Jockeys, we believe, still look upon the winning of a Derby as being the highest honour they can attain, although they sometimes earn more money by winning a good handicap on which there is heavy betting. Large sums are reputed to have occasionally been paid to the rider of a Derby winner--over £5,000 on one occasion, that being the amount of the stakes won by one of Sir Joseph Hawley's horses, and given by that gentleman to its rider. A thousand pounds for riding a Derby winner has come to be looked upon as quite a common fee; but in the earlier days of the great Epsom event no such figures were heard of, and upon one occasion, when a boy was paid £20 by the greatly gratified owner of a Derby winner, the circumstance was remarked upon as being without precedent, and an act of munificence. The big sums paid of late may be said to be in the nature of insurance, as jockeys before now have been known to be offered large sums not to win, and it has been said that such bribes have oftener than once proved effective. The "superb groan" of Lord George Bentinck has become historical. Lord George, whose chief ambition as a sportsman was to win a Derby, had parted with his stud of horses in order that he might devote his whole attention to politics, and among the animals disposed of was Surplice, winner of the Derby of 1848. As may be supposed, the noble lord was deeply chagrined to find that he had parted with a horse that won a trophy of which he had long been in search. On the day after the race, Lord Beaconsfield tells us that he found Lord George in the library of the House of Commons with a book in his hand, but "looking disturbed." His resolutions in favour of the colonial interest, after all his labours, had been negatived by the committee on the 22nd, and on the 24th his horse, Surplice, which he had parted with among the rest of his stud solely that he might pursue, without distraction, his work on behalf of the great interests of the country, had won that paramount and Olympian stake to gain which had been the object of his life. He had nothing to console him and nothing to sustain him, except his pride. Even that deserted him before a heart which he knew at least would yield him sympathy. He gave a sort of superb groan: "All my life I have been trying for this, and for what have I sacrificed it?" he murmured. It was in vain to offer solace. "You do not know what the Derby is," he moaned out. "Yes, I do, it is the Blue Ribbon of the Turf." In London Derby Day is in many respects a holiday; thousands of even the most industrious men of business journey to Epsom to obtain a peep at the chief event of the racing year. Even the House of Commons either contrives to adjourn expressly for the day, or so manages that it is not sitting on that particular occasion.