THE DERBY RACES, WITH SOME OTHER THINGS.
Horse-racing in America is not considered the most exciting, or, for
that matter, the most reputable business in the world. A horsey man,
except in New York, is not looked upon with much favor, being, as a
rule, and I suppose justly, regarded as a modified and somewhat toned
down black-leg.
I never ventured money upon but one race. I shall never forget it, for
it was my first and last experience.
It was many years ago, ere time had whitened my locks, and had set the
seal of age in my face in the form of wrinkles. It is needless to say I
was as immature mentally as physically, or what is to follow would not
have occurred.
There was a horseman in the county in Ohio in which I was living named
Carpenter--Sol. Carpenter. Every horseman's given name is abbreviated,
the same as a negro minstrel's. Carpenter was the possessor of many
horses which he used in racing, but he had one, "Nero," which commanded
the confidence of all the sporting men for miles around. In a mile race
he had never been beaten, and there were wild rumors, which obtained
credence, that he had won a four-mile race in Kentucky (which at that
time was the starting point for all the running horses), and that Sol.
was holding him back for some great master-stroke of turf business.
Presently there appeared in Greenfield--Sol. lived in Plymouth--a horse
named "Calico," which the owner intimated could _lay out_ "Nero,"
without any particular trouble or worry. Carpenter laughed the man to
scorn--his name was Pete Scobey--and promptly challenged him for a mile
dash, two best in three.
[Sidenote: AN AMERICAN HORSE CONTEST.]
Scobey accepted the challenge and the date was fixed. There was the
wildest possible excitement in Plymouth. Greenfield did not share in it,
as there were no horsemen there, the village consisting of one
Presbyterian Church, a dry goods store, and a blacksmith shop. But
Plymouth absolutely boiled. Carpenter poured oil upon the fire by
confidentially assuring everybody that "Nero" could get away with
"Calico" without the slightest trouble; that he knew "Calico" like a
book, and knew exactly what he could do, and if the people of Plymouth
were wise, they would impoverish Greenfield, or rather the Norwalk
parties, who were to back "Calico."
His advice was taken. Every man in Plymouth who could raise a dollar
went to that race at Greenfield and staked his money on "Nero," on
Carpenter's assurance as well as their own confidence. There was nobody
doing much betting on "Calico," except Mr. Scobey and one or two others,
and they held off at first, which gave Plymouth more confidence. So
eager were we to despoil the adverse faction that we gave great odds,
all of which Mr. Scobey and his confreres took, finally, with a calm
confidence that should have taught us better. But it didn't. I remember
that I wagered every dollar I had with me, and some more that Mr.
Carpenter kindly lent me, taking my note, and in addition to this a
sixteen-dollar silver watch.
The first heat was won by "Nero," easily, and Mr. Carpenter winked to
Plymouth to make another assault upon the purses of Greenfield. We did
it. We gave even greater odds than before, which Mr. Scobey required, as
he admitted that his chances were very slim.
"But," he remarked, "I will bet one to ten on anything."
To our surprise the second heat was won by "Calico," by just about a
head. Then Mr. Scobey offered to take even bets, and he would have got a
great many but for the fact that Plymouth had staked her entire wealth
already.
The next and decisive heat was run. It was closely contested. Each horse
seemingly did his best, and the jockeys seemed to ride properly. Alas
for Plymouth! "Calico" won, as he did the second heat, by just a head.
The indignation of Mr. Carpenter knew no bounds. He grasped his jockey
by the neck and pulled him from the horse, and accused him of giving
away the race, and he stormed about the track very like a madman.
"Pete," he said finally, "Nero kin beat that cart horse of yours ez easy
ez winkin. I'll run yoo two weeks from to-day at Plymouth for two
hundred dollars a side, and I'll hev a rider that won't sell out to
yoo."
[Illustration: SOL CARPENTER AND THE GREENFIELD RACE.]
"Jest ez you please, Mr. Carpenter. It's easy enough to charge up a poor
horse to the account of a rider. Here's the boodle."
[Sidenote: DEPARTURE FOR THE DERBY]
And so another race was arranged, and Mr. Carpenter went among us and
assured that his own son should ride the next time, and there would be
no trouble about it.
We consulted all the next week, and Mr. Scobey was approached on the
subject. Mr. Scobey assured us that he knew "Nero," and knew his own
horse. "Nero" was good for a long race, but for a dash of a mile
"Calico" could get away with him every time. We shared Mr. Scobey's
opinion, and to Mr. Carpenter's disgust, Plymouth wagered all the money
it could raise upon "Calico." It requires but few words to state the
result. "Calico" won the first heat easily, and "Nero" won the other two
just as easily, and Plymouth was again bankrupt.
And then one of the riders who was disappointed in his share of the
plunder, came to the front and made known what, if we had not been an
entire menagerie of asses, we might have known in advance, that Mr.
Carpenter and Mr. Scobey were in partnership, and that "Calico" was a
horse hired from Cleveland for the occasion, and that it was a very
ingenious scheme put up by Mr. Carpenter to victimize his neighbors, and
that out of the speculation the two had made a very nice lot of money.
I don't pretend to say that this has anything to do with the Derby, but
it illustrates the morals of the turf so well that I could not help
putting it upon paper. Racing is about the same thing everywhere, except
upon Epsom Downs. These races are conducted fairly, for they are under
the patronage of men to whom the honor of owning a winning horse is more
than any amount of money that can possibly be won. The English noblemen
want this honor, and they spend fabulous amounts of money to attain it.
I won't say that the Duke of Wellington would have exchanged Waterloo
for the Derby, but I do say that if after Waterloo he could have had a
horse capable of taking the prize, he would have died better satisfied
with himself.
Thirty Americans were in the party that, on the morning of the first of
June, left the American Exchange at Charing Cross for Epsom Downs. It
was a very jolly party, and none of the accompaniments were forgotten.
An Englishman does nothing without a great plenty of eating and
drinking, and so the inside of one of the immense omnibusses--"breaks"
they call them--was filled with great hampers of lunch, and wine, and
things of that nature.
As early as it was all the avenues leading to the Downs were literally
packed with conveyances, to say nothing of the railroad trains which
passed in quick succession, and such a motley procession! There were
lords and ladies, merchants and clerks, prostitutes and gamblers,
workingmen and beggars, sewing-girls and bar-maids,--in fact every sort
and condition of people, who had for one day thrown care to the winds
and were on pleasure bent.
[Illustration: LEAVING FOR THE DERBY.]
[Sidenote: SIGHTS AND SCENES.]
The roads swarmed with vehicles, and there was as much of a surprise in
the variety as in the number. There was My Lord in his dog cart, or, if
a family man, in his gorgeous carriage, which does not differ materially
from the American open barouche, save in the accommodations for the
everlasting flunkies behind, without which no English establishment is
complete. Then came the swarm of hansoms--which is a two-wheeled
vehicle, with a calash top to it, carrying the driver on a high perch
behind--the army of omnibusses, the tops covered with chaffing people,
and the inside full of more sober ones, and add to these every variety
of vehicle to which an animal can be attached, that would carry a human
being, and you have some faint idea of the appearance of the roads
leading to Epsom Downs on the 1st of June, A.D. 1881.
It was rather amusing than otherwise to note two kinds of vehicles and
the people they hauled. They have in London a little pony, not much
larger than a good-sized Newfoundland dog, extensively used by
costermongers and that class of tradesmen to deliver goods. A half of
these in London were at the Derby, hitched to a two-wheeled cart of
twice their size, and seven heavy men and women would be packed therein,
and this little mite bowled them along at a good pace, without being
worried. There were literally thousands of them upon the roads, the pony
pulling his heavy load, and seeming to enjoy the sport as much as those
he was hauling. He was having a holiday, and his holiday was much like a
human one, very hard work.
The donkey is another English institution. He is not as large as the
pony, but what enormous loads he will pull, and what a slight amount of
food he requires. He will breakfast on a tin tomato can, and relish a
circus poster for dinner. He is a patient little brute, and bears his
loads as meekly as the English laborer does his, and in just about the
same way.
As we leave the city the crowd of vehicles and pedestrians becomes
denser and denser. At the point where all the streets out of the city
meet the throng becomes more than immense, it is terrific. The drivers
of the vehicles, skillful as they are, have difficulty in guiding their
teams, whether it be the pretentious four-in-hand, or the humble
donkey-cart, through the mass, though they did it, and without an
accident.
And now the fun begins; that is, the English fun. Troops of fantastics,
with false faces, spring up, the Lord knows from where, or for what
purpose, unless it be to blow piercing horns
[Illustration: BY THE ROAD-SIDE.]
and beat toy drums for their own amusement. On one side just over a
hedge, an admiring party are witnessing a boxing match between two
yokels, who are giving and taking real blows in dead earnest, while just
beyond is a Punch and Judy show, which always has been popular in
England, and will be to the end of time. All along the dusty road are
men over come with liquor, sleeping the sleep that only the drunkard
knows, with faces upturned to the hot sun. They are perfectly safe, and
will not be disturbed. Every Englishman of the lower class knows all
about it, and as for robbery, all that he has on him couldn't be pawned
for a penny. Next to the boxing match was a street preacher of some
denomination, armed with his testament and hymn-book, "holding forth" to
a throng constantly coming and going. I didn't hear this one, for we
were too much on pleasure bent to stop for a sermon, be it ever so good
or our need for it ever so great. But I did hear one on the grounds, and
a curious sermon it was. There was no Miss Nancying about that preacher.
He did not attempt to win his hearers by depicting the delights of a
heaven for piety on this earth, not any. He knew his hearers too well.
The lower grade Englishman might try to be good to escape a hell, but no
one ever conceived a heaven that would win him. His idea of a heaven is
a pot-house, with plenty of beer, and bread and cheese, and nothing to
do. And so the preacher sang the hymn:--
"My thoughts on awful subjects roll,
Damnation and the dead,"
In which his audience joined, some devoutly and some jeeringly.
[Sidenote: THE ROAD-SIDE EVANGELIST.]
And he pictured hell in such lurid colors as to frighten the most
hardened. He had no fancy for a hell, such as American clergymen talk
about, which consists merely in being deprived of the company of angels
and all that sort of thing, but he had a substantial, real hell, with
actual fire and brimstone and real devils with red hot pitch-forks,
toasting and gridling sinners, and rivers of fire, and perpetual
torments of this cheerful kind, forever and forever. That was the kind
of a hell he had.
It had its effect. One man who stood listening, with his wife, said to
her as they turned away:
"Weel, Jenny, 'ell is a hawful thing, I don't knaw but what I'll turn
around and do better, hafter to-morrow."
And the wife assenting to this proposition they went to the nearest beer
place and buried their countenances and their consciences, or their
fright rather, in pots of beer that would swamp the most seasoned
American, and a few moments after were dancing like mad in a booth
constructed for the purpose.
Except there be a special dispensation this party will never repent, and
if there be such a hell as the preacher described they will find it.
Their to-morrow for becoming good, like everybody else's, will never
come. The negro who, when asked why, in view of the punishment that must
follow his sinful life, he would continue in his evil courses,
replied:--
"Boss, de great comfort and 'scurity I has, is in a deff-bed 'pentance."
"But suppose you die too suddenly to repent?"
"Boss, I alluz keeps myseff ready for 'pentance."
The road down is lined with public houses, little quaint inns in which
nobody sleeps, but which are devoted exclusively to the selling of beer
and spirits. At each of these half the vehicles stopped, and the scenes
about them were curious, if not altogether enjoyable. The only business
done inside was the drawing and drinking of beer, and outside--heaven
help an American--negro minstrelsy. Imagine three cockneys burnt corked,
and dressed in trowsers striped in imitation of the American flag, with
long blue striped coats and red vests, one playing the banjo, another
the concertina, and the third doing the silver sand clog, with that
peculiar soul-depressing, spirit-quenching expression that all clog
dancers wear habitually.
[Illustration: ENGLISH NEGRO MINSTRELSY.]
[Sidenote: THE ROADSIDE REPAST.]
A clog dance on a stage in a hall is sufficiently depressing to send a
middle-aged man home to make his will, but imagine it done by an
Englishman on a board outside an inn, on a hot day, so hot that the
perspiration streaming down his face washed the burnt cork out in
streaks, and then when this doleful performance was finally
accomplished, think of a negro melody sung in the genuine cockney
dialect, and accepted as a correct representation of the American
African. By the way, in a first-class music hall I heard an English
minstrel use the word "nothink," and misplace his h's as fluently as the
most accomplished shopman. But the un-enlightened Englishman who had
never heard the rich, mellow tones of the genuine African didn't know
any better, and so it was as well. People who love minstrelsy deserve
nothing better.
By this time it was noon, and the sun was blazing hot. But the sun
doesn't mean as much on English roads as it does on American. England is
some centuries old, and the roads are bordered on either side with
immense trees, the hedges afford a grateful shade, and he who cannot
find a delightful seat upon the soft grass is very hard to please.
Exactly at noon the thousands of humble folk, the pony and donkey-cart
people, stopped and unharnessed their diminutive power, and permitted it
to crop the grass, while they unloaded those wonderful hampers, and
spread them upon the grass and ate and drank. There was the boiled ham,
the great masses of very bad bread made from the cheapest and worst
American flour, the pot of mustard, and the inevitable bottle of beer.
They sat under the delicious shade, men, women and children, and ate and
drank and chaffed, and seemed to be enjoying themselves.
[Illustration: THE ROADSIDE REPAST.]
I think they all did enjoy themselves, except the women. The children
got more to eat than they did other days, so they were satisfied; the
men, great hulking fellows, gorged themselves, and were pleased because
they were full of beer, but the poor women had the children to care for,
and that ought to have been enough to have destroyed all the pleasure
there was in it to them. For be it understood, no English laborer's wife
ever leaves her children at home on holiday occasions. There are two
reasons for this. One is there is nobody to leave them with, and the
other is there is a vague idea that it is a part of a child's education
to know all about beer and public houses from its very beginning.
Therefore, almost every woman on that road to the Derby, had from one to
four children with her, the youngest very frequently being at the very
tender age of a month. The husbands always permit the mother to assume
the entire charge of the youngsters, and the wives accept the situation
uncomplainingly. They carry the "brats," as the fathers delicately style
their offspring, and the small woman with a healthy baby in her arms,
keeping three others in tow, under a hot sun, must have an amusing time
of it. But they seem to like it, and I don't know as it is any of my
business. Only I am rejoiced that the venerable Miss Susan B. Anthony
don't know how the lower-grade Englishman treats his wife. Could she see
what I have seen she would start upon another lecturing tour, as ancient
as she is.
[Sidenote: ON THE FIELD.]
One peculiarity strikes an American--everything has its price, which is
rigorously exacted. Everything is fenced up and the slightest
accommodation has to be paid for. Do you want a glass of water? It is
given you, and you drink and set the glass down. Immediately the man or
woman who handed it to you remarks quietly, but with a tone that admits
of no question: "Penny, sir!" You pay it, for it is the custom of the
country. It isn't for the water, but for the handing it to you. At every
gate stands a man who asks for his penny as he opens it, and he gets it.
It got to that point with me, that when I felt a breeze striking my face
and I got a breath of fresh air, I instinctively turned around to see to
whom I should give the inevitable penny. Air is the only thing that is
not charged for, and if there were any way of fencing that in and
selling it, it would be done immediately. I remonstrated mildly at
paying for a very simple service, for which in no country I was ever in
would a fee be demanded, but I was silenced instantly.
"It helps me make a day's wages, sir, and it won't break you, sir," was
the very prompt answer.
I never dared to object again, but whenever I asked a question I offered
the penny, and I did not find any one too proud to take it.
Finally we reached the Downs. Epsom Downs is an immense field, the
property of the Earl of Derby, whose seat, "The Oaks," is about two
miles distant. The "Derby" is only one of many races, but out of
compliment to the Earl, it is counted the chief event of the racing
season. The importance given to it may be inferred from the fact that it
is really a national holiday, that business is almost entirely
suspended, and that Parliament adjourns to attend it.
I am not going to write a description of the race, for one very good
reason. I didn't see it. I could do it, but I am too honest, and beside
I have no idea that it would interest anybody. One race is just the same
as another. The horses all start, and run the course, and come in. One
horse wins, and a dozen lose; as in the American game of keno, one man
exclaims "Keno!" and forty-nine utter a profane word. A quarter-race in
Kentucky is precisely the same as the Derby, except that one is
witnessed by a hundred men in jeans, and the other by some hundreds of
thousands in all sorts of clothing. At all events I was too busy
studying the people to pay any attention to the horses. Possibly I made
a mistake, the horse may be the nobler animal of the two. I should like
to get the opinion of the horse on that point.
The sight of the field was indescribable. There were people by the
hundred thousand. The railroads brought down one hundred and twenty-five
thousand, and nobody goes to the "Darby" by train if he can help it.
Many prefer to walk the sixteen miles to going by rail. These either
haven't the money to pay their fares, or shrink from giving money to
railroads so long as there is beer to be had. The grand stand, an
immense three-story structure, was black with people, and as far as the
eye could reach there was nothing but people. And, as it is in America,
the people were there for everything except to see the races, which is
proper. For if there be anything under heaven that is exasperating it
is a horse race, unless it be a regatta. Except as an excuse for
something else, I never could see why people went to either. To sit or
stand for an hoar under a hot sun, while a lot of jockeys are
undertaking to swindle each other, simply to see a field of horses run
or trot for a minute or two, or a parcel of boats start and come to the
finish, always did seem to me to be the very acme of absurdity. But when
you have thirty jolly fellows with you, who make good talk, a wild
profusion of lunch, and oceans of wine, it is quite another thing, that
is if you like lunch, wine, and talk.
The principal race this year, and the one on which the interest
centered, was between "Peregrine," the English favorite, and "Iroquois,"
the American horse. There were others in the field, but these two
absorbed the entire attention of the throng. It was a national matter,
and a vast amount of money was lost and won on the event. As is known,
"Iroquois" won the race by a very small majority, and the American eagle
screamed with delight, and the British lion hung its head. The English
felt more humiliated than they did when they lost the Colonies, and
Archer, the English jockey who rode "Iroquois" to victory, was
considered a very unpatriotic man. The English found one consolation:
"Well, you know, the blarsted Yankee 'oss couldn't 'ave won the 'eat if
a Hinglish jockey hadn't ridden 'im." This was the remark that I heard
everywhere.
[Sidenote: SHOWS AND BEGGARS.]
The enthusiasm of the Americans knew no bounds. The glorious victory was
made the reason for a fresh assault upon the lunch and wine, and a
number of American parties had provided themselves with American flags,
which they immediately pulled from their hiding places and flung to the
breeze. And then as the emblem of freedom displayed itself upon English
soil, it became immediately necessary to drink to the flag, which was
done with that promptness which has ever distinguished the genuine
American. Parties of Americans would arm themselves with champagne
bottles, and pass to the carriages displaying the flag, and insist upon
the occupants partaking with them in honor of the victory and the flag,
and when one would get the address of the other, they would find the one
was from Kalamazoo and the other from Oshkosh, and the coincidence was
so striking that they would drink again. By that time a New Yorker
would appear, and "Why, you are from New York! Open another bottle!" and
so on.
It was a glorious day, but for all that anybody saw of the race, it
struck me that it would have done just as well to have taken the lunch
and the wine to any other field outside of London, and become
patriotically intoxicated.
The country people and the laborers of London enjoyed the races about as
the Americans did. For their amusement there were shows and games on the
ground by the hundred. There were penny theaters; there were shooting
galleries, and the cocoanut game. A dozen or more pegs are driven into
the ground, and on each is placed a cocoanut. The man who hungers after
cocoanuts and amusement pays a penny, for which he has the privilege of
throwing a wooden ball at the row of pegs. If he hits a peg the nut
drops off and he is entitled to it, with the resultant colic. There were
hundreds and hundreds of tents, inside of which were cheap shows,
precisely such as we see at State fairs and outside of circuses. As I
gazed upon the enormous pictures of fat women, and bearded women, and
Circassian beauties with enormous masses of hair, and the wonderful
snakes, and the groups of genuine Zulu chiefs, and heard the inspiring
tones of the hand organ, accompanied with the bass drum, and heard the
man at the door imploring the people not to lose the great chance of
their lives, and saw the young fellow with his girl, torn by the
perplexing conundrum as to which was the better investment, the show or
more beer, I fancied for a moment that I was at home. But I was not. I
was three thousand miles from home, but I was seeing exactly what I
should have seen had I been there. Human nature is about the same
everywhere. Certainly, there is no difference in the side-showmen or the
people from whom he earns his living.
Beggars and gipsies, so-called (there was no doubt about the genuineness
of the beggars), were as thick as leaves in Vallambrosa. Stout men who
could have wrestled with the primeval forests were begging for
half-pence; women, with bloated faces, on every inch of which was
written "gin" in unmistakable characters, carrying wretched babies,
beset you at every turn; and hideous hags, with unmistakable Irish
brogue, thronged about the carriages with: "My pretty gentlemon, will
ye cross the palm ov the poor gipsy, and let her till yer forchoon? Och,
and I kin till ye the shtyle ov the shwate lady ye'll marry, and the
number ov childher ye'll hev, an bring ye gud luck."
The absurdity of addressing me as a "pretty gintlemon," and of proposing
to tell me the sweet lady I'd marry! I, a married man this quarter of a
century and the father of a family! That old lady got nothing from me.
But the good-natured fellows in the carriage did throw her pennies,
which she took with the regular "God bless yez," and I have no doubt
that in the course of the day she picked up a very pretty sum, enough at
all events to keep her full of gin during the night.
The gipsies proper were on the ground in force, and a curious folk they
are. The women were telling fortunes, and a vast number of customers
they secured from the shop and servant girls on the ground, to all of
whom she promised speedy marriages, no husband being under the degree of
a Duke, and all of them very handsome and very rich men. The girls paid
their pennies and sixpences with great alacrity, and went home to dream
of their good luck, as they had a score of times before. The investment
was doubtless a good one. They were satisfied with themselves for a
while, at least, and when happiness can be had for a penny, why should
any one be miserable?
The men were hiring donkeys, saddled and bridled, for the boys and girls
to ride. To ride a donkey a certain fixed distance costs a penny, and
among English children it is famous fun. And as the gipsy owner lives
out of doors and steals all his food and the subsistence of his animals,
and the animals themselves, it was great fun for him. Albeit, as he
steals everything he uses and always proposes to, and never intends to
reform and start a bank, I don't see what he wants of pennies. Were they
philosophical they wouldn't let donkeys, but would lie down in the shade
till hunger compelled them to steal something to eat, and enjoy
themselves all the time.
[Sidenote: BETTING.]
As I said the races on this course are fairly conducted, and the best
horse, or the best jockey, actually wins. But there is as much rascality
here as on an American course, and I can't say more than that. Under the
grand stand is the "betting ring," in which the book-makers stand. These
are flashy gentlemen, with tall hats of painful newness, and diamonds
of unearthly size and luster, which gives one a comforting assurance of
solvency. These men take bets at the market rates. Thus, the betting
that morning was three to one on "Peregrine." Now in America the betting
ring is under the control of the association owning the track; but it is
not so here, as any number of Americans discovered. They had faith in
"Iroquois," and "laid" their money on him freely. One gentleman of my
acquaintance deposited ninety pounds sterling with a book-maker, and was
consequently entitled to two hundred and seventy pounds sterling, as his
horse won. In great glee he hied himself to the ring, after the race, to
collect his winnings. He hied himself back to the carriage sadly. Had
"Peregrine" won the race the book-maker would, unquestionably, have been
there and received the gentleman smilingly; but as "Iroquois" won, he
folded his tent, like the Arab, and as silently stole away. None of them
were to be found. Smarting under the sense of wrong, the American told
his story to the party on the way home, and he was pitied or laughed at,
according to the temper of his listener, quite a number laughing at more
than pitying him. One gentleman laughed at him fearfully, but before we
had got half way home, he broke out with "D--n the swindling scoundrel."
[Illustration: THE BETTING RING.]
"To what swindling scoundrel do you refer?"
"That blank, blank, swindling devil of a book-maker!"
"Oh! oh! you were taken in, were you?" joyously exclaimed victim No. 1.
"Of course, I was, thirty pounds sterling!"
"And you were laughing at me."
And then one after another confessed to have been bitten the same way,
and upon getting all the confessions in, it was discovered that one
carriage had deposited to the credit of a set of London sharks three
hundred pounds sterling, or fifteen hundred dollars.
I lost nothing, for I do not bet upon horses now, for reasons stated at
the beginning of this epistle, which shows that perfect safety is only
found in complete virtue.
[Illustration: "D--N THE SWINDLING SCOUNDREL."]
[Sidenote: ON THE WAY HOME.]
One peculiarity of the event was the absence of fighting. During the
entire day I did not see a fight or anything that approached it. Gather
three hundred thousand people together in one field in America, and fill
them with our whisky, or even beer, and there would be processions of
broken heads, and funerals in plenty the next day. There is no question
as to the Englishman's fighting qualities, but he does not fight on his
holidays. There were "d--n his eyes," in plenty, and any quantity of
talk, but no actual combats, except the boxing matches, and they were
all in good humor. Why? I can't tell. Possibly it is because the beer
they drink tends to peace, and possibly it is because they find vent for
their combativeness in whipping their wives at home. But they don't
fight on race courses.
The mass commenced melting away at about four o'clock in the afternoon,
and the grounds were entirely deserted, except by the showmen and those
who have money to make during the entire racing season. They live in
their tents.
The scene on the road back was slightly different from the morning. The
people on the way out started to get drunk, and a vast majority
succeeded. The road was lined with prostrate forms of men and women. The
English women of the lower order drink as much as their husbands and
brothers. You see them in the public houses standing at the bars with
their husbands or lovers, pouring down huge measures of beer, and it is
a toss which can drink the most, or which enjoys it the most keenly. It
is certain that the woman gets drunk with more facility than the man,
she being the weaker, if not the smaller vessel. And understand, these
women are not disreputable; they are hard working wives and daughters of
respectable laboring people, mechanics and the like. It is their notion
of a day's pleasure.
Possibly they are not to be blamed. The life of a London workingman or
woman is not a pleasant one; their pay is very small, and beer is very
cheap, and for the time they are happy.
But the next morning! Dickens and all other English writers, have given
most charming descriptions of the delights of a night's drinking, but
why, oh why, have none of them ever described the repentance of the next
morning? That would have done the world some good.
And so we rode on through masses of people, two-thirds of them at that
stage of intoxication where the idea of enjoyment is noise and
horse-play, shouting, cheering, singing, yelling, waving handkerchiefs,
and all without the faintest idea of the object of either, till we
struck the lights of the city. Then the masses separated, and we finally
reached our homes, tired, half-pleased and half-disgusted. The Derby was
over.
No American, unless he be a sporting man, ever goes to the Derby twice.
It is necessary to go once to see it, but once is quite enough. It is a
sight to see three hundred thousand people in one mass, but it is not a
pleasant thing to realize the fact that two-thirds or more of the
number are under the influence of liquor, and that they did it
deliberately, and went there with no other idea. It rather lessens one's
confidence in the future of the race, and leads one to the increasing of
his donations to the home missionary societies. But it has always been
so in England, and probably always will be. And then if the English
workingman didn't get drunk at the Derby he doubtless would find some
other place for it, and as he gets a day's pure air and sunshine, it is
perhaps, as well. If any good can be drawn from it, let us hunt it
persistently.
[Illustration: Egyptian Room, British Museum.]