We attended the races at Leopardstown, about forty minutes south of Dublin by rail toward the picturesque Wicklow hills. The gate is at the railway station and the embankment upon which it stands gives an opportunity to see the entire panorama, and a beautiful one it is. One could not easily imagine a more peaceful, yet picturesque landscape, the race course being in the center of an amphitheater surrounded by wooded hills of lustrous green. I have said several times and will be apt to keep on saying—for it is the most interesting and the truest thing in Ireland—that the fields are greener and the foliage has a deeper tint than anywhere else I have been. And although it rains half the time and showers are more plentiful than sunshine, they make the grass and the leaves and the flowers more beautiful and rich in color and give old Mother Earth a brighter robe.

The horses run on the turf, and there is no such thing as a trotting race. All of the entries are from breeding farms, not from sporting stables. The winner cares more for the cup than the money, for he enters his horses to increase the reputation of his stud rather than the size of his purse. There is a great deal of betting, both by owners and by the general public, but that is a secondary consideration. The chief end of a race is glory, and not gain.

The course at Leopardstown is a perfect oval; the track runs between hedges instead of rails and is shaven like a lawn, but the grass is quite long in the infield, and cattle and sheep are grazing in bunches here and there. At one end is a group of vine-clad buildings, covered with red tiles, almost entirely hidden by overhanging boughs. A large stone house which used to be occupied by the farmer who owned this place is now the home of the caretaker, who sets a table for the trainers and the jockeys, and they sleep in the stables with their horses. I don’t know exactly where or how they make their beds; perhaps they lie on the straw in the mangers, but it is the practice over here, and a groom seldom leaves his horse. There is little trickery on the Irish race course, because it is patronized by men of the highest social standing and integrity. They not only frown upon all forms of sharp practice, but there is no penalty too severe for a man that cheats or a jockey or a groom that violates the regulations. You read in novels of English and Irish life about horses being dosed with “knockout drops” and various other disreputable proceedings to make the situations more dramatic and startling, but it is asserted that there hasn’t been a scandal of any consequence upon the Irish turf for the last ten years. As one enthusiastic horseman expressed himself, “It’s run as honestly as the church, and more so than the government.”

The admission to the grounds is a shilling for all comers, but after the spectators enter they are classified according to the dimensions of their purses. Anybody can get a seat upon the bleachers for another shilling, and the larger part of the crowd go that way, because the grand stand prices are almost prohibitive to the working classes, being $1.50 for ladies and $2.50 for gentlemen. The grand stand is small and is not patronized by many people because the cheaper seats attract the crowd and the members’ pavilion and clubhouse on the other side are open to all subscribers to the Jockey Club. As the privilege of membership can be had for a couple of guineas, nearly every gentleman of affairs who ever attends the races subscribes and that gives him admission to all the meetings and the privileges of the clubhouse. There were many carriages, motor cars, jaunting cars, and saddle horses in the infield, because the course is within driving distance from Dublin, and those who can prefer to come down that way. Under the grand stand is a restaurant, a tea-room, and a bar, all small and cozy and well kept, and the attendants are women,—cashiers, barmaids, waitresses, and cigar venders,—dressed in pretty liveries. The accommodations at the clubhouse are quite attractive as well as convenient, although they are closed to strangers like the ordinary clubs of the English and Irish cities. A member may invite a friend to luncheon or dinner, but he cannot put him up at a club in England and Ireland as we do in the United States. They are very selfish about such privileges.

Behind the grand stand and the clubhouse is a large shaded inclosure accessible to the occupants of both, where the horses are brought before the races and the jockeys are weighed. The horses are brought there after the races also and the people stand in large circles around them to see them rubbed down. The paddock looks more like a garden party than a stable yard, for it is filled with ladies and gentlemen chatting gayly, promenading, and sometimes drinking tea, eating ices, or taking other refreshments on the benches, under the trees between races, or standing at the scales discussing the horses and talking to their owners. You have read descriptions of such scenes in society novels, no doubt, for many authors introduce the races as a feature. Here and there you can see a party with their lunch spread on a white cloth that covers the grass, and I have no doubt a good deal of flirting is going on, although it is more interesting to watch the horses and the crowd.

There are many queer-looking people to be seen, in the oddest sort of clothes, from cap to boots. You cannot tell the rank of a person by looks, however. I have seen duchesses whose dresses didn’t fit them at all, and countesses whose faces are so plain that they would stop a clock. I worshiped beside the wife of a “belted earl” at St. Patrick’s Cathedral one Sunday, and her hat looked very much as if some one had sat upon it just before she started for church. The late Duke of Westminster, who was the richest man in the British Empire, had also the reputation of being the most slovenly. Dukes often look as if they were wearing “hand-me-downs,” and the smartest-looking man in an assembly may be the worst rascal of the humblest rank. And that rule, I was told, applies to the race track as well as to other gatherings of mankind.I saw people who looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of Dickens or Thackeray, so old-fashioned were their garments, their hats, and their behavior. There were tall, gaunt farmers with fiery red faces; solid-looking burghers wearing silk hats and fringes of whiskers under their chins; jaunty military men, dashing young sports in riding habits, and hundreds of farmers in tweed and heavy woolen knickerbockers, nearly every one of them smoking a pipe. The stature of the men was noticeable. There are giants in Ireland in these days. Many of the women were very pretty and wore bright-colored gowns and sunshades that enlivened the scene. And several hideous old dowagers were very keen on betting, and pushed rudely to the front when the horses were running. You can always recognize a coachman, a groom, or a jockey in England or Ireland, and they were so numerous that they didn’t interest us.

The races were conducted very much like ours at home, and in the last one, as is usually the case, the horses were ridden by their owners. There was a field of sixteen, which caused confusion and delay at the starting post and a helter-skelter scramble along the track. Some of the gentlemen riders didn’t come in at all, others were distanced, and the winners were greeted with tremendous applause by their friends and acquaintances, although very little enthusiasm was shown over the ordinary races. In no case did the winner receive a demonstration such as we consider essential in the United States.

Mr. Richard Croker had two entries and should have won the second race, but Lucius Lyne, his Kentucky jockey, as the papers declared the following morning, went to sleep. He led the field easily all the way around and was cantering toward the wire without any show of speed when another horse under whip and spur overtook and overlapped him by a nose. As Croker’s horse was the favorite with long odds, considerable indignation was expressed. He could have won the race without an effort; or at least that is what the men who lost their money on him say.

Everybody bets on the races in Ireland, and the way in which the pink sporting supplements to the newspapers are grabbed on the streets by people in shabby garments indicates that the submerged section of the population feel an eager interest in the results of the races. An ordinary observer would infer that an equal number of people stake a similar amount of money in the United Kingdom and in the United States, but there seems to be no harm done there, or at least not enough to provoke the ban of the law. On the contrary, betting is “regulated.” Bookmakers are all licensed by the government, and if they do not conduct their business honestly, or if they transgress the proprieties in any way, their privileges are taken away from them.

They were scattered here and there among the spectators on the Leopardstown course, but there is evidently a rule requiring them to occupy a fixed place, because each of them stood upon a mat or a little wooden platform or a wagon cushion and never stirred from the spot. Some of them were dressed in a very conspicuous manner—indicating their individuality, I suppose, or carrying out some fad. One wore a bright orange suit that could have been seen a mile or two; another was in brilliant blue, a peculiar shade of that color I had never seen before, and his cap was of the same material. Another was in white duck, with his name painted in large, fancy red letters across his shoulders and across his breast. Each bookmaker wore a sash, upon which his name was plainly printed for identification, as well as the number of his license. Hence we knew that Mike Kelley, Joe Matterson, Timothy Burke, Patrick Sarsfield, George Bevers, and others, no doubt famous in their profession, were present. They were all in the open air in front of the stand, and each bookmaker had a book, a large one, in which he noted every bet as it was made and gave the bettor a ticket to identify it which corresponded with the number in the book. There is considerable clerical work in every transaction; and each bookmaker had a cashier beside him, wearing a leather pouch over his abdomen that hung from a strap around his neck. These pouches seemed to be uniform, and also bore the name and number of the man to whom they belonged. The cashier takes the money and makes the change while the bookmaker is booking the bet, and he cashes the tickets of the winners at the close of each race.

When the bookmaker wasn’t booking bets he was yelling like a lunatic to attract attention. When his lungs were exhausted his cashier relieved him, and in stentorian tones shouted his judgment as to the result of the next race. “Put your money on Cathie,” one of them would yell. “Put your money on Desmond,” came from a red-faced bookmaker a little distance away. “Bet your pile on the field,” roared a third. “Even money on Baker’s Boy.” “I’m giving five to one on Sweet Sister.” “I’m offering three to one on Silver Bell,” and so on. The air was filled with similar cries, which were unintelligible, or at least without significance to a stranger, but we assumed that each bookmaker had favorites that he was booming to the best of his ability.

Well-dressed, respectable-looking women were booking bets as well as men, and mingling with the crowd on even terms. There was no distinction of age or sex or rank or previous condition. And we were told that it was no sign of immorality and no violation of the laws of propriety for a lady to participate in the pools. Some of them, perhaps from a dislike to be jostled by the crowd, sent their escorts to book their bets, but messengers are evidently not allowed. I should judge that the stakes were small. I watched the cashing in of the winning tickets after several of the races, and it was mostly silver and a few pieces of gold that changed hands. I saw but one paper note passed, and you know that the lowest denomination of the paper money is £5. There was perfect order, although there seemed to be a great deal of drinking. There was always a large crowd before the bar between races, but no disturbance at all. The excitement seemed to occur just after the jockeys were weighed and while the horses were trotting slowly to the starting post. When the tapping of a bell told us they were off everybody was silent, and the victor received no applause when he passed under the wire. The winners turned their faces from the race track toward the bookmakers, cashed their checks, and the rest of the crowd strolled off toward the paddock to look over the candidates for the next running.

Richard Croker, late of New York, lives on a beautiful farm of five hundred acres overlooking the Irish Channel, about nine miles south of Dublin, about two miles from the coast and four miles north of the ancient town of Bray, which has been celebrated so many times in song and story. It is an ideal country seat. He has shown the highest degree of taste in selecting the site and improving the property. He calls it Glencairn, and the name is chiseled upon the massive pillars that support a pair of iron gates. These gates are usually open, for he retains his democratic habits and is an excellent exemplar of Irish hospitality. Following a short drive between masses of rhododendrons, laburnums, and hawthorn trees, with friezes and wainscotings of glowing flower beds, one soon reaches a handsome and well-proportioned miniature castle of white granite of pleasing architectural design. And from a flagpole that rises at the top of the tower Mr. Croker sometimes unfolds the Stars and Stripes.

Several people told me that there is no finer place for its size, and Mr. Croker’s home is estimated among the first dozen of country seats in Ireland. It was a rough tract of land when he bought it from one of the judges of the Irish courts, and had been neglected for many years. At a large expense and a great amount of labor he has turned it into a little paradise. What was formerly a wild waste is now one of the loveliest landscapes you can imagine. The house is surrounded by a lustrous lawn and a garden of flowers and foliage plants, and behind it is a series of large hothouses in which he is raising orchids and early fruits and vegetables. About one hundred acres are in wheat, oats, potatoes, and other crops, about ten acres in garden, and the remainder of the five hundred acres is meadow and pasture.

The interior of the mansion is handsomely furnished according to the conventional requirements of a wealthy country gentleman, and the walls are hung with paintings representing racing incidents and famous race horses of the present and the past. At one end of the portico at the main entrance is a large screen of white canvas covered with cryptograms of Egypt, cartouches of the Pharaohs and other designs which Mr. Croker brought back with him from his visit to the Nile last winter. And in the main hall are several other Egyptian souvenirs.

All of the work upon the place has been done by local artisans, and all of the employees of the stock farm belong to families in the neighborhood, for Mr. Croker believes in practical home rule. His chief trainer is an Irishman, like all his grooms, but Lucius Lyne, a Kentuckian, has ridden his horses since 1906. John Reiff, a famous American jockey, rode Orby when he won the Derby, and Mr. Croker will not trust any but American jockeys in his saddles. Every one else about the place, however, is Irish. And Mr. Croker has been a veritable fairy godfather to the poor people in his neighborhood, although his old friends in New York will agree that he does not look the part. He has not only given employment at good wages to almost every man in that locality, but has assisted several families in a substantial manner. His generosity seems to be boundless. He gave every dollar of his winnings at the Derby to Archbishop Walsh of Dublin for the charities of the church, and it would amuse you to hear the enthusiastic terms in which his neighbors praise him for his good heart and his good works.

He takes no part in local politics, although his sympathies are very strongly with the nationalist party, and at the last parliamentary election in 1906 he contributed generously to the campaign fund, and on election day loaned his automobile and his carriage to haul infirm and lazy voters to the polls. The contest was between Walter Long, an Englishman, who had been defeated for parliament by one English constituency and was sent over there by the conservative leaders in London to contest one of the Irish seats, and a labor leader named Hazelton, who had been nominated by the nationalist party. Mr. Croker took an unusual interest in the fight because, from his point of view, it was not only an impertinence but an indignity to set up an Englishman for the votes of an Irish constituency. And he was even the more indignant when Long was elected, as he claims, by the votes and influence of the officials and pensioners of the government and the soldiers of the garrison. He criticises the management of the nationalist committee for not looking after the registration of their voters. The registration laws are very strict over here and many of the poorer classes are disfranchised for not complying strictly with them. Mr. Croker says that if the contest had been in New York the Tammany leaders would have got out every vote and Long would have been defeated. Next time he will undoubtedly give the nationalist campaign managers some hints as to how an election should be conducted. Mr. Croker is an earnest home ruler, although he would prefer to see Ireland a republic, but he says that he does not intend to get mixed up in Irish politics. He considers his political career as finished and he intends to spend the rest of his life in the quiet seclusion of his present home with his horses and intimate friends.

He says that the Tammany people in New York do not bother him much with political matters. Occasionally he receives a cablegram, or a letter asking his advice or his influence, and occasionally somebody comes over to confer with him, but he considers himself “entirely out of it and does not want to be bothered.”

Mr. Croker showed us around the place in his silent, matter-of-fact manner, but could not suppress the pride he feels in his horses and his satisfaction with the record he has already made upon the turf in Ireland and England with his own colts, for he doesn’t own or race any but those that are foaled and bred and trained in his own stables. That is what he is here for, and that is his greatest gratification, and he likes it a great deal better than politics. He brought with him to Ireland a famous Kentucky mare named “Rhoda B.,” which we did not see because she was down in the pasture, and from her he has been breeding a string of colts that have had remarkable success. Every one of them has been foaled at Glencairn. He has won the English Derby and two Irish Derbys, and the English Newmarket, which is the third in order of the great events on the English turf. Rhodora won the thousand-guinea race in the Newmarket, and Mr. Croker is confident that another colt called “Alabama” will win the Derby just as Orby did.

Back of his mansion and his flower garden and his hothouses is a quadrangle of box stalls. In the center is a statue of Dobbin, the first horse Mr. Croker ever owned and for which he had great affection. There are a dozen stalls, and in the first he showed us Orby, a beautiful creature, as vain and conscious as a prima donna, that seems to realize the supreme importance of a Derby winner. Nailed upon the door is a gold plate properly inscribed and inclosed by one of the shoes worn in that race.

Across the quadrangle were a number of two-year-olds named Lusitania, Fluffy Ruffles, Lady Stepaside, Lotus, Lavalta, and one or two others, all foaled on the place, and six yearlings which Mr. Croker exhibited to us with the pride of possession, and one or two others which he said “were no good.” At the stable of Alabama he showed more animation and did more talking than those who know him would suppose him capable of. Mr. Croker has the reputation of being one of the most reticent and unemotional men in the world, as all American politicians know, and I never saw him warm up over anything before. He has a face like a bulldog, perfectly expressionless, and no one can ever tell whether he is pleased or displeased from the lines in his face or the tone of his voice, which is always low and deliberate. But when he showed us Alabama, the son of Americus and Rhoda B., he woke up and actually became animated as he described the fine points of the colt and told us what he had been doing and what he is expected to do.

Mr. Croker has an even dozen horses and colts in training, and he showed us some yearlings of great promise. His two-year-olds and three-year-olds are all entered for races in Ireland, and those that do well will be sent over to England. In 1907 his horses won forty races in both countries, and his stable has altogether about three hundred to its credit since he came to Ireland.

The horse show at Dublin in August is the greatest event in Ireland, and draws from the entire kingdom as well as from the Continent, thousands of horse breeders and horse owners and fashionable people. It is probably the most brilliant and important horse show in the world.

There are three kinds of jaunting cars,—“outside cars,” in which the passengers sit back to back with their feet on shelves over the wheels; “inside cars,” in which they sit face to face with their feet in the middle, and “single cars,” which have one seat accommodating two persons facing the horse. The latter are the most comfortable of all, but give the passengers a good shaking up, which we are told is excellent for the liver.

It is a curious fact that the jaunting car, although it is distinctively Irish, and would not be tolerated in any other country, was invented and introduced by an Italian, Charles Bianconi, a native of Milan, who arrived in Ireland about the year 1800 and set up at Clonmel as an artist and picture dealer. Being struck by the absence of vehicles in the country, for everybody went on horseback in those days, he built a conveyance of his own design which immediately became popular and was imitated by every one who had the means to build or buy a box and a pair of wheels.

Only in Dublin can you hire a covered carriage—four-wheelers or “growlers,” as they are called in London; but in Waterford, Cork, and Limerick are “covered cars,” which are without doubt the most uncomfortable vehicles that anybody ever rode in, unless it be a Chinese cart. They are “inside cars,” with a hood of canvas or leather over them, supported by an iron frame or hickory bows. Imagine a large, square box with one end knocked out of it, and replaced by a step or two for the passengers to enter; two seats, one on either side, upon which the passengers sit vis-a-vis, clinging to straps suspended from the roof. There are no windows, no place for ventilation except the open back, which is covered with a curtain that may be raised or not, according to the state of the weather.

Two things which everybody can commend in Ireland are the horses and the donkeys—the style, strength, beauty, and speed of the one and the uncomplaining endurance of the other. An Irish horse never gets tired, is never lazy, and never vicious—at least, that is what his breeders and owners say of him, and, of course, the Irish hunters are the best in the world. But the Irish donkey, who does the humble and insignificant traffic, who hauls the vegetables to market and does the teaming for the small farmers, is an object of universal admiration. Not for his beauty, of course, but for those higher qualities that make up character, for his strength of purpose, his untiring industry, his patient fidelity. They are the mainstay of the Irish poor, and, although the object of ridicule and wit, I think the people appreciate them, because they treat them so much better than the Italians and Spaniards and the peons of the Spanish-American republics of America.

“Go back to your brother!” said a street urchin the other day to a costermonger who left his donkey by the roadside for a few moments. “Go back to your brother!” said the chauffeur of our automobile to a woman who was driving a donkey cart and came across to inspect our machine. “Go back to your brother!” said a policeman to a young boy who was driving a donkey cart and had jumped off his ordinary seat upon the whiffletree to resent the attack of some street urchin. And when I asked the policeman about the use of that phrase, which one hears continually, he explained that it was common all over Ireland for a donkey driver to call his beast “brother,” and it deserves that name for its fidelity if for nothing more.