Hinc Canibus blandis rabies venit--Virgil Georgics.
I should have mentioned, that the day after I sent Glanville Tyrrell’s
communication, I received a short and hurried note from the former,
saying, that he had left London in pursuit of Tyrrell, and that he would
not rest till he had brought him to account. In the hurry of the public
events in which I had been of late so actively engaged, my mind had not
had leisure to dwell much upon Glanville; but when I was alone in my
carriage, that singular being, and the mystery which attended him,
forced themselves upon my reflection, in spite of all the importance of
my mission.
I was leaning back in my carriage, at (I think) Ware, while they were
changing horses, when a voice, strongly associated with my meditations,
struck upon my ear. I looked out, and saw Thornton standing in the yard,
attired with all his original smartness of boot and breeches: he was
employed in smoking a cigar, sipping brandy and water, and exercising
his conversational talents in a mixture of slang and jokeyism,
addressed to two or three men of his own rank of life, and seemingly his
companions. His brisk eye soon discovered me, and he swaggered to the
carriage door with that ineffable assurance of manner which was so
peculiarly his own.
“Ah, ah, Mr. Pelham,” said he, “going to Newmarket, I suppose? bound
there myself--like to be found among my betters. Ha, ha--excuse a pun:
what odds on the favourite? What! you won’t bet, Mr. Pelham? close and
sly at present; well, the silent sow sups up all the broth--eh!--”
“I’m not going to Newmarket,” I replied: “I never attend races.”
“Indeed!” answered Thornton. “Well, if I was as rich as you, I would
soon make or spend a fortune on the course. Seen Sir John Tyrrell? No!
He is to be there. Nothing can cure him of gambling--what’s bred in
the bone, Good day, Mr. Pelham--won’t keep you any longer--sharp shower
coming on. ‘The devil will soon be basting his wife with a leg of
mutton,’ as the proverb says--au plaisir, Mr. Pelham.”
And at these words my post-boy started, and released me from my bete
noire. I spare my reader an account of my miscellaneous reflections on
Thornton, Dawton, Vincent, politics, Glanville, and Ellen, and will land
him, without further delay, at Chester Park.
I was ushered through a large oak hall of the reign of James the First,
into a room strongly resembling the principal apartment of a club; two
or three round tables were covered with newspapers, journals, racing
calendars, An enormous fire-place was crowded with men of all ages, I
had almost said, of all ranks; but, however various they might appear
in their mien and attire, they were wholly of the patrician order. One
thing, however, in this room, belied its similitude to the apartment of
a club, viz., a number of dogs, that lay in scattered groups upon the
floor. Before the windows were several horses, in body-cloths, led
or rode to exercise upon a plain in the park, levelled as smooth as a
bowling-green at Putney; and stationed at an oriel window, in earnest
attention to the scene without, were two men; the tallest of these was
Lord Chester. There was a stiffness and inelegance in his address which
prepossessed me strongly against him. “Les manieres que l’on neglige
comme de petites choses, sont souvent ce qui fait que les hommes
decident de vous en bien ou en mal.”
[The manners which one neglects as trifles, are often precisely that by
which men decide on you favourably or the reverse.]
I had long since, when I was at the University, been introduced to
Lord Chester; but I had quite forgotten his person, and he the very
circumstance. I said, in a low tone, that I was the bearer of a letter
of some importance from our mutual friend, Lord Dawton, and that I
should request the honour of a private interview at Lord Chester’s first
convenience.
His lordship bowed, with an odd mixture of the civility of a jockey
and the hauteur of a head groom of the stud, and led the way to a small
apartment, which I afterwards discovered he called his own. (I never
could make out, by the way, why, in England, the very worst room in the
house is always appropriated to the master of it, and dignified by the
appellation of “the gentleman’s own.”) I gave the Newmarket grandee the
letter intended for him, and quietly seating myself, awaited the result.
He read it through slowly and silently, and then taking out a huge
pocket-book, full of racing bets, horses’ ages, jockey opinions,
and such like memoranda, he placed it with much solemnity among this
dignified company, and then said, with a cold, but would-be courteous
air, “My friend, Lord Dawton, says you are entirely in his confidence
Mr. Pelham. I hope you will honour me with your company at Chester Park
for two or three days, during which time I shall have leisure to reply
to Lord Dawton’s letter. Will you take some refreshment?”
I answered the first sentence in the affirmative, and the latter in the
negative; and Lord Chester thinking it perfectly unnecessary to trouble
himself with any further questions or remarks, which the whole jockey
club might not hear, took me back into the room we had quitted, and left
me to find, or make whatever acquaintance I could. Pampered and spoiled
as I was in the most difficult circles of London, I was beyond measure
indignant at the cavalier demeanour of this rustic Thane, whom I
considered a being as immeasurably beneath me in every thing else, as he
really was in antiquity of birth, and, I venture to hope, in cultivation
of intellect. I looked round the room, and did not recognize a being of
my acquaintance: I seemed literally thrown into a new world: the very
language in which the conversation was held, sounded strange to my ear.
I had always transgressed my general rule of knowing all men in all
grades, in the single respect of sporting characters: they were a
species of bipeds, that I would never recognize as belonging to the
human race. Alas! I now found the bitter effects of not following my
usual maxims. It is a dangerous thing to encourage too great a disdain
of one’s inferiors: pride must have a fall.
After I had been a whole quarter of an hour in this strange place,
my better genius came to my aid. Since I found no society among the
two-legged brutes, I turned to the quadrupeds. At one corner of the room
lay a black terrier of the true English breed; at another was a short,
sturdy, wirey one, of the Scotch. I soon formed a friendship with each
of these canine Pelei, (little bodies with great souls), and then by
degrees alluring them from their retreat to the centre of the room,
I fairly endeavoured to set them by the ears. Thanks to the national
antipathy, I succeeded to my heart’s content. The contest soon aroused
the other individuals of the genus--up they started from their repose,
like Roderic Dhu’s merry men, and incontinently flocked to the scene of
battle.
“To it,” said I; and I took one by the leg and another by the
throat, and dashing them against each other, turned all their peevish
irascibility at the affront into mutual aggression. In a very few
moments, the whole room was a scene of uproarious confusion; the beasts
yelled, and bit, and struggled with the most delectable ferocity. To
add to the effect, the various owners of the dogs crowded round--some
to stimulate, others to appease the fury of the combatants. As for me, I
flung myself into an arm chair, and gave way to an excess of merriment,
which only enraged the spectators more: many were the glances of anger,
many the murmurs of reproach directed against me. Lord Chester himself
eyed me with an air of astonished indignation, that redoubled my
hilarity: at length, the conflict was assuaged--by dint of blows, and
kicks, and remonstrances from their dignified proprietors, the dogs
slowly withdrew, one with the loss of half an ear, another with a
shoulder put out, a third with a mouth increased by one-half of its
natural dimensions.
In short, every one engaged in the conflict bore some token of its
severity. I did not wait for the thunder-storm I foresaw: I rose with
a nonchalant yaw n of ennui--marched out of the apartment, called a
servant--demanded my own room--repaired to it, and immersed the internal
faculties of my head in Mignet’s History of the Revolution, while Bedos
busied himself in its outward embellishment.