The Sun.
London, England, 1862-06-04 00:00:00

LORD DUNDREARY'S DERBY PROPHECY

(From _Punch.)

Well, now, I don't know how to begin with my
prophecy, and I almost wish that Mr. Punch hadn't
asked me to do it for him, I mean that I don't
wish I had asked him to let me. For I never made
a prophecy before, you know, except after it had
happened, the event I mean, and that isn't exactly
a prophecy, which means the foretelling of events
that never happen. I think that Dr. Cumming
might have done it, only you see that reverend
doesn't attend races, and so he could not be supposed
to be up in the horses, for you can't have
races without horses, you know, except races of
ginger, and it would be ridiculous to prophecy
about ginger, you must see that, quite ridiculous,
and you might burn your mouth like the man in
the South eating the road to Norwich—no, he
couldn't eat a road, could he ?—that's not right.
Stop, doesn't Shakspeare—great creature, Shak-
speare—say something about seeming in running to
devour the way ? Couldn't devour whey, you know,
curds you might, though, but you can't prophecy
about curds, except so far as saying they are very
nasty. What was I saying ?-oh, yes, ginger:and
curds and prophecies. Well, only one horse can
win, that is quite certain, and ho must be the win-
ner, unless he comes in after another; then he'll
be second, or more than that—second-hand in fact
—a second-hand horse. You wouldn't like that,
would you ? Stop, though, all horses must be
second-hand, unless you grow them yourselves.
Grow them—is that right ?—do horses grow P
Of course they do, some are taller than others,
and some of them must be shorter, it's ridiculous
to say horses don't grow like trees. Certainly
they do, and blow like trees also—will anybody tell
me a horse don't blow P I dare say that Miss Todd
blew—at least her horse—she only blew up, when
Lord Knox was had up before Essex—stop, that's
not right. Essex is a county and has calves;
this was a coachman, he hadn't calves, footmen
have calves though, which they stick—at least,
they stick'em on behind. But Epsom is not
in Essex, quite the reverse, Epsom is in the
Downs, where the British fleet was moored
when black-eyed Susan came on board. I like
black eyes, you know—not such as you get fighting
of course, but a lady's black eyes, though very few
ladies have black eyes, I've remarked that, and a
man that would strike a lady deserves to be hanged
—but I don't mean that sort of eyes. All in the
downs—though—how can that be ? ships can't be
moored on dry land ; but you'll say Epsom isn't
always dry. Anyhow, a ship can't sail there, ridi-
culous, Epsom salts are not the salt sea, you must
see that. But about the horses, where's the list?
List, as Hamlet says to the Ghost, because a ghost
on the stage walks in list slippers, very proper. Ace
of Clubs—that's a queer name for a horse—horses
don't go to clubs—asses do though, I believe. He's
to prepare the way for a Whitewall crack. What's
the good of preparing for a crack in a white wall ;
better stop it up, eh—stop, yes, quite proper ; then
when the crack comes you won't jump. Well, he
won't win, unless he's thrown down on the table,
and you can't throw a horse on a table, though you
can a pony. Next is a long ward. Argo—dessay
it's a mistake forcargo, these papers are so ignorant
—stop, Argonaut. Nought means nothing, and
that's his chances. To be sure Wells rides him, if
he don't ride something else, and Wells are deep
you know. Wells P Ah! when he's in the saddle
he's Sadler's Wells, eh P I'll send that to Punch.
Stop, I can't do that because I am at Epsom, and
Sadler's Wells is at Islington, ridiculous. Well,
hero's Brighton ; I don't mean the place, Parklane
super mare, you know, but the horse. I think he
has done all he knows has Brighton, and it's very
pleasant to go down and dine at the Bedford, and
the asparagus is monstrous good—not monstrous
asparagus, I don't like that ; it should be small and
green like an amethyst—no, amethysts are not
green ; my aunt wears one and she isn't green
neither—quite the reverse. I suppose I mean
an emerald ; but emeralds are not like asparagus
—you must see that. Cat—cat—yes, Caterer,
that's the comparative of cat, caterer, or
more cat ; very good name, easily said—
sounds like " flatterer:" but I shan't flatter this
cat—this comparative cat—a horse a com-
parative cat ! Comparisons are odious; so are cats
to some people, not me, I like them, when they
don't scratch. I don't think Caterer will scratch—
horses don't scratch, you know—l think he won't
be scratched, but I don't think he'll be the first to
scratch against the winning post. Clarissa colt, she
must be a daughter of Mr. Colt, who revolved pis-
tols in his mind. What would be the good of that,
and what use is a pistol at a race, unless it's a pre-
destinarian race, and you want to startle the men—
at least not startle 'cm, or they would'nt run well,
of course, but Clarissa—what a pretty name, rhymes
to Harlowe—no, it don't neither, what made me
think of that P Well, she won't win—stop, it
isn't a she, but a colt. Bat they are all colts ; it's
quite ridiculous calling one by a she-Christian name,
it's bigamy. No, it isn't quite that; but she won't
win, whether her father fires a pistol or not. Cel-
larius, that's a good name ; there used to be a polka
called the Mazurka polka—what's that got to do
with it ? Now what put polking in my head ? We
don't come to Epsom to polk, do we ? When I was
at school I learned a Latin word—l don't mean only
one, heaps, millions, but one which I think was
cellarius, and meant " very fast," and if this is a very
fast horse the name is good, which comes of having
a gentleman's education. Everybody should know
Latin, then we should all be gentlemen. Stop, I
don't want that, though ; who'd clean the boots ?
Boots must be cleaned, you know, but the Latins
didn't wear boots, which accounts for it. The Latin
horse won't win. Now here's a long one. I should
like to sneeze before I try it, for I shall never be
able to sneeze in the middlo of that horse, like a
Centaur. But it's no use, I can't—Caractacus. I've
read of him, and how he envied Napoleon a humble
cottage in Rome. Stop, was it Napoleon ? Yes, he
was King of Rome, that's quite right; but it was
ridiculous to envy a humble cottage, he might as
well have envied a humble bee. This horse—l can't
say him again—he has been doing something at
Bath, perhaps getting his head shaved, to make
him run lighter, and he frightens some of them—l
am not frightened, a nobleman ought never to be
frightened ; noblesse oblige, you know ; not that all
the nobility is obliging—quite the. reverse; my
uncle isn't, for ho won't let me come into his title,
which is nepotism. This horse may win, if he can
—that lam nearly certain about. Now we come
to The Marquis. What nonsense the Marquis, and
not saying of where—not Marquis of Ware, I don't
mean that, but of someplace, and Ware would do as
well as anywhere. Bat perhaps a horse wouldn't
like to be a Marquis, I mean a Marquis mighn't like
to be a horse, and have his name in the mouths of all
the legs. Stop ; do legs have mouths ? I suppose so
—I have heard of gout in the gums, and that ac-
counts for it. Well, as The Marquis is a nobleman
—that is, a noble horse, ho may have the blue ri-
band, which is the order of the garter, you know,
and it is always given to the winner of the Derby,
and Lord Derby is a Knight of the Garter, though
he never won, but the moral is the same. But a
Duke's higher than a Marquis, though not higher
than a marquee, or else he couldn't go inside
it, you
must see that, and here is Duke Rollo. Some say
Wells may ride him, but he can't ride him and
Cargo together—unless he puts a leg on each and
stands upright, and I don't think the Jockey Club
would stand that. Anyhow a duke is more entitled
to a blue riband than an anonymous Marquis, you
must agree to that, Now, then Zetland, he's a
freemason, at least Lord Zetland is, so Zetland
must be a free and accepted horse, don't you see'
Fancy a horse a mason—wouldn't mind being fired,
eh ? That's good, monstrous good. Now for ano-
ther. Lord Glasgow's c. What's Lord Glasgow's
c. ? He isn't a bishop, is he P Ridiculous, bishops
don't keep racers. Dam—l don't mean that, you
know, but a mamma, a mother in fact, a parent as
it were. Dam by Orlando out of Brown Bess, also
another by Barbatus out of Brown Bess. Then that
must be the uncle of the other; come, I do under-
stand d pedigree, if I don't understand anything
else, which I do. Then an uncle and a nephew are
to run against one another. That's mere nepotism.
And Stockwell is the father of one. That's a good
father, but what the horse wants is a godfather.