THE LIFE OF A JOCKEY,

WITH ANECDOTES OF THE TURF.

BY LORD WILLIAM LENNOX.

[Continued from page 244.]

CHAPTER IV.

"My native land-good night!"

BYRON.

TRIUMPHANT SUCCESS OF OUR HERO UPON THE TURF-HE VISITS HIS PARENTS" HOME SWEET HOME"-JERRY, A WELL KNOWN CHARACTER A CONTINENTAL TRIP-THE GHENT, BRUSSELS, AND BOULOGNE RACES-PARIS-A FRENCH MARCHAND DES CHEVAUX.

Our last chapter concluded with the triumph of our young hero, who with the odds at forty to one against him, carried off the

cup at ; beating a large field of horses, ridden by la crême of our jockeys. The filly Styles rode was a tearing, fidgetty animal, who, like a good many others of her own sex, biped as well as quadruped, would have her own way; and the jockey's orders had been to make severe running, and to give way when beat to the other horse that his noble master had declared to win with. "The mite" got a good start, and, instead of pulling and hauling at the filly's mouth, kept his hands steady, and let her go her own pace. So little did the other jockeys in the race anticipate the possibility of the light weight winning, that they took not the slightest notice of her; and it was not until half a mile from home, when one of them, an excellent judge of pace, caught a glimpse of the filly at the last turn, and exclaimed, "The young one beats us!" From this moment all were on the qui vivé; but despite of all their endeavours, backed by whip, spur, and the finest riding, not one could catch our young jockey. For a second the clattering of the crowd behind him had nearly thrown him off his equilibrium; but he instantly recovered, sat quiet, gave his horse a pull, then made his rush, and won cleverly. Like a great hero, Styles bore his blushing honours with modesty. He was taken into the stand, petted by noble sportsmen, received sundry "golden opinions" from those who had fortunately backed the filly, and was not only complimented by his noble master, but received a handsome present from him for his admirable riding. Fortune, like misfortune, seldom comes singly, and our hero's good genii hovered over him this day. In a sweepstakes of two hundred sovs. each, the jockey, a country one, who was to ride the second favourite, had indulged over night in a most sumptuous supper of roast ducks, and instead of "taking a walk" in the morning, had not been able to resist some other delicacies, in the shape of broiled bones and kidneys, and who

C C

thereby came to the scale four pounds above weight. In this dilemma the trainer thought of young Styles, and lost no time in urging his noble master to allow him to put him up. The consent was readily granted, and our hero doffed his master's colours, and decked himself out in those of his new employer. Despite of Styles's previous success, the odds went down from two to four to one against him; the betting men argued that it was partly chance, and the good start, that had made him win; others felt that Styles knew the filly, whereas the colt he was now to ride he never by possibility could have seen. Nothing disheartened, our jockey took his orders, and never did man or boy obey them better than he did. Upon this occasion he was to make a waiting race, and the patience he evinced was the admiration of every one; at the distance post an artful dodger of a jockey tried to "gammon him" (as the phrase, not a very elegant one, goes); but Styles was wary, and instead of hustling his horse, sat quietly till within a few yards of home, when by a mighty, or rather "mite-y" rush worthy of a Chifney, he brought his horse's head first opposite the winning post.

From this moment our hero's fortune as a jockey seemed to be made. He was eagerly engaged by some of the most distinguished members of the turf, as their first light-weight jockey; and following the example of an illustrious author, Sam Styles went to bed, and upon awaking found himself famous. For many years fortune (in this instance not a fickle jade) continued to shower her benefits upon the "mite," a soubriquet young Sam had attained from his diminutive size, and his first feeling was to revisit his parents. Obtaining leave of absence from his kind master for ten days, Master Styles took the box seat of the Portsmouth Rocket, for in the days we write of (as we have already remarked) horse-flesh had not given way to iron and steam. No sooner had the well turned-out coach pulled up at the George, than out ran the ex-ostler, as was his custom of an afternoon, to witness its arrival. For a minute he gazed on the youth upon the box: the features were familiar, and yet he did not at once recognise him as his son: and who that had seen that son take his departure, a thin, wan, woe-begone looking urchin, with a costume rather of the Monmouth-street order, would have known him in the sleek, well-fed, though not pampered, jockey, dressed in the perfection of neatness and simplicity-the well polished shoe, the admirably cut trousers with gaiter termini, the green and white handkerchief (his master's colours), the olive brown "cut away," and the Newmarket Chesterfield?

"Why, Sam?-no it an't-yes it is-who'd have thought it? Wife, wife, come and see," shouted the elder Styles, as he first ran to the door of the divan, and then back to the coach, where his son having descended from the box, was waiting with open arms to receive him. "How the boy's grown!" exclaimed the happy couple at once, "only to think, he's now a great jockey; but come, you're just in time for a nice bit of supper;" and away went our young hero, having behaved "quite like a gentleman to the coachman, guard, and porter," as was remarked by the former-mentioned personage, to the spot where first he had imbibed his taste for the turf, under the auspices of his most unworthy uncle. We pass over the screaming,

crying, yelling, that ensued, when Sam welcomed his numerous brothers and sisters; the Babel of tongues, the screams of joy and terror, gave one the idea of a North American war-whoop. After a time the juveniles were sent to their respective dormitories, and "the mite" recounted his adventures since he had left his paternal home. Mrs. Styles was a little overcome at her brother's conduct, and Styles congratulated himself that the sad example of the uncle had not contaminated his nephew. The glass went merrily round, and it was midnight before the parting cup was quaffed; during which period the ex-ostler, after drinking the usual loyal toasts, proceeded to give a variety of others, coupling them with the old-fashioned sentiments of by-gone days-" Absent friends, and may the wing of sensibility never moult a feather"-" The road-wheel against rail, and may horseflesh never give way to boiling water"-" The turf and its patrons, and may they ever bear in mind that honesty's the best policy."" The last toast was drunk with the honours, nine times nine and one cheer more; it was the health of our hero, wishing him health and happiness, and success in his honest undertakings. At the end of the ten days, young Styles took leave of his parents, who loaded him with presents, and he returned to his master's stables. Bath races were shortly to take place, and it was at this meeting that our hero first became acquainted with a very well-known character. "Ah, my lord! happy to see you; I hope my lady and all the young'uns are well," exclaimed an individual, decked out in an admiral's uniform, a cocked hat, and a pair of "ducks" that, from their colour, looked, as the Irishman said, " as if they wanted a swim." To complete the costume, the eccentric sported a hugh eyeglass, and had neither shoes nor stockings upon his feet. "Pick up those coppers, boys," said he to some ragged urchins who were gaping at his fantastic tricks; "I never take anything under gold or silver. Buy a card, my lord? Shocking times, all along, with the government; they wanted me to stand for the borough of but I would not have it."

Sam Styles gazed with wonder at this extraordinary character, who seemed upon familiar terms with many of high degree, and who wandered from carriage to carriage making very often pertinent, and occasionally, it must be admitted, impertinent remarks to the inmates of them. Who Jerry is (for our readers will have already recognised that hero), none can tell. Where he domiciles during the winter, no one can say; that he reaps a good harvest from the sporting public during the racing season, there can be no doubt; and if we are to judge of his general conduct by one act, which we can vouch for, he knows how to make a good use of his means. It happened to a very particular friend of ours to receive, during the Doncaster races, the account of the serious illness of one of his dearest friends; he lost no time in leaving the course, and, upon reaching the town, sought everywhere to get a conveyance to carry him the first stage out of the town on the road to the place where his dying friend was sojourning. But not a vehicle was to be had, for love or money, as the saying is. It was the St. Leger day, and thousands had changed owners; my friend was walking up and down

the High-street, with a care-worn countenance, anxiously hoping that some conveyance would turn up, when he was accosted by Jerry. "Dont talk to me now," said my friend, "I am not in sufficient spirits."

Hope you have not lost your money," responded the other, evidently seeing by his woe-begone visage that something had gone very

wrong.

"Oh no, Jerry! nothing of that sort:" and turning away, my friend evinced every feeling of grief.

From this moment, Jerry's manner changed, and coming up respectfully, put his hand into his inner pocket, brought out a ten pound note. "If," he said, "you are in any difficulty to get away, and this can be of any service, pray accept it as a loan; you can take your own time to repay me; perhaps things may turn out better than you expect."

"Thank you, Jerry," said my friend, surprised at this generous action; "I have not made a single bet: my grief is at the sudden illness of a friend; I am sadly disappointed at not being able to get a conveyance from the town."

"Will you allow me to try?" responded the other.

"I shall be most grateful," replied my friend.

What Jerry's powers of persuasion were, I know not, but in less than an hour he returned with a one-horse chaise, and as clever a cob in it as ever put feet to ground. "The boy will go with you," said Jerry, "to bring it back. and a quarter." My friend was all gratitude, and, taking out a sovereign, asked for a return list. "I don't happen to have one," said Jerry, smiling and refusing the money. "I wish you a safe journey, and hope you will find your friend better."

You will do the twelve miles in an hour

Alas! this was never realized; my friend only arrived a few hours after the death of one who was beloved by all, and by none more than by the writer of this anecdote. May Jerry prosper! is my wish. How few there are among the heartless throng that attend the racecourse, that would offer ten pounds to one he thought a bankrupt-a levanter, for so Jerry fancied my friend to be, when he saw his miserable and care-worn appearance!

It was during the summer of this year that our young hero received a pressing application to make a racing tour abroad, for the purpose of surprising the natives of Brussels, Boulogne, and Paris, and shewing them how light weights ought to ride. As Styles's noble master had been peculiarly unfortunate both with his two and three year olds this season, he cheerfully gave his consent, and with three months' leave of absence the young jockey left the Tower stairs to proceed to Antwerp, from thence to Brussels, where the races were to take place early in August. The nobleman, a foreigner of distinction, who had applied to his friend Lord for the loan of his light

weight, was one of the greatest supporters of the continental turf; and no sooner had our hero reached "Belgium's capital" than he found his patron at that most excellent hotellerie the Bellevue, in the Place Royale. The Ghent meeting was to take place the following day, and early that morning Styles took his seat in the rumble of the Baron's travelling chariot, and proceeded to the station; then, per railway

to Ghent. It was a miserable, cold, raw day; and as our hero was only to be an amateur upon this occasion, he kept himself safely ensconced under the head of the rumble, well clothed in a Chesterfield wrapper. Here the young jockey contrasted the scene before him with that of the last meeting he had attended in his own native land. Amidst a Babel-like confusion of tongues, and a heterogeneous assemblage of persons of high and low degree, some half dozen "terrible high-bred cattle" contended for a plate of fifty Louis. The pace was awfully slow, the legs and arms of the jockeys moved about like a Semaphore telegraph, and the winner was ridden by a regular yahoo, in a fustian jacket and trousers, a pipe in his mouth, and a red cotton cap about his brows. It was quite a transatlantic exhibition, a regular genuine Kentucky affair. Next followed a match, gentlemen riders, between Mr. Spalding's "Dare-devil," by Sultan (owner), and Mr. G. Lousada's Myrtle, by Zinganee (Captain Cosby). In a former match in deep ground the horse had won; but as on this occasion the course was lighter, the mare pulled through by a head. Nothing but the fine riding of Captain Cosby could have got her head in first; but Cosby is a right good sportsman, and firstrate jockey. Few on the race-course or across the country can beat him, and we trust ere long to see the gallant owner of Pussy, winner of the Oaks, in his old form at Goodwood, Epsom, and Ascot. Mr. Spalding, too, considering his length, is a very good gentlemanjockey, and gained great laurels at the Belgian Meetings. Return we to Brussels, where the races were to come off on the 22nd of July; and upon that day Styles found himself on the race-course, safely booked for a front seat in his noble master's phaeton, looking on with the very greatest unconcern at the pelting, pitiless storm, which, to use a common-place expression, came down "cats and dogs." The course was all swamp, mud, and bog; and some four or five recently imported steeds from England ran (if running it could be called!) for a plate of fifty Louis, which was carried off by a horse belonging to the Vervier Society, a sort of joint-stock Belgian racing company. Then came other races, in which horses bolted, jockeys were thrown, and the whole affair little better than the one at Ditchley, in which our young hero first became initiated into the mysteries of the turf. The second day was fine, and young Styles-decked out in the Baron's colours, pink and white stripe-appeared on a well-bred, clever, English three-year-old; it was any odds upon our hero. An "artful dodge" was tried by a Belgian horse-dealing black-leg, which nearly succeeded. At starting, the three-year-old, being rather fidgetty, did not like to face the crowd near the starting-post; upon which the "dodger" rushed forward, and, in broken English, declared himself to be a friend of the baron's, by whom he was authorized to lead the horse to the post. Our hero-we blush to say, angry at his interference-anathematized the intruder in no very measured terms, and sent him to a place

"Oh no we cannot mention it,
At least to ears polite."

The clerk of the course was now getting impatient, and the brave Belge, nothing daunted at the rebuff he had received, patted Styles's