Test Bank for Essentials of Contract Law, 2nd Edition

CHAPTER 2

Step Two: Contract Formation—The Offer, the Events Between

Offer and Acceptance, and the Acceptance

Test Bank for Essentials of Contract Law, 2nd

Edition
full chapter at: https://testbankbell.com/product/test-bank-for-
essentials-of-contract-law-2nd-edition/
True/False
Indicate whether the statement is true or false.
An answer must be all True to be True.
1. T F The Restatement [Second] of Contracts and modern contract law use a
subjective standard.
2. T F A contract has three elements: an offer, acceptance, and consideration.
3. T F In an offer, the promisor may require the promisee to promise or to perform.
4. T F In an offer, the promisee’s promise or performance is the consideration for the
promisor’s promise.
5. T F An offer may be made to the general public.
6. T F An illusory promise is not a promise because it is not an unequivocal assurance
that something will or will not occur.
7. T F “I may” or “I might” does not rise to the level of promise and therefore cannot
be the promisor’s promise in an offer.
8. T F “I promise to sell you Blackacre for $500,000 if I feel like it” is an offer.
9. T F Consideration that is feigned or pretended is not consideration.
10. T F A breach of contract cause of action is based on unjust enrichment.
11. T F An auction in which the seller (acting through the auctioneer) is the offeror is an
auction without reserve.
12. T F An auction is presumed to be with reserve.
13. T F An offer that is not accepted, revoked, or rejected will lapse in the time stated or
if no time is stated, within a reasonable time.
14. T F Under the Restatement [Second] of Contracts, an offer for a bilateral contract
cannot be revoked if the offeree begins to prepare to perform.
15. T F An option contract ceases to have a purpose after the offeree has accepted the
main contract offer.
16. T F The Restatement [Second] of Contracts § 90 provides when reliance can be used
to create a reliance cause of action if a party makes statements that are less than
an unequivocal assurance that something will or will not occur and the other
party relies on those statements.
17. T F “Will you sell me your car” does not rise to the level of promise because it is
illusory.
18. T F Advertisement may never be offer.

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19. T F The general rule on auctions is that they are “with reserve” unless a contrary
intention is apparent from a statute, court order, advertisement, or announcement
at the beginning of the auction.
20. T F Some promises are indefinite because they lack the essential terms that assist the
court in determining a remedy.
21. T F The second element of an offer is the consideration for the promisor’s promise.
22. T F An inadequate price for the promisor’s promise results in the price not rising to
the level necessary to be consideration for the promisor’s promise.
23. T F A promise to make a future gift is an offer.
24. T F Sham consideration does not meet the peppercorn test because it is feigned or
pretend consideration and therefore cannot be consideration for the promisor’s
promise.
25. T F Motive can be consideration for a promisor’s promise.
26. T F Moral obligation can be consideration for a promisor’s promise.
27. T F For an offer to have been created, the promisee’s promise or performance must
be the quid pro quo for the promisor’s promise.
28. T F Past consideration satisfies the quid pro quo and therefore can be consideration
for the promisor’s promise.
29. T F A condition does not satisfy the quid pro quo requirement because the promisor
is not seeking a performance by the promisee.
30. T F Acceptance at a distance is effective when received by the offeror.
31. T F An acceptance is the offer’s manifestation of a willingness to enter into a
contract on the offeror’s terms.
32. T F The acceptance has three elements: the promisee’s promise or performance, the
promisor’s promise, and the promisee’s promise or performance must be made
to receive the promisor’s promise.
33. T F Both an offer for a bilateral contract and an offer for a unilateral contract are
accepted when the offeree promises.
34. T F An offer for a bilateral contract must be accepted by a promise and that promise
may be implied from performance.
35. T F Under classical contract law, the offeree must have knowledge of the offer for a
unilateral contract prior to the beginning of performance.
36. T F Under classical contract law, the acceptance need only mirror the offer as to the
bargained-for terms.
37. T F An option contract ceases to be effective after the main contract offer is
accepted.
38. T F An option contract ceases to be effective after the offeror revokes the main
contract offer.
39. T F If an acceptance is sent by the offeree on March 5th and received by the offeror
on March 8th, and a revocation of the offer is sent by the offeror on March 4th
but not received by the offeree until March 7th, a contract has been formed.
40. T F If an acceptance is sent by the offeree on March 5th and received by the offeror
on March 8th, and a rejection of the offer is sent by the offeree on March 4th but
not received by the offeror until March 7th, a contract has been formed.
41. T F An option contract can be created before the main contract offer is extended.
42. T F An option is an option contract and requires an offer and an acceptance.
43. T F The consideration for the offer for the option contract must be independent of
the consideration used for the promisor’s promise in the main contract offer.

91
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44. T F An option contract ceases to be effective after the offeree rejects the main
contract offer.
45. T F Offeror extends an offer for a bilateral contract to the offeree and the parties also
enter into an option contract. If an acceptance is sent by the offeree on March
5th and received by the offeror on March 8th, and a rejection of the offer is sent
by the offeree on March 4th but not received by the offeror until March 7th, a
contract has been formed.

92
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 Another random document
un-related content on Scribd:
 Another parody on Tancred, written by “Cuthbert Bede” (the Rev.
Edward Bradley), appeared in The Shilling Book of Beauty, it was entitled
“Tancredi; or, the New Party.” By the Right Hon. B. Bendizzy, M.P.
In 1887, Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., London, published a
shilling volume of prose burlesque novels, written by H. F. Lester. The first,
entitled Ben D’ymion, was a parody of Lord Beaconsfield’s novel
Endymion. The other authors imitated in this collection were William
Black, George Elliot, Henry James, Thomas Hardy, and J. H. Shorthouse.
Ben D’ymion had originally appeared in Punch in 1880.
——:o:——
T A L -T .
(After Lord Beaconsfield’s “S ”.)
C .
“Advantage, we win,” shouted Sphairistikos.
“Never,” replied Retiarius, as he made his favourite stroke, which came
speeding, whirling, hissing, the one-thousandth part of an inch over the top
of the net, and fell twisting, twirling, shooting, in the extreme left-hand
corner of the great twelve-yard court, only to be returned, however, by the
flexibility of a wrist which had been famous in Harrow’s playing-fields in
days of yore.
“Forty-thirty.”
“Deuce.”
“’Vantage against you!” “Game and set!” Such were the Babel-like cries
which greeted our ears, as we approached Tong Castle’s level lawn, one fine
autumnal afternoon.
And what was the scene that confronted us?
Ambitious adversaries, on all sides, were hitting to and fro, in alternated
strokes, a gyratory ball, and loudly vociferating amœbean numerals as
either side became involved in some reticular difficulty.
Here was to be seen, in variegated garb, such a galaxy of beauty as
Shropshire seldom sees, assembled to render homage to the great Lawn-
Tennis Champion, and to witness the feats of some of England’s doughtiest
players.
Here were to be seen the eagle-eyed volleyer, the deft half-volleyer, the
swift server, and the nimble net-player; while here, too, the quick cut, the
treacherous twister, and the brilliant back-hander were exhibited on all sides
in their purest perfection.
“Advantage, we win,” repeated Sphairistikos.
“Deuce,” said Retiarius, as his great stroke passed and shot lightning-
like past his adversary’s racket.
And so they played and played on, till the balls began to glance in the
golden light of a glorious sunset, and then to grow dimmer and dimmer in
the deepening shadows of a rich twilight.
C .
But to what was all this tending, and to what condition had the Lawn-
Tennis players brought the Great Western State which they inhabited?
A monarch on the throne, whose age alone prevented her from casting in
her lot with an aristocracy of wealth and learning, who had already
commenced to narrow life within the limits of the twelve-yard court!!
A gentler sex, forsaking the sacred duties of domesticity that they might
lend grace and elegance to the all-prevailing pastime!!
A degraded peasantry, living but to delineate on level lawns the bounds
past which England’s greatest and noblest born must not propel the gyrating
sphere!!
A rustic generation, rising but to collect for their oppressors the distant-
driven ball, and developing into manhood merely to tend and trim the
smooth-shaven Lawn-Tennis ground, which had now become a necessary
adjunct alike to glebe and manor!!
 It was an age of Lawn-Tennis!!
“My prophetical instincts tell me,” said Retiarius, as he and his friends
were waiting for the nets to be arranged,—“My prophetical instincts tell me
that the great coming stroke will be the volley.”
“Why, so?” said Sphairistikos.
“It is as yet,” replied he, “only half-developed. A nation young in Lawn-
Tennis has much to learn; much to forget. My impression is that the volley,
properly understood, will convulse the future.”
“I believe in service for my part,” remarked Sphairistikos,—“Secure
your first stroke. Demoralize first, win afterwards; I would borrow from the
great nation which gave us Tennis, and say, ‘Ce n’est que le premier pas qui
coûte.’”
“But I am looking to a distant future,” continued Retiarius. “We shall see
great changes. There will be hereditary volleyers. The theories of Darwin
must prevail. Volleyers will play with volleyers. The pastimes of a country
lead to its courtships. It has always been so. A generation of volleyers will
rise up who will volley from the service-line as accurately as their
grandfathers have done from the nets.”
“What news from Afghanistan?” asked a fair player, who was putting on
her shoes.
“Fifteen, the Government loses,” replied a Tennis-steeped youth; “they
have served two faults,—one into Afghanistan; one into Zululand.”
“Bother Afghanistan,” said another damsel in short petticoats, “I want
the scoring question settled.”
But the attendants now announced that the courts were ready.
“Fifteen, I win.”
“Fifteen, all.”
And so on, and on, and on, the adversaries played, with constantly-
varying fortunes, till another day was nearly done, and they were once more
compelled to surrender before the flickering blaze of a vanishing sun.
From Tennis Cuts and Quips. Edited by Julian Marshall. London. Field
and Tuer.
——:o:——
It was known that Lord Beaconsfield had drawn many of the characters
in Endymion from prominent members of society, and much curiosity was
felt as to the identification of these individuals. Notes and Queries
published a conjectural list of them, but it must be borne in mind that Lord
Beaconsfield was sufficiently cautious not to paint his portraits too
distinctly like his originals, in fact some of his puppets represent two or
three individuals merged into one
Endymion Benjamin Disraeli
Zenobia Lady Jersey
Berengaria (Lady Hon. Mrs. Norton
Montfort)
Agrippina Queen Hortense
Adriana Neufchatel Lady Burdett Coutts
The Neufchatels The Rothschilds
Col. Albert (Prince Napoleon III
Florestan)
Lord Roehampton Lord Palmerston
Myra Roehampton Empress Eugenie
Enoch Craggs Co-operation.
Lord Montfort The late Lord Hertford
Lord Rawchester Earl Granville
Earl of Beaumaris The late Earl of Derby
Mr. Bertie Tremaine Lord Houghton
Count of Ferroll Prince Bismarck
Nigel Penruddock Cardinal Manning
Mr. Ferrars (the Rt. Hon. George Rose
grandfather)
George Waldershare Mr. George Smythe (afterwards Lord
Strangford)
Job Thornberry Richard Cobden
 Mr. Vigo Mr. Poole
Mr. Jorrocks Mr. Milner Gibson
Hortensius Sir W. Vernon Harcourt
Sidney Wilton Sidney Herbert
Mr. Sainte Barbe W. M. Thackeray
Mr. Gushy Charles Dickens
Topsy Turvy Vanity Fair
Scaramouch Punch
——:o:——
A curious story of a plagiarism is related of Disraeli in the Life of Mr.
Abraham Hayward, Q.C., who was formerly on the staff of the Morning
Chronicle.
Early in the “fifties,” Mr. Disraeli made sundry depreciatory remarks on
the speeches of military members of Parliament, classing them
contemptuously as effusions of “the military mind.” The men of the
Morning Chronicle replied to Mr. Disraeli’s attack on the intellect of
soldiers by printing a translation of a magnificent eulogium on the Maréchal
de St. Cyr by M. Thiers, setting forth the qualities necessary to a military
commander. Mr. Disraeli was evidently struck by the brilliancy of the
counter hit, for a few years later, when the Duke of Wellington died, he
interpolated the translation, errors and all, in the oration which as leader of
the House of Commons it was his duty to deliver on the death of that great
general. The old writers of the Chronicle secured the insertion of the speech
and the translated passage in the Globe. Mr. Disraeli’s friends made every
attempt to explain away the plagiarism till an article in Fraser’s Magazine,
written by Mr. Hayward, showed clearly that the passage was not even
taken from the French original, but directly from the translation which
appeared in the Morning Chronicle. Mr. Hayward was very proud of this
article of his, in which he also handled Mr. Disraeli’s “Revolutionary
Epick” very roughly.
 T W T .
By Wilkie Collins.
The narrative commenced by Walter Heartbright, teacher of jig-dancing,
of Fulwood’s-rents, Holborn. This is a story of what a woman’s impatience
can procure, and what a man’s irresolution can achieve. If the law were not
such a blundering battering-ram the events which fill these pages might
have merited its attention. I live with my mother, who keeps a general shop.
Events alter my life. I go to Cumberland to attend on a gentleman. The story
continued by Mr. Bearly, Gummeridge House, Cumberland: I am all self,
etchings, and nerves. Why? I know not. Perhaps Laura knows, or Sir
Pursefull. I am asked to make a statement. Aided by a galvanic battery I
make it. Laura has gone on the stage. I am worried. Why should I be? I give
it up. Thank you. Don’t bang. Send Heartbright here. I would see him
dance. Statement by Hester Teecloth, cook at Count Bosco’s: I remember a
lady being brought to our house last June. She came in a temper and a
brougham. She was laid on the sofa. She looked wildlike, and kept shouting
“There they go, millions of ’em.” When the doctor saw her he winked at the
count and whispered, “Delicious trimmings,” but the poor thing was plainly
dressed. That’s all I know. Heartbright finishes the story: We are to be
married in a week’s time. Laura’s faculties have returned. Mr. Bearly and
his nerves have found Nirvana. Sir Pursefull was drowned while showing
off a lifebelt of his own invention. Bosco is in an asylum. His time is
occupied in plucking green mice from his beard, and chirruping to pink
canaries which he fancies he sees on the wall. My mother, always of a
retiring disposition, has given up business. I am heir of Gummeridge
House. Thus it ends.
W E R .
The Weekly Dispatch. February 25, 1883.
In this parody competition the compositions were limited to 300 words,
a regulation which sadly hampered the competitors.
In Bret Harte’s Sensation Novels Condensed, there is a parody of Wilkie
Collins, called “No Title.”
 T L T C .
By Bread Tart.
There was commotion in Tory Camp. Outside a rude cabin waited an
excited crowd, headed by Solly, a stalwart digger, with a Raphael face and
profusion of dark beard, whose duel with Harden Bill, the Rad-Dog
Woodcutter, was still talked of with bated breath. The name of a woman
was on every lip, a name familiar in the camp—Poll Icy. The less said of
her the better; no better than she should be perhaps; half foreign, half Ingin;
but yet the only woman in camp, and now in woman’s direst extremity.
Suddenly an excited Celestial joined the group. “Lemme investigate, John,”
said he; “me Pal-Mal, me washee-washee dirty linen, me go see her.”
“Scoot, you dern skunk!” thundered Solly; “none but a down-east johnny-
cake ’ud trust you with any woman nowadays.” At that moment a wail,
feeble, yet sufficient to quell the laughter that greeted Solly’s sally,
announced a birth in Tory Camp.… Little Randy, or the Luck—for by these
names the frolicsome miners had christened the infant (in beer)—grew and
throve, and soon became a power in the camp. His childish jokes with
Sairey Gamp, his nurse, were the delight of the brawny getters of gold from
quartz (s), and even Solly smiled when the Luck “tackled the old ’un,”
which he did when Harden Bill visited the camp now and then. “Rastled
with Bill’s little finger, the derned little cuss,” roared Solly; “rastled with it,
dern my skin.”
The winter of 1885 will long be remembered in California. One night
Tea-Pot Gulch and Rad-Dog Fork leaped suddenly over their banks, and
descended in ruin upon Tory Camp. When morning dawned the Luck lay
lifeless in Solly’s arms, and Harden Bill smiled grimly as he watched the
strangely assorted pair floating quietly towards the Sea of Oblivion.
J. C. R .
The Weekly Dispatch. September 13, 1885.
 There is a parody on Bret Harte’s prose in The Shotover Papers (Oxford,
1874) entitled His Finger, but it is not sufficiently characteristic to merit
reprinting.

M .M B .
AN O .
By Captain Marryat, R.N.
.
My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower from
Her Majesty’s navy many years before, and had a small practice in his
native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry
medicines to his patients. Being of a lively disposition, I sometimes amused
myself, during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the different
phials. Although I had no reason to doubt that the general result of this
practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a consumptive curate followed
the addition of a strong mercurial lotion to his expectorant, my father
concluded to withdraw me from the profession and send me to school.
Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before my
impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. I soon began
to form plans of revenge. In this I was assisted by Tom Snaffle—a school-
fellow. One day Tom suggested:
“Suppose we blow him up. I’ve got two pounds of gun-powder!”
“No, that’s too noisy,” I replied.
Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke.
“You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills! Couldn’t you
give Grubbins something—something to make him leathery sick—eh?”
 A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the village
apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I poured into
Grubbins’s inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his coat-tail, on which
he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked for an ounce of
chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle.
It was Grubbins’s custom to throw his handkerchief over his head,
recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my
opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his face
and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few minutes he
was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head, beard, and
eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and burnt cork, and
fled. There was a row and scandal the next day. My father always excused
me by asserting that Grubbins had got drunk—but somehow found it
convenient to procure me an appointment in Her Majesty’s navy at an early
day.
.
An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was
expected to join H.M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth,
without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall, stern-visaged man,
who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. As I touched
my hat he eyed me sternly:
“So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil.
Nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board. Boatswain’s
mate, pass the word for Mr. Cheek!”
Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat.
“Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where’s Mr.
Swizzle?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
“Where’s Mr. Lankey?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
“Mr. Briggs?”
 “Masthead, too, sir.”
“And the rest of the young gentlemen?” roared the enraged officer.
“All masthead, sir.”
“Ah!” said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, “under the
circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too.”
.
At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my
own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there 332 days out of
the year.
“In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we never
come down,” added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk nearly as
long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr. Briggs. “By the
way, Pills,” he continued, “how did you come to omit giving the captain a
naval salute!”
“Why, I touched my hat,” I said, innocently.
“Yes, but that isn’t enough, you know. That will do very well at other
times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board—greeny!”
I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain.
“Why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him
lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, ‘How’s his
nibs?’—you see?”
“How’s his nibs?” I repeated.
“Exactly. He would have drawn back a little, and then you should have
repeated the salute, remarking ‘How’s his royal nibs?’ asking cautiously
after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced to the gunner’s
daughter.”
“The gunner’s daughter?”
 “The same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don’t
forget, Pillsy!”
When we were called down to the deck I thought it a good chance to
profit by this instruction. I approached Captain Boltrope and repeated the
salute without conscientiously omitting a single detail. He remained for a
moment livid and speechless. At length he gasped out:
“Boatswain’s mate!”
“If you please, sir,” I asked, tremulously, “I should like to be introduced
to the gunner’s daughter!”
“O, very good, sir!” screamed Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and
absolutely capering about the deck with rage. “O d—n you! Of course you
shall! O ho! the gunner’s daughter! O, h—ll! this is too much! Boatswain’s
mate!” Before I well knew where I was, I was seized, borne to an
eightpounder, tied upon it and flogged!
* * * * *
From Sensation Novels Condensed, by Bret Harte. London. Ward, Lock
and Co.

T P -F W .
By Captain Mayne Reid.
.
“I feel kinder dull,” said Tiger Tom to me one day. “Let us go and kill
some ‘Injins.’” We soon reached the forest, but not a Redskin was in sight.
Tom examined the trail closely, and with an old backwoodsman’s unerring
instinct declared we should see no “Injins” that day. As I was
complimenting him upon his wonderful sagacity, we were suddenly
surprised by a band of the dreaded Chickatoos. With one thought for those
at home Tom took to his heels and vanished. The savages bound me to a
tree, and told me not to run away. I promised not to.
.
An exciting discussion upon cookery, of which I was the central object,
followed. One advocated roasting, another baking me! I did not favour
either. Between them I got into a stew. At night, whilst the rascals slept, I
perceived an Indian maiden by my side. She unbound me, and gave me the
full dress of a chief, and some pigment to stain my skin with. To disguise
myself was the work of a minute and three-quarters, when the savages
awoke, and missing me, set up a terrific yell, and started in pursuit. To
avoid observation, I accompanied them.
.
The chase was particularly close. I was anxiously awaiting nightfall to
escape them, when, horror! something wet touched my cheek. It was
raining. The rain fell in torrents, and as it washed my colour off and I
gradually became white, the Chickatoos saw through my disguise. Seizing
his rifle, the chief told me to stand apart. He fired, but missed me. I feigned
to be hit, and springing into the air, turned sixteen distinct somersaults.
Before they recovered from their surprise, I disappeared in the forest.
F. P. D .
The Weekly Dispatch Competition. February 25, 1883.
In this competition, the compositions were limited to 300 words, which
prevented the authors from giving more than a very rough caricature of
their originals. But in 1867, Mr. Walter Parke contributed a parody of
Captain Mayne Reid to Judy free from any such harrassing restriction, and
succeeded in producing a most blood-curdling romance. It was entitled
“The Skull Hunters: A Terrific Tale of the Prairie!!” By Captain Rayne
Meade; and consisted of twenty-one chapters of thrilling adventures, and
daring exploits with illustrations to match. This was published in book form
in 1868, another and revised edition was brought out in 1887, during the
excitement about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. This had a tremendous sale, it
was called “sportmans; or, The Warriors of the Wild West.” Judy Office,
London.
 A N T I C I P AT I O N S O F T H E D E R B Y.
B F V .

I. L’Homme qui Rit.

“In England, everything is great, even that which is not good, even
oligarchy itself!” Thought profound and sublime of the Master; apothegm
initiatory and bitter of the Man who Laughs—who laughs, but who can also
bite.
For Genius, as for Ambition—for Prometheus who thinks, as for
Prometheus who wields the great battalions—seems it not that there is
reserved, by the derisive irony of Fate, an expiatory rock, an island exile?
For Victor Hugo, this rock, expiatory but glorious, calls itself Guernsey.
For Napoleon, it had two names; it was Elba, and it was Ste. Hélène.
Patience, Master! Watching the brumous clouds, tainted with Britannic
fogs, that roll around the Islands of the Sleeve in the crepusculary sadness
of an English spring—listening to the breeze, keen, acute, Arctic, Polar,
which groans, which growls, which howls, which whistles menacing but
impuissant, around the walls of Hauteville House—remember thyself,
Master, that History, as for Ambition, so for Genius, repeats herself, in
moments, for the one of remorse, for the other of caprice!
After Elba, the Hundred Days.
After Ste. Hélène, the voyage of the Belle-Poule.
“He laughs best who laughs last,” says the Proverb.
Proverbs are the wisdom of nations.
And thou, oh Master, oh author of the Man who Laughs, thy laugh is as
the laugh of Gwynplaine, sombre but not cynical, permanent but full of pity,
of compassion—a laughter broken with tears—above all, a laughter which
endures!

II. The Solidarity of the Sportmans.

Yes; in England, everything is great. Even in her sports, she is the
Titaness of the Ocean.
There is a solidarity of peoples; above all, there is a solidarity amongst
the votaries of Diana, huntress pale, chaste, ferocious, formidable, but
ravishing, but divine!
The sportmans of France, the sportmans of England, they are as the
brothers of Corsica. What says your Williams? “As we were being washed
by nurse, we got completely mixed!”
Touching and tender fantasy of this grand old Swan of Stratford-upon-
Thames! Or, what say I—of Corsica? Of Siam—melancholy but affecting
type of the rudimentary solidarity of the Orient!
I had long desired to watch you insularies in the sports of the
hippodrome, in which I am myself not without skill; but the furious storms
of the Sleeve twice detained me at Calais, and once at Boulogne. I consoled
myself in the hope that everything comes to him who knows how to wait.
I knew how to wait. I waited.
After Chantilly, Epsom’s courses!
The sea appeared calm; not a wrinkle in the folds of the steel-blue
Sleeve.
I embarked myself, with my luggage in my left hand and my “Ruff’s
Guide to the Turf” in my right.
I shall see them, then, at last—these courses, sacred in the past by the
memory of Eclipse and the Flying Admiral Childers, dear to the patriotic
heart of France in the present days by the triumph of Gladiateur!
 III. Ocean less Perfidious than the Aristocracy of Albion.
The sun was shining. The Ocean stirred gently in its sleep. Its ripples
were as tender, as voluptuous, as the sighs of pleasure which scarcely
derange the diaphanous scarf that lies upon the bosom of beauty. Oh,
Phœbus! Oh, Neptunus! Oh, Venus!
I told you the sun was shining. My heart also. That I was gay! Gaiety
premature, unreasonable, absurd!
As we cross Calais Bar the vessel rolls. I like it not. Can she be strong
enough for the traverse, often fearful and stormy, to Douvres? I begin to
marvel whether she is made of iron, or only made of wood.
I address the question, politely, to a young English sportmans by my side
—“Pardon, Mister! but what is the vessel made of?”
A spasm of uncertainty, if not of pain, passes across his face as he points
to an inscription inside the paddle-boxes.
One can only die one time; nevertheless, it is permitted to exclaim
against the perfidy of the Steam-Lords of the Board of Commerce for
London and Douvres. I read the inscription. Hope abandons me. The vessel
is not made of iron!
She is not even made of wood!!
She is only “Maid of Kent!!!”

IV. Portentosum Mare.

An agitation which I have never felt before seems to seize upon me.
The further we go, the more it increases.
The young English sportmans, with the cynical indifference of the
patrician, contemplates my sufferings, and lights his cigar. Is it that he calls
that “solidarity”?
Two blonde misses with their papa—oligarch, fat, and without sympathy
—sit near me. They talk to each other freely. At times they laugh. I laugh
not, I!
Nor would they laugh, spoilt infants of Fashion, if I were to express the
ideas that are struggling in my bosom—if I were to show them all that is
within me!

V. After Convulsion, Despair.

I have shown them all that was within me.
They have moved away—it was a prudent step.
Now that they are gone, I could almost wish that I were dead!

VI. Noblesse Oblige.

The young English sportmans is, after all, a good infant. He brings me a
big goblet and a biscuit, which comfort me, and tries to speak to me in
French.
Words sympathetic, but mysterious.
“Ah, Monsieur,” he says, “il faut décidément maintenir votre pivert!”
Enigma! “I must keep up my wood-pecker?” I have no wood-pecker! I
tell him so in his own tongue; adding that I am very fond of shooting at the
doves.
“Ah,” he rejoins, “we don’t call ’em Doves, we call ’em les hiboux du
coiffeur—Barbers’ Owls!”
We become more and more friendly, as the pain subsides. When we
reach Douvres, I give him my card.
He says that he has forgotten his; but that I shall have no difficulty in
finding him at any of the tambours de la chasse—Sporting Drums—
especially if I ask for Lord William Wiggins, of Wapping.
What a droll of a name! Not facile to pronounce, that! Let us essay, with
the help of the dictionary of pronunciation:
 “Ouilliam Ouiggins—of Ouapping.”

VII. The Babylon of Britain.

Yes: in England everything is great. Behold this London, confused and
chaotic amalgamation of bourg upon bourg, of city upon city, almost of
county upon county—behold its administration, vague, contradictory,
without doubt, but immense, but Titanic, but sublime.
To-day London has but one heart, which palpitates—one thought, which
engrosses—one dream, which possesses—one hope, which enchants. To the
heart, the thought, the dream, the hope, there is one key.
It is the Epsom’s Courses, at Derby!

VIII. Explications.
Questions to resolve:
“Who is Epsom?”
“And where is Derby?”
Mystery strange and inexplicable, this Epsom! Not one of my
interlocutors, of French or English, can give me any particulars of his life.
Oh fame, oh renown, oh fickleness of popular affection! We go to the
Courses he has founded; and yet the very day of his death is forgotten or
unknown!
Another mystery. Derby is a hundred and twenty miles from London;
and yet many of my friends assure that they will drive down without a
single change of horses! Ah, then, it is no marvel, this predominance of the
old England in the hippic arena, when even the ordinary horses of the
carriage can travel a hundred and twenty miles—two hundred kilomètres—
without fatigue.
These facts were new to me. They were also new to most of my
countrymen with whom I conversed.
 The Unknown—behold the Redoubtable!

IX. Vieille Ecole, Bonne Ecole.

Happily, I encounter Lord Ouiggins.
He is an aristocrat of the old rock—a little mocking, perchance, a little
reserved, cold, indifferent, proud, but of an antique probity, a
disinterestedness more than Roman.
He takes me under his charge.
I had been deceived. They were mocking themselves of me, those who
told me the courses were at Derby. They are run on Epsom’s Salt-Downs.
“Derby” is only the title of their founder, one of those English eccentrics
of whom the type is so familiar in France—poet, politician, jockey—
Premier Minister of Great Britain until he was overthrown by the intrigues
of Sir Benjamin Gladstone!
After one thunder-stroke, another:
Gladiateur is not to run!
Is this, then, the old Britannic chivalry—the love of what the poet has
proudly called “Greenwich Fair-Play”? Is this the entente cordiale? I survey
Lord Ouiggins. He can scarcely meet my eye. He turns aside.
Let us hope it is to blush!
He tries to defend the invidious exclusion. He pretends that in the
Derby-Course the horses must not exceed a certain age; also that Gladiateur
was at least quite sufficiently near that age when he did run. Puerile
evasion! False pride of nationality!
What is to become of the money I have wagered?
Lord Ouiggins tells me to console myself. He has private information.
He will not see a foreign gentleman wronged.
 X. Les Nuits de Londres.
We are inseparable.
Milord has backed a favourite to win him thousands of sterlings.
Curious, almost cynical nomenclature of the Turf!
The horse is named Ventre-Tambour, Bellydrum!!
He is assured to win; Milord dreamt, last night, that he saw him four
lengths ahead at Tattenham-court-road Corner.
I wager freely on Ventre-Tambour.
Lord Ouiggins says we had better not go down to his baronial hall at
Ouapping, but “make a night” and start early.
Ah, nights of London, you have not, effectively, stolen your reputation!
What contrasts, fascinating but terrible—here, the noblesse, like Ouiggins
quaffing champagne with visitors from France; and there the miserables, the
Tom-Dick-Harries drinking gin—the blonde misses, casting aside the
Puritanic pudor of the saloon, and dancing freely with foreign gentlemans at
the Duke of Argyle’s Casino—what contrasts, but also, alas, what jealousies
still existing, what internecine hatred still in rage!
That the English should hate the Irish is but natural.
We always hate those whom we have wronged!
It is less reasonable that they should continue to hate the children of
Cambria, with whom they have been so long in friendly union.
And yet, more than once during this exciting evening, I have heard Lord
Ouiggins spoken of—my patrician pur sang—as a Welsher, with evident
contempt.
Brutal antipathies unworthy of the century!
They shall have no influence on the mind of a son of France.