by R S Surtees
An unfortunate cur, with an old hat tied to its tail, is undergoing the attentions of the crowd and the police, who drive it from side to side, without letting it leave the course. As fast as it makes a dart at one point it is driven to another, and is thus battledored and shuttle-cocked between them. At length it makes a vigorous dash at a young Cockney Highlander attired in all the magnificence of his clan, knocking the young Cheapside chieftain flat on his back, sending his eagle-plumed bonnet one way, his currant bun another, and himself a third, to the terror of his nurse, who fears that the name of Brown is extinct. Up she lifts the roaring kicking urchin, and bears him to the rear, where his cries are drowned by the boom of the drums, the clang of the cymbals, and the crashing announcements of the speaking trumpets; the proprietor of the pink-locked lady denouncing the sea-green haired nymph as a dyed imposter, the Berkshire giant keeper proclaiming the surpassing stature of his protégé, and the custodian of the Cornish dwarf being equally eloquent in praise of his pigmy.
In the midst of the hubbub up rides the mainspring — the motive power of the meeting — the renowned Tim Boldero himself, on a punchy black cob, forming with its rider a perfect series of semicircles. Like all would-be sportsmen, Tim has got his extremities into breeches and boots, which he thinks is all that is required for the character, though one might put a penny roll in between his knee and the saddle. But Tim does not profess to be a jockey, only the ruler of jockeys, and his tadpole-like figure causes a sensation among the brotherhood, denoting that it is time to strip and prepare for the start And now Sir Felix, having ridden as consequentially up the course as he can for the wind, followed by his crimson-coated, white-collared groom, alights, and is bowed obsequiously up into his pigeon-house of a Stand, and presently appears at the front, much in the manner of Punch prior to commencing his connubial differences with Judy.
“What’s that old fool about?” asks Mr. O’Dicey, with a twirl of his moustache, adding, “he’s always showing off somehow or other.”
Mr. O’Dicey suspected that Sir Felix had marred a very promising plant of his, and hence his displeasure.
Another longer, more vehement peal of the bell now resounds, causing what the Frenchman called the nightcaps to be taken off the horses’ heads, and their clothing swept over their long tails, showing little cheeseplate-looking saddles on their satiny backs. Meanwhile sundry heretofore extremely insignificant-looking little men, more like Scarborough fly-boys than anything else, suddenly rise into consequence by taking off the dingy husks in which they are enveloped, and shining forth like so many butterflies. A perfect shoal of them burst forth all at once — red, green, yellow, blue, spots, stripes and all. Now General Boldero charges the phalanx as gallantly as an unsteady seat and a steady wind will allow, urging them into line; which no sooner does one reluctant horse accomplish, than another turns tail, and the exhortation has to be renewed. Then the false starters have to be accommodated with their recalls, and it is not until Tim’s naturally rubicund face assumes a very mulberry-like hue, and he begins to talk about fining, that a simultaneous movement of elbows and legs urges unanimity, and at length sends the whole squadron scudding away. “They’re off!” is the cry.
“W-h-i-s-h, blow, w-h-i-s-h,” goes the wind, inflating the jockeys jackets like pilot balloons, and looking as if an insidious gust would strip them off altogether. But the race must be run whatever the weather, and if one horse can’t face the wind another can, and the tempest is all in favour of the one that can, thus verifying the old adage, “that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Besides, who would wish to disappoint the Honourable Society of betting men, now distributed all over the kingdom, to say nothing of the interesting collection of honesty that adorns Bride Lane, all on the qui vive for the telegraphic message that will enable them to proclaim themselves conjurors, or leave them to back out of their false prophecies the best way they can.
So away the horses straggle and struggle along the green sward, till at the sea turn the gale takes them in the rear, and blows them all together again, sending them along the brow of the distant hill in a cluster. With what a difference of feeling their progress is regarded by the roughs on the top of the Stand, and the fair dames down below — the former straining their eyes, or directing their “Dollonds” to detect the whereabouts of red jacket or blue, while the ladies look quietly about to see how the flirtations progress — wondering whether their Captain Locket or Mr. Honeybill are coming, and why Major Mew looks so shy. “Hats off!” is now the cry, and curly heads, and lank haired heads, and bald heads, and half-bald heads, stand with upturned faces, while the horses sweep by like a whirlwind, arms going, heels working, leather breeches in convulsions, and the excited legs — men who bet thousands on a farthing capital — jump, and roar, and shout, and stamp, “I’ll bet!”
“I’ll lay!”
“I’ll take!” A rush, a kit-cat of jockeys, and it’s over! Two minutes and a-quarter have decided the fate of hundreds — perhaps thousands of pounds. And scarce has the judge posted the winner on his board, than the drums and trumpets of the shows and the booths raise a discordant din, as if in glorification of the winner, but in reality to get the gaping countrymen into the shows, the insides of which are never so good as the out.
But the race of the day is the one for the aforesaid candelabrum, classical in design, and costly in structure. It is now exhibited on the accustomed green-baized pedestal on the balcony in front of th« Stand, and excites with its numerous branches for lights and ornamental centre basket as much admiration among the fair, as does its concomitant purse of one hundred sovereigns among the contenders for the prize. Mr. Chizeler, the Bermondsey Sausage-maker, — who runs in the name of Captain Howard de Hastings — Mr. Chizeler’s grey horse, Dog’s Meat, is the favourite for the race; but Mr. Somerville Douglas, alias Mr. Peter Brown, the Clerkenwell Pawnbroker’s bay horse, Soothsayer, has numerous friends, and there have been sundry communications during the morning to see if they cannot accommodate matters, the difference between them being what Chizeler calls the sovs; the candelabrum apparently being taken little account of. There are, however, a good many other horses of which neither Dog’s Meat nor Soothsayer may have got an accurate measure, among others one belonging to an Honourable Society, known by the name of the Forty Thieves, so that upon the whole there is the chance of a genuine race. And now, just as parties are reforming in the Stand, (some loving couples doubtless thinking how agreeable it would be if it was not for the tiresome races) Tim Boldero is again seen aggravating the black cob into a canter, emulating as he thinks any jockey of the day. At the sight of the little bustling beer-barrel-shaped man, the dark wâves of humanity roll back on either side of the course, and presently there are a couple of lines of hats and bonnets ruled as straight as the lines in a copy book. What a concourse of heads! All so much alike outside, and yet so different within; according or not as they are furnished with brains. What a marvellous difference that little addition makes! And there is no saying which has them till you tap them and try.
But the race, the race is the thing; and now our friend Jasper inducts the fair Rosa into the mysteries of the winner, while Mr. O’Dicey twirls his spiral moustache, clanks his brass spur, and twists about, apparently anxious to be doing—” I’ll bet a dozen kids with any body” — and knowing the influence of Mammas, he endeavours to propitiate our chaperone by offering to lay her five pair to one against the favourite, though the odds are not half that amount. But Mrs. McDermott who knows the signs of age is not deceived by Johnny’s elaborate cosmetiqueing, fixatriceing, and getting up, (rivalling the exploits of that great lady-renovator, Madame Leverson) into believing that he is a suitable companion for a youth like Jasper, and she eyes Johnny with the suspicion peculiar to discrepancy. What if he should victimise Jasper! — Rob him before he is fledged! — The man must be looked to, thought she. But O’Dicey, who has been scanned pretty often, turns his back on the light, and puts the best face he can on his
wrinkles. The saddling bell presently comes to his relief and puts an end to the inquisition.
And now all the gay butterflies are again on the wing, forming quite a collection for a naturalist, and as everybody understands horses, there is the usual criticism, and picking out of the winner. There is plenty of choice, what with true runners, and false runners, and waiters on true runners, and false-start makers, and so on — a baker’s-dozen in all. The jackets are bright, and the leathers are spruce, save those of a little old fellow in a faded green silk, whose drab cords and gaiters draw down the gibes and jeers of the cynical as he passes complacently to the post. “Let them laugh as wins, thinks he, feeling his springing little horse under him as he goes. This, though a light bay, is what the legs call a dark horse, namely, one that they cannot get much information about, and the owner, Mr. Whistlecraft, the horse-breaker and coper, of Rotheram, is making the most of the opportunity — taking everybody in that he can.
And now the supercilious gentlemen in the leathers, close in upon their provincial-looking brother of the drabs, apparently ashamed of the intercourse, and after few preliminary false starts, carry him away in the midst of them. A good driving wind aids the endeavour, and sends them sweeping along to the turn of the course in a cluster. A volley of chalky dust then envelopes them and hides old Dingy’s apparel from further observation.
And now the excitement begins to bubble and simmer, and presently boils up into the usual frenzy. Every mouth is a-gape for his neighbour’s money — offering every species of bait.
What a life must be that of a leg! Always on the stretch! Always trying to take somebody in! A continual mill-horse-round of never-ceasing anxiety; one event over, another beginning. Two to one against the favourite of this year; twenty to one against that of the next. Out upon such work, say we! A man had better break stones in a workhouse-yard than attempt to get money by such means.
But our particular spasm is again at its height. The striding, taper-limbed horses are distending themselves in the distance, the cluster having this time assumed more the shape of a telescope. On they come, at a rattling pace, the tail lengthening as they near. “Hats off!” is again the cry, to which the men respond, and jump, and raise themselves on tip-toe, while the ladies below put their glasses complacently to their eyes and reconnoitre the scene. Now the excitement finds vent in noise. “The gray!”
“The gray!” shout a dozen voices, as the conspicuous favourite appears well in front, his backers hoping to pocket the guineas. “The hay! The hay! The bay!” vociferates the deep-coned Whistlecraft, flagellating his brown top-boot as he eyes the little stealing bay shooting to the front — and sure enough within a few yards of home the little horse gives some springing bounds, and pokes his nose in first. “Hoo-ray!” shouts the stentorian-lunged winner, turning abruptly on his heel, pushing and forcing his way through the crowd, in a way well calculated to arouse the wrath of the losers. “Let’s oot! Let’s oot!” cries he, forcing one man one way, and another another, as he makes for the door. The brawny, macintoshed, Yorkshireman, then goes stamping down stairs, shaking the edifice with his step, leaving the lato clamorous but now chap-fallen speculators to digest their disgust at their leisure. “Whistle is off to see after the cash, and the beautiful candelabrum will presently adorn his gin-palace at Rotheram. Nobbier, the trainer of the Forty Thieves, looks aghast!
And again the excitement of gambling galloping, is succeeded by a Babel-like outburst of musical instruments and clamour, in the midst of which rude Boreas, as if indignant at the idea of anybody making a noise but himself, suddenly arose and blew a most furious concentrated blast upon the offending line, knocking down the caravans and turning the tents inside out. Then Jupiter Pluvius, roused into action, rolled a dense leaden-like cloud over the firmament, and, without hint or notice of any sort, drew the string of his shower-bath, and let down such a torrent of rain as half drenched the tumblers ere they could unfurl their patent umbrellas or get their siphonias out of their cases. Heavens, what destruction a single minute made of the finery that now distinguishes the maid from the mistress! How the artificial flowers were drenched, the gay coquetry taken out of the feathers, and the cheap crinolines — the 1s. 11 1l2d worths — reduced to one-half their original dimensions. We wonder what our mob-capped grandmothers would say, if they could rise from their graves and see housemaids in hoops, and the other absurdities that recently drew down the just indignation of the worthy Recorder of Hull. They would indeed think the world had got a turn! This day, however, would avenge a good deal; and then the tantalising part of the thing was, that when the rain had ruined everything, it suddenly ceased, like the stage-storm of a theatre, and the sun started forth from behind a cloud, shedding a halo on the mischief, while a gorgeous rainbow arose inland, throwing a gay arch far into the sea. Meanwhile the ladies in the comfortable stand look complacently upon the wreck of finery outside, occasionally looking at the sky, and hoping it would be dry under foot for them. Carriages then begin to draw up, and the staircase is presently enlivened with looped dresses, vandyked petticoats, and Balmoral boots, all properly arranged for display. Our prudent Mamma, who never likes to stay late, presently applies Mr. Bunting to the utilitarian purpose she described him as encouraged for, namely, by asking him to go for the carriage, leaving Mr. O’Dicey an uncomfortable spectator of Miss Rosa’s lovely blue eyes, revolving, as he thought, rather too often and too sweetly on Mr. Jasper.
“What a bore it will be,” thought O’Dicey, eyeing her bewitching smile, “if she gets him away from me;” and he thereupon applied himself to Mamma, to find out how much longer they were going to stay at the Rocks. In the midst of this inquiry Mr. Bunting returned to say the carriage was ready, and tendering his arm to Miss Rosa, he led her away in the order in which they arrived; and Mr. O’Dicey, having helped to tuck in Mamma, saw them drive off, each with a considerable misgiving of the other, each wishing the other were further. Then Mr. O’Dicey hopped gaily up stairs again, humming a tune, but in reality extremely uneasy in his mind. He wished that the ladies might not be too many for him. Having cast carelessly about among the now departing crowd, he presently mounted his seven-and-sixpence-a-sider, and cantered hack to the Rocks, arriving about the same time as the last rivulet of rain.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE ORDINARY.
HOWEVER HAD A day may be for anything else, it is never too had for dining; and accordingly about half-past five the usual heterogeneous assemblage — roughs and smooths, half roughs and half smooths — of a race-ordinary began to congregate and obstruct the doorway and passages of the Flying Dutchman Hotel in Shark-street, being the sporting rendezvous that Mr. Boldero patronised, and where a gentleman could he accommodated with the odds, or anything else in the sporting way. To it came appetites in various degrees of vigour and ripeness, some that dined at one o’clock, others that dined at two; some that could put off till four, some that dined at sunset; others that dined whenever their owners could get a dinner. And again the contusion of tongues arose, “ar’ll lay” this, “ar’ll take” that: Yorkshire bellowing against Lancashire, Manchester pitting itself against Leeds. Each race was run over again, and the cause of defeat explained, including that of Nobbler on behalf of the Forty Thieves. And as the plot thickened, and people began to growl and talk about their stomachs, thinking their throats were cut, and so on, up drove Mr. O’Dicey in a smart Queen’s coloured brougham — O’Dicey got up on the Shaksperian principle, Costly thy habit as thy parse can bay,” velvet and silk, and chains and lockets, and puffy pink-tinted shirt, presenting a strange contrast to the coarse hard-featured herd by whom he was surrounded, from which, however, he quickly disentangled himself, and skipped up stairs to secure a becoming seat a the table. “Waitor!” exclaimed he, swinging hastily up the long room (two bed-rooms and a billiard-room laid together); “Waitor, where can I sit?” and the waiter (a retired gentleman’s butler, whose little “discrepancy” with his late master’s plate caused by his too
great love for the turf kept him out of place), thinking O’Dicey looked like a tip, put him second from the chair, next Sir Stephen Sappey, who of course was coming to support his brother Bart.: a place that O’Dicey immediately secured by placing his thin glazed card on the plate. He then confirmed the waiter’s estimate of his quality by chucking him half-a-crown for himself.
Next, Sir Felix Flexible whipped up in his smart dress chariot, the cockaded coachman making as much fuss with his tightly curbed horses as he could, and seeming to think himself rather demeaned by haying to drive up such a narrow greengrocerish sort of street. Header, if you live in the country and value the peace of mind of your horses, never engage a town coachman — that is to say, a man who has driven in town. They think of nothing but bitting and bearing and cutting round corners. One of these elbow-squaring gentlemen will spoil the best tempered horse in a week, and declare he is vicious. If Mr. Rarey would teach them the real nature and character of the animal, it would be a great blessing to masters; only most of them are so self-sufficient that they will most likely say they have forgotten more than Rarey ever knew. As Sir Felix’s coachman stops with a sudden jerk, the well-powdered footman rather ponders on the boards thinking perhaps “Chorles” has made a mistake, and is only asking his way; but a “Now then!” over the aiguilletted shoulder, accompanied by the letting down of the carriage window, announces “all right,” and “Jeames” jumps nimbly down to unfold the door-steps and exhibit the great man inside. Sir Felix then descends in due state, letting the assembled outsiders see the brightness of his hunt-club buttons and the glorious amplitude of his well starched white vest; and preceded by Tom Boozeyworth the landlord, and a flight of those rusty-coated waiters that turn up on all public occasions from no one knows where, explores the intricacies of the long low passage, amid cautions of “Mind, here’s a step down, Sir Felix,” and “there’s a step up, Sir Felix,” and “Mind your head, Sir Felix,” until he reaches the creaking old stairs that lead up to the extemporised long room, where he finally lands amid a great display of white ware and sundry huge joints of beef and mutton, forming with cheese what the sailor described as all the delicacies of the season. If not very fine, however, it is substantial, and the ornamental centre basket of the prize candelabrum makes a grand plateau for the usual group of calves’ feet jelly-glasses. —
