IN ARCHER'S MEMORY 3 33 



ments there. He appeared dispirited and unwell, especially 

 after riding Lucretius in the Rothschild Plate. He sub- 

 sequently rode Tommy Tittlemouse in the Castle Plate, 

 when that horse started a warm favourite and finished 

 badly. This was his last mount. Immediately the race 

 was over he went to Mr. Gurry and said he felt very unwell, 

 and intended going home at once. He took to his bed at 

 Falmouth House, his residence in Newmarket, and on the 

 Sunday following his medical man, Dr. Wright, after a 

 consultation with Dr. Latham, of Cambridge, issued a 

 bulletin to the effect that Mr. F. Archer was suffering from 

 the effects of a severe chill, followed by high fever. The 

 next bulletin announced the presence of typhoid fever, but 

 1 an improvement of the symptoms.' Then came the 

 appalling news that, in a moment of mental aberration, 

 the patient, under unspeakably distressing circumstances, 

 had put an end to his life. It was felt to be a national, a 

 world-wide calamity, and was mourned as such. His 

 wedding had exceeded for magnificence and manifestations 

 of popular rejoicing every ceremonial of the kind witnessed 

 in Newmarket, and the funeral of the husband, who was 

 laid beside his wife, was, in a sad sense, as imposing. The 

 nation mourned Archer's death, and sent a multitude of 

 mourners to his graveside. The coffin-plate bore this in- 

 scription : — 'Frederick James Archer, born January nth, 

 1857 ; died November 8th, 1886.' 



TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF FRED. ARCHER 



From the many published tributes to the memory of 

 the most famous jockey of modern times, the following 

 verses are selected : — 



No statesman dumb in death, no warrior hurled, 



At grips with victory, into glory's bed, 

 Filled with great grief the English-speaking world, 



But the sad tidings ' Poor Fred. Archer's dead.' 

 Not only where the shamrock and the rose 



Strike, with the thistle, into British ground, 

 But other lands and other tongues disclose 



The common sorrow, poignant and profound. 



Teuton and Sclav, keen Yank and lively Gaul, 

 Who played and won with him the game of kings, 



Reach forth to touch a corner of the pall, 

 And each a floral tribute gently flings. 



