And the quiet “chaffing” became hilarious shouting as one after another of fast drivers distanced all competitors. And now indeed the Derby dust arose in clouds like the sirocco of the desert until every man and mother’s son had to put on a veil.
Old General Lyon resisted the fate as long as he could, until, as Harry Spencer had predicted, his eyes, ears nostrils and bronchial tubes were all so much obstructed that he was nearly blinded, deafened, suffocated and overwhelmed. Then he let Anna dust off his face and head with an extra pocket-handkerchief, and tie a gray veil about his hat, as they drove on.
“I wish some sort of a veil could be contrived to protect these hedges,” said Anna, pointing to the boundaries of the road on the right and left. “It is a sin to cover these lovely green hedges with a thick coat of dust. But, oh, grandpa! look, there’s poetry for you! look at that sign!”
The old gentleman turned and smiled to see a rural looking wayside inn, embowered in creeping vines and running roses, and overshadowed by trees, and bearing the inscription in two lines of rhyme:
“Good Beer
Sold Here.”
A little group of foot passengers to the Derby were sitting on a bench under a spreading tree, testing the qualities of the said “good beer.”
This and many other simple little way sidescenes, illustrative of English rural roadside life, which the occasional opening of the crowd allowed them to catch a glimpse of, remained as pleasant pictures in the gallery of memory to contemplate in after-days.
They were now ascending a graduated hill; when they reached its summit they were comparatively free from the crowd. The carriages before them had gone rapidly on downward; the carriages behind them were coming slowly up.
“Order your coachman to draw up here, General. We are near Epsom, and from this rising ground, by standing up in your carriage and using your field-glass, you may take a bird’s-eye view of Epsom Hill and Heath, with its surroundings,” said Mr. Tredegar, adding example to precept by stopping his own horse.