that feat is accomplished. What a thrill runs through the spectators when the Favourite is led out—a few minutes will now decide if he is to wear the ribbon, and make good the expectations of his backers. Half a million depends on the speed of that animal this day.
And now the clearing of the course begins—and with singular facility the multitude are persuaded to take their places behind the ropes. A bay mare with a jockey in green and black comes cantering down the course—then another with colours blue and pink—and when the course is well cleared and every one is in momentary expectation of the appearance of the Favourite, the inevitable dog runs his frantic muck down the course amidst the cheers of the crowd. The horses are now all out—and the men who have staked so heavily upon their performances, are chatting with the ladies, as though nothing particular was astir. They are got decently into line—the signal is given—“They’re off!”
There they go—all together. The correct thing is now to say that you could throw a table-cloth over them. One horse begins to draw a-head—now another—now three lead—one follows, and then the ruck. It must be one of the three. Hurrah! for Green and Black. Hurrah! for Orange and White—no, by George, Pink and Blue does it. The one behind is the Favourite—three a-head of him—they turn the corner—horses bound, and hearts beat;—there is a rush—a flash of lightning the Favourite’s in by a head!
Presently the jockeys return, and the winner is bending wearily forward, and holding his side. What it must be to sit that series of tremendous jumps!
From the moment the Derby is won revelry is the order of the day, and I fear that the drag of T. and B. offered no exception to the general rule. How Mr. Ball hurried everybody out, and seating himself on the back-seat of the carriage, did the carving, using the front-seat as his table. The consumption of champagne-cup was enormous at that establishment, and lobster-salads and cold roast chicken were swallowed with a voracity which might well astonish even persons accustomed to that sublimest of human repasts—a Derby Luncheon. One gentleman makes a table of the steps of the carriage—another, a sly dog, prefers the board behind, for there he can find room for the jug as well. This scene is repeated some hundreds of times on some hundreds of vehicles. You see ladies seated on the top of carriages at their festivities, and little hungry boys, Lazaruses in blossom, dodging under the bottoms of the carriages to secure the relics of the feast. When each one has had as much champagne-cup as is good for him at his own little establishment, he circulates round amongst his friends and rivets the links of friendship at other carriage-doors—and then his friends look in upon him, and the process is repeated. About this time Aunt Sally begins to form a prominent feature in the scene.
It is a wonderful and a not unpleasing sight to see so many middle-aged and elderly gentlemen all converted into school-boys again. How Messrs. T. and B. did go at it, to be sure, and how they laid each—in a betting sense—more dinners at Richmond and Greenwich than any human digestions could possibly have accounted for in five years. How Mr. Ball did bound about to secure his prizes. Mr. Jonathan Larke devoted himself steadily to the ruin of one Aunt Sally establishment, muttering in a wild and foolish manner, as he cast each stick, something or other about “it’s a poor heart that never rejoices;”—the guardian of the Aunt Sally in question was not of poor heart, for he rejoiced a good deal at Mr. Larke’s performances. In the end, the party collectively had lost about 10l. in actual money expended—I say nothing of bets—and had obtained in exchange, on a large estimate, ten shillings’ worth of wooden dolls, pin-cushions, tin snuff-boxes, and other goods of that description.
There must be an end of all things—and there was an end of this, and at length the T. & B. drag got under weigh—the spirits of the whole party being in a state of high exhilaration. I wish that space permitted me to dwell upon the humours of the road, and how everybody pelted everybody with projectiles purchased from Aunt Sally—the favourite missile being pin-cushions well stuffed with bran, and with a corner torn open, so that where it struck there the bran was scattered. What jokes were made about Mr. Larke’s solemnity of manner, and about the fatherly appearance of Messrs. T. and B., and how they were asked if their mothers were aware of their little escapade. For miles and miles the fun continued, and, at last, at the Cock at Sutton, the party got out for a final drink, which they conscientiously accomplished amidst the clipped hedges of that famous public; and, with a last peep over the low wall which divides the garden from the road, ended their adventures on the Derby Day.
*****
I wish I could stop here; but it is my painful duty to record the fact, that about half-past ten, p.m., there was a heavy knocking at the portals of Mould Lodge. The gentlemen with whose proceedings we are now familiar presented themselves in the drawing-room of that mansion in a shameful condition indeed. Mr. Ball, in particular, had forgotten to remove his hat on entering the presence, and round it were stuck four wooden dolls. In answer to the inquiries of the horror-stricken ladies, he informed them that he had been all day at Wa-Wa-Watford, and that his simple luncheon of cold beef and pickles had disagreed with him. The Count, with many apologies for his intrusion, admitted that Mr. B.’s conduct was trop fort. The Misses Crabb sternly remarked that it was “disgusting.” Dr. Dullington added, “He’s been to the Derby!—Oh, ’ow ’ollow!”
SCENE FROM NATURE.
Blithe as the lark on Summer’s morn,
When green and yellow waves the corn,
When harebells blow in every grove,
And thrushes sing, “I love! I love!”—Rogers.
