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 pounds 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
f