Derby!--Epsom!--Ledger!--Spring Summer, Autumn Meetings--Miles,
Half-miles--T.Y.C.--Hurdles, Heats, names, weights, colours of the
riders--jockies, jackets,--Dead
Heats--sweats--distances--trainings--scales--caps, and all--what would you
be without Top Boots? What! and echo answers--nothing!
Ay, worse than nothing--a chancery suit without money--an Old Bailey
culprit without an _alibi_--a debtor without an excuse--a new play without
a titled author--a manager without impudence--a thief without a
character--a lawyer without a wig--or a Guy Faux without matches!
Tops, you must be "made to measure." Wellingtons, Hessians, Bluchers,
Ankle-Jacks, and Highlows, can be chosen from, fitted, and tried on; but
_you_ must be measured for, lasted, back-strapped, top'd, wrinkled and
bottomed, according to order.
So it is with your proprietors--the little men who ride the great running
horses. There's an impenetrable mystery about those little men--they _are_,
we know that, but we know not how. Bill Scott is in the secret--Chifney is
well aware of it--John Day could enlighten the world--but they won't! They
know the value of being "light characters"--their fame is as "a feather,"
and _downey_ are they, even as the illustration of that fame. They conspire
together like so many little Frankensteins. The world is treated with a
very small proportion of very small jockeys; they never increase beyond a
certain number, which proves they are not born in the regular way: as the
old ones drop off, the young ones just fill their places, and not one to
spare. Whoever heard of a "mob of jockeys," a glut of "light-weights," or
even a handful of "feathers?"--no one!
It's like Freemasonry--it's an awful mystery! Bill Scott knows all about
the one, and the Duke of Sussex knows all about the other, but the
uninitiated know nothing of either! Jockeys are wonders--so are their
boots! Crickets have as much calf, grasshoppers as much ostensible thigh;
and yet these superhuman specimens of manufactured leather fit like a
glove, and never pull the little gentlemen's legs off. That's the
extraordinary part of it; they never even so much as dislocate a joint!
Jockey bootmakers are wonderful men! Jockeys ain't men at all!
Look, look, look! Oh, dear! do you see that little fellow, with his
merry-thought-like looking legs, clinging round that gallant bright
chesnut, thoro'bred, and sticking to his ribs as if he meant to crimp him
for the dinner of some gourmand curious in horse-flesh! There he is,
screwing his sharp knees into the saddle, sitting well up from his loins,
stretching his neck, curving his back, stiffening the wire-like muscles of
his small arms, and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a
saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his very
pleasure.
Look, look! there's the grey filly, with the other made-to-measure feather
on her back; do you notice how she has crawled up to the chesnut? Mark,
mark! his arms appear to be India-rubber! Mercy on us, how they stretch!
and the bridle, which looked just now like a solid bar of wrought iron,
begins to curve! See how gently he leans over the filly's neck; while the
chesnut's rider turns his eyes, like a boiled lobster, almost to the back
of his head! Oh, he's awake! he still keeps the lead: but the grey filly is
nothing but a good 'un. Now, the Top-boots riding her have become excited,
and commence tickling her sides with their flashing silver spurs, putting
an extra foot into every bound. She gains upon the chesnut! This is
something like a race! The distance-post is reached! The Top-boots on the
grey are at work again. Bravo! the tip of the white nose is beyond the
level of the opposing boots! Ten strides, and no change! "She must win!"
"No, she can't!" "Grey for ever!" "Chesnut for a hundred!" "Done!
done!"--Magnificent!--neck and neck!--splendid!--any body's race! Bravo
grey!--bravo chesnut!--bravo both! Ten yards will settle it. The chesnut
rider throws up his arms--a slight dash of blood soils the "Day and
Martin"--an earth-disdaining bound lands chesnut a winner of three thousand
guineas! and all the world are in raptures with the judgment displayed in
the last kick of the little man's TOP BOOTS.