Is there a finer sight in creation than a horse? I don’t speak of the wild horse of the prairie, as seen at Astley’s—nor of the wearied animal by means of which the enterprising greengrocer transports his wares from Covent-Garden to the Edgware-road—nor of the useful but commonplace looking cob on which Jones trusts himself timidly as he ventures on a constitutional ride, while his groom, much better mounted, follows scornfully behind—nor of the broken-down, broken-knee’d, spavined, blind roarer, all the summer of whose life has been passed in dreary drudgery, and for whom nought remains but the knacker’s yard, and the cold calculations of the itinerant vendors of cat’s-meat; but of a horse such as a monarch might pet, and the very queen of beauty might deign to ride—a horse such as Gamarra.

“A noble steed,
Strong, black, and of the desert breed,
Full of fire and full of bone,
All his line of fathers known,
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within.”

And who that has ever laid his leg across such, and bounded along the turf, does not feel that the bare memory of it is a joy for ever, thrilling almost as Love’s young dream? Such was our good fortune once; now we creep into town on the top of a ’bus, and our hair is grey, and our pluck is gone, and our heart no larger than a pin’s head.

To write about London, and to omit all mention of the Derby, were unpardonable. At the Royal Academy Exhibition this year, the rush to see Mr. Frith’s picture of the Derby was so great that a policeman was required to keep off the crowd. Horse-racing is the natural result of horse-riding. It is essentially the English sport. Taking Wetherby’s Calendar as our guide, we may calculate that in 1855 there were 144 meetings in Great Britain and Ireland, which were attended by 1606 horses, of whom only 680 were winners, fed by £60,000 of added money inclusive of the value of cups and whips, and diffusing £198,000 in added money and stakes more or less. If there were no light weights to ride, and no noblemen or wealthy commoners to run their horses, the horses would run of their own accord. There are horses, as there are men, who never will play second fiddle if they can possibly avoid it; and if horses run, men will look and admire, and the natural result is the Derby Day. A grander sight of its kind is perhaps hardly to be seen. For twelve months have the public been preparing for the event. For twelve months has the sporting and the betting world been on the qui vive. We do not bet, for we hold that the custom is absurd in a rich man, and wicked in one who is not so; but in every street in London, in every town in England, in many a quiet village, at the beer-shop, or the gin-palace, or the public-house, bets have been made, and thousands and thousands of pounds are depending on the event. As the time draws nigh the excitement increases. Had you looked in at Tattersall’s on the previous Sunday, you would have seen the betting of our West End swells and M.P.’s who legislate for the observance of the Sabbath, and who punish poor men for keeping betting-houses—fast and furious. On the previous night of the day when the Derby is run a motley population encamp on the Downs. There are booths where there are to be dancing, and drinking, and eating, and gambling. There are gipsies who are to tell fortunes, and acrobats who are to exhibit a most astonishing flexibility of muscle. There are organs, and singing girls, and a whole legion of scamps, who will pick pockets, or play French put, or toss you for a bottle of stout, or offer their book and a pencil to betters; and as the dim grey of morning brightens into day, their number increases in a most marvellous manner. On they come—ricketty carts laden with ginger beer—men with long barrows and short pipes, who have walked all the way from town, long trains of gigs and hansoms, and drags, and carriages, and ’busses, and pleasure vans, laden with pleasure seekers, determined to have a holiday. The trains bring down some thirty or forty thousand human souls, the road is blocked up and almost impassable. Many a party, who left town in good spirits, have come to grief. Here a wheel has come off. There the springs have broken. Here the dumb brute has refused to drag his heavy burden any further. There the team have been restive or the charioteer unskilful, and the coach has been upset. In a session in which unusually little business has been done, in the very midst of a ministerial crisis, parliament has adjourned, and senators, commoners, and lords, are everywhere around. That man with spectacles and long black stock, driving a younger son past us, is England’s premier, whose horse is the favourite—who has never yet won the Derby—who, it is said, would rather do so than have a parliamentary success—and who, it is also said, has offered his jockey £50 a-year for life should he win this race. That fat, greyhaired man is the Duke of Malakoff. Here is the Royal Duke, who is treading in his father’s steps, and will be wept by a future generation as the good duke and hero of a thousand City feeds. Let us look about us while the bell is ringing and the police are clearing the course. The Grand Stand alone holds some thousands. Then, as you look from it for a mile on each side, what a cluster of human heads! and behind, what an array of carriages and vehicles of all kinds! A most furious attack is evidently being made on the commissariat. The more dashing have baskets, labelled “Fortnum and Mason,” and it is clear that the liquids are stronger than tea. Be thankful those are not ladies, dressed elegantly though they be, who have drank so much champagne that their tongues are going rather faster than is necessary. You do not see many ladies; and the girls so gay, what is their gaiety?—is it truer than their complexions? Very beautiful at a distance, if you do not go close and see the rouge and pearl powder. But to-day is a holiday. Many here know nothing about a horse, care little about one; but they have come out for a day’s fresh air and for a pic-nic. They could not have had a finer day or chosen a better spot. The down itself, with its fresh green velvet turf, is delicious to tread: and as you look around, what a magnificent panorama meets your eye, fringed by waving woods and chestnut trees, heavy with their annual bloom! Then there are the horses taking their preliminary canter. What eager eyes are on them! How anxious are the betters now, making up their final books! At the corner, in the carriages, on the hill, or along the course, how brisk is the speculation. “Which is Tox?” “Is that Physician?” “Where’s Beadsman?” are the questions in every mouth. And one does not like this horse’s fore legs, or that horse’s hind ones. And criticisms of all kinds are hazarded. At length some twenty horses are got together at the post. “They’re off!” is the cry wafted across the plain. Up the hill they go. On the top they’re scarce visible. As they turn the corner they look like so many rats. And now, amidst a whirlwind of shouting and hurrahing, the race is over; and in two minutes and fifty-four seconds Sir Joseph Hawley, a Whig baronet, beats Lord Derby, the Conservative Premier, clears £50,000, while his jockey, for that short ride, earns as much as you or me, my good sir, may win by the labour of many a long year. Pigeons fly off with the result. The telegraph is at work. At the Sunday Times office, about four o’clock, the crowd is so great that you can scarce get along the street, and many a man goes home with a heavy heart, for some are hit very hard. “This is a bad day for all of us,” says one to me, with a very long face. “I have lost £150,” says another, and he does not look like a man who could afford to lose that sum, and the crowd disperses—some exultant—some despairing—all of them in a reckless mood, and ready for dissipation. The longer we stop now, the sadder shall we become. Go to Kennington-common, if you wish to see the moral effects of the Derby. Drop in at the places of gay resort at the West-end in the course of the night. Go in a little while after to Bow-street, or Portugal-street. For many a day will families mourn a visit to the Derby. I never saw so many wives, evidently belonging to decent tradesmen, so intoxicated as I saw on the last Derby. In the train but little intoxication was visible, but the coming home was the dark side—a side which the admirers of what they call our national sports are too ready to overlook, and which even Mr. Frith has failed to paint.

The eloquent Montalembert sees in a Derby day what Virgil has described in the fifth Æneid. The Frenchman is too complimentary, it is true.

“Undique conveniunt Teucri mixtique Sicani.”

But pious Æneas sanctioned no such reckless revelry as too often is visible on the Epsom downs. Lord Palmerston compares the Derby to the Isthmian games; but as they were celebrated once in ten years, and were in honour of Neptune, the resemblance is not very clear. Pulteney, a statesman, in his day as eminent as the illustrious M.P. for Tiverton, published in the “World” a sketch of Newmarket; but the expense and waste of time of such places seemed to him perfectly frightful. It is well that his lordship has been defunct this hundred and fifty years. A horse race then was a much more sober affair than in these enlightened days—when every head is full and every tongue vocal with mental and moral reform.