north. "If now your 'Spirit in the Clouds,' your merry unknown, he that sometimes shoots off his witty arrows at the same target with ourselves, should archly suspect that old Tom Whipcord was not upon the turf, I would venture a cool hundred against the field, that we should have a report from him, 'ready cut and dried, and quite as full of fun and whim as if you had been present yourself, Master Bernard, aided and assisted by our ally, Tom Whipcord of Oxford." "Heaven forgive you, Blackmantle, for the sins you have laid upon that old man's back! You are not content with working him hard in the 'Annals' every month, but you must make him mount the box of some of the short stages, and drive over the rough roads of the metropolis, where he is in danger of having his wheel locked, or meeting with a regular upset at every turn." Though Bob has given sufficient proofs of his spirit in danger, I certainly never suspected him to be possessed of the spirit of divination, and yet his prophetic address had scarcely concluded before Boots announced a parcel for Bernard Blackmantle, Esq. forwarded from London, per favour of Mr. Williams. And, Heaven preserve me from the charge of imposing upon my reader's credulity! but, as I live, it was his very hand-another sketch by my attendant sprite, "the Spirit in the Clouds," and to the very tune of Transit's anticipations, and my wishes. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE ΤΟ BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ., BEING A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF DONCASTER RACES, THE GREAT ST. LEGER, HORSES, AND CHARACTERS, IN 1825. "All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task Prospero. Why, that's my spirit! "Good morrow to my worthy masters; and a merry Christmas to you all!" 'Mendici, mimi, balatrones." THE BELLMAN. HOR. "Mimics, beggars, and characters of all sorts and sizes." MY GOOD MR. SPY, FREE TRANSLATION. WILL you not exclaim, Mercy upon us! here is a text and title as long and as voluminous as a modern publication, or the sermon of the fox-hunting parson, who, when compelled to 1 See last number of the Spy, Part XXI. p. 273. preach on a saint's day, mounted the pulpit in his sporting toggery, using his gown as "a cloak of maliciousness?" But have patience, sweet Spy; be kindly-minded, dear Bernard: like John of Magna Charta memory, "I have a thing to say;" and do now be a good attentive Hubert to hear me out. Indeed, since you have inspirited, if not inspired me, by the "immortal honour" of dubbing me your associate," I were wanting in common gratitude not to attempt, by the return of moon, for I believe that luminary, like your numbers, comes out new every fourth week, to convey to you the swellings-over of my gratitude for the kind and fine things you have been pleased to cheer me with; although even yet, though the time will come, I can neither withdraw my vizor, nor disclose my "family cognomen." It was true, and joy it was 'twas true, that we were at rowings, sailings, feastings, and dancings together, but how comes it we were not at the great racings together? that neither you, nor your ministers, they who, correspondent to command, Perform thy spiriting gently were at the grand muster of the North, the Doncaster meeting? Bernard, I tell thee all the world was there; from royalty and loyalty down to the dustman and democracy. Then such "sayings and doings," a million of hooks could hardly have had an eye to all. You have read of the confusion of tongues, of "Babel broke loose," of the crusaders' contributory encampment peopled by dozens of nations; you have seen the inside of a patent theatre on the first night of a Christmas pantomime, or mingled in an Operahouse masquerade; have listened to a Covent-garden squabble, a Billingsgate commotion, or a watch-house row; but in the whole course of your life, varied as it has been, active as it has proved, you never have, never could have experienced any thing at all to eclipse or even to equal the "hey, fellow, well met" congregatory musters, and the "beautiful and elegant confusions" of Doncaster town in the race week of (September) eighteen hundred and twenty-five! 66 I am not, however, about to inflict upon you a "list of the horses," nor the names, weights, and colours of the riders;" but I cannot help thinking that the ENGLISH SPY will not have quite completed his admirable gallery of portraits, and his unique museum of curiosities for the benefit and delight of posterity, if he omit placing in their already splendid precincts two or three heads and sketches, which the genius of notoriety is ready to contribute as her own, and which to pass over would be as grievous to miss, as Mrs. Waylett's breeches,2 characters at the Haymarket Theatre, or a solution of Euclid by one of Dr. Birkbeck's "operatives." Allow me, then, who am not indeed "without vanity," once more to "stand by your side," or rather for you, and to attempt, albeit I have not your magic pencil, another taste of my quality, by dashing off con amore the lions of the North. As, however, some that attend my sitting are quite as difficult to manage as the conspirators of Prospero's 2 There frequently occur circumstances in a younker's life which he never, in all his after career, forgets. I remember a very worthy and a very handsome old gentlewoman, the wife of an eminent physician, once being exceedingly wroth, it was almost the only time I ever knew her seriously angry, because a nephew of hers asserted all women were, what in the vulgate is called "knock-knee'd," and almost threatened to prove the contrary. Had she lived in our days, the truth, almost on any evening on our stage, might be ascertained, and I fear not at all to the satisfaction of the defender of her sex's shape. Nature never intended women to wear the breeches, and the invention of petticoats was the triumph of art. Why will Eve's daughters publicly convince us they are not from top to toe perfect? |