The Sun.
London, England, 1866-05-17 00:00:00

"He who has not seen a Derby-day has not seen
England." So our foreign visitors have said and
written; and yesterday some 200,000 people went
to see the great race run and to exhibit thisphase of
English life, less, no doubt, for the edification of in-
telligent foreigners than for their own amusement.
Every year one hears murmurs ffom old-time
people who complain that the rail has overcrowded
the course, taken off the finest equipages from the
road, and robbed the Derby-day of half its pictu-
resqueness. But every year the railways seem to
bring more branches and more feeders to bear upon
Epsom Downs and swell the throng of sightseers
there. Upon this great metropolitan holiday the
greatest happiness of the greatest number should.
certainly be the object aimed at and hoped for ; and
yesterday our railway system, viewed from the Derby
stand-point, seemed really beneficent. The opening
of new routes or new links of communication left no
excuse to those who wished to study horses or men
at Epsom. If you wanted to reach the Downs
quietly, and were not afraid of a five-mile walk,
the South-Eastern Company invited you to go by
the Betchworth route from London-bridge and
Charing-cross. If you had no time to lose in walk-
ing, and wanted to combine pleasure with despatch,
the Brighton Company would convey you from Lon-
don-bridge or Victoria and land you on the course.
The South-Western Railway was the via media, and
happily, also, as far as we heard, the via tuts. This
company volunteered to take you from Waterloo to
Epsom town, whence, as all the world knows, the
walk to the course is more or less easy, according.to
age and wind. Then the new metropolitan lines
brought their complements of passengers from each
suburban station, and, interlacing the great trunk
railways, seemed to bring all England into direct com-
munication with Epsom. How the traffic could be
worked with safety, either way, was one of those ques-
tions which, when once in motion, you hardly liked to
think about. Now-a-days, even setting Derby-
days aside, the full tide of life is not at Charing-
cross, but Clapham Junction.
" We get down by rail without dust; but when I
was young I must confess I liked the fun of the
road." This was the sentiment of a cheery old
gentleman who had just gained, not without struggle
and loss of breath, a seat in one of the fast rains on
no matter what line. But, railways notwithstand-
ing, have the fun of the road, or the glory of the road
departed ? In the glimpses we caught of it, the
horsemen and the four-horse drags certainly seemed
to be less numerous than formerly. But the omni-
buses, the coaches, andthe vans, the well and the ill
appointed barouches, the broughams, the chaises,
the carts, and the nondescript vehicles which are
kept in reserve for use on Derby-days only,—•these
seemed to be in as great force as ever. Then the
road is favoured by the fair. Painful experience
shows that gay dresses and wide skirts are not im-
proved in• the inevitable crush at railway stations-.
So the ladies drive, or rather are driven. And one
of the pleasantest sights of the day, though not the
most picturesque, is the humble vehicle packed close
with the owner's belongings ; women with smiling
well satisfied faces, who, as well as husband or
brother, have earned a right to enjoy themselves,
and are doing so thoroughly, in their own way.
'The costermonger, whose holidays are few, drives
down with his womankind by his side, or behind, as
proudly as though he owned the best equipage of
the day ; and it is something on such a festival to
see that he does not forget those -who have a claim
upon him, and that he finds a pleasure in increasing
theirs. Yet to those who went by road yesterday one
thing seemed wanting. The suburban turnpikes
were there no longer. At Kennington, where stop-
pages used to be so frequent, there was a clear way; but
it was not quite clear that the abolition of the
pike and the tell was compensation for lost oppor-
tunities of " chaffing" the much-enduring pikemen,
and of exchanging sallies with the bystanders. It
may be as well to mention here that last night there
was a revival of the stupid practices of flour-throw-
ing—not by people who had been at the race, but
by those who had assembled near Clapham-common
to witness the return home. Several ladies who
were attacked in this cowardly way looked as
though they had been in a snow storm. In one in-
stance the assailants caught a Tartar, for the gen-
tleman who received a flour-ball in his face, and
was for the time almost blinded by it, jumped out
of his carriage and, amid general cheering, gave
the men who had thrown this missile a horsewhip-
ping which they are not likely soon to forget. The
police should be instructed to put a stop to practical
jokes of this sort, which are sure to reuse bad blood
and to end in disturbance. Apart from these few
unpleasant episodes of the return, which are in no
way chargeable upon the holiday folk, there was a
prevalent joyousness and good humour among the
vast multitude on the journey down and home as
well as during the races—a general regard for de-
cency and order which could not fail to strike the
least observant. If a handful of policemen cleared
the course easily, and prevented all confusion, it
could only be because the mass of those assembled
on the Downs belonged to a law-abiding and order-
loving people, who knew how to amuse themselves
without violence or coarseness.

On the Derby Day the inveterate racing or betting
men are a small minority at Epsom. Probably 19
out of 20 people on the Course know very little
about the horses, and care very little which of them
wins. But in " the ring" the betting-man has his
little world, and there is supreme. The first race is
much attention to it. But
run, nobody paying
when, very soon afterwards, the bell rings for the
great event, the air becomes vocal with offers to lay
against everything in the race, to lay against parti-
cular horses in the race, to lay on the field, to ac-
commodate you in any conceivable way with the
odds then current. Men . with queer hats and
neckerchiefs of glaring colours bellow out invita-
tions of this kind till they nearly deafen you. Some
have their names and addresses printed in gold
letters upon their hatbands as a guarantee of sub-
stance and good faith. Others, perhaps better
known, roam about, betting book in hand, without
any such means of identification. All invite you to
deposit with them sums varying from £5 upwards,
on the assurance that, if the horse you fancy wins,
they will repay you the odds which they offer. They
seemed yesterday to fight shy of Lord Lyon, but
they never tired of " pelting" Rustic and Redan.
"I'll lay five to one, bar one." " I'll bet against
Blue Riband," " I'll lay against Vespasian," pro-
nounced Vespassion. " What horse do you want
to back, sir ?" "Is there any horse you fancy, sir?"
These were some of the endless cries one heard, in
every variety of tone and of accent, cockney and
provincial—the accent which breathed of the more
or less sweet south, and that which unmistakably
disclosed the hardy speculator from the West
Riding.
Above all this hubbub rises the great roar of
the crowd outside the ring. And to all save ab-
sorbed bookmakers this sound, and the spectacle of
thousands upon thousands of men clustering upon
the hill-side opposite the Grand Stand, or ranged by
this time in long dense lines on either side of the
course, has in it something almost majestic. After
the usual rush to the paddock, where the knowing
ones make their last observations and gather mate-
rials on which to found their last last bets, the ex-
citement increases. Lord Lyon is the first to show
in the course. The favourite seems in perfect con-
dition and "He doesn't run ; he flies," is the criticism
passed upon his trial canter by one of his admirers.
To the uninstructed eye the same favourable cri-
ticism might be passed upon other horses which
gallop past, full of fire, and hardly seeming to touch
the ground. They are soon gathered in a cluster at
the starting-place, but much time is spent, and six
or seven false starts are made before they get fairly
off. Then the whole six-and-twenty toil up the
hill, and only practised eyes with good glasses to
help them can tell how the race is going. The few
who can distinguish colours at this distance pro-
claim aloud that Blue Riband is leading ; that the
favourite has now deposed him; that Rustic ie in