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noon was warm to the point of discomfort; indeed, the heat had been so unusual for a succession of days that an almost unprecedented concession was made in the matter of dress. The morning papers announced that the Prince of Wales would not wear the customary frock coat and high hat—a hint which was promptly acted upon, and for once London saw a great concourse of gentlemen in short coats and straw hats. To many Americans the ubiquity of the straw hat, even on the stand set apart for Oxford and Cambridge, must have seemed in its way a most suggestive indication of the change of English feeling.
The heat, which Americans found less trying than their hosts, did not in the least interfere with the interest of the occasion, or diminish the crowds which streamed into the great field and inclosed it in deep lines of eager spectators. London is so vast that the concentration of ten thousand people at a given point does not sensibly lower the tide of moving life in any great thoroughfare; but to those who were going to West Kensington on
THE BROAD JUMP
that warm afternoon by carriage, hansom,
At the head, or, as the English would say, the top, of the field was the stand reserved for the Blues—Oxford and Cambridge men and their friends; next came the royal box, in which appeared conspicuously the Prince of Wales and the American Ambassador—both affable and on easy terms with the distinguished com
pany about them, but Mr. Choate seemed a little more at home than any one else. To the right, straight across the long field, stretched the stands set apart to Yale and Harvard, and a stroll along the front of these stands made one wonder if anybody was at home in the States on that particular afternoon. It was an enthusiastic company, and, it may be added, a very good-looking one. He who failed to think well of American girls on that walk must have been dead not only to patriotic feeling, but to many and obvious charms of feature, carriage, and dress. Across the bottom of the field stretched a dense mass of "half-crown " witnesses, including many university men, but made up largely of men and youths attracted by the element of contest; on the opposite side of the field, and completing the immense quadrangle, was the general stand, and a long stretch of level track.
Long before the first hammer was thrown the great field was full to overflowing; the strains from the band stationed in front of the royal box were softened by the distance, while edges
and outlines everywhere were a little dimmed by the rays of the heat. The place was so large and the distance to be traversed so long that one wondered if any contagion of feeling would cross the wide spaces; but, again and again, as the contests went on, cheers seemed to roll in waves around the great quadrangle. At the upper end of the field were two flagstaffs, and the alternate appearance of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack was greeted with peals of applause from parts of the field so remote that they seemed like peals of distant thunder.
The men, as they came strolling into the field, were watched with deep interest; Oxford and Cambridge distinguishable by the white dress of the men, trimmed with light or dark blue, the Harvard and Yale representatives in crimson or blue "sweaters." The Americans were confident of their ability to make a great fight, and were not without hope of winning five of the nine events. As so often happens, they failed at the very point where they were most confident of success. It was assumed that the half-mile lace would fall to Harvard, and this belief seemed to be shared by the Englishmen. To the surprise of both sides, the race went to a Cambridge man. If Harvard had come in first, the Stars and Stripes would have gone to the head of the staff five times instead of one, and there would have been a great American jubilee in London that evening.
The fates had, however, decreed otherwise, and the Americans were obliged to be content with the consciousness that they had given their competitors a deal of good, hard work. The hundred yards race, the hurdle race, the high jump, and throwing the hammer went to the Americans, and when the last event on the programme was reached the contest was still undecided. The runners were conscious that they had a three-mile-, race before them, and started off at an easy pace, the Englishmen a little in the lead, with the Americans at their heels. For two miles there was no change of position, although two men dropped out. When the runners entered on the last mile the interest began to deepen, and when, on the second lap of the final mile, Yale suddenly passed Cambridge and took the lead, a half-mile of American enthusiasm broke into ecstatic shouts. But the advance could not be held; with an ease which drew cheers from friend and foe alike, the Cambridge runner suddenly shot ahead of his competitor, and, in a vast circle of excited spectators, completed the course and won the race.
Then came the most picturesque moment in the day; the moment when the
crowd, disregarding all barriers, swept in one great wave across the field in a frantic desire to honor the victor. The latter was protected by his friends from an enthusiasm which was likely to become uncomfortable if suffered to rise to its full height. That mob of young men represented the best life of two countries, and its generous zeal to honor success won by hard work was characteristic of the English race on both sides of the sea. The crowd melted away as quietly as it had gathered; and the great field, which has been the scene of so many well-fought fights, was soon as quiet as those other fields, far from the great city, where larks were rising that warm summer afternoon. The courtesies shown the Americans after the games were many, and of a kind which seemed to express the kinship which the best Englishmen are recognizing upon all occasions. The men were of a kind to give their countrymen genuine satisfaction. They stood for the best in bearing and manners as well as in opportunity. There was, apparently, little to choose between the representatives of the English and American universities. The men were conspicuously well-made, wholesome, and attractive, with the unmistakable look of gentlemen. Athletics are often overdone ; but the self-restraint, discipline, and hard work which lie behind such contests as those at Kensington show the fiber which has given the Englishspeaking race pre-eminence, not only in influence, but in responsibility in the affairs of the world.
London, July, ISW.
General the Marquis de Gallitet
The most picturesque figure in the French army is the War Secretary, General the Marquis de Gallifet. He is almost seventy years old. He took part in all the wars of Napoleon III., and in the last one with Germany was as dashing and gallant as in the first one with Russia. He was only twenty-five years old when he was specially mentioned in an order of the day for his heroism before Sebastopol and named Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. He fought in Africa, Italy, and Mexico. In the last-named country he received a ghastly wound at Pueblo. In 1871 he ruthlessly put down the Commune; it was alleged that he shot down rebels without trial. Hence, when he went into the Chamber of Deputies the other day the old Communists cried: "A bas l'assassin 1" (Down with the assassin I) During the yearly army maneuvers he has astonished every one by his wonderful skill as a strategist. He is the greatest authority in Europe on cavalry tactics. He has long been an intimate friend of Colonel Picquart. When General de Gallifet accepted the War Secretaryship in the present Ministry there was, therefore, a great deal of opposition among the anti-Picquart people and among the anti-Dreyfusards. To them the doughty old General remarked: "I am very much honored and in nowise frightened."
By Seumas MacManus
Author of "Through the Turf Smoke," etc.
HIS poor mother, after blessing herself with the little brass cross upon her beads, arose from her knees and took again her customary seat by Hughie's bedside. Hughie, who had been lying in a state of obliviousness rather than sleep, had his faculties recalled even by the very little noise his mother's motion made. Her gaze was bent upon her lap, where her hands, still holding the beads, lay limply. For several minutes Hughie watched her, noting the weary and worn look which had asserted itself on her features.
"Mother!" Hughie said at length.
His mother started. "Hughie, a leanbh? sure I thought it was sleepin' ye were. What is it ye want, a t/icagair /" *
"Mother, what time is it in the night?"
"It's atvveen an hour an' two hours afther midnight, son."
"Mother,'' Hughie said, "the heart o' ye is bruck with this weary sittin' up with me every night—"
"Arrah, Hughie, Hughie!" his mother said, upbraidingly, "what is it ye're sayin' 1 Whisht with ye, for God's sake!"
"Och, I know it, mother—I know it. If ye hadn't a holy saint's patience, an' God's helpin' han', ye'd 'a' given in long ago."
"What's come over ye, Hughie, to be givin' such nonsense out of ye? Sure, it's not want to put pain on me ye do, is it?"
"What day i' the week's this, tell me, mother?"
"This? It's Friday night."
"Friday night. An' it was on a Monday evenin' I lay down. Mother, was it nine weeks or ten last Monday evenin'? I'm beginnin' to lose count i' the weeks lately meself."
"Och, I don't know, Hughie. Sure, that's all God's will, dear."
"I know it's God's will, mother—an' God's will be done. I b'leeve it's ten weeks; an' if it was his will that it should
be ten times ten weeks, / could bear the sickness. But then, the sickness i' the body is nothin'—nothin' at all—to the soreness i' the heart. An' it's you has to bear that. That's what puts worst on me, mother dear."
"Do ye want to put pain on me, Hughie?"
"Och, mother, don't be talkin' that way. Sure I know:, an' I can't help knowin' the pains on ye. Ye're as brave a mother—there's no denyin'—as ever was; but let the bravest i' them come through all you come through for the ten weeks gone, an' suffer all you suffered, an' never for all that time sthretch themselves six times upon a bed—let the bravest i' the mothers do that, an' see what heart they'll have at the end of it."
"Och, Hughie, Hughie, a m/iicf1 I can't stand ye at all, at all. You mane to br'ak me patience now, at any rate."
"No, mother, I don't. But if I didn't say much all the time I've been lyin' on me back here, I was thinkin'—thinkin' a great dale. An' when I go, mother— och, don't mother! Mother, dear, don't go for to cry lake that or ye'll throuble ine sore 1 Sure ye know yerself I must go. Didn't Father Mick tell us both it was God's will, an' be reconciled to it? An' didn't you yourself give in that ye were reconciled to it? An' surely I have a good right to be if you are. Mother, when I go I'll have with me the knowledge of the brave woman ye were, an' of all ye sthrove with an' suffered, an' of how ye did yer seven bests to let no wan see the throubles the heart of ye was comin' through. I'll carry that knowledge to heaven with me, mother dear."
His mother could not answer him, for she was striving hard with the tide of grief which swelled in her bosom and struggled for outlet.
Little Hughie was, to-night, possessed by an exceptionally talkative mood.
"If ye sthruggle on, with God's help, mother, for another year, wee Donal, he'll
1 Copyright, WW. bv the Outlook Company. All rights reserved. * My child, pron. A tannn. 1 My treasure, pron. u hatgttr.
1 M y son.