There were many various forms of sport open to the Englishman fifty years ago which are now wholly, or partly, closed. For instance, there was the P.R., then flourishing in great vigour—they are at this moment trying to revive it. A prize-fight was accompanied by every kind of blackguardism and villainy; not the least was the fact that the fights, towards the end of the record, were almost always conducted on the cross, so that honest betting men never knew where to lay their money. At the same time, the decay of boxing during the last twenty-five years has been certainly followed by a great decay of the national pluck and pugnacity, and therefore, naturally, by a decay of national enterprise. We may fairly congratulate ourselves, therefore, that the noble art of self-defence is reviving, and promises to become as great and favourite a sport as before. Let all our boys be taught to fight. Fifty years ago there was not a day in a public school when there was not a fight between two of the boys; there was not a day when there was not a street fight; did not the mail-coach drivers who accompanied Mr. Samuel Weller on a memorable occasion leave behind them one of their number to fight a street porter in Fleet Street? There was never a day when some young fellow did not take off his coat and handle his fives for a quarter of an hour with a drayman, a driver, a working man. It was a disgrace not to be able to fight. Let all our boys be taught again and encouraged to fight. Only the other day I read that there are no fights at Eton any more because the boys ‘funk each other.’ Eton boys funk each other! But we need not believe it. Let there be no nonsense listened to about brutality. The world belongs to the men who can fight.

There were, besides the street fights, which kept things lively and gave animation to the dullest parts of the town, many other things which we see no longer. The bear who danced: the bull who was baited: the pigeons which were shot in Battersea Fields: the badger which was drawn: the dogs which were fought: the rats which were killed: the cocks which were fought: the cats which were thrown into the ponds: the ducks which were hunted—these amusements exist no longer; fifty years ago they afforded sport for many.

Hunting, coursing, horse-racing, shooting, went on bravely. As regards game preserves, the laws were more rigidly enforced, and there was a much more bitter feeling towards them on the part of farmers then than now. On the other hand, there were no such wholesale battues; sport involved uncertainty; gentlemen did not sell their game; rabbits, instead of being sent off to the nearest poulterer, were given to the labourers as they should be.

The sporting instincts of the Londoner gave the comic person an endless theme for fun. He was always hiring a horse and coming to grief; he was perpetually tumbling off, losing his stirrups, letting his whip fall, having his hat blown off and carried away, and generally disgracing himself in the eyes of those with whom he wished to appear to the best advantage. There was the Epping Hunt on Easter Monday, where the sporting Londoners turned out in thousands; there were the ponies on hire at any open place all round London—at Clapham Common, Blackheath, Hampstead, Epping. To ride was the young Londoner’s greatest ambition: even to this day there is not one young man in ten who will own without a blush that he cannot ride. To ride in the Park was impossible for him, because he had to be at his desk at ten; a man who rides in the Park is independent of the City; but there were occasions on which everyone would long to be able to sit in the saddle.

Rowing, athletics, and, above all, the cycle, have done much to counterbalance the attractions of the saddle.

It seems certain, unless the comic papers all lie, that fifty years ago every young man also wanted to go shooting. Remember how Mr. Winkle—an arrant Cockney, though represented as coming from Bristol—not only pretended to love the sport, but always went about attired as one ready to take the field. The Londoner went out into the fields, which then lay within his reach all round the City, popping at everything. Let us illustrate the subject with the following description of a First of September taken from the ‘Comic Almanack’ of 1837. Perhaps Thackeray wrote it:—

‘Up at six.—Told Mrs. D. I’d got wery pressing business at Woolwich, and off to Old Fish Street, where a werry sporting breakfast, consisting of jugged hare, partridge pie, tally-ho sauce, gunpowder tea, and-cÆtera, vos laid out in Figgins’s warehouse; as he didn’t choose Mrs. F. and his young hinfant family to know he vos a-goin to hexpose himself vith fire-harms.—After a good blowout, sallied forth vith our dogs and guns, namely Mrs. Wiggins’s French poodle, Miss Selina Higgins’s real Blenheim spaniel, young Hicks’s ditto, Mrs. Figgins’s pet bull-dog, and my little thoroughbred tarrier; all vich had been smuggled to Figgins’s warehouse the night before, to perwent domestic disagreeables.—Got into a Paddington bus at the Bank.—Row, with Tiger, who hobjected to take the dogs, unless paid hextra.—Hicks said we’d a rights to take ’em, and quoted the hact.—Tiger said the hact only allowed parcels carried on the lap.—Accordingly tied up the dogs in our pocket-handkerchiefs, and carried them and the guns on our knees.—Got down at Paddington; and, after glasses round, valked on till ve got into the fields, to a place vich Higgins had baited vith corn and penny rolls every day for a month past. Found a covey of birds feeding. Dogs wery eager, and barked beautiful. Birds got up and turned out to be pigeons. Debate as to vether pigeons vos game or not. Hicks said they vos made game on by the new hact. Fired accordingly, and half killed two or three, vich half fell to the ground; but suddenly got up again and flew off. Reloaded, and pigeons came round again. Let fly a second time, and tumbled two or three more over, but didn’t bag any. Tired at last, and turned in to the Dog and Partridge, to get a snack. Landlord laughed, and asked how ve vos hoff for tumblers. Didn’t understand him, but got some waluable hinformation about loading our guns; vich he strongly recommended mixing the powder and shot well up together before putting into the barrel; and showed Figgins how to charge his percussion; vich being Figgins’s first attempt under the new system, he had made the mistake of putting a charge of copper caps into the barrel instead of sticking von of ’em atop of the touch-hole.—Left the Dog and Partridge, and took a north-easterly direction, so as to have the adwantage of the vind on our backs. Dogs getting wery riotous, and refusing to answer to Figgins’s vhistle, vich had unfortunately got a pea in it.—Getting over an edge into a field, Hicks’s gun haccidently hexploded, and shot Wiggins behind; and my gun going off hunexpectedly at the same moment, singed avay von of my viskers and blinded von of my heyes.—Carried Wiggins back to the inn: dressed his wound, and rubbed my heye with cherry brandy and my visker with bear’s grease.—Sent poor W. home by a short stage, and resumed our sport.—Heard some pheasants crowing by the side of a plantation. Resolved to stop their cockadoodledooing, so set off at a jog-trot. Passing thro’ a field of bone manure, the dogs unfortunately set to work upon the bones, and we couldn’t get ’em to go a step further at no price. Got vithin gun-shot of two of the birds, vich Higgins said they vos two game cocks: but Hicks, who had often been to Vestminster Pit, said no sitch thing; as game cocks had got short square tails, and smooth necks, and long military spurs; and these had got long curly tails, and necks all over hair, and scarce any spurs at all. Shot at ’em as pheasants, and believe we killed ’em both; but, hearing some orrid screams come out of the plantation immediately hafter, ve all took to our ’eels and ran avay vithout stopping to pick either of ’em up.—After running about two miles, Hicks called out to stop, as he had hobserved a covey of wild ducks feeding on a pond by the road side. Got behind a haystack and shot at the ducks, vich svam avay hunder the trees. Figgins wolunteered to scramble down the bank, and hook out the dead uns vith the but-hend of his gun. Unfortunately bank failed, and poor F. tumbled up to his neck in the pit. Made a rope of our pocket-handkerchiefs, got it round his neck, and dragged him to the Dog and Doublet, vere ve had him put to bed, and dried. Werry sleepy with the hair and hexercise, so after dinner took a nap a-piece.—Woke by the landlord coming in to know if ve vos the gentlemen as had shot the hunfortunate nursemaid and child in Mr. Smithville’s plantation. Swore ve knew nothing about it, and vile the landlord was gone to deliver our message, got out of the back vindow, and ran avay across the fields. At the end of a mile, came suddenly upon a strange sort of bird, vich Hicks declared to be the cock-of-the-woods. Sneaked behind him and killed him. Turned out to be a peacock. Took to our heels again, as ve saw the lord of the manor and two of his servants vith bludgeons coming down the gravel valk towards us. Found it getting late, so agreed to shoot our vay home. Didn’t know vere ve vos, but kept going on.—At last got to a sort of plantation, vere ve saw a great many birds perching about. Gave ’em a broadside, and brought down several. Loaded again, and killed another brace. Thought ve should make a good day’s vork of it at last, and vas preparing to charge again, ven two of the new police came and took us up in the name of the Zolorogical Society, in whose gardens it seems ve had been shooting. Handed off to the Public Hoffice, and werry heavily fined, and werry sewerely reprimanded by the sitting magistrate.—Coming away, met by the landlord of the Dog and Doublet, who charged us with running off without paying our shot; and Mr. Smithville, who accused us of manslaughtering his nurse-maid and child; and, their wounds not having been declared immortal, ve vos sent to spend the night in prison—and thus ended my last First of September.’

Those who wish to know what a Derby Day was fifty years ago may read the following contemporary narrative:—

Here’s a right and true list of all the running horses! Dorling’s correct card for the Derby day!——Hollo, old un! hand us up one here, will you: and let it be a good un: there, now what’s to pay?

Only sixpence. Sixpence! I never gave more than a penny at Hookem Snivey in all my days.——May be not, your honour: but Hookem Snivey aint Hepsom: and sixpence is what every gemman, as is a gemman, pays.

I can buy ’em for less than that on the course, and I’ll wait till I get there. Beg your honour’s pardon——They sells ’em a shillin’ on the course. Give you threepence. They cost me fippence ha’p’ny farden.

Well, here then, take your list back again. Come, come; your honour shall have it at your own price:——I wouldn’t sell it nob’dy else for no sitch money: but I likes the sound of your wice.

Here, then, give me the change, will you?—Oh, certainly: but your honour’s honcommon ard:——Let’s see: you want two-and-threepence: wait a moment, there’s another gentleman calling out for a card.

Hollo, coachman, stop, stop! Coachman, do you hear? stop your horses this moment, and let me get down:—The fellow’s run away behind an omnibus without giving me change out of my half-crown.

That’s alvays the vay they does on these here hoccasions: they calls it catching a flat:—Sorry I can’t stop. Where’s the new police? Pretty police truly, to suffer such work as that!

Well, if ever I come to Epsom again! but let’s look at the list: it’s cost me precious dear!—Ascot, Mundig, Pelops! why, good heavens, coachman! they’ve sold me a list for last year!

‘Oh, ma! look there! what a beautiful carriage! scarlet and gold liveries, and horses with long tails.—And stodge-full of gentlemen with mustaches, and cigars and macintoshes, and green veils:

Whose is it, ma? Don’t know, my dear; but no doubt belongs to some duke, or marquis, or other great nob.—Beg your pardon, ma’am: but that carriage as you’re looking at is a party of the swell mob.

And, oh my! ma: look at that other, full of beautiful ladies, dressed like queens and princesses.—Silks and satins and velvets, and gauze sleeves and ermine tippets: I never saw such elegant dresses:

And how merry they look, laughing and smiling! they seem determined to enjoy the sport:—Who are they, ma? Don’t know, dear; but no doubt they’re Court ladies. Yes, ma’am, Cranbourne Court.

How do, Smith? nice sort of tit you’ve got there. Very nice indeed: very nice sort of mare.—Beautiful legs she’s got, and nicely-turned ancles, and ’pon my word, a most elegant head of hair.

How old is she? and how high does she stand? I should like to buy her if she’s for sale.—Oh, she’s quite young: not above five-and-twenty or thirty; and her height exactly a yard and a half and a nail:

Price eighty guineas. She’d be just the thing for you; capital hunter as ever appeared at a fixture.—Only part with her on account of her colour; not that I mind: only Mrs. S. don’t like an Oxford mixture.

Hehlo! you faylow! you person smoking the pipe, I wish you’d take your quadruped out of the way.—Quadruped, eh? you be blowed! it’s no quadruped, but as good a donkey as ever was fed upon hay.

Oh, my! ma: there’s the course. What lots of people, and horses, and booths, and grand stands!—And what oceans of gipsies and jugglers, and barrel organs, and military bands!

And was ever such sights of Savoyards and French women singing and E-O-tables;—And horses rode up and down by little boys, or tied together in bundles, and put up in calimanco stables;

And look at that one, they call him Boney-parte. Did you ever in all your lifetime see a leaner?—And ‘Royal Dinner Saloons’ (for royalty the knives might have been a little brighter, and the linen a little cleaner);

And women with last-dying speeches in one hand, and in the other all the best new comic songs;—And, dear me! how funnily that gentleman sits his horse; for all the world just like a pair of tongs.

And—clear the course! clear the course! Oh, dear! now the great Derby race is going to be run.—Twelve to one! Ten to one! Six to one! Nine to two! Sixteen to three! Done, done, done, done!

Here they come! here they come! blue, green, buff, yellow, black, brown, white, harlequin, and red!—Sir, I wish you’d stand off our carriage steps: it’s quite impossible to see through your head.

There, now they’re gone: how many times round? Times round, eh? why, bless your innocent face!—It’s all over. All over! you don’t say so! I wish I’d never come: such a take in! call that a Derby race!

After being stifled with dust almost, and spoiling all our best bonnets and shawls and cloaks!—Call that a Derby race, indeed! I’m sure it’s no Derby, but nothing but a right-down, regular Oaks.

But come, let’s have a bit of lunch; I’m as hungry as if I hadn’t had a bit all day.—Smith, what are you staring at? why don’t you make haste, and hand us the hamper this way?

We shall never have anything to eat all day if you don’t stir yourself, and not go on at that horrid slow rate.—Oh, Lord! the bottom’s out, and every bit of meat and drink, and worse than all, the knives and forks and plate,—

Stole and gone clean away! Good heavenlies! and I told you to keep your eye on the basket, you stupid lout!—Well, so I did, on the top of it, but who’d have thought of their taking the bottom out?

Well, never mind: they’ll be prettily disappointed: for you know, betwixt you and me and the wall,—Our ivory knives and forks were nothing but bone; and our plate nothing but German silver, after all.

What race is to be run next? No more, ma’am: the others were all run afore you come.—Well, then, have the horses put to, Smith: I’ll never come a Derbying again; and let us be off home.

Oh, lawk! what a stodge of carriages! I’m sure we shall never get off the course alive!—Oh, dear! do knock that young drunken gentleman off the box: I’m sure he’s not in a fit state to drive.

There, I told you how it would be. Oh, law! you’ve broke my arm, and compound-fractured my leg!—Oh! for ’eaven’s sake, lift them two ’orrid osses off my darter! Sir, take your hands out of my pocket-hole, I beg!

I say, the next time you crawl out of a coach window, I wish you wouldn’t put your foot on a lady’s chest.—Vell, if ever I seed such a purl as that (and I’ve seed many a good un in my time), I’ll be blest.

Oh, dear! going home’s worse than coming! It’s ten to one if ever we get back to Tooley Street alive.—Such jostling, and pushing, and prancing of horses! and always the tipsiest gentleman of every party will drive.

I wish I was one of those ladies at the windows; or even one of the servant maids giggling behind the garden walls.—And oh! there’s Kennington turnpike! what shouting and hooting, and blowing those horrid cat-calls!

Ticket, sir? got a ticket? No, I’ve lost it. A shilling, then. A shilling! I’ve paid you once to-day.—Oh, yes, I suppose so: the old tale; but it won’t do. That’s what all you sporting gentlemen say.

Hinsolent feller! I’ll have you up before your betters. Come, sir, you mustn’t stop up the way. Well, I’ll pay you again; but, oh Lord! somebody’s stole my purse! good gracious, what shall I do!—I suppose I must leave my watch, and call for it to-morrow. Oh, ruination! blow’d if that isn’t gone too!

Get on there, will you?—Well, stop a moment. Will anybody lend me a shilling? No? Well, here then, take my hat:—But if I don’t show you up in Bell’s Life in London, next Sunday morning, my name’s not Timothy Flat.

Well, this is my last journey to Epsom, my last appearance on any course as a backer or hedger:—For I see plain enough a betting-book aint a day-book, and a Derby’s a very different thing from a Ledger.