Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 26, September, 1880

It will be seen by this list that the superiority of the English-bred horse over the French is far from being established. Of sixteen races, the English have gained but five, [Since this article was written the Grand Prix has again been won (June, 1880) by an English horse, Robert the Devil.] while they have been three times second and four times third, and in 1875 their three representatives came in last. The winner of the Epsom Derby has been beaten several times, as in the case, amongst others, of Blair Athol by Vermont and Doncaster by Boïard. The winners of the two chief prizes of last year were a French, an English and an Hungarian horse—Gladiateur, Cremorne and Kisber. It may be remarked also that the winner of the French Derby, as it is called, which is run at Chantilly a fortnight earlier, is almost never the gainer of the Grand Prix, the only exceptions having been Boïard and Salvator. This result is no doubt the consequence of the system of training too long in vogue in France, and upheld by Tom Jennings and the Carters, which consists in bringing a horse to the post in the maximum of his condition upon a given day and for a given event. The animal can never be in better state, and if he does not win the race for which he has been specially prepared, it is because he is not good enough: he cannot be made to do any better than he has done. But if it is hard to bring a horse to this culminating point of training, it is still more difficult to keep him there, even for a period of a few days. Training has been compared to the sides of a triangle: when one has reached the apex one must perforce begin to descend. It being, then, impossible that the animal should support for any length of time the extreme tension of his whole organism that perfect training supposes, it but very rarely happens that the horse prepared according to this system—for the French Derby, for example—can be maintained in such a condition as to enable him to win the Epsom Derby or the Grand Prix de Paris. We have heretofore referred to the reaction against this practice of excessive training, and to the efforts of Henry Jennings in the direction of a reform—efforts which within the last few years have been crowned with great success.

But we must now return to the Grand Prix. An invalid who had been forbidden by his doctor to read the newspapers for several months, and who should chance to make his first promenade on the Boulevards on the eve of the Grand Prix, would know at a glance that something extraordinary was about to happen. At every step he would meet the unmistakable garb that announces the Englishman on his travels—at every turn he would hear the language of Shakespeare and of Mr. Labouchere adorned with a good deal of horse-talk. Coney's Cosmopolitan Bar, Rue Scribe, is full on this day of betters and bookmakers, and possibly of Englishmen of a higher rank, whilst its silver gril—which is not of silver, however, but polished so bright as almost to look like it—smokes with the broiling steak, and the gin cocktails and brandy-and-soda flow unceasingly. Toward midnight, especially—after the Salon des Courses has closed its doors—is Coney's to be seen in its glory. The circus of the Champs Élysées, where Saturday is the favorite day, makes on this particular Saturday its largest receipts in the year; the Jardin Mabille is packed; the very hackney-coachmen wear the independent, half-insolent look that they have had since morning and will have till the evening of the next day—unfailing sign in Paris that some great spectacle is impending; milliners and dressmakers are out of their wits; the world has gone mad. The restaurant-waiters and the barbers of the Boulevard may condescend, if you happen to be a regular customer and given to tipping, to enlighten you on the chances of the respective horses. The most knowing in these matters are supposed to be Pierre, the host of the Grand Café, right under the rooms of the Jockey Club, and the rotund Henry, keeper of the Restaurant Bignon, Avenue de l'Opéra, the confidant of certain turfmen, who may favor him with invaluable hints if their salmis of woodcocks should have been a success or their cotelette double be done to a turn. Charles, of the Café Durand, Place de la Madeleine, and Henry, the barber of the Boulevard des Italiens, are also posted in the quotations and keep themselves well informed.

On Sunday morning by ten o'clock the Bois de Boulogne is filled with pedestrians, who take their breakfast on the grass to while away the time of waiting. The restaurants Madrid and the Cascade, where the tables are spread amidst flowers and shaded by trees—a feature that is duly remembered in the bills, like an hors d'oeuvre—are turning visitors away. Toward half-past two the enclosure of the paddock is absolutely full: not a vacant chair is to be found, and a fearful consumption of iced champagne begins at the buffet. For, strange to say, the weather is always fine on this day, and the Encouragement Society is as notorious for its good-luck in this respect as the Skating Club and the Steeple-chase Society are for quite the opposite. By degrees—and perhaps helped by the champagne—the vast throng will be observed, as the supreme moment approaches, to depart from its habitually staid and calm demeanor, and finally to show some signs of enthusiasm, though without growing in the least noisy and turbulent, like that at Epsom on the Derby Day. Once in a year, however, I as the French say, doesn't make a custom, and the Parisian crowd, to quote its own expression, "croit que c'est arrivé." The applause, in case the winner is a French horse, comes from patriotic motives: if he happens to be English it is given from a feeling of courtesy; and the crowd having done its duty in either case, the famous "return," that has often furnished a subject for the painter, begins. And a wondrous sight it is. Up to six o'clock the innumerable carriages continue to defile upon the several routes that lead to the city, forming a procession of which the head touches the Place de la Concorde, whilst the extremity still reaches to the tribunes of Longchamps. And when evening comes on, and bets are settled, and heated brains seek to prolong the day's excitement far into the night, such haunts as the Mabille grow so noisy that the police is generally obliged to interfere. There was a time when, on these occasions, that jolly nobleman, the duke of Hamilton, then a prominent figure on the French turf, did not disdain to lead his followers to the battle in person, and to practise the noble art of boxing upon all comers, whether policemen or bookmakers. But these deeds of former days are now but traditions: His Grace has married, which is said to have taught him wisdom, and the bookmakers have grown into millionaires, with a sense of the gravity becoming their position.—L. LEJEUNE.

MRS. PINCKNEY'S GOVERNESS

The short October day had come to an end. It had been one of those soft, misty, delicious days common enough at this season of the year. The gathering darkness perplexed the young girl who, without maid or escort of any kind, stood peering through the gloom at the little way-station. Discouraged, apparently, at the result of her search, she entered the station-house, and inquired, in rather a depressed voice, if they knew whether Mrs. Pinckney had sent a carriage or vehicle of any kind for her: "she was expected," she added.

Youth and good looks are naturally effective, and the young Irishman in authority there, Michael Redmond, was by no means insensible to their influence. He darted out with an air of alacrity, returning, however, almost immediately with the depressing information that Mrs. Pinckney's carriage was not there. "She went herself to the city this morning, madam," he said, with an effort at consolation. "Perhaps in her absence the servants have forgotten—" Here he paused.

"It is very unfortunate," she murmured, evidently not accustomed to such emergencies. Nature, however, although ill-seconded by her previous life, had given her both courage and decision. "Is there nothing here which I can hire? is there nobody to drive me to Mrs. Pinckney's?"

"I'll see, madam," returned the young man.

Why he used the term "madam," which was undoubtedly misplaced, toward so youthful a person, is only to be explained by an idea he had of exaggerated respect, a kind of protection apparently to her loneliness and helplessness.

He darted headlong out again into the darkness. "There is a boy here with an open wagon, madam," returning almost as quickly as he went out. "It is not an elegant conveyance, but—" and he hesitated—"it is the only one."

"Oh, it will do, thank you: anything will do which can carry me to the house. Is there room for my trunk?"

Michael with strong, serviceable arms swung the trunk lightly into the wagon. She was already seated, the boy, who was to drive, beside her.

"Oh, thank you." She drew a diminutive purse from her travelling-bag, and was evidently about to recompense him when something in his manner deterred her. She thanked him again, for gracious words fell lightly and easily from her lips, and the little vehicle went rattling out upon the road.

Mrs. Pinckney's house was four or five miles from the station: the boy drove at a furious pace, and it was by good luck rather than by good guidance that no catastrophe occurred. The beautiful day was succeeded by a cloudy evening: neither moon nor stars were visible, and as they passed through the avenue leading to the house, under the branches of magnificent old trees, large drops of rain began to fall. The light which shone through the open door revealed camp-chairs still standing on the lawn, and children's toys were scattered over the veranda. The boy's rough feet as he carried in her trunk annihilated the face of a smart French doll, and Miss Featherstone's dress caught on, and was torn by, a nail in a dilapidated rocking-horse. The light came from a picturesque-looking lamp which hung from an arch in the centre of a broad, low hall. She rang the bell: the sound reverberated through the house, yet no one came. The boy, who had stood the trunk on end, growing impatient, rang again: they heard voices, hubbub and confusion, children's cries, servants summoned, a man speaking very volubly in French. Then very imperfect English sentences were shouted in a kind of despair. The door was divided in the middle, with a large brass knocker as an appendage to the upper half. Miss Featherstone, growing anxious and impatient, sounded this vigorously, which brought a maid, who had evidently quite lost her head, to the door.

"This is Mrs. Pinckney's?" said the young girl in prompt, cheerful tones. "I am Miss Featherstone, the governess, whom Mrs. Pinckney expects."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the servant in an absent, distracted manner.

"Marie!" shrieked the French voice in shrill tones of alarm and anger.

"Please, miss, I must go. Do come in and sit down: I'll send somebody—"

"Marie! Marie!—Where is that vilaine femme?"

At the second summons she fled, leaving Miss Featherstone and the boy, standing with her trunk on his shoulders, on the threshold.

The young girl walked in, sat down in a large leathern chair, and was taking out her purse to pay her driver when a little fat man, with a very red face and bushy black hair, came flying through the hall, carrying a child in his arms. He was followed by two or three sobbing children and the girl whom Miss Featherstone had already seen. "My dear mees," he said, never stopping until he reached the governess, "see this leetle enfant, this cher petit Henri. He has already one contortion—spasm—what you call it?—and I fear he goes to have one other. Ma chère mademoiselle, have you some experience? Is it that you know what we shall do?"

The child lay pale and unconscious in the arms of the distressed little foreigner. Miss Featherstone tore off her gloves; her purse, unheeded, fell on the floor; she led the way into the nearest room, which proved to be the dining-room, the helpless group following. "Bring a tub of hot water for his feet," she said in calm, decided tones. She was seated, and had taken the child in her arms.—"Now, monsieur"—to the Frenchman—"will you be kind enough to give me some ice from that pitcher on the sideboard behind you?"

She drew a delicate little handkerchief from her pocket, and, putting pieces of ice in it, held it to the child's head. "Some one," she continued, "take off his shoes and stockings."

Her composure restored a degree of order, although no one seemed to have recovered their senses sufficiently to obey her as to the child's shoes. The boy who had acted as her driver knelt down and proceeded to accomplish it. When the poor little feet were up to the knees in hot water and the child was evidently reviving, she said, "The doctor should be sent for immediately. As this boy has a horse and wagon at the door, it would be best to send him. What is the name of your family physician?"

"Doctor Harris."

"You know where he lives?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, very well."

"Stop a moment: some one write a line, so that there shall be no mistake."

The foreigner flung up his hands with a gesture of despair. "It is so difficile for me to write l'Anglais—" he began.

With the child lying on her left arm she opened her bag with her right—the little driver, the most collected person besides herself of the party, holding it up to her—found a scrap of paper and a pencil and wrote a brief, urgent appeal to the physician to come immediately, mentioning that the mother was from home, and signing herself "Laura Featherstone, governess."

Sooner than she would have believed possible Doctor Harris appeared: he came in his own gig, the little driver who had been so active in the events of the evening vanishing entirely from the scene, and, as it was afterward remembered, in the confusion without his douceur.

Doctor Harris, a comparatively young man, was cheerful and reassuring. "There will probably be no recurrence of the convulsions," he said, examining the child, who was sleeping tranquilly in the young girl's arms; "but what was the exciting cause? what has he been eating?"

"I find him with a grand heap of the raisins and the nuts," replied the French tutor excitedly. "Madame goes to town this morning and takes la bonne pour s'en servir—le pauvre enfant est abandonné, voilà tout!" Gesticulating with much vehemence, he sat down at the conclusion as if exhausted by his efforts.

"What has been done for the child?" asked the physician in a cautious whisper.

The little Frenchman rose; his eyes flashed; he waved his fat, short arms toward Miss Featherstone: "Cette chère mademoiselle, she is one angel from the sky: she do it all," with increased animation and violence—"ice for his head, hot water for his feet. I could not tink, I was so *accablé"

This vehement declamation not being calculated to ensure the patient's slumbers, Doctor Harris ordered the little fellow to be undressed and put to bed immediately. "I should like to see you, my dear young lady, when you are at leisure," he said as Miss Featherstone rose, still with the child in her arms, and was following the maid to the nursery: "I have directions to leave in case of a recurrence. However, I don't think there will be any return of the convulsions," he added.

The maid, reduced to helplessness by terror, looked on while Miss Featherstone undressed the sleeping boy. She laid him in the bed, ordered the servant to sit by his side until her return, put the candle on the floor so that it would not shine in his face, and went out to meet the doctor.

"Who will be with the child during the night?" was his first query.

"Hèlas! I do not know," cried the foreigner with a gesture of despair.

"If there is no one else to take care of him I will," replied the young girl cheerfully.

"It is infâme!" said the tutor.—"Cette chère mademoiselle has but arrived: she is weary. Parbleu! she must be hungry. Why not somebody tink of dis?—My dear mees, have you had dinner? Non? J'en etais sûr," with a groan.

Mr. Brown—for that was the tutor's very English name—was so dramatic in the expression of his good feeling that Miss Featherstone could not repress a smile as she turned to the physician, and, taking out her pencil and a little memorandum-book, said, "If you'll give me directions, Doctor Harris, I think that I'm perfectly competent to take care of the child."

Doctor Harris, who was gallant and a bachelor, made a whispered remonstrance referring to her fatigue, but she replied gravely, "I am in perfect health, and it never makes me ill to sit up with a sick person: I have had experience." Some painful remembrance evidently agitated her, for her voice suddenly failed.

They were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels rolling rapidly up the avenue.

"Voici madame!" cried Mr. Brown, who flew to the door to hand Mrs.

Pinckney out.

He had taken the earliest opportunity to enlighten her as to the child's illness, for they heard her exclaim, "I know it: oh, I have heard of it! Where is the doctor?"

Mrs. Pinckney was tall and slight: she had blonde hair, large, beautiful eyes—they were blue—and regular features. In short, she was exceedingly pretty: so thought Doctor Harris, and he made many salaams before her.

"Oh, doctor," she exclaimed, rushing up to him and grasping his arm, "is there any danger? Tell me, is there any danger?"

"Not the slightest, ma'am," he replied promptly.