"A muffin--and the _Post_, sir," said George to the Yorkshireman,--on
one of the fine fresh mornings that gently usher in the returning
spring, and draw from the town-pent cits sighs for the verdure of
the fields,--as he placed the above mentioned articles on his usual
breakfast table in the coffee-room of the "Piazza."
With the calm deliberation of a man whose whole day is unoccupied, the
Yorkshireman sweetened his tea, drew the muffin and a select dish of
prawns to his elbow, and turning sideways to the table, crossed his legs
and prepared to con the contents of the paper. The first page as usual
was full of advertisements.--Sales by auction--Favour of your vote
and interest--If the next of kin--Reform your tailor's bills--Law---
Articled clerk--An absolute reversion--Pony phaeton--Artificial
teeth--Messrs. Tattersall--Brace of pointers--Dog lost--Boy found--Great
sacrifice--No advance in coffee--Matrimony--A single gentleman--Board
and lodging in an airy situation--To omnibus proprietors--Steam to Leith
and Hull--Stationery--Desirable investment for a small capital--The fire
reviver or lighter.
Then turning it over, his eye ranged over a whole meadow of type,
consisting of the previous night's debate, followed on by City news,
Police reports, Fashionable arrivals and departures, Dinners given,
Sporting intelligence, Newmarket Craven meeting. "That's more in my
way," said the Yorkshireman to himself as he laid down the paper and
took a sip of his tea. "I've a great mind to go, for I may just as well
be at Newmarket as here, having nothing particular to do in either
place. I came to stay a hundred pounds in London it's true, but if I
stay ten of it at Newmarket, it'll be all the same, and I can go home
from there just as well as from here"; so saying, he took another turn
at the tea. The race list was a tempting one, Riddlesworth, Craven
Stakes, Column Stakes, Oatlands, Port, Claret, Sherry, Madeira, and all
other sorts. A good week's racing in fact, for the saintly sinners who
frequent the Heath had not then discovered any greater impropriety in
travelling on a Sunday, then in cheating each other on the Monday. The
tea was good, as were the prawns and eggs, and George brought a second
muffin, at the very moment that the Yorkshireman had finished the last
piece of the first, so that by the time he had done his breakfast and
drawn on his boots, which were dryer and pleasanter than the recent damp
weather had allowed of their being, he felt completely at peace with
himself and all the world, and putting on his hat, sallied forth with
the self-satisfied air of a man who had eat a good breakfast, and yet
not too much.
Newmarket was still uppermost in his mind, and as he sauntered along
in the direction of the Strand, it occurred to him that perhaps Mr.
Jorrocks might have no objection to accompany him. On entering that
great thoroughfare of humanity, he turned to the east, and having
examined the contents of all the caricature shops in the line, and paid
threepence for a look at the _York Herald_, in the Chapter Coffee-house,
St. Paul's Churchyard, about noon he reached the corner of St. Botolph
Lane. Before Jorrocks & Co.'s warehouse, great bustle and symptoms
of brisk trade were visible. With true city pride, the name on the
door-post was in small dirty-white letters, sufficiently obscure to
render it apparent that Mr. Jorrocks considered his house required no
sign; while, as a sort of contradiction, the covered errand-cart before
it, bore "JORROCKS & Co.'s WHOLESALE TEA WAREHOUSE," in great gilt
letters on each side of the cover, so large that "he who runs might
read," even though the errand-cart were running too. Into this cart,
which was drawn by the celebrated rat-tail hunter, they were pitching
divers packages for town delivery, and a couple of light porters nearly
upset the Yorkshireman, as they bustled out with their loads. The
warehouse itself gave evident proof of great antiquity. It was not
one of your fine, light, lofty, mahogany-countered, banker-like
establishments of modern times, where the stock-in-trade often consists
of books and empty canisters, but a large, roomy, gloomy, dirty,
dingy sort of cellar above ground, full of hogsheads, casks, flasks,
sugar-loaves, jars, bags, bottles, and boxes.
The floor was half an inch thick, at least, with dirt, and was sprinkled
with rice, currants, and raisins, as though they had been scattered for
the purpose of growing. A small corner seemed to have been cut off, like
the fold of a Leicestershire grazing-ground, and made into an office in
the centre of which was a square or two of glass that commanded a view
of the whole warehouse. "Is Mr. Jorrocks in?" inquired the Yorkshireman
of a porter, who was busy digging currants with a wooden spade. "Yes,
sir, you'll find him in the counting-house," was the answer; but on
looking in, though his hat and gloves were there, no Jorrocks was
visible. At the farther end of the warehouse a man in his shirt-sleeves,
with a white apron round his waist and a brown paper cap on his head,
was seen under a very melancholy-looking skylight, holding his head over
something, as if his nose were bleeding. The Yorkshireman groped his way
up to him, and asking if Mr. Jorrocks was in, found he was addressing
the grocer himself. He had been leaning over a large trayful of little
white cups--with teapots to match--trying the strength, flavour, and
virtue of a large purchase of tea, and the beverage was all smoking
before him. "My vig," exclaimed he, holding out his hand, "who'd have
thought of seeing you in the city, this is something unkimmon! However,
you're werry welcome in St. Botolph Lane, and as this is your
first wisit, why, I'll make you a present of some tea--wot do you
drink?--black or green, or perhaps both--four pounds of one and two of
t'other. Here, Joe!" summoning his foreman, "put up four pounds of that
last lot of black that came in, and two pounds of superior green, and
this gentleman will tell you where to leave it.--And when do you think
of starting?" again addressing the Yorkshireman--"egad this is fine
weather for the country--have half a mind to have a jaunt myself--makes
one quite young--feel as if I'd laid full fifty years aside, and were
again a boy--when did you say you start?" "Why, I don't know exactly,"
replied the Yorkshireman, "the weather's so fine that I'm half tempted
to go round by Newmarket." "Newmarket!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing
his arm in the air, while his paper cap fell from his head with the
jerk--"by Newmarket! why, what in the name of all that's impure, have
you to do at Newmarket?"
"Why, nothing in particular; only, when there's neither hunting nor
shooting going on, what is a man to do with himself?--I'm sure you'd
despise me if I were to go fishing." "True," observed Mr. Jorrocks
somewhat subdued, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket.
"Fox-'unting is indeed the prince of sports. The image of war, without
its guilt, and only half its danger. I confess that I'm a martyr to
it--a perfect wictim--no one knows wot I suffer from my ardour.--If ever
I'm wisited with the last infirmity of noble minds, it will be caused by
my ingovernable passion for the chase. The sight of a saddle makes me
sweat. An 'ound makes me perfectly wild. A red coat throws me into a
scarlet fever. Never throughout life have I had a good night's rest
before an 'unting morning. But werry little racing does for me; Sadler's
Wells is well enough of a fine summer evening--especially when they
plump the clown over head in the New River cut, and the ponies don't
misbehave in the Circus,--but oh! Newmarket's a dreadful place, the
werry name's a sickener. I used to hear a vast about it from poor Will
Softly of Friday Street. It was the ruin of him--and wot a fine business
his father left him, both wholesale and retail, in the tripe and
cow-heel line--all went in two years, and he had nothing to show at the
end of that time for upwards of twenty thousand golden sovereigns, but a
hundredweight of children's lamb's-wool socks, and warrants for thirteen
hogsheads of damaged sherry in the docks. No, take my adwice, and have
nothing to say to them--stay where you are, or, if you're short of swag,
come to Great Coram Street, where you shall have a bed, wear-and-tear
for your teeth, and all that sort of thing found you, and, if Saturday's
a fine day, I'll treat you with a jaunt to Margate."
"You are a regular old trump," said the Yorkshireman, after listening
attentively until Mr. Jorrocks had exhausted himself, "but, you see,
you've never been at Newmarket, and the people have been hoaxing you
about it. I can assure you from personal experience that the people
there are quite as honest as those you meet every day on 'Change,
besides which, there is nothing more invigorating to the human
frame--nothing more cheering to the spirits, than the sight and air of
Newmarket Heath on a fine fresh spring morning like the present. The
wind seems to go by you at a racing pace, and the blood canters up and
down the veins with the finest and freest action imaginable. A stranger
to the race-course would feel, and almost instinctively know, what turf
he was treading, and the purpose for which that turf was intended".
"There's a magic in the web of it."
"Oh, I knows you are a most persuasive cock," observed Mr. Jorrocks
interrupting the Yorkshireman, "and would conwince the devil himself
that black is white, but you'll never make me believe the Newmarket
folks are honest, and as to the fine hair (air) you talk of, there's
quite as good to get on Hampstead Heath, and if it doesn't make the
blood canter up and down your weins, you can always amuse yourself
by watching the donkeys cantering up and down with the sweet little
children--haw! haw! haw!--But tell me what is there at Newmarket that
should take a man there?" "What is there?" rejoined the Yorkshireman,
"why, there's everything that makes life desirable and constitutes
happiness, in this world, except hunting. First there is the beautiful,
neat, clean town, with groups of booted professors, ready for the
rapidest march of intellect; then there are the strings of clothed
horses--the finest in the world--passing indolently at intervals to
their exercise,--the flower of the English aristocracy residing in the
place. You leave the town and stroll to the wide open heath, where all
is brightness and space; the white rails stand forth against the dear
blue sky--the brushing gallop ever and anon startles the ear and eye;
crowds of stable urchins, full of silent importance, stud the heath; you
feel elated and long to bound over the well groomed turf and to try the
speed of the careering wind. All things at Newmarket train the mind to
racing. Life seems on the start, and dull indeed were he who could rein
in his feelings when such inspiring objects meet together to madden
them!"
"Bravo!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his paper cap in the air as the
Yorkshireman concluded.--"Bravo!--werry good indeed! You speak like ten
Lord Mayors--never heard nothing better. Dash my vig, if I won't go. By
Jove, you've done it. Tell me one thing--is there a good place to feed
at?"
"Capital!" replied the Yorkshireman, "beef, mutton, cheese, ham, all
the delicacies of the season, as the sailor said"; and thereupon the
Yorkshireman and Jorrocks shook hands upon the bargain.
Sunday night arrived, and with it arrived, at the "Belle Sauvage,"
in Ludgate Hill, Mr. Jorrocks's boy "Binjimin," with Mr. Jorrocks's
carpet-bag; and shortly after Mr. Jorrocks, on his chestnut hunter, and
the Yorkshireman, in a hack cab, entered the yard. Having consigned his
horse to Binjimin; after giving him a very instructive lesson relative
to the manner in which he would chastise him if he heard of his trotting
or playing any tricks with the horse on his way home, Mr. Jorrocks
proceeded to pay the remainder of his fare in the coach office. The mail
was full inside and out, indeed the book-keeper assured him he could
have filled a dozen more, so anxious ware all London to see the
Riddlesworth run. "Inside," said he, "are you and your friend, and if it
wern't that the night air might give you cold, Mr. Jorrocks" (for all
the book-keepers in London know him), "I should have liked to have got
you outsides, and I tried to make an exchange with two black-legs, but
they would hear of nothing less than two guineas a head, which wouldn't
do, you know. Here comes another of your passengers--a great foreign
nobleman, they say--Baron something--though he looks as much like a
foreign pickpocket as anything else."
"Vich be de voiture?" inquired a tall, gaunt-looking foreigner, with
immense moustache, a high conical hat with a bright buckle, long, loose,
blueish-blackish frock-coat, very short white waistcoat, baggy brownish
striped trousers, and long-footed Wellington boots, with a sort of
Chinese turn up at the toe. "Vich be de Newmarket Voiture?" said he,
repeating the query, as he entered the office and deposited a silk
umbrella, a camlet cloak, and a Swiss knapsack on the counter. The
porter, without any attempt at an answer, took his goods and walked off
to the mail, followed closely by the Baron, and after depositing the
cloak inside, so that the Baron might ride with his "face to the
horses," as the saying is, he turned the knapsack into the hind boot,
and swung himself into the office till it was time to ask for something
for his exertions. Meanwhile the Baron made a tour of the yard, taking
a lesson in English from the lettering on the various coaches, when,
on the hind boot of one, he deciphered the word Cheapside.--"Ah,
Cheapside!" said he, pulling out his dictionary and turning to the
letter C. "Chaste, chat, chaw,--cheap, dat be it. Cheap,--to be had at
a low price--small value. Ah! I hev (have) it," said he, stamping and
knitting his brows, "sacré-e-e-e-e nom de Dieu," and the first word
being drawn out to its usual longitude, three strides brought him and
the conclusion of the oath into the office together. He then opened out
upon the book-keeper, in a tremendous volley of French, English and
Hanoverian oaths, for he was a cross between the first and last named
countries, the purport of which was "dat he had paid de best price,
and he be dem if he vod ride on de Cheapside of de coach." In vain
the clerks and book-keepers tried to convince him he was wrong in his
interpretation. With the full conviction of a foreigner that he was
about to be cheated, he had his cloak shifted to the opposite side of
the coach, and the knapsack placed on the roof. The fourth inside having
cast up, the outside passengers mounted, the insides took their places,
three-pences and sixpences were pulled out for the porters, the guard
twanged his horn, the coachman turned out his elbow, flourished his
whip, caught the point, cried "All right! sit tight!" and trotted out of
the yard.
Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat opposite each other, the Baron and old
Sam Spring, the betting man, did likewise. Who doesn't know old Sam,
with his curious tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, his old drab hat
turned up with green, careless neckcloth, flowing robe, and comical cut?
He knew Jorrocks--though--tell it not in Coram Street, he didn't know
his name; but concluded from the disparity of age between him and his
companion, that Jorrocks was either a shark or a shark's jackal, and
the Yorkshireman a victim. With due professional delicacy, he contented
himself with scrutinising the latter through his specs. The Baron's
choler having subsided, he was the first to break the ice of silence.
"Foine noight," was the observation, which was thrown out promiscuously
to see who would take it up. Now Sam Spring, though he came late, had
learned from the porter that there was a Baron in the coach, and being a
great admirer of the nobility, for whose use he has a code of signals
of his own, consisting of one finger to his hat for a Baron Lord as he
calls them, two for a Viscount, three for an Earl, four for a Marquis,
and the whole hand for a Duke, he immediately responded with "Yes, my
lord," with a fore-finger to his hat. There is something sweet in the
word "Lord" which finds its way home to the heart of an Englishman.
No sooner did Sam pronounce it, than the Baron became transformed in
Jorrocks's eyes into a very superior sort of person, and forthwith he
commences ingratiating himself by offering him a share of a large paper
of sandwiches, which the Baron accepted with the greatest condescension,
eating what he could and stuffing the remainder into his hat. His
lordship was a better hand at eating than speaking, and the united
efforts of the party could not extract from him the precise purport of
his journey. Sam threw out two or three feasible offers in the way of
bets, but they fell still-born to the bottom of the coach, and Jorrocks
talked to him about hunting and had the conversation all to himself,
the Baron merely replying with a bow and a stare, sometimes diversified
with, or "I tank you--vare good." The conversation by degrees resolved
itself into a snore, in which they were all indulging, when the raw
morning air rushed in among them, as a porter with a lanthorn opened the
door and announced their arrival at Newmarket. Forthwith they turned
into the street, and the outside passengers having descended, they all
commenced straddling, yawning, and stretching their limbs while the
guard and porters sorted their luggage. The Yorkshireman having an eye
to a bed, speedily had Mr. Jorrocks's luggage and his own on the back
of a porter on its way to the "Rutland Arms," while that worthy citizen
followed in a sort of sleepy astonishment at the smallness of the place,
inquiring if they were sure they had not stopped at some village by
mistake. Two beds had been ordered for two gentlemen who could not get
two seats by the mail, which fell to the lot of those who did, and into
these our heroes trundled, having arranged to be called by the early
exercising hour.
Whether it was from want of his usual night-cap of brandy and water, or
the fatigues of travelling, or what else, remains unknown, but no sooner
was Mr. Jorrocks left alone with his candle, than all at once he was
seized with a sudden fit of trepidation, on thinking that he should have
been inveigled to such a place as Newmarket, and the tremor increasing
as he pulled four five-pound bank-notes out of his watch-pocket, besides
a vast of silver and his great gold watch, he was resolved, should an
attempt be made upon his property, to defend it with his life, and
having squeezed the notes into the toe of his boots, and hid the silver
in the wash-hand stand, he very deliberately put his watch and the poker
under the pillow, and set the heavy chest of drawers with two stout
chairs and a table against the door, after all which exertions he got
into bed and very soon fell sound asleep.
Most of the inmates of the house were up with the lark to the early
exercises, and the Yorkshireman was as early as any of them. Having
found Mr. Jorrocks's door, he commenced a loud battery against it
without awaking the grocer; he then tried to open it, but only succeeded
in getting it an inch or two from the post, and after several holloas of
"Jorrocks, my man! Mr. Jorrocks! Jorrocks, old boy! holloa, Jorrocks!"
he succeeded in extracting the word "Wot?" from the worthy gentleman as
he rolled over in his bed. "Jorrocks!" repeated the Yorkshireman, "it's
time to be up." "Wot?" again was the answer. "Time to get up. The
morning's breaking." "Let it break," replied he, adding in a mutter, as
he turned over again, "it owes me nothing."
Entreaties being useless, and a large party being on the point of
setting off, the Yorkshireman joined them, and spent a couple of hours
on the dew-bespangled heath, during which time they not only criticised
the figure and action of every horse that was out, but got up tremendous
appetites for breakfast. In the meantime Mr. Jorrocks had risen, and
having attired himself with his usual care, in a smart blue coat with
metal buttons, buff waistcoat, blue stocking-netted tights, and Hessian
boots, he turned into the main street of Newmarket, where he was lost in
astonishment at the insignificance of the place. But wiser men than
Mr. Jorrocks have been similarly disappointed, for it enters into
the philosophy of few to conceive the fame and grandeur of Newmarket
compressed into the limits of the petty, outlandish, Icelandish place
that bears the name. "Dash my vig," said Mr. Jorrocks, as he brought
himself to bear upon Rogers's shop-window, "this is the werry
meanest town I ever did see. Pray, sir," addressing himself to a
groomish-looking man in a brown cut-away coat, drab shorts and
continuations, who had just emerged from the shop with a race list in
his hand, "Pray, sir, be this your principal street?" The man eyed him
with a mixed look of incredulity and contempt. At length, putting his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he replied, "I bet a crown
you know as well as I do." "Done," said Mr. Jorrocks holding out his
hand. "No--I won't do that," replied the man, "but I'll tell you what
I'll do with you,--I'll lay you two to one, in fives or fifties if you
like, that you knew before you axed, and that Thunderbolt don't win the
Riddlesworth." "Really," said Mr. Jorrocks, "I'm not a betting man."
"Then, wot the 'ell business have you at Newmarket?" was all the answer
he got. Disgusted with such inhospitable impertinence, Mr. Jorrocks
turned on his heel and walked away. Before the "White Hart" Inn was a
smartish pony phaeton, in charge of a stunted stable lad. "I say, young
chap," inquired Jorrocks, "whose is that?" "How did you know that I
was a young chap?" inquired the abortion turning round. "Guessed it,"
replied Jorrocks, chuckling at his own wit. "Then guess whose it is."
"Pray, are your clocks here by London time?" he asked of a respectable
elderly-looking man whom he saw turn out of the entry leading to the
Kingston rooms, and take the usual survey first up the town and then
down it, and afterwards compose his hands in his breeches-pockets, there
to stand to see the "world." [17] "Come now, old 'un--none o' your tricks
here--you've got a match on against time, I suppose," was all the answer
he could get after the man (old R--n the ex-flagellator) had surveyed
him from head to foot.
[Footnote 17: Newmarket or London--it's all the same--"The world" is but
composed of one's own acquaintance.]
We need hardly say after all these rebuffs that when Mr. Jorrocks met
the Yorkshireman, he was not in the best possible humour; indeed, to say
nothing of the extreme sharpness and suspicion of the people, we know of
no place where a man, not fond of racing, is so completely out of his
element as at Newmarket, for with the exception of a little "elbow
shaking" in the evening, there is literally and truly nothing else
to do. It is "Heath," "Ditch in," "Abingdon mile," "T.Y.C. Stakes,"
"Sweepstakes," "Handicaps," "Bet," "Lay," "Take," "Odds," "Evens,"
morning, noon and night.
Mr. Jorrocks made bitter complaints during the breakfast, and some
invidious comparisons between racing men and fox-hunters, which,
however, became softer towards the close, as he got deeper in the
delicacy of a fine Cambridge brawn. Nature being at length appeased, he
again thought of turning out, to have a look, as he said, at the shows
on the course, but the appearance of his friend the Baron opposite the
window, put it out of his head, and he sallied forth to join him. The
Baron was evidently incog.: for he had on the same short dirty-white
waistcoat, Chinese boots, and conical hat, that he travelled down in,
and being a stranger in the land, of course he was uncommonly glad to
pick up Jorrocks, so after he had hugged him a little, called him a "bon
garçon," and a few other endearing terms, he run his great long arm
through his, and walked him down street, the whole peregrinations of
Newmarket being comprised in the words "up street" and "down." He then
communicated in most unrepresentable language, that he was on his way
to buy "an 'oss," and Jorrocks informing him that he was a perfect
connoisseur in the article, the Baron again assured him of his
distinguished consideration. They were met by Joe Rogers the trainer
with a ring-key in his hand, who led the way to the stable, and having
unlocked a box in which was a fine slapping four-year old, according to
etiquette he put his hat in a corner, took a switch in one hand, laid
hold of the horse's head with the other, while the lad in attendance
stripped off its clothes. The Baron then turned up his wrists, and
making a curious noise in his throat, proceeded to pass his hand down
each leg, and along its back, after which he gave it a thump in the
belly and squeezed its throat, when, being as wise as he was at
starting, he stuck his thumb in his side, and took a mental survey of
the whole.--"Ah," said he at length--"foin 'oss,--foin 'oss; vot ears he
has?" "Oh," said Rogers, "they show breeding." "Non, non, I say vot ears
he has?" "Well, but he carries them well," was the answer. "Non, non,"
stamping, "I say vot ears (years) he has?" "Oh, hang it, I twig--four
years old." Then the Baron took another long look at him. At length he
resumed, "I vill my wet." "What's that?" inquired Rogers of Jorrocks.
"His wet--why, a drink to be sure," and thereupon Rogers went to the
pump and brought a glass of pure water, which the Baron refused with
becoming indignation. "Non, non," said he stamping, "I vill my wet."
Rogers looked at Jorrocks, and Jorrocks looked at Rogers, but neither
Rogers nor Jorrocks understood him. "I vill my wet," repeated the Baron
with vehemence. "He must want some brandy in it," observed Mr. Jorrocks,
judging of the Baron by himself, and thereupon the lad was sent for
three-penn'orth. When it arrived, the Baron dashed it out of his hand
with a prolonged sacré-e-e-e--! adding "I vill von wet-tin-nin-na-ary
surgeon." The boy was dispatched for one, and on his arrival the
veterinary surgeon went through the process that the Baron had
attempted, and not being a man of many words, he just gave the Baron a
nod at the end. "How moch?" inquked the Baron of Rogers. "Five hundred,"
was the answer. "Vot, five hundred livre?" "Oh d----n it, you may take
or leave him, just as you like, but you won't get him for less." The
"vet" explained that the Baron wished to know whether it was five
hundred francs (French ten-pences), or five hundred guineas English
money, and being informed that it was the latter, he gave his conical
hat a thrust on his brow, and bolted out of the box.
But race hour approaches, and people begin to assemble in groups before
the "rooms," while tax-carts, pony-gigs, post-chaises, the usual
aristocratical accompaniments of Newmarket, come dribbling at intervals
into the town. Here is old Sam Spring in a spring-cart, driven by a
ploughboy in fustian, there the Earl of---- on a ten-pound pony, with
the girths elegantly parted to prevent the saddle slipping over its
head, while Miss----, his jockey's daughter, dashes by him in a phaeton
with a powdered footman, and the postilion in scarlet and leathers, with
a badge on his arm. Old Crockey puts on his greatcoat, Jem Bland draws
the yellow phaeton and greys to the gateway of the "White Hart," to take
up his friend Crutch Robinson; Zac, Jack and another, have just driven
on in a fly. In short, it's a brilliant meeting! Besides four coronetted
carriages with post-horses, there are three phaetons-and-pair; a
thing that would have been a phaeton if they'd have let it; General
Grosvenor's dog-carriage, that is to say, his carriage with a dog upon
it; Lady Chesterfield and the Hon. Mrs. Anson in a pony phaeton with an
out-rider (Miss---- will have one next meeting instead of the
powdered footman); Tattersall in his double carriage driving without
bearing-reins; Old Theobald in leather breeches and a buggy; five Bury
butchers in a tax-cart; Young Dutch Sam on a pony; "Short-odds Richards"
on a long-backed crocodile-looking rosinante; and no end of pedestrians.
But where is Mr. Jorrocks all this time? Why eating brawn in the
"Rutland Arms" with his friend the Baron, perfectly unconscious that
all these passers-by were not the daily visables of the place. "Dash
my vig," said he, as he bolted another half of the round, "I see no
symptoms of a stir. Come, my lord, do me the honour to take another
glass of sherry." His lordship was nothing loath, so by mutual
entreaties they finished the bottle, besides a considerable quantity
of porter. A fine, fat, chestnut, long-tailed Suffolk punch cart
mare--fresh from the plough--having been considerately provided by the
Yorkshireman for Mr. Jorrocks, with a cob for himself, they proceeded
to mount in the yard, when Mr. Jorrocks was concerned to find that the
Baron had nothing to carry him. His lordship, too, seemed disconcerted,
but it was only momentary; for walking up to the punch mare, and resting
his elbow on her hind quarter to try if she kicked, he very coolly
vaulted up behind Mr. Jorrocks. Now Jorrocks, though proud of the
patronage of a lord, did not exactly comprehend whether he was in
earnest or not, but the Baron soon let him know; for thrusting his
conical hat on his brow, he put his arm round Jorrocks's waist, and
gave the old mare a touch in the flank with the Chinese boot, crying
out--"Along me, brave _garçon_, along _ma cher_," and the owner of the
mare living at Kentford, she went off at a brisk trot in that direction,
while the Yorkshireman slipped down the town unperceived. The sherry had
done its business on them both; the Baron, and who, perhaps was the most
"cut" of the two, chaunted the _Marsellaise_ hymn of liberty with
as much freedom as though he were sitting in the saddle. Thus they
proceeded laughing and singing until the Bury pay-gate arrested their
progress, when it occurred to the steersman to ask if they were going
right. "Be this the vay to Newmarket races?" inquired Jorrocks of the
pike-keeper. The man dived into the small pocket of his white apron for
a ticket and very coolly replied, "Shell out, old 'un." "How much?" said
Jorrocks. "Tuppence," which having got, he said, "Now, then, you may
turn, for the heath be over yonder," pointing back, "at least it was
there this morning, I know." After a volley of abuse for his impudence,
Mr. Jorrocks, with some difficulty got the old mare pulled round, for
she had a deuced hard mouth of her own, and only a plain snaffle in it;
at last, however, with the aid of a boy to beat her with a furze-bush,
they got her set a-going again, and, retracing their steps, they trotted
"down street," rose the hill, and entered the spacious wide-extending
flat of Newmarket Heath. The races were going forward on one of the
distant courses, and a slight, insignificant, black streak, swelling
into a sort of oblong (for all the world like an overgrown tadpole),
was all that denoted the spot, or interrupted the verdant aspect of
the quiet extensive plain. Jorrocks was horrified, having through life
pictured Epsom as a mere drop in the ocean compared with the countless
multitude of Newmarket, while the Baron, who was wholly indifferent to
the matter, nearly had old Jorrocks pitched over the mare's head by
applying the furze-bush (which he had got from the boy) to her tail
while Mr. Jorrocks was sitting loosely, contemplating the barrenness
of the prospect. The sherry was still alive, and being all for fun, he
shuffled back into the saddle as soon as the old mare gave over kicking;
and giving a loud tally-ho, with some minor "hunting noises," which were
responded to by the Baron in notes not capable of being set to music,
and aided by an equally indescribable accompaniment from the old mare at
every application of the bush, she went off at score over the springy
turf, and bore them triumphantly to the betting-post just as the ring
was in course of formation, a fact which she announced by a loud neigh
on viewing her companion of the plough, as well as by unpsetting some
half-dozen black-legs as she rushed through the crowd to greet her.
Great was the hubbub, shouting, swearing, and laughing,--for though the
Newmarketites are familiar with most conveyances, from a pair of horses
down to a pair of shoes, it had not then fallen to their lot to see two
men ride into the ring on the same horse,--certainly not with such a hat
between them as the Baron's.
The gravest and weightiest matters will not long distract the attention
of a black-leg, and the laughter having subsided without Jorrocks or the
Baron being in the slightest degree disconcerted, the ring was again
formed; horses' heads again turn towards the post, while carriages,
gigs, and carts form an outer circle. A solemn silence ensues. The legs
are scanning the list. At length one gives tongue. "What starts? Does
Lord Eldon start?" "No, he don't," replies the owner. "Does Trick, by
Catton?" "Yes, and Conolly rides--but mind, three pounds over." "Does
John Bull?" "No John's struck out." "Polly Hopkins does, so does
Talleyrand, also O, Fy! out of Penitence; Beagle and Paradox also--and
perhaps Pickpocket."
Another pause, and the pencils are pulled from the betting-books. The
legs and lords look at each other, but no one likes to lead off. At
length a voice is heard offering to take nine to one he names the
winner. "It's short odds, doing it cautiously. I'll take eight then," he
adds--"sivin!" but no one bites. "What will anyone lay about Trick, by
Catton?" inquires Jem Bland. "I'll lay three to two again him. I'll
take two to one--two ponies to one, and give you a suv. for laying it."
"Carn't" is the answer. "I'll do it, Jem," cries a voice. "No, you
won't," from Bland, not liking his customer. Now they are all at it, and
what a hubbub there is! "I'll back the field--I'll lay--I'll take--I'll
bet--ponies--fifties--hundreds--five hundred to two." "What do you
want, my lord?" "Three to one against Trick, by Catton." "Carn't afford
it--the odds really arn't that in the ring." "Take two--two hundred to
one." "No." "Crockford, you'll do it for me?" "Yes, my lord. Twice over
if you like. Done, done." "Do it again?" "No, thank you."
"Trick, by Catton, don't start!" cries a voice. "Impossible!" exclaim
his backers. "Quite true, I'm just from the weighing-house, and----told
me so himself." "Shame! shame!" roar those who have backed him, and
"honour--rascals--rogues--thieves--robbery--swindle--turf-ruined"--fly
from tongue to tongue, but they are all speakers with never a speaker to
cry order. Meanwhile the lads have galloped by on their hacks with
the horses' cloths to the rubbing-house, and the horses have actually
started, and are now visible in the distance sweeping over the open
heath, apparently without guide or beacon.
The majority of the ring rush to the white judge's box, and have just
time to range themselves along the rude stakes and ropes that guard the
run in, and the course-keeper in a shooting-jacket on a rough pony
to crack his whip, and cry to half a dozen stable-lads to "clear the
course," before the horses come flying towards home. Now all is tremor;
hope and fear vacillating in each breast. Silence stands breathless with
expectation--all eyes are riveted--the horses come within descrying
distance--"beautiful!" three close together, two behind. "Clear the
course! clear the course! pray clear the course!" "Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" roar a hundred voices as they near. "O, Fy! O, Fy!" respond an
equal number. "The horse! the horse!" bellow a hundred more, as though
their yells would aid his speed, as Polly Hopkins, O, Fy! and Talleyrand
rush neck-and-neck along the cords and pass the judge's box. A cry of
"dead heat!" is heard. The bystanders see as suits their books, and
immediately rush to the judge's box, betting, bellowing, roaring,
and yelling the whole way. "What's won? what's won? what's won?" is
vociferated from a hundred voices. "Polly Hopkins! Polly Hopkins! Polly
Hopkins!" replies Mr. Clark with judicial dignity. "By how much? by how
much?" "Half a head--half a head," [18] replies the same functionary.
"What's second?" "O, Fy!" and so, amid the song of "Pretty, pretty Polly
Hopkins," from the winners, and curses and execrations long, loud, and
deep, from the losers, the scene closes.
The admiring winners follow Polly to the rubbing-house, while the losing
horses are left in the care of their trainers and stable-boys, who
console themselves with hopes of "better luck next time."
After a storm comes a calm, and the next proceeding is the wheeling of
the judge's box, and removal of the old stakes and ropes to another
course on a different part of the heath, which is accomplished by a few
ragged rascals, as rude and uncouth as the furniture they bear. In less
than half an hour the same group of anxious careworn countenances are
again turned upon each other at the betting-post, as though they had
never separated. But see! the noble owner of Trick, by Catton, is in the
crowd, and Jem Bland eyeing him like a hawk. "I say, Waggey," cries he
(singling out a friend stationed by his lordship), "had you ought on
Trick, by Catton?" "No, Jem," roars Wagstaff, shaking his head, "I knew
my man too well." "Why now, Waggey, do you know I wouldn't have done
such a thing for the world! no, not even to have been made a Markiss!"
a horse-laugh follows this denunciation, at which the newly created
marquis bites his livid lips.
[Footnote 18: No judge ever gave a race as won by half a head; but we let
the whole passage stand as originally written.--EDITOR.]
The Baron, who appears to have no taste for walking, still sticks to the
punch mare, which Mr. Jorrocks steers to the newly formed ring aided by
the Baron and the furze-bush. Here they come upon Sam Spring, whose boy
has just brought his spring-cart to bear upon the ring formed by the
horsemen, and thinking it a pity a nobleman of any county should be
reduced to the necessity of riding double, very politely offers to
take one into his carriage. Jorrocks accepts the offer, and forthwith
proceeds to make himself quite at home in it. The chorus again
commences, and Jorrocks interrogates Sam as to the names of the
brawlers. "Who be that?" said he, "offering to bet a thousand to a
hundred." Spring, after eyeing him through his spectacles, with a
grin and a look of suspicion replies, "Come now--come--let's have no
nonsense--you know as well as I." "Really," replies Mr. Jorrocks most
earnestly, "I don't." "Why, where have you lived all your life?"
"First part of it with my grandmother at Lisson Grove, afterwards at
Camberwell, but now I resides in Great Coram Street, Russell Square--a
werry fashionable neighbourhood." "Oh, I see," replies Sam, "you are one
of the reg'lar city coves, then--now, what brings you here?" "Just to
say that I have been at Newmarket, for I'm blowed if ever you catch
me here again." "That's a pity," replied Sam, "for you look like a
promising man--a handsome-bodied chap in the face--don't you sport any?"
"O a vast!--'unt regularly--I'm a member of the Surrey 'unt--capital one
it is too--best in England by far." "What do you hunt?" inquired Sam.
"Foxes, to be sure." "And are they good eating?" "Come," replied
Jorrocks, "you know, as well as I do, we don't eat 'em." The dialogue
was interrupted by someone calling to Sam to know what he was backing.
"The Bedlamite colt, my lord," with a forefinger to his hat. "Who's
that?" inquired Jorrocks. "That's my Lord L----, a baron-lord--and a
very nice one--best baron-lord I know--always bets with me--that's
another baron-lord next him, and the man next him is a baron-knight, a
stage below a baron-lord--something between a nobleman and a gentleman."
"And who be that stout, good-looking man in a blue coat and velvet
collar next him, just rubbing his chin with the race card--he'll be a
lord too, I suppose?" "No,--that's Mr. Gully, as honest a man as ever
came here,--that's Crockford before him. The man on the right is
Mr. C----, who they call the 'cracksman,' because formerly he was a
professional housebreaker, but he has given up that trade, and turned
gentleman, bets, and keeps a gaming-table. This little ugly black-faced
chap, that looks for all the world like a bilious Scotch terrier,
has lately come among us. He was a tramping pedlar--sold worsted
stockings--attended country courses, and occasionally bet a pair. Now he
bets thousands of pounds, and keeps racehorses. The chaps about him
all covered with chains and rings and brooches, were in the duffing
line--sold brimstoned sparrows for canary-birds, Norwich shawls for real
Cashmere, and dried cabbage-leaves for cigars. Now each has a first-rate
house, horses and carriages, and a play-actress among them. Yon chap,
with the extravagantly big mouth, is a cabinet-maker at Cambridge. He'll
bet you a thousand pounds as soon as look at you."
"The chap on the right of the post with the red tie, is the son of an
ostler. He commenced betting thousands with a farthing capital. The man
next him, all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher's dog, is an Honourable
by birth, but not very honourable in his nature." "But see," cried Mr.
Jorrocks, "Lord---- is talking to the Cracksman." "To be sure," replies
Sam, "that's the beauty of the turf. The lord and the leg are reduced to
an equality. Take my word for it, if you have a turn for good society,
you should come upon the turf.--I say, my Lord Duke!" with all five
fingers up to his hat, "I'll lay you three to two on the Bedlamite
colt." "Done, Mr. Spring," replies his Grace, "three ponies to two."
"There!" cried Mr. Spring, turning to Jorrocks, "didn't I tell you so?"
The riot around the post increases. It is near the moment of starting,
and the legs again become clamorous for what they want. Their vehemence
increases. Each man is _in extremis_. "They are off!" cries one. "No,
they are not," replies another. "False start," roars a third. "Now they
come!" "No, they don't!" "Back again." They are off at last, however,
and away they speed over the flat. The horses come within descrying
distance. It's a beautiful race--run at score the whole way, and only
two tailed off within the cords. Now they set to--whips and spurs go,
legs leap, lords shout, and amid the same scene of confusion, betting,
galloping, cursing, swearing, and bellowing, the horses rush past the
judge's box.
But we have run our race, and will not fatigue our readers with
repetition. Let us, however, spend the evening, and then the "Day at
Newmarket" will be done.
Mr. Spring, with his usual attention to strangers, persuades Mr.
Jorrocks to make one of a most agreeable dinner-party at the "White
Hart" on the assurance of spending a delightful evening. Covers are laid
for sixteen in the front room downstairs, and about six o'clock that
number are ready to sit down. Mr. Badchild, the accomplished keeper of
an oyster-room and minor hell in Pickering Place, is prevailed upon to
take the chair, supported on his right by Mr. Jorrocks, and on his left
by Mr. Tom Rhodes, of Thames Street, while the stout, jolly, portly
Jerry Hawthorn fills--in the fullest sense of the word--the vice-chair.
Just as the waiters are removing the covers, in stalks the Baron, in his
conical hat, and reconnoitres the viands. Sam, all politeness, invites
him to join the party. "I tank you," replies the Baron, "but I have my
wet in de next room." "But bring your wet with you," rejoins Sam, "we'll
all have our wet together after dinner," thinking the Baron meant his
wine.
The usual inn grace--"For what we are going to receive, the host expects
to be paid",--having been said with great feeling and earnestness, they
all set to at the victuals, and little conversation passed until the
removal of the cloth, when Mr. Badchild, calling upon his vice, observed
that as in all probability there were gentlemen of different political
and other opinions present, perhaps the best way would be to give a
comprehensive toast, and so get over any debatable ground,--he therefore
proposed to drink in a bumper "The king, the queen, and all the royal
family, the ministry, particularly the Master of the Horse, the Army,
the Navy, the Church, the State, and after the excellent dinner they
had eaten, he would include the name of the landlord of the White Hart"
(great applause). Song from Jerry Hawthorn--"The King of the Cannibal
Islands".--The chairman then called upon the company to fill their
glasses to a toast upon which there could be no difference of opinion.
"It was a sport which they all enjoyed, one that was delightful to the
old and to the young, to the peer and to the peasant, and open to all.
Whatever might be the merits of other amusements, he had never yet met
any man with the hardihood to deny that racing was at once the noblest
and the most legitimate" (loud cheers, and thumps on the table, that
set all the glasses dancing), "not only was it the noblest and most
legitimate, but it was the most profitable; and where was the man of
high and honourable principle who did not feel when breathing the pure
atmosphere of that Heath, a lofty self-satisfaction at the thought, that
though he might have left those who were near and dear to him in a less
genial atmosphere, still he was not selfishly enjoying himself, without
a thought for their welfare; for racing, while it brought health and
vigour to the father, also brought what was dearer to the mind of a
parent--the means of promoting the happiness and prosperity of his
family--(immense cheers). With these few observations he should simply
propose 'The Turf,' and may we long be above it"--(applause and, on the
motion of Mr. Spring, three cheers for Mrs. Badchild and all the little
Badchildren were called for and given). When the noise had subsided. Mr.
Jorrocks very deliberately got up, amid whispers and inquiries as to who
he was. "Gentlemen," said he, with an indignant stare, and a thump on
the table, "Gentlemen, I say, in much of what has fallen from our worthy
chairman, I go-in-sides, save in what he says about racing--I insists
that 'unting is the sport of sports" (immense laughter, and cries of
"wot an old fool!") "Gentlemen may laugh, but I say it's a fact, and
though I doesn't wish to create no displeasancy whatsomever, yet I
should despise myself most confoundedly--should consider myself unworthy
of the great and distinguished 'unt to which I have the honour to
belong, if I sat quietly down without sticking up for the chase
(laughter).--I say, it's one of the balances of the constitution
(laughter).--I say, it's the sport of kings! the image of war without
its guilt (hisses and immense laughter). He would fearlessly propose a
bumper toast--he would give them 'fox-hunting.'" There was some demur
about drinking it, but on the interposition of Sam Spring, who assured
the company that Jorrocks was one of the right sort, and with an
addition proposed by Jerry Hawthorn, which made the toast more
comprehensible, they swallowed it, and the chairman followed it up
with "The Sod",--which was drunk with great applause. Mr. Cox of Blue
Hammerton returned thanks. "He considered cock-fighting the finest of
all fine amusements. Nothing could equal the rush between two prime
grey-hackles--that was his colour. The chairman had said a vast for
racing, and to cut the matter short, he might observe that cock-fighting
combined all the advantages of making money, with the additional benefit
of not being interfered with by the weather. He begged to return his
best thanks for himself and brother sods, and only regretted he had not
been taught speaking in his youth, or he would certainly have convinced
them all, that 'cocking' was the sport." "Coursing" was the next
toast--for which Arthur Pavis, the jockey, returned thanks. "He was very
fond of the 'long dogs,' and thought, after racing, coursing was the
true thing. He was no orator, and so he drank off his wine to the health
of the company." "Steeplechasing" followed, for which Mr. Coalman of
St. Albans returned thanks, assuring the company that it answered his
purpose remarkably well. Then the Vice gave the "Chair," and the Chair
gave the "Vice"; and by way of a finale, Mr. Badchild proposed the
game of "Chicken-hazard," observing in a whisper to Mr. Jorrocks, that
perhaps he would like to subscribe to a joint-stock purse for the
purpose of going to hell. To which Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity,
replied; "Sir, I'm d----d if I do."