Dorset; they were both in their youth great friends to the late King,
when Prince of Wales, fond of the turf, and, with the late Delme
Radcliffe, the three best gentlemen riders at the once-famed Bibury
Races, which are now replaced by those at Heaton Park. They were all
three little men, light weights, and, when dressed in their jackets
and caps, would rival Buckle and Chiffney. In those days, the Prince
made Brighton and Lewes Races the gayest scene of the year in England.
The Pavilion was full of guests; the Steine was crowded with all
the rank and fashion from London during that week; the best horses
were brought from Newmarket and the North, to run at these races,
on which immense sums were depending; and the course was graced by
the handsomest equipages. The 'legs' and betters, who had arrived in
shoals, used all to assemble on the Steine at an early hour to commence
their operations on the first day, and the buzz was tremendous, till
Lord Foley and Mellish, the two great confederates of that day, would
approach the ring, and then a sudden silence ensued; to await the
opening of their betting-books. They would come on perhaps smiling, but
mysterious, without making any demonstration; at last, Mr. Jerry Cloves
would say, 'Come, Mr. Mellish, will you light the candle, and set us
a-going?' Then, if the master of Buckle would say, 'I'll take three to
one about Sir Solomon,' the whole pack opened, and the air resounded
with every shade of odds and betting. About half-an-hour before the
signal of departure for the hill, the Prince himself would make his
appearance in the crowd--I think I see him now, in a green jacket, a
white hat, and tight nankeen pantaloons, and shoes, distinguished by
his high-bred manner and handsome person; he was generally accompanied
by the late Duke of Bedford, Lord Jersey, Charles Wyndham, Shelley,
Brummel, M. Day, Churchill, and, oh! extraordinary anomaly, the little
old Jew Travis, who, like the dwarf of old, followed in the train of
royalty. The Downs were covered with every species of conveyance,
and the Prince's German wagon (so were barouches called when first
introduced at that time) and six bay horses, the coachman on the
box being replaced by Sir John Lade, issued out of the gates of the
Pavilion, and, gliding up the green ascent, was stationed close to the
great stand, where it remained the centre of attraction for the day. At
dinner-time the Pavilion was resplendent with lights, and a sumptuous
banquet was served to a large party; while those who were not included
in that invitation found a dinner with every luxury at the Club-house
on the Steine, kept by Ragget during the season, for the different
members of White's and Brookes's who chose to frequent it, and where
the cards and dice from St. James's Street were not forgotten. Where
are the actors in all those gay scenes now?"
The period to which this lively sketch refers was from 1800 to 1820.
Soon after this, George the Fourth began to live a more secluded life,
and though his horses ran at Brighton Races, the King never made his
appearance there, and the _meet_ began to decline.
[Illustration: A Hero of the Turf and his Agent.
Colonel Mellish and Buckle the Jockey.]
Colonel Mellish.
The star of the race-course of modern times was the late Colonel
Mellish, certainly the cleverest man of his day, as regards the
science and practice of the turf. No one could match (_i.e._, make
matches) with him, nor could anyone excel him in handicapping horses
in a race. But, indeed, _nihil erat quod non tetigit non ornavit_. He
beat Lord Frederick Bentinck in a foot-race over Newmarket Heath. He
was a clever painter, a fine horseman, a brave soldier, a scientific
farmer, and an exquisite coachman. But--as his friends said of him--not
content with being the _second-best_ man of his day, he would be the
_first_, which was fatal to his fortune and his fame. It, however,
delighted us to see him in public, in the meridian of his almost
unequalled popularity, and the impression he made upon us remains. We
remember even the style of his dress, peculiar for its lightness of
hue--his neat white hat, white trousers, white silk stockings, ay,
and we may add, his white but handsome face. There was nothing black
about him but his hair and his mustachios, which he wore by virtue of
his commission, and which to _him_ were an ornament. The like of his
style of coming on the race-course at Newmarket was never witnessed
there before him nor since. He drove his barouche himself, drawn by
four beautiful _white_ horses, with two outriders on matches to them,
ridden in harness bridles. In his rear was a saddle-horse groom,
leading a thorough-bred hack, and at the rubbing-post on the heath was
another groom--all in crimson liveries--waiting with a second hack.
But we marvel when we think of his establishment. We remember him with
thirty-eight race-horses in training, seventeen coach-horses, twelve
hunters in Leicestershire, four chargers at Brighton, and not a few
hacks! But the worst is yet to come. By his racing speculations he was
a gainer, his judgment pulling him through; but when we heard that he
would play to the extent of 40,000_l._ at a sitting--yes, _he once
staked that sum on a throw_--we were not surprised that the domain of
Blythe passed into other hands; and that the once accomplished owner of
it became the tenant of a premature grave. "The bowl of pleasure," says
Johnson, "is poisoned by reflection on the cost," and here it was drunk
to the dregs. Colonel Mellish ended his days, not in poverty, for he
acquired a competency with his lady, but in a small house within sight
of the mansion that had been the pride of his ancestors and himself.
As, however, the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, Colonel Mellish
was not without consolation. He never wronged anyone but himself; and,
as an owner of race-horses, and a bettor, his character was without
spot.--_Nimrod._
Doncaster Eccentrics.
Among the visitors to Doncaster race-course are many of the lower
grade, some of whom have contrived to get hanged. Such was the case
some half-century since with Daniel Dawson, who employed himself, or
was employed by others, in poisoning with arsenic the drinking-water
of horses whose success in the future race was not desirable to Daniel
or his patrons. Several steeds perished in this way at the hands of
Daniel, in the north as well as at Newmarket. Ultimately a case from
the latter locality was proved against him, through the treachery of
a confederate, and Daniel suffered for it at Cambridge. Had he been a
martyr in a good cause, he could not have died with more becomingness.
Daniel complained of no one, did not even reproach himself; and
expressed his satisfactory conviction that he "should certainly
ascend to Heaven from the drop." Brutal as his offence was, it seems
ill-measured justice that takes a man's life for that of a beast.
Dawson is beyond our own recollection; but we can remember a more
singular and a much more honest fellow, whose appearance on the
Doncaster course was as confidently looked for, and as ardently
desired, as that of any of the Lords Lieutenant of the various Ridings.
We allude to the once famous Jemmy Hirst, the Rawcliffe tanner, whose
last of about fifty visits to the "Sillinger" and "Coop" contests was
made when he was hard upon ninety years of age. When Jemmy retired
from the tanning business with means to set up as a gentleman, the
first object he purchased was not a carriage, but a coffin, depositing
therein some of the means whereby he kept himself alive, namely, his
provisions. The walls of the room in which this lugubrious sideboard
was erected were hung round with all sorts of rusty agricultural
implements. This lord of a strange household retained a valet and a
female "general servant." His stud consisted of mules, dogs, and a
bull; mounted on which he is said to have hunted with the Badsworth
hounds. His most familiar friends were a tame fox and otter. He
certainly rode the bull when he went out shooting, and was then
accompanied by pigs as pointers. In fair-time Hirst used to take
this bull and a couple of its fellows to be baited, sitting proudly
by himself while his valet went about collecting the "coppers." His
waistcoat was a glossy garment made of the neck feathers of the drake,
from the pocket of which he would issue his own bank-notes, bearing
responsibilities of payment to the amount of "_Five half-pence_."
His carriage was a sort of palanquin, carried aloft by high wheels,
and its peculiarity was that there was not a nail about it. This
vehicle was really better known at Doncaster than the stately carriage
of Lord Fitzwilliam himself. It was the boast of the proud and dirty
gentleman who sat enthroned there, that he had never paid and never
would pay any sort of tax to the King; and how he managed to shoot, as
he did, without paying a licence, was best known to himself. He was
the most popular man on the course, and, unlike very many who began
rich and ended poor, Jemmy increased in wealth year by year. He was
wont to contrast himself with "the Prince's friend," Col. Mellish,
who inherited an immense property, won two Legers in two consecutive
years, 1804-5, and finally died almost a pauper. Jemmy had undoubtedly,
in his view of things, done better than Col. Mellish; but the tanner,
through life, never thought of the welfare but of one human being--that
of James Hirst. He was as selfish as the butcher-churchwarden of
Doncaster, who ruined the grand old tower of the church by placing a
hideous clock face in it, which was so constructed that no one could
see the time by it except from the butcher's own door!
We should hardly render Hirst justice, however, if we omitted to state
how such a great man departed from this earth. The folding-doors of
his old coffin were closed upon him. Eight buxom widows carried his
corpse for a _honorarium_ of half-a-crown each. Jemmy had expressed a
desire to have eight old maids to undertake this service, bequeathing
half-a-guinea to each as hire. But the ladies in question were not
forthcoming. So the widows were engaged in their place; but why the fee
was lowered we cannot tell, unless it was to pay for the bagpipe and
fiddle which headed the procession. All the country round flocked in to
do Jemmy honour or to enjoy the holiday; and for many a year afterwards
might the sorrowing comment be heard on Doncaster Course,--"Nay, lad!
t'Coop-day seems nought-loike wi'out Jemmy!" and the mourners took out
his "Fihawpence notes," and compared their own touching respective
memories of the departed glory of Doncaster.
At the close of Jemmy's career the wonderfully dressed "swell mob" was
busiest if not brightest. The latter was only short-lived. A party of
them really dazzled common folk by the splendour of their turn-out,
both as regarded themselves and their equipage. People took them for
foreign princes, or native nobility returned from foreign climes, and
not yet familiarly known to the public. The impression did not last
long. The well-dressed, finely-curled, highly scented, richly-jewelled
strangers, sauntering among the better known aristocracy, commenced
a series of predatory operations which speedily brought them within
the fastness of the town gaol. No one who saw them there a day or two
later, after seeing them on the course, will ever forget the sight and
the strange contrast. Stripped of their finery, closely cropped, and
clad in coarse flannel dresses, they might be seen seated at a board,
with a hot lump of stony-looking rice before them for a dinner.
Altogether, there was occasionally a very mixed society on and about
the course: among the so-to-speak professional _habitués_, men who
made a business of the pursuit there--who were actors rather than
spectators, and all of whom have disappeared without leaving a
successor in his peculiar line,--we may mention the old Duke of Leeds,
redolent of port; the white-faced Duke of Cleveland, "the Jesuit of the
Ring;" P. W. Ridsale, ex-footman, then millionaire, finally pauper;
blacksmith Richardson, who, shaking his head at "Leeds," would remark
of himself, that sobriety alone had saved him from being hanged; Mr.
Beardsworth, who had been originally a hackney-coachman, then sporting
his crimson liveries; Mr. Crook, who commenced life with a fish-basket;
and the well-known son of the ostler at the Black Swan, in York,
wearing diamond rings and pins, betting his thousands, and looking as
cool the while, as if he not only largely used the waters of Pactolus,
but owned half the gold-dust on its banks.
The two extremes of the official men as regarded rank, were, perhaps,
Lord George Bentinck and Mr. Gully, the ex-pugilist. The former
introduced, at Doncaster, the signal-flag to regulate the "starts,"
and he founded the Bentinck Fund (with the money subscribed for
a testimonial to himself), for the relief of decayed jockeys and
trainers. The two men were equals in one respect, the coolness with
which they either won or lost. They who remember the year when Petre's
Matilda beat Gully's Mameluke, and who witnessed the event and its
results, speak yet with a sort of pride of Gully's conduct. He had lost
immensely; but he was the first man who appeared in the betting-rooms
to pay anyone who had a bet registered against him; and he was the last
man to leave, not retiring till he was satisfied that there did not
remain a single claimant. He paid away a grand total on that occasion
which properly invested, would have set all the poor in Doncaster at
ease for ever.--_Abridged from the Athenæum_, No. 1715.
"Walking Stewart."
Early in the year 1821, London lost one of its famous eccentrics, who
rejoiced in the above distinction, which, it must be admitted, he had
fairly earned. He was one of the lions of the great town, and his
ubiquitous nature was thus ingeniously sketched:--
"Who that ever weathered his way over Westminster Bridge has not seen
_Walking Stewart_ (his invariable cognomen) sitting in the recess on
the brow of the bridge, spencered up to his throat and down to his hips
with a sort of garment, planned, it would seem, to stand _powder_, as
became the habit of a military man; his dingy, dusty inexpressibles
(truly inexpressibles), his boots travel-stained, black up to his
knees--and yet not black neither--but arrant walkers, both of them, or
their complexions belied them; his aged, but strongly-marked, manly,
air-ripened face, steady as truth; and his large, irregular, dusty hat,
that seemed to be of one mind with the boots? We say, who does not
thus remember _Walking Stewart_, sitting, and leaning on his stick, as
though he had never walked in his life, but had taken his seat on the
bridge at his birth, and had grown old in his sedentary habit? To be
sure, this view of him is rather negatived by as strong a remembrance
of him in the same spencer and accompaniments of hair-powder and dust,
resting on a bench in the Park, with as perfectly an eternal air: nor
will the memory let him keep a quiet, constant seat here for ever;
recalling him, as she is wont, in his shuffling, slow perambulation
of the Strand, or Charing Cross, or Cockspur Street. Where really was
he? You saw him on Westminster Bridge, acting his own monument. You
went into the Park--he was there! fixed as the gentleman at Charing
Cross. You met him, however, at Charing Cross, creeping on like the
hour-hand upon a dial, getting rid of his rounds and his time at once!
Indeed, his ubiquity appeared enormous, and yet not so enormous
as the profundity of his sitting habits. He was a profound sitter.
Could the Pythagorean system be entertained, what other would now be
tenanted by _Walking Stewart_? Truly, he seemed always going, like a
lot at an auction, and yet always at a stand, like a hackney-coach!
Oh, what a walk was his to christen a man by! A slow, lazy, scraping,
creeping, gazing pace--a shuffle--a walk in its dotage--a walk at a
stand-still--yet was he a pleasant man to meet. We remember his face
distinctly, and allowing a little for its northern hardness, it was
certainly as wise, as kindly, and as handsome a face as ever crowned
the shoulders of a soldier, a scholar and a gentleman.
"Well! Walking Stewart is dead! He will no more be seen niched in
Westminster Bridge, or keeping his terms as one of the benchers of St.
James's Park, or painting the pavement with moving but uplifted feet.
In vain we looked for him 'at the hour when he was wont to walk.' The
niche in the bridge is empty of its amiable statue, and as he is gone
from this spot he has gone from all, for he was ever all in all! Three
persons seemed departed in him. In him there seems to have been a
triple death!"
We are tempted "to consecrate a passage" to him, as John Buncle
expresses it, from a tiny pamphlet entitled "The Life and Adventures
of the celebrated Walking Stewart, including his travels in the East
Indies, Turkey, Germany, and America," and the author, "a relative,"
has contrived to out-do his subject _in getting over the ground_, for
he manages to close his work at the end of the sixteenth page.
John Stewart, or Walking Stewart, was born of two Scotch parents, in
1749, in London, and was in due time sent to Harrow, and thence to the
Charter House, where he established himself as a dunce--no bad promise
in a boy, we think. He left school and was sent to India, where his
character and energies unfolded themselves, as his biographer tells
us, for his mind was unshackled by education.
He resolved to amass 3,000_l._, and then to return to England. No bad
resolve. To attain this, he quitted the Company's Service and entered
that of Hyder Ally. He now turned soldier, and became a general.
Hyder's generals were easily made and unmade. Stewart behaved well
and bravely, and paid his regiment without drawbacks, which made him
popular. Becoming wounded somehow, and having no great faith in Hyder's
surgeons, he begged leave to join the English for medical advice. Hyder
gave a Polonius kind of admission, quietly determining to cut the
traveller and his journey as short as possible, for his own sake and
that of the invalid. Stewart sniffed the intention of Ally, and taking
an early opportunity of cutting his company before they could cut him,
he popped into a river, literally swam for his life, reached the bank,
ran before his hunters like an antelope, and arrived safely at the
European forts. He got in breathless, and lived. How he was cured of
his wounds is thus told by Colonel Wilks in his _Sketches of the South
of India_:--
"An English gentleman commanded one of the corps, and was most severely
wounded after a desperate resistance; others in the same unhappy
situation met with friends, or persons of the same caste, to procure
for them the rude aid offered by Indian surgery; the Englishman was
destitute of this poor advantage; his wounds were washed with simple
warm water, by an attendant boy, three or four times-a-day; and, under
this novel system of surgery, they recovered with a rapidity not
exceeded under the best hospital treatment."
A writer in the _Quarterly Review_, 1817, appends to the above
quotation the following:--"This English gentleman is the person
distinguished by the name of _Walking Stewart_, who, after the lapse
of half a century, is still alive, and still, we believe, _walking_
daily, in the neighbourhood of the Haymarket and Charing Cross."
Hitherto, Stewart had saved little money. He now entered the Nabob of
Arcot's service, and became prime minister, the memoir does not say how.
At length he took leave of India, and travelled over Persia and Turkey
_on foot_, in search of a name, it should seem, or, as he was wont
to say, "in search of the Polarity, and Moral Truth." After many
adventures he arrived in England: he brought home money, and commenced
his London life in an Armenian dress, to attract attention.
He next visited America, and on his return, "made the tour of Scotland,
Germany, Italy, and France, _on foot_, and ultimately settled in
Paris," where he made friends. He intended to live there; but after
investing his money in French property, he smelt the sulphur cloud of
the Revolution, and retreated as fast as possible, losing considerable
property in his flight. He returned to London, and suddenly and
unexpectedly received 10,000_l._ from the India Company, on the
liquidation of the debts of the Nabob of Arcot. He bought annuities,
and fattened his yearly income. The relative says:--"One of his
annuities was purchased from the County Fire Office at a rate which,
in the end, was proved to have been paid three, and nearly four times
over. The calculation of the assurers was here completely at fault:
every quarter brought Mr. Stewart regularly to the cashier, whom he
accosted with, 'Well, man alive! I am come for my money!'"--which
Stewart enjoyed as a joke.
Mr. Stewart now lived in better style, gave dinners and musical
parties. Every evening a _conversazione_ was given at his house,
enlivened by music; on Sundays he gave select dinner parties, followed
by a philosophical discourse, and a performance of sacred music,
chiefly selected from the works of Handel, and concluding with the
"Dead March in Saul," which was always received by the company as a
signal for their departure.
Stewart was attached to King George IV., and lived peaceably until the
arrival of Queen Caroline, when her deputations and political movements
alarmed the great pedestrian, and awakened his walking propensities,
and his friends had great difficulty to prevent him from going to
America.
Stewart's health declined in 1821; he went to Margate, returned, became
worse, and on Ash Wednesday he died.
To all entreaties from friends that he would write his travels, he
replied, No; that his were travels of the mind. He, however, wrote
essays, and gave lectures on the philosophy of the mind. It is very odd
that men will _not_ tell what they know, and _will_ attempt to talk of
what they do _not_ know.
Youthful Days of the Hon. Grantley Berkeley.[33]
At Cranford, Mr. Grantley Berkeley had the first enjoyments of a boy
let loose into the country with a brother for a companion. "All day,"
he says, "we were together fishing, shooting, setting traps for vermin,
rat hunting,--in short, seeking sport wherever it was attainable."
This, as he suggests, was not exactly the orthodox way of bringing up
a boy as he should go; but he is certain that it laid the foundation
of his after success as a sportsman. Among other incidents of these
days, he broke his collarbone and dislocated his shoulder; and, among
other exercises popular in his time, he became familiar with Cribb,
Figg, and other heroes of the then "ring," and derived from them as
much pugilistic science as they could impart to a young, active, and
enthusiastic pupil. At Cranford, moreover, he enjoyed a little private
bull-baiting, but that was confessedly more on the account of his
brother Augustus, or his brother Augustus's dog, than himself. "Bull,"
which was the name of the latter, was an eager and extempore performer
in this department of the writer's education. At length "Bull" and
Augustus left Grantley, who tells us:--
"As we proceeded along the high road, nearing the spot of our
separation, we were overtaken by a respectable tradesman, as he
appeared, driving his wife towards the neighbouring town in a buggy.
It was Augustus's last chance of inducting us into a row, and not to
be lost; so he made some most insulting remark upon these unoffending
passengers, which so provoked the female, that she unfortunately took
up the _casus belli_, and, with other abuse, called her assailant a
'barber's clerk.' He replied, 'I know I am a barber, and I have shaved
you.' When the man heard this wordy war he joined in it. On this my
brother told him, that 'if it was not for his woman he would pull him
out of his rattletrap and tread on him.' Here was a circumstance that
caused my boyish mind considerable speculation. Hard names and some
swearing seemed not much to insult the man in the buggy; but on hearing
the female at his side called his 'woman,' his wrath knew no bounds.
With the exclamation, 'My woman, you rascal! she is my wife!' he set
to work lashing my brother with his gig whip, commencing a sort of
artillery duel at long practice, not in accordance with the cavalry arm
of my brother, nor with his way of fighting. A charge upon the buggy
was therefore made by him, keeping his right side open for mischief;
and in the obscure darkness I could hear the crown of the hat of the
driver get ten blows for one, for his long weapon was useless at close
quarters. The female, wife or woman, whichever she was, very quickly
saw that the combat was all one way, for with a very much damaged crown
her king crouched down on the cushion at her side; so that she awakened
up the heath with shrieks of 'Murder!' 'Be off, as hard as you can
split,' was then the order to us from the offender. We obeyed, as we
heard the heels of his horse speed on far in advance of the buggy."
[33] From _The Times_ Review of his _Life_, 1865.
To give Mr. Grantley Berkeley fair credit, he condemns the recklessness
of such robust adventures, but he pleads that such was the practice in
the days when he was raised; and to his own advantage, as he admits, he
was summarily recalled to a more quiet regimen by the sudden appearance
of a tutor who required from him other exercises. Nevertheless, his
stories of little private fights with the sons of the Vicar of Berkeley
and one of the keepers, which are very amusing, show that in stable
and backyards he enjoyed consolations, though he declares that this
was done chiefly for the amusement of his brother Henry, who used to
invite him to the stable with the gloves to fight one of the boys above
mentioned, when the battle always ended by his knocking the head of his
opponent into the manger. He says,