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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 _gar√Іon_, 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

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."


Mr. Jorrocks had been very poorly indeed of indigestion, as he calls
it, produced by tucking in too much roast beef and plum pudding at
Christmas, and prolonging the period of his festivities a little beyond
the season allowed by Moore's _Almanack_, and having in vain applied the
usual remedies prescribed on such occasions, he at length consented to
try the Cheltenham waters, though altogether opposed to the element, he
not having "astonished his stomach," as he says, for the last fifteen
years with a glass of water.

Having established himself and the Yorkshireman in a small private
lodging in High Street, consisting of two bedrooms and a sitting-room,
he commenced his visits to the royal spa, and after a few good drenches,
picked up so rapidly, that to whatever inn they went to dine, the
landlords and waiters were astounded at the consumption of prog, and in
a very short time he was known from the "Royal Hotel" down to Hurlston's
Commercial Inn, as the great London Cormorant. At first, however, he was
extremely depressed in spirits, and did nothing the whole day after his
arrival, but talk about the arrangement of his temporal affairs; and the
first symptom he gave of returning health was one day at dinner at the
"Plough," by astonishing two or three scarlet-coated swells, who as
usual were disporting themselves in the coffee-room, by bellowing to the
waiter for some Talli-ho "sarce" to his fish. Before this he had never
once spoken of his favourite diversion, and the sportsmen cantered by
the window to cover in the morning, and back in the afternoon, without
eliciting a single observation from him. The morning after this change
for the better, he addressed his companion at breakfast as follows:
"Blow me tight, Mr. York, if I arn't regularly renowated. I'm as fresh
as an old hat after a shower of rain. I really thinks I shall get over
this terrible illness, for I dreamt of 'unting last night, and, if
you've a mind, we'll go and see my Lord Segrave's reynard dog, and then
start from this 'ere corrupt place, for, you see, it's nothing but a
town, and what's the use of sticking oneself in a little pokey lodging
like this 'ere, where there really is not room to swing a cat, and
paying the deuce knows how much tin, too, when one has a splendid house
in Great Coram Street going on all the time, with a rigler establishment
of servants and all that sort of thing. Now, you knows, I doesn't grudge
a wisit to Margate, though that's a town too, but then, you see, one has
the sea to look at, whereas here, it's nothing but a long street with
shops, not so good as those in Red Lion Street, with a few small streets
branching off from it, and as to the prommenard, as they calls it, aside
the spa, with its trees and garden stuff, why, I'm sure, to my mind, the
Clarence Gardens up by the Regent's Park, are quite as fine. It's true
the doctor says I must remain another fortnight to perfect the cure, but
then them 'ere M.D.'s, or whatever you calls them, are such rum jockeys,
and I always thinks they say one word for the patient and two for
themselves. Now, my chap said, I must only take half a bottle o' black
strap a day at the werry most, whereas I have never had less than a
whole one - his half first, as I say, and my own after - and because I
tells him I take a pint, he flatters himself his treatment is capital,
and that he is a wonderful M.D.; but as a man can't be better than well,
I think we'll just see what there's to be seen in the neighbourhood, and
then cut our sticks, and, as I said before, I should like werry much to
see my Lord Segrave's hounds, in order that I may judge whether there
is anything in the wide world to be compared to the Surrey, for if I
remember right, Mr. Nimrod described them as werry, werry fine, indeed."

Having formed this resolution, Jorrocks stamped on the floor (for the
bell was broken) for the little boy who did the odd jobs of the house,
to bring up his Hessian boots, into which having thrust his great
calves, and replaced the old brown great-coat which he uses for a
dressing-gown by a superfine Saxony blue, with metal buttons and pockets
outside, he pulled his wig straight, stuck his white hat with the green
flaps knowingly on his head, and sallied forth for execution as stout a
man as ever. Knowing that the kennel is near the Winchcourt road, they
proceeded in that direction, but after walking about a mile, came upon
a groom on a chestnut horse, who, returning from the chase, was wetting
his whistle at the appropriate sign of the "Fox and Hounds," and who

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