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ordered them to run again later in the afternoon. In running off the dead heat Davies was again slow to leave the mark; but, with a magnificent spurt he got ahead in the last few yards, and won by six inches.

The warning given by the starting in the Hundred was not thrown away in the Hurdle Race. Never before were such a restless lot of competitors seen, and it was only at the seventeenth attempt that the starter let them go. One of the Oxford men marked his course by a line of levelled hurdles; but Upcher won easily for Dark Blue by some yards, Roberts (Cambridge) second.

Of course Cambridge won the Broad Jump, for the invincible Davies was her representative. This year he surpassed all his previous exploits by by clearing the immense distance of 22 ft. 10 in., the widest' leap ever yet made by an amateur. Upcher was second with 21 ft. 9 in.

Each University had now won four events, and the last race on the card-the Three Mileswould decide the athletic supremacy of the year. People who remembered the desperate struggle between Smith, Dorrien, and Somerville looked for an equally exciting contest; while Cantabs persuaded themselves that the exigency of the moment would nerve their men to greater efforts, and hoped against hope. Stevenson, Russell, and Armistead for Oxford were opposed to Jackson, Izard, and Yardley for Cambridge, and, as usual, they ran for the first mile in a cluster, Armistead leading. In the second

mile Stevenson and Jackson singled themselves out from the rest, and left them at a rapidly increasing distance. Just like the race of last year,' said some one behind us; but, unfortunately, the similarity was not prolonged. The style of the Cantab contrasted painfully with the easy, springing stride of his opponent; and long before the end of the race he was in such difficulties that he stopped, leaving Stevenson to win by any distance, with Russell second, and the worst man of the Cambridge trio, who had perseveringly plodded on in the rear, third. The time was 15 mins. 47 secs. The long race is almost invariably won by the Dark Blues, and the Quarter has been an equally good thing for Cambridge, who have run first nine times out of eleven. Each University has won the odd event five times, the first competition having resulted in a tie; so that neither in rowing nor running can any great supremacy be claimed for either.

One unpleasant event marked the boat-race this year. We refer to the Lord Mayor's invitation to a civic banquet; and without entering into the question of how far the tardy answer from Oxford was excused by circumstances, we cannot refrain from expressing our opinion that an annual dinner at the Mansion House would be an undesirable feature of the day; nor do we think that the petulant and ill-tempered rebuke addressed to the President of the O. U. B. C. was becoming to the dignity of the high official from whom it emanated.

E. N. A.

GREENWICH PARK AND BLACKHEATH ON EASTER MONDAY.

OU can't do better than go

'You

to Blackheath, the air is so embracing,' said a portly woman in her Sunday best, who was waiting for the Greenwich train with hundreds of other pleasure-seekers, to begin a Bank holiday.

She was a voluble dame, and told the bystanders more of things past and present in ten minutes than the writer is likely to do in this article. She was a nurse by profession, she said, and was 'everywhere in a jiffey.' She remembered when the first railway was opened, and the first steamer went from London Bridge to Greenwich. She had been called up in the night to travel for hours in stage-coaches, distances which she could now go while you said Jack Robinson.' And as for holidays, why, there were no such things in her days; and,' between you and me, people were just as well without 'em, though she was fool enough to be losing a day, andShe was interrupted by that conversationstopper, the train.

What a rush it was! The platform, which had been radiant with costumes of every hue, and filled with people of all ages, children preponderating, was empty in a moment, and the crowd tumbled pell-mell into the train, 'hall promiscous,' as our voluble acquaintance expressed it. We were so fortunate as to follow her into a carriage, and to hear her resume her discourse with two young men who were discussing Greenwich Hospital. One of them was anticipating historical improvement, and, handbook ready, was preparing himself for a sight of the spot where Henry VIII. and his daughters were born, then called

Placentia. He informed his audi

ence that it was Henrietta Maria, the Queen of the unfortunate Charles I., who had employed Inigo Jones as architect; but that Charles II., after his restoration, had pulled down the old palace, then in a ruinous state, and commenced a new. 'But,' he said, "it was our Sailor King, William III., who turned it into a hospital for disabled seamen.'

'I 'ope our Sailor Prince will do as much,' interrupted the lady; 'but, for my part, what I likes is the Painted 'All.'

'The ceilings were painted by Horatio Gentileschi,' continued the historian, reading, and stumbling over the name.

'Oh, indeed! They're nothing to the battle picturs. I sawr 'em the last time I was at Greenwich fair. But that's put a stop to. I likes the Death of Captain Cook the best, and the stature of Nelson. There's more to be learned from picturs than from books. That's why I likes the Hillustrated News.'

'I hate rooms full of pictures. They remind me of clothes hung out to dry,' said the historian's companion.

'Sir Christopher Wren superintended the building of the Hospital for nothing,' continued the literate.

'Oh, indeed! Better for his wife and family if he'd been paid for it. I see plenty o' people ruined by doing what they've no call to,' responded the dame.

By the time we reached Greenwich we had gained much information from our companions, and were prepared to regard all we saw as in some sort connected with royalty. The old town was already full of people, bent on the enjoyment of Easter Monday; but some

how we had become inoculated with the disease of antiquarian and historical lore, and could do little but compare the past and present. Glancing at the broadbreasted Thames, with its freight of steamers, barges, and pleasureboats, all crowded with merrymakers, and enlivened with music, we recalled the time when, in the reign of King Ethelred, the whole Danish fleet was anchored there, whilst the main body of their army was encamped on Blackheath. We felt thankful for that peace which enables London to turn out as a man, not to wars or rumours of wars,' but to parks, heaths, gardens, watering-places, and fields, where its citizens may exchange soot and grime for pure fresh air and a glimpse of greenery-where they may chance to see flowers grow, and to hear birds sing in the open, instead of pent up in pots and cages.

We thread our way through the crowds to Greenwich Park. Here we have a modern Decameron, fit only for the pen of a nineteenthcentury Boccaccio. 'Beneath the spreading chestnut-trees' and the giant elms, many of which were probably saplings when Queen Elizabeth roamed the park, are picturesque groups of gaily-dressed people, to whom trees are trees, whether leafless or not. On this sixth day of April the chestnuttrees are sprouting, and the large, beautifully-folded leaves,with their soft silvery linings, are bursting forth for the delectation of mankind.

The cautious oak still conceals his nascent foliage; but his gnarled trunk and brawny arms afford rest and partial protection to the seekers. The yellow-green larch is out, and the elms are in leaf. Woe to the wee silvertipped things' to-day! Woe to every chance leaf and tiny flower! for little hands crop with delight

each peeping bud, and would not heed Wordsworth's

Spare, oh, spare the strawberry blossom,' could they but happen on one.

We wander on with the throng, threading mazes of woodland. One scarcely fancies this is hackneyed Greenwich, whither resort citizens and citizenesses, old and young, on all festal occasions. We even find ourselves alone for a few moments in an outlying spot, where the sward is unworn by the treadings of many feet. Here the trees are large and old, the ground undulating, and the lights and shadows soft as in a fairy dell. Here we can imagine the scene of a royal procession, such as that which accompanied Henry VIII. when he went through this very park, attended by bishops, nobles, heralds, ambassadors, to meet Anne of Cleves on Blackheath. She, we are told, rested there under a tent of cloth of gold, while her not too greatly enamoured bridegroom rode underneath these elms towards her. The King had already conceived a distaste for his future Queen; and, doubtless, the gauds and gear of state covered much ill-humour. Still the procession wended on, debouched upon the Heath, met the bride elect with all

the pomp of circumstance,' and returned with her through the park. We can almost imagine the stately train of lords and ladies, of citizens clad in velvet and gold, and burnished attendants, as they wend their way through the broad avenues to the palace, where the ill-starred marriage is to be consummated.

But our musings are soon broken. Train after train brings thousands of holiday-makers from London, and the park fills. There are crowds everywhere. We wander about with them. The sky is cloudless, and looks blandly down upon

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