the swells do is tolerably expensive work. The meeting is too almost invariably a disastrous one for backers ; in fact it is called the ‘bookmakers' harvest.'