THE LONDON CARNIVAL.
rruE Derby of 1864 is gathered to its eighty-four predecessors, 1_ and some three million, of Londoners have now a dreary twelve months during which to look forward to the recurrence of their one universal holiday—the one day of the year on which the national character is so thoroughly revolutionized, and all conven-, tional rules of national behaviour so completely set at defiance that the most ingenious theory ever framed by any foreigner— intelligent, or distinguished, or both—to account for the outward phenomena of English life ibreaks hopelessly down, while even Englishmen who have never themselves assisted, read, or listen with pained incredulity to any really faithful description of a scene so utterly at variance with all preconceived notions of what their eountrymen ought to do on such an occasion. Since the days of Froisrsart it has been true on the whole that Englishmen amuse themselves moult tristement, but in his time there were dances on the village green on May day and mummers at Christmas. The fair was the event of the year for all classes in every country town. Masques were performed in the Middle Temple Hall, and the burning of the yule log the signal round every hearth for at least one night during the year of hearty and unrestrained festivity. In our present system of society all these outlets for exuberance of spirits are gone, and as a general rule the sneer of the acute annalist is even more true than when he uttered it. Nothing can possibly be, from a natural point of view, more gloomy, depressing, and altogether &isle— one must use a foreign word to express what is of necessity an external view—than the run of English amusements. That it is so is admitted on all hands, and half the social sarcasm of the age is directed against the miseries of fashionable receptions, the comfortless formality of fashionable dinners, the doubly depressing because doubly unreal con- ventionalism of the stage, the dull absence of individuality, and the forced artificiality in every phase of social life. But confirmed as we are in these habits it would be impossible for a poPulation like that of London to exist without some safety-valve for the innate braving for at least one day in a year of boisterous fun and freedom from all restraint whatever, and this want is now supplied by a carnival held on a racecourse in a little country town some sixteen miles from London. It is true that there are many races in England almost rivalling the Derby in technical importance, but now that railways and trade have made London the home of nearly a seventh of the British population, the London race mast be the race of the kingdom, and the fact that a bed at an hotel on Tuesday last was a simply unattainable luxury proves how thoroughly the country accepts the Derby as the social festival of the year. Eliminating the purely sporting element, Ascot is merely an aristocratic assemblage, the Oaks a. piquant bit of dissipation for ladies, the St. Leger is dear to the heart of every true Yorkshireman,. good cockneys when they die may possibly be translated to a perennial Hampton racecourse, fast Cambridge men and horsy gents throughout the Eastern Counties look upon Newmarket as the very Mecca of the sporting callus, and its visitors as sanctified Halijis ; but the Derby is the race. of Londoners of all classes, consequently the race of Englishmen in general, and by a curious combination of circumstances the one occasion on which the Median and Persian laws of three hundred and sixty-four days of the year may be safely defied.. For one day in the year a respectable citizen may cast off his prim demeanour and irreproachable get-up, assume a false nose, play at Aunt Sally, garnish his hat with scantily- attired dolls, and even blow a tin trumpet on the knife- board of an omnibus without incurring the ban of his friends, while the same line of conduct pursued on any other day of the. year, or at any other place, would simply amount to social suicide.. It must be admitted that a certain conventionality has sprung up in even the rites of the Derby-day but as long as the observance is so thoroughly at variance with all other conventionalities it little matters that the inventive genius of the day is rarely displayed in any departure from the time-honoured insignia of "jolly noses" and dolls. Of course there are always tens of thousands present. who can scarcely be said to be subjected, when they are at home, to any very severe social restraints; but even in the New Cut eti- quette places a limit to eccentricity of head-gear, and the privilege of wearing red and tall paper plumes of divers colours in their hats. is clearly a relief to them.
The Derby of last Wednesday presented no very novel feature to the accustomed visitor. There were certainly more people than ever, and it is an open question whether there was not more dust. than ever. The absolute limit of numbers that can reach Epsom by road by three o'clock must have been reached long ago, and the railways brought down the chief portion of the excess over previous years. The arrangements of the South-Western were— for this occasion only—admirable. By means of extensive loans of rolling stock the authorities were enabled to despatch trains at. little more than five-minute intervals, so that there was scarcely ever time for a crowd to accumulate at the terminus. The insane warning posted up by Sir Richard Mayne to "avoid crowds as much as possible" was very like Punch's celebrated advice to per- sons about to marry ; but the borders of the course may at least be reached by rail without any overwhelming crush being encountered.. Onceon the Downs the accustomed scene displayed itself in even more than ordinary bizarre impressiveness. There was gathered together what was certainly one of the largest crowds ever assem- bled since the days when Xerxes and Darius used to invade Greece with a moderate-sized nation for an army. Without dilat- ing upon the imaginary spectacle of a typical peer being elbowed by a typical costermonger, which recurs so frequently to the excited imagination of penny-a-liners that it must once have had some foundation in fact, it is safe to assert that with certain necessary exceptions every rank or station in life was repre- sented. The Prince of Wales was there, and owing to the excep- tional character of the occasion to a great extent escaped the obtrusively demonstrative loyalty which approaches so near to flunkeyism. The dense mass of coronetted four-in-hand drags and handsome carriages that lined the brow of the hill stood out in bold relief to the canvass town of booths and tents erected on the summit, while the incongruous assortment of the lees aristocratic vehicles which occupied every available spot round the course was as remarkable as ever. After the insignificant race which precedes the Derby had been run, the monotonous ringing of the bell pro- claimed the clearing of the course for the great event. Every one knows the inevitable episodes of this proceeding, and not one was absent on Wednesday,—not even the frantic rush of the dog, or ghost of a dog who for some frightful canine crime is doomed to do penance on every Derby day by running round the course amidst the howls and jeers of 100,000 spectators. At last, after seven or eight of the false starts so common of late years, which must seriously affect the result of the race, and certainly try the nerves of the spectators to a most prejudicial extent, a start was made. Everybody now knows the details of the race, and we need only repeat that the favourite diappointed the thousands whose hopes were centred in him, that Blair Athol, a racer of the veriest sangre azul, but hitherto known in the jargon of the turf as a "dark horse" collared him soon after the corner, and that all the renowned skill of Aldcroft in "rushes" failed to bring Lord Glasgow's colours up to the post. A deafening shout from the Yorkshire party contrasted with the "dead silence" amidst the Peelite multitude, the pigeons were sent up, the number 19 put up, and all was over.
Now began what to the great multitude present was really the fun of the day. From the fortunate thousands whose attendants unpacked Fortnum and Mason's hampers on the top of drags, down to the less fortunate but contented tens of thousands who fought, scrambled for seats at half crown "collations," everybody ate as much as was good for them, and it must be added that the majority drank a good deal more. The fun on the hills soon grew fast and furious—fast in more than one sense of the word, and considerably more furious than was always quite pleasant. Stout, brandy, and champagne in large doses increase the impetus with which Aunt Sally sticks are whistled through the air, without increasing the precision of the thrower's aim, and where, as was the case in one place, an archery range happened to cross that of an Aunt Sally establishment, those unhappy people who always will stray into wrong places had a hard time of it. By an hour or so after the Derby the carnival was at its height, and the spectacle of Englishmen enjoying themselves might be seen to perfection. What would strike a stranger most forcibly would be the strange mixture of violent language and practical good humour, occasional brutality and aggregate love of fair play, exhibited by the multitude. Heavy eating and drinking go a long way to make the whole world kin, and in many points there was a curious homogeneity in a crowd so strangely composed. On the whole, considering the large admixture of the "lowest lowers," and the general tone of recklessness and violence that seemed to pervade the crowd, it is one of the most mar- vellous characteristics of English " enjoyment " that so few quarrels or accidents occurred. Fortunately the real nature of the English lower orders is far from corresponding to their language, or the scene would have been very different. There were times and places on the hill where the buzz of conversation simply resolved itself into a recurrence of certain malevolent phras,..s which appear in the glossary of certain classes, like Chinese monosyllables, to vary in meaning infinitely according to the accentuation of the speaker. But for all this there wer6 very few quarrels, and of them the worst that we saw was in a group of an outwardly by far better class. Indeed, if report speak true, the most violent fracas of the day was one which owed its disgraceful character to the position of the parties concerned as well as to the mode of its origin. As the afternoon wore on towards sunset, the multitude began to move off by the thousand down the narrow shady lane that leads down to Epsom. Drags, omnibuses, vans, carts, gigs, —in short every imaginable vehicle that could possibly, and a good many that could not possibly, live through such dangerous navigation, were crammed together in one apparently in- extricable mass. The chaff was at its height, and as ruffianism had scarcely begun to leave yet, the repartees were rather wittier, much more good humoured, and decidedly less objectionable than those of a later period. Breaks-down without end of course occurred ; but crowded as every vehicle seemed, there was always room somewhere for the crew of the wrecked con- veyance. So the stream of red-nosed, paper-bonneted, doll- adorned humanity, slowly forged ahead until the broader road
between Epsom and Ewell allowed a slight but temporary increase of pace. Every public house was of course the scene of a dead block, and the public-houses are by no means unfrequent on the road. Before sunset, the vanguard had reached Clapham, and here began in earnest the "stoning of the prophets," carried as usual to rather too great lengths. If people will go to the Derby in good clothes they ought not to grumble at their being spoilt by flour bags. But the ruffians who throw rotten eggs ought to be condemned to a diet of their own missiles; people who unite the vices of extravagance and ferocity in hurling cocoa- nuts at the heads of inoffensive strangers deserve summary punishment ; and one objects strongly to pea-shooting, unless in- deed the misfortune of being hit in the eyes only happens to one of our best friends, and not to ourselves. It was not until long past midnight that the last troops of dirty, wearied, and depressed pilgrims rolled into London from their day's peculiarly English enjoyment.
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