Is there a finer sight in creation than a horse? I don't speak of the
wild horse of the prairie, as seen at Astley's--nor of the wearied animal
by means of which the enterprising greengrocer transports his wares from
Covent-Garden to the Edgware-road--nor of the useful but commonplace
looking cob on which Jones trusts himself timidly as he ventures on a
constitutional ride, while his groom, much better mounted, follows
scornfully behind--nor of the broken-down, broken-knee'd, spavined, blind
roarer, all the summer of whose life has been passed in dreary drudgery,
and for whom nought remains but the knacker's yard, and the cold
calculations of the itinerant vendors of cat's-meat; but of a horse such
as a monarch might pet, and the very queen of beauty might deign to
ride--a horse such as Gamarra.
"A noble steed,
Strong, black, and of the desert breed,
Full of fire and full of bone,
All his line of fathers known,
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within."
And who that has ever laid his leg across such, and bounded along the
turf, does not feel that the bare memory of it is a joy for ever,
thrilling almost as Love's young dream? Such was our good fortune once;
now we creep into town on the top of a 'bus, and our hair is grey, and
our pluck is gone, and our heart no larger than a pin's head.
To write about London, and to omit all mention of the Derby, were
unpardonable. At the Royal Academy Exhibition this year, the rush to see
Mr. Frith's picture of the Derby was so great that a policeman was
required to keep off the crowd. Horse-racing is the natural result of
horse-riding. It is essentially the English sport. Taking Wetherby's
Calendar as our guide, we may calculate that in 1855 there were 144
meetings in Great Britain and Ireland, which were attended by 1606
horses, of whom only 680 were winners, fed by 60,000 pounds of added
money inclusive of the value of cups and whips, and diffusing 198,000
pounds in added money and stakes more or less. If there were no light
weights to ride, and no noblemen or wealthy commoners to run their
horses, the horses would run of their own accord. There are horses, as
there are men, who never will play second fiddle if they can possibly
avoid it; and if horses run, men will look and admire, and the natural
result is the Derby Day. A grander sight of its kind is perhaps hardly
to be seen. For twelve months have the public been preparing for the
event. For twelve months has the sporting and the betting world been on
the _qui vive_. We do not bet, for we hold that the custom is absurd in
a rich man, and wicked in one who is not so; but in every street in
London, in every town in England, in many a quiet village, at the
beer-shop, or the gin-palace, or the public-house, bets have been made,
and thousands and thousands of pounds are depending on the event. As the
time draws nigh the excitement increases. Had you looked in at
Tattersall's on the previous Sunday, you would have seen the betting of
our West End swells and M.P.'s who legislate for the observance of the
Sabbath, and who punish poor men for keeping betting-houses--fast and
furious. On the previous night of the day when the Derby is run a motley
population encamp on the Downs. There are booths where there are to be
dancing, and drinking, and eating, and gambling. There are gipsies who
are to tell fortunes, and acrobats who are to exhibit a most astonishing
flexibility of muscle. There are organs, and singing girls, and a whole
legion of scamps, who will pick pockets, or play French put, or toss you
for a bottle of stout, or offer their book and a pencil to betters; and
as the dim grey of morning brightens into day, their number increases in
a most marvellous manner. On they come--ricketty carts laden with ginger
beer--men with long barrows and short pipes, who have walked all the way
from town, long trains of gigs and hansoms, and drags, and carriages, and
'busses, and pleasure vans, laden with pleasure seekers, determined to
have a holiday. The trains bring down some thirty or forty thousand
human souls, the road is blocked up and almost impassable. Many a party,
who left town in good spirits, have come to grief. Here a wheel has come
off. There the springs have broken. Here the dumb brute has refused to
drag his heavy burden any further. There the team have been restive or
the charioteer unskilful, and the coach has been upset. In a session in
which unusually little business has been done, in the very midst of a
ministerial crisis, parliament has adjourned, and senators, commoners,
and lords, are everywhere around. That man with spectacles and long
black stock, driving a younger son past us, is England's premier, whose
horse is the favourite--who has never yet won the Derby--who, it is said,
would rather do so than have a parliamentary success--and who, it is also
said, has offered his jockey 50 pounds a-year for life should he win this
race. That fat, greyhaired man is the Duke of Malakoff. Here is the
Royal Duke, who is treading in his father's steps, and will be wept by a
future generation as the good duke and hero of a thousand City feeds.
Let us look about us while the bell is ringing and the police are
clearing the course. The Grand Stand alone holds some thousands. Then,
as you look from it for a mile on each side, what a cluster of human
heads! and behind, what an array of carriages and vehicles of all kinds!
A most furious attack is evidently being made on the commissariat. The
more dashing have baskets, labelled "Fortnum and Mason," and it is clear
that the liquids are stronger than tea. Be thankful those are not
ladies, dressed elegantly though they be, who have drank so much
champagne that their tongues are going rather faster than is necessary.
You do not see many ladies; and the girls so gay, what is their
gaiety?--is it truer than their complexions? Very beautiful at a
distance, if you do not go close and see the rouge and pearl powder. But
to-day is a holiday. Many here know nothing about a horse, care little
about one; but they have come out for a day's fresh air and for a
pic-nic. They could not have had a finer day or chosen a better spot.
The down itself, with its fresh green velvet turf, is delicious to tread:
and as you look around, what a magnificent panorama meets your eye,
fringed by waving woods and chestnut trees, heavy with their annual
bloom! Then there are the horses taking their preliminary canter. What
eager eyes are on them! How anxious are the betters now, making up their
final books! At the corner, in the carriages, on the hill, or along the
course, how brisk is the speculation. "Which is Tox?" "Is that
Physician?" "Where's Beadsman?" are the questions in every mouth. And
one does not like this horse's fore legs, or that horse's hind ones. And
criticisms of all kinds are hazarded. At length some twenty horses are
got together at the post. "They're off!" is the cry wafted across the
plain. Up the hill they go. On the top they're scarce visible. As they
turn the corner they look like so many rats. And now, amidst a whirlwind
of shouting and hurrahing, the race is over; and in two minutes and
fifty-four seconds Sir Joseph Hawley, a Whig baronet, beats Lord Derby,
the Conservative Premier, clears 50,000 pounds, while his jockey, for
that short ride, earns as much as you or me, my good sir, may win by the
labour of many a long year. Pigeons fly off with the result. The
telegraph is at work. At the _Sunday Times_ office, about four o'clock,
the crowd is so great that you can scarce get along the street, and many
a man goes home with a heavy heart, for some are hit very hard. "This is
a bad day for all of us," says one to me, with a very long face. "I have
lost 150 pounds," says another, and he does not look like a man who could
afford to lose that sum, and the crowd disperses--some exultant--some
despairing--all of them in a reckless mood, and ready for dissipation.
The longer we stop now, the sadder shall we become. Go to
Kennington-common, if you wish to see the moral effects of the Derby.
Drop in at the places of gay resort at the West-end in the course of the
night. Go in a little while after to Bow-street, or Portugal-street.
For many a day will families mourn a visit to the Derby. I never saw so
many wives, evidently belonging to decent tradesmen, so intoxicated as I
saw on the last Derby. In the train but little intoxication was visible,
but the coming home was the dark side--a side which the admirers of what
they call our national sports are too ready to overlook, and which even
Mr. Frith has failed to paint.
The eloquent Montalembert sees in a Derby day what Virgil has described
in the fifth AEneid. The Frenchman is too complimentary, it is true.
"Undique conveniunt Teucri mixtique Sicani."
But pious AEneas sanctioned no such reckless revelry as too often is
visible on the Epsom downs. Lord Palmerston compares the Derby to the
Isthmian games; but as they were celebrated once in ten years, and were
in honour of Neptune, the resemblance is not very clear. Pulteney, a
statesman, in his day as eminent as the illustrious M.P. for Tiverton,
published in the "World" a sketch of Newmarket; but the expense and waste
of time of such places seemed to him perfectly frightful. It is well
that his lordship has been defunct this hundred and fifty years. A horse
race then was a much more sober affair than in these enlightened
days--when every head is full and every tongue vocal with mental and
moral reform.