an impromptu ring. There is no formal set-to
here, no "squaring" of arms and fists, no knowing
posturing of back, and head, and body—it
is the savage combat of two wild animals, who
bite, and scratch, and kick, and fall upon each
other like hungry wolves. It is over in a few
seconds, for tney tumble down with a dead
thump upon the turf: the haggard hollow-
cheeked wretch undermost: just as a policeman
breaks through the outer circle, and lays about
him with his staff. The shock of the fall has
brought blood from the nose and ears of the
man who complains of having been defrauded;
while his opponent makes off, scratched and
torn and breathless, but carrying away the pitiful
little prize for which both have bled.

Tired and disgusted, we next turn towards
the railway station. To gain this from the hill,
we pass the corner where the two streams of
departing carriages from hill and course converge.
Every evil we have seen is intensified here. The
mob is so numerous as to form a ragged army.
In disorderly bands, each hundreds strong,
it dances round the vehicles, and uses every
device to worry and excite respectably dressed
riders into retaliation. Costermongers' carts
have been robbed of their oranges, and these are
freely thrown. Some hot-headed young fellows
are weak enough to fall into the trap, and
accepting the insulting challenges thrown out,
descend to fight. In vain do the policemen
warn them against trusting themselves in the
crowd, with, "There is but two or three o' you,
remember, and there's hundreds of them." They
go in valiantly, and are speedily sent back wrecks.
Hats, cravats, and coats gone, and their owners
bruised, and sore, and breathless, regain their
carriage to meditate on the genial amenities of the
Derby. At this juncture the strong unruly
detachments of roughs are in speech, conduct, and
demeanour, like the people I nave beheld waiting
to see one of their fellows publicly strangled in
the Old Bailey, or hanging on the outskirts of
other great assemblages, for plunder and rapine.
Their game is to fling missiles in all directions,
and when retaliation is attempted, to turn fun
into business by hustling, robbing, and maltreating
the daring spirit.

But sadder than all this were the pale
frightened faces of some respectable young girls,
who, seated in an open carriage with their father,
had somehow got entangled in this fringe of
drunkenness and vice. Happily, they would not
be likely to understand much of the unutterably
foul speech they heard. But they covered their
heads and faces with shawls and wraps, and
shudderingly clung together, as if for mutual
protection, while the mocking crew yelling about
them insisted, with many indecent oaths, that
they were drunk, and could barely be restrained
from plucking back their covering. Their father,
a gallant-looking old gentleman, entirely lost his
head, and after angrily and fruitlessly directing
his postilion "to get away, anywhere—anywhere
away from these wretches," had to sit by,
bewildered, while his daughters were outraged by
their horrible surroundings.

The half-naked battered man we saw being led
towards the station was one of the "welchers"
who had been exposed and beaten out of the
betting-ring earlier in the day. An utterly
worthless scamp, who made bets and received
stakes without the most remote intention of
paying his losses, his chastisement was of
course merited. Yet, as he limped painfully
along, and every now and then putting his hand
to his bandaged head, looked vacantly around,
it was impossible to withhold commiseration.
To be publicly thrashed by many infuriated
men, to have one's garments torn and one's
body bruised; to be marked as a swindler by
professional visitors of every race-course in
England, and to be now making for home
branded, penniless, forlorn, and writhing at
every step, seemed a heavier punishment for
swindling than even the law awards, and
suggests some curious reflections as to the various
degrees of moral turpitude and the penalties
attached to them by the world.

The distant hills were rapidly becoming misty
and indistinct when we left the Downs; and the
sounds of revelry were still coming up from the
course and from the hill. The "fun" was as
vicious, the road as drunken and disorderly, the
basest passions as predominant, as ever; and
the dreadful scenes described were being
duplicated, turn which way we would. There were
of course plenty of decent people in carts and
vans, who were simply jolly and good tempered.
But of the ragged roughs on the one hand, and
the gaily-dressed vicious people, both male and
female, on the other, who prolonged their
festival of riot long after the races were over, it
is impossible to speak with too much loathing
and contempt. They were below the level of
animals the foulest and most obscene; and
henceforth, when I hear the British moralist
declaiming against the licence of the Continent,
or the British optimist expatiating on the
Englishman's honest hearty enjoyment of his Derby
Day, I shall take the liberty of reverting to the
evidence of my senses, and of asserting that
there is a great deal in the Derby Day highly
desirable to be swept off the face of the earth.

SHAKESPEARE SUMMED UP.

THERE was a time when the biography of
Shakespeare consisted only of such traditions
as were collected by Nicholas Rowe, and
corroborated by Pope or Theobald; and then it was
thought that these contributions to the poet's
life gave a fair enough idea of the man and his
age. But now that these traditions have been
generally repudiated, there is a tendency on the
other hand to exaggerate our ignorance, and to
take up with the hasty notion that nothing at
all is known of Shakespeare, and the growth
of his mind and fortunes. Even Mr. Hallam
goes to the length of asserting that "we scarcely
know anything," that "we see him—as far as
we do see him—not in himself, but in a reflex
image," nay, that "to us he is scarcely a
determined person, a substantial reality." Now,
this is an extreme which requires correction,