The Running Horse at Merrow, Surrey.

The first point of peculiarity that strikes the traveller on approaching the “Running Horse” is the pictorial anomaly on the front of the house—the sign represents a race-horse with a rider on its back; but the painter has given us a horse standing as still as most horses would be glad to do after having been running horses for more than half a century. Our “Running Horse” then, stands hard by the church in the village of Merrow, (olim Merewe,) about two miles from Guildford, in Surrey, on the road leading from the latter place to London by way of Epsom. It is at the intersection of the high roads leading to Epsom, to Guildford, to Stoke, and to Albury, Shere, and Dorking. The latter road passes over Merrow Downs, upon which, at the distance of a quarter of a mile from our hostel, is the course whereon Guildford races are annually held.

Guildford races formerly attracted a very numerous assemblage of spectators. The elderly inhabitants of the above-named ancient borough relate that, such was the influx of company, not a bed was to be had in Guildford unless secured some weeks before the sports commenced. From some cause, the nature of which the good people of Guildford have never been able satisfactorily to ascertain, the races have, for several years, gradually declined in celebrity and importance, and at present they are too often but thinly attended. The programme of the sports, which annually issues from the Guildford press, is embellished with a wood-cut, an impression I believe of the same block that has been used for the last century. The course is not considered by sportsmen a good one, but its situation, and the views it commands, are delightful.

When king George the First was at lord Onslow’s at Clandon, (the adjoining parish,) he gave a plate of one hundred guineas to be run for; and this is now the principal attraction to the proprietors of horses. The members for the borough of Guildford also give a plate of fifty pounds, and there is generally a subscription plate besides.

Our hostel, the “Running Horse” at Merrow, is the place of rendezvous for all the “running horses.” Its stable doors bear highly characteristic and interesting trophies of the honours obtained by their former temporary inmates. The best formed pumps that ever trod the floors of Almack’s or the saloons of Carlton palace, are not more delicately turned than the shoes, (albeit they are of iron,) which, having done their duty on the course, and brought their high-mettled wearers first to the winning-post, are now securely nailed against the honoured portals, as memorials of his success. They are placed heel to heel, and within the oval is carved, in rude characters, the name of the horse, with the day on which he won for his master the purse of gold. What an association of ideas does the simple record convey! Here, on a fine warm evening in June, the evening preceding

————“the great, th’ important day,
Big with the fate of jockey and of horse,”

arrived the majestic “Cydnus.” His fine proportions were hid from vulgar gaze, by cloths of purest white. As he walked slowly up the village street ridden by his jockey, a stripling of sixteen, his approach was hailed by the acclamations of the village boys, and the calmer admiration of the men, all looking forward to their holiday on the succeeding day. “Here, I say; here, here;—here comes one of the racers!—There’s a purty creatur! law—look at his long legs—law, Jem, I say, look what long steps he do take—fancy how he must gallop, if he walks so—purty fellur!—I’m sure he’ll win—mind if he don’t now!” Meanwhile the noble animal arrives at the inn door—high breeding, whether in biped or quadruped, is not to be kept waiting—out comes the host in an important bustle, with the bright key of the stable door swinging upon his finger. He shows the way to the best stall, and then takes his station at the door to keep out the inquisitive gazers, while the jockey and trainer commence their tender offices of cleaning and refreshing the horse after his unusual exercise of walking the public road. This done, he is fed, clothed, and left to his repose upon as soft a bed as clean straw will make, while the jockey and trainer adjourn to the house, the admiration of the knot of idlers who are there assembled to hear the pedigree, birth, parentage, education, and merits of “the favourite.” Other horses soon arrive, and the conversation takes a more scientific turn, while the jockies make their own bets, and descant learnedly upon those of their masters, till they betake themselves to rest, “perchance to dream” of the important event of the succeeding day.

Long before the dew has left the short herbage on the neighbouring downs, the jockies are busily engaged in the stables; and before the sun’s heat has exceeded that of an April noon, they are mounted, and gently cantering over the turf, with the double object of airing their horses and showing them the course over which, in a few hours, they are urged, at their utmost speed, in the presence of admiring thousands. What an elating thought for the youthful rider of “the favourite;” with what delight does he look forward to the hour when the horse and his rider will be the objects of attraction to hundreds of fair one’s eyes glancing upon him with looks of admiration and interest; while, in his dapper silk jacket and cap of sky-blue and white, he rides slowly to the weighing-place, surrounded by lords and gentlemen “of high degree.” Within a short space the vision is realized—more than realized—for he has won the first heat “by a length.” In the next heat he comes in second, but only “half a neck” behind, and his horse is still fresh. The bell rings again for saddling; and the good steed is snuffing the air, and preparing for renewed exertions, while his rider “hails in his heart the triumph yet to come.” The bell rings for starting—“They are off,” cry a hundred voices at once. Blue and white soon takes the lead. “Three to one”—“five to one”—“seven to one”—are the odds in his favour; while at the first rise in the ground he gives ample proof to the admiring “cognoscenti” that he “must win.” A few minutes more, and a general hum of anxious voices announces that the horses are again in sight. “Which is first?”—“Oh, blue and white still.”—“I knew it; I was sure of it.” Here comes the clerk of the course flogging out the intruders within the rails, and here comes the gallant bay—full two lengths before the only horse that, during the whole circuit of four miles, has been once within speaking distance of him. He keeps the lead, and wins the race without once feeling the whip. Here is a moment of triumph for his rider! he is weighed again, and receives from his master’s hand the well-earned reward of his “excellent riding.” The horse is carefully reclothed, and led back to his stable, where his feet are relieved from the shoes which are destined to assist in recording, to successive generations of jockies, the gallant feats, performed by

“Hearts that then beat high for praise,
But feel that pulse no more.”

Our hostel, however, must not be thus quitted.—The date inscribed within the circle above the centre window is, I think, 1617. (I have a memorandum of it somewhere, but have mislaid it.) The house is plastered and washed with yellow; but its gables, Elizabethan chimnies, and projecting bay window, (a very proper kind of window for a “running horse,”) render it a much more picturesque building than I have been able to represent it on the small scale of my [drawing]. In front of it, at about the distance of thirty yards, there was formerly a well of more than a hundred feet in depth; the landlord used to repair this well, receiving a contribution from all who made use of it; but other wells have of late years been dug in the neighbourhood, and the use of this has subsequently been confined to the inmates of the public-house.

The church of Merrow, of which there is a glimpse in the background, is worthy of further notice than I have the means of affording in the present communication.

Philippos. November, 1827.

WILLIAM CAPON,
The Scene Painter.

To the Editor.

Sir,—Presuming you may not have been acquainted with the late Mr. William Capon, whose excellence as a gothic architectural scene-painter has not been equalled by any of his compeers, I venture a few particulars respecting him.

My acquaintance with Mr. Capon commenced within only the last five or six years, but his frank intimacy and hearty good-will were the same as if our intercourse had been of longer date. A memoir of him, in the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” seems to me somewhat deficient in its representation of those qualities.

The memoir just noticed assigns the date of his birth at Norwich to have been October 6, 1757; and truly represents, that though wanting but ten days of arriving at the seventieth year of his age when he died, his hale appearance gave little indication of such a protracted existence. He laboured under an asthmatic affection, of which he was accustomed to complain, while his fund of anecdote, and his jocular naïveté in recitation, were highly amusing. His manner of relating many of the follies of theatrical monarchs, now defunct, was wont to set the table in a roar; and could his reminiscences be remembered, they would present a detail quite as amusing as some that have recently diverted the town. Kemble he deified; he confessed that he could not get rid of old prejudices in favour of his old friend; and, to use his own phrase, “there never was an actor like him.” I have often seen him in ecstasy unlock the glazed front of the frame over his drawing-room chimney-piece, that enclosed a singularly beautiful enamel portrait of that distinguished actor, which will shortly be competed for under the auctioneer’s hammer. Some of his finest drawings of the Painted Chamber at Westminster, framed with the richness of olden times, also decorated this room, which adjoined his study on the same floor. His larger drawings had green silk curtains before them; and these he would not care to draw, unless he thought his visitors’ ideas corresponded with his own respecting the scenes he had thus depicted. The most valuable portion of his collection was a series of drawings of those portions of the ancient city of Westminster, which modern improvements have wholly annihilated. During the course of demolition, he often rose at daybreak, to work undisturbed in his darling object; and hence, some of the tones of morning twilight are so strictly represented, as to yield a hard and unartist-like appearance.

It was a source of disquiet to Mr. Capon that the liberality of publishers did not extend to such enlargements of Smith’s Westminster, as his own knowledge would have supplied. In fact, such a work could not be accomplished without a numerous list of subscribers; and as he never issued a prospectus, the whole of his abundant antiquarian knowledge has died with him, and the pictorial details alone remain.

Mr. Capon was, greatly to his inconvenience, a creditor of the late Richard Brinsley Sheridan, of whom he was accustomed to speak with evident vexation. He had been induced to enter into the compromise offered him by the committee of management of Drury-lane theatre, and give a receipt barring all future claims. This galled him exceedingly; and more than once he hinted suspicions respecting the conflagration of the theatre, which evinced that he had brooded over his losses till his judgment had become morbid.

But he is gone, and in him society has lost an amiable and respected individual. To the regret of numerous friends he expired on the 26th of September at his residence, No. 4, North-street, Westminster.

I am, &c.

November 3, 1827. A. W.

Garrick Plays.
No. XLIII.

[From “Brutus of Alba,” a Tragedy, by Nahum Tate, 1678.]

Ragusa, and four more Witches, about to raise a storm.

Rag. ’Tis time we were preparing for the storm.
Heed me, ye daughters of the mystic art;
Look that it be no common hurricane,
But such as rend the Caspian cliffs, and from
Th’ Hyrcanian hills sweep cedars, roots and all.
Speak; goes all right?
All. Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!
1st W. The cricket leaves our cave, and chirps no more.
2d W. I stuck a ram, but could not stain my steel.
3d W. His fat consumed in th’ fire, and never smok’d.
4th W. I found this morn upon our furnace wall
Mysterious words wrought by a slimy snail,
Whose night-walk fate had guided in that form.
2d W. Thou’rt queen of mysteries, great Ragusa.
How hast thou stemm’d the abyss of our black science,
Traced dodging nature thro’ her blind ’scape-roads,
And brought her naked and trembling to the light!
Rag. Now to our task—
Stand off; and, crouching, mystic postures make,
Gnawing your rivel’d knuckles till they bleed,
Whilst I fall prostrate to consult my art,
And mutter sounds too secret for your ear.

(storm rises.)

Rag. The storm’s on wing, comes powdering from the Nore;
Tis past the Alps already, and whirls forward
To th’ Appenine, whose rifted snow is swept
To th’ vales beneath, while cots and folds lie buried.
Thou Myrza tak’st to-night an airy march
To th’ Pontic shore for drugs; and for more speed
On my own maple crutch thou shalt be mounted,
Which bridled turns to a steed so manageable,
That thou may’st rein him with a spider’s thread.
4th W. And how if I o’ertake a bark in the way?
Rag. Then, if aloft thou goest, to tinder scorch
The fauns; but if thou tak’st a lower cut,
Then snatch the whips off from the steersman’s hand,
And sowce him in the foam.
4th W. He shall be drench’d.

(storm thickens.)

Rag. Aye, this is music! now methinks I hear
The shrieks of sinking sailors, tackle rent,
Rudders unhing’d, while the sea-raveners swift
Scour thro’ the dark flood for the diving corpses.

(the owl cries.)

Ha! art thou there, my melancholy sister?
Thou think’st thy nap was short, and art surpris’d
To find night fallen already.
More turf to th’ fire, till the black mesh ferment;
Burn th’ oil of basilisk to fret the storm.
That was a merry clap: I know that cloud
Was of my Fricker’s rending, Fricker rent it;
0 ’tis an ardent Spirit: but beshrew him,
’Twas he seduced me first to hellish arts.
He found me pensive in a desart glin,
Near a lone oak forlorn and thunder-cleft,
Where discontented I abjured the Gods,
And bann’d the cruel creditor that seiz’d
My Mullees,[500] sole subsistence of my life.
He promised me full twelve years’ absolute reign
To banquet all my senses, but he lied,
For vipers’ flesh is now my only food,
My drink of springs that stream from sulph’rous mines;
Beside with midnight cramps and scalding sweats
I am almost inured for hell’s worst tortures.—
I hear the wood-nymphs cry; by that I know
My charm has took—
but day clears up,
And heavenly light wounds my infectious eyes.
1st W. Now, sullen Dame, dost thou approve our works?
Rag. ’Twas a brave wreck: O, you have well perform’d.
2d W. Myrza and I bestrid a cloud, and soar’d
To lash the storm, which we pursued to th’ City,
Where in my flight I snatch’d the golden globe,
That high on Saturn’s pillar blaz’d i’ th’ air.
3d W. I fired the turret of Minerva’s fane.
4th W. I staid i’ th’ cell to set the spell a work.
The lamps burnt ghastly blue, the furnace shook;
The Salamander felt the heat redoubled,
And frisk’d about, so well I plied the fire.
Rag. Now as I hate bright day, and love moonshine,
You shall be all my sisters in the art:
I will instruct ye in each mystery;
Make ye all Ragusas.
All. Ho! Ho! Ho!
Rag. Around me, and I’ll deal to each her dole.
There’s an elf-lock, tooth of hermaphrodite,
A brace of mandrakes digg’d in fairy ground,
A lamprey’s chain, snake’s eggs, dead sparks of thunder
Quench’d in its passage thro’ the cold mid air,
A mermaid’s fin, a cockatrice’s comb
Wrapt i’ the dried caul of a brat still-born.
Burn ’em.—
In whispers take the rest, which named aloud
Would fright the day, and raise another storm.
All. Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Soziman, a wicked Statesman, employs Ragusa for a charm.

Rag.—my drudges I’ll employ
To frame with their best arts a bracelet for thee,
Which, while thou wear’st it lock’d on thy left arm,
Treason shall ne’er annoy thee, sword and poison
In vain attempt; Nature alone have power
Thy substance to dissolve, nor she herself
Till many a winter-shock hath broke thy temper.
Soz. Medea for her Jason less performed!
My greatening soul aspires to range like thee,
In unknown worlds, to search the reign of Night.
Admitted to thy dreadful mysteries,
I should be more than mortal.
Rag. Near my cell,
Mong’st circling rocks (in form a theatre)
Lies a snug vale—
Soz. With horror I have view’d it;
Tis blasted all and bare as th’ ocean beech,
And seems a round for elves to revel in.
Rag. With my attendants there each waining moon
My dreadful Court I hold, and sit in state:—
And when the dire transactions are dispatch’d,
Our zany Spirits ascend to make us mirth
With gambals, dances, masks and revelling songs,
Till our mad din strike terror through the waste,
Spreads far and wide to th’ cliffs that bank the main,
And scarce is lost in the wide ocean’s roar.
Here seated by me thou shalt view the sports,
Whilst demons kiss thy foot, and swear thee homage.

Ragusa, with the other Witches, having finished the bracelet.

Rag. Proceed we then to finish our black projects.—
View here, till from your green distilling eyes
The poisonous glances center on this bracelet,
A fatal gift for our projecting son;—
Seven hours odd minutes has it steept i’ th’ gall
Of a vile Moor swine-rooted from his grave.
Now to your bloated lips apply it round,
And with th’ infectious dew of your black breaths
Compleat its baleful force.

[From the “Fatal Union,” a Tragedy; Author Unknown.]

Dirge.

Noblest bodies are but gilded clay.
Put away
But the precious shining rind,
The inmost rottenness remains behind.
Kings, on earth though Gods they be,
Yet in death are vile as we.
He, a thousand Kings before,
Now is vassal unto more.
Vermin now insulting lie,
And dig for diamonds in each eye;
Whilst the sceptre-bearing hand
Cannot their inroads withstand.
Here doth one in odours wade,
By the regal unction made;
While another dares to gnaw
On that tongue, his people’s law.
Fools, ah! fools are we that so contrive,
And do strive,
In each gaudy ornament,
Who shall his corpse in the best dish present.

C. L.

[500] Her cows.