“If the worst comes to the worst,” thinks his lordship, “if ‘Sennacherib’ breaks down, and Blanche Kettering fights shy, and the sons of Judah thunder at the door of the ungodly, and ‘the pot boils over,’ and the world says ‘it’s all up with Mount,’ have I not still got something to fall back upon? Shall not my very difficulties point the way to overcome them? and when I am driven into a corner, won’t I come out and astonish them all? I’ve got it in me—I know I have. And the reviewers—pshaw! I defy them! Let them but lay a finger on my ‘Medea,’ and I’ll give them such a roasting as they haven’t had since the days of the ‘Dunciad.’ Byron did it: why shouldn’t I? If I could only settle down—and I could settle down if I was regularly cleaned out—I think I am man enough to succeed. Bring out a work that would shake the Ministry, and scatter the moderate party—then for Progress, Improvement, Enfranchisement, and the March with the Times (rogue’s march though it be), and Mount Helicon, at the head of an invincible phalanx, in the House, with unbounded popularity out of doors, an English peerage—fewer points to the coronet—a seat in the Cabinet—why not? But here we are at Tattersall’s;” and the future statesman is infernally in want of a few hundreds, so now for “good information, long odds, a safe man, and a shot at the favourite!”
As he walked down the narrow passage out of Grosvenor Place, now bowing to a peer, now nodding to a trainer, now indulging in quaint badinage, which the vulgar call “chaff,” with a dog-stealer, who would have suspected the rattling, agreeable, off-hand Mount Helicon of deep-laid schemes and daring ambition? Nobody saw through him but old Barabbas, the Leg; and he once confided to a confederate on Newmarket Heath, “There’s not one of the young ones as knows his alphabet, ’cept the Lively Lord; and take my word for it, Plunder, he’s a deep ’un.”
If a foreigner would have a comprehensive view of our system of English society all at one glance, let him go into the yard at Tattersall’s any crowded “comparing day,” before one of our great events on the turf. There will he see, in its highest perfection, the apparent anomaly of aristocratic opinions and democratic habits, the social contradiction by which the peer reconciles his familiarity with the Leg, and his hauteur towards those almost his equals in rank, who do not happen to be “of his own set.” There he may behold Privy Councillors rubbing shoulders with convicted swindlers, noblemen of unstained lineage, themselves the “mirror of honour,” passing their jests for the time, on terms of the most perfect equality, with individuals whose only merit is success; and that indescribable immunity some persons are allowed to enjoy, by which, according to the proverb, “one man is entitled to steal a horse, when another may not even look at a halter.” But this apparent equality can only flourish in the stifling atmosphere of the ring, or the free breezes of Newmarket Heath. Directly the book is shut my lord is a very different man, and Tom This or Dick That would find it another story altogether were he to expect the same familiarity in the county-rooms or the hunting-field which he has enjoyed in that vortex of speculation, where, after all, he merely represents a “given quantity,” as a layer of the odds, and where his money is as good as another man’s, or, at least, is so considered. Nay, the very crossing which divides Grosvenor Place from the Park is a line of demarcation quite sufficient to convert the knowing, off-hand nod of our lordly speculator into the stiff, cold bow and studiously polite greeting of the “Grand Seigneur.” Verily, would-be gentlemen, who take to racing as a means of “getting into society,” must often find themselves grievously deceived. But Lord Mount Helicon is in the thick of it. Tattersall greets him with that respectful air which his good taste never permits him to lay aside, whether he is discussing a matter of thousands with Sir Peter Plenipo, or arranging the sale of a forty-pound hack for an ensign in the Guards; therefore is he himself respected by all. “You should have bought two of the yearlings, my lord,” says he, in his quiet, pleasant voice; “Colonel Cavesson never sent us up such a lot in his life before.”
“Ha! Mount!” exclaims Lord Middle Mile, with a hearty smack on his friend’s shoulders, “the very man I wanted to see,” and straightway he draws him aside, and plunges into an earnest conversation, in which, ever and anon, the whispered words—“Carry the weight,” “Stay the distance,” and “Stand a cracker on Sennacherib,” are distinctly audible.
“I can afford to lay your lordship seven to one,” observes an extra-polite individual, who seems to consider the laying and taking the odds as the normal condition of man, and whose superabundant courtesy is only equalled by the deliberate carefulness of his every movement, masking, as it does, the lightning perception of the hawk, and, shall we add, the insatiable rapacity of that bird of prey? Mount Helicon moves from one group to another, intent on the business in hand. He invests largely against “Nesselrode” (not the diplomatist nor the pudding, but the race-horse of that name), and backs “Sennacherib” heavily for the Goodwood Cup. He takes the odds to a hundred pounds, besides, from his polite friend, “who regrets he cannot offer him a point or two more,” and, on looking over the well-filled pages of his book, hugs himself with the self-satisfied feeling of a man who has done a good day’s work, and effected the crowning stroke to a flourishing speculation.
As he walks up the yard a quick step follows close upon him, a hand is laid upon his shoulder, and a well-known voice greets him in drawling tones, which he recognises as the property of our military Adonis, the irresistible Captain Lacquers. “Going to the Park, Mount?” says the hussar, with more animation than he usually betrays. “If you’ve a mind for a turn, I’ll send my cab away;” and the peer, who cultivates Lacquers, as he himself says, “for amusement, just as he goes to see Keeley,” replying in the affirmative, a tiny child, in top-boots and a cockade, is with difficulty woke, and dismissed, in company with a gigantic chestnut horse, towards his own stables. How that urchin, who, being deprived of his natural rest at night, constantly sleeps whilst driving by day, is to steer through the omnibuses in Piccadilly, is a matter of speculation for those who love “horrid accidents”; but it is fortunate that the magnificent animal knows his own way home, and will only stop once, at a door in Park Lane, where he is used to being pulled up, and where, we are concerned to add, his master has no business, although he is sufficiently welcome. “The fact is, I want to consult you, Mount, about a deuced ticklish affair,” proceeded the dandy, as he linked his arm in his companion’s, and wended his way leisurely towards the Park.
“Not going to call anybody out, are you?” rejoined Mount, with a quaint expression of countenance. “’Pon my soul, if you are, I’ll put you up with your back to a tree, or along a furrow, or get you shot somehow, and then no one will ever ask me to be a ‘friend’ again.”
“Worse than that,” replied Lacquers, looking very grave; “I’m in a regular fix—up a tree, by Jove. Fact is, I’m thinking of marrying—marrying, you know; devilish bad business, isn’t it?”
“Why, that depends,” said his confidant; “of course you’ll be a great loss, and all that; break so many hearts too; but then, think—the duty you owe your country. The breed of such men must not be allowed to become extinct. No; I should say you ought to make the sacrifice.”
Lacquers looked immensely comforted, and went on—“Well, I’ve made arrangements—that’s to say, I’ve ordered some of the things—dressing-case, set of phaeton-harness, large chest of cigars—but, of course, it’s no use getting everything till it’s all settled. Now, you know, Mount, I’m a deuced domestic fellow, likely to make a girl happy. I’m not one of your tearing dogs that require constant excitement; I could live in the country quite contentedly part of the year. I’ve got resources within myself—I’m fond of hunting and shooting and—no, I can’t stand fishing, but still, don’t you think I’m just the man to settle?”