Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/689

680 the posts, discussing prices and “osses.” Jacky, the ostler, is delicately chaffed as he leads out a refractory grey through the archway, and recommended to take an inside place, with various other scraps of Joe Miller left by him in the country.

As Jacky waxes wrath, a policeman approaches to receive the same fate; but the man in blue is too dignified to heed farm-yokels, and leaves them to their merriment. “Aunt Sallies” and “niggers” were unaccountably absent, but only to give the fair a more old-world look still. As mid-day approached, the fun waxed fast and furious; and as red, honest country-faces grew redder, and grey calculating eyes more twinkling, it is but natural to conjecture all were enjoying themselves, and determined (as all pleasure-seekers should be) to put the best face on every mishap. Perhaps it is hard for the educated mind to enter into the delights of all this; but, at all events, it is worth noting how simply an Englishman may be amused whore a Frenchman would find it triste to the last degree.

We must plead guilty ourselves to a pardonable interest in the next amusement we encountered.

A broken-down individual, eccentric about the knees, and dilapidated in his nether man, whose hat was quite in character, having but indistinct notions of propriety, and very oblivious as to who had, many long years ago, been its manufacturer, was carrying about a board inscribed—

The hands did not convey much lucid information as to the direction in which these horses were to be found—whatever they might be; but we followed the man till he disappeared in an inn-yard, sign of the Golden Dolphin. In the hubbub of farmers, horsy-men, ostlers, et id genus omne, we plunged bravely, and emerged in an open space surrounded by a forest of top boots and bronzed faces. A few farmers were assisting a dapper gentleman, with a rattan in his hand, to the top of a beer-barrel, and the truth then flashed upon us,—Mr. Johnson’s horses were to be brought to the hammer.

As Lincolnshire is a great horse county (is not Horncastle there?) and as my Lord Yarborough’s hounds run straight enough to try the best fencers, we were very glad to ooze out of the ring to a position close to a vacant stable, and watch the animals trotted out. It is always advisable, whether in war or love, or a horse-sale, to secure an opening for retreat, as in this latter case young animals often show their heels rather recklessly to their admirers, when the latter only wish to inspect their teeth. We will linger here a moment.

“John,” says the dapper man from his barrel, “bring out the first lot. Now, gentlemen, this is a bonâ fide sale of Mr. Johnson’s celebrated animals. No need for me to praise them, those who have ridden in the first flight last season, and only they, know what their strength and endurance is. Real blood-horses these, gentlemen—bred by so-and-so—out of so-and-so—from the Rocket—dam, the Flash-in-the-pan,” &c. &c.

“Lot No. 1. The Perfect Cure—a beautiful bay—perfect condition—sound in wind and limb—goes any pace—from a cocktail to an Arab courser,” &c. &c.: “what shall I say for this valuable horse?”

The ostler trotted out the animal, and ran him up and down the yard with a beautiful disregard of the clustering buyers. This horse was a fine, prancing animal, rather too “leggy” for our mind, but seemingly in perfect condition; and, after sundry deprecatory sentences on the part of the auctioneer to the effect that “he was sacrificing him,” and many artifices usual with the fraternity of the hammer to produce eager competition, was duly “given away” at thirty-five guineas.

The same thing went on with the rest of the string of horses, some clearing a space round themselves very speedily, much as Cruiser at the Alhambra taught people to keep a respectful distance. Some were grey, others chestnut—about the only appreciable difference, a stranger might think, to hear the catalogue of the good qualities of these “fine animals.” The whole proceeding, however, to the cognoscenti was evidently absorbing in its interest, beyond a transient smile when the auctioneer unluckily asked Mr. Johnson the age of “this animal,” and received in return a very knowing wink to make him hold his tongue, their countenances were grave and impassive. It is an awful moment to a British farmer when an appeal is being made to his breeches pocket. We must confess that an old cart-horse and foal, which were sold after the blood-horses, possessed the greatest attractions to our artistic eyes. Treated with the most perfect indifference by the majority of farmers (even the younger ones, who had playfully touched up the nags as they passed, considering this group beneath their notice), it was interesting to see the mare’s solicitude for the little one, and how utterly, like all mothers, she lost her own anxiety at the crowd and noise in care for the foal. We never before appreciated fully Mr. Ruskin’s remarks on the dignity and beauty of such rough common-place animals as cart-horses.

Once more the farmers hustled about and craned over each other’s shoulders to look at a wonderful specimen of a hunter which was put up to sale last. Without warranty, of no definite age, with a suspicious lameness, and timid, lack-lustre eye, the brute, which had evidently mistaken its vocation as a hunter, was led up and down amidst the jeers of the knowing ones,—and who is not knowing when a horse is in question? Bids were few and far between, and we may state, for the edification of those who have missed the chance of buying so splendid a fencer, that he was bought in for six guineas! Most people probably deemed him “a screw;” and to our eyes he seemed just