Whatever other people may say or think, I put a great value on this equestrian taste. I speak not here of the manly nature of horse exercise—of the noble and vigorous pursuits of the hunting field. No; I direct my observations solely to the heroes of Ascot and Epsom—of Doncaster and Goodwood. I only speak of those whose pleasure it is to read no book save the Racing Calendar, and frequent no lounge but Tattersalls; who esteem the stripes of a racing-jacket more honourable than the ribbon of the Bath, and look to a well-timed “hustle” or “a shake” as the climax of human ability. These are fine fellows, and I prize them. But if it be not only praiseworthy, but pleasant, to ride for the Duke's cup at Goodwood, or the Corinthian's at the Curragh, why not extend the sphere of the utility, and become as amiable in private as they are conspicuous in public life?
We have seen them in silk jackets of various hues, with leathers and tops of most accurate fitting, turn out amid the pelting of a most pitiless storm, to ride some three miles of spongy turf, at the hazard of their necks, and the almost certainty of a rheumatic fever; and why, donning the same or some similar costume, will they not perform the office of postillion, when their fathers, or mayhap, some venerated aunt, is returning by the north road to an antiquated mansion in Yorkshire? The pace, to be sure, is not so fast—but it compensates in safety what it loses in speed—the assemblage around is not so numerous, or the excitement so great; but filial tenderness is a nobler motive than the acclamations of a mob. In fact, the parallel presents all the advantages on one side: and the jockey is as inferior to the postillion as the fitful glare of an ignis-fatuus is to the steady brilliancy of a gas-lamp.
An Englishman has a natural pride in the navy of his country—our wooden walls are a glorious boast; but, perhaps, after all, there is nothing more captivating in the whole detail of the service, than the fact that even the highest and the noblest in the land has no royal road to its promotion, but, beginning at the very humblest step, he must work his way through every grade and every rank, like his comrades around him. Many there are now living who remember Prince William, as he was called—late William the Fourth, of glorious memory—sitting in the stern seats of a gig, his worn jacket and weather-beaten hat attesting that even the son of a king had no immunity from the hardships of the sea. This is a proud thought for Englishmen, and well suited to gratify their inherent loyalty and their sturdy independence. Now, might we not advantageously extend the influence of such examples, by the suggestion I have thrown out above? If a foreigner be now struck by hearing, as he walks through the dockyard at Plymouth, that the little middy who touches his hat with such obsequious politeness, is the Marquis of ————, or the Earl of————, with some fifty thousand per annum, how much more astonished will he be on learning that he owes the rapidity with which he traversed the last stage to his having been driven by Lord Wilton—or that the lengthy proportions, so dexterously gathered up in the saddle, belong to an ex-ambassador from St. Petersburgh. How surprised would he feel, too, that instead of the low habits and coarse tastes he would look for in that condition in life, he would now see elegant and accomplished gentlemen, sipping a glass of curaçoa at the end of a stage; or, mayhap, offering a pinch of snuff from a box worth five hundred guineas. What a fascinating conception would he form of our country from such examples as this! and how insensibly would not only the polished taste and the high-bred depravity of the better classes be disseminated through the country; but, by an admirable reciprocity, the coarsest vices of the lowest would be introduced among the highest in the land. The racecourse has done much for this, but the road would do far more. Slang is now but the language of the elite—it would then become the vulgar tongue; and, in fact, there is no predicting the amount of national benefit likely to arise from an amalgamation of all ranks in society, where-the bond of union is so honourable in its nature. Cultivate, then, ye youth of England—ye scions of the Tudors and the Plantagenets—with all the blood of all the Howards in your veins—cultivate the race-course—study the stable—read the Racing Calendar. What are the precepts of Bacon or the learning of Boyle compared to the pedigree of Grey Momus, or the reason that Tramp “is wrong?” “A dark horse” is a far more interesting subject of inquiry than an eclipse of the moon, and a judge of pace a much more exalted individual than a judge of assize.
A NUT FOR YOUNGER SONS.
Douglas Jerrold, in his amusing book, “Cakes and Ale,” quotes an exquisite essay written to prove the sufficiency of thirty pounds a-year for all a man's daily wants and comforts—allowing at least five shillings a quarter for the conversion of the Jews—and in which every outlay is so nicely calculated, that it must be wilful eccentricity if the pauper gentleman, at the end of the year, either owes a shilling or has one. To say the least of it, this is close shaving; and, as I detest experimental philosophy, I'd rather not try it. At the same time, in this age of general glut, when all professions are overstocked—when you might pave the Strand with parsons' skulls, and thatch your barn with the surplus of the college of physicians; when there are neither waste lands to till and give us ague and typhus, nor war to thin us—what are we to do? The subdivision of labour in every walk in life has been carried to its utmost limits: if it takes nine tailors to make a man, it takes nine men to make a needle. Even in the learned professions, as they are called, this system is carried out; and as you have a lawyer for equity, another for the Common Pleas, a third for the Old Bailey, &c, so your doctor, now-a-days, has split up his art, and one man takes charge of your teeth, another has the eye department, another the ear, a fourth looks after your corns; so that, in fact, the complex machinery of your structure strikes you as admirably adapted to give employment to an ingenious and anxious population, who, until our present civilization, never dreamed of morselling out mankind for their benefit.
As to commerce, our late experiences have chiefly pointed to the pleasure of trading with nations who will not pay their debts,—like the Yankees. There is, then, little encouragement in that quarter. What then remains I scarcely know. The United Services are pleasant, but poor things by way of a provision for life. Coach-driving, that admirable refuge for the destitute, has been smashed by the railroads; and there is a kind of prejudice against a man of family sweeping the crossings. For my own part, I lean to something dignified and respectable—something that does not compromise “the cloth,” and which, without being absolutely a sinecure, never exacts any undue or extraordinary exertion,—driving a hearse, for instance: even this, however, is greatly run upon; and the cholera, at its departure, threw very many out of employment. However, the question is, what can a man of small means do with his son? Short whist is a very snug thing—if a man have natural gifts,—that happy conformation of the fingers, that ample range of vision, that takes in everything around. But I must not suppose these by any means general—and I legislate for the mass. The turf has also the same difficulties,—so has toad-eating; indeed these three walks might be included among the learned professions.
As to railroads, I 'm sick of hearing of them for the last three years. Every family in the empire has at least one civil engineer within its precincts; and I 'm confident, if their sides were as hard as their skulls, you could make sleepers for the whole Grand Junction by merely decimating the unemployed.