Punch (56.1869)

May 29, 1869.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

217

PUNCH’S DERBY PROPHECY.

Y pensive pachyderms,
here we are again, wise
as an owl, merry as a
kitten, and punctual as
the Equinoxious Proces-
sion. What fool in human
form propagated the re-
port that Punch would
have no prophecy this
year? I should like to
prop a gate with him tied
to it, and shy turmuts at
him till he cried peccory,
which you may see at the
theological gardens any
Sunday. No Prophecy!
Sooner than give you
none, he’d give you the
Prophecy of Dante, with
notes by his sister Ann
Dante, whose name is on
all the songs. But I for-
give him at this Festival
time. I dare say the
idiotic report originated
in the utter downfall,
scrunch, and smash up of
all the advertising pro-
phets who beg for money
before they predict. Look
at their advertisements.
How the fellows have all
tailed off! Their small
merit of coarse cheekiness
(how different from the
elegant badinage of your
Punch !) is gone. Where
be their chaff and slang
and impudence now? A
more melancholy set of
beggars doesn’t mendi-
cantize. But let us not
contemplate any of those
wretched screws. Leave
’em in their sordid cribs.
Here is Punch, the aris-
tocratic, high - blooded,
generous-minded, frank-
speaking, affable Punch to
the fore again, with the eyes of an eagle, the voice of a Santley, and the smile
of a Mephistopheles, sunning his white brow on the hill of Epsom, cooling his
melodious throat with Moselle-cup, and smoking his one-and-threepenny cigar
promiscuous and anti-pleonastic as ever. And how are you all? Pretty Robertish ?
That’s right. And should a cloud of gloom perversely linger,

Let us at once fling every care away
In the enjoyment of this Derby Day !

(Punch, 1847.)

Do I know the Winner ? There’s a question ! Does Mb. Disraeli know Mr.
Gladstone? Does an English dramatist know Mr. Jeffs? Do the Siamese Twins
know one another, or are they waiting to be introduced? Shall I chalk his name
down your respected back, Sir? Or shall I whisper it to the violets in that sweetly
gloved hand, Belinda ? I’ faith, ye make me smile, you merry throDg, as the
marine-store keeper’s placard has it. Let us take things easily. Festina lente—fast
in Lent—but eat at Whitsuntide and afterwards, yea, and drink. Your healths !
and may your rosy hours roll gently like perfumed bubbles into the abyss of Time.
Do I know the Winner of the Derby ? You make me give Echo a headache. Away
to thy Boeotian Narcissus, sweet nymph of the Cephisus, I will call on thee thus
rudely no more. And thou, well-instructed-in-classics Belinda, smile not that
Bob, reading this to thee, boggled over the river's name, doubtful of quantity. Yet
do, for I like well to see thee smile, Belinda. Thy health !

Farewell, farewell, the voice you hear Has left its last Soft tones with you. The
next must join the Starting cheer, And shout among the welshing crew. Horses,
horses, produce your horses, and let the Great Prophet behold ! H’m — A
Rum Lot, yet things may be worse than rum—old rum. I detect merit under
some of those silken skins. Be pleased to name the animals as they pass me,
my dear Mr. Dorling. I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Dorling,
and all your arrangements are as c’rect as your cards—can I give you higher
praise? Tnis quadruped is termed—what ? Thorwaldsen. A great sculptor’s
name. A name to be reverenced. Pie who bears it should cut a pretty figure.
At least he should cut out the running, and chisel many. The next? Rupert.
My Lord Derby bath won the name of Rupert, but I debate much with myself
whether Rupert will win the Derby. Should he tumble down, we will playfully
call the feat a Rupert’s drop. Vagabond. Let me look again. “ Stick to your
pantomimes, vagabond,” wrote Junius to Garrick, but this vagabond is no pan-

tomime steed. Howbtit, all depends upon whether he be fugitive and vagabond.
You can put money upon him, if you like, but you had better not, as it will all fall
off as soon as he begins to move. A vagabond is usually a beggar, and here comes
one who loved a beggar-maid. King Cophetua, in Elysium, be proud, for Daniel
Maclise hath this year made thee an entity, or, for the better understanding of
young swells, a fact. But for the horse which is named after the affectionate king,
1 affection him not hugely. Leontes, auother king ? I ’fecks ? Why that’s my baw-
cock. What, hast smutched tby nose? Mine honest friend, will you take eggs for
money? Wonder not, Belinda (are you there, sweet one? ’tis well) at these words
—they come from out the play whence Leontes takes name, and no one heeds the
appropriateness of a quotation : the point is to show that you are a scholar. Take
away Leontes, boy, pecunia on him were Perdita. But who is this? Ethus ! And
why his name ? My friend Argus says that Ethus was a swift Scottish King—what,
another.king? I rathtr hold with my friend, Lord Winchilsea, who, as Lord of
the Manor of Wye, is ever ready with a good Because, that the name is muddled
from that of iEthon, one of the horses of the Sun. But if from the Greek for a
custom, he is a custom I honour not in this observance. Exit tyrannus. Regum
ultimus, and after Kings let us behold a Pretender, usually of a better blood than
they. Come on, proud steed, and sun thyself in Belinda’s eyes, brighter than
Phoebus above-named. Well, what shall we say—what shall we sing, but a
Jacobite rhyme ?

“ Heaven bless the King, Heaven bless the Faith’s Defender,

Bless—there’s no barm in blessing the Pretender.

Which the Pretender is, and which the King,

Heaven bless us all, is quite another thing.”

That was a good story, well recollected by Mr. Sala. “ When Lady Strange,
the widow of the famous engraver, was old and well-nigh paralytic, a pert young
gentleman once happened to speak in her presence of Charles Edward as ‘ the

Pretender.’ ‘ Pretender, and be d-d to you !’ cried old Lady Strange, from her

arm-chair. Was this masculine? No; it was but a burst of manliness.” Lead on
the noble beast, honoured boy. Merry it is in the good green wood—faith, we are
musical to-day, but fine spirits are finely touched by a word, and here comes
Mr. Merry’s Belladram. This is the people’s idol. A cynic would say that I have
said enough. But I have not. Bells and drums should be the harbingers of merri-
ment. I say unhesitatingly that this horse will be beaten if his jockey flogs him.
Martyrdom- if he is just in (which he will not be), his owner can call him Justin
MARTYR-dom, if he ever heard of that Christian Apologist. Perry Down is a name
that looks like a joke, but is n't one. Howbeit, if you drank a glass of perry, it
would be perry down, and being inside you, there is an opening for an industrious
young joke about in-cider. But mind what I am going to say. Perry is made of
pear-juice. Do you understand that ? Very well, then, remember it. Here is
Perry Gomez—no, Pero. Now, don’t go generalising and jumping at conclusions, or
you may come a cropper. What I said about the last horse by no means applies to
this one. Pero may go down to Zero, yet be quicksilver still.

Ha! Brown Ladas. He was a famous courier in classic days, and victor at the
Olympic games—it is a good horse-name. He won the Convivial Stakes, and as
Epsom .is, if anything, a convivial meeting, that omen is good. Ride, Custance,
ride ! And this is the Drummer ? Not handsome, assuredly', but give him the
benefit of the proverb, and let him go, the rather that he can stay. Cometh the
Duke of Beaufort to be again beaten by Belladrum, or comes he for vengeance ? Dux
means a leader, but some leaders are very heavy—look at the newspapers. Bosworth!
He who there cried, (in 1485, Belinda,) “A horse; ahorse! my kingdom for a
horse!” meant not a horse like this. Alpenstock. Methinks he should be good at
getting up the hill—“ whate’er he is, he shows a mountain mind.” Lord Hawthorn
is a new peer, I find him not in Debrett, but let him prove himself one of Nature’s
nobility, if he can. His name is of good odour—marked you, my Belinda, how
sweet was the scent of the blossoms? Master Wliifler may be a good boy, but the
Derby is no child’s play, and Ryshworth, good to look at, is not worth a rush, nor
will he make one, ugly or pretty. De Vere, aristocrat, I fear me your mauners have
too much repose for the rough sport of the day. Border Knight, chivalry comes
from cheval, no doubt, but we will mount the horse foaled of an acorn if you lead
the charge to-day. Brennus comes, but not for conquest, nor is it at our
weighing here that we throw a sword into the scale. The JEgean! I want
nothing from the TEgean save Cos, whose lettuces are welcome to our salad,
Belinda. And so they have passed, like the years that have fled. Truly, as
Bottom saitli, I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. Nappiness is
the best substitute for happiness. I would repose. Lead me to my carriage,
and throw the handkerchief of Peace over the countenance of Virtue. I dream a
dream, and I see a vision—horses there be, but no nightmares. What do I behold ?
Comes the dream through the gate of Ebony or Ivory ? I see a mighty rush of horse-
men upon glittering steeds, and the horsemen are gaily attired in all the colours of
the rainbow, the various Iris, who came from Juno to cut the hair of the departing
Queen of Carthage, see Virgil and other classical authors. Some of the horses are
before, others, on the contrary, are behind. They shift their places, they change,
they dodge, like unto the little black pig who ran about so that the negro could not
count him. Ha ! from the ruck there press forward a few, and they make fiercely
for the goal—fiercely ply the riders whip and steel, and onward rush the maddening
horses, yelled at by ten thousand voices of a madder public—one—two—three are
in advance, and now four, and two yields to three, and one drops in rear of two,
and four toils desperately for the third place, and now—now—all is over, and the
winner of the Derby is-

Hallo, you scoundrel, give me that handkerchief ! How dare you snatch it from
a sleeping prophet, you irreverent rapscallion? I will contund you to a jelly, you
tatterdemalion mooncalf-

[/$ about to rash from hts carriage to wop the pickpocket, but is held back by

the coat-tails.

Let me go, I say. I’ve told you the Winner a long time ago.

[Exit in full chase.