THE DERBY OF 1865.

BY OUR OWN FRENCH SPORTING CORRESPONDENT.

I.

London, Tuesday, 30 May, 1865. Ir is the eve of the Holy Derbi-ceremonial, international, quasihistoric-to the least, hippic and august! Derbi-town to which CHARLES EDWARD, with his Highlanders, promenaded himself in 1745 -town represented in the Chamber of Britannic Commons by SIR STANLEY, père, translator of this good old HOMER-Derbi will find itself to-morrow refreshed, rejoicing, ebullient; but also, on my faith, powderous and encumbered.

They come to inform me that the course will not be held this year at Derbi itself. Ha! ha! proud aristocrats of the most insular, is it then that ye fear to hold head against the populations industrial and reformatory of the more democratic cities? The race is to be on Epsom's Salt Sands, or "Downs," a gloomy recess amidst the dense forests of Countysurreyshire, haunt of gipsies, sombre, immemorial, terrible, hidden from the publicity which is the necessity of the epoch and the guarantee of truth. Only a few of the more devoted lovers of the chase will, they tell me, be at Epsom's to-morrow. We shall see.

The eve-it is the time of the doubt, the uncertainty, the terror ! Shine forth, oh, Star of the Morning, organ of Jonbriggts!

I have gone-so assures me my English friend, one of your redactors the most distinguished-to Tatter's Hall. It gives upon the River Thames, close to the Tower of London, and appears to be merely a market for the sale of the fish. Insular hypocrisy! It is here that the indolent patricians, the oligarchical Sybarites-an EARL RUSSELL of the Times, a SHAFTESBURY, and a Rous, relic of an age heroic, the sole survivor who escaped from our victorious ships at Trafalgar-it

is here, in this Tatter's Hall, that they make wagers of the most insensate and enormous. I will unveil them! I will unmask them!

But to-day I saw them not.

And yet, oh, sacred genius of the old Britannic freedom! oh, spirit of progressive democracy! I have instantly been asked whether I should object to make one with a sweep! The objection, may it please you? The pretty question! Welcome, son of toil!

My friend has organized our programme. We shall not couch ourselves to-night. No! we must be fresh, vivid, alert, when the first rays of the sun, so beautiful, so fructuous, steal faintly through the obscurity, tenebrous and profound, that broods around the dome of Saint Powell's, or the piazza of the garden by the Convent.

We have engaged-it is to say, my English friend thus assures me seats in a "trappe." We shall have but seven companions

1. Lord Samuel Warren's Blacking Stormy Hail (Mayor of London).

2. Sir Edward Licking Dickings (author of The Last Days of Pickwick).

3. The Earl of Potter (member for Rochdale, ouvrier).

4. Bobby (old jokei of the most renowned).

5. The Archbishop of the Canterbury Hall.

6. Little Tootsicums (a blonde beauty of the English). 7. Arabellica (idem).

Many of these are with me to-night. We are to meet the miladies in the morn. We quicken our vivacity by the joyous grapes of Kent, and Captain Richard Burton-upon-Trent, the wine of the country.

I bound with excitement-my temples throb-there is a sound in my ears-a cry of millions-a cry, "Gladiateur wins!" Or do I dream? No! no! heroic LAGRANGE, it is for thee to repeat the victories of La Toucques! Yes; I trust to thee my aspirations, my future, my fortune! I disdain to accept the contemptuous terms that are offered

London, Wednesday, 31 May, 1865.

That it is potent, this malt liquor of the Briton; how it mounts to the head, deadening and demoralizing even the brain the most active and the most fecund. Bring me soda-water; bring me brandy. I shall need to-day the full command of my intelligence. Not a single precaution, however unusual, must be neglected. I will even wash my face.

The morning is bright. I accept the omen. O sun of France, of Champagne, and Languedoc-or, as my English friend says, "Sparkling champagne and languid 'ock"-shine thou to-day upon the triumph of the Gladiateur, who has galloped so often beneath thy rays. Victory, victory!

III.

Epsom's, Wednesday, 31 May, 1865. Effectively behold us here at last. The journey has been long, The dignity of France has often been insulted in my person, and it has been impossible for me to punish the offender. The barbarians have made remarks of the most derisive upon my costume, which is rigorous to the height of fashion, and such as have seen their own milords wear in the stalls of their vaunted opera: a plain "dresscoat," an Isle of Wight choker, an open vest, trousers of the same sombre hue, the gloves white as winter snow. That it is pretty, that it is graceful, I will not say; that it is eminently English, and exactly suited to a fashionable celebration like the Holy Derbi, I pledge ye my word of a gentleman.

They were mocking themselves of me when they said that the course would be attended only by a few, and that Epsom's is a tangled thicket in the heart of an old wood. It is an open heath, and see! already it is almost covered by the visitors. Can it be that the people, the proletarians, are assembling to crush their traditionary oppressors? I ask my companion, the Earl of Potter, and he says me "Yes;" but there is a smile upon his face-a smile cynic and perfidious.

And, for myself, I see no signs of popular indignation. They enjoy themselves, those English there; they eat, they drink, they smoke, epicureans and gastronomers that they are.

All their celebrities are here. There is Archdeacon Boucicault, Mees Arrahbellagoddardnapogue, Undersheriff De Jersey, Calcraft, and all the other subordinate officers of justice, and the little dog that is kept to run along the course before the race. Ha! ha! PALMERSTONES, I take off my hat to thee, illustrious old one! He smiles me in revenge.

Some of the little competitions may interest the frivolous. I wait

for the Derbi himself.

FROM OUR STALL.

[EDITOR'S NOTE.-A word of explanation is due to our readers. Our critic is a man of PALMERSTONIAN, SIR-ISAAC-NEWTONIAN, BACONIAN intellect, but he is as guileless and impressionable as a girl. If the simple fellow gets at all interested in a topic he is absolutely engrossed by it. He can talk and think of nothing else. It swamps every other consideration. Last June this child-like, guileless scholar was induced to lay a thousand to sixty against Breadalbane for the Derby that is to be run to-day, and as the hour of the race approaches, the excitement that possesses his baby-soul becomes overpowering. In the innocence and purity of his nature he is unable to see that his fellow-man is apt to get rather bored after six weeks of this sort of thing.]

(aged), of Transatlantic celebrity-made his first appearance at the A fortnight ago MR. WALCOT, an American horse-we mean man Olympic Theatre in the character of Major Wellington de Top Boots -no, De Boots-in MR. STIRLING COYNE's capital comedy, A Thousand amount of dry humour-so dry, in fact, that we found it necessary to to Sixty-we should say Everybody's Friend. He possesses a certain pass the greater portion of our evening with the cherry brandy in the refreshment-room; but his action is angular and spasmodic, and, like almost all other horses from the same stable, he is a good deal given to public indulgence in five-shilling expletives. We do not think he is ever likely to distinguish himself in the important meeting for which he has been entered, and we are prepared to lay a thousand to sixty that in a few weeks he will subside into a useful but undignified theatrical hack. It is only fair to say that he appeared to be favourably considered by the "gentlemen" who backed him freely. Every stall and loose box in the stable was occupied.

We hear that MR. CHAPLIN'S Breadalbane is suffering from a secret sprain; or, in other words, MR. STRANGE, of the Alhambra, has placed a new ballet and an illuminated fountain upon his stage in a manner which cannot fail to reward his enterprising disposition. If he would only abolish the comic singing, and especially abolish a certain terribly repulsive song called, "Speak up like a Man!" yelled forth by a masculine woman whose name we do not know, we would lay a thousand to sixty that he would reap the physical satisfaction of receipts as excellent as those which he now pockets, and the moral satisfaction of knowing that he was catering for a higher class of audience than the pipy snobs who alone could be pleased by such a performance as the one to which we have alluded.

We don't know why, but we always prefer the Hill. The view is much better, and the chances of losing your thousand or winning your sixty (supposing you have laid a thousand to sixty on, let us say, Breadalbane) can be watched for a considerable distance. This was the prevailing idea in our mind during the peformance of that dreary work, Midas, at Astley's the other evening. The Beggar's Opera preceded it, MISS PYNE and MISS REBECCA ISAACS singing the music of Polly Peachum and Lucy Lockit in a manner which left nothing to be desired: Miss PYNE is always charming, both as a singer and as an actress, and her performance in the Beggar's Opera at Astley's is as studied and as finished as anything she ever did at Covent Garden. We wish we could speak as favourably of her collaborateur, MR. WILLIAM BReadAlbane, whose running at the Spring Meeting has sent him back to 11 to 1. He will be at a thousand to sixty again before two o'clock on the 31st.

FROM OUR STOYLE.

By a miscorrection of the reader, which we may as well rectify at once, MR. TOOLE's name was printed for MR. STOYLE'S in our last week's notice of the latter gentleman's performance in Up Stairs and Down Stairs. Our readers, who have heard much about the jealousy that characterizes theatrical celebrities, will be glad to learn that these two gentlemen were observed to shake each other heartily by the hand in the Strand on the day after the publication of the number