dragoons become more and more furious.
Chasing one's own hat in a high wind is
generally considered the most hopeless and
bewildering object of human aspiration; but a
troop of horse chasing a dog beats it hollow.
The dragoons come to a stand, and seem to
consult; a delay of two or three minutes
takes place before they decide upon renewing
the attack; meanwhile the dog has walked
very leisurely off the field, to the great relief
of everybody.

Now the real business of the day is beginning
in earnest. The horses are coming on
to the course. They come, led caressingly by
the jockeys, who talk together in groups.
But I am disappointed in their appearance.
They are barbarous specimens, perhaps, of
the jockeyship of that very young sportsman,
France? No, they are most business-like
—most orthodox—quite English, in
short. Their jackets—pink, blue, yellow,
white, party-coloured—are perfection; their
boots have not a wrinkle that is not
unexceptionable. As for the horses, they are slim
and sleek, and tread the ground in the evident
belief that they are at Newmarket or Ascot
—where, in truth, they would not be very
much out of place. I refer to my "Entre-
acte"—the little theatrical journal containing
the substitute for "Dorling's c'rect list",—
which is being sold everywhere on the course,
and I discover that the simple reason why the
horses and jockeys remind me of England, is
—that they ARE English! Flatman! Boldrick!!
Chiffney!!! and a host of celebrities,
whose names I have learned by heart
from " Bell's Life," are before me. Now it is
all over, I don't mind confessing that I had
expected to see something like the French
postilion, who rides six horses round the
circle at Astley's. I had made up my mind
to moustaches; and half believed that they
would ride standing, and not sitting, on the
saddles. As it is, the very Frenchman, of
whom there are evidently some—for I see
certain Antoines and Pierres down in the list
—are distinguishable from their British
brethren by little else than their colours.

And the horses? Are they English also?
At this inquiry, a little English "gent"
turns round, and with a good-natured smile
of contempt, informs me that "most of 'em
belong to Rasper and Pastern.—" Rasper
and Pastern—evidently a notorious firm—
and I had never heard of them before! The
same authority further informs me that
they (the horses) are none of 'em first-raters
(which I believe I could have told him
myself);—that it is not worth while to bring out
really fine animals, on the chance of a prize
of a very few thousand francs—but that these
are well enough "as times go."

While we are talking, the jockeys are
mounting, and arranging themselves for the
start. There is some sort of signal given—for
which, I observe, nobody seems waiting or
watching, as in England: I, myself, am
ignorant whether a handkerchief is dropped, or a
gun fired, or a bell rung, or whether neither,
or all, of the three operations are performed.
With as little formality as may be, some
ten or a dozen horses make what in sporting
eyes would be considered as bad a start as
could possibly be accomplished. A few
Englishmen, with sharp anxious faces and
obvious betting-books, declare it to be " too
bad," and "disgraceful;" but everybody else
thinks it the right thing, or all the better for
being the wrong thing.

After the preliminary stumbling and shying,
however, they go gallantly; but, from
what I see of the relative merits of the
competitors, I should think that the contest might
just as well have been between a couple of
the horses simply; for no more than that
number seem to have the ghost of a chance.
However, not a man gives in; the
"nowheres " are as hopeful as the "everywheres,"
to the very last. Now they make a great
strain and turn the corner; the ladies in
carriages all turn also; and the sporting
gentlemen on horseback—as sporting gentlemen
always do, and I suppose always will
do—take the diameter of the field, and dash
across to meet them coming round. Now
they near the winning-post. Some feeble-
minded persons declare themselves for Blue,
but there can be no doubt that White will be
the winner. White wins accordingly—not by
a nose, nor a head, nor a neck, nor a length,
but by numberless noses, uncountable heads,
incalculable necks, and no end of lengths—
perhaps, some dozen or two. In White's
energetic exuberance, he flies so far beyond
the flag that you think he is going round the
field again. But this is only a jovial mode of
asserting his triumph, which he has probably
learned in France. By this time the crowd
has become more dense. New arrivals clamour
for the second race, and, in due time, for the
third: which are all won and lost with the
greatest good-humour. The races themselves
do not differ materially from similar displays
in England. The grand difference is in the
interest which they create. In England nearly
all the spectators are excited by the contest:
in France, the majority, who have no notion of
betting, are simply amused by the spectacle.
They go to a race, as they would go to the
Hippodrome; and they wonder, perhaps, why
M. Auriol, the admirable clown, is not engaged
at both places.

It is all over: the people have been
entertained—and that is sufficient. They do
not trouble themselves about who has lost
and who has won. They have nothing to say
about "making up a book", "odds", "backing",
"hedging", or "levanting". For them
"settling day " has no terrors. They are
thinking of dinner, unless attracted by a
balloon ascent in the neighbourhood—an
irresistible attraction to a Parisian, and one that
can at any time make him forget everything
else under the sun.