His parents were very poor, but he did not think of them as in want at

any time, because he always had his bowlful of porridge and as much

bread as he wanted to eat. This morning he had had nothing to eat: he

wished to be away before any one could question him.

It was still dusk in the fresh autumn morning; the sun had not risen

behind the glaciers of the Stubaythal, and the road was scarcely seen;

but he knew it very well, and he set out bravely, saying his prayers to

Christ and to St. Christopher and to Findelkind that was in heaven. He

was not in any way clear as to what he would do, but he thought he would

find some great thing to do somewhere lying like a jewel in the dust;

and he went on his way in faith, as Findelkind of Arlberg had done. His

heart beat high, and his head lost its aching pains, and his feet felt

light--as light as if there were wings to his ankles. He would not go to

Zirl, because Zirl he knew so well, and there could be nothing very

wonderful waiting there; and he ran fast the other way. When he was

fairly out from under the shadow of Martinswand he slackened his pace,

and saw the sun come up on his path and begin to redden the gray-green

water; and the early Eilwagen from Landeck, that had been lumbering

along all the night, overtook him. He would have run after it and called

out to the travellers for alms, but he felt ashamed: his father had

never let him beg, and he did not know how to begin. The Eilwagen rolled

on through the autumn mud, and that was one chance lost. He was sure

that the first Findelkind had not felt ashamed when he had knocked at

the first castle-gate.

By and by, when he could not see Martinswand by turning his head back

ever so, he came to an inn that used to be a post-house in the old days

when men travelled only by road. A woman was feeding chickens in the

bright clear red of the cold daybreak. Findelkind timidly held out his

hand. "For the poor," he murmured, and doffed his cap.

The old woman looked at him sharply: "Oh, is it you, little Findelkind?

Have you run off from school? Be off with you home! I have mouths enough

to feed here."

Findelkind went away, and began to learn that it is not easy to be a

prophet or a hero in one's own country. He trotted a mile farther and

met nothing. At last he came to some cows by the wayside, and a man

tending them. "Would you give me something to help make a monastery?" he

said timidly, and once more took off his cap.

The man gave a great laugh: "A fine monk you! And who wants more of

those lazy drones? Not I."

Findelkind never answered: he remembered the priest had said that the

years he lived in were very hard ones, and men in them had no faith. Ere

long he came to a big walled house, with turrets and grated

casements--very big it looked to him--like one of the first Findelkind's

own castles. His heart beat loud against his side, but he plucked up his

courage and knocked as loud as his heart was beating. He knocked and

knocked, but no answer came. The house was empty. But he did not know

that: he thought it was that the people within were cruel, and he went

sadly onward with the road winding before him, and on his right the

beautiful, impetuous gray river, and on his left the green Mittelgebirge

and the mountains that rose behind it. By this time the sun was high:

its rays were glowing on the red of the cranberry-shrubs and the blue of

the bilberry-boughs; he was hungry and thirsty and tired. But he did not

give in for that: he held on steadily. He knew that there was near,

somewhere near, a great city that the people called Sprugg, and thither

he had resolved to go. By noontide he had walked eight miles, and come

to a green place where men were shooting at targets, the tall thick

grass all around them; and a little way farther off was a train of

people chanting and bearing crosses and dressed in long flowing robes.

The place was the Hoettinger Au, and the day was Saturday, and the

village was making ready to perform a miracle-play on the morrow.

Findelkind ran to the robed singing-folk, quite sure that he saw the

people of God. "Oh, take me! take me!" he cried to them--"do take me

with you to do Heaven's work!"

But they pushed him aside for a crazy little boy that spoilt their

rehearsing.

"It was only for Hoetting-folk," said a lad older than himself. "Get out

of the way with you, liebchen;" and the man who carried the cross

knocked him with force on the head by mere accident, but Findelkind

thought he had meant it.

Were people so much kinder five centuries before? he wondered, and felt

sad as the many-colored robes swept on through the grass and the crack

of the rifles sounded sharply through the music of the chanting voices.

He went on footsore and sorrowful, thinking of the castle-doors that had

opened and the city-gates that had unclosed at the summons of the little

long-haired boy painted on the missal.

He had come now to where the houses were much more numerous, though

under the shade of great trees--lovely old gray houses, some of wood,

some of stone, some with frescoes on them and gold and color and

mottoes, some with deep-barred casements and carved portals and

sculptured figures--houses of the poorer people now, but still memorials

of a grand and gracious time. For he had wandered into the quarter of

St. Nicholas of this fair mountain-city, which he, like his

country-folks, called Sprugg, though the government and the world called

it Innspruck.

He got out upon a long gray wooden bridge, and looked up and down the

reaches of the river, and thought to himself maybe this was not Sprugg

but Jerusalem, so beautiful it looked with its domes shining golden in

the sun, and the snow of the Patscher Kofl and the Brandjoch behind

them. For little Findelkind had never come so far before.

As he stood on the bridge so dreaming a hand clutched him and a voice

said, "A whole kreutzer, or you do not pass."

Findelkind started and trembled. A kreutzer? He had never owned such a

treasure in all his life. "I have no money," he murmured timidly: "I

came to see if I could get money for the poor."

The keeper of the bridge laughed: "You are a little beggar, you mean?

Oh, very well: then over my bridge you do not go."

"But it is the city on the other side."

"To be sure it is the city, but over nobody goes without a kreutzer."

"I never have such a thing of my own--never, never," said Findelkind,

ready to cry.

"Then you were a little fool to come away from your home, wherever that

may be," said the man at the bridge-head. "Well, I will let you go, for

you look a baby. But do not beg: that is bad."

"Findelkind did it."

"Then Findelkind was a rogue and a vagabond," said the taker of tolls.

"Oh, no, no, no!"

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, little saucebox! and take that," said the man,

giving him a box on the ear, being angry at contradiction.

Findelkind's head drooped, and he went slowly over the bridge,

forgetting that he ought to have thanked the toll-taker for a free

passage. The world seemed to him very difficult. How had Findelkind done

when he had come to bridges? and oh, how had Findelkind done when he had

been hungry? For this poor little Findelkind was getting very hungry,

and his stomach was as empty as was his wallet.

A few steps brought him to the Goldenes Dachl. He forgot his hunger and

his pain, seeing the sun shine on all that gold and the curious painted

galleries under it. He thought it was real, solid gold. Real gold laid

out on a house-roof, and the people all so poor! Findelkind began to

muse, and wonder why everybody did not climb up there and take a tile

off and be rich. But perhaps it would be wicked. Perhaps God put the

roof there with all that gold to prove people. Findelkind got

bewildered. If God did such a thing, was it kind?

His head seemed to swim, and the sunshine went round and round with him.

There went by him just then a very venerable-looking old man with silver

hair: he was wrapped in a long cloak.

Findelkind pulled at the cloak gently, and the old man looked down.

"What is it, my boy?" he asked.

Findelkind answered, "I came out to get gold: may I take it off that

roof?"

"It is not gold, child: it is gilding."

"What is gilding?"

"It is a thing made to look like gold: that is all."

"It is a lie, then!"

The old man smiled: "Well, nobody thinks so. If you like to put it so,

perhaps it is. What do you want gold for, you wee thing?"

"To build a monastery and house the poor."

The old man's face scowled and grew dark, for he was a Lutheran pastor

from Bavaria. "Who taught you such trash?" he said crossly.

"It is not trash: it is faith."

And Findelkind's face began to burn and his blue eyes to darken and

moisten. There was a little crowd beginning to gather, and the crowd was

beginning to laugh. There were some soldiers and rifle-shooters in the

throng, and they jeered and joked, and made fun of the old man in the

long cloak, who grew angry then with the child. "You are a little

idolater and a little impudent sinner," he said wrathfully, and shook

the boy by the shoulder and went away; and the throng that had gathered

round had only poor Findelkind left to tease.

He was a very poor little boy indeed to look at, with his sheepskin

tunic and his bare feet and legs, and his wallet that never was to get

filled.

"Where do you come from, and what do you want?" they asked.

And he answered with a sob in his voice, "I want to do like Findelkind

of Arlberg."

And then the crowd laughed, not knowing at all what he meant, but

laughing just because they did not know, as crowds always will do.

And only the big dogs, that are so very big in this country, and are all

loose and free and good-natured citizens, came up to him kindly and

rubbed against him and made friends; and at that tears came into his

eyes and his courage rose, and he lifted his head.

"You are cruel people to laugh," he said indignantly: "the dogs are

kinder. People did not laugh at Findelkind. He was a little boy just

like me, no better and no bigger, and as poor, and yet he had so much

faith, and the world then was so good, that he left his sheep and got

money enough to build a church and a hospice to Christ and St.

Christopher. And I want to do the same for the poor. Not for myself--no,

for the poor. I am Findelkind too, and Findelkind that is in heaven

speaks to me." Then he stopped, and a sob rose again in his throat.

"He is crazy," said the people, laughing, yet a little scared; for the

priest at Zirl had said rightly, This is not an age of faith. At that

moment there sounded, coming from the barracks, that used to be the

Schloss in the old days of Kaiser Max and Mary of Burgundy, the sound of

drums and trumpets and the tramp of marching feet. It was one of the

corps of jaegers of Tyrol going down from the avenue to the Rudolf Platz,

with their band before them and their pennons streaming. It was a

familiar sight, but it drew the street-throngs to it like magic: the age

is not fond of dreamers, but it is very fond of drums. In almost a

moment the old dark arcades and the river-side and the passages near

were all empty, except for the old women sitting at their stalls of

fruit or cakes or toys. They are wonderful arched arcades, like the

cloisters of a cathedral more than anything else, and the shops under

them are all homely and simple--shops of leather, of furs, of clothes,

of wooden playthings, of sweet, wholesome bread. They are very quaint,

and kept by poor folks for poor folks, but to the dazed eyes of

Findelkind they looked like a forbidden Paradise, for he was so hungry

and so heartbroken, and he had never seen any bigger place than little

Zirl.

He stood and looked wistfully, but no one offered him anything. Close by

was a stall of splendid purple grapes, but the old woman that kept it

was busy knitting. She only called to him to stand out of her light.

"You look a poor brat: have you a home?" said another woman, who sold

bridles and whips and horses' bells and the like.

"Oh yes, I have a home--by Martinswand," said Findelkind with a sigh.

The woman looked at him sharply: "Your parents have sent you on an

errand here?"

"No, I have run away."

"Run away? Oh, you bad boy! Unless, indeed--are they cruel to you?"

"No--very good."

"Are you a little rogue then, or a thief?"

"You are a bad woman to think such things," said Findelkind hotly,

knowing himself on how innocent and sacred a quest he was.

"Bad? I? Oh ho," said the old dame, cracking one of her new whips in the

air, "I should like to make you jump about with this, you thankless

little vagabond! Be off!"

Findelkind sighed again, his momentary anger passing, for he had been

born with a gentle temper, and thought himself to blame much more

readily than he thought other people were--as, indeed, every wise child

does, only there are so few children--or men--that are wise.

He turned his head away from the temptation of the bread- and

fruit-stalls, for in truth hunger gnawed him terribly, and wandered a

little to the left. From where he stood he could see the long beautiful

street of Theresa with its oriels and arches, painted windows and gilded

signs, and the steep, gray, dark mountains closing it in at the

distance; but the street frightened him, it looked so grand, and he knew

it would tempt him; so he went where he saw the green tops of some high

elms and beeches. The trees, like the dogs, seemed like friends: it was

the human creatures that were cruel.

At that moment there came out of the barrack-gates, with great noise of

trumpets and trampling of horses, a group of riders in gorgeous

uniforms, with sabres and chains glancing and plumes tossing. It looked

to Findelkind like a group of knights--those knights who had helped and

defended his namesake with their steel and their gold in the old days of

the Arlberg quest. His heart gave a leap, and he jumped on the dust for

joy, and he ran forward and fell on his knees and waved his cap like a

little mad thing, and cried out, "Oh, dear knights! oh, great soldiers!

help me, fight for me, for the love of the saints! I have come all the

way from Martinswand, and I am Findelkind, and I am trying to serve St.

Christopher like Findelkind of Arlberg."

But his little swaying body and pleading hands and shouting voice and

blowing curls frightened the horses: one of them swerved, and very

nearly settled the woes of Findelkind for ever and aye by a kick. The

soldier who rode the horse reined him in with difficulty: he was at the

head of the little staff, being indeed no less or more than the general

commanding the garrison, which in this city is some fifteen thousand

strong. An orderly sprang from his saddle and seized the child, and

shook him and swore at him. Findelkind was frightened, but he shut his

eyes and set his teeth, and said to himself that the martyrs must have

had very much worse than these things to suffer in their pilgrimage. He

had fancied these riders were knights--such knights as the priest had

shown him the likeness of in old picture-books--whose mission it had

been to ride through the world succoring the weak and weary and always

defending the right.

"What are your swords for if you are not knights?" he cried, desperately

struggling in his captor's grip, and seeing through his half-closed lids

the sunshine shining on steel scabbards.

"What does he want?" asked the officer in command of the garrison, whose

staff all this bright and martial array was. He was riding out from the

barracks to an inspection on the Rudolf Platz. He was a young man, and

had little children himself, and was half amused, half touched, to see

the tiny figure of the dusty little boy.

"I want to build a monastery like Findelkind of Arlberg, and to help the

poor," said our Findelkind valorously, though his heart was beating like

that of a little mouse caught in a trap, for the horses were trampling

up the dust around him and the orderly's grip was hard.

The officers laughed aloud; and indeed he looked a poor little scrap of

a figure, very ill able to help even himself.

"Why do you laugh?" cried Findelkind, losing his terror in his

indignation, and inspired with the courage which a great earnestness

always gives. "You should not laugh. If you were true knights you would

not laugh: you would fight for me. I am little, I know. I am very

little, but he was no bigger than I, and see what great things he did.

But the soldiers were good in those days: they did not laugh and use bad

words." And Findelkind, on whose shoulder the orderly's hold was still

fast, faced the horses which looked to him as huge as Martinswand, and

the swords which he little doubted were to be sheathed in his heart.

The officers stared, laughed again, then whispered together, and

Findelkind heard them mutter the word "toll." Findelkind, whose quick

little ears were both strained like a mountain-leveret's, understood

that the great men were saying amongst themselves that it was not safe

for him to be about alone, and that it would be kinder to him to catch

and cage him--the general view with which the world regards enthusiasts.

He heard, he understood: he knew that they did not mean to help him,

these men with the steel weapons and the huge steeds, but that they

meant to shut him up in a prison--him, little free-born, forest-fed

Findelkind. He wrenched himself out of the soldier's grip as the rabbit

wrenches itself out of the jaws of the trap, even at the cost of leaving

a limb behind, shot between the horses' legs, doubled like a hunted

thing, and spied a refuge. Opposite the avenue of gigantic poplars and

pleasant stretches of grass shaded by other bigger trees there stands a

very famous church--famous alike in the annals of history and of

art--the church of the Franciscans that holds the tomb of Kaiser Max,

though, alas! it holds not his ashes, as his dying desire was that it

should. The church stands here, a noble sombre place, with the Silver

Chapel of Philippina Wessler adjoining it, and in front the fresh cool

avenues that lead to the river and the broad water-meadows, and the

grand road bordered with the painted stations of the Cross.

There were some peasants coming in from the country driving cows; some

burghers in their carts with fat, slow horses; some little children were

at play under the poplars and the elms; great dogs were lying about on

the grass: everything was happy and at peace except the poor throbbing

heart of little Findelkind, who thought the soldiers were coming after

him to lock him up as mad, and ran and ran as fast as his trembling legs

would carry him, making for sanctuary, as in the old bygone days that he

loved many a soul less innocent than his had done. The wide doors of the

Hof Kirche stood open, and on the steps lay a black and tan hound,

watching no doubt for its master and mistress, who had gone within to

pray. Findelkind in his terror vaulted over the dog, and into the church

tumbled headlong.

It seemed quite dark, after the brilliant sunshine on the river and the

grass: his forehead touched the stone floor as he fell, and as he raised

himself and stumbled forward, reverent and bareheaded, looking for the

altar to cling to when the soldiers should enter to seize him, his

uplifted eyes fell on the great tomb.

The tomb seems entirely to fill the church as, with its twenty-four

guardian figures round it, it towers up in the twilight that reigns here

even at midday. There is a stern majesty and grandeur in it which dwarfs

every other monument and mausoleum. It is grim, it is rude, it is

savage, with the spirit of the rough ages that created it; but it is

great with their greatness, it is heroic with their heroism, it is

simple with their simplicity.

As the awestricken eyes of the terrified child fell on the mass of stone

and bronze the sight smote him breathless. The mailed warriors standing

around it, so motionless, so solemn, filled him with a frozen, nameless

fear. He had never a doubt but that they were the dead arisen. The

foremost that met his eyes were Theodoric and Arthur--the next, grim

Rodolf, father of a dynasty of emperors. There, leaning on their swords,

the three gazed down on him, armored, armed, majestic, serious, guarding

the empty grave, which to the child, who knew nothing of its history,

seemed a bier; and at the feet of Theodoric, who alone of them all

looked young and merciful, poor little desperate Findelkind fell with a

piteous sob, and cried, "I am not mad! Indeed, indeed, I am not mad!"

He did not know that these six figures were but statues of bronze. He

was quite sure they were the dead arisen, and meeting there around that

tomb on which the solitary kneeling knight watched and prayed,

encircled, as by a wall of steel, by these his comrades. He was not

frightened; he was rather comforted and stilled, as with a sudden sense

of some deep calm and certain help.

Findelkind, without knowing that he was like so many dissatisfied poets

and artists much bigger than himself, dimly felt in his little tired

mind how beautiful and how gorgeous and how grand the world must have

been when heroes and knights like these had gone by in its daily

sunshine and its twilight storms. No wonder Findelkind in heaven had

found his pilgrimage so fair when, if he had needed any help, he had

only had to kneel and clasp these firm mailed limbs, these strong

cross-hilted swords, in the name of Christ and of the poor!

Theodoric seemed to look down on him with benignant eyes from under the

raised visor, and Findelkind, weeping, threw his small arms closer and

closer round the bronzed knees of the heroic figure and sobbed aloud,

"Help me! help me! Oh, turn the hearts of the people to me, and help me

to do good!"

But Theodoric answered nothing.

There was no sound in the dark, hushed church; the gloom grew darker

over Findelkind's eyes; the mighty forms of monarchs and of heroes grew

dim before his sight. He lost consciousness and fell prone upon the

stones at Theodoric's feet, for he had fainted from hunger and emotion.

When he awoke it was quite evening: there was a lantern held over his

head; voices were muttering curiously and angrily; bending over him were

two priests, a sacristan of the church and his own father. His little

wallet lay by him on the stones, always empty.

"Liebchen, were you mad?" cried his father, half in rage, half in

tenderness. "The chase you have led me! and your mother thinking you

were drowned! and all the working day lost, running after old women's

tales of where they had seen you! Oh, little fool! little fool! what

was amiss with Martinswand that you must leave it?"

Findelkind slowly and feebly rose and sat up on the pavement, and looked

up, not at his father, but at the knight Theodoric. "I thought they

would help me to keep the poor," he muttered feebly as he glanced at his

own wallet. "And it is empty, empty!"

"Are we not poor enough?" cried his father with paternal impatience,

ready to tear his hair with vexation at having such a little idiot for

son. "Must you rove afield to find poverty to help, when it sits cold

enough, the Lord knows, at our own hearth? Oh, little ass! little dolt!

little maniac! fit only for a madhouse! talking to iron figures and

taking them for real men!--What have I done, O Heaven, that I should be

afflicted thus?"

And the poor man wept, being a good, affectionate soul, but not very

wise, and believing that his boy was mad. Then, seized with sudden rage

once more at thought of his day all wasted and its hours harassed and

miserable through searching for the lost child, he plucked up the light,

slight figure of Findelkind in his own arms, and with muttered thanks

and excuses to the sacristan of the church, bore the boy out with him

into the evening air, and lifted him into a cart which stood there with

a horse harnessed to one side of the pole, as the country-people love to

do, to the risk of their own lives and their neighbors'. Findelkind said

never a word: he was as dumb as Theodoric had been to him; he felt

stupid, heavy, half blind; his father pushed him some bread, and he ate

it by sheer instinct, as a lost animal will do. The cart jogged on, the

stars shone, the great church vanished in the gloom of night.

As they went through the city toward the river-side and the homeward way

not a single word did his father, who was a silent man at all times,

address to him. Only once as they passed the bridge, "Son," he asked,

"did you run away truly thinking to please God and help the poor?"

"Truly I did," answered Findelkind with a sob in his throat.

"Then thou wert an ass," said his father. "Didst never think of thy

mother's love and of my toil? Look at home."

Findelkind was mute. The drive was very long, backward by the same way,

with the river shining in the moonlight and the mountains half covered

with the clouds.

It was ten by the bells of Zirl when they came once more under the

solemn shadow of grave Martinswand. There were lights moving about the

house, his brothers and sisters were still up, his mother ran out into

the road, weeping and laughing with fear and joy.

Findelkind himself said nothing. He hung his head. They were too fond of

him to scold him or to jeer at him: they made him go quickly to his bed,

and his mother made him a warm milk-posset and kissed him. "We will

punish thee to-morrow, naughty and cruel one," said his parent. "But

thou art punished enough already, for in thy place little Stefan had the

sheep, and he has lost Katte's lambs, the beautiful twin lambs! I dare

not tell thy father to-night. Dost hear the poor thing mourn? Do not go

afield for thy duty again."

A pang went through the heart of Findelkind, as if a knife had pierced

it. He loved Katte better than almost any other living thing, and she

was bleating under his window motherless and alone. They were such

beautiful lambs too!--lambs that his father had promised should never be

killed, but be reared to swell the flock.

Findelkind cowered down in his bed and felt wretched beyond all

wretchedness. He had been brought back, his wallet was empty, and

Katte's lambs were lost. He could not sleep. His pulses were beating

like so many steam-hammers: he felt as if his body were all one great

throbbing heart. His brothers, who lay in the same chamber with him,

were sound asleep: very soon his father and mother also, on the other

side of the wall. Findelkind was alone, wide awake, watching the big

white moon sail past his little casement and hearing Katte bleat. Where

were her poor twin lambs? The night was bitterly cold, for it was

already far on in autumn; the river had swollen and flooded many fields;

the snow for the last week had fallen quite low down on the

mountain-sides. Even if still living the little lambs would die, out on

such a night without the mother or food and shelter of any sort.

Findelkind, whose vivid brain always saw everything that he imagined as

if it were being acted before his eyes, in fancy saw his two dear lambs

floating dead down the swollen tide, entangled in rushes on the flooded

shore, or fallen with broken limbs upon a crest of rocks. He saw them so

plainly that scarcely could he hold back his breath from screaming aloud

in the still night and arousing the mourning wail of the desolate

mother.

At last he could bear it no longer: his head burned, and his brain

seemed whirling round. At a bound he leaped out of bed quite

noiselessly, slid into his sheepskins, and stole out as he had done the

night before, hardly knowing what he did. Poor Katte was mourning in the

wooden shed with the other sheep, and the wail of her sorrow sounded

sadly across the loud roar of the rushing river. The moon was still

high. Above, against the sky, black and awful with clouds floating over

its summit, was the great Martinswand.

Findelkind this time called the big dog Waldmar to him, and with the dog

beside him went once more out into the cold and the gloom, whilst his

father and mother, his brothers and sisters, were sleeping, and poor

childless Katte alone was awake. He looked up at the mountain, and then

across the water-swept meadows to the river. He was in doubt which way

to take. Then he thought that in all likelihood the lambs would have

been seen if they had wandered the river-way, and even little Stefan

would have had too much sense to let them go there. So he crossed the

road and began to climb Martinswand. With the instinct of the born

mountaineer he had brought out his crampons with him, and had now

fastened them on his feet: he knew every part and ridge of the

mountains, and had more than once climbed over to that very spot where

Kaiser Max had hung in peril of his life.

On second thoughts he bade Waldmar go back to the house. The dog was a

clever mountaineer too, but Findelkind did not wish to lead him into

danger. "I have done the wrong, and I will bear the brunt," he said to

himself; for he felt as if he had killed Katte's children, and the

weight of the sin was like lead on his heart, and he would not kill good

Waldmar too.

His little lantern did not show much light, and as he went higher upward

he lost sight of the moon. The cold was nothing to him, because the

clear still air was one in which he had been reared; and the darkness he

did not mind, because he was used to that also; but the weight of sorrow

upon him he scarcely knew how to bear, and how to find two tiny lambs in

this vast waste of silence and shadow would have puzzled and wearied

older minds than his. Garibaldi and all his household, old soldiers

tried and true, sought all night once upon Caprera on such a quest in

vain. If he could only have awakened his brother Stefan to ask him which

way they had gone! But then, to be sure, he remembered, Stefan must have

told that to all those who had been looking for the lambs from sunset to

nightfall. All alone he began the ascent.

Time and again, in the glad spring-time and the fresh summer weather, he

had driven his flock upward to eat the grass that grew in the clefts of

the rocks and on the broad green alps. The sheep could not climb to the

highest points, but the goats did, and he with them. Time and again he

had lain on his back in these uppermost heights, with the lower clouds

behind him and the black wings of the birds and the crows almost

touching his forehead, as he lay gazing up into the blue depth of the

sky and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

He would never dream any more now, he thought to himself. His dreams had

cost Katte her lambs, and the world of the dead Findelkind was gone for

ever: gone all the heroes and knights; gone all the faith and the

force; gone every one who cared for the dear Christ and the poor in

pain.

The bells of Zirl were ringing midnight. Findelkind heard, and wondered

that only two hours had gone by since his mother had kissed him in his

bed. It seemed to him as if long, long nights had rolled away and he had

lived a hundred years. He did not feel any fear of the dark calm night,

lit now and then by silvery gleams of moon and stars. The mountain was

his old familiar friend, and the ways of it had no more terror for him

than these hills here used to have for the bold heart of Kaiser Max.

Indeed, all he thought of was Katte--Katte and the lambs. He knew the

way that the sheep-tracks ran--the sheep could not climb so high as the

goats--and he knew too that little Stefan could not climb so high as he.

So he began his search low down upon Martinswand.

After midnight the cold increased: there were snow-clouds hanging near,

and they opened over his head, and the soft snow came flying along. For

himself he did not mind it, but alas for the lambs! If it covered them,

how would he find them? And if they slept in it they were dead.

It was bleak and bare on the mountain-side, though there were still

patches of grass, such as the flocks liked, that had grown since the hay

was cut. The frost of the night made the stone slippery, and even the

irons gripped it with difficulty, and there was a strong wind rising

like a giant's breath, and blowing his small horn lantern to and fro.

Now and then he quaked a little with fear--not fear of the night or the

mountains, but of strange spirits and dwarfs and goblins of ill repute,

said to haunt Martinswand after nightfall. Old women had told him of

such things, though the priest always said that they were only foolish

tales, there being nothing on God's earth wicked save men and women who

had not clean hearts and hands. Findelkind believed the priest; still,

all alone on the side of the mountain, with the snowflakes flying round

him, he felt a nervous thrill that made him tremble and almost turn

backward. Almost, but not quite, for he thought of Katte and the poor

little lambs lost--and perhaps dead--through his fault.

The path went zigzag and was very steep; the Siberian pines swayed their

boughs in his face; stones that lay in his path, unseen in the gloom,

made him stumble. Now and then a large bird of the night flew by with a

rushing sound: the air grew so cold that all Martinswand might have been

turning to one huge glacier. All at once he heard through the

stillness--for there is nothing so still as a mountain-side in snow--a

little pitiful bleat. All his terrors vanished, all his memories of

ghost-tales passed away; his heart gave a leap of joy; he was sure it

was the cry of the lambs. He stopped to listen more surely. He was now

many score of feet above the level of his home and of Zirl: he was, as

nearly as he could judge, halfway as high as where the cross in the

cavern marks the spot of the kaiser's peril. The little bleat sounded

above him, and it was very feeble and faint.

Findelkind set his lantern down, braced himself up by drawing tighter

his old leathern girdle, set his sheepskin cap firm on his forehead, and

went toward the sound as far as he could judge that it might be. He was

out of the woods now: there were only a few straggling pines rooted here

and there in a mass of loose-lying rock and slate. So much he could tell

by the light of the lantern, and the lambs, by the bleating, seemed

still above him.

It does not perhaps seem very hard labor to hunt about by a dusky light

upon a desolate mountain-side, but when the snow is falling fast, when

the light is only a small circle, wavering yellowish on the white, when

around is a wilderness of loose stones and yawning clefts, when the air

is ice and the hour is past midnight, the task is not a light one for a

man; and Findelkind was a child, like that Findelkind that was in

heaven.

Long, very long, was his search: he grew hot and forgot all fear, except

a spasm of terror lest his light should burn low and die out. The

bleating had quite ceased now, and there was not even a sigh to guide

him; but he knew that near him the lambs must be, and he did not waver

nor despair.

He did not pray--praying in the morning had been no use--but he trusted

in God, and he labored hard, toiling to and fro, seeking in every nook

and behind each stone, and straining every muscle and nerve, till the

sweat rolled in a briny dew off his forehead and his curls dripped with

wet. At last, with a scream of joy, he touched some soft, close wool

that gleamed white as the white snow. He knelt down on the ground and

peered behind the stone by the full light of his lantern: there lay the

little lambs--two little brothers, twin brothers, huddled close

together, asleep. Asleep? He was sure they were asleep, for they were so

silent and still.

He bowed over them and kissed them, and laughed and cried, and kissed

them again. Then a sudden horror smote him: they were so very still.

There they lay, cuddled close, one on another, one little white head on

each little white body, drawn closer than ever together to try and get

warm. He called to them; he touched them; then he caught them up in his

arms, and kissed them again and again and again. Alas! they were frozen

and dead. Never again would they leap in the long green grass, and frisk

with one another, and lie happy by Katte's side: they had died calling

for their mother, and in the long, cold, cruel night only Death had

answered.

Findelkind did not weep nor scream nor tremble: his heart seemed frozen,

like the dead lambs. It was he who had killed them. He rose up and

gathered them in his arms, and cuddled them in the skirts of his

sheepskin tunic, and cast his staff away that he might carry them; and

so, thus burdened with their weight, set his face to the snow and the

wind once more and began his downward way. Once a great sob shook him:

that was all. Now he had no fear. The night might have been noonday, the

snowstorm might have been summer, for aught that he knew or cared.

Long and weary was the way, and often he stumbled and had to rest;

often the terrible sleep of the snow lay heavy on his eyelids, and he

longed to lie down and be at rest, as the little brothers were; often it

seemed to him that he would never reach home again. But he shook the

lethargy off him and resisted the longing, and held on his way: he knew

that his mother would mourn for him as Katte mourned for the lambs. At

length, through all difficulty and danger, when his light had spent

itself, and his strength had wellnigh spent itself too, his feet touched

the old highroad. There were flickering torches and many people and loud

cries around the church, as there had been four hundred years before,

when the last sacrament had been said in the valley for the hunter-king

doomed to perish above. His mother, being sleepless and anxious, had

risen long before it was dawn, and had gone to the children's chamber,

and had found the bed of Findelkind empty once more.

He came into the midst of the people with the two little lambs in his

arms, and he heeded neither the outcries of neighbors nor the frenzied

joy of his mother: his eyes looked straight before him and his face was

white like the snow. "I killed them," he said; and then two great tears

rolled down his cheeks and fell on the little cold bodies of the two

little dead twin brothers.

Findelkind was very ill for many nights and many days after that.

Whenever he spoke in his fever he always said, "I killed them." Never

anything else. So the dreary winter months went by, while the deep snow

filled up valleys and meadows and covered the great mountains from

summit to base, and all around Martinswand was quite still, save that

now and then the post went by to Zirl, and on the holy days the bells

tolled: that was all. His mother sat between the stove and his bed with

a sore heart; and his father, as he went to and fro between the walls of

beaten snow from the wood-shed to the cattle-byre, was sorrowful,

thinking to himself the child would die and join that earlier Findelkind

whose home was with the saints.

But the child did not die. He lay weak and wasted and almost motionless

a long time, but slowly, as the spring-time drew near, and the snows on

the lower hills loosened, and the abounding waters coursed green and

crystal-clear down all the sides of the hills, Findelkind revived as the

earth did, and by the time the new grass was springing and the first

blue of the gentian gleamed on the Alps he was well.

But to this day he seldom plays, and scarcely ever laughs. His face is

sad and his eyes have a look of trouble. Sometimes the priest of Zirl

says of him to others, "He will be a great poet or a great hero some

day." Who knows?

Meanwhile, in the heart of the child there remains always a weary pain

that lies on his childish life as a stone may lie on a flower. "I killed

them," he says often to himself, thinking of the two little white

brothers frozen to death on Martinswand that cruel night; and he does

the things that are told him, and is obedient, and tries to be content

with the humble daily duties that are his lot, and when he says his

prayers at bedtime always ends them so: "Dear God, do let the little

lambs play with Findelkind that is in heaven."

OUIDA.

HORSE-RACING IN FRANCE.

CONCLUDING PAPER.

By the end of July the dispersion of the racing fraternity has become

general. Some have gone into the provinces to lead the pleasant life of

the chateau; some are in the Pyrenees, eating trout and _cotelettes

d'izard_ at Luchon; while those whom the Paris season has quite worn

out, or put in what they would call too "high" a condition, are

refitting at Mont Dore or else at Vichy, which is the Saratoga of

France--with this difference, that nobody goes to Vichy unless he is

really ill, and that very few were ever known to get married there. But

if our friend the sportsman should happen to have nothing the matter

with him, and should know of nothing better to do during the summer than

to go where his equine instincts would lead him, he may spend the month

of July at least in following what is called "the Norman circuit." This

consists of a series of meetings at different places, either on the

coast or very near the Channel, in that green land of Normandy which is

to France what the blue-grass region of Kentucky is to America--the

great horse-raising province of the country. Here the circuit begins

with the Beauvais meeting, always largely attended by reason of its

proximity to Paris and to the numerous chateaux, all occupied at this

season of the year, and in one of which, at Mouchy-le-Chastel, the duc

de Mouchy entertains a large and distinguished company. Sunday and

Tuesday are the days for races at Beauvais, Monday being given up to

pigeon-shooting. Then follow in quick succession the _courses_ of

Amiens, Abbeville, Rouen, Havre and Caen; and in all these places the

daily programme will be found to be a very varied one--too much so,

indeed, to suit the taste of the English, whose notions of the fitness

of things are offended by the sight of a steeple-chase and a flat-race

on the same track. The Normans, on the contrary, finding even this

double attraction insufficient, add to it the excitement of a

trotting-match in harness and under the saddle. And such trotting!

"Allais! marchais!" shouts the starter in good Norman, and away go the

horses, dragging their lumbering, rattling Norman carts, guided by

equally ponderous Norman peasants, over a track that is sure to be heavy

or else too hard--conditions sufficient of themselves to account for the

fact that the time made by these provincial trotters has not by any

means been reduced to figures like the 2.18 of Dexter or the phenomenal

2.14 of Goldsmith Maid. It is possible, however, that this somewhat

primitive condition of things may be gradually bettered by time, and

that when American institutions and customs shall have come to be the

_mode_ in France trotting-races, and perhaps walking-matches and

base-ball, will be developed with the rest; but up to the present time,

it must be confessed, these various amusements have been regarded by the

French public with profound indifference.

I cannot help feeling the most lively regret that trotting-contests

should have taken no hold upon the fancy of my countrymen, who would

find in their magnificent roads an opportunity for the demonstration of

the practical, every-day value of a good trotter far more favorable than

any possessed by America. But it seems that no considerations of utility

or convenience can prevail against popular prejudices and, above all,

the _mode_; and we find even the baron d'Etreilles, official handicapper

and starter to the Jockey Club--and therefore an authority--writing this

singular paragraph in _Le Sport_: "Trotting-races deserve but little

encouragement. The so-called trotting-horse does not, in fact, trot at

all. His pace is forced to such a degree of exaggeration as to lose all

regularity, at the same time that it is rendered valueless for any

practical purpose. The trotter can no more be put to his speed upon an

ordinary road than can the racer himself. By breaking up the natural

gait of a horse he is made to attain an exceptional speed, it is true,

but in doing so he has contracted an abnormal sort of movement for which

it is impossible to find a name. It is something between a trot and a

racking pace, and with it a first-rate trotter can make four kilometres

(two miles and a half) in seven minutes and a half, and not much less,

whatever may be said to the contrary. I know that certain time-keepers

have marked this distance as having been done in seven minutes, but this

I consider disputable, to say the least." M. d'Etreilles cites, however,

as an exception to his rules, a horse called Rochester, belonging to the

Prince E. de Beauvan, which trotted nineteen miles in one hour without

breaking or pacing, but when a return bet was proposed, with the

distance increased to twenty miles, the owner of Rochester refused.

These assertions of the French authority will appear strange enough to

Americans. But we must add that the views of M. d'Etreilles on this

subject are by no means universally shared in France. A writer whose

practical experience and long observation entitle his opinions to much

weight--M. Gayot--goes so far as to say that the American trotters

really form a distinct race. "The Northern States of the Union," he

writes, "have accomplished for the trotter what England has done for the

thoroughbred: by selecting the best--that is to say, the swiftest and

the most enduring--and by breeding from these, there has been fixed in

the very nature of their progeny that wonderful aptitude for speed

which," in direct contradiction to the opinion of M. d'Etreilles, he

declares to be "of the greatest practical utility."

The administration of the Haras and the Society for the Encouragement of

the Raising of Horses of Half-blood have established special meetings at

which trotting-prizes are given. That these are by no means to be

despised has been proved by M. Jouben's Norman trotter Tentateur, who

last year earned for his owner twenty thousand francs without the bets.

There is a special journal, _La France Chevaline_, which represents the

interests of the "trot," and its development has been further encouraged

by an appropriation of sixty thousand francs voted this year by the

Chamber. A former officer of the Haras has also set up an establishment

at Vire for the training of trotters. In 1878 a track was laid out at

Maison Lafitte, near Paris, for the trial of trotting-horses, and the

government, in the hope that animals trained to this gait would be sent

to Paris from other countries during the great Exhibition if sufficient

inducement were offered, awarded a sum of sixty-two thousand francs to

be given in premiums. Six races took place on the principal day of the

trials. These were in harness to two- and four-wheeled wagons, and two

of the matches were won by Normans, two by English horses and two by

horses from Russia of the Orloff breed. America was, unfortunately, not

represented. As to the public, it took little interest in the event,

notwithstanding its novelty: the few persons who had come to look on

soon grew tired of it, and after the fourth race not a single spectator

was left upon the stands.

The marquis de MacMahon, brother of the marshal, used to say that the

gallop was the gait of happy people, the natural movement of women and

of fools. "The three prettiest things in the world," wrote Balzac, "are

a frigate under sail, a woman dancing and a horse at full run." I leave

these opinions, so essentially French, to the judgment of Americans, and

turn to another point of difference in the racing customs of the two

countries.

In France the practice of recording the _time_ of a race is looked upon

as childish. The reason given is, that horses that have run or trotted

separately against time will often show quite contrary results when

matched against each other, and that the one that has made the shortest

time on the separate trial will frequently be easily beaten on the same

track by the one that showed less speed when tried alone. However this

may be, it appears that the average speed of running races in France has

increased since 1872. At that time it was one minute and two to three

seconds for one thousand metres (five furlongs); for two thousand

metres (a mile and a quarter), 2m. 8 to 10s.; for three thousand metres

(one mile seven furlongs), 3m. 34 to 35s.; for four thousand metres (two

miles and a half), 4m. 30 to 35s. The distance of the Prix Gladiateur

(six thousand two hundred metres or three and three-quarter miles one

furlong)--the longest in France--is generally accomplished in 8m. 5 to

6s., though Mon Etoile has done it in 7m. 25s. But the mean speed, as we

have said, has been raised since 1872, as it has been in America.

But let us come back to our Norman circuit, which this digression about

time and trotting interrupted at Rouen. The sleepy old mediaeval town on

this occasion rouses itself from its dreams of the past and awakens to

welcome the crowd of Norman farmers who come flocking in, clad for the

most part in the national blue blouse, but still bearing about their

persons those unmistakable though quite indescribable marks by which the

turfman can recognize at a glance and under any costume the man whose

business is with horses. Every trade and calling in life perhaps may be

said to impart to its followers some distinguishing peculiarity by which

the brethren of the craft at least will instinctively know each other;

and amongst horse-fanciers these mysterious signs of recognition are as

infallible as the signals of Freemasonry. As one penetrates still

farther into Normandy on his way to the Caen races--which come off a few

days after those at Rouen--one becomes still more alive to the fact that

he is in a great horse-raising country. It is indeed to the departments

of Calvados and the Orne beyond all other places that we owe those fine

Norman stallions of which so many have been imported into America. In

the Pin stud, at the fairs of Guibray and of Montagne, one may see the

descendants of the colossal Roman-nosed horses of Merlerault and

Cotentin which used to bear the weight of riders clad in iron, and which

figure at a later day in the pictures of Van der Meulen. The infusion of

English blood within the present century, and particularly during the

Second Empire, has profoundly modified the character of the animal

known to our ancestors: the Norman, with the rest of the various races

once so numerous in France, is rapidly disappearing, and it will not be

very long before two uniform types only will prevail--the draught-horse

and the thoroughbred.

The race-course at Caen is one of the oldest in France, having been

established as long ago as 1837. The most important events of its

programme are the Prix de la Ville (handicap), with premium and stakes

amounting to twenty or twenty-five thousand francs, on which the

heaviest bets of the intermediate season are made, and the Grand St.

Leger of France, which before the war took place at Moulins, and which

is far from being of equal importance with the celebrated race at

Doncaster whose name it bears. The site of the track at Caen is a

beautiful meadow upon the banks of the Orne, very long and bordered with

fine trees, but unfortunately too narrow, and consequently awkward at

the turns.

By the rules of the Societe colts of two years are not allowed to run

before the first of August, and as the Caen races take place during the

first week of this month, they have the first gathering of the season's

crop of two-year-olds--an event which naturally excites the curiosity of

followers of the turf. The wisdom and utility of subjecting animals of

this age to such a strain upon their powers have been much discussed,

and good judges have strongly condemned the precocious training

involved, as tending to check the natural development of the horse, and

sometimes putting a premature end to his career as a racer. In England

these races have been multiplied to abuse. There are signs of a

reaction, however, in France, where several owners of racing-stables,

following the example set by M. Lupin, have found their advantage in

refusing to take part in the pernicious practice. For, after all, these

first trials really prove nothing at all. They are found to furnish no

standard by which any accurate measure can be taken of the future

achievements of the horse. In fact, if one will take the trouble to

examine the lists of winners of these two-year-old criterions, as they

are called, he will find but very few names that have afterward become

illustrious in the annals of the turf.

The races of Caen over, their followers take themselves some few leagues

farther upon their circuit, to attend the meeting at Cabourg, one of

those pretty little towns, made up of about a hundred villas, four

hotels, a church and a casino, that lie scattered along the Norman coast

like beads of a broken necklace. Living is dear in these stylish little

out-of-the-way places, and this naturally keeps away the more plebeian

element that frequents the great centres. About the fifteenth of August

begins the week of races at Deauville, the principal event of the Norman

circuit, bringing together not unfrequently as many as a hundred and

sixty horses, and ranking, in fact, as third in importance in all

France, the meetings at Longchamps and Chantilly alone taking precedence

of it. It is to the duc de Morny that Deauville owes the existence of

its "hippodrome," but the choice of this bit of sandy beach, that seemed

to have been thrown up and abandoned by the sea like a waif, cannot be

called a happy one. It may be, however, that the duke's selection of the

site was determined by its proximity to the luxuriant valley of the

Auge, so famous for its excellent pasturage and for the number of its

stables. The Victor stud belonging to M. Aumont, that of Fervacques, the

property of M. de Montgomery, and the baron de Rothschild's

establishment at Meautry, are all in the immediate neighborhood of

Deauville; but even these advantages do not compensate for the

unfavorable character of the track, laid out, as we have said, upon land

from which the sea had receded, and which, as might have been expected,

was sure to be hard and cracked in a dry season. To remedy this most

serious defect, and to bring the ground to its present degree of

excellence, large sums had to be expended. The aspect of the race-course

to-day, however, is really charming. A rustic air has been given to the

stands, the ring, even to the stables that enclose the paddock, but it

is a rusticity quite compatible with elegance, like that of the pretty

Norman farm in the garden of Trianon. The purse for two-year-olds used

to be called, under the Empire, the Prix Morny, but this name was

withdrawn at the same time that the statue of the duke, which once stood

in Deauville, was pulled down.

Our Norman circuit comes to a close with the races at Dieppe, which

finished last year on the 26th of August. Dieppe was celebrated during

the Empire for its steeple-chases, which were run upon a somewhat hilly

ground left almost in its natural state--a very unusual thing in France.

The flat- and hurdle-races which have succeeded to these since the war

are not of sufficient importance to detain us.

Returning from this agreeable summer jaunt, in which the pleasures of

sea-bathing have added a zest to the enjoyment of the race-course, the

followers of the turf will seek, on coming back to Paris in the early

days of September, the autumn meetings at Fontainebleau and at

Longchamps. But they will not find the paddock of the latter at this

season of the year bustling with the life and fashion that gave it such

brilliancy in the spring, and the "return from the races" is made up of

little else than hired cabs drawn by broken-down steeds. It is just the

period when Paris, crowded with economical strangers, English or

German--the former on their return, perhaps, from Switzerland, the

latter enjoying their vacation after their manner--mourns the absence of

her own gay world. The _haute gomme_--the swells, the upper ten--are

still in the provinces. They have left the sea-side, it is true--it was

time for that--but the season in the Pyrenees is not over yet, and

Luchon and Bigone will be full until the middle of September, and not

before the month is ended will Biarritz give up her pleasure-seekers.

The opening of the shooting season on the first Sunday of September has

scattered the sportsmen throughout the twenty-five or thirty departments

in which there is still left a chance of finding game. But the best

shooting is in the neighborhood of Paris, in the departments of

Seine-et-Marne and Seine-et-Oise--at Grosbois with the prince de

Wagram; at St. Germain-les-Corbeil on the estate of M. Darblay; at

Bois-Boudran with the comte de Greffuhle; or at the chateau of the baron

de Rothschild at Ferrieres; and the numerous guests of these gentlemen

may, if they are inclined, take a day to see the Omnium or the Prix

Royal Oak run between two _battues aux faisans_. The Omnium is the most

important of the handicaps: it is the French Caesarewitch, though with a

difference. The distance of the latter is two miles and two furlongs,

that of the Omnium but a mile and a half. The value of the stakes is

generally from twenty-five to thirty thousand francs. As its name would

indicate, this race, by exception to the fundamental principle of the

Jockey Club, is open to horses of every kind, without regard to

pedigree, above the age of three years. A horse that has gained a prize

of two thousand francs after the publication of the weights is

handicapped with an overweight of two kilogrammes and a half (a trifle

over five pounds); if he has gained several such, with three kilos; if

he is the winner of an eight-thousand-franc purse, he has to carry an

overweight of four kilos, or one of five kilos if he has won more than

one race of the value last mentioned. The publication of the weights

takes place at the end of June, when the betting begins. Heavy and

numerous are the wagers on this important race, and as the prospects of

the various horses entered change from time to time according to the

prizes gained and the overweights incurred, the quotation naturally

undergoes the most unlooked-for variations. A lot of money is won and

lost before the real favorites have revealed themselves; that is to say,

before the last week preceding the race. The winner of the Omnium is

hardly ever a horse of the first rank, and the baron d'Etreilles

undertakes to tell us why. The object of the handicap, he says, being to

equalize the chances of several horses of different degrees of merit,

the handicapper is in a manner obliged to make it next to impossible for

the first-rate horses to win; otherwise, the owners of the inferior

animals, seeing that they had no chance, would prefer to pay forfeit,

and the harmony, as it were, of the contest--the even balancing of

chances, which is of the very essence of the handicap--would be lacking.

On the other hand, the handicapper cannot bring the chances of the

really bad horses up to the mean average, no matter how much he may

favor them in the weights, and thus it nearly always turns out that the

Omnium, like every other important handicap, is won by a horse of the

second class, generally a three-year-old, whose real merits have been

hidden from the handicapper. This concealment is not so difficult as it

might seem. There are certain owners who, when they have satisfied

themselves by trials made before the spring races that they have in

their stables a few horses not quite good enough to stand a chance in

the great contests, but still by no means without valuable qualities,

prefer to reserve them for an important affair like the Omnium, on which

they can bet heavily and to advantage, especially if they have a "dark

horse," or one that is as yet unknown. Otherwise, to what use could

these second-rate horses be put? If one should run them in the spring

they might get one or two of the smaller stakes, after which everybody

would have their measure. Their owners, therefore, show wisdom in

keeping them out of sight, or perhaps, as some of the shrewder ones do,

by running them when rather out of condition, and thus ensuring their

defeat by adversaries really inferior to themselves. In this way the

handicapper is deceived as to their true qualities, and is induced to

weight them advantageously for the Omnium.

Many readers but little conversant with turf matters will no doubt be

scandalized to hear of these tricks of the trade, and will be apt to

conclude that good faith is no more the fashion at Longchamps than at

the Bourse, and that cleverness in betting, as in stockjobbing, consists

in knowing when to depreciate values and when to inflate them, as one

happens to be a bull or a bear in the market. The truth is, that no

rules can be devised, either by Jockey Clubs or by imperial parliaments,

that can put a stop to these abuses: they will exist, in spite of

legislation, as long as the double character of owner and better can be

united in the same person. If this person should not act in perfect good

faith, all restraining laws will be illusory, because the betting owner

has the cards in his own hands, and can withdraw a horse or make him run

at his pleasure, or even make him lose a race in case of need. If the

thing is managed with skill, it is almost impossible to discover the

deception. In 1877, at Deauville, the comte de Clermont-Tonnere and his

jockey, Goddart, were expelled from the turf because the latter had

"pulled" his horse in such a clumsy and unmistakable way that the

spectators could not fail to see it. This circumstance was without

precedent in France, and yet how often has the trick, which in this case

was exposed, been practised without any one being the wiser for it! It

ought to be added that the betters make one claim that is altogether

unreasonable, and that is--at least this is the only inference from

their talk--that when they have once "taken" a horse, as they call it,

in a race, the owner thereby loses a part of his proprietorship in the

animal, and is bound to share his rights of ownership with them. But one

cannot thus limit the rights of property, and as long as the owner does

not purposely lose a race, and does not deceive the handicapper as to

the real value of his horse for the purpose of getting a reduction of

weights, he can surely do as he pleases with his own. There will remain,

of course, the question of morality and of delicacy, of which each one

must be the judge for himself. M. Lupin, for example, and Lord Falmouth,

when they have two horses engaged for the same purse, always let these

take their chances, and do nothing to prevent the better horse from

being the winner, while the comte de Lagrange, as we have had occasion

to observe before, has acquired the reputation of winning, if he can,

with his worst animal, or at least with the one upon whose success the

public has least counted. This is what took place when he gained the

Grand Prix de Paris in 1877 with an outsider, St. Christophe, whilst

all the betters had calculated upon the victory of his other horse,

Verneuil. So the duke of Hamilton in 1878 at Goodwood, where one of his

horses was the favorite, declared just at the start that he meant to win

with another, and by his orders the favorite was pulled double at the

finish. The same year, in America, Mr. Lorillard caused Parole, then a

two-year-old, to be beaten by one of his stable-companions and one

decidedly his inferior. When this sort of thing is done the ring makes a

great uproar about it, but without reason, for there can be no question

of an owner's right to save his best horse, if he can, from a future

overweight by winning with another not so good. Only he ought frankly to

declare his intention to do so before the race.

The autumn stakes that rank next in importance to the Omnium are known

as the Prix Royal Oak, open, like its counterpart, the St. Leger of

Doncaster, to colts and fillies of three years only, with an unloading

of three pounds for the latter. On this occasion one will have an

opportunity of seeing again in the Bois de Boulogne the contestants of

the great prizes of the spring. The Royal Oak is nearly always won by a

horse of the first class, and in the illustrious list may be found the

names of Gladiateur and of four winners of the French Derby--Patricien,

Boiard, Kilt and Jongleur.

In October, Longchamps is deserted for Chantilly, where the trials of

two-year-olds take place--the first criterion for horses, the second

criterion for fillies--the distance in these two races being eight

hundred metres, or half a mile. The Grand Criterion, for colts and

fillies, has a distance of double this, or one mile (sixteen hundred

metres). Since their debuts in August at Caen and Deauville the young

horses have had time to harden and to show better what they are made of;

and it is in the Grand Criterion that one looks for the most certain

indications of their future career. The names of the winners will be

found to include many that have afterward become celebrated, such as Mon

Etoile, Stradella, Le Bearnais, Mongoubert, Sornette, Revigny and

others.

Chantilly is the birthplace of racing in France. In the winter of

1833--the same year which also witnessed the foundation of the Jockey

Club--Prince Labanoff, who was then living at Chantilly, and who had

secured the privilege of hunting in the forest, invited several

well-known lovers of the chase to join him in the sport. Tempted by the

elasticity of the turf, it occurred to the hunters to get up a race, and

meeting at the Constable's Table--a spot where once stood the stump of a

large tree on which, as the story goes, the constable of France used to

dine--they improvised a race-course which has proved the prolific mother

of the tracks to be found to-day all over the country. In this first

trial M. de Normandie was the winner. The fate of Chantilly was decided.

Since the suicide--or the assassination--of the last of the Condes the

castle had been abandoned, the duc d'Aumale, its inheritor, being then a

minor. The little town itself seemed dying of exhaustion. It was

resolved to infuse into it a new life by taking advantage of the

exceptional quality of its turf. The soil is a rather hard sand,

resisting pressure, elastic, and covered with a fine thick sward, and of

a natural drainage so excellent that even the longest rains have no

visible effect upon it. On this ground--as good as, if not better than,

that at Newmarket--there is to-day a track of two thousand metres, or a

mile and a quarter--the distance generally adopted in France--with good

turns, excepting the one known as the "Reservoirs," which is rather

awkward, and which has the additional disadvantage of skirting the road

to the training-stables--a temptation to bolt that is sometimes too

strong for horses of a doubtful character. For this reason there is

sometimes a little confusion in the field at this point. Before coming

to the last turn there is a descent, followed by a rise--both of them

pretty stiff--and this undoubtedly has its effect on the result, for the

lazier horses fall away a little on the ascent. Just at this point too a

clump of trees happens to hide the track from the spectators on the

stands, and all the lorgnettes are turned on the summit of the rise to

watch for the reappearance of the horses, who are pretty sure to turn up

in a different order from that in which they were last seen. This crisis

of the race is sometimes very exciting. A magnificent forest of beech

borders and forms a background to the race-course in the rear of the

stands; in front rise the splendid and imposing stables of the duc

d'Aumale, built by Mansard for the Great Conde; on the right is the

pretty Renaissance chateau of His Royal Highness; while the view loses

itself in a vast horizon of distant forest and hills of misty blue. The

stands are the first that were erected in France, and in 1833 they

seemed no doubt the height of comfort and elegance, but to-day they are

quite too small to accommodate the ever-increasing crowd. The stands as

well as the stables, and the race-course itself, all belong to the duc

d'Aumale, who gave a splendid house-warming and brilliant fete last

October to celebrate the completion of the restorations of his ancestral

chateau. Under the Empire, the property of the Orleans princes having

been confiscated, a nominal transfer of Chantilly was made to a friend

of the family. The emperor, having one day signified his wish to witness

the Derby, had the mortification on his arrival to find the reserved

stand closed against him by the prince's orders. It was necessary to

force the gate. The emperor took the hint, however, and never went to

Chantilly again.

The soil of the Forest of Fontainebleau being of the same nature as that

of the turf in the open, the alleys of the park furnish an invaluable

resource to the trainer. For this reason, since racing has come in

vogue, most of the stables have found their way to Chantilly or to its

immediate neighborhood, where one of the largest and finest alleys of

the forest, running parallel to the railway and known as the Alley of

the Lions, has been given up to their use. Thus, Chantilly, with its

Derby Day and its training-grounds, may be called at once the Epsom and

the Newmarket of France. There is hardly a horse, with the exception of

those of the comte de Lagrange and of M. Lupin, and those of Henry

Jennings, the public trainer, that is not "worked" in the Alley of the

Lions. The Societe d'Encouragement has control of the training-ground as

well as of the track, and also claims the right to keep spectators away

from the trial-gallops, so that the duc d'Aumale, whose proprietary

privileges are thus usurped, is often at war with the society. He has

stag-hunts twice a week during the winter, on Mondays and Thursdays, and

now and then on Sundays too--as he did with the grand duke of Austria on

his late visit to Chantilly--and he naturally objects to having the hunt

cut in two by the gallops over his principal avenue. He worries the

trainers to such a degree that they begin to talk of quitting Chantilly

for some more hospitable quarters. When things get to this pass the

duke, who, in his character of councillor-general, is bound to look

after the interests of his constituents, relents, and putting aside his

personal wrongs calls a parley with the stewards of the races, offers a

new prize--an object of art perhaps--or talks of enlarging the stands,

and the gage of reconciliation being accepted, peace is made to last

until some new _casus belli_ shall occur. His Royal Highness is not

forgetful of the duties of his position. When he is at Chantilly on a

race-day he gracefully does the honors of his reserved stand to all the

little Orleanist court. Since the reconciliation that took place between

the comte de Paris and the comte de Chambord in 1873 this miniature

court has been enlarged by the addition of several personages of the

Legitimist circle, and the "ring" at Chantilly is often graced with a

most distinguished and aristocratic assemblage. Amongst the beauties of

this brilliant company may be especially noticed Madame de Viel-Castel,

the young princesse Amede de Broglie, the duchesse de Chaulnes with her

strange, unconventional type of beauty, Madame Ferdinand Bischoffsheim,

the comtesse Beugnot, the comtesse Tanneguy-Duchatel and the princesse

de Sagan. And when all this gay party has dispersed, and the duke is

left to his cigar--as constant a companion as the historical weed in

the mouth of General Grant--he might almost fancy, as he walks the great

street of his good town, that he is back again at Twickenham in the days

of his exile. There is something to remind him on every side of the

country that once sheltered him. To right and left are English

farrieries, English saddleries, and English bars and taverns too.

English is the language that reaches his ears, and English of the most

"horsey" sort that one can hear this side of Newmarket. Everybody has

the peculiar gait and costume that belong to the English horseman: the

low-crowned hat, the short jacket, those tight trousers and big, strong

boots, are not to be mistaken. It is a little world in itself, in which

no Frenchman could long exist, but its peculiar inhabitants have not,

for all that, neglected anything that may attract the young folk of the

country. They have even offered the bribe of a race in which only French

jockeys are permitted to ride, but these, with only an exception here

and there, have very promptly given up the business, disgusted either by

the severe regimen required in the matter of diet or by the rigorous

discipline indispensable in a training-stable. The few exceptions to

which I have referred have not sufficed to prevent this race from

falling into disrepute; but it may be worth mentioning that on the last

occasion on which it was run, the 19th October last, when but three or

four horses were engaged, the baron de Bize, with what has been called a

veritable inspiration of genius, threw an unlooked-for interest into the

event by mounting in person M. Camille Blanc's horse Nonancourt, and

winning the race with him. It is to be borne in mind that the riders

must not only have been born in France, but must be of French parentage

on the side of both father and mother.

The best-known jockeys are nearly all the children of English parents,

and have first seen the light in the little colony at Chantilly or else

have been brought very young into France. I give some of their names,

classed according to the number of victories gained by them respectively

in 1878: Hunter, who generally rides for M. Fould, 47 victories;

Wheeler, head-jockey and trainer for M. Ed. Blanc, 45 victories; Hislop,

39; Hudson, ex-jockey to M. Lupin, who gained last year the Grand Prix

de Paris, 36 victories; Rolf, 35; Carratt, 32; Goater, who rides for the

comte de Lagrange, and who is well known in England; and Edwards, whose

"mount" was at one time quite the mode, and whose tragical death on the

3d of October last created a painful sensation. When Lamplugh was

training for the duke of Hamilton he made Edwards "first stable-boy,"

and this and his subsequent successes excited a violent jealousy in one

of his stable-companions named Page. The two jockeys separated, but

instead of fighting a duel, as Frenchmen might have done, they simply

rode against each other one day at Auteuil--Page on Leona, and Edwards

on Peau-d'Ane. The struggle was a desperate one: both riders got bad

falls from their exhausted mares, and from that time poor Edwards never

regained his _aplomb_. He frequently came to grief afterward, and met

his death in consequence of a fall from Slowmatch at Maison Lafitte.

One of the oldest celebrities of Chantilly is Charles Pratt, formerly

trainer and jockey for the baron Niviere and for the late Charles

Lafitte, and at present in the service of the prince d'Aremberg. His

system of training approached very nearly that of Henry Jennings, under

whose orders and instructions he had worked for a long time. His horses

were always just in the right condition on the day they were wanted, and

as he never allowed them to be overridden, their legs remained uninjured

for many years--a thing that has become too rare in France as well as in

England. As a jockey Pratt possessed, better than any other, that

knowledge of pace without which a rider is sure to commit irreparable

mistakes. At the Grand Prix de Paris of 1870, when he rode Sornette, he

undertook the daring feat of keeping the head of the field from the

start to the finish. Such an enterprise in a race so important and so

trying as this demanded the nicest instinct for pace and the most

thorough knowledge, which as trainer he already possessed, of the

impressionable nature and high qualities of his mare.

The autumn meetings at Chantilly close the legitimate season in France.

The affairs at Tours are of little interest except to the foreign

colony--which at this season of the year is pretty numerous in

Touraine--and to the people of the surrounding country. On these

occasions the cavalry officers in garrison at Tours get up paper hunts,

a species of sport which is rapidly growing in favor and promises to

become a national pastime. Whatever interest attaches to the November

races at Bordeaux is purely local. Turfmen who cannot get through the

winter without the sight of the jockeys' silk jackets and the

bookmakers' mackintoshes must betake themselves to Pau in December. The

first of the four winter meetings takes place during this month upon a

heath at a distance of four kilometres--say about two miles and a

half--from the town. The exceptional climate and situation of Pau, where

the frozen-out fox-hunters of England come to hunt, and where there is a

populous American colony, will no doubt before long give a certain

importance to these races, but just now the local committee is short of

funds and the stakes have been insufficient to offer an attraction to

good horses. Last winter in one of the steeple-chases _all_ the horses

tumbled pell-mell into the river, which was the very first obstacle they

encountered, and although the public was quite used to seeing riders

come to grief, it found the incident somewhat extraordinary.

The meetings at Nice, the queen of all winter residences in Europe, are

much finer and more worthy of attention. They begin in January, and the

programme has to be arranged almost exclusively for steeple-chases and

hurdle-races, as flat-racers are not in condition for running at the

time when the season at Nice is at its height. The greater number, and

particularly the best, of the racers have important engagements for the

spring meetings at Paris and at Chantilly, and even in view of really

valuable prizes they could not afford at this time of year to undergo a

complete preparation, which would advance them too rapidly in their

training and would make it impossible to have them in prime condition in

the spring. The race-course at Nice is charmingly situated in the valley

of the Var. The perfume of flowers from numerous beds reaches the

stands, where one may enjoy a magnificent view of mountain and sea,

whilst a good band discourses music in the intervals of the races. Some

of the prizes are important. The Grand Prix de Monaco, for instance,

popularly known as "The Cup", consists of an object of art given by the

prince of Monaco and a purse of twenty thousand francs, without counting

the entrance-stakes. On the second day is run the great hurdle handicap

for seventy-five hundred francs called the Prix de Monte Carlo, and on

the third and last day of the meeting the Grand Prix de Nice, a free

handicap steeple-chase for a purse of ten thousand francs.

The international pigeon-shooting matches at Monaco, which occur at the

same time, contribute, with the races, to give an extraordinary

animation to this period of the season at Nice. The betting-ring feels

the influence of the proximity of the gaming-tables, where everybody

goes; and yet one could so easily exchange this feverish life of play

for the calmer enjoyments of the capital _cuisine_ of London House and

an after-dinner stroll on the English Promenade or the terraces of Monte

Carlo, in dreamy contemplation of the mountains with their misty grays

and a sea and sky of such heavenly blue. But no: this charming programme

is wantonly rejected: not the finest orchestras, not the prettiest

fetes, not the newest chansonettes sung by Judie and Jeanne Granier

themselves, can turn the players for a moment from the pursuit of their

one absorbing passion. Play goes on at the Casino of Monte Carlo the

livelong day, the only relaxation from the _couleur gagnante_ or _tiers

et tout_ being when the gamblers step across the way to take a shot at

the pigeons or a bet on the birds; for they must bet on something, if it

is but on the number of the box from which the next victim will fly. And

when in the evening the players have returned to Nice it is only to

indulge the fierce passion again in playing baccarat--the terrible

Parisian baccarat--at the Massena Club or at the Mediterranean, where

the betting is even higher than at Monaco. Hundreds of thousands of

francs change hands every hour from noon to six o'clock in the morning

in this gambling-hell--a hell disguised in the colors of Paradise.

But let us fly from the perilous neighborhood and reach the nearest

race-course by the fastest train we can find. The passion for the turf

is healthier than the other, and its ends not so much in need of

concealment. Unluckily, we shall not find just at this season--that

is to say, in February--anything going on excepting a few

steeple-chases--some "jumping business," as the English say rather

contemptuously. In England there are certain owners, such as Lord

Lonsdale, Captain Machell, Mr. Brayley and others, who, though well

known in flat-races, have also good hunters in their stables, while the

proprietors of the latter in France confine themselves exclusively to

this specialty. Perhaps the best known amongst them are the baron Jules

Finot and the marquis de St. Sauveur. Most of the members of the Jockey

Club affect to look down upon the "illegitimate" sport, as they call it.

It would seem, however, that this disdain is hardly justifiable, for as

a spectacle at least a steeple-chase is certainly more dramatic and more

interesting than a flat-race. What can be finer than the sight of a

dozen gentlemen or jockeys, as the case may be, charging a brook and

taking it clear in one unbroken line? And yet, despite the attractions

and excitement of the sport, and all the efforts made from time to time

by the Society of Steeple-chases to popularize it in France, it cannot

as yet be called a success. Complaint is made, as in England, of too

short distances, of the insufficiency of the obstacles, of an

overstraining of the pace. The whole thing is coming to partake more and

more of the nature of a race, an essentially different thing. Field

sports are not races--at least they never ought to be. A steeple-chase

can never answer the true purpose of the flat-race, which is to prove

which is the best horse, to the end that he may ultimately reproduce his

like. But nobody ever heard of "a sire calculated to get

steeple-chasers". The cleverness and the special qualities that make a

good steeple-chaser are not transmitted. The best have been horses of

poor appearance, often small and unsightly, that have been given up by

the trainer as incapable of winning in flat-races. In England the

winners of the "Grand National" have had no pedigree to speak of, and

have failed upon the track. Cassetete had run in nineteen races without

gaining a single one before he began his remarkable career as a hunter;

Alcibiade had been employed at Newmarket as a lad's horse; Salamander

was taken out of a cart to win the great steeple-chases at Liverpool and

Warwick.

In France there is no Liverpool or Croydon or Sandown for

steeple-chases: there is only an Auteuil. The other meetings in the

neighborhood of Paris--Maisons, Le Vesinet, La Marche--are in the hands

of shameless speculators like Dennetier, Oller and the rest. Poor

horses, bought in the selling races and hardly trained at all to their

new business, compete at these places for slender purses, and often with

the help of dishonest tricks. Accidents, as might be expected, are

frequent, although the obstacles, with the exception of the river at La

Marche, are insignificant. But the pace is pushed to such excess that

the smallest fence becomes dangerous. This last objection, however, may

be made even to the running at Auteuil, where the course is under the

judicious and honorable direction of the Society of Steeple-chases. The

pace is quite too severe for such a long stretch, strewn as it is with

no less than twenty-four obstacles, and some of them pretty serious. The

weather, too, is nearly always bad at Auteuil, even at the summer

meetings, and the ill-luck of the Steeple-chase Society in this respect

has become as proverbial as the good-fortune and favoring skies that

smile upon the Societe d'Encouragement, its neighbor at Longchamps. It

is not to be wondered at, then, that the English do not feel at home

upon this dangerous track. They have gained but twice the great

international steeple-chase founded in 1874--the first time with Miss

Hungerford in the year just mentioned, and again with Congress in 1877.

This prize, the most important of the steeple-chase purses in France,

amounts to twelve hundred sovereigns, added to a sweepstakes of twenty

sovereigns each, with twelve sovereigns forfeit--or only two sovereigns

if declared by the published time--and is open to horses of four years

old and upward. It is run in the early part of June. Last year, whilst

Wild Monarch, belonging to the marquis de St. Sauveur and ridden by

D'Anson, was winning the race, the splendid stands took fire and were

burned, without the loss of a single life, and even without a serious

accident, thanks to the ample width of the staircases and of the exits.

These stands were the newest and the most comfortable in the country. It

is to be hoped that the society will not allow itself to be discouraged

by such a persistent run of ill-luck, but that it will continue to

pursue its work, the object of which it has declared to be "to

encourage, as far as its resources will permit, the breeding and raising

of horses for service and for the army." As the Encouragement Society

rests upon the Jockey Club, so the Society of Steeple-chases finds its

support in the Cercle of the Rue Royale, commonly called the Little Club

or the Moutard. This club was reorganized after the war under the

direction of the prince de Sagan, and has made great sacrifices to bring

Auteuil into fashion.

The regular racing-season in France begins on the 15th of March, and no

horse that has appeared upon any public track before this date is

permitted to enter. The first event of the series is the spring meeting

at Rheims--the French Lincoln. Of the six flat-races run here, one,

known as the Derby of the East, is for two-year-olds of the previous

year, with a purse of five thousand francs. In the "Champagne" races the

winner gets, besides his prize, a basket of a hundred bottles of the

sparkling wine instead of the empty "cup" that gives its name to other

famous contests. After Rheims the next meeting in course is at

Longchamps, in the beginning of April, opening with the Prix du Cadran,

twenty-five thousand francs, distance forty-two hundred metres, for

four-year-olds. Then comes the essay of horses of the year in the Trial

Sweepstakes and the Prix Daru, corresponding with the Two Thousand

Guineas and the Thousand Guineas at Newmarket. The quotation begins to

take shape as the favorites for the great events of May and June stand

out more clearly. Of all the prizes--not excepting even the Grand Prix

de Paris--the one most desired by French turfmen is the French Derby,

or, to call it by its official name, the Prix du Jockey Club, the

crowning event of the May meeting at Chantilly. The conditions of the

Derby are as follows: For colts and fillies of three years, distance

twenty-four hundred metres, or a mile and a half, fifty thousand francs,

or two thousand pounds sterling, with stakes added of forty pounds for

each horse--twenty-four pounds forfeit, or twenty pounds if declared out

at a fixed date; colts to carry one hundred and twenty-three pounds, and

fillies one hundred and twenty pounds. The purse last year amounted to

L3863 (96,575 francs). Like the English Derby, its French namesake is

regarded as the test and gauge of the quality of the year's production.

In the year of the foundation of this important race (1836), and for the

two succeeding years, it was gained by Lord Henry Seymour's stable,

whose trainer, Th. Carter, and whose stallion, Royal Oak, both brought

from England, were respectively the best trainer and the best stallion

of that time. In 1839, however, the duc d'Orleans's Romulus, foaled at

the Meudon stud, put an end to these victories of the foreigner. In 1840

the winner was Tontine, belonging to M. Eugene Aumont, but Lord Seymour,

whose horse had come in second, asserted that another horse had been

substituted for Tontine, and that under this name M. Aumont had really

entered the English filly Herodiade, while the race was open only to

colts foaled and raised in France. A lawsuit was the result, and while

the courts refused to admit Lord Seymour's claim, the racing committee

declared the mare disqualified, and M. Aumont sold his stable. In 1841,

Lord Seymour again gained the Derby with Poetess (by Royal Oak), who

afterward became mother of Heroine and of Monarque and grandmother of

Gladiateur. In 1843 there was a dead heat between M. de Pontalbra's

Renonce and Prospero, belonging to the trainer Th. Carter, and, as often

happens, the worse horse--in this case it was Renonce--won the second

heat. In 1848, the name of "Chantilly" being just then too odious, the

Derby was run at Versailles, and was gained by M. Lupin's Gambetti. This

same year is remarkable in the annals of the French turf for the

excellence of its production. From this period until 1853--the year of

Jouvence--M. Lupin enjoyed a series of almost uninterrupted successes.

In 1855 the Derby was won by the illustrious Monarque, and the following

year witnessed the first appearance upon the turf of the now famous red

and blue of Lagrange. It was Beauvais, belonging to Madame Latache de

Fay, who in 1860 carried off the coveted prize, which was won the next

year by Gabrielle d'Estrees, from the stable of the comte de Lagrange.

Then for a period of nine years the count's stable had a run of

ill-luck, its horses always starting as prime favorites and being as

invariably beaten. This was Trocadero's fate in 1867. He was a great

favorite, and had, moreover, on this occasion the assistance of his

stable-companion Mongoubert, a horse of first-rate qualities. This time,

at least, the count's backers were sure of success, but the victory that

seemed within their grasp was wrested from their hands by the unexpected

prowess developed upon the field of battle by a newcomer, M. Delamarre's

Patricien. At a distance of two hundred metres from the goal the three

horses named were alone in the race, and the struggle between them was a

desperate one. It looked almost as if it might turn out a dead heat,

when Patricien, with a tremendous effort, reached the winning-post a

head in advance, after one of the finest and best-contested races ever

seen at Chantilly. In 1869, however, Consul succeeded in turning the

tide of adverse fortune that had set in against the comte de Lagrange,

but it was only for the moment, and it was not until 1878 that he was

again the victor, when he won with Insulaire. He repeated the success

last year with Zut, whom Goater brought in to the winning-post a length

and a half ahead of the field.

Unfortunately, the winner of the French Derby can hardly ever be in good

condition to contest the great race at Epsom. These two important events

are too near in point of time, and the fatigue of the journey, moreover,

puts the horse that has to make it at a disadvantage. Were it not for

this drawback it is probable that the comte de Lagrange would beat the

English oftener than he does. In May, 1878, his horse Insulaire, having

just come in second in the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket, left that

place for home, won the French Derby on Sunday, and returned to England

in time for the Epsom Derby on Wednesday, where he came in second. He

recrossed the Channel, and the following Sunday was second again in the

Grand Prix de Paris, Thurio passing him only by a head. Making the

passage again--and this was his fourth voyage within fifteen days--he

gained the Ascot Derby. It is not unlikely that if this remarkable horse

had remained permanently in the one country or the other he would have

carried off the principal prizes of the turf.

For the last three or four years the racing men have been in the habit

of meeting, after the Grand Prix de Paris, in the pretty park of La

Marche, between St. Cloud and St. Germain. It is quite a private

gathering, and as elegant as a dashing turnout of some fifteen or twenty

four-in-hands and a pretty luncheon and charming flirtation can make it,

and if dancing has not yet been introduced it soon will be. Prizes in

the shape of groups in bronze and paintings and valuable weapons are

awarded to the gentlemen present who may take part in the hunting

steeple-chase or the race with polo ponies or with hacks.

In 1878 a new race-course was started at Enghien, to the north of

Paris. The prizes are sufficiently large, the stands comfortable and the

track is good; and these attractions, with the advantage of the

neighborhood of the Chantilly and Morlaye stables, will no doubt make

Enghien a success. Steeple-chases and hurdle-races predominate.

We can hardly close this review of turf matters in France without at

least a reference to the so-called sporting journals, but what we have

to say of them can be told in two words. They exist only in name. Any

one who buys _Le Sport_, _Le Turf_, _Le Jockey_, _Le Derby_, the _Revue

des Sports,_ etc., on the faith of their titles--nearly all English, be

it observed--will be greatly disappointed if he expects to find in them

anything beyond the mere programmes of the races: they contain no

criticism worthy of the name, no accurate appreciation of the subject

they profess to treat of, and are even devoid of all interesting details

relating to it. Far from following the example of their fellows of

London and New York, these sheets concern themselves neither with

hunting, shooting or fishing, nor with horse-breeding or cattle-raising,

but give us instead the valuable results of their lucubrations upon the

names of the winning horses of the future, and with such sagacity that a

subscriber to one of them has made the calculation that if he had bet

but one louis upon each of the favorites recommended by his paper he

would have lost five hundred louis in the one year of his subscription.

Let us add, however, that, the press excepted, the English have nothing

more to teach their neighbors in turf matters. The _Pall Mall Gazette_

has well said that the organization of racing in France has taken a

great deal of what is good from the English turf, and has excluded most

of what is bad. The liberality of the French Jockey Club is declared by

_Vanity Fair_ to be in striking contrast with the starveling policy of

its English namesake. The _Daily Telegraph_ has recently eulogized the

French club for having found out how to rid the turf of the pest of

publicans and speculators and clerks of courses, and of all the riffraff

that encumber and disgrace it in England, and that make parliamentary

intervention necessary. The French turf, in fine, may be said to be

inferior to the English in the number of horses, but its equal in

respect of their quality, while it must be admitted to be superior to it

in the average morality of their owners.

L. LEJEUNE.

FROM FAR.

Oh, Love, come back, across the weary way

Thou didst go yesterday--

Dear Love, come back!

"I am too far upon my way to turn:

Be silent, hearts that yearn

Upon my track."

Oh, Love! Love! Love! sweet Love! we are undone

If thou indeed be gone

Where lost things are.

"Beyond the extremest sea's waste light and noise,

As from Ghostland, thy voice

Is borne afar."

Oh, Love, what was our sin that we should be

Forsaken thus by thee?

So hard a lot!

"Upon your hearts my hands and lips were set--

My lips of fire--and yet

Ye knew me not."

Nay, surely, Love! We knew thee well, sweet Love!

Did we not breathe and move

Within thy light?

"Ye did reject my thorns who wore my roses:

Now darkness closes

Upon your sight."

Oh, Love! stern Love! be not implacable:

We loved thee, Love, so well!

Come back to us!

"To whom, and where, and by what weary way

That I went yesterday,

Shall I come thus?"

Oh weep, weep, weep! for Love, who tarried long

With many a kiss and song,

Has taken wing.

No more he lightens in our eyes like fire:

He heeds not our desire,

Or songs we sing.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

AMERICANS ABROAD.

Five-and-twenty years ago Americans had no cause to be particularly

proud of the manner in which, from a social point of view, their

travelling compatriots were looked upon in Europe. At that epoch we were

still the object of what Mr. Lowell calls a "certain condescension in

foreigners." We were still the recipients at their hands of that certain

half-curious, half-amused and wholly patronizing inspection which, from

the height of their civilization, they might be expected to bestow upon

a novel species of humanity, with manners different from their own, but

recently sprung into existence and notice and disporting itself in their

midst.

But this sort of thing has had its day. By dint of having been able to

produce, here and there, for the edification of foreigners, a few types

of American manhood and womanhood which came up to the standard of

high-breeding entertained in the Old World, and of having occasionally

dispensed hospitality, both at home and abroad, in a manner which was

unexceptionable, besides having shown other evidences in social

life--not to speak of political life--of being able to hold our own

quite creditably, the "condescension" has gradually diminished in a very

satisfactory manner. It is now no longer kept alive by even the typical

American traveller such as he was when five-and-twenty years ago a

familiar sight at every railway-station, in every steamer and in every

picture-gallery, museum and ruin of every town in Europe. Now-a-days

everybody in America who lays any claim to the right of being called

"somebody," however small a "somebody" it may be, has been to Europe at

least once in his or her life--on a three months' Cook-excursion tour,

if in no other way. And those who have not been have had a father,

mother, brother, sister, or in any case a cousin in some degree, who

has; so that there is always a European trip in the family, so to speak.

The result of all this has naturally been a certain amount of experience

concerning Europe which has tended to wellnigh exterminate the race of

the typically-verdant American traveller. Occasional specimens, with all

their characteristics in full and vigorous development, may still be

met, but these are merely isolated survivors of a once widespread

family. The Americans that one meets to-day in Europe, both those who

travel and those who reside there, are of a different conformation and

belong to a different type. The crudeness which so shocked Europeans in

their predecessors they have, with characteristic adaptability, readily

and gracefully outgrown. But whether they have improved in other

respects, and whether, on other grounds, we have cause to be

particularly proud of our countrymen abroad at the present day, is

another question.

That Americans are constantly apologizing to foreigners for America, for

its institutions, for its social life, and for themselves as belonging

to it, is a fact which no one ever thinks of disputing. In this faculty

for disparaging our own country we may flatter ourselves that we have no

equals. The Chinese may come near us in their obsequious assurances as

to the utter unworthiness of everything pertaining to them, but with the

difference that they, probably, are inwardly profoundly convinced of the

perfection of all that their idea of courtesy obliges them to abuse, and

mean nothing of what they say; whereas we _do_ mean everything we say.

The prejudice of the English, and their attempts to transport a

miniature England about with them wherever they go, furnish a frequent

subject of jest to Americans on the Continent. If the total immunity

from any such feeling which characterizes the Americans themselves were

the result of breadth of ideas--if they spoke as they do because they

measured the faults and follies, the merits and advantages, of their

own institutions with as impartial an eye as they would measure those of

other nations, and judged them without either malice or extenuation--we

might then have the privilege of condemning narrow-mindedness

and prejudice. But we have no such breadth of ideas. On the

contrary, we have ourselves--none more so--the strongest sort of

prejudices--prejudices which prevent us as a nation from taking wide,

cosmopolitan views of things. The only difference is that with us the

prejudice, instead of being in favor of everything belonging to our own

country, is, in far too many cases, against it, consequently the most

objectionable, the least excusable, of prejudices.

It is but rarely that we find a German, a Frenchman, a Spaniard, an

Italian, or a Russian, who even having expatriated himself completely

for one reason or another, and after years of absence, will not have

retained some affection for his native country, some longing for it,

some feeling that it is the best place on earth after all. But among any

number of Americans who have been on European soil for any period of

time, from twenty days to twenty years, those who are burdened with any

such affection, any such longing, any such feeling, might be counted

with ease. Indeed, if through some inconceivable arrangement of human

affairs the Americans abroad were to be prevented from ever returning to

their own country, I imagine the majority would bear the catastrophe

with great equanimity, and, aside from the natural ties of family and

pecuniary interests that might bind them to their home, would think the

permanent life in Europe thus enforced the happiest that Fate could have

bestowed upon them. For my part, I never met but one American who was

anxious to return home--a lady, strange to say--and her chief reason

seemed to be that she missed her pancakes, hot breads, etc. for

breakfast. All the others, men and women, had but one voice to express

how immeasurably more to their taste was everything in Europe--the

climate, the life, the people, the country, the food, the manners, the

institutions, the customs--than anything in America.