Those were stirring days in the old Northumbrian city by the sea. And to the utmost border of that ancient kingdom the busy populations were alive with expectation and hope. Little cared they for the Sea Rover now. He no longer enjoyed, as once, the freedom of the city and the sea. They were really as indifferent to the vexed question as the philosophic Canon Taylor humorously affected to be. The loquacious savants might settle matters to suit themselves; but there was another question, probably of equal importance, for popular consideration; and a question of far greater moment too, to a man with blood in his veins; a question which touched at once the pocket and the heart; to wit, the last of the classic races at Doncaster, the St. Leger and the great Yorkshire Stakes. Will the Duke of Portland's "Donovan"—a Southern horse of great beauty, speed, and "luck"—win in the coming contest with "Chitabob," the pride and hope of the North? There was anxiety in every face. The touts had come from their work at Doncaster, and Chitabob was reported to be lame; his old enemy (rheumatism) had seized his foreleg; he was not equal to a canter: could do only three hours' walk in the paddock near the ring. In spite of the conditions and the resulting consternation of Chitabob's friends, his nervy young owner insists that "matters are not so bad as they seem, and the horse will run." Meantime, the betting is against him—two to one on Donovan; in rapid sequence six—seven—ten against Chitabob. The situation was highly sensational; the state of excitement in Doncaster was intense; even Chitabob's friend, "Guyon" (a noted sportsman), had surrendered hope. The owner, young Mr. Perkins, was alone undismayed; and the men of the stalls were as game as the horse. "He can win on three legs," they declared. "I do not think so," said Guyon, "and though common sense prompts me to go for Donovan, I am full of hope and sympathy for Chitabob. The splendid fellow has always carried my money, and I will back him to-day. He is too grand a horse to let him run loose, but it is very clear to my mind that Donovan will win." The loyal sportsman proved to be an infallible prophet—Chitabob lost.

As one looks intently upon such a scene as this, Doncaster disappears and Kentucky rises on the eye. The story of Chitabob recalls the traditions of Grey Eagle, that superb and exquisite idol of the mid-century Kentuckian's heart; his brilliant and exciting contest with Wagner; his gallant start, his matchless stride, the vast crowd, the wild applause;—"the strained tendon," the slackened speed, the failing strength—the lost race. But the defeated racer was always (like Clay or Breckinridge) the idol of the State;—the Champion of Kentucky—as Chitabob was the Champion of the North.

Imported "Yorkshire" was, likewise, a famous horse in the history of the Southern turf, and his blood still mingles with that of our finest strains. We note in Kentucky a noble reproduction of the old lines, both in man and horse; it was entirely fit that such a Virginian as Commodore Morgan should bestow such a gift as "Yorkshire" upon such a Kentuckian as Henry Clay. It was a gift for a king, and there were marks of royal lineage in both man and horse; lines that were souvenirs of a royal race. Traditions tell us, and the casual traveler notes abundant proof of the fact, that the "typical Kentuckian" is indebted for many of his traits to the old Northumbrian blood. Even the familiar speech of the Yorkshireman recalls much that is characteristic in the dialect of Kentucky; as "mad," for angry or vexed; "thick," for friendly or intimate; "thumping," for big; "rattling good," for very good; "plump," for quite or entirely, as "shot plump through"; "whole lot," for a large number; "what's up?" for what's the matter? etc. Were not these words and phrases conveyed by racial migration from the North of England to Virginia and from Virginia to Kentucky in days lang syne? Have you never heard among the old horsemen of the Bluegrass the odd expression, "The colt will be two years old next 'grass'"? "It is curious," says Mr. Marsh, "that the same expression is used in Scandinavia." In Denmark and Sweden, he adds, as well as in England, the gentlemen of the chase and turf reckon the age of their animals by "springs"—the season of verdure being the ordinary "birth season" of the horse; and a colt, therefore, is said to be so many years old next "grass."

The same writer informs us that the names of the two brothers, Hengist and Horsa—both names of the genus horse—are words in one or another form common to all the Scandinavian dialects. A Danish colonel told Mr. Marsh that in a company in his regiment there were two privates bearing these names, who were as inseparable in their association as the Hengist and Horsa of old. An ardent theorist, like a jealous lover, may find confirmation strong in trifles light as air. It is a far cry from old Scandinavia to old Kentucky, but what brain is broad enough, what spirit is subtle enough, to comprehend the variety and infinitude of delicate, airy, intangible influences by which the busy hands of destiny have brought them together? Not the least of these agencies were affinities, customs, explorations, battles, contests, migrations, and the "wingy mysteries" of kindred names or words.

Edward Lee Childe, in his admirable life of his kinsman, General Robert Lee (Paris, France, 1874), says that in 1192 we find a Lionel Lee at the head of a company of gentlemen accompanying Richard of the Lion-Heart in his third Crusade. In the original the word here translated "gentlemen" is gentilshommes. A word of somewhat different connotation from its English equivalent, but sufficiently alike in meaning to justify the assumption that England is indebted to Normandy for the word, and, essentially, for what the word connotes or implies—the chief or leader of a family or gens. The followers of Lionel Lee were, therefore, a military Élite. The original conception of the word still lingers among the Anglo-Norman races. That the word in its later English form has taken on a finer sense is illustrated by the famous speech of the Great Nicholas to Sir Hamilton Seymour. The diplomacy of the Czar neither asked nor conceded conventional guarantees. "Before all things," he said, "I am an English gentleman" (un gentilhomme Anglais). The word "cavalierism," used by M. Taine, reminds us that England, long before the Conquest, was indebted to Normandy for the "Cavalier"; that the "man-on-horseback" was the Cavalier; that the Cavalier and gentilhomme were conspicuous in the ranks of the Conqueror, and, not to be too precise, may be said to have come down the centuries together. In a certain conventional sense it is proper, no doubt, to say that the Cavalier in England was a gentleman; and, always, in Normandy un gentilhomme. But it was only in later days, as in the splendid epoch of the Stuarts, that the qualities of the gentleman, fusing with the character of the Cavalier, gave a peculiar dignity, elevation, and distinction to the natural and recognized leaders of the English race. But the bonniest cavalier, undisciplined by social culture, had precisely those defects of his qualities which the term "cavalierism" was invented by Sir Walter Scott to express. The qualities depicted in Esmond by Thackeray were not conspicuous in Scott's portraiture of "Claverhouse" or "Montrose." Gentilhomme, Cavalier, and Gentleman were descriptive terms evolved under similar historic conditions, and derived from the same linguistic source. An Anglo-Norman Kentuckian who figured conspicuously in the late War between the States humorously adjusted all differences as to the proper designation in that day, by addressing his friends in familiar conversation as "Gentle-homines," a felicitous appellative not only for Kentuckians, but for friendly Indians as well. The effigies of the "man-on-horseback" (a familiar phrase in English ears) was officially introduced to the English public by an English king, who in everything save birth and blood was typically Norman himself. It is indelibly stamped upon the Great Seal of England, and not upon one seal alone. The most casual inspection of the famous Guildhall collection will show, stamped upon Seal after Seal through a long succession of Anglo-Norman kings, the same equestrian figure which, obviously of Norman origin, had appeared in England before the Conquest; and which centuries later was designed by an Anglo-Norman engraver upon the Great Seal of the American Confederate States. The artist was Wyon (engraver to the Queen), and the original of the symbolic figure was that immortal Cavalier, George Washington—a man of Anglo-Norman blood.

It may be said that Kentucky offered physical conditions that were exceptional, for the production of "Cavaliers."

A scientific explorer found upon the icy coast of the Straits of Magellan a growth of English grass—fresh, green, flourishing, and as full of fight for existence as the stock or race from which it took its name. It was like the grass described in the Hudibrastic skit of the bluegrass Colonel:

It was a species of Poa, closely akin in its characteristics to Poa Pratensis, the famous Bluegrass of Kentucky —a cosmopolitan grass; at home everywhere, but always seeking congenial skies; rooting itself firmly and clinging tenaciously; standing in with the rich soils and the strong races; unseating old sod; standing off all casual intruders; driving out all competing grasses; casting its own lines in pleasant places; dividing honors with Zea Mays, the stateliest of all grasses, and yielding to no competition save here and there to the cryptic, mossy growth that at last covers with oblivion the homes and the tombs of men. Even the grasping, aggressive Poa yields to the power of moss; and mossback monstrosities may be found even among the vigorous offshoots of the Anglo-Norman race. Yet, was it not an extraordinary incident of the evolution of our Western world that in the genesis of the Commonwealth of Kentucky two such factors or agencies as the Race and the Grass—inseparably linked—should be predestined each to a special function in the common work? "Either," said a sagacious observer from New England, "no other land ever lent itself so easily to civilization as the Bluegrass region, or it was exceptionally fortunate in its inhabitants." The alternative suggests that if this miracle of evolution be attributable to either of the causes named—civilizableness of the land or adaptableness of race—then there can be but one conclusion should the result be ascribed to the operation of both. This speculative suggestion as to the genetic or determining element in the evolution of the Bluegrass State came from the pen of that gifted and genial writer, Charles Dudley Warner, many years ago. He was then visiting Kentucky, and reporting in a series of papers his observations, as a visitor, for an influential publication in the East. Please note this unconscious implication as to grass and race from a philosophic tourist of the olden times. "Grass" or "Race"—but what Race?