thrust through the swollen breast, the vessels that supplied nutriment for her babe and those which returned the vital fluid to her heart emptying their tides together; the crushed and mangled form of the fair-haired boy stretched beside the stiffened corpse of his powerful antagonist; the dead maiden steeped in a pool of blood, which had saturated all her garments and clotted upon her hair, with her hand resting upon the handle of the dagger concealed in her bosom. The survivors of the Kathari, numbering only a score of persons, among whom were Leitus, Astropus, Calliste, and Eugathes, now drew close together and formed themselves in a circle, their backs inward and their faces out. A stream of blood was flowing down from the temple of Leitus through his grey beard. Astropus was wounded in many places. The face and hands and garments of Calliste were besmeared with blood and dust. Eugathes was bleeding frightfully from a wound in the side. And all the others of that little band bore marks of the furious conflict through which they had passed. They stood in calm despair confronting the surrounding enemy in every direction, and expending their remaining strength in blows which still held their assailants long at bay, and exacted additional price in blood for the already dear-bought victory. As one and another of their number sank down from exhaustion or fell by the weapons of the enemy, the spaces were closed by the contraction of the circle. Slowly and steadily the number was diminished and the circle narrowed. Leitus was the last. Calliste survived all others; and only a moment before her fall, Eugathes sank down fainting and dying from the loss of blood. Leitus struggled a few moments alone, when the enemy, with a rush and a shout, closed in on every side, and the grand old man fell pierced by a dozen spears. The bloody field was left without a disputant to the allies. After the necessary dispositions for the care of the wounded were made, the allied army proceeded to the city. The gates were found heavily barred, but undefended. There was unbroken silence within. An engine was brought forward for forcing the entrance. Just as under its last crashing blows the gates flew open, a bright flame was seen bursting through the roof of the Temple, which soon enveloped the whole building. The fire communicated quickly to the adjoining buildings, and spread rapidly from house to house along and across the nar row streets. As it advanced a strong wind sprang up, which made the flames seem to go running and leaping in their progress. Flakes of fire were whirled about in every direction, kindling new fires in every part of the city, until the whole was one vast conflagration. Katharia was reduced to ashes and blackened ruins, from which it never arose. The sacrifice was com plete-a holocaust on the altar of freedom. OVER THE HILLS TO THE RACES. I am not a sporting character, to begin withto tell the truth, I should be very sorry if anyone took me for such; for I am afraid that, out of every twenty "horsey" people, nineteen at least are either blacklegs, cheats, rooks, gamblers, welchers, and card-sharpers on the one hand, and innocent, would-be-fast, easilyplucked pigeons on the other; while, perhaps, in every twenty there may be one individual who takes an interest in that "noble animal" the horse, quite independent of betting-and cheating-which are the principal amusements of most people who take to the turf. My racing experiences are not very numerous. I am not in the habit of frequenting certain "parlours," where prize-fighters, jockeys, and sporting celebrities of all kinds attract a class of people who might make a much better use of their time. I have never been to Ascot. I see Bell's Life and the Sporting News about twicea-year, and then I generally turn to the column devoted to theatrical matters. I do not believe in "tips;" and I have not yet seen "Flying Scud." Not that I see any objection to horseracing in itself, though it is an amusement that I care very little about; but the misery, the ruin, the crimes that are often the result of "backing' horses, should be a warning to keep anyone, whose senses are in the slightest way beyond his control, away altogether from the turf, and everything connected with racing. I was staying at a Kentish town by the sea, where the only drawbacks to enjoyment were the cold north winds and the continual rains; in fact, it being too cold to sit indoors, outdoor existence was a continual tramping from one end of the town to the other and back again; and when evening approached, places of amusement came as a great relief. For days I had tingcover races would take place on a certain seen bills about the town stating that the TrotWednesday in September, and that frequent trains would run to Trottingeover Having feelings, the same joys and the same sorrows that we have; and yet in dress, manners, and ideas almost as if they belonged to a different race altogether. Children growing up, and thinking what a wonderful world lies before them, happy in the present, through golden dreams of that exist nothing better to do, I thought I might as well, the direction of the race-course, I linger yet go, though I cared about as much for the races awhile in the oldest quarter of the old town, as some working-men do for Reform. When thinking how very old it must be, and what the Wednesday came, for a wonder it was a fine generations of people have lived and died within morning; and I was rather surprised, on reach-its walls and gates-when it had walls and gates ing the station, to find nothing in the shape of a-and within their ruins when they became crowd, and only some dozen people going to ruins-like us, and yet unlike us: the same the races. As the train (I suppose an engine and three carriages can be called a train?) went rather slowly through the sunlit autumn-tinted landscape, a feeling came over me that I was going to enjoy myself that day-at all events everything about me and my surroundings seemed to encourage such an idea. The weather was fine, and, better still, it had every appear-ence, with its mysterious pleasures, which will ance of keeping fine all-day; so that there was no fear of having to plod across muddy fields and lanes in the rain, getting miserable and having one's clothes spoilt at the same time. My boots fitted comfortably, for a wonder, and that was a great thing; for wandering continually over sand and shingle had so deluged and mangled my 'poor feet," that I was beginning to fear I should soon have to give up walking altogether. Having retired early the previous night (nothing like early hours, after all), I felt perfectly wide awake, and, above all, I was in exceedingly good spirits, having cast away for a time the troubles and annoyances of every-day life—for we all of us who make the slightest use of our faculties, mental and bodily, are troubled with numerous petty cares and worries, which often nothing but departure for a time from the ordinary routine of existence will drive away. be theirs when they are older; young men full of ambitious dreams, regarding the future, which most likely end in their settling down as quiet, repectable Trottingcover tradesmen after all; maidens troubling their heads about little else than their finery and their lovers; middleage, prosperous, self-satisfied, and with a sort of idea that to be Mayor of Trottingcover would realize the highest dreams of the most ambitious dreamers; and very old age, retired from business, no longer taking any interest in public affairs, pottering, doddering, reading the Bible through horn-spectacles, and fearing that its life has scarcely been spent in accordance with the laws laid down therein; and then the solemn journey to the old cathedral, and the six feet of earth in the tree-covered burial-ground; and, lastly, after a few years, forgotten, even by name, except, perhaps, by some chance wanderer among the tombs, who might stop for a moment and wonder what the person was like whose remains lie under his feet. And the same thing over and over again until we come to the present time. Truly there is nothing new under the sun! Nature was still bright and cheerful when the train reached Trotting cover. By the sea it had been cold and windy; here the sun was shining brilliantly over the trees and distant hopgardens; birds sang in the blackberry-covered hedges, and the perfumes of sweet-smelling Going in the same direction in which everyflowers filled the air-in fact, it was summer one seems to be going, I find myself in the come back for a few hours, as it generally does market-place, and in the midst of life and bustle. once or twice during the latter end of autumn, Waggonettes, crowded inside and out, are startas if it wished to give us something bright anding quickly one after the other for the Rodshem pleasant to think about in the long winter months, when summer-time seems as unreal as a dream. Trottingcover is a cathedral town, which has been a town ever since the Romans taught the ancient Britons that living in houses was preferable to dwelling in huts. Almost retired from active service, it seems as if it led a dreamy, drowsy sort of existence, being quite content with the laurels it won in youth and middle age, and well knowing that, however old and useless it may become in future ages, it will be always loved and venerated on account of its glorious past. As it is yet early, I wander about the stone-paved city, past quaintly-built wooden houses-looking like toy-houses, or houses in a Shakesperian revival-from which hang banners in honour of the race-week. Out of these houses come provincials dressed in their Sunday-best, and making the town look, as they walk in procession one after the other, like Sunday morning. Instead of following them in Downs-the place where the races are to be held-their drivers taking every passer-by for a likely "fare," and plaguing them accordingly. Hoarse-voiced men are trying to sell "K'rect cards," which yokels on the top of waggonettes buy, and study attentively, as if they were used to such literature-though I have some doubts as to whether they understand anything about it. As it is yet early, and a fine morning, I think that perhaps it would be better to walk. A policeman tells me that the Rodshem Downs are three miles distant from the market-place. A driver, thinking by such information to get me for a "fare," shouts out that it is more than five! I find the distance to be about four miles. It seems that a great many people are going to walk, so I shall have plenty of company on the road; and, when I have left the city of Trottingcover behind, I find the highroad full of carts and carriages of all descriptions, reminding me of Kennington and Clapham on the morning of the Derby-day. Plea sant country, too. Stately-looking country- for the bar. But although the "Cat" was a gentlemen's houses, with the large old-fashioned licensed public-house, professing to give entergardens and orchards; and tiny cottages, half-tainment for man and beast, I could find nothing hidden in greenery, which it is pleasant to like a bar, tap, or public-room of any description, imagine as the abodes of innocence and happi- though I wandered all over the ground-floor; ness-though most likely such is by no means and at last began to think whether I had not the case! So I think while resting on the sum- made a mistake and entered a private house, like mit of a rather steep hill, which I have just as- the two gentlemen in "She Stoops to Conquer." cended, and which commands a view of lately At last I found myself in what looked like the emptied cornfields and distant hop-gardens for back-kitchen, and saw an old Irishwoman many a mile around. Climbing this hill was busily cutting-up bread and cheese, which she rather a change from the monotony of the level was arranging in numerous portions on the bare high road but I am not at all pleased, on de- floor; no doubt expecting some hungry guests, scending the other side, to find that another hill, who would not be over particular as to the state just as steep, lies before me; and when I reach of their food. Asking for a glass of ale, she the top, I find it is the same thing over again. gave me some out of a water-can, and, exIn fact, the walk from Trottingcover to the pressing a wish to sit down, I was shown into Rodshem Downs is one continued climbing a small room, near the front-door, luxuriously up hills and descending into valleys, making furnished with two chairs and an old Dutch the distance twice as far as an even road would clock, and nothing else. The clock had stopped have been. at 1.25, and, by the cobwebs about its hands and face, it had not been going for some time: and I wondered whether it was days, weeks, or months ago when that Dutch clock came to a dead stop at 1.25; and what was going on in the "Cat" at the time. Feeling somewhat tired after the hills (I was never very good at that sort of thing, and have not the slightest wish to be a mountaineer, except, perhaps, to wear the picturesque dress), I think I have earned a right to rest somewhat, and am not at all sorry to see, just through a turnpike-gate, a large old-fashioned, whitefronted inn, with the sign of the "Cat"; and the "Cat" was the fulfilment of a sort of waking dream dreamt by me some months before. People who saw, and have not forgotten, "Little King Pippin," at Drury-lane, may recollect a country "set" in the harlequinade; and at the left of that scene (it would be R. in the stage-directions) stood a public-house, with the sign of the "Tim Bobbin." It was a wellpainted scene, and, during the months of December and January, gave pleasant thoughts of summer-time in the country. Somehow that scene haunted me, with the idea that someday I should behold such a scene in reality. Some months had passed. Most likely the scenery at Drury-lane had been washed out, painted over, or obliterated in some way or the other long before the day of which I am writing, but it lived in my memory, and I felt confident that I should see it again. And, lo and behold, here it was! The country-inn, with its prominent signboard and bench underneath on the ieft (R. on the stage), the cage (or what looked just like the cage) on the opposite side of the way, and the grouping of the country scenery n the back-ground, made an almost faithful cnpy of the stage-picture. So much was the oeality mixed-up with the illusion that I should srarcely have been surprised to have seen Harlequin and Columbine doing a "trip" in the middle of the road, or Clown and Pantaloon ill-treating the passers-by and bundling them all into the cage. Considering the distance I had to come, and the heat of the weather, I thought there could be no harm in entering the "Cat," and resting for a short time; so I went through the open door into a dark passage, and began to search Lighting my pipe, I sit here for nearly half an-hour, enjoying the rest and the sunshine struggling through the dusty window-panes, and watching the people who pass by without, on their way to the races. The door of the room is wide open, and I can see right into a room the other side of the passage, and in that room is a man, of the hop-picking tribe, fast asleep, with his hands and arms sprawling on a table, seemingly unconscious that anything unusual is taking place about him; for people are now quickly entering and crowding the inn, and the "Cat" is, no doubt, doing more business in that one morning than it has done altogether since last race-day-a year ago. I leave the "Cat," and the highroad is now all alive with country folks going to the races. Vehicles of every imaginable description pass by, in rapid succession; ancient-looking carriages, belonging to country gentlemen of the old school; fast-looking drags, owned by their younger neighbours; convenient onehorse chaises, driven by well-to-do Trottingcover tradesmen; public conveyances of all kinds, from four-wheeled open carriages, charging two shillings each person, to lumbering seatless waggons (maybe coal-carts on ordinary days), willing to give anyone a lift in return for a drop of something for the driver; long-putaway stage-coaches brought out just for the occasion, and so crowded, both inside and out, that it was a wonder the whole concern did not fall to pieces; equestrians, some riding thorough. breds, others holding on to hired hacks, and being told by unadmiring wayfarers to get inside and pull down the blinds; and "ugly donkey-carts," of every size and build. One carter has given a lift to an Italian organ-man, with several children (fancy the "musicianer" grinding the organ with an infant clinging to his neck), who played all the way; so that the people in the cart, "like the lady who rode a- ing about it as if it were something pleasant to cock-horse, have music wherever they goes" (bad think of; and even now whilst I am writing I grammar somewhere). And when I say that have but to close my eyes for a moment and I mixed with the crowd are gipsies, "Vesuvian see the whole picture of the Trottingcover Races merchants," wandering minstrels, niggers, blind before me, just as if the "carpenter's scene” fiddlers, and beggars of every calling, you will had been drawn back and discovered the have some idea of the scene which I am attempt-race-course "set" in "Flying Scud." It is a ing to describe. miniature Derby, with a miniature grand-stand and all. Soon I reach a strange little village, which I am told is called Arch. Here they are keeping it up in a style of their own, for the Rodshem Downs are only a mile off now, and everyone seems to make Arch a few minutes' restingplace before they ascend the last and longest hill. Prudent people descend from their carriages and carts, intending to leave them in the stables of the Arch publicans until the evening. And it is feeding-time. Enterprising tradesmen (no matter what their line of business) have become provision merchants for the occasion, and have filled their windows with saveloys, blackpuddings, stale penny-rolls, and last week's pastry. I, for one, pass by these luxuries without being tempted, and begin to climb the last hill. Here I must mention an episode which caused me some amusement, though such an admission only proves my want of feeling. When I left Trottingcover I noticed, just before me, a girl of about nineteen, in a red Colleen Bawn cloak; most likely the daughter of some Trottingcover tradesman, evidently too respectable-looking to go to the races by herself, and yet she hurried on as if she were afraid of not getting there in time. I overtook her. While I was resting at the "Cat" she passed the window, and now I see her before me, almost at the top of the hill. A stern-looking middle-aged man coming from the other way suddenly stops her, and says: "Why where on earth are you going to, Belinda ?" "Only to have a look at the races, father," she answers, in a frightened voice. He turns her round, somewhat roughly, and hurries her down the hill, back towards Trottingcover, and for some moments I can hear him saying: "Go to races! You go to races, indeed! I have a good mind to say you shall never go out by yourself again, as long as you live." If ever anybody was sold, it was that girl in the red Colleen Bawn cloak! It still wanted some time before the horseracing commenced; so I had a good opportunity of becoming acquainted with the geography of the "course." Some scenes visible one day are almost forgotten the next, when we are far away from them, and in a short time fade from our memories altogether; others, insignificant as may be the circumstances connected with them, seem to appear clearer before our "mind's eyes" as the distance increases between the present and the time we made their acquaintance. There was nothing particular about the Rodshem Downs to make the place one of the green spots" in "Memory's waste;" and yet, many a time and oft have I found myself think | Of course there is a betting "ring," peopled by the usual seedy-looking customers, bawling themselves hoarse, apparently for no purpose. Then there is the man who stands in a chaise, and offers a shilling and a gold ring for sixpence (or some equally generous bargain); but the rustics are too sharp to be easily taken in, nowa-days, and prefer opening their mouths wide and staring at the man selling a gold ring and a shilling for sixpence (of course for a wager), to opening their pockets or their purses. To the left are a row of refreshment-tents, the proprietors of which, of course, will charge at least three times as much as anything is worth, and sell the smallest of small ale (worth, in my estimation, a halfpenny a pot at the most) as Bass's bottled-ale, at sixpence a bottle. Further down a "ha-ha" separates the course from the grounds of a nobleman's country-house, and the nobleman's guests are sitting in a row, on a form, like school-children learning their lessons out in the open air for a treat. On the opposite side of the course carriages and other conveyances are falling into line, the latest arrivals struggling to get good places, whilst the drivers quarrel and pass complimentary remarks amongst themselves, as drivers and their fraternity generally do. The course itself is full of people, of all kinds and of every class-gentlemen who have country-houses in the neighbourhood, and are determined to be pleased with the races because it is their races, to get up which they have been spending both time and money for months beforehand; snobs who would make people believe that they are accustomed to such places as Epsom and Ascot, and are only present just to patronize the place; negro minstrelsy getting exceedingly hot over Babylon is falling" and "When Johnny comes marching home;" vendors of cheap jewellery, whose alluring wares make parsimonious yokels wish they had left their sweethearts at home; elderly females, in last-century fashions, who make strange exclamations at the crowd and everything else; cheap Jacks doing their best to rival Doctor Dulcamara; gipsies, hoppers, and beggars are mixed up with the numerous ordinary pedestrians who are waiting to see the races on the Rodshem Downs. When, after a great many false starts, the first race is run, it is not such a very grand affair after all. Some half-dozen jockeys lazily riding some half-dozen horses, at what they themselves might have called a quick pace, about a quarter of a mile from the startingpoint, one of them the same distance ahead all the time; and then back again, the same horse on first, and finally winning the stakes. Then half an-hour's interval, during which time the betting-men, niggers, and refreshment-tent keepers reap little harvests, and then another race and then races and reaping little harvests, by turns, for the rest of the day. No one seemed to know the names of the horses, and no one seemed to want to be informed. We crowded against the ropes when a race was on, and then listened to the niggers. Getting somewhat tired of all this I wandered to where the carriages were drawn up in lines three or four deep. Here was the scene of Frith, R.A.'s "Derby Day" all over again, the only difference being the many changes in fashionable costume which even the few years since 1858 have brought about. A wandering improvisatore, accompanying himself on a guitar, sings an impromptu song about the peoples around him, not forgetting to bring in the swells, who seem to be rather flattered than otherwise at such somewhat questionable notoriety; for their names are associated with most mysterious goings on." His wife collects the coppers and indulges in music-hall melodies, her favour ite ones being "A Motto for every Man," and "The Calico Printer's Clerk," which I hear her sing at least a dozen times each during the day. Racing, like love and poverty, levels all. Gentlemen, who would swear at a beggar who might ask for a halfpenny, are here seen clinking champagne glasses with niggers, gipsies, or any roughs who choose to loaf around their carriages. Subject for an artist with moral tendencies: ragged men and women leaning against carriages, drinking expensive wines, out of rarely cut glasses, and talking to elegantlydressed ladies and gentlemen, as if they all moved in the same society. Picture the Second: The same scene. Winter. Ground covered with snow, and rain and mist falling. Ragged men and women-more ragged and dirty than ever-wending their weary way to the nearest workhouse, the only hope, in their present miserable state, being the prospect of a meal of toke and skilly. Question for a Political Economist: If the worth of the wine which such people drink like water at races and such places were only given to them instead, and they used it with prudence, would the Unions become overcrowded at the first approach of inclement weather? I am particularly amused at what is taking place in a pony-chaise. Papa, on the box, is shaking hands with "all sorts of people," and fine-lady-daughters inside are disgusted accordingly. At last one of them, unable to keep silent any longer, says, loud enough to be heard where I am standing, and that is some distance from the chaise, "Papa, I am quite ashamed of you; one would think you had known these people all your life. What would mamma say if she knew it?" To which papa, who is deep in sherry, only replies, "Nonsense, my dear: its race-time;" as if races were an excuse for anything! At about half-past five the last race is run, and then horses, carriages, and people - all seem to move at once in the direction of Trottingcover. I am rather tired after wandering about all day under the hot sun, so I think there will be no harm in having a pint of ale and half-an-hour's rest before I begin the journey back. Soon I think it would have been wiser to have left the course while it was yet broad daylight; for I have no sooner settled down in a quiet corner than some fifty hoppers of the lowest class roll into the tent, and when a man, who has evidently seen better days, begins to play the "Captive" polka on the violin, they all begin dancing like so many maniacs, reminding me of the people in the fairy-story who were compelled to dance whenever the charmed violin should be played. The waiter, who seemed to have entirely lost the use of his left side, is prevailed upon to join the dancers-anything but a pleasant spectacle, and presently they fall down of a heap, the waiter underneath. I hear the man say afterwards that they tripped him up on purpose, and emptied his pockets before he could get on his feet again. Presently a young man, looking like the conventional stage countryman, who sits near me, and will talk, being particularly anxious to let me know that he is not one of "those hoppers," but a regular farm-labourer, born and reared in the district. Presently he says, all of a sudden: "Do you know Puddy Green?" Thinking he might have been to London and found his way to Evans's, I said: "You mean Paddy Green, I suppose?" "No, Puddy Green; I was thinking that he might be your father." "Whatever makes you think so?" I asked, rather surprised. 'Why, he wears a coat just like yours, and that made me think he was your father." Rather a strange way of guessing relationship; but I had had enough of the tent, and, as I left, the rustic was muttering to himself "Two coats alike-they can't belong to different families." During the short time I had passed in that select society of hop-pickers, the scene in front of the tent had undergone an entire change, and a stranger just coming to the place would have only known by a few refreshment tents and some countrymen talking over the events of the day that he was on a race-course. As it looked like rain, I thought I would ride back to Trottingcover; but everything in the shape of a conveyance had left the place; so as it was nearly dark, and there were several suspicious-looking cha racters loitering about, I commenced walking down the first hill as quickly as I could. When I reached Arch the rain was falling in large drops, and black clouds were looming in the distance. The public-houses were overcrowded with soldiers (who, strange as it seems, considering their very limited incomes, always muster in large numbers at anything at all approaching to a merry-making, and have plenty of money to spend, and ale to drink); and places of shelter being "few and far between," I was glad to |