go to Epsom, are compulsorily conveyed (howling
the while) to Brighton or Dover instead.
The twenty thousand that say that it is a
shame and that they will write to the Times,
together with the ten thousand that do write,
and don't get their letters inserted. The
hundreds that lose their handkerchiefs,
watches, and temper. The two or three
benign men who haven't anything on the race,
and say that really, all things considered, the
Company have done as well as could reasonably
be expected for the public—as if any one
expected anything in reason on the Derby Day!
The road with the solemn drags full of, and
surmounted by, solemn guardsmen—hearses
of the Household Cavalry. The open carriages,
close carriages, chaises, carts, omnibuses, stage
coaches full of familiar faces. Everybody there,
on the rail and on the road, on the Derby Day,
The House of Lords, and the House of
Commons, the Bar, the Bench, the Army, the Navy,
and the Desk; May Fair and Rag Fair, Park
Lane and Petticoat Lane, the Chapel Royal
and Whitechapel, Saint James's and Saint
Giles's. Give me a pen plucked from the
wing of a roc (the most gigantic bird known,
I think); give me a scroll of papyrus as long
as the documents in a Chancery suit; give me
a river for an ink-bottle, and then I should
be scant of space to describe the road that
leads to the course, the hill, the grand stand,
the gipsies, the Ethiopian serenaders, the
clouds of horsemen, like Bedouins of the
desert, flying towards Tattenham Corner; the
correct cards that never are correct; the dog
that always gets on the course and never can
get off again, and that creates as much amusement
in his agony as though he had been
Mr. Merryman. The all-absorbing, thrilling,
soul-riveting race. The "Now they're off!"
''Now they're coming round!" "Here they
come!" "Black cap!" "Blue cap!" Green
jacket!" "Red jacket!" "Red jacket it
is, hurrah!" followed by the magic numbers
at the grand stand, the flight of the
pigeons, and the changing of hands of
unnumbered thousand pounds. The throwing
at the sticks. The chickens, the salads,
the fillings of young bodies with old wine, the
repasts on wheels, and hobnobbings over
splinter-bars. The broken glasses, cracked
heads, rumpled bonnets, flushed faces. The
road home! The Cock at Sutton, and a "quiet"
cup of tea there. The chaffing, the abuse, the
indictable language. The satirical crowd on
Kennington Common. The Derby Day, in a
word: and all for what? Where are the
causes to these most mighty effects. Look
around, student of " Bell's Life," and see them
in the slender race-horses, the stud of a gentleman
going abroad, to be sold without reserve.

Change we the theme, for of horseflesh you
must have had more than enough. Else, had
I space besides and time, I would touch upon
the fatidici vati, the sporting prophets, already
touched upon in this journal. Else, should
you hear strange stories of stables, and
nobbled horses, and rare feats of jockeyship,
Else, would I introduce you, "Bell's Life" reading
neophyte, to one of these same jockeys, a
weary, haggard, slouching little man, all
mummified in baggy great-coats, and drinking
brandy-and-water tremulously—a very
different spectacle from the trim, natty, spruce
little jock, with the snowy leathers and the
lustrous tops and the rainbow jacket, who is
in earnest confab with his owner before the
race; or, after it, and after winning, is cheered
enthusiastically up and down the course, or
who leans indolently over the balcony of the
Grand Stand, flacking his horsewhip to shake
hands with lords. But "Bell's Life," my friend,
has as many phases as human life has, and
we must hurry to another.
The Ring! Fights to come! Not many,
thank Heaven—thank reading, writing, and
arithmetic; and yet, one, two, three columns
are devoted to the Ring. Jack Nimmo and
the Grotto Passage pet, for fifty pounds a
side. The Nottingham Bruiser and Bandy
Starling, at catch weight, for ten pounds a
side. Tom Knuckles will fight Ned Lumsden
(the Butcher) for twenty pounds, and his
money is ready at Mr. Fibbs, the Knowledge
Box, Chancery Lane. Toby Nutts, of
Birmingham, is surprised that the Sheffield
Toddler has not made good the last deposit;
he is to be heard of at the Bunch of Fives,
Rampant Horse Street, Norwich. Tass Cokerconk
writes to correct an error that has crept
into your valuable paper, as I did not strike
foul, and being at present out of town (Tass
is wanted for a little matter of hocussing and
card-sharping), and so on. We are delighted
to see that our old friend, Friskey Wappem,
is to be found every other evening at Jemmy
Crab's, the Leg of Mutton Fist, Bell Alley,
where he gives lessons in the noble art of
self-defence to noblemen and gentlemen. N.B.
Gloves provided. Sparring by the pick of the
fancy; and every alternate evening devoted
to harmony by first-rate professionals.

I take it for granted that you have never
seen a prize fight. I hope you never will;
yet, conscientiously pelligrinising as we are
through "Bell's Life," I don't think I shall
be wrong in showing you one, in the spirit—
as a scarecrow and an example.

The fight between Lurky Snaggs and Dan
Pepper—the Kiddy. A steam-boat—"The
Pride of the River"—has been chartered for
the momentous occasion, for the fight is to
take place at some—to the uninitiated—
carefully-concealed place on the Kent or Essex
shore. A trip by rail was at first contemplated:
a railway company, with an ardour
and enthusiasm for the P. R. which did them
honour, having offered handsome terms and
every accommodation in the way of special
trains; but old Sol Abrams, the Nestor of
the Ring, reminded the promoters of the
cheerful exhibition that a county magistrate,
determined to stop the fight, might balk
their battle-ground from station to station,