The hosts gathered silently, but steadily and continuously, everywhere. There had been many vacant seats on our roof before, but there were none, now. The world in the green plain had had fringed edges before, and outlying detachments of stragglers, but it was solid, now. Solid and still. There was something very impressive about the waiting hush of this mighty sea of life. Twelve clean-limbed, glossy racers filed out upon the track, bearing riders clothed in all shades of new and glittering satin. They scampered down the track over the first quarter to limber themselves up, then marched, single file, by the stand, at a walk, in the order of their numbers upon the bulletin, and took their places for the start, a quarter of a mile to our right. There was a still pause of some minutes, then a low inarticulate murmur all about us, and we knew they were coming. With a common impulse the seated world rose to its feet. I heard a cleaving rush of sound, there was a lightning flash of brilliant hues,—then a vacancy, for a second, while the eye threw off its surprise and hurried to catch up with the flying cluster of meteors. They streamed away into the distance, closely pressed together; the colors became indistinguishable; they turned the half mile and disappeared for a few seconds behind an island of trees; then came in sight again beyond, and flew along past the belt of people banked together there; this belt instantly dissolved and flowed like a vast broken wave across the field to see the finish; the racers turned the corner, all in a close body and came booming down the home stretch under furious whip and spur, the riders leaning far forward and lashing with might and main; people began to ejaculate: “Red will win!” “Red’s got it, sure!” A grand huzza was already rising for the red jacket, when all of a sudden, at the last possible moment, the orange rider threw in one supreme effort and shot by the red man like a thunderbolt. That stroke captured the $20,000, and the huzza already begun for red finished in a thunder-crash for orange.

Something followed, now, which was grand to see. The crowd overflowed into the race-course and packed it full—there was no longer a fence-line visible; people poured, in a thousand streams from over the field and everywhere and joined this throng; they even seemed to spring up out of the ground; the mass grew and grew, there below us, and became more and more compact, till at last it was like a solid black island of humanity in a level green sea of grass; it was said that there were 50,000 persons aggregated there; they stood closer together than the bristles in a brush, for they touched shoulders; their faces were all visible, for one half of the multitude were pressing to the left and the other to the right, all trying to reach the same point, the gateway under our stand—they wanted a good look at the winning horse. A narrow crack was left in this vast multitude, and through this the racers moved in a walk, in single file—it was as if the half hidden horses were swimming through it. A cheer rolled continuously along abreast the winner, and only ceased when he passed under the grand stand and disappeared. I came curiously near winning four pairs of gloves on this memorable race; twelve horses ran, and if they had dashed up to the winning-post from the opposite direction the horse I betted on would have been in the lead.

The island of humanity began to crumble away at the edges; it melted off in grains, driblets, cakes and blocks, and floated across the plain toward a wide, yellow, empty gap in the forest; little by little the scattered wreck thickened and compacted itself into a broad raft, more than half a mile long, one of whose extremities filled up and hid the yellow gap in the woods, while the other end was joined to the still steadily crumbling and still mighty mass in the field. The wide gap had been yellow, before, it was black, now—an almost motionless black stream, for the distance was so great that it had the still look of inert matter, unless one watched it sharply and intently a while—then one detected that it was dimly alive all over with minute writing movements, much as if it were a bed of worms. It was hard to believe, after watching that place for an hour, and detecting no change in it, that it was not stationary matter, but matter which had been changed and renewed every second, during all that time; it seemed odd and unbelievable that swiftly moving carriages should make so steadfast and motionless a spectacle.

At the end of an hour the mass was still crumbling, the debris was still stretching unbroken across the plain, and the gap was as full and black as ever. We descended, then, and joined the monster caravan.

Some of the “turn-outs” were peculiar. I saw a family of four or five persons wedged neck-deep in a two-wheeled square box, like bottles in a basket, and this ugly and ridiculous cart was drawn by a pony the size of the average Newfoundland dog. There was one long vehicle, with seats running fore and aft, omnibus fashion, which was evidently a fine and costly affair, and it was filled with a very aristocratic company of ladies and gentlemen, if appearances go for anything; the horses were six in number, large and fine and glossy, and they bore outriders who wore a sort of Italian brigand costume, with a deal of fiery red and yellow in the elaborate trimmings. There were hundreds of private liveries, of course, but they were very subdued in tone—simple brown, or blue, or black, with metal buttons; even a “bug” on the coachman’s hat was rather a rarity. Central Park, on a field day, makes a much gaudier show, in the matter of liveries. I saw only one set of carriage servants with plush knee-breeches and powdered hair. Imagine all this sombre simplicity in a land where dukes and such still exist. Imagine it in a city where great nobles used to parade down street with trains of satin-clad servants reaching into the hundreds only a century or so ago.

One species of scenery was very common in our great procession, but not tiresome to the eye on that account. This was the solitary female. She was painted and powdered, she was upholstered regardless of expense—sometimes modestly, but usually the other way. She had her coachman and footman on the box, and another lackey behind her; she lolled back among her cushions in an almost reclining attitude, with her exposed satin-slippered foot resting on a silken pillow, and a complacent simper on her inane face; and from top-knot to toe she was looking what she was,—the true French Goddess of Liberty, hallowed by a thousand years of the nation’s respectful recognition. She was out in very numerous force indeed.