And now gentlemen, who heretofore have shown no more of the jockey than Cinderella’s feet in the early part of the pantomime disclose of her ball attire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and bearskin wraps, and shawls and overcoats of winter, and shine forth in all the silken flutter of summer heat.
We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentlemen playing at jockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but playing at jockeys is infinitely worse -- above all, playing at steeplechase jockeys, combining, as they generally do, all the worst features of the hunting field and racecourse -- unsympathising boots and breeches, dirty jackets that never fit, and caps that won’t keep on. What a farce to see the great bulky fellows go to scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if to illustrate the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding-plate!
But the weighed in ones are mounting. See, there’s Jack Spraggon getting a hoist on to Daddy Longlegs! Did ever mortal see such a man for a jockey? He has cut off the laps of a stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a great backgammon-board. He has got his head into an old gold-banded military foraging- cap, which comes down almost on to the rims of his great tortoiseshell spectacles. Lord Scamperdale stands with his hand on the horse’s mane, talking earnestly to Jack, doubtless giving him his final instructions. Other jockeys emerge from various parts of the farm-buildings; some out of stables; some out of cow- houses; others from beneath cart-sheds. The scene becomes enlivened with the varied colours of the riders -- red, yellow, green, blue, violet, and stripes without end. Then comes the usual difficulty of identifying the parties, many of whose mothers wouldn’t know them.
‘That’s Captain Tongs,’ observes Miss Simperley, ‘in the blue. I remember dancing with him at Bath, and he did nothing but talk about steeplechasing.’
‘And who’s that in yellow?’ asks Miss Hardy.
‘That’s Captain Gander,’ replies the gentleman on her left.
‘Well, I think he’ll win,’ replies the lady.
‘I’ll bet you a pair of gloves he doesn’t,’ snaps Miss Moore, who fancies Captain Pusher, in the pink.
‘What a squat little jockey!’ exclaims Miss Hamilton, as a little dumpling of a man in Lincoln green is led past the stand on a fine bay horse, someone recognising the rider as our old friend Caingey Thornton.
‘And look who comes here?’ whispers Miss Jawleyford to her sister, as Mr Sponge, having accomplished a mount without derangement of temper, rides Hercules quietly past the stand, his whip-hand resting on his thigh, and his head turned to his fair companion on the white.
‘Oh, the wretch!’ sneers Miss Amelia and the fair sisters look at Lucy and then at him with the utmost disgust.
Mr Sponge may now be doubled up by half a dozen falls ere either of them would suggest the propriety of having him bled.
Lucy’s cheeks are rather blanched with the ‘pale cast of thought,’ for she is not sufficiently initiated in the mysteries of steeplechasing to know that it is often quite as good for a man to lose as to win, which it had just been quietly arranged between Sponge and Buckram should be the case on this occasion, Buckram having got uncommonly ‘well on’ to the losing tune. Perhaps, however, Lucy was thinking of the peril, not the profit of the thing.
The young ladies on the stand eye her with mingled feelings of pity and disdain, while the elderly ones shake their heads, call her a bold hussy -- declare she’s not so pretty -- adding that they ‘wouldn’t have come if they’d known,’ &c., &c.