THE VIGIL OF THE DERBY.
In those days--happily now gone by--when public strangulation was the
mode in Merry England, there was always an evident fascination
appertaining to the spot where, on the morrow, some guilty wretch was to
expiate his crimes on the gallows. Long before the erection of that
elegant apparatus commenced, and generally on a Sunday evening, when
decent citizens had newly come from houses of God, where they had heard
the message of life, crowds began to collect on that central spot in the
heart of the great City dedicated to sudden and violent death. The
coming event seemed to cast its shadow before; and throughout the night
the roisterer or belated traveller made a détour to visit the human
shambles. I confess to having felt the attraction. I could not then
bring myself to be present at the strangulation proper; so, as the
nearest approach to a "sensation," sometimes visited Newgate on the eve
of the victim elect's last morrow. In the same way, being unfortunate
enough to be London-bound on the day of our great annual holiday, and
having heard graphic accounts of the Downs on the eve of the Derby, I
determined that year, as I could not go to the race by day, to visit the
racecourse by night. Let me own the soft impeachment: I am not a racing
man--not in any degree "horsey." When I do go to the Derby it is to see
the bipeds rather than the quadrupeds; to empty the hamper from Fortnum
and Mason's, rather than to study the "names, weights, and colours of
the riders" on the "c'rect card." If you prefer to have the sentiment in
Latin--and there is no doubt Latin does go much farther than English--I
am not one of those "quos pulverem Olympicum collegisse juvat," except
in so far that "homo sum; nihil humanum alienum a me puto." It was to
see humanity under a new aspect, I took the last train to Epsom on the
eve of the Derby.
In order to combine business with pleasure, and economy with both, I
took a third-class ticket at Victoria, and was fortunate enough to find
a compartment already partially occupied by a nigger troupe. In this,
which under ordinary circumstances I should have avoided, I took my
seat, and was regaled all the way down with choice morceaux from the
répertoire of my musical friends. The "talking man" of the party, too,
enlivened the proceedings by anxiously inquiring of the porters at the
different stations what they would take in the way of refreshment, and
issuing unlimited orders to imaginary waiters on their behoof. It was a
strange sensation, being whirled away from home and bed down to a wild
heath towards midnight; and as we neared our destination, the air began
to "bite shrewdly," and the sky to look uncommonly like rain--a
contretemps which would have been fatal to my proposed experience. We
had to change carriages at Sutton, and here a sociable Aunt-Sally-man,
struggling under the implements of his craft, sought to beguile me from
my African friends by offers of a shake-down in his tent, with which he
proposed to walk across from Ewell and erect, instead of journeying on
to Epsom. My Ethiopian friends jumped at the proposal, and forthwith
fraternized with Aunt Sally. I determined to follow out my previous
plans; so having drunk to our next merry meeting, we parted, ostensibly
until to-morrow, but, I fear, for ever.
I had been led to expect "high jinks" at Epsom--a sort of Carnival in
the quiet town. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. The
town, so far as outward semblance went, was almost as quiet as ever. A
few sporting men thronged the bar of the principal hotel, and stragglers
hung about the low beer-shops; but there was nothing at all to indicate
the imminence of the great event. So I fell back on my usual expedient
of applying to the executive, and found not only an active and
intelligent but exceedingly civil sergeant of police, to whom I told my
errand. He was pleased with the novelty of the idea, and as he happened
to be then going the round of the town previously to visiting the
course, I cast in my lot with him for the night. We first visited what
he termed the "German Opera," on Epsom Common. This is an encampment of
organ-grinders, hurdy-gurdy-players, German bands, &c., who pitch their
tents here instead of going to the Downs. It was, however, rather late
when we reached the spot where these artists were bivouacking, and they
had retired for the night, so we could not form much idea of them beyond
their numbers, which seemed considerable, and their odour, which was
unfragrant. Thence we passed down a short alley to a railway arch, which
was aglow with many fires, and rang with the sounds of many voices.
Bidding me make no observation, whatever might be said, and requesting
me to try and look like an officer in plain clothes, my cicerone led me
into the strange arcade, which I certainly could not have entered
without his protection. Hundreds of men, women, and boys were gathered
in groups round coke fires, some partaking of coffee, others singing,
the majority sleeping. After satisfying himself that the fires were
legitimate ones, and not composed of broken fences, my guide left this
teeming hive unmolested. We then steered for the course, not by the high
road, but skirting it along the fields. The policeman, like myself,
carried a stout stick, which really seemed to be endowed with creative
powers that night. Wherever he poked that staff--and he did poke it
everywhere--a human being growled, or snored, or cursed. Every bush
along the hedgerow bore its occupant--often its group of four or five,
sometimes a party of a dozen or a score. One shed filled with carts
yielded at least a hundred, though the sergeant informed me it must have
been already cleared several times that evening, as he had a file of men
along the road, besides a cordon inside the Park palings, which border a
great portion of it. It is with these palings the tramps chiefly do
mischief, pulling them down to make fires along their route. Wherever my
guide found these, he trampled the fires remorselessly out, and kicked
the burning embers over the sleepers in a manner that must have been
uncomfortable. The men submitted in comparative silence; but the
ladies--where there happened to be any--exerted the privilege of their
sex, and treated us to some choice specimens of the vernacular. In one
case, a female cried out that he was kicking the fire over the
"childer;" and, sure enough, we found half-a-dozen little ones huddled
up asleep. The policeman remonstrated with her for bringing them to such
a place; but she informed us it was to "make their living." In what way,
she did not add. To us, it seemed very much like reversing the process,
and causing their death. Fancy young children camping out on the road to
the Downs at midnight! Boys of thirteen and fourteen abounded, sleeping
in large groups along the hedgerows, and sometimes out in the open
fields, where the dew lay thick.
At length, after many windings, we reached the Downs. The white booths,
following the direction of the course in their sinuous lines, looked
like stately white marble streets and crescents in the dim, uncertain
light of that hour which, between May 31 and June 1, is neither day nor
night. Under the stands and around the booths, tabernacling beneath
costermongers' barrows, and even lying out openly sub dio, were still
the hundreds of human beings. In one small drinking booth was a sight
the policeman said he had never seen equalled in his twenty years'
experience. A long, narrow table ran down the centre, with benches on
each side. The table itself was occupied with recumbent figures; on the
benches the sleepers sat, bending forward over it, and under the benches
sleepers sprawled upon the grass. The whole of the front of the booth
was open, and exposed to the biting wind; but there they snored as
calmly as though on eider-down. We climbed the steps of the stand above
the ring, and waited for the day, which slowly broke to the song of the
lark and nightingale over that strange scene. With the first suspicion
of dawn the sleepers awoke and got up; what for I cannot imagine. It was
barely two o'clock, and how they were going to kill the next twelve
hours I could not guess. Rise they did however, and an itinerant vendor
of coffee, who was literally up with the lark, straightway began to
drive a roaring trade. I saw no stronger drink than this consumed; nor
did I witness a single case of drunkenness during the whole night. But
this was before the Derby! At this juncture we were all surprised by the
apparition of a hansom-lamp toiling up the hill. Two adventurous
gentlemen from Liverpool, it appeared, had arrived at the Euston
Station, and insisted upon being driven at once to an hotel on Epsom
Downs. The Jehu, secure of a fabulous fare, drove them accordingly; and,
of course, had to drive them back again to Epsom--the hotels on the
Downs quietly but firmly declining to be knocked up at that untimely
hour even by gentlemen from Liverpool. As the sun showed his first
up-slanting rays above the horizon, with the morning star hanging
impertinently near, the two gipsy encampments began to exhibit signs of
life. The Zingari encamp exclusively by themselves, and some picturesque
specimens of the male sex, looking remarkably like the lively photograph
of the Greek brigands, showed themselves on the outskirts. The ladies
reserved themselves for later in the day. My guide cautioned me not to
attempt to enter the encampment, as the men are dangerous, and their
position on the Downs a privileged one. It was only when the tramps were
trespassing, or evidently bent on mischief, that they were disturbed. On
the Downs they were monarchs of all they surveyed.
When the sun was fairly up, and the morning mists rolled away from those
glorious Downs, I felt my mission accomplished. I had seen the sun rise
on Epsom course. As it was many hours before a train would return, and
I still felt fresh, I resolved to give the coup de grace to my night's
adventure by walking home--at least, walking to the radius of workmen's
trains. The vanguard of the Derby procession now began to show strongly
in the shape of the great unwashed climbing the ridge of the hill by the
paddock; and I felt I should see some characteristic sights along the
road. Bidding good-bye, therefore, to my guide at Epsom, I set out on
foot along the now-populous road, mine being the only face turned
London-wards. Carts laden with trestles and boards for stands now began
to be in force. By-and-by the well-known paper bouquets and outrageous
head-gear showed themselves as forming the cargo of costermongers'
carts. The travellers were all chatty, many of them chaffy. Frequent
were the inquiries I had to answer as to the hour and the distance to
the course. Occasionally a facetious gentleman anxiously inquired
whether it was all over, as I was returning? I believe the majority
looked upon me as a harmless lunatic, since I was travelling away from
Epsom on the Derby morning, and pitied me accordingly. An Irishman aptly
illustrated the genial character of Hibernian chaff as compared with
English. "Good day to your honner!" he said. "It does me good to see
your honner's happy face again;" though, of course, he had never seen it
before. As I passed on with a brief salutation, he took the trouble to
run after me, and slapping me on the shoulder, added, in a beautiful
brogue: "Wait a minnit; I don't want to ax you for anything, but only to
tell you how glad I am to see yer honner's happy face agin. Good
mornin'!"
So through Ewell, Cheam, and Morden, up to Tooting; the throng
increasing at every mile. At Balham, finding no train for an hour, I
footed it again. I found preparations for endless Aunt Sally already
being made on Clapham Common. Soon after six, I jumped into a train on
the London, Chatham, and Dover, and came home "with the milk;" having
not only had a healthy night's exercise--for the weather had all along
been splendid--but having added to my experiences of London life one new
"wrinkle" at least: I had seen the life of St. Giles's kitchen and
Bethnal Green lodging-house à la campagne. What I had already seen under
the garish candlelight of the Seven Dials and Commercial Road I saw
gilded into picturesqueness by that glorious and never-to-be-forgotten
sunrise on Epsom Downs which ushered in the Derby Day.