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coincidence a spark of hope was kindled in any Cambridge breast that they were going to see a race, the first two laps told them that they were indeed doomed to disappointment. Race there was none, for Morgan went off with the lead, and although for a time some of the men stuck to him, and Paine, in the second mile, made most gallant efforts to do so, it was all of no avail; he went farther and farther ahead, and apparently faster and faster as he went, until he won by 28 secs. from Paine, who was quite as far ahead of Bartlett, the third man. The time of the winner was 15 min. 34 sec. Of Morgan's running it is impossible to speak too highly. I can simply repeat what was said last year, 'It must be seen to be appreciated.' He finished, on this occasion, fresh as ever, and, in fact, seemed to treat the whole affair as a mere exercise trot. Paine ran a most plucky race, but he met a man far too good for him; in fact, there are few professionals who could beat Morgan at three miles.

So ended the Games in 1869, Cambridge again securing a good victory, having gained five events against three won by Oxford, and one being a dead heat. Once only since these games were established in 1864, has Oxford claimed the victory, though this year she seemed to hold it in her hands. In 1864 each University won four events; in 1865 Cambridge six against Oxford three; in 1866 Cambridge five against Oxford three, there being one dead heat; in 1867 Cambridge six and Oxford three; and in 1868 Oxford five against Cambridge four. In all, Cambridge has won on four occasions, Oxford on one, and one drawn.

The judges this year were again men renowned in old University athletic sports, namely, the Hon. F. G. Pelham, formerly of Trinity, Cambridge, who ran for his University in the hundred yards in 1865 and in the quarter in 1865, 1866, and 1867. The other was the Earl of Jersey, of Balliol, Oxford, who represented his University in the mile and two miles in 1865. The referee was P. M. Thornton, of Jesus College, Cambridge, who ran for the


Light Blue in the quarter and mile in 1864. He, moreover, is rightly regarded as in very truth the virtual founder, though not the originator, of athletic games at his University. All the races were most admirably started by A. W. Lambert, of St. John's, Cambridge, who ran in the quarter of a mile last year.

The Public Schools were very badly represented this year compared with previous years, Eton claiming only Royds and SomersSmith, Harrow the great Morgan, Charterhouse Cooper. Upcher comes from Rossall, Wilson from Durham, Laing from Blackheath, Scott from Brighton College, and Shelton from Guildford.

I am in hopes soon to see two more contests added to the programme, viz., a walking race and pole jumping. That they both would produce great competition will not, I think, be denied, and they commend themselves to the notice of the committees as being so extensively practised at both Universities.

High pole-jumping, when well executed, is perhaps the neatest exercise ever witnessed in athletic sports; nor need any objection be raised to lengthening the programme, for it is not too long at present, and by beginning with the walking race at one P.M. the whole time would not be really increased.

Before I bid farewell for another interval to the contests which I have been for the last few years permitted to chronicle in these pages, let me enter my humble protest against the tone and spirit of articles that have lately appeared in some of the newspapers to the effect that the widespread practice of athletic pursuits at our colleges and schools is injuring the intellectual capacities and scholastic attainments of Young England. Of course when recreations of so fascinating a nature have received such a re-enforcement as has lately occurred at the two Universities, and in London, by reason of the facilities previously unknown which are now afforded for their practice, there is the danger that (for a time) there may be a little excess in their pursuit. But I challenge any one to prove that the

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standard of University scholarship and learning has in any way become lower since the establishment of these contests; and I deny that mental culture or intellectual pursuits are cared for less than in former years. Moreover, any temporary excess at present arising from the novelty of the pursuits and the recent progress they have made will soon pass away, and there will remain the great benefits that always accrue to a nation from the fact that her young men exercise their bodies as well as their minds by system and not at random. As far as I have seen-and I have endeavoured to observe carefully-I see that these pursuits have gone far to empty the billiard-rooms of our towns; they have put an end to

the card-playing at the small hours of the night, and the mid-day wineparties got up to kill time; they have given to the hard-worked and preoccupied reading man a ready means of clearing his head and of changing the objectless routine of a walk for the advantage of a systematized course of exercise, without trenching on the precious hours of his studies. Nor is this all. I believe they have gone far to make our youth more manly, more noble, and more good-hearted. If I am right in my views, and if, as I think, this influence for good is likely to continue, such meetings as that I have attempted to describe are worthy of the support, patronage, and assistance of every right-thinking Englishman.

D. D. R.


M. OR N.

Similia similibus curantur."





the mean time, while Dick Stanmore is. hugging himself in the warm atmosphere of hope, while Lord Bearwarden hovers on the brink of a stream in which he narrowly escaped drowning long ago, while Tom Ryfe is plunged in depths of anxiety, jealousy, and humiliation, that scorch like liquid fire, Miss Bruce's dark eyes, and winning, wilful ways, have kindled the torch of mistrust and discord between two people of whom she has rarely seen the one and never heard of the other.

Mr. Bargrave's chambers in Gray's Inn were at no time more remarkable for cleanliness than other like apartments in the same locality; but the dust lies inch-thick now in all places where dust can lie, because that Dorothea, more moping and tearful than ever, has not the heart to clean up, no nor even to wash her own hands and face in the afternoon, as heretofore.

She loves her 'Jim,' of course, all the more passionately that he makes her perfectly miserable, neglecting her for days together, and when they do meet, treating her with an indifference far more lacerating than any amount of cruelty or open scorn.

Not that he is always good-humoured. On the contrary, 'Gentleman Jim,' as they call him, has lost much of the rollicking, devil-maycare recklessness that earned his nickname, and is often morose now -sometimes even fierce and savage to brutality.

The poor woman has had a quarrel with him, not two hours ago, originating, it is but fair to state, in her own extremely irritating conduct regarding beer, Jim being anxious to treat his ladye-love with that fluid for the purpose, as he said, of 'drowning unkindness,' and possibly with the further view of quenching an inconvenient curiosity she has lately indulged about his movements. No

man likes to be watched; and the more reason the woman he is betraying has to doubt him, the less patience he shows for her anxiety, the less he tolerates her inquiries, her jealousy, or her reproaches.

Now Dorothea's suspicions, sharpened by affection, have of late grown extremely wearisome, and Jim has been heard to threaten, more than once, that if so be as she doesn't mend her manners, and live conformable, he'll take an' hook it, he will, blessed if he won't!'-a dark saying which sinks deeply and painfully into the forlorn one's heart. When, therefore, instead of drinking her share, as usual, of a foaming quart measure containing beer, dashed with something stronger, this poor thing set it down untasted, and forthwith began to cry, the cracksman's anger knew no bounds.

Drop it!' he exclaimed, brutally. 'You'd best, I tell ye! D'ye think I want my blessed drink watered with your blessed nonsense? What's come to ye, ye contrairy devil? I thought I'd larned ye better. I'll see if I can't larn ye still. Would ye now!'

It was almost a blow,-such a push as is the next thing to actual violence, and it sent her staggering from the sloppy bar at which their altercation took place against a bench by the wall, where she sat down pale and gasping, to the indignation of a slatternly woman nursing her child, and the concern of an honest coalheaver, who had a virago of a wife at home.

'Easy, mate!' expostulated that worthy, putting his broad frame between the happy pair. Hold on a bit, an' give her a drop when she comes to. She'd a' throwed her arms about your neck a while ago, an' now she'd as soon knife ye as look at ye.'

Wild-eyed and pale, Dorothea glared round, as Clytemnestra may have glared when her hand rested on the fatal axe; but this Holborn Agamemnon did not seem destined to fall by a woman's blow, inasmuch as the tide was effectually turned by another woman's interference.

The slatternly lady, shouldering her child, as a soldier does his fire

lock, thrust herself eagerly forward.

"Knife him!' she exclaimed, with a most unfeminine execration. 'I'd knife him, precious soon, if it was me, the blessed willen! To take an' use a woman like that there-a nasty, cowardly, sneakin', ugly, tallow-faced beast!'

Had it not been for the imputation on his beauty, Dorothea might perhaps have blazed out in open rebellion, or remained passive in silent sulks; but to hear her Jim, the flash man of a dozen gin-shops, the beloved of a score of rivals, called 'ugly,' was more than flesh and blood could endure. She turned fiercely on her auxiliary and gave battle at once.

'And who arst you to interfere, mem, if I may wenture to make the inquiry?' said she, with that polite but spasmodic intonation that denotes the approaching row. Keep yerself to yerself, if you please, mem. And I'll thank ye not to go for to come between me and my young man, not till you've got a young man of your own, mem, and if you'd like to walk out, there's. the door, mem, and don't you try for to give me none o' your sauce, for I'm not a-goin' to put up with it.'

The slatternly woman ran her guns out and returned the broadside with promptitude.

'Door, indeed! you poor wheyfaced drab, you dare to say the word door to me, a respectable woman, as Mister Tripes here knows me well, and have a score against me behind that there wery door as you disgraces, and as it's you as ought to be t'other side, you ought, for it's out of the streets as you come, well I knows, an' say another word, and I'll take that there bonnet off of your head, and chuck it into them streets and you arter it. Oh dear! oh dear! that ever I should be spoke to like this here, and my master out o' work a month come Toosday, and this here gentleman standing by; but I'll set my mark on ye, if I get six months for it-I will!'

Thus speaking, or rather screaming, and brandishing her baby, as the Gonfaloniere waves his gonfalon, the slatternly womar, swelling into

a fury for the nonce, made a dive at Dorothea, which, but for the interposition of this here gentleman,' as she called the coalheaver, might have produced considerable mischief. That good man, however, took a deal of weathering,' as sailors say, and ere either of the combatants could get round his bulky person, the presence of a policeman at the door warned them that ordeal by battle had better be deferred till a more fitting opportunity. They burst into tears therefore, simultaneously, and the dispute ended, as such disputes often do, in a general reconciliation, cemented by the consumption of much exciseable fluid, some of it at the expense of the philanthropic coalheaver, whose simple faith involved a persuasion that the closest connection must always be preserved between good-fellowship and beer.

After these potations, it is not surprising that the slatternly woman should have found herself, baby and all, under the care of the civil power at a police-station, or that Gentleman Jim and his ladyelove should have adjourned to sober themselves in the steaming gallery of a playhouse.

Behold them, then, wedged into a front seat, Dorothea's bonnet hanging over the rail, Jim's gaudy handkerchief bulging with oranges, both spectators too absorbed in the action of the piece, to realize its improbabilities, and the woman thoroughly identifying herself with the character and fortunes of its heroine.

The theatre is small, but the audience if not select are enthusiastic; the stage is narrow, but affords room for a deal of strutting and striding about on the part of an overpowering actor in the inevitable belt and boots of the melodramatic highwayman. The play represents certain startling passages in the career of one Claude Duval, formerly a running footman, afterwardsstrange anomaly!-a robber on horseback, distinguished for polite manners and bold riding.


This remarkable person has a wife, devoted to him of course. the English drama all wives are

good; in the French all are bad, and people tell you that a play is the reflection of real life. Besides this dutiful spouse, he cherishes an attachment for a young lady of high birth and aristocratic (stage) manners. She returns his tenderness, as it is extremely natural a young person so educated and brought up would return that of a criminal, who has made an impression on her heart by shooting her servants, rifling her trunks, and forcing her to dance a minuet with him on a deserted heath under a harvest


This improbable incident affords a favourite scene, in which Dorothea's whole soul is absorbed, and to which Jim devotes an earnest attention, as of one who weighs the verisimilitude of an illustration, that he may accept the purport of the parable it conveys.

Dead servants (in profusion), struggling horses, the coach upset, and the harvest moon, are depicted in the back scene, which represents besides an illimitable heath, and a gibbet in the middle distance: all this under a glare of light, as indeed it might well be, for the moon is quite as large as the hind-wheel of the coach.

In the foreground are grouped, the hero himself, a comic servant with a red nose and a fiddle, an open trunk, and a young lady in travelling costume, viz., white satin shoes, paste diamonds, ball-dress, and lace veil. The tips of her fingers rest in the gloved hand of her assailant, whose voice comes deep and mellow through the velvet mask he wears.

'My preservier!' says the lady, a little inconsequently, while her fingers are lifted to the mask and saluted with such a smack as elicits a 'hooray!' from some disrespectful urchin at the back of the pit.

To presurrve beauty from the jeer of insult, the grasp of vie-olence is my duty and my prow-fession. To adore it is my ree-ligion-and my fate!' replies the gallant highwayman, contriving with some address to retain his hold of the lady's hand, though encumbered by spurs, a sword, pistols, a mask, and an enormous threc-cornered hat.

And this man is proscribed, hunted, in danger, in disgrace!' exclaims the lady, aside, and therefore loud enough to be heard in the street. Claude Duval starts. The start of such an actor makes Dorothea jump. Perdition!' he shouts, 'ye have reminded me of what were well buried fathom-deep-obliterated-forgotten. Tr'you, lady, 'tis ee-ven so! I have a compact with my followers-the ransom!'

Shall be paid right_willingly,' she answers; and forthwith the comic servant with the red nose wakes into spasmodic life, winks repeatedly, and performs a flourish on his 'property' fiddle, a little out of tune with the real instrument in the orchestra at his feet.

'What are they going to do?' asks Dorothea, in great anxiety.

Hold your noise!' answers Jim, and the action of the piece progresses.

It is fortunate, perhaps, that minuets have gone out of fashion; if they involved such a test of endurance as that in which Claude Duval and his fair captive now disport themselves with an amount of bodily exertion it seems real cruelty to encore. His concluding caper shakes the mask from his partner's face, and the young lady falls, with a shriek, into his arms, leaving the audience in that happy state of perplexity, which so enhances the interest of a plot, as to whether her distress originates in excess of sentiment or deficiency of wind.

'It's beautiful!' whispers Dorothea, refreshing herself with an orange. It 'minds me of the first time you and me ever met at Highbury Barn.'

Jim grunts, but his grunt is not that of a contented sleeper, rather of one who is woke from a dream.

After a tableau like the last, it is natural that Claude Duval should find a certain want of excitement in the next scene, where he appears as a respectable householder in the apartinents of his lawful spouse. This lady, leaving a cradle in the background, and advancing to the footlights, proceeds to hover round her husband, after the manner of stage wives, with neck protruded

and arms spread out, like a woman who is a little afraid of a wasp or earwig, but wants to catch the creature all the same. He sits with his back to her, as nobody ever does sit but a stage husband at home, and punches the floor with his spur. It is strictly natural that she should sing a faint song with a slow movement, on the spot.

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It is perhaps yet more natural that this should provoke him exceedingly, so he jumps up, reaches a cupboard in two strides, and pulls out of it his whole paraphernalia, sword, pistols, mask, three-cornered hat, everything but his horse. Then the wife, from her knees, informs all whom it may concern, that for the first time in their happy married life she has learned her husband is a robber, as they both call it, by prowfession.'

Dorothea's sympathies, womanlike, are with the wife. Jim, whose interest is centred in the young lady, finds this part of the performance rather wearisome, and thirsts, to use his own expression, for 'a drain.'

Events now succeed each other with startling rapidity. Claude Duval is seen at Ranelagh, still in his boots, where he makes fierce love to his young lady, and exchanges snuff-boxes (literally) with a duke. Next, in a thicket, beset by thieftakers, from whom he escapes after prodigies of valour, aided by the comic servant, and thereafter guided by that singular domestic to a place of safety, which turns out to be the young lady's bedroom. Here Jim becomes much excited, fancying himself for the moment a booted hero, rings, laced-coat, Stein-kirk handkerchief, and all. His dress touches that of his companion, but instinctively he moves from her as far as the crowded seat will permit, while Dorothea, all unconscious, looks lovingly in his face.

'She's a bold thing, and I can't abide her,' is that lady's comment on the principal actress. She ought to think shame of herself she ought, a-cause of his wife at 'ome. But he's a good plucked-un, isn't he, Jim? and, lady or no lady, that goes a long way with a woman!'

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