we never bet a shilling, and are quite incapable, if even willing, to take advantage of any information, or of any inspection vouchsafed to us. Mr. Filbert (the trainer) hesitates no longer. He moves his hat with honest politeness; bids us follow him, and lays his finger on the latch of a stable. The trainer opens the door with one hand; and, with a gentleman-like wave of the other, would give us the precedence We hesitate. We would rather not go in first. We acknowledge an enthusiastic admiration of the race-horse; but at the very mention of a race-horse, the stumpy animal whose portrait headed our earliest lesson of equine history, in the before-quoted "Universal Spelling Book," vanishes from our view, and the animal described in the Book of Job prances into our mind's eye: "The glory of his nostril is terrible. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted. He swalloweth the ground with the fierceness of his rage." To enjoy, therefore, a fine racer-not as one does a work of art—we like the point of sight to be the point of distance. The safest point, in case of accident, (say, for instance, a sudden striking-out of the hinder hoofs,) we hold to be the vanishing point-a point by no means attainable on the inside of that contracted kind of stable known as a loosebox." The trainer evidently mistakes our fears for modesty. We boldly step forward to the outer edge of the threshold, but uncomfortably close to the hind-quarters of Pollybus, a "favorite" for the Derby. When we perceive that he has neither bit or curb; nor bridle, nor halter; that he is being "rubbed down" by a small boy, after having taken his gallops; that there is nothing on earth-except the small boy-to prevent his kicking, or plunging, or biting, or butting his visitors to death, we breathe rather thickly. When the trainer exclaims, "Shut the door, Sam!" and the little groom does his master's bidding, and boxes us up, we desire to be breathing the fresh air of the Downs again. "Bless you, sir!" says our good-tempered informant, when he sees us shrink away from Pollybus, changing sides at a signal from his cleaner; "these horses" (we look round, and for the first time perceive, with a tremor, the heels of another high-mettled racer protruding from an adjoining stall) "these horses are as quiet as you are; and-I say it without offence-just as well behaved. It is quite laughable to hear the notions of people who are not used to them. They are the gentlest and most tractable creeturs in creation. Then, as to shape and symmetry, is there any thing like them?" "We acknowledge that Pretty Perththe mare in the adjoining box-could hardly be surpassed for beauty." "Ah, can you wonder at noblemen and gentlemen laying out their twenty and thirty thousand a year on them ?" "So much?" "Why, my gov'nor's stud costs us fiveand-twenty thousand a year, one year with another.-There's an eye, sir !” The large, prominent, but mild optics of Pretty Perth are at this moment turned full upon us. Nothing, certainly, can be gentler than the expression that beams from them. She is "taking," as Mr. Filbert is pleased to say, 'measure of us." She does not stare vulgarly, or peer upon us a half-bred indifference; but, having duly and deliberately satisfied her mind respecting our external appearance, allows her attention to be leisurely diverted to some oats with which the boy had just supplied the manger. "It is all a mistake," continues Mr. Filbert, commenting on certain vulgar errors respecting race-horses; "thorough-breds are not nearly so rampagious as mongrels and half breds. The two horses in this stall are gentlefolks, with as good blood in their veins as the best nobleman in the land. They would be just as back'ard in doing any thing unworthy of a lady or gentleman, as any lord or lady in St. James's-such as kicking, or rearing, or shying, or biting. The pedigree of every horse that starts in any great race, is to be traced as regularly up to James the First's Arabian, or to Cromwell's White Turk, or to the Darley or Godolphin barbs, as your great English families are to the Conqueror. The worst thing they will do, is running away now and then with their jockeys. And what's that? Why, only the animal's animal-spirit running away with him. They are not," adds Mr. Filberts, with a merry twinkle in his eye," the only young bloods that are fond of going too fast." To our question whether he considers that a race-horse could go too fast, Mr. Filbert gives a jolly negative, and remarks that it All this while the two boys are sibillating lustily, while rubbing and polishing the coats of their horses, which are as soft as velvet, and much smoother. When the little grooms come to the fetlock and pastern, the chamois leather they have been using is discarded as too coarse and rough, and they rub away down to the hoofs with their sleek and plump hands. Every wish they express, either in words or by signs, is cheerfully obeyed by the horse. The terms the quadruped seems to be on with the small biped, are those of the most easy and intimate friendship. They thoroughly understand one another. We feel a little ashamed of our mistrust of so much docility, and leave the stable with much less awe of a race-horse than we had entered it. is all owing to high feeding and fine air; | for about a year, then he is 'taken up;' "for, mind you, horses get much better air that is, bitted and backed by a 'dumbto breathe than men do, and more of it." jockey' -a cross of wood made for the purpose. When he has got a little used to that, we try him with a speaking jockey-a child some seven or eight years old, who has been born, like the colt, in the stables. From that time till the horse retires from the turf, the two are inseparable. They eat, drink, sleep, go out and come in together. Under the directions of the trainer, the boy tells the horse what to do, and he does it; for he knows that he is indebted to the boy for every thing he gets. When he is hungry, it is the boy that gives him his corn; when he is thirsty, the boy hands him his water; if he gets a stone in his foot, the boy picks it out. By the time the colt is old enough to run, he and the boy have got to like one another so well that they fret to be away from one another. As for bribing, why, you may as well try to bribe the horse to poison the boy, as the boy to let the horse be injured.” "And now, Mr. Filbert, one delicate question-What security is there against these horses being drugged, so that they may lose a race?" "But the thing has happened, Mr. Filbert?" "Not so much as is talked about. Sometimes a likely foal is sent to a training stable, and cracked up as something wonderful He is entered to run. On trial, he turns out to be next to nothing; and the backers, to save their reputation, put it about that the horse was played tricks with. There is Mr. Filbert halts, places his legs apart, and his arms akimbo, and throws into his reply a severe significance, mildly tinged with indignation. He commences with say ing, "I'll tell you where it is-there is a deal more said about foul play and horses going amiss than there need be." "Then the boys are never heavily hardly a great race, but you hear something about horses going amiss by foul play." bribed ?" 66 "Heavily bribed, sir!" Mr. Filbert contracts his eyes, but sharpens up their expression, to look the suspicion down. Bribed!-it may not be hard to bribe a man, but it's not so easy to bribe a boy. What's the use of a hundred-pound note to a child of ten or twelve years old? Try him with a pen'north of apples, or a slice of pudding, and you have a better chance; though I would not give you the price of a sugar-stick for it. Nine out of ten of these lads would not have a hair of their horse's tail ruffled if they could help it, much more any such harm as drugs or downright poison. The boy and the horse are so fond of one another, that a racing stable is a regular happy family of boys and horses. When the foal is first born, it is turned loose into the paddock; and if his mother don't give him enough milk, the cow makes up the deficiency. He scampers about in this way A miniature man, with a horse whip neatly twisted round the crop or handle, opens the gate. "Well Tommy, how are you, Tommy?" "Well, sir, bobbish. Fine day, Mr. Filbert." Although Mr. Filbert tells us in a whisper that Tommy is only twelve next birth-day, Tommy looks as if he had entered far into his teens. His dress is deceptive. Light trowsers terminating in buttons, laced shoes, long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a colored cravat, a collar to which juveniles aspire under the name of "stick-ups," and a Paris silk hat, form his equipment. "Let's see, Tommy; what stakes did you win last ?” 66 Not many so young," says Tommy, tying a knot in his whip thong, "but a good many smaller." Tommy then walks across the straw-yard to speak to some stable friend he has come to see. Tommy has not only the appearance, but the manners of a man. "That boy will be worth money," says Mr. Filbert. "It is no uncommon thing for a master to give a lad like that a hundred pound when he wins a race. As he can't spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or marbles, (the young rogue does, occasionally, get rid of a pound or two in cigars,) he saves it. I have known a racing-stable lad begin the world at twenty, with from three to four thousand pound." Tommy flicks with the end of his whip- | We then inspect the offices for the Clerk of crop a speck of dirt from the toe of his "off" the Course himself; wine cellars, beer-cellars, shoe, and replies carelessly, "The Great larders, sculleries, and kitchens, all as giganNorthamptonshire upon Valentine. But then tically appointed, and as copiously furnished I have won a many smaller stakes, you as if they formed part of an Ogre's Castle. know, Mr. Filbert." To furnish the refreshment-saloon, the Grand Are there many jockeys so young as Tom- Stand has in store two thousand four hundred my? tumblers, one thousand two hundred wineglasses, three thousand plates and dishes, and several of the most elegant vases we have seen out of the Glass Palace, decorated with artificial flowers. An exciting odor of cookery meets us in our descent. Rows of spits are turning rows of joints before blazing walls of fire. Cooks are trussing fowls; confectioners are making jellies; kitchenmaids are plucking pigeons; huge crates of boiled tongues are being garnished on dishes. One hundred and thirty legs of lamb, sixtyfive saddles of lamb, and one hundred and thirty shoulders of lamb; in short, a whole flock of sixty-five lambs have to be roasted, and dished, and garnished, by the Derby day. Twenty rounds of beef, four hundred lobsters, one hundred and fifty tongues, twenty fillets of veal, one hundred sirloins of beef, five hundred spring chickens, three hundred and fifty pigeon-pies; a countless number of quartern loaves, and an incredible quantity of ham have to be cut up into sandwiches; eight hundred eggs have got to be boiled for the pigeon-pies and salads. The forests of lettuces, the acres of cress, and beds of radishes which will have to be chopped up; the gallons of " dressing" that will have to be poured out and converted into salads for the insatiable Derby day, will be best understood by a memorandum from the chief of that department to the chef-decuisine, which happened, accidentally, to fall under our notice; "Pray don't forget a large tub and a birch-broom for mixing the salad!" Tommy is hopping back over the straw, as if he had forgotten something. "O, I beg your pardon for not asking before," he says, "but how does Mrs. Filbert find herself?" "Quite well, thank you, Tommy." Tommy says he is glad to hear it, and walks off like a family-man. Our interview with Mr. Filbert is finished, and we pace towards the race-course with its indefatigable clerk. Presently, he points to a huge white object that rears its leaden roof on the apex of the highest of the "Downs." It is the Grand Stand. It is so extensive, so strong, and so complete, that it seems built for eternity, instead of for busy use during one day in the year, and for smaller requisition during three others. Its stability is equal to St. Paul's or the Memnonian Temple. Our astonishment, already excited, is increased when our cicerone tells us that he pays as rent, and in subscriptions to stakes to be run for, nearly two thousand pounds per annum for that stand. Expecting an unusually great concourse of visitors this year, he has erected a new wing, extended the betting inclosure, and fitted up two apartments for the exclusive use of ladies. Here we are! Let us go into the basement. First into the weighing-house, where the jockeys "come to scale," after each race. We are preparing to ascend, when we hear the familiar sound of a printing machine. Are we deceived? O, no! The Grand Stand is like the kingdom of China-selfsupporting, self-sustaining. It scorns foreign aid; even to the printing of the Racing Lists. This is the source of the innumerable cards with which hawkers persecute the sporting world on its way to the Derby, from the Elephant and Castle to the Grand Stand, 'Dorling's list! Dorling's correct list! with the names of the horses, and colors of the riders !" We are now in the hall. On our left, are | barouches, phatons, broughams, gigs, fourthe parlors, refreshment-rooms specially devoted to the Jockey Club; on our right, a set of seats, reserved, from the days of Flying Childers, for the members of White's Clubhouse. We step out upon the lawn; in the midst of the betting-ring, where sums of money of fabulous amounts change hands. The following salutary notice, respecting too numerous a class of characters, is printed on the admission card : such "The Lessee of the Epsom Grand Stand hereby gives notice that no person guilty of any malpractices, or notoriously in default in respect of stakes, forfeits, or bets lost upon horse-racing, will be admitted within the Grand Stand or its inclosure during any race meetings at Epsom; and if any person should gain admittance therein or thereupon, he will be expelled, upon his presence being pointed out to the Stewards for the time being, or to the Clerk of the Course." The first floor is entirely occupied with a refreshment-room and a police-court. Summary justice is the law of the Grand Stand. Two magistrates sit during the races. Is a pickpocket detected, a thimble-rigger caught, a policeman assaulted? The delinquent is brought round to the Grand Stand, to be convicted, sentenced, and imprisoned in as short a time as it takes to run a mile race. The sloping roof is covered with lead, in steps; the spectator from that point has a bird's-eye view of the entire proceedings, and of the surrounding country, which is beautifully picturesque. When the foreground of the picture is brightened and broken by the vast multitude that assembles here upon the Derby Day, it presents a whole which has no parallel in the world. On that great occasion, an unused spectator might imagine that all London had turned out. There is little perceptible difference in the bustle of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading to Epsom Downs are so thronged and blocked by every description of carriage that it is marvellous to consider how, when, and where, they were all made | -out of what possible wealth they were all maintained—and by what laws the supply of horses is kept equal to the demand. Near the favorite bridges, and at various leading points of the leading roads, clusters of people post themselves by nine o'clock, to see the Derby people pass. Then come flitting by, wheeled chaises, four-in-hands, Hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note, chaise-carts, donkey-carts, tilted vans made arborescent with green boughs and carrying no end of people, and a cask of beer,-equestrians, pedestrians, horse dealers, gentlemen, notabilities, and swindlers, by tens of thousands-gradually thickening and accumulating, until, at last, a mile short of the turnpike, they become wedged together, and are very slowly filtered through layers of policemen, mounted and a-foot, until, one by one, they pass the gate and skurry down the hill beyond. The most singular combinations occur in these turnpike stoppages and presses. Four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over the shoulders of ladies, in bright shawls, perched in gigs; poles of carriages appear, uninvited, in the midst of social parties in phatons; little, fast, short-stepping ponies run up carriage-wheels before they can be stopped, and hold on behind like footmen. Now, the gentleman who is unaccustomed to public driving, gets into astonishing perplexities. Now, the Hansom cab whisks craftily in and out, and seems occasionally to fly over a wagon or so. Now, the postboy on a jobbing or a shying horse, curses the evil hour of his birth, and is ingloriously assisted by the shabby hostler out of place, who is walking down with seven shabby companions more or less equine, open to the various chances of the road. Now, the air is fresh, and the dust flies thick and fast. Now, the canvasbooths upon the course are seen to glisten and flutter in the distance. Now, the adventurous vehicles make cuts across, and get into ruts and gravel-pits. Now, the heather in bloom is like a field of gold, and the roar of voices is like a wind. Now, we leave the hard road and go smoothly rolling over the soft green turf, attended by an army of unfortunate worshippers in red jackets and stable-jackets, who make a very Juggernaut car of our equipage, and now breathlessly call us "My Lord," and now," Your Honor." Now, we pass the outer settlement of tents where pots and kettles are-where gipsy children are-where airy stabling is—where tares for horses may be bought-where water, water, water, is proclaimed-where the Tumbler in an old pea-coat, with a spangled fillet round his head, eats oysters, while his wife takes care of the golden globes and the knives, and also of the starry little boy, their son, who lives principally upsidedown. Now, we pay one pound at the barrier, and go faster on, still Juggernaut wise, attended by our devotees, until at last we are drawn, and rounded, and backed, and sidled, and cursed, and complimented, and vociferated into a station on the hill opposite the Grand Stand, where we presently find ourselves on foot, much bewildered, waited on by five respectful persons, who will brush us all at once. Well, to be sure, there never was such a Derby Day, as this present Derby Day! Never, to be sure, were there so many carriages, so many fours, so many twos, so many ones, so many horsemen, so many people who have come down by "rail," so many fine ladies in so many broughams, so many of Fortnum and Mason's hampers, so much ice and champagne! If I were on the turf, and had a horse to enter for the Derby, I would call that horse Fortnum and Mason, convinced that with that name he would beat the field. Public opinion would bring him in somehow. Look where I will-in some connection with the carriages-made fast upon the top, or occupying the box, or tied up behind, or dangling below, or peeping out of window-I see Fortnum and Mason. And now, Heavens! all the hampers fly wide open, and the green Downs burst into a blossom of lobster-salad! As if the great Trafalgar signal had been suddenly displayed from the top of the Grand Stand, every man proceeds to “do his duty." The weaker spirits, who were ashamed to set the great example, follow it instantly, and all around me there are tablecloths, pies, chickens, hams, tongues, rolls, lettuces, radishes, shell-fish, broad-bottomed bottles, clinking glasses, and carriages turned inside out. Amidst the hum of voices a bell rings. What's that? What's the matter? They are clearing the course. Never mind. Try the pigeon-pie. A roar. What's the matter? It's only the dog upon the course. Is that all Glass of wine. Another roar. What's that? It's only the man who wants to cross the course, and is intercepted, and brought back. Is that all? I wonder whether it is always the same dog and the same man, year after year! A great roar. What's the matter? By Jupiter they are going to start. A deeper hum and a louder roar. Every body standing on Fortnum and Mason. Now they're off! No. Now they're off! No. Now they're off. No. Now they are! Yes! There they go! Here they come! Where? Keep your eye on Tattenham Corner, and you'll see 'em coming round in half a minute. Good gracious, look at the Grand Stand, piled up with human beings to the top, and at the wonderful effect of changing light as all their faces, and uncovered heads turn suddenly this way! Here they are! Who is? The horses! Where? Here they come! Green first. No: Red first. No: Blue first. No: the Favorite first. Who says so? Look! Hurrah! Hurrah! All over. Glorious race. Favorite wins! Two hundred thousand pounds lost and won. You don't say so? Pass the pie! Now, the pigeons fly away with the news Now, every one dismounts from the top of Fortnum and Mason, and falls to work with greater earnestness than before, on carriage boxes, sides, tops, wheels, steps, roofs, and rumbles. Now, the living stream upon the course, dammed for a little while at one point, is released, and spreads like particolored grain. Now, the roof of the Grand Stand is deserted. Now, rings are formed upon the course, where strong men stand in pyramids on one another's heads; where the Highland lady dances; where the Devonshire Lad sets-to with the Bantam; where the Tumbler throws the golden globes about, with the starry little boy tied round him in a knot. Now, all the variety of human riddles who propound themselves on race-courses, come about the carriages, to be guessed. Now, the gipsy woman, with the flashing red or yellow handkerchief about her head, and the strange silvery-hoarse voice, appears, " pretty gentleman, to tell your fortin, sir; for you have a merry eye, my gentleman, and surprises is in store; for you're connected with a dark lady as loves you better than you love a kiss in a dark corner when the moon's a-shining; for you have a lively 'art, my gentleman, and you shall know her secret thoughts, and the first and last letters of her name, my pretty gentleman, if you will cross your poor gipsy's hand with a little bit of silver, for the luck of the fortin as the gipsy will read true, from the lines of your hand, my gentleman, both as to what is past, and present, and to |