offskirts are studded with seated groups, resembling
masses of bedding-plants on a lawn.

The language spoken, without being polyglot,
is decidedly international. French questions
get English answers in reply, and quite as frequently
vice versâ. The fashions range widely
over time and space. The dust has contributed
a sprinkling of hair-powder. There are green-lined
umbrellas from the south, and sandals
from Spain. There are French blouses, and
English pork-pies. And there—can I believe
my eyes?— is a well-dressed lady without crinoline!
Bless her courageous little soul! I
forgive her ridiculous chignon for that. But
perhaps, after all, she is not so very courageous;
only one of the earliest weathercocks to point
to the coming change of wind. What a providential
dispensation it is, that man, in his infatuation,
should think the latest mode the
prettiest, the most becoming, the most sensible!
Old fashions only are ugly and foolish.

Why should it be that walking-sticks are an
article greatly in request? I got here without a
walking-stick, and, if they will let me, will try
to get back again without one. Why? Unless
that Hebrew-faced gentleman desires to distribute
them as souvenirs amongst a friendly
public. There is also a wonderful supply of
watch-chains, glittering in white and yellow
metal. Nor are cigars of various quality wanting.
Choisissez, messieurs! Choisissez, messieurs!
There is likewise sugar-stick and chocolate, for
those who cannot live without those sweets.

The trotting-race (saddled) has begun; the
least interesting of all, the spectators say. But
a glance at the site where it is taking place
makes up for its want of interest. There is
still the English Channel (whose formation we
witnessed a page or two ago), and its consequence,
the chalky cliffs of Albion. The
Folkestone steamer is coming in, traversing
what was once dry ground, and may be dry
ground again one of these days. Another consequence,
too, lies before us in the wild irregular
dunes of that sandy warren. But there is
no time to hearken to half the memories which
linger around this haunted spot.

The trotting-race in harness would be more
amusing if the vehicles (not to mention the
horses) had been more presentable and more
equally matched. Two of these unfortunates
are dragging rumble-tumble gigs, too seedy
ever to make their owners respectable. The
third, a smart grey, has fastened to him a
slight skeleton-gig, consisting merely of shafts
and wheels, and a penitential seat for the driver.
After the race is over, he could take it on his
shoulders and carry it home. But the competitors
are soon separated by distances which
extinguish all emulation between the competing
horses. The race is flat; you see as good at a
horse fair. In spite of the applause bestowed on
the winner, it is no better than yesterday's champagne
or to-morrow's bottled beer before it is up.

The French visitors enjoy the races for the
race itself, as well as for its adjuncts; which is
the best proof that racing is naturalised in
France. Verily, they are not hard to please,
when they take such delight in a race with
only three or four competitors. Anything
better puts them in ecstasies. To-day's bouquet is
the hurdle race. "Here they come! Look,
only look! Ils sont partis! II y a trois ensemble!
C'est Ie bleu qui gagne! Non; c'est le
blanc!"  What a hubbub! What a roar! And
when the hurdles are neatly taken, "Oop! c'est
magnifique!'' The soldiers dance and jump in
the air; the gendarmes lose their à plomb in
the saddle. The sergents de ville forget their
official capacity, and fancy that they are spectators
merely; for the two foremost horses are
reaching the winning-post neck and neck. "Qui
est-ce qui a gagné, s'il vous plait, monsieur;
qui?" Can it be that perfidious Albion has
taught their young ideas how to bet?

But next day, at Wimereux, what velvety
turf, what green pastures, what genial weather,
what an increased attendance both of butterfly
insiders and gratuitous out-pensioners! Some
wizard is waving his magic wand and compelling
the presence of the slaves of his will. We answer
the summons, nothing loth. We come, we
come, mighty lord of the revels.

Here I come to show myself, me, my wife,
and my lovely daughters. Here I come, too, a
bit of a guy, all in white, with trousers too
short, a seedy black hat, and a grass-green veil.
Here I come, on my high-mettled racer with
the mark of a collar on his neck, my jack-boots
on in the heat of the dog-days, and my thick-handled
whip without a lash. Here I come, with
my seventy summers made up for five-and-thirty,
with my coal-black wig, my white pantaloon
and waistcoat, and a greenhouse bouquet
in my button-hole. Here I come, in the blaze
of beauty, with a golden chignon and golden
curls, with a cloud of muslin floating around
me, and a train of textile froth dragging behind.
I am irresistible in my loveliness. Look at me,
tender-hearted youths, and die. Here I come,
fat, fair, and forty, with good humour written
on my motherly face, driving my pair with a
steady hand, a female Jehu, but cool and collected,
and not afraid of being considered a little
too stout. Here we come, a medley lot, in a
four-in-hand omnibus, inside and out, smart and
shabby, young and old. Here we don't come
quite (no fault of ours) a young ladies' boarding-school
dressed in uniform, with green veils
and black paletots. We are not allowed to
enter the course, but gaze at the sport over a
garden wall. We shall make up for the privation
one of these days. When we get bigger,
won't we dress! Here we come, the cream of
the cream, with a coronet on our carriage door,
with folded-armed lackeys and liveried coachman,
and fair round baskets with fat capon
lined. Here we come all; we come, we
come!

The races are over; the course is cleared.
There has been no chaff, and there remained no
dregs. All are gone home, an orderly throng.
The day is rounded with a sleep. And exactly
as its events are buried in slumber, so steeple-chases,