There were moments when it seemed as though we should never be in time to see the Derby run, though we had been true to the meet at the Bridge foot at 8.45 a.m. Now, the only anxiety is for a good place. It shall be on the hill over-against the Grand Stand. That is the best place from which to see and be seen. Some races are over—but these are insignificant matters—we are only divided by one from the event of the day—the struggle for the Blue Ribbon of the Turf.
What a sight it is, that Grand Stand on the Derby Day! It is to be questioned if ever—save, perhaps, on the battle-field, where everybody is intent upon killing everybody—there is anywhere else to be found such a mass of human beings under the influence of precisely the same idea at the same moment. You trace the progress of the horses round the course by the direction in which all the heads are turned. And how the ladies do flirt in platoons! There is no great chance of skirmishing upon the Grand Stand at Epsom. And how many gentlemen bet dozens of gloves in the most reckless manner, taking long odds against the Favourite and the Field, and other similar acts of insanity; and the young ladies, although in the prettiest manner, keep a sharp eye on their liabilities, and talk about the double event, and other similar incidents of the race, in a manner which incites you to send them home copious consignments of Balmorals, as well as dozens of five-and-a-quarter gloves from Houbicant’s, long in the fingers. But enough of this subject. It is most painful to reflect that the hour has struck when such pleasing incidents are historical. Viximus, oh, my noble contemporaries; at least let us march out with the honours of war. The subject of Derby luncheons, I should say, is more in harmony with our present figures and just pretensions.
And the T. and B. party did immediate justice, if not to the luncheon, at least to its preliminaries, for the repast was postponed until the great event of the day was over; but Mr. Jonathan Larke suggested that a slight mug now of well-iced champagne might have a tendency to allay the feeling of dryness in the throat consequent upon the long drive from town. There was no water-cart to allay dust equal to a champagne bottle, according to this gentleman’s theory, for the generous wine was applied immediately to the suffering part, whereas the insipid lymph was scattered indiscriminately about the road. But after this “slight mug now” of iced champagne had been passed round once, Mr. J. Larke, the gloomy solicitor, who was humming in the dickey something about “do it again” in a tune which seemed to be compounded of many tunes or discords, let fly another cork, and yet another. Before they had been ten minutes on the ground Mr. Toddle, the senior partner in the firm of Toddle and Ball, had beckoned the junior partner aside with an air of business, as though some serious trade matter had been lost sight of before their departure from town. They begged the party in the carriage to excuse them for a moment, and the Count gave them leave of absence with a courteous bow, laying his hand upon his heart, while Captain O’Rourke, who was an invited guest, dismissed them with the remark that “This was Liberty Hall, and they might make themselves quite at home.” The partners had scarcely interposed a band of Ethiopian serenaders and some gipsy-women—who were singing some little simple melodies, not from Metastasio, I fear—between them and the carriage, when Mr. Toddle said to Mr. Ball that it was a curious sight to witness the betting inside the ring if they could but shake off those fellows in the drag. Mr. B. clapped his partner on the shoulders as though in commendation of the brilliant and novel idea, and the two gentlemen sneaked at once behind a canvas wall which was receiving constant thumps from projectiles cast from the other side, and which struck against it with a thud. I have sometimes supposed that our common Aunt Sarah was not altogether a stranger to the business then in hand.
It was beautiful to see how Mr. Ball cleared the open, and bustled through the crush, taking care of his partner the while, and paid the rather stiffish fee for entry for both without hesitation, and just as though he wished it had been a 5l. note a-head, so it had given greater satisfaction to his friend. How misplaced they looked amidst this crowd of uneasy-eyed men, upon whoso brows Nature had written the word Horse in indelible characters. Was it not somewhat singular, however, that the partners had not advanced ten paces in the ring when they saw their two friends, the Count and the Captain, who had managed to get there before them for all their speed, and were now engaged in arithmetical operations of a complicated character. I care not what becomes of Razemoffski and O’Rourke—such fellows are to the manner born; but, Oh, my horsy friends! spare Messrs. T. and B. Do not offer them five to three, and nine to seven, upon impossible horses. Nay; they are safe. Mr. Lewis Tomlinson, a gentleman in the palm-oil line, resident in Dorset Square, and the father, I pledge my word, of seven nubile daughters, not one of whom has the slightest idea of how her respected parent is spending the day, has seen the perils of his friends, and has carried them off to see the saddling.
This is one of the episodes of a Derby Day which is deficient in the element of the ludicrous—or rather one in which the admiration for the symmetry, and beauty, and power of the animals so completely overpowers the comic features of the scene that you lose sight of them altogether. What a vicious brute is that big-boned chestnut mare who is led into the paddock, and claps her ears well back as though they were glued to her crest—and how she rears up, as though she would snap the halter like a thread—and how she lashes out with her hind feet! A blow from the Benicia Boy would be of a soothing tendency as compared with the delivery of one of those plated hoofs upon the human body. Yet that little pale, anxious looking stunted man will be on her back in a few minutes when the saddle is on, and rule her with iron grasp from which there is no escape. The saddle is not on yet, however—there will be some little trouble, and some little pulling of the grooms and attendants about the paddock before