Once a Week (magazine)/Series 3/Volume 7/Mr. Golightly, Chapter 11

MR. GOLIGHTLY;

or,

MEMOIRS OF A CAMBRIDGE FRESHMAN.

THE duel which came to so fortunate and bloodless a conclusion in our last chapter, had at least the single merit of being fought on classic ground. That merry prince whom jolly Dick Steele talks of with so much gusto in his Spectator paper on “Pleasant Fellows,” visited the Heath times enough in his royal coach-and-six, and often cantered over the very spot afterwards made famous as the scene of our hero’s duel, while he watched the struggles of his match horses over the four miles and a quarter of the Beacon Course. And since his time, the royal example he set of “ being the first man at cock-matches, horse-races, balls, and plays,” has been emulated by many personages hardly less eminent than King Charles the Second, who all appear to have been as “ highly delighted on those occasions” with what they saw and did, as the Merry Monarch was himself. Although, since the days of our Prince, of pleasant memory, large tracts of land abutting on the Heath, that were waste lands in his time, have been put under cultivation, and now bear splendid crops of grain, Newmarket Heath itself is very little changed. Under the conservative influences of the Dukes of Rutland and the Jockey Club, the features of this matchless race course and training ground remain pretty much the same from generation to generation. An old and decayed post may occasionally be replaced by a new one, or a few pounds of white paint be laid on the railings near the Stands: but these changes are not great. There is, however, one alteration in the aspect of the Heath since the days of old, when first it became celebrated as a place of sport, which we must notice: whereas in King Charles’s time a dozen horses of his Majesty’s, and a few belonging to certain noblemen of the Court, were almost all the blood-stock of England; now, seven or eight hundred race-horses are trained at Newmarket; and as Mr. Golightly was driven along the level mile from what had lately been the scene of his hostile encounter with Mr. Chutney, he observed long strings of these animals at exercise, walking, doing steady canters, or galloping at top speed, in various parts of the Heath, and giving to it a very lively appearance. Our hero, whose spirits had risen very rapidly at the termination of his duel, and the speedy prospect of breakfast, remarked to his friend Mr. Pokyr, who held the ribands, and managed the steed that had brought them from Cambridge with his wonted skill, carefully nursing him for a spirit into the town to finish with—

“ Pokyr.”

“ Golightly.”

“ What are those horses? What numbers there are about!”

“ Long-tailed uns—race-horses said his friend.

“ What are they doing? What a pace they are going at! ” said our hero, with animation, pointing to a long team galloping on the lower ground to their left hand. “ They are racing, I believe,” he added, involuntarily rising on his legs in the dogcart, at imminent risk of a fall.

“ You’ll be spilt if you are not careful. Sit down—had you not better? ”

“ I am very fond of horses, Pokyr,” said Mr. Golightly, as he resumed his seat.

“ I should think you are—who is not? ” replied his friend, giving the horse he drove a cut with the whip.

“ Of all things, I should like to go over the stables,” observed Mr. Samuel, pursuing the subject.

“ Well, you can do that if you like, without much trouble, I dare say,” said Mr. Pokyr. “Now we’ll rattle into the Green Lion. Hold tight now, and see how I shall turn the corner.” And with that remark, he tooled the dogcart neatly round the corner.

After breakfast had been despatched, the subject of the stables was revived again.

“ Capital weeds Kitty keeps,” said Mr. Blaydes.

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Chutney; who, being subdued in spirit, strove to lose himself in his cigar.

“ I always like a cigar after breakfast,” said Mr. Calipee, “ but I never can smoke any but my own; and, unfortunately, I have left my case behind me. I must blame you, Golightly, for bringing me out so early."

Our hero smiled pleasantly, having quite forgiven his friends for their last practical joke, and rapidly recovering himself from its effects.

“ What in the world we are to do at Newmarket, if we stop," Mr. Calipee proceeded, “ I really don’t know."

“ Smoke, I suppose," said Pokyr.

“ But I have got no weeds with me," replied Calipee.

“ Shouldn’t be surprised if the Captain had got one or two of yours with him,” suggested Mr. Fitzfoodel, who hitherto had been occupied with his breakfast.

“ No, me dear sir, not at all," said Mr. O’Higgins, in self-defence; “ for I smoked me last on the way, and very foine seegyars they are."

“ Newmarket is the dullest place in the world, except in Meeting-weeks: is it not, Miss Farmer?” said Calipee, addressing the hostess, who looked very fresh and charming in her white and blue piqué morning gown.

“Newmarket dull! oh, Mr. Calipee, how can you say so?" replied the lively Kitty standing behind Mr. Calipee’s chair, and playfully patting his fat shoulder with her ring-bedizened hand. “ You don’t think we are dull, do you, Mr. Pokyr?"

Thus appealed to, what could that gentleman say but what he did?

“ What place could be dull where you are, Kitty?”

“ Don’t, pray don't begin to be facetious, Mr. Pokyr," replied the lady.

“ Never more serious in my life, you know that—so don’t pretend you don’t," said Mr. Pokyr. “ I want to introduce a particular friend of mine to you,” he continued.

“ Who is zat?” asked Kitty.

Mr. Samuel blushed slightly. He felt his time was coming.

“ Mr. Golightly, a prominent member of the Swelldom of my native county. Stand up, Golightly, and show Miss Farmer how tall you are. We are a fine race of fellows, are we not? This young gentleman’s brethren are all taller than he is."

“ Don't be silly, Mr. Pokyr. Glad to see you at Newmarket, Mr. Golightly. Golightly!—oh, yes, I know. There is a Mr. Golightly who comes sometimes. Is he your brother?"

“ Cousin,” said our hero. “ My cousin George.”

“ Ah, I know why you came!” said Kitty, holding up her finger archly. “ Too bad of them. Never mind, though; we’ll pay them out some day, won't we?”

And Mr. Samuel felt himself a personal friend of the fascinating Miss Farmer all in a moment.

“Well, Mr. Chutney, no mis’ief done. You must come and play at c’oquet on my ground in the summer, and help me in my garden, Mr. Golightly. Such a beautiful present from Mr. Blenkinsop, of St. Mary’s, ze other day”—going to the top of the little crooked flight of stairs. “ Eliza! bring up that new set of c’oquet things.”

“ There—are not they capital mallets? So kind, was it not?”

“ You must show Golightly all your presents, Kitty,” said Mr. Pokyr.

“ So I will, some day—some day when you and he ride over together.”

“ How are you getting on with your Latin, Miss Farmer?” asked Blaydes. “You know, you translated the ‘Nunquam Dormio’ on Bell's Life for me, the last time I was here.”

“Oh, jolly!—such fun—I like it. What are you men going to do?”

“ Golightly would like to see one of the stables.”

“ All right," replied their hostess. “ I’ll write a little note to Mrs. Lawson, and she will ask her husband to show you over the Lodge House lot. After all, it’s the best.”

Presently Kitty came back, to say it was all right; and Mr. Lawson would be ready for them, if they would walk up to the top of the town.

“ Well, I’ll go,” said Pokyr. “ Who else will come with us?”

Mr. Blaydes and Mr. Calipee expressed their willingness to be of the party; and, accordingly, it was arranged that those three gentlemen, with Mr. Samuel, should proceed to Lodge House together.

“Wait one minute,” said Kitty. “Sall you men stay to dinner, because we want to know if you do? We have got some very fine pheasants and a hare.”

“ Poached?” inquired Mr. Blaydes.

“Of course. My own particular private poacher brought them to me late one night  this week. I won’t say where they came from.”

“ Well, I suppose we may as well stay,” said Mr. Pokyr. “You order the dinner, Calipee, will you?”

The Indian gentleman having settled matters with Miss Farmer to his satisfaction, they were ready to start.

“Will you have any lunce? What time sall we say for dinner?”

“Oh, let us have dinner early,” said Pokyr.

“Earlyish, I vote—not too soon,” remarked Mr. Calipee, whose appetite required coaxing.

“ All right. I know. Early dinner—no lunce—glass of serry and a biscuit, or something of that sort. Oh, mamma,” said Kitty, speaking to a very nice old lady they met on their way out, “ the gentlemen will stay to dinner. You and cook will see about it for them. Good-bye,” she said, standing under the tree in front of the quaint, old-fashioned hostelry, and waving her hand after them as they walked down the road towards Lodge House.

“ What a very superior sort of person. Quite a lady in her manners,” was an observation made by our hero, having reference to Miss Farmer, of the Green Lion, a lady with whose charms many generations of undergraduates have been smitten.

“ Downy—very downy—knows it pays. However, it is a jolly place enough to go to,” said Mr. Pokyr.

“I like the old lady—old Mrs. Farmer; she’s a brick,” said Calipee.

“One peculiarity about Kitty Farmer I can’t make out,” said Blaydes. “ She never gets any older—always looks the same. Why, my uncle knew her when he was up at St. Mary’s, and he says she looked just the same then.”

“No doubt, lots of fellows’ uncles knew her,” said Pokyr.

The sun shone brightly on the tile roofs of the red brick houses, and the picturesque little town looked its best, as Mr. Golightly, escorted by his friends, walked through the main street. Mr. Pokyr pointed out to him the mansions of certain of the nobility who maintain an establishment at Newmarket, to receive them during the six weeks of attendance there, in the course of the sporting year; the coffee-rooms and Moss’s gambling saloons, where roulette and hazard were played nightly during the Meeting weeks, by the noblemen and gentlemen frequenting the place, for many years, quite openly, and without any interruption on the part of the police; but, quite lately, a stop has been put to these practices, from which nobody will suffer in pocket except those wealthy Israelites who keep the bank; though many gentlemen think it is a great shame that there has been any interference with their pursuits, and lose their tempers accordingly. A sort of exemption for Newmarket and Black Hambledon, in Yorkshire, was given by certain Acts of Parliament, in the matter of horse-races to be run at those places, and the stakes that should be contended for; and other concessions were made to these favoured spots. But it must be very many years since there were races of any note at Black Hambledon, though Newmarket maintains its ancient prestige. And it was a vague tradition among the Newmarket people, that they had a right, by royal charter, to gamble in the “ Meeting weeks,” though the strong arm of the law put down the tables in all other parts of England. Certainly, the practice was in favour of this assumption, as every little inn had its roulette table, if it chose to set one up; and hazard was openly played at several places besides the palatial edifices constructed for that special purpose by the Messrs. Moss.

Passing the police station, they saw their three friends, Constables 33, 57, and 99, who touched their hats with great respect to our hero and his friends as they walked by.

Mr. Calipee said he could not go by the Rutland without having a glass of dry sherry; so they walked into the bar, and refreshed themselves. Faintness was a failing of the Indian gentleman’s when taking walking exercise.

After going a couple of hundred yards farther, they arrived at Lodge House—a good residence, standing in a garden, very neatly kept, with the great square of stabling stretching at the back of it. Rapping at the door of the house, they were ushered into a large and well-appointed dining-room, where Mr. Lawson gave them sherry and biscuits before taking them over his establishment. The general elegance—we might almost say splendour—of the arrangements in the house of the trainer astonished our hero, who was not prepared to find so much luxury and refinement in the domestic affairs of a ci-devant jockey.

They found John Lawson a very good sort of fellow. He had a string of ninety horses under his charge—

“And they take up the most of my time, gentlemen.”

Lawson wore a suit of dark iron gray cloth, with a neatly folded white neckerchief, in which was stuck a small gold horse-shoe pin, scarcely perceptible at first sight. Mr. Golightly thought Lawson looked more like the Reverend Mr. Bingley, of Fuddleton, than like a professional trainer of racehorses.

“ Well, gentlemen—all ready?” asked Lawson, after passing his decanter of capital sherry round again.

Our four friends having signified their readiness to proceed, headed by Lawson, they walked round the house into the great yard, enclosed on three sides by long rows of well-built stables, and on the fourth opening on the portion of the Heath at the back of the town, extensively used as a training ground.

“ We will begin here, gentlemen,” said their guide, throwing open a door to his right

In this stable was a long row of stalls, occupied by about twenty animals, with thin legs and long tails, which looked very much alike in their clothing; but all of which—in their constitutions, habits, and propensities —were evidently well known to Lawson.

“ Don’t stand too near that little filly— kicks hard,” he said.

Walking up to another splendid animal— with a skin like satin, bright eye, sound legs, and good temper—Lawson pulled the cloths off.

“There, gentlemen—there’s one that’s what we call wound up: going to mn next week in a big handicap.”

“Will it win?” asked Mr. Samuel, quite delighted with the horses, and not knowing that trainers never give tips.

“ Don’t know, sir; might do—might not.”

“ What is his name?” inquired our hero.

“ Mare, sir,” said Lawson, with a slight smile. “ Her name’s Corisande. Belongs to the Duke of B——.”

In another stable they saw a Cesarewitch and a Derby winner. Stripping the latter, and giving him a friendly thump, which he acknowledged by frisking about in his loose box, Lawson said—

“ Now, gentlemen, you may do what you like with him. He’s more like a lamb than a horse—and always was.”

Accordingly, accepting this invitation, our hero and Mr. Calipee stepped into the box, and made friends with the celebrated horse who inhabited it.

Having gone the round of the establishment, from the “aged” division to the unruly yearlings just being “backed” and “broke,” our party tipped the head lad and the head lad’s deputy, and then wished Mr. Lawson good morning, and thanked him for his kindness in showing them round the Lodge House establishment. They walked quietly back to the Green Lion, meeting on their way several strings of horses coming from exercise on the Heath; and passing in the High-street the loiterers, grooms, jockeys, stable-lads, and touts, who are always to be seen hanging about. They then managed to while away the time until dinner was ready; and having done ample justice to that meal, started on the return journey, which was much more agreeable to two of the party than the ride over to the Heath in the morning. The Captain, not feeling very well, was relegated to Mr. Calipee and the waggonette, which started a few minutes in advance of the dogcarts, but was speedily passed by those vehicles of lighter draught. Under the able guidance of our friend, Mr. Pokyr, his division led the way, closely followed, however, by the dogcart driven by Mr. Blaydes. The waggonette overtook them at Bottisham, where they pulled up for a few minutes; but after that nothing more was seen of it. The two dogcarts drove into Cambridge in good style; and at the gate of St. Mary’s, the men from the livery stable were awaiting their return. Our party, having got down, crossed the quad, and following Mr. Pokyr’s lead, went with him to his rooms. Here, however, all was in darkness—neither fire nor lights awaited them.

“ Mrs. Cribb is tight, I expect,” said Mr. Pokyr, calmly; “and my rascal is out of the way.”

“ No candles—no liquor, apparently,” said Mr. Blaydes.

“ No,” replied his friend Pokyr, at the same time giving a loud and resonant “ Tally ho! Gone away— Rise, Porson, from thy grave, and halloo, ’Tis ovbδt reδs, euδs raλλῳ.’ However, we’ll find them. Come on, Golightly, your door is unsported.”

In our hero’s rooms, a singular scene presented itself. Mr. Sneek, who early in the day had smelt gunpowder, observed to Mr. George Golightly that he thought “ there was something up—perhaps gone to a pigeon match.”

Mr. George, however, let out a hint of the real state of affairs.

“ Cribb,” said Mr. Sneek to that personage in the gyp-room, “there's somethink hawful in the wind.”

“ John Sneek,” exclaimed the excitable bedmaker, “ in the name of Goodness, what—and no gammon?”

“ Mr. Samwell G’lightly is a fightin’ a dooel.”

“ A fightin' what?”

“ A dooel—he’ll never come back alive!”

“ Ha’ mercy on us! John Sneek, there’s a bottle of pale brandy in his cupboard, or I think I should faint.”

“ Which cupboard, Betsy?”

“ The right ’and one, as the tea an’ shuggar’s kep’ in.”

An hour afterwards, Mr. Sneek and Mrs. Cribb were seated before Mr. Golightly’s fire. There was not much of the pale brandy left; but there was some. This, however, was not in the bottle, but in two tumblers on the table. One Mr. Sneek called his, the other Mrs. Cribb called hers.

“ Which pistols and fire-arms I can’t a-bear, John Sneek.”

“ No more can’t I, Cribb.”

“ It was providential there was some brandy, or I-should-ha’-fainted—I know I should.”

“ I’m going up to Eustace Jones’s,” observed Mr. Sneek. “You’d better come. His bed aint made.”

“ I shall sit here a minnit, John Sneek. I hav’n’t got over the shock.”

“ I don’t think you have, Betsy,” the gyp remarked to himself; “ and they’ll be back soon.”

Half an hour after this, Mr. Sneek just looked in at his old acquaintance.

“ Come, Betsy, wake up,” he said, shaking the old lady soundly by the shoulder.

“ I-doe-care-f-no-b’y,” was Mrs. Cribb’s answer. “ Le’-me ’lone.”

“ All right—I’ll let you alone, Betsy—I will. P’raps you’ll be sent off—which you richly deserve, for this and other things— to say nothink of coals taken out of College every day in your basket; and then my poor wife, who’d be just the bedmaker for this staircase, might get the place, Betsy; so J. S.—meaning John Sneek —will let you alone, since you pertickler request it.”

But Betsy snored in innocence and unsuspicion.

“ Come on, let’s try your rooms, Golightly,” cried Mr. Pokyr, leading the way across the passage from his own rooms to those of his friend.

“ Hallo! all in the dark here? No, the fire’s not quite out. We’ll make it go. Shout for Sneek. Where is your Colza oil kept? We’ll put some on.”

“ In the gyp-room, I think,” said our hero, mildly.

“ Pass the lamp, then; let us have some out of that. Hal-lo! who’s this?” Mr. Pokyr said, as he stumbled over Mr. Golightly’s easy chair. “ Good gad! it’s Old mother Cribb asleep; or—— Damme! why, she’s as tight as a drum! Now, old lady,” he said, as he lifted Mrs. Cribb up in the chair, and set her on Mr. Samuel’s dining-table— “ now, old lady—come, wake up, and tell us all about it.”