CHAPTER VIII.

THE BOOTHS ON EPSOM DOWNS.

WHILE racing men have gained by the railway’s close proximity to the course, others are now deprived of many of the sights there used to be seen along the road. From Westminster Bridge to the historical heath was almost one continuous panorama of life, joviality, cheer, and fun; every hedgerow was lined with open-mouthed yokels, gaping at the “coves from Lunnon” of whom they had heard so much, but had never before seen; every ditch supported a natural artificial cripple; every beerhouse was fronted by holiday crowds quaffing ale and inviting one to join; and to cap all this, the miles of vehicles with their accompanying dust gave every one the complexion of chimney sweeps, despite veil, artificial nose, and other guises incidental to a real journey by the road.

The party Lord Hastings had organised was a thoroughly representative one: Fred Granville, Peter Wilkinson, Ginger Durant, Fred Ellis—not yet blossomed into Howard de Walden—Bobby Shafto, The Baron, Young Broome (on duty), and a host of smaller fry; all united in one purpose, one aim—to enjoy life to its uttermost limit, and to lose not one fleeting moment of the night preceding the first summer meeting at Epsom. Booths in those wicked days _were_ booths, not devoted as now to penny shots with pea rifles and the excitements permitted by our prudish legislature, but receptacles of every conceivable impropriety, to recount many of which would shock you, virtuous reader.

Here were gipsies of the old original form, who, if permitted to tell a modest girl her fortune, invariably wound up by informing her “she’d be the mother of six,” dancing booths, and tableaux vivants booths; booths where sparring and booths where drinking might be indulged in freely, booths where terrible melodramas were given, gambling booths, and thimble rig booths; roulette and three-card establishments, where every vice come down from the days of Noah might be indulged in without let or hindrance.

Leaving Limmer’s in the afternoon, and proceeding by easy stages, we reached the Downs shortly before eight. No time was lost in commencing business, and within an hour we were assisting at the erection of a theatre booth, whilst a “fragment” here and there was being rehearsed.

“And what does your Lordship think of that?” inquired a perky little man who had known the Marquis as a patron at a dozen other meetings.

“Splendid, Simmons,” replied his patron; “but why such serious scenes, why not a jolly jig with sailors; poor Nelson, surely he’s out of place?”

“By no means, my Lord; on the contrary, my audiences will ’ave it, and if only Mr. Fuljome would act up to ’Ardy’s part it would bring down the ’ouse. It’s this way, my Lord: Nelson says: ‘’Ardy, I’m wounded mortually,’ and then, of course, ‘’Ardy must say melancholy like: ‘Not mortually, my Lord?’ But blow me if I can get it right.”

“D— the drama,” replied the kindly Marquis. “Have you any one to send for a drink?” And pulling out two or three sovereigns the party proceeded on their quest.

“Now, my Lord,” was next shouted from a roulette booth. “We’re just ready for the swells. Step in, gentlemen,” continued a flash-looking rascal. “Ah! Mr. Broome,” he added, as he recognised the ex-puncher, “no need for you, I hope.”

“Perhaps not, Levi,” replied the Marquis. “But we’ve got some quarrelsome chaps about; best be prepared.” And again we proceeded on our pilgrimage.

“Where are the tableaux vivants, Hastings?” inquired Fred Ellis. “Damn it, we must show the Baron.” But at this moment an unrehearsed incident occurred which stopped the future legislator’s eloquence.

“A word with you, Mr. Wilkinson,” said one of a couple of very shady individuals. “You’ll ’ave to come wi’ us,” he whispered, “a capias at the suit of Beyfus—£200 with costs.”

“Hang it,” replied Peter, with _sang-froid_. “Can’t you let it stand over? If you nab me now I can’t pay, but if you’ll let me alone till after the meeting I’ll make it right, not only with Beyfus, but with you. Now, look here, here’s how it stands. On Saturday next I’m going down with Lord Hastings to Castle Donington. Send one of your chaps after me, and about eight send a letter in to me. We shall be at dinner—leave the rest to me.”

On the following Saturday, the programme was carried out in its entirety. Peter Wilkinson was staggered by the unexpected blow! and the much-abused, kindly Hastings paid the claim on the spot.

And this is how boon companions requited the most generous man in England. What wonder, the target of friends and foes, the deepest well at length dried up! The party meanwhile had moved on, and Peter on rejoining it found the champagne flying with a vengeance. The site was a huge marquee, the audience the entire company that had journeyed from London, blended with the full strength of the tableaux vivants cast.

Fred Ellis was holding forth in an incoherent speech till, offended by being told to “shut up,” he walked out of the tent. Within ten minutes, shouts of “Help! murder, help!” were wafted into the marquee, and groping amid tent ropes, the cause was not far to seek.

On his knees, in an attitude of supplication, was the honourable Fred; standing within a yard of him was a huge white goat. “Oh, go away; don’t take me. Oh, I know he’s come for me at last. Oh, take the devil away, I know it’s him, and I swear I’ll never touch wine again. Help! murder!” Lanterns meanwhile approaching from various directions, the position appeared simple enough. The unhappy man on lurching amid the tent ropes had unfortunately caught his leg in a harmless goat’s tether; in endeavouring to extricate himself he had dragged the inoffensive quadruped close to him, and being at the time in a state (presumedly) unusual for him, the surroundings, grafted on to a strong religious tendency, had distorted a very ordinary billy-goat into the devil specially on his track, and standing over him waiting to waft him to where—no matter how thirsty—drink was absolutely unattainable. Fred Ellis had once won the Grand Military, but that was before—

Luncheon on the Derby and Oaks days in the long-forgotten sixties was an institution that dwarfs the most ambitious displays of hampers and cold pies consumed on the tops of drags. Conceive a huge marquee with tables the entire length groaning under every delicacy, from plovers’ eggs at a shilling a-piece to patés and blanc-manges of the Gunter school of creation. Imagine vats six feet high around the entire walls distilling the best champagne into goblets filled by the most expert of footmen. Conceive all this, free, gratis, and for nothing by simply presenting your card with the name of your regiment inscribed; behold the genial host smiling contentedly, as supporting on his arm a live Duchess of Manchester—now her Grace of Devonshire—he administered to the internal wants of one of the most beautiful women of the day!

Cynics, not contented with accepting the gifts the gods provided, were prone to remark that assuming the feast cost Tod Heatly a thousand, he would gladly have doubled it, if only to enable his fellow-creatures to feast their eyes on that supreme moment of his life when he piloted his fair charge across the crowded course.

Tod Heatly, it may be explained, possessed almost the entire monopoly of supplying champagne to the various messes of the Army. Amassing wealth hand over hand by this profitable connection, he returned the compliment by giving a general invitation to any officer of any regiment who dealt with his firm.

Incredible as it may appear, no instance ever occurred of enterprising chevaliers entering without a right, and the delightful custom only ceased when the usages of society, the abolition of purchase, and our advanced ideas made it absolutely necessary.

A similar experiment in these enlightened days would require admission by parole and countersign and a squad of constables within measurable distance.

Perhaps the most unique individual that has ever risen to a prominent position on the Turf was Captain Machell, whose death occurred not long since.

Joining the 14th Foot some time in the fifties, he exchanged as a captain to the 53rd, and, retiring a few years later, invested his entire fortune—his commission money—in a pitch at Newmarket. It was during his earlier soldiering days that he had the good fortune to be stationed with the depôt of his regiment at Templemore, a desolate bog in the heart of Tipperary, where commanded as clever a judge of a horse—Colonel Irwin, of the Connaught Rangers—as ever came out of “ould Oireland.” The permanent staff of depôt battalions in those remote days retained their appointments indefinitely, a regulation that enabled them to settle down very cosily, undisturbed by anything more formidable than an annual inspection conducted on the most comfortable lines. Needless to add that Templemore was no exception to the rule.

The drill field adjoining the barracks was converted into a paddock for brood mares and yearlings; the entire stabling and any superfluous out-houses became roomy loose boxes; hens cackled, cocks crowed, and pigs grunted from every point of the compass, and any youngster prepared to purchase a promising hunter—“a bit rough, but likely to shape well”—from the Colonel need perform no more arduous duties than eating his dinner in uniform and chewing a straw all day.

This equine elysium continued till young men began to grizzle and two-year-olds became “aged”; it might, indeed, have continued much longer had it not been for the unfortunate Fenian scare and the military precautions that attended it. Suffice it to say, that in one single day, and without the slightest warning, the Commander-in-Chief—Lord Strathnairn—suddenly appeared in the Square, and within twenty-four hours the happy community was for ever broken up, the farm produce sent off to various auction rooms, and the battalion half-way across the Channel.

Machell, when he arrived at the depôt, was not long in ingratiating himself with the Colonel, and within a year the pair were joint owners of Leonidas, a chestnut gelding that beat everything at all the surrounding meetings at Thurles, Cashel, and Tipperary.

Machell, after his retirement, disappeared below the horizon till summoned to assist at the pulverisation of the unhappy Hastings in the spring of ’67, and it was after that, with £80,000 to his credit, that he loomed into sporting publicity.

A splendid judge of a horse, possessed of a wiry frame, an expressionless face, and a shrewd and calculating temperament, little wonder that he was more or less associated from ’67 to his death with every wealthy horse-owner aspiring to a career and every ass desirous of pilotage by the astutest man of his day.

Machell as a young man had few equals in all feats requiring agility; he could hop, apparently without effort, on to the mantelpiece in the smoking-room at Mackin’s Hotel, Dublin; he could out-run most men for any distance between 100 and 1,000 yards, and as a middle-weight could hold his own amongst the best of amateur boxers. It was not until years after, when he came to blows with Bob Hope-Johnstone, at the “Old Ship,” Brighton, that the scientific bruiser, hopping round his colossal opponent, caught a chance blow that felled him like an ox, breaking three ribs. “Here, take this carrion away,” shouted the Major, and the senseless Machell was removed to his rooms in a cab.

But the redoubtable Bob was, not long after, himself the victim of a cowardly mauling at the hands of two Bond Street Hebrews, who since have developed into the highest authorities on knick-knacks and articles of vertu generally. For even the rugged major, it would appear, had a weak point near his heart, and seeking on one occasion a fair seducer at the Argyll, he traced her to Rose Barton’s, and, attacking the two mashers who were entertaining her, was belaboured with champagne bottles by the cowardly Israelites, till, bleeding from a score of gashes, he was removed to the “John o’ Groat” in Rupert Street, a hostelry now known as Challis’s, after a waiter at Webb’s Coffee House who aspired to perpetuate his name.

It is satisfactory to be able to add that in terror of possible consequences, the brothers paid £200 to their victim before he attained convalescence—a circumstance we have probably to thank for their still being amongst us.

Machell, from the exigencies of his profession, was unquestionably the ruin of numerous aspiring punters whose interests clashed with his own. Beaumont Dixie, whose inclinations tended towards always backing “Archer’s mounts,” was a notable example, and any one who witnessed the scene in the paddock after a race where Machell’s horse _did not win_, will not be likely to forget the ruined Baronet wringing his hands in despair, and the irate owner standing over him with “Now, Mr. b— Beaumont Dixie, I’ll teach you to back Archer’s mounts.” It will be said by many that Machell was a popular man, that he was generous, and deserving of every credit for repurchasing an ancestral estate that was supposed to have once belonged to the family; others, however, will contend that he was of a selfish and over-bearing disposition, that his charity was dispensed when and where it was likely to become known, and that no better or wiser investment than an estate could have been made by a man whose capital must have been enormous, and who hoped, by becoming a landed proprietor, to gain the position seldom attained by a landless man. Probably Machell was never so good a fellow as when he was hopping on and off mantelpieces, and when an accident would have broken his neck and his fortune—the value of his commission—at one blow.

That Machell was born under a lucky star goes without saying, and is proven by his career from the day he sold out with nothing but his commission money to his death, when he died worth a quarter of a million. Popular as a poor man, he every day became more morose as his pile increased, and his first success through the introduction of his brother-in-law, Prime (or his wife), to Lord Calthorpe (for whom he eventually trained), led him by easy stages to Mr. Henry Chaplin, Joe Aylesford, and finally to Harry McCalmont, where all his paths were peace.

His marvellous capacity for “out-touting” the touts with which Newmarket was infested was once exemplified during the trials for the Stewards’ Cup at Goodwood. Suddenly dismounting and diving into his pocket he dropped (apparently) by accident a paper which purported to contain the weights at which the favourite and others were being tried. Needless to add, the list had been carefully prepared, and what if true would have been fatal to the favourite’s performance was, in fact, a highly satisfactory trial.

Within an hour it was reported at the Victoria Club that the favourite had gone wrong, and 30 and 40 to 1 against him literally went begging. Two hours later a pre-arranged telegram reached his agent, and the money that was piled on by the stable brought a golden harvest at Goodwood.

Doncaster stands out through the long vista of years so prominently with charms that appealed to every taste that a reference to the old Assembly Rooms may be pardonable.

Every one who has rambled through the quaint old streets of Doncaster must have noticed these unpretentious-looking rooms, which, for aught I know, may still echo during the Leger week with the blatant babble of the cheap excursion sportsman, but which in ’67 were the nightly rendezvous of the various house-parties, and where Major Mahan, who did most of James Merry’s commissions, was the recognised master of ceremonies.

In the smaller room on the left as one entered, hazard, fast and furious, raged pretty well through the night under the auspices of Atkins, a lank, white-bearded man, who had an unofficial monopoly at Goodwood and other meetings which no rival dared to dispute. During the Sussex week he rented a large house near where the Brighton Aquarium now stands, and the best of everything was provided gratis.

Old Mahan, who in his youth had been a well-known duellist, had at this period simmered down to a fiery punter with a shiny forehead that extended to the nape of his neck, and a grizzly fringe in the vicinity of his ears. Superstitious to a degree, if the dice went against him he would seize any youngster entering the room whose physiognomy looked “lucky,” and forcing him into a chair would insist on his calling the main, and then backing him blindly. “Aren’t yer surproised at me losing so incessantly?” he once inquired of Sir Robert Peel, who happened to be standing at his elbow.

“Not in the least,” was the caustic answer; “but we all wonder where you get the money to play with.”

Not that sharpers did not occasionally wriggle in, who, after the soberer players had left, resorted to reckless measures to rook the more adventurous spirits, who in the small hours were more or less tipsy.

An Irish peer (still living) suspecting on one occasion that the dice were loaded—as no doubt they were, having been changed—and just sober enough to pocket them and leave the room, was surprised next morning after having them broken, to find that they were perfectly genuine, and thereupon paid his losses, which were considerable. It transpired later that the sharpers, who were staying at the same lodgings (hotels were not patronised in those days), had entered his room whilst he was sleeping off the night’s debauch and changed the guilty “bones.”

On another occasion a man with large estates in the Riding who had sense enough to know he was too drunk to play, and had been heard to refuse, was considerably astonished next day on the course at being accosted by a gentlemanly stranger, who, producing twenty pounds in bank notes, thanked him for his courtesy in allowing his debt of overnight to stand over, and despite his protests of having “no recollection of the transaction,” was literally forced to accept the money.

Two hours later, however, another stranger approached him and reminded him of ninety pounds he had won from him overnight, and again R. R. protested he had no “recollection of the transaction,” when a friend passing by chance, the matter was referred to him. He promptly asserted he was in the rooms all the evening, and distinctly remembered R. R. refusing to play; whereupon the sharper, threatening to have satisfaction, walked away, and neither he nor his twenty-pound colleague was seen again.

It was surprising the number of Scotsmen that came in those long-ago days to see the Leger run, and who, night after night foregathered in the Assembly Rooms for no object apparently but to drink “whusky.”

“Come awa, mon, come awa!” I once heard an old Scot insist as he escorted an inebriated countryman out, and from a discussion that ensued after the delinquent had disappeared I gleaned that he was an “elder,” and that “Brother Dalziel was very powerful in prayer.”