Palace and Hovel; Or, Phases of London Life

by Daniel Joseph Kirwan

"MABEL GREY."

"That's her, Sir, as is sitting back in the front seat with a plate of chicken on her lap, with the golden butterflies in her lace bonnet, and the splendid diamond cross hanging from her neck—that's the gal with the blue eyes and auburn hair. The gal that's holding the long necked green glass for that swell to pour champagne into it, is "Baby Hamilton"—ah, she is a wild one—many's the thousand pounds the young Jook of Hamilton squandered on her, and so did the poor Marquis of Hastings, poor fellow—wuss for him. The finest looking gal of all is that "Anonyma" gal as some of these fellows that has book eddication has called her—they say it means "No Name," but I know she has a name, for it used to be Kate Bellingham when she came to London first. Oh, she's a high blooded one—just look at how she sits that chestnut mare—I'll warrant you that mare would bring six hundred guineas at Tattersall's—if she'd bring a pound—ye won't ketch her drinking in public, she's too proud of herself to do that—no, Sir, she wouldn't be seen taking a drink from the Prince of Wales himself at a public place like the Race Course. Now there's Alice Gordon," added the police officer, who began to grow loquacious in his description of these fair but frail and giddy beauties, "she's a quiet, orderly, young creature, and as pretty as a peach, poor little thing—God help her—she never knew a mother's care, and she was lost for want of a kind word and a loving heart to guide her young steps."

"THEY ARE OFF."

Now the saddling bell has rung amid the greatest excitement, and the multitude who have been flirting, eating, and drinking, betting, and playing at divers games of chance, become suddenly hushed, and a great quiet comes over the populated fields, stands, and tents, as the jockeys ride forth to the starting point, five famous horses held in the leash and straining their necks with avidity and equine eagerness for the race. The ladies of the demi-monde settled themselves well forward in their seats. "Anonyma" swept by on her chestnut to get a good position for a look at the horses. "Mabel Grey" allowed her knife and fork, which she had been using on the unoffending chicken, to fall into her plate, and the tangled curls of "Baby Hamilton" reclined on her shoulders as a fool of a Guardsman gave her his arm to assist her to stand up in the drag, and handed her his glass to sweep the field. The stately looking footman who is bustling among the dishes and wine bottles, assisting "Anonyma's" butler in preparation for the coming feast, stops in his occupation to listen to the thundering roar of the crowd, and to look at the gallant animals as they come forward to the stand. The butler, who is a grave and elderly personage, receives his orders from "Anonyma," with dignity, and he is lost to sight among the game-hampers and the champagne bottles, and Moselle flasks, for a moment.

Listen to that cheer and long-continued shout! They are off, they are off; and the whole vast swarm of human beings is aroused. The ladies clap their hands and utter weak sounds of joy or distress, and the cadgers, tramps, and more polished pickpockets, are now beginning to reap their harvest in the midst of the excitement and momentary frenzy.

The race is a two-mile stretch, and only five horses are entered. The prize is the Goodwood Cup, valued at three hundred sovereigns.

Two of the horses entered are four-year-olds, and the others are three-year-olds. The great Jewish banker and member of Parliament, Baron Rothschild, has entered "Restitution," a four year old, who is ridden by Daley, an Irish jockey of fame. Sir Frederick Johnstone's entry is "Brigantine," a three year old. Mr. Saville's "Blueskin," Lord Calthorpe's "Robespierre," and Lord Strafford's "Rupert," make up the number of horses who have darted by the Grand Stand in the storm of wild huzzas.

"ANONYMA."

"Anonyma," whose chestnut was pawing the turf in a frisky manner, grips the bridle of the blooded mare, and pulls hardily at her mouth. A number of roughs around a booth salute her with not very choice language, for she is known at the races, and the blood mantles in her cheek and the crimson tide surges up to her temples as a coarse blackguard repeats an opprobious epithet, and before he can draw back she lays his cheek open with her dainty riding-whip, and giving the mare more rope, the crowd opens wide for her with a cheer, and she dashes across the Course on a canter, just as the Rothschild's jockey, with his head bent down to the mane of "Restitution," and his silken cap flying in the hot wind, sweeps by, "Blueskin" following fast, and the great banker's jockey swerving aside from his course, wins, by a miracle; "Restitution" having been for a moment blinded by the long skirts of "Anonyma," in her mad canter across the turf, and now there is a huzza, and a rending, wild hurricane of applause, as Rothschild's colors go forward to the Weighing Stand, and "Restitution" is pronounced winner of the Goodwood Cup of 1869, "Robespierre" being a bad fourth, and "Rupert" coming in last of the field.

Now the principal race of the day is ended, and great acclaim having been given to the victor, the crowds disintegrate and separate into little knots for refreshments, and hard-faced fellows, in flashy costumes, may be seen pulling from capacious pockets, greasy wallets, to settle their debts of "honor," and much beer is drank among the humble people, and floods of costly wines are poured out in drags and dog-carts, and bright eyes and smiling lips meet one everywhere, and there is a clatter of knives and forks, and a popping of corks in the vicinity of the carriages occupied by the Scarlet Women of London, who are here to-day in swarms, and who are caressed and welcomed as if their position was assured and the dark shadow of a Shameful Life had not fallen upon them.