Chapter XXXVII (3)

"Oh, it was rather a _fiasco_, but we had some fun. Some predicted that the fashionables would come back, but they didn't, except a few of the young men; and all of our set that were there threatened to go out of costume; but then we recollected that would have been a very Irish way of serving out Mr. Grabster, as by the established regulation in such cases, we should have had to pay double for tickets; so most of us took sailors' or firemen's dresses--the cheapest and commonest disguises we could get; and the ladies made some trivial addition to their ordinary ball-dresses--a wreath or a few extra flowers--and called themselves brides, or Floras, and so on. And some of the crack Bostonians blasphemed the expense, and went in plain clothes. So we had the consolation of making fun of all the outsiders, and their attempts at costume--such supernumeraries as most of them were! And none of the _comme-il-faut_ people would serve on the committee, so Grabster had nobody to get up the room in proper style, and it looked like a 'Ripton' ball-room; and _The Sewer_ reporters were there, in all their glory. The Irishman had borrowed or stolen a uniform somewhere, and the Frenchman was appropriately arrayed in red as a devil, and he went about taking notes of all the people's dresses, especially the ladies'; and as our ladies were not in costume, he thought he must have something to do with them, and so presented some of them with bouquets, which they wouldn't take, of course; and the young men trod on his toes and elbowed him off till he swore he would put them all in his paper. And we danced away, notwithstanding _The Sewer_ and all its works. Tom Edwards was accoutred as Mose the fireman, and Sumner had an old French _debardeur_ dress of his, just the thing for the occasion, only his shoes were too big; and after tripping up himself and his partner four times, he kicked them off clean into the orchestra, and fearfully aggravated the fiddlers; and he took it as coolly as he does every thing--put on a pair of ordinary boots, and was polking away again in five minutes. And we kept it up till two in the morning, polka chiefly, with a sprinkling of _deuxtemps_, and then had a very bad supper, and some very bad wine, of Mr. Grabster's providing--genuine New Jersey champagne. How we looked after the dancing! Sumner's _debardeur_ shirt might have been wrung out, it was so wet; and Mrs. Harrison--she had got herself up as Undine--was dripping enough for half-a-dozen water-nymphs; and Miss Friskin had a shiny green silk dress; we had been polking together, and my white waistcoat, and pants, and cravat, were all stained green, as if I had been playing with a gigantic butterfly. And then after supper, when there was no one but our German cotillion set left, and just as we had put the chairs in order, the musicians struck work, and would not play any more (you know what an impracticable, conceited, obstinate brute a third-rate German musician is), saying they were only bound to play just so long; so I gave them a good slanging in their own tongue (I know German enough to blow up a man, and a fine strong language it is for the purpose); and White swore it was too bad, and Edwards tried to make them a conciliatory speech--only he was too tipsy to talk straight; and Sumner offered them fifty dollars to go on playing. Thereupon, up and spake the big bass-viol,--'We ton't want your money; we want to be dreated like chentlemens;' and then Frank lost his temper. 'I'll treat you,' says he; and with that he delivered right and left into the bass-viol, and knocked him through his own instrument; and then some one knocked Sumner over the head with a trombone;--then we all set to, and gave the musicians their change (we owed them a little before, for it wasn't the first time they had been saucy to us,) and we thrashed them essentially, and comminuted a few of their instruments. And half-a-dozen of the Irish waiters came out, with their sleeves rolled up, to fight for the honor of the house, and protect Mr. Grabster's property--meaning the musicians, I suppose;--and Haralson of Alabama, one of your regular six-feet-two-in-his-stockings South Western men, who had come North to learn the polka, and become civilized--Haralson pulled out a Bowie and swore he would whistle them up if they didn't make themselves scarce. By Jove! you should have seen the Paddies scud! And I caught _The Sewer_ reporter (the Irish one) in the _melee_, and let him have a kick that landed him in the middle of the floor, telling him he might put that into his next letter, and afterwards go to a place worse even than _The Sewer_ office. Then, after all the enemy were fairly routed, we adjourned to my parlor. I had some good champagne of my own, and a _pate_ or two, and some Firmezas, and we held a jolly revel till four o'clock, and then the ladies retired, and we quiet married men did the same, and the boys went to fight the tiger, and Edwards lost 1400 dollars, and some of them took to running foot-races for a bet on the post-road. Haralson outran all the rest--and his senses too--and was found next evening about five miles up the road with no coat or hat, and one stocking off and the other stocking on, like my son John in the nursery rhyme, and his watch and purse gone. And _The Sewer_ and _Inexpressible_ said that it was the most brilliant ball that had occurred within the memory of the oldest inhabitants. And that's a pretty fair synopsis of the whole proceedings."

By this time they were off the pavement,--a change very sensible and desirable to man and horse, for an American pavement is something beyond imagination or description, and must be experienced to be understood. The ponies, without waiting for the word, went off on their long steady stroke at three-quarters speed, and though the day was warm and the road heavy, stepped over the first three miles in twelve minutes, as Benson took care to show Ashburner by his watch. They challenged wagon after wagon, but no one seemed inclined to race at this stage of the proceedings, and they glided quietly by every thing. Only once was heard the sound of competing feet, when a black pacer swept up, with two tall wheels behind him, and a man mysteriously balanced between them. "After the sulky is manners," said Harry, slackening his speed, and giving the pacer a wide berth; and the man on the wheels whizzed by like a mammoth insect, and was soon lost to view amid a cloud of dust.

And now they arrived at a tavern where the owners of "fast crabs" were wont to repose, to water their horses, and brandy-and-water themselves. The former operation is performed very sparingly, the supply of liquid afforded to the animals consisting merely of a spongeful passed through their mouths; the latter is usually conducted on more liberal principles. But as our friends felt no immediate desire to liquor, Benson amused himself while the horses rested by putting down his top, for the sky had slightly clouded over,--a favorable circumstance, he remarked, for the trot. Just as he was starting his ponies, with a chirrup, a tandem developed itself from under the shed, and its driver greeted him with a friendly nod.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Losing," quoth Harry, raising his whip-hand in answer to the salute; then, _sotto voce_ to Ashburner, "a Long-Island fancy man: lots of money, and no end of fast horses."

Mr. Losing had a thin hatchety face, and a very yellow complexion, with hair and beard to match. He wore a yellow straw-hat, and a yellowish-gray summer paletot, with yellowish-brown linen trousers. His light gig (of the kind technically called a double-sulky) was painted a dingy yellow-ochre; the horses were duns, the fly-nets drab, and what little harness there was, retained the original law-calf color of its leather; in short, the whole concern had a general pervading air of dun, which but for the known wealth of its owner might have been suggestive of unpleasant Joe-Millerisms. The only exception was his companion, a gay horse-dealer and jockey, who acted as amateur groom on this occasion. Mr. Van Eyck had sufficient diversity of color in his dress to relieve the monotony of a whole landscape,--blue coat and gilt buttons, lilac waistcoat and ditto, red cravat and red-striped check shirt, white hat and trousers. His apparel might have been a second-hand suit of Bird Simpson's. As the gig came out close at the wheels of the wagon, the two whips interchanged glances, as much as to say, "Here's at you!" and "Come on!" and Losing tightened his reins; then, as his leader ranged up alongside Benson's horses, the latter drew up his lines also, and the teams went off together.

A good team race is more exciting to both the lookers-on and the performers than any contest of single horses; there is twice as much noise, twice as much skill in driving, and apparently greater speed, though in reality less. Neither had started at the top of their gait, but they kept gradually and proportionally crowding the pace, till they were going about seventeen miles an hour, and at that rate they kept for the first half-mile exactly in the same relative position as they had started. No one spoke a word; the close contact of horses in double harness excites them so, that they require checking rather than encouragement; but Benson with a rein in his hand was feeling every inch of his ponies, and watching every inch of the road. Losing sat like a statue, and his horses seemed to go of themselves. Then, as the ground began to rise, Losing drew gradually ahead, or rather Benson's team came back to him; still it was inch by inch; in the next quarter the wheeler instead of the leader was alongside the other team, and that was all Losing had gained. Then Harry, with some management, got both reins into one hand, and lifted his nags a little with the whip. At the same time Losing altered his hold for the first time, and shook up his horses. There was a corresponding increase of speed in both parties, which kept them in the same respective position, and so they struggled on for a little while longer, till just before the road descended again, Benson made another effort to recover his lost ground. In so doing, he imprudently loosened his hold too much, and his off horse went up.

The moment Firefly lost his feet Benson threw his whole weight upon the horses, and hauled them across the road, close in behind Losing's gig, the break having lost him just a length, so that when they struck into their trot again they were at the Long-Islander's wheel. Down the hill they went, faster than ever; the wagon could not gain an inch on the gig, or the gig shake the wagon off. But Losing had manifestly the best of it, as all his dust went into the face of Benson and Ashburner, enveloping and powdering them and their equipage completely. Their only consolation was, that they were bestowing a similar one on every wagon that they passed. As both teams were footing their very best, Benson's only chance of getting by was in case one of the tandems should happen to break, a chance which he kept ready to take advantage of. By and by the leader went up, but Losing, who had his horses under perfect command, let him run a little way, and caught him again into his trot without losing any thing. Nevertheless Benson, who had seen the break, made a push to go by, and with a great shout crowded his team up to the wheeler, but there they broke,--this time both horses,--and before he could bring them down he was two lengths in the rear. Then Losing drew on one side, and slackened his speed, and Benson also pulled up almost to a walk.

"His double sulky is lighter than my wagon," said Harry, "even without the top, and the top makes fifty pounds difference. The machine is built a little heavier than the average, purposely because it rides easier, and shakes the horses less when there are inequalities in the road, so that besides being pleasanter to go in, a team can take it along about as fast as any thing lighter for a short brush, but when the horses are so nearly equal, and you have some miles to go on a heavy road, the extra weight tells. However, it is no disgrace to be beaten by Losing, any way, for his horses are his study and _specialite_. Every fortnight the bolts and screws of his wagon are re-arranged; his collars fit like gloves; he has a particular kind of watering-pot made on purpose to water his horses' legs. Every trifle is rigorously attended to. You ought to visit his, or some other sporting man's stable here, just to note the difference between that sort of thing with us and with you. Instead of hunters and steeple-chasers, you will see fine trotters together that can all beat 2' 50''."

The road happened just then to be pretty clear, so they proceeded leisurely for some miles further, till just as they were quitting the turnpike for a lane which led to the course, the rattle of wheels and the shouts of drivers came up behind them. Benson, not disposed to swallow any more of other people's dust if he could help it, waked up his horses at once, and they clattered along the lane, up hill and down, and over a railroad track, and past numerous wagons, at a faster rate than ever. "_Do_ get out of the way!" shouted Henry to one primitive gentleman, with a very tired horse, who was occupying exactly the centre of the road. "You go to ----." The individual addressed was probably about to say something very bad, when Benson, who was a moral man, and had the strongest wheels, cut short any possible profanity for the moment by driving slap into him, and knocking him into the ditch, with the loss of a spoke or two. This collision hardly delayed their speed an instant; and though some of the pursuers were evidently gaining, no one overhauled them for three-quarters of a mile, at the end of which Starlight and Firefly swept proudly up to the course, with a long train in their rear.

All the vicinity of the Centreville Course--not the stables and sheds merely, but the lanes leading to it, the open ground about it, the whole adjacent country, one might almost say--was covered with wagons stowed together as closely as cattle in a market. If it had been raining wagons and trotters the night before just over the place, like showers of frogs that country editors short of copy fill a column with, or if they had grown up there ready harnessed, there could not have been a more plentiful supply. Wagons, wagons, wagons everywhere, of all weights, from a hundred and eighty pounds to four hundred, with here and there a sulky for variety--horses of all styles, colors, and merits--no sign of a servant or groom of any kind, but a number of boys, mostly blackies, about one to every ten horses, who earned a few shillings by looking after the animals, and watching the carpets, sheets, and fly-nets. The only other movables, the long-handled short-lashed whips, were invariably carried off by their proprietors. Whips and umbrellas are common property in America; they are an exception to the ordinary law of _meum_ and _tuum_, and strictly subject to socialist rules. Woe to the owner of either who lets his property go one second out of his sight!

"Now then, Snowball!" quoth Benson, as a young gentleman of color rushed up on the full grin, stimulated to extra activity by the recollection of the past and the vision of prospective "quarters,"--"take care of the fliers, and don't let any one steal their tails! I ought to tell you," he continued to Ashburner, leading the way towards the big, dilapidated,[5] unpainted, barn-like structure, which appeared to be the rear of the grandstand, "you won't find any gentlemen here--that is, not above half-a-dozen at most."

"I was just wondering whether we should see any ladies."

Benson pointed over his left shoulder; and they planked their dollar a-piece at the entrance.

Ashburner's first impression, when fairly inside, was that he had never seen such a collection of disreputable looking characters in broad daylight, and under the open sky. All up the rough broad steps, that were used indifferently to sit or stand upon; all around the oyster and liquor stands, that filled the recess under the steps; all over the ground between the stand and the track, was a throng of low, shabby, dirty men, different in their ages, sizes, and professions; for some were farmers, some country tavern-keepers, some city ditto, some horse-dealers, some gamblers, and some loafers in general; but alike in their slang and "rowdy" aspect. There is something peculiarly disagreeable in an American crowd, from the fact that no class has any distinctive dress. The gentleman and the working-man, or the "loafer," wear clothes of the same kind, only in one case they are new and clean, in the other, old and dirty. The ragged dress-coats and crownless beavers of the Irish peasants have long been the admiration of travellers; now, elevate these second-hand garments a stage or two in the scale of preservation--let the coats be not ragged, but shabby, worn in seam, and greasy in collar; the hats whole, but napless at edge, and bent in brim; supply them with old trousers of the last fashion but six, and you have the general costume of a crowd like the present. But ordinary collections of the [Greek: oi polloi] are relieved by the very superior appearance of the women; pretty in their youth, lady-like and stylish even when prematurely faded, always dressed respectably, and frequently dressed in good taste, they form a startling relief and contrast to their cavaliers; and not only the stranger, but the native gentleman, is continually surprised at the difference, and says to himself, "Where in the world could such nice women pick up those snobs?" Here, where there is not a woman within a mile (unless that suspicious carriage in the corner contains some gay friends of Tom Edwards'), the congregated male loaferism of these people, without even a decent looking dog among them, is enough to make a man button his pockets instinctively.

Amid this wilderness of vagabonds may be seen grouped together at the further corner of the stand the representatives of the gentlemanly interest, numbering, as Benson had predicted, about half-a-dozen. Losing, with his yellow blouse and moustache to match; Tom Edwards, in a white hat and trousers, and black velvet coat; Harrison, slovenly in his attire, and looking almost as coarse as any of the rowdies about, till he raises his head, and shows his intelligent eyes; Bleecker, who had just arrived; and a few specimens of Young New-York like him. Benson carries his friend that way, and introduces him in due form to the Long Islander, who receives him with an elaborate bow. Ashburner offers a cigar to Losing, who accepts the weed with a nod of acknowledgment (for he rarely opens his mouth except to put something into it, or to make a bet), and offers one of his in return, which Ashburner trying, excoriates his lips at the first whiff, and is obliged to throw it away after the third, for Charley Losing has strong tastes, will rather drink brandy than wine, any day, and smokes tobacco that would knock an ordinary man down.

The stranger glances his eye over the scene of action. A barouche and four does not differ more from a trotting wagon, or a blood courser from a Canadian pacer, than an English race-course from an American "track." It is an ellipse of hard ground, like a good and smooth piece of road, with some variations of ascent and descent. The distance round is calculated at a mile, according to the scope of turning requisite for a horse before a sulky--that being the most usual form of trotting; for a saddle-horse that has the pole,[6] it comes practically to a little less; for a harness-horse (especially if to a wagon) with an outside place, to a little, or sometimes a good deal more. Around the inclosure, within the track (which looks as if it were trying hard to grow grass and couldn't), a few wagons, which obtained entrance by special favor, are walking about; they belong to the few men who have brought their grooms with them. Harrison's pet trotter is there, a magnificent long-tailed bay, as big as a carriage-horse, equal to 2' 50'' on the road before that wagon, and worth fifteen hundred dollars, it is said. Just inside the track, and opposite the main stand outside, is a little shanty of a judge's stand, and marshalled in front of it are half a dozen notorious pugilists, and similar characters, who, doubtless on the good old principle of "set a thief," &c., are enrolled for the occasion as special constables, with very special and formidable white bludgeons to keep order, and precise suits of black cloth to augment their dignity.

"To come off at three o'clock," said the handbills. It is now thirty-five minutes past three, and no signs of beginning. An American horse and an American woman always keep you waiting an hour at least. One of the judges comes forward, and raps on the front of the stand with a primitive bit of wood resembling a broken boot-jack. "Bring out your horses!" People look towards the yard on the left. Here is one of them just led out; they pull off his sheets, his driver climbs up into the little seat behind him. He comes down part of the stand at a moderate gait. Hurrah for old Twenty-miles-an-hour! Trustee! Trustee!

The old chestnut is half-blood; but you would never guess it from his personal appearance, so chunky, and thick-limbed, and sober-looking is he. His action is uneven, and seemingly laborious; you would not think him capable of covering _one_ mile in three minutes, much less of performing twenty at the same rate. No wonder he hobbles a little behind, for his back sinews are swelled, and his legs scarred and disfigured--the traces of injuries received in his youth, when a cart ran into him, and cut him almost to pieces. Veterinary surgeons, who delight in such relics, will show you pieces of sinew taken from him after the accident. That was six or seven years ago: since then he has solved a problem for the trotting world.

"There," says Benson, with a little touch of triumph, "is the only horse in the world that ever trotted twenty miles in an hour. I saw it done myself. He was driven nearly two miles before he started, to warm him up, and make him limber. When the word was given, he made a skip, and though his driver, not the same that he has now, caught him before he was fairly off his feet, he was more than three minutes doing the first mile, which looked well for the backers of time; but as the old fellow went on, he did every mile better than the preceding, and the last in the best time of all, winning with nearly half a minute to spare."

"Has the experiment been often tried?"

"Not more than two or three times, I believe; and the horses who attempted it broke down in the eighteenth or nineteenth mile. Nevertheless, I think that within the last twelve years we have had two or three horses beside Trustee who could have accomplished the feat; but as such a horse is worth two thousand dollars and upwards, a heavy bet would be required to tempt a man to risk killing or ruining his animal; and our sporting men, though they bet frequently, are not in the habit of betting largely. That is one reason why it has not been tried oftener; and I am inclined to think that there is another and a better motive. The owner of a splendid horse does not like to risk his life; and it is a risk of life to attempt to trot him twenty miles an hour."

Pit, pat! pit, pat! The old mare is coming down to the score. A very ordinary looking animal in repose, the magnificence of her action converts her into a beauty when moving. How evenly her feet rise and fall, regularly as a machine, though she is nearly at the top of her speed! She carries her head down, and her neck stretched out, and from the tip of her nose to the end of her long white tail, that streams out in the breeze made by her own progress, you might draw a straight line, so true and right forward does she travel. Perched over her tail, between those two tall, slender wheels, sits her owner, David Bryan, the only man that ever handles her, in something like a jockey costume, blue velvet jacket and cap to match, and his white hair, whiter than his horse's tail, streaming in the wind--a respectable and almost venerable looking man; but a hard boy for all that, say the knowing ones. Great applause from the Long Island men, who swear by "the Lady," and are always ready to "stake their pile" on her, for her owner is a Long-Islander, and she is a Suffolk county, Long-Island mare. Some eight years ago Lady Suffolk was bought out of a baker's cart for 112 dollars, and since then she has won for "Dave" upwards of 30,000 dollars. That is what the possessor of a fast trotter most prides himself on--to have bought the animal for a song on the strength of his own eye for his points, and then developed him into a "flier." When a colt is bred from a trotting stallion, put into training at three or four years old, and sold the first time for a high price, if he turns out well there is no particular wonder or merit in it; if he does not, the disappointment is extreme.

Ah, here comes Pelham at last--a clean little bay, stepping roundly, and lifting his legs well; you might call it a perfect action, if we had not just seen Lady Suffolk go by--but _so_ wicked about the head and eyes! Behind the little horse sits a big Irishman, in his shirt sleeves; and they are hauling away at each other, pull Pat, pull Pelham, as if the man wanted to jerk the horse's head off, and the horse to draw the man's arms out. You see the driver is holding by little loops fastened to the reins, to prevent his grasp from slipping. Pelham is a young horse for a trotter, say seven years old, and has already done the fastest mile ever made in harness; but his temper is terribly uncertain, and to-day he seems to be in a particularly bad humor.

Trustee, who requires much warming up, goes all round the track, increasing his speed as he goes, till he has reached pretty nearly his limit. Pelham also completes the circuit, but more leisurely. The Lady trots about a quarter of a mile, then walks a little, and then brushes back. Her returning is even faster and prettier than her going. "2' 33''," says Losing, speaking for the first time, as she crosses the score (the line in front of the judge's stand). His eye is such that, given the horse and the track, he can tell the pace at a glance within half a second.

The gentry about are beginning to bet on their respective favorites, and some upon time--trifling amounts generally--five, ten, or twenty dollars; and there is much pulling out, and counting, and depositing of greasy notes. Bang! goes the broken boot-jack again. This time it is not "Bring _out_ your horses!" but "Bring _up_ your horses!"--a requisition which the drivers comply with by turning _away_ from the stand. This is to get a start, a _flying start_ being the rule, which obviously favors the backers of time, and is, in some respects, fairer to the horses, but is very apt to create confusion and delay, especially when three or four horses are entered. So it happens in the present instance: half way up the quarter, the horses turn, not all together, but just as they happen to be; and off they go, some slower and some faster, trying to fall into line as they approach the score. "Come back!" It's no go, this time; Pelham has broken up, and is spreading himself all over the track. Trustee, too, is a length or more behind the gray mare, and evidently in no hurry. They all go back, the mare last, as she was half-way down the other quarter before the recall was understood.

"What a beauty she is!" says Harry. "And she has the pole too."

"Will you bet two to three on her against the field?" asks Edwards, who knew very well that Trustee is the favorite. Benson declines. "Then will you go on time? Will you bet on 7' 42'', or that they don't beat 7' 47''" (three mile heats, you will recollect, reader). No, Harry won't bet at all; so Edwards turns to Losing. "Will you bet three to five in hundreds on the Lady?" Losing will. They neither plank the money, nor book the bet, but the thing is understood.

Pelham's driver has begged the judges to give the word, even if he is two lengths behind; he would rather do that than have his horse worried by false starts. So this time, perhaps, they will get off. Not yet! Bryan's mare breaks up just before they come to the score. Harrison hints that he broke her on purpose, because Trustee was likely to have about a neck advantage of him in the start. "Of course they never go the first time," says Benson, "and very seldom the second."

"I saw nine false starts once, at Harlaem," says Bleecker, "where there were but three horses. Better luck next time."

It is better luck. Pelham lays in the rear full two lengths, but Trustee and the mare come up nose and nose to the score, going at a great pace. "Go!" At the word Trustee breaks. "Bah! take him away! Where's Brydges?" The superior skill of his former driver, is painfully remembered by the horse's friends. But he soon recovers, and catches his trot about two lengths behind the mare, and as much in advance of Pelham; for the little bay is going very badly, seems to have no trot in him, and his driver dares not hurry him. In these respective positions they complete the first quarter.

As they approach the half mile, the distance renders their movements indistinct, and their speed, positive or relative, difficult to determine. You can only make out their position. Pelham continues to lose, and Trustee has gained a little; but the gray mare keeps the lead gallantly.

"I like a trot," says Benson, "because you can watch the horses so long. In a race they go by like a flash, once and again, and it's all over."

In the next quarter they are almost lost to view, and then they appear again coming home, and you begin once more to appreciate the rate at which they are coming. Still it is not the very best pace; the Lady is taking it rather easy, as if conscious of having it all her own way; and her driver looks as careless and comfortable as if he were only taking her out to exercise, when she glides past the stand.

"2' 35''," says Losing. He doesn't need to look at his watch; but there is great comparing of stop-watches among the other men for the time of the first mile. Hardly half a length behind is Trustee; he has been gradually creeping up without any signs of being hurried, and, clumsily as he goes, gets over the ground without heating himself.

"John Case knows what he's about, after all," Edwards observes, "He takes his time, and so does the old horse; wait another round, and, at the third mile, they'll be _there_."

"But where's Pelham? Is he lost? No, there he comes; and, Castor and Pollux, what a burst! Something has waked him up after the other horses have passed the stand, and while he is yet four or five lengths from it. There's a brush for you! Did you ever see a horse foot it so?--as if all the ideas of running that he may ever have had in his life were arrested, and fastened down into his trot. How he is closing up the gap! If he can hold to that stroke he will be ahead of the field before the first quarter of this second mile is out. A mighty clamor arises, shouts from his enemies, who want to break him, cheers from his injudicious friends. There, he has lapped Trustee--he has passed him; tearing at the bit harder than ever, he closes with Lady Suffolk. Bryan does not begin to thrash his mare yet, he only shows the whip over her; but yells like a madman at her, and at Pelham, whose driver holds on to him as a drowning man holds on to a rope. They are going side by side at a terrific pace. It can't last; one of them must go up. The bay horse does go up just at the quarter pole, having made that quarter, Benson says, in the remarkably short time of thirty-six seconds and a half."

Pelham's driver can't jerk him across the track; by doing so, he would foul Trustee, who is just behind; so he has to let the chestnut go by, and then sets himself to work to bring down his unruly animal; no easy matter--for Pelham, frightened by the shouting, and excited by the noise of the wheels, plunges about in a manner that threatens to spill or break down the sulky; and twice, after being brought almost to a full stop, goes off again on a canter. Good bye, little horse! there's no more chance for you. By this time, the Lady is nearly a quarter of a mile ahead, and going faster than ever. Somehow or other, Trustee has increased his speed too, and is just where he was, a short half-length behind her. The way in which he hangs on to the mare begins to frighten the Long-Islanders a little, but they comfort themselves with the hope that she has something left, and can let out some spare foot in the third mile, or whenever it may be necessary.

Some forty seconds more elapse; a period of time that goes like a flash when you are training your own flier, or "brushing" on the road, but seems long enough when you are waiting for horses to come round, and then they appear once more coming home. The mare is still leading, with her beautiful, steady, unfaltering stroke; but she is by no means so fresh-looking as when she started; many a dark line of sweat marks her white hide. Close behind her comes Trustee; the half-length gap has disappeared, and his nose is ready to touch Bryan's jacket. There is hardly a wet hair discernible on him; he goes perfectly at his ease, and seems to be in hand. "He has her now," is the general exclamation, "and can pass her when he pleases." As the mare crosses the score, (in 2' 34'', according to Edwards's stop-watch,) Bryan "looks over his left shoulder," like the knights in old ballads, and becomes aware for the first time that the horse at his wheel is not Pelham, as he had supposed, but Trustee.

The old fellow is another man. His air of careless security has changed to one of intense excitement. Slash! slash! slash! falls the long whip, with half a dozen frantic cuts and an appropriate garnish of yells. Almost any other trotter would go off in a run at one such salute, to say nothing of five or six; but the old mare, who "has no break in her," merely understands them as gentle intimations to go faster--and she does go faster. How her legs double up, and what a rush she has made! There is a gap of three lengths between her and Trustee. He never hurries himself, but goes on steadily as ever. See, as he passes, how he straddles behind like an old cow, and yet how dexterously he paddles himself along, as it were, with one hind foot. What a mixture of ugliness and efficiency his action is! At the first quarter the Lady has come back to him. Three times during this, the last and decisive mile, is the performance repeated. You may hear Bryan's voice and whip completely across the course, as he hurries his mare away from the pursuer; but each succeeding time the temporary gap is shorter and sooner closed.

Now they are coming down the straight stretch home. The mare leads yet. Case appears to be talking to his horse, and encouraging him; if it is so, you cannot hear him, for the tremendous row Lady Suffolk's driver is making. She had the pole at starting, has kept it throughout, and Trustee must pass her on the outside. This circumstance is her only hope of winning. All her owner's exertions, and all the encouraging shouts of her friends, which she now hears greeting her from the stand, cannot enable her to shake off Trustee, but if she can only maintain her lead for six or seven lengths more, it is enough. The chestnut is directly in her rear; every blow gets a little more out of her. Half the short interval to the goal is passed, when Trustee diverges from his straight course, and shows his head along side Bryan's wheel. Catching his horse short, Case puts his whip upon him for the first time, shakes him up with a great shout, and crowds him past the mare, winning the heat by a length.

The little bay was so far behind at the end of the second mile, that no one took any notice of him, and he was supposed to have dropped out somewhere on the road. His position, however, was much improved on the third mile; still, as there was a strong probability of his being shut out, the judges dispatched one of their number to the distance-post with a flag; a very proper proceeding, only they thought of it rather late, for the judge arrived there only just before Pelham, and also just before Trustee crossed the score; in fact, the three events were all but simultaneous; the judge dropped the flag in Pelham's face, and Pelham in return nearly ran over the judge. This episode attracted no attention at the time of its occurrence, all eyes being directed to the leading horses; but now it affords materials for a nice little row, Pelham's driver protesting violently against the distance. There is much thronging, and vociferating, and swearing about the judge's stand, into which our burly Irishman endeavors to force his way. One of the specials favors him with a rap on the head, that would astonish a hippopotamus. Pat doesn't seem to mind it, but he understands it well enough (the argument is just suited to his capacity), and remains tolerably quiet. Finally, it is proclaimed that "Trustee wins the heat in 7' 45'', and Pelham is distanced."

"Best three miles ever made in harness," says Harrison, "except when Dutchman did it in 7' 41''."

Edwards doubts the fact, and they bet about it, and will write to the _Spirit of the Times_ (the American _Bell's Life_).

Ashburner and Benson descended from the stand. The horses, panting and pouring with sweat, are rubbed and scraped by their attendants, three or four to each. Then they are clothed, and walked up and down quietly. They have a rest of nominally half-an-hour, and practically at least forty minutes. Some of the crowd are eating oysters, more drinking brandy and water, and a still greater number "loafing" about without any particular employment. There are two or three thimble-riggers on the ground, but they seem to be in a barren county; nobody there is green enough for them; the very small boys take sights at them. There is a tradition that Edwards once in his younger days tried his fortune with them. He looked so dandified, green, and innocent, that they let him win five dollars the first time, and then, on the rigger's proposing to bet a hundred, his supposed victim applied the finger of scorn to the nose of derision, and strutted off with his V.,[7] to the great amusement of the bystanders. Tom is very proud of this story, and likes to tell it himself. That, and his paying a French actress with a check when he had nothing at his banker's, are two of the great exploits of his life.

"This _is_ rather a low assemblage, certainly," says Ashburner, after he has contemplated it from several points of view, and observed a great many different points of character. "Do they ever have races here?"

"Yes, every spring and fall, here, or on the Union Course adjoining. They are rather more decently attended, but not over respectable, much less fashionable. At the South, it is different; there ladies go, and the club races are some of the most marked features of their city life. I recollect when I was a boy, that these trotting matches were nice things, and gentlemen used to enter their own horses; but gradually they have gone down hill to what they are now, and the names of the best trotters are associated with the hardest characters and the most disreputable species of balls."

"And when they race, do the horses run on ground like _this_?" asked Ashburner, stamping on the track, which was as hard as Macadam.

"Precisely on this, and run four-mile heats, too, and five of them sometimes."

"_Five_ four-mile heats on ground like this?" The Englishman looked incredulous.

"Exactly. It has happened that each of three has won a heat, and then there was one dead heat. You will remember, though, that we run old horses, not colts. There is no extra weight for age; they begin at four or five years old, and go on till twelve or fourteen."

"But they must be very liable to accidents, going on such hard soil."

"Yes, they do break their legs sometimes, but not often. Our horses are tougher than yours."

As they stroll about, Benson points out several celebrated fliers that have gained admission inside of the stand, but prefer remaining outside the track; some pretty well worn-out and _emeriti_ like Ripton, an old rival of Lady Suffolk (the mare has outlasted most of her early contemporaries), some in their prime, like the trotting stallion, Black Hawk, beautifully formed as any blood-horse, but singularly marked, being white-stockinged all round to the knee. "There," says Harry, "is a fellow that belies the old horse-dealer's rhyme:

'Four white legs and a white nose,
Take him away, and throw him to the crows.'"
Time is up, and they return to the stand. Edwards is bantering
Losing, and asks him if he will repeat his bet on this heat. He will
fast enough, and double it on the final result. Edwards wants nothing
better.

This time, for a wonder, the horses got off at the first start, and a tremendous pace they make, altogether too much for Trustee, who is carried off his feet in the first half-quarter, and the Lady goes ahead three, four, five lengths, and has taken the pole before he can recover. Bryan continues to crowd the pace. The mare comes round to the score in 2' 33'', leading by four lengths, and her driver threshing her already. "She can't stand it," say the knowing ones; "she must drop out soon." But she doesn't drop out in the second mile at least, for at the end of that, she is still three lengths in advance, and Trustee does not appear so fresh as he did last heat. The Long-Islanders are exultant, and the sporting men look shy. When they come home in the last quarter, the chestnut has only taken one length out of the gap; nevertheless, he goes for the outside, and makes the best rush he can. It's no use. He can't get near her; breaks up again, and crosses the score a long way behind. Much manifestation of boisterous joy among the farmers. Edwards looks sold, and something like a smile passes over Losing's unimpassioned countenance. It is plain sailing for the judges this time. "Lady Suffolk has the heat in 7' 49''," and there is no mistake or dispute about it.

Another long pause. Eight minutes' sport and three quarters of an hour intermission among such a company begins to be rather dull work. All the topics of interest afforded by the place have been exhausted. Harrison and Benson begin to talk stocks and investments; the juveniles are comparing their watering place experiences during the summer. Ashburner says nothing, and smokes an indefinite number of cigars; Losing says rather less, and smokes more. Edwards has disappeared; gone, possibly, to talk to the doubtful carriages. It is growing dark before they are ready for the third and decisive heat.

One false start, and at the second trial they are off. The mare has the inside, in right of having won the preceding heat. She crowds the pace from the start, as usual; but Trustee is better handled this time, and does not break. Case allows the Lady to lead him by three lengths, and keeps his horse at a steady gait, in quiet pursuit of her. For two miles their positions are unaltered; Bryan's friends cheer him vociferously every time as he comes round; he replies by a flourish of his long whip and additional shouts to his mare. In the third mile, Trustee begins to creep up, and in the third quarter of it, just before he gets out of sight from the stand, is only a length and a half behind. When they appear again, there are plenty of anxious lookers-out; and men like our friend Edwards, who have a thousand or more at stake on the result, cannot altogether restrain their emotions. Here they come close enough together! Trustee has lapped the mare on the outside; his head is opposite the front rim of her wheel. Bryan shouts and whips like one possessed; Case's small voice is also lifted up to encourage Trustee. The chestnut is gaining, but only inch by inch, and they are nearly home. Now Case has lifted him with the whip, and he makes a rush and is at her shoulder. Now he will have her. Oh, dear, he has gone up! Hurrah for the old gray! Stay! Case has caught him beautifully; he is on his trot again opposite her wheel. One desperate effort on the part of man and horse, and Trustee shoots by the mare; but not till after she has crossed the score. Lady Suffolk is quite done up; she could not go another quarter; but she has held out long enough to win the heat and the money.

And now, as it was somewhere in the neighborhood of seven, and neither Ashburner nor Benson had eaten any thing since eight in the morning, they began to feel very much inclined for dinner, or supper, or something of the sort; and the team travelled back quite as fast as it was safe to go by twilight; a little faster, the Englishman might have thought, if he had not been so hungry. Then, after crossing the Brooklyn ferry, Benson announced his intention of putting up his horses for the night at a livery stable, and himself at Ashburner's hotel, as it was still a long drive for that time of night to Devilshoof; which being agreed upon, they next dived into an oyster cellar, of which there are about two to a block all along Broadway, and ordered an unlimited supply of the agreeable shellfish, broiled;--_oyster chops_, Ashburner used to call them; and the term gives a stranger a pretty good idea of what these large oysters look like, cooked as they are with crumbs, exactly in the style of a _cotelette panee_. And they make very nice eating, too; only they promote thirst and induce the consumption of numerous glasses of champagne or brandy and water, as the case may be. Whether this be an objection to them or not, is matter of opinion. Then having adjourned to Ashburner's apartment in the fifth story of the Manhattan hotel (it was a room with an alcove, French fashion), and smoked numerous Firmezas there, the Englishman turned in for the night; and Benson, who had no notion of paying for a bed when he could get a sofa for nothing, disposed himself at full length upon Ashburner's, without taking off any thing except his hat, and was fast asleep in less time than it would take _The Sewer_ to tell a lie.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The United States government, (U. S.)

[5] A very critical friend wants to know if the term _dilapidated_ can, with strict propriety, be applied to a _wooden_ building.

[6] A horse will "go the pole" in such a time, means that he will go in double harness. A horse "has the pole," means that he has drawn the place nearest the inside boundary fence of the track.

[7] A five-dollar bill is so called from the designation in Roman numerals upon it.

From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DUTCH POET.

The name of Wilhelm Bilderdyk is scarcely known beyond the boundaries of his own country; and yet those who are conversant with the Dutch language place him in a very high rank as a poet. The publication of his first poem, _Elicus_, formed quite an era in the history of Dutch literature. It was speedily followed by a faithful and spirited translation of the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles, and versions of other Greek writers. Besides his imaginative pursuits, he engaged with ardor in the study of geology, and almost rivalled Cuvier in his acquaintance with natural history. War and invasion, however, interrupted the labors of Bilderdyk. He quitted Holland, travelled through Germany, crossed over to England, and finally spent some time amongst the Scottish Highlands, where he employed himself in translating Ossian's poems into Dutch verse. He then went to the principality of Brunswick, and there composed a very extraordinary work, _The Maladies of Wise Men_, a poem whose mild, lofty sublimity, unearthly interest, and grasp of gloomy thought, entitle it to rank with the Inferno of Dante.

Bilderdyk at length was able to return to his country. Louis Napoleon, who then reigned at the Hague, chose him as his instructor in the Dutch language, and named him president of the second class in the Institute of Amsterdam. About this time he married a beautiful and clever girl, named Wilhelmina; and for several years they enjoyed together as perfect happiness as this world can give--she occupied in domestic and maternal duties, and he adding to his fame and fortune by the publication of several works. But at length death visited their dwelling, and removed within a brief space three lovely children. Their loss was commemorated in two poems--_Winter Flowers_, and _The Farewell_. Not long afterwards, public misfortune came to aggravate his private sorrows. Louis Napoleon left Holland, and Bilderdyk took refuge at Groningen, where he stayed for some time, and then, rejecting a liberal offer of employment made him by William of Orange, he set out for France, accompanied by his wife.

When they entered the diligence, they found it occupied but by one person, a young female of mild and engaging appearance. No sooner did the heavy machine begin to move than she began to scream, and testified the most absurd degree of terror. Public carriages then were certainly far inferior, both in safety and accommodation, to those of modern times; yet the probable amount of danger to be apprehended did not by any means justify the excessive apprehension manifested by the fair traveller. On arriving at Brussels, the lady was so much overcome that she announced her intention of stopping some days in that city to recruit her strength before venturing again to encounter the perils of a diligence; and taking leave of Bilderdyk and his wife, she gratefully thanked the latter for the kind attention she had shown her during the journey. The two Hollanders proceeded on their way to Paris, laughing heartily from time to time at the foolish cowardice of a woman who saw a precipice in every rut, and a certain overturn in every jolt of the wheels.