ingloriously as can be conceived, by way of the
old broken-backed Pont Neuf (which daily
becomes more picturesque and less secure) in
the direction of the "Cham' d' Mars"; in
pronouncing which latter word, I must insist
upon the English reader not dropping the
final s.

On the road to Epsom—at Sutton—there is
a celebrated hostelry, called " The Cock,"
where everybody stops, as a matter of course.
On our road to the Champ de Mars there is
also a place of refreshment, which no
wayfarer, viâ the Pont Neuf, was ever known to
avoid. This is the famous establishment of
the "Mère Moreau" whose name is almost as
well known in Paris as the President's is.
But what would the plump head-waiter at
The Cock say to the French substitute, with
its Arabesque front all blue and gold, its
plate-glass, its pictorial walls, the lovely
and accomplished ladies behind the counter
(every one, for aught any of Mrs. Moreau's
customers may know to the contrary, a
duchess in her own right); and, above all, the
effeminate description of refreshments
provided for the travellers? One can fancy the
disdain with which that prejudiced and
respectable person would regard the offer of
a plum or a peach, floating in a little glass of
perfumed and impotent liquid, that, in its
normal state of barbarism, is believed to have
been brandy; or his disgust at the discovery
that a similar species of refreshment is known
by the fanciful and mysterious title of a
"Chinoise". Nevertheless, victims to the
same fatal fascination (which reminds us
forcibly of our childhood, and its dangerous
excesses on hard-bake), all classes may be
seen at all times mingled in harmony at the
"Mère Moreau's"; the grandest of yellow
gloves side by side with the humblest and
most gloveless of ouvriers, forming, indeed, as
motley a group as can be seen at any "Crystal
Palace" (of gin) in London—with the difference,
that nobody here is drunk.

Before leaving the "Mère Moreau's" into
which, it may be taken for granted, we had
entered, it is as well to mention that a
grand civil war has been waging for the last
six months between that establishment and a
rival establishment next door. The latter has
the attraction of being lined on all sides, from
floor to ceiling, with looking-glass; but it has
no duchesses; that is to say, the young lady
attendants must be classed simply as
"respectable females." By this happy arrangement
—ladies in one place, looking-glass in the
other—the tastes of most persons may be
gratified. The shepherd Paris of to-day may
bask in the contemplation of beauty at the
"Mère Moreau's"; while, next door, the
modern Narcissus has no need of a brook to
reflect his own charming image.

But meantime we are keeping the company
waiting for us at the Champ de Mars, or
what is worse, perhaps, we are not keeping
them waiting.

Here we are, then, at last, on the course;
and a very respectable course it is; at least a
mile and a quarter round—so we are informed
—and embracing the entire circumference of
the large plain, which is dedicated, like most
things in France, to the god of war. Planted
closely against the ropes which bound the
outside of the circle, with that evident
determination to have their money's worth, which
is always manifested by "the people " at a
gratuitous entertainment—are a miscellaneous
collection of men and boys, women and children
—bloused, bearded, paletôted, decorated,
as the case may be,—waiting, with the same
patience that they manifested three hours
ago, for the commencement of the race. In
the middle of the field are the exclusives:
squadrons of gentlemen on horseback, who
are evidently thinking of anything rather
than their bets—if they have made any—
and are looking, like men of taste, at the
ladies, who stand up in open phaetons in the
approved style. These gentlemen are, for
the most part, remarkable for their tight
brown baize trousers, hostlers' coats,
square-toed boots, and square patches of whisker,
with the other accessories which (as all
Frenchmen know) make up the ordinary
costume of an English nobleman. Some,
indeed, have gone so far as to shave their
upper lips, and encase their necks in bird's-eye
cravats; but these are the enthusiasts.
I believe that few of them bet much, or
heavily; but their appearance gives them
a tremendous character for experience and
daring in all matters relating to the turf,—a
reputation which they certainly purchase at a
cheaper rate than two or three " knowing"
young gentlemen whom I have met with in
England.

With the exception of these " noble sportsmen,"
there is little enough in the scene that
the disconsolate Englishman is accustomed
to associate with races in his native land.
At first sight he would imagine that he had
mistaken the day, and had come to witness a
review. Posted at regular intervals, all along
the ropes on either side of the course, are
sentinels, with loaded muskets and stern
faces, evidently "on service". In the centre
of the ring is a group of mounted officers,
who have the appearance of a staff, and who
clearly believe themselves to be in possession
of the field, and allow the civilians to be
there as a matter of favour. The adjacent
barracks, too, where immense moustaches
hang out of the windows, seem to favour
the idea.

At the imminent risk of our lives, we cross
the course, attended by a sentry, whose words
are a little sharper than his bayonet. Him,
however, we defy, with valour; he is too
well armed for the duty which he has to
fulfil; and we should stand in much greater
awe of the policeman in England, who might
possibly use his staff. Here, among the
"outsiders," there is much more variety and