A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.,

HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF DONCASTER

RACES, THE GREAT ST. LEGER, HORSES, AND CHARACTERS, IN 1825. BY AN HONEST REVIEWER,

ALIAS "The spirit in the clouds."{1}

"All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
Ariel, and all his quality.
Prospero. Why, that's my spirit!
Shakspeare—Tempest.
"Good morrow to my worthy masters; and a merry Christmas
to you all!"—The Bellman.
"Mendiei, mimi, balatrones."—Hor.
"Mimics, beggars, and characters of all sorts and sizes."
—Free Translation.

My Good Mr. Spy,

Will you not exclaim, Mercy upon us! here is a text and title as long and as voluminous as a modern publication, or the sermon of the fox-hunting parson, who, when compelled to

1 See last number of the Spy, Part XXI. p. 273.

preach on a saint's day, mounted the pulpit in his sporting toggery, using his gown as "a cloak of maliciousness?" But have patience, sweet Spy; be kindly-minded, dear Bernard: like John of Magna Charta memory, "I have a thing to say;" and do now be a good attentive Hubert to hear me out.

"Indeed, since you have inspirited, if not inspired me, by the 'immortal honour' of dubbing me your 'associate,' I were wanting in common gratitude not to attempt, by the return of moon, for I believe that luminary, like your numbers, comes out new every fourth week, to convey to you the swellings-over of my gratitude for the kind and fine things you have been pleased to cheer me with; although even yet, though the time will come, I can neither withdraw my vizor, nor disclose my 'family cognomen.'

[ [!-- IMG --] [ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE]

It was true, and joy it was 'twas true, that we were at rowings, sailings, feastings, and dancings together, but how comes it we were not at the great racings together? that neither you, nor your ministers, they who,

"——correspondent to command,
Perform thy spiriting gently——"

were at the grand muster of the North, the Doncaster meeting? Bernard, I tell thee all the world was there; from royalty and loyalty down to the dustman and democracy. Then such "sayings and doings," a million of hooks could hardly have had an eye to all. You have read of the confusion of tongues, of "Babel broke loose," of the crusaders' contributory encampment peopled by dozens of nations; you have seen the inside of a patent theatre on the first night of a Christmas pantomime, or mingled in an Opera-house masquerade; have listened to a Covent-garden squabble, a Billingsgate commotion, or a watch-house row; but in the whole course of your life, varied as it has been, active as it has proved, you never have, never could have experienced any thing at all to eclipse or even to equal the "hey, fellow, well met" congregatory musters, and the "beautiful and elegant confusions" of Doncaster town in the race week of (September) eighteen hundred and twenty-five!

I am not, however, about to inflict upon you a "list of the horses," nor "the names, weights, and colours of the riders;" but I cannot help thinking that the English Spy will not have quite completed his admirable gallery of portraits, and his unique museum of curiosities for the benefit and delight of posterity, if he omit placing in their already splendid precincts two or three heads and sketches, which the genius of notoriety is ready to contribute as her own, and which to pass over would be as grievous to miss, as Mrs. Waylett's breeches,{2} characters at the Haymarket Theatre, or a solution of Euclid by one of Dr. Birkbeck's "operatives."

Allow me, then, who am not indeed "without vanity," once more to "stand by your side," or rather for you, and to attempt, albeit I have not your magic pencil, another taste of my quality, by dashing off con amore the lions of the North.

2 There frequently occur circumstances in a younker's life
which lie never, in all his after career, forgets. I
remember a very worthy and a very handsome old gentlewoman,
the wife of an eminent physician, once being exceedingly
wroth, it was almost the only time I ever knew her seriously
angry, because a nephew of hers asserted all women were,
what in the vulgate is called "knock-knee'd," and almost
threatened to prove the contrary. Had she lived in our days,
the truth, almost on any evening on our stage, might be
ascertained, and I fear not at all to the satisfaction of
the defender of her sex's shape. Nature never intended women
to wear the breeches, and the invention of petticoats was
the triumph of art. Why will Eve's daughters publicly
convince us they are not from top to toe perfect?

As, however, some that attend my sitting are quite as difficult to manage as the conspirators of Prospero's isle, it may be as well if, like Ariel, I sing to them as I lay on the colours of identification. Bear in mind still, that I am a "spirit in the clouds," and, therefore, there can be nothing of "michin malachi" in my melody.

I love a race-course, that I do;
But then, good folks, it is as true,
Only don't blab, I tell it you,
I can't love all its people;
For though I'm somewhat down and fly,
Is slang gone out, sweet Mister Spy?
Of trade with them I am as shy
As jumping from a steeple.
Yet what with fashion's feather'd band,
And pawing steeds, and crowded stand;
Its sights are really very grand,
Which to deny were sin.
But then, though fast the horses run,
Few gain by "clone," and "done," and "done,"
For what a damper to the fun!
Those "only laugh who win."
Oh! what a mixture must we greet
In rooms, at inns, on turf, in street;
Be "hand and glove" with all we meet,
Old files, and new-bronzed faces!
With marquis, lord, and duke, and squire,
We now keep up the betting fire;
And then the guard of the "Highflyer"
We book at Northern races.{3}
3 A song would be no song at all without notes; I must
there-fore try a few. I can assure you they are not mere
humming ones. Allons—"all is not gold that glitters,"
neither is it all "prunella" that blows a horn upon the
stern of a coach. The "York Highflyer" I really am not to go
down gratis "next jour-ney" for puffing it is a good coach,
and the guard is a good guard, and he ventured a "good bit"
of money on the Léger, and was "floored," for "Cleveland"
was a slow one. However, it didn't balk his three days'
holiday, nor spoil his new coat, nor blight his nosegay. I
saw him after his defeat, looking as rosy as Pistol, and
heard him making as much noise as one; "nor malice domestic
nor foreign levy" could hurt him.

Look in that room,{4} judge for yourself;
See what a struggle's made for wealth,
What crushings, bawlings for the pelf,
'Twixt high heads and low legs.
That is Lord K——,{5} and that Lord D——-,{5}
That's Gully{6}; yon's fishmonger C;{5}
A octree-man that; that, Harry Lee,{5}
Who stirr'd Mendoza's pegs.
Or walk up stairs; behold yon board,
Rich with its thrown-down paper hoard,
But oh! abused, beset, adored
By wine-warm'd folks o' nights.
The playing cog, the paying peer,
Pigeon and Greek alike are here;
And some are clear'd, and others clear;
Ask Bayner,{6} and such wights.

4 The new subscription room; where down stairs more than
the "confusion of tongues" prevails, and above a man's
character, if in-sured, would go under the column of "trebly
hazardous." It is really a pity that hone-racing should
appear so close a neighbour to gambling as it does at
Doncastor.
5 My men of letters are not merely alphabet men, but bona
fide characters of consideration upon the turf. I confess
Lord Kennedy is a bit of a favourite of mine, ever since I
saw him so good-natured at the pigeon-shooting matches at
Battersea; and greatly rejoiced was I to find him unplucked
at the more desperate wagerings of the North. He really is
clever in the main, and no subject for St. Luke's, though he
depends much on a bedlamite. Gulley, Crock-ford, and Bland,
need no character; and every body knows Harry Lee fought a
pluck battle with old Dan. But it is "box Harry" with
fighters now.
6 Poor Rayner of C. G. T.—hundreds at one fell swoop! all
his morning's winnings gone in one evening's misfortune. Let
him think on't when next he plays "the School of Reform."

Nay, thick as plagues of Egypt swarm
These emblems of the devil's charm,
When the fall'n angel works a harm
To Eve's demented brood;
Worse than of famish'd shark the maw,
Worse than snake's tooth, or tiger's claw,
The gambler's fish{7} spits from its maw
Hell's poison-filled food!
But, halt! Who're they so deep in port,
Who jostle thus the dons of sport,
With all th' assumed airs of court,
From which indeed they are?
But not from court of Carlton,
Nor James's Court, nor any one;
But where "the fancy" used to run
To see the creatures spar.
The one's a diamond, that you see,
But yet a black one I agree,
And in the way of chancery
A smart Ward in his time;
The other he's from Vinsor down,
And though a great gun in that town,
Has lately been quite basted brown,
And gone off—out of time.{8}
7 The spotted ball now, worse in its woe-causing than the
apple of Ida, is disgorged from a splendidly gilded fish.
What a pity it is that the eternal vociforators of "red
wins, black loses," et vice versa, could not be turned into
Jonahs, and their odd fish into a whale, and let all be cast
into the troubled waters (without a three days' redemption)
they brew for others!
8 "There never were such times." X Xs, in the ring, and
failures in the Fives Court, overcome us now without our
special wonder; for boxers are become betters to extents
that would make the fathers of the P.R. bless themselves and
bolt. Cannon and Ward were, however, both on the right side,
and the nods with which they honoured their old acquaintance
were certainly improvements upon the style of the academy
for manners in Saint Martin's Street.

Look, here's a bevy; who but they!
Just come to make the poor Tykes pay
The charge of post-horses and chay,
That brought them to some tune;
Lo! Piccadilly Goodered laughs,
As when some novice, reeling, quaffs
His gooseberry wine in tipsy draughts,
At his so pure saloon.{9}
Good gracious, too! (oh, what a trade
Can oyster sales at night be made!)
Here swallowing wine, like lemonade,
Sits Mrs. H's man{10}!
And by the Loves and Graces all,
By Vestris' trunks, Maria's shawl,
There trots the nun herself, so tall,
A flirting of a fan,
And blushing like the "red, red rose,"
With paly eyes and a princely nose,
And laced in Nora Crinas clothes,
(Cool, like a cucumber,)
With beaver black, with veil so green,
And huntress boots 'neath skirt quite clean,
She looks Diana's self—a quean,
In habit trimm'd with fur.
And Mr. Wigelsworth he flew,{11}
And Miss and Mistress W.
To bow and court'sy to the new
Arrival at their Boy;
9 "Lightly tread, 'tis hallow'd ground." I dare not go on;
you have been before me, Bernard: (vide vol. i. p. 295, of
Spy). But really it will be worth while for us to look in on
Goodered some fine morning, say three, a.m., when he gets
his print of Memnon home, to which, at Sheardowns, he was so
liberal as to subscribe. He will discourse to you of the
round table!
10 "If I stand here, I saw him."—Shakespeare, Hamlet.
11 The host of the Black Boy at Doncastor, who really pro-
vided race ordinaries in no ordinary way.

Though he was Black, yet she was fair;
And sure I am that nothing there
With that clear nymph could aught compare,12
Or more glad eyes employ.

But where there is, after all, but little reason in many of the scenes witnessed at the period I quote, why should I continue to rhyme about them? Let it therefore suffice, that with much of spirit there was some folly, with a good deal of splendour an alloy of dross, and, with real consequence, a good deal of that which was assumed. Like a showy drama, the players (there was a goodly company in the north), dresses (they were of all colours of the rainbow), and decorations (also various and admirable), during the time of performance, were of the first order; but that over, and the green and dressing rooms displayed many a hero sunk into native insignificance, and the trappings of Tamerlane degenerated to the hungry coat of a Jeremy Diddler (and there were plenty of "Raising the Wind" professors at Doncaster), or the materiel of the king and queen of Denmark to the dilapidated wardrobe of Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester Daggerwood.

Mais apropos de le drame, Monsieur L'Espion, what is your report of our theatres? Have you seen the monkeys? Are they not, for a classic stage, grand,

——Those happiest smiles
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropt. In brief,
Her room would be a rarity most beloved,
If all could so become it."
Shakespeare, a little altered.

I would just say here, that if any disapprove of my picture of the lady, they may take Bernard Blackmantle's magnifique, et admirable? Do they not awake in you visions of rapturous delight, as you contrast their antics and mimicry, their grotesque and beautiful grimaces, their cunning leers, with the eye of Garrick, the stately action of Kemble, the sarcasm of Cooke, the study of Henderson, the commanding port of Siddons, the fire of Kean, the voice of Young, the tones of O'Neill? When you see them, as the traveller Dampier has it, "dancing from tree to tree over your head," and hear them "chattering, and making a terrible noise," do you not think of Lord Chesterfield, and exclaim, "A well-governed stage is an ornament to society, an encouragement to wit and learning, and a school of virtue, modesty, and good manners?" Do you not feel, when you behold the flesh and blood punch and man-monkey of Covent Garden Theatre "twist his body into all manner of shapes," or "Monsieur Gouffe," of the Surrey, "hang himself for the benefit of Mr. Bradley," that we may pay our money, and "see, and see, and see again, and still glean something new, something to please, and something to instruct;" and, lastly, in a fit of enthusiasm, exclaim,

"To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold;"
For this great Jocko's self first leap'd the stage;
For this was puffd in ev'ry well-bribed page,
From evening "Courier" down to Sunday "Age!"{13}
13 It is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of
praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the
original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is
ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original.
That the beings who banish legitimate performers should
puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!"
But "the world is still deceived by ornament."

But Charles Kemble pays well on occasions, and gold would make "Hyperion" of a "satyr." Seriously, Mr. Blackmantle, the town is overrun with monkeys; they are as busy, and as importunate, as Lady Montague's boys on May day, or the Guy Fawkes representatives on the fifth of November. They are "here, there, and every where," and the baboon monopolists of Exeter 'Change and the Tower are ruined by the importation:—a free trade in the article with the patentees of our classic theatres, as the purchasing-merchants, has done the business for Mr. Cross and the beef-eaters. Like the Athenian audience, the "thinking people" of England are more pleased with the mimic than the real voice of nature; and the four-footed puggys of the Brazils, like the true pig of the Grecian, are cast in the shade by their reasoning imitator! In short, not to be prosy on a subject which has awakened poetry and passion in all, hear, as the grave-diggers say, "the truth on't."{13}

When winter triumph'd o'er the summer's flame,
And C. G. opened, Punchinello came;
Each odd grimace of monkey-art he drew,
Exhausted postures and imagined new:
The stage beheld him spurn its bounded reign,
And frighten'd fiddlers scraped to him in vain;
His seven-leagued leaps so well the fashion fit,
That all adore him—boxes, gallery, pit,{14}
13 It is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of
praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the
original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is
ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original.
That the beings who banish legitimate performers should
puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!"
But "the world is still deceived by ornament."
14 One Dr. Samuel Johnson has something like this, but then
his lines were in praise of a "poor player," of a man who
wasted much paper in writing dramas now thought nothing of.
This is his doggrel.

But I must have done. Christmas will soon be here, and "I have a journey, sirs, shortly to go" to be prepared for its delights, and to fit myself for its festivities; and yet I am unwilling, acute Bernard, merry Echo, cheerful Eglantine, correct Transit, to "shake hands and part," without tendering the coming season's congratulations; so if it like you, dear spies o' the time, I will, like the swan, go off singing.

Marching along with berried brow,
And snow flakes on his "frosty pow,"
See father Christmas makes his bow,
And proffers jovial cheer;
About him tripping to and fro,
Picking the holly as they go,
And kiss-allowing misletoe,
His merry elves appear.
Then broach the barrel, fill the bowl,
And let us pledge the hearty soul,
Though swift the waning minutes roll,
And time will stay for none;
Lads, we will have a gambo still,
For though we've made the foolish feel,
And shamed the sinner in his ill,
Our withers are unwrung.

"When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Skakspeare rose;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new;
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast."

No poison in the cup have ye,
In all your travell'd history,
Pour'd for the hearty, good, and free;
This will your book evince:
So "here's the King!"fill, fill for him,
Then for our Country, to the brim;
With it, good souls, we'll sink or swim.
Huzzah! 'tis gall'd jades wince!
But now, adieu; o'er hill and plain
I scud, ere we shall meet again;
Meantime, all prosp'rous be your reign,
And friends attend in crowds;
Before your splendid course is o'er,
And Blackmantle shall please no more,
You'll know, though yet I'm doom'd to soar,
Your Spirit in the Clouds.{15}"
November, 1825.

Adieu, thou facetious sprite, and may the graybeard Time tread lightly on thy buoyant spirits! Meet thee or not hereafter, thou shalt live in my remembrance a cherished name, long as memory holds her influence o'er the eccentric mind of Bernard Blackmantle. Here, too, must Transit and myself take a farewell of merry Cheltenham, ever on the wing for novelty: our sketches have been brief, but full of genuine character; nor can they, as I hope, be considered in any instance as violating our established rule—of being true to nature, without offending the ear of chastity, or exciting aught but

15 "A. word to the wise," &c. Get honest "Tom Whipcord" to
take you by his hand on Valentine's night to the "noctes"
muster of the Sporting Annals gents. You will know me by a
brace of "bleeding hearts" in my plaited neckerchief, and a
blue bunch of ribbons in my sinister side, as big as the
Herald newspaper, the gifts of my lady-love.

the approving smile of the lovers of mirth, and the patrons of life's merriments. We had intended to have drawn aside the curtain of the theatre and the castle, and have shown forth to the gaze of the public the unhallowed mysteries which are sometimes performed there; but reflection whispered, that morality might find more cause to blush at the recital than her attendants would benefit by the exposure; and is is lamentably true, that some persons would cheerfully forfeit all claim to respectability of character for the honour of appearing in print, depicted in their true colours, as systematic and profligate seducers. To disappoint this infamous ambition, more than from any fear of the threatened consequences, we have left the sable colonel and his dark satellites to grope on through the murky ways of waywardness and intrigue, without staining our pages with a full relation of their heartless conduct, since to have revived the now forgotten tales might have given additional pain to some beauteous victims whose fair names have dropped into Lethe's waters, like early spring flowers nipped by the lingering hand of slow-paced winter; or, in other instances, have disturbed the repose of an unsuspecting husband, or have stung the aged heart of a doting parent—evils we could not have avoided, had we determined upon rehearsing the love scenes and intrigues of certain well-known Cheltenham amateurs.

Adieu, merry Chelts! we're for quitting our quarters;
Adieu to the chase, to thy walks and thy waters,
To thy hunt, ball, and theatre, and card tables too,
And to all thy gay fair ones, a long, long adieu!
Blackmantle and Transit, the Spy and his friend,
Through Gloucester and Bristol, to Bath onward bend.
To show how amused they have been in your streets,
They give you, at parting, this man of sweetmeats;
A character, famous as Mackey, the dandy,
The London importer of horehound and candy;
The cheapest of doctors, whose nostrums dispense
A cure for all ills that affect taste or sense,
I doubt not quite as good as one half your M.D.'s,
Though sweet is the physic and simple the fees;
This, at least, you'll admit, as we dart from your view
That our vignette presents you with a sweet adieu!

[ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]