On Wednesday morning, the morning of the great St.Leger, it becomes apparent that there has been a great influx since yesterday, both of Lunatics and Keepers.The families of the tradesmen over the way are no longer within human ken; their places know them no more; ten, fifteen, and twenty guinea-lodgers fill them.At the pastry-cook's second-floor window, a Keeper is brushing Mr.Thurtell's hair - thinking it his own.In the wax- chandler's attic, another Keeper is putting on Mr.Palmer's braces.In the gunsmith's nursery, a Lunatic is shaving himself.In the serious stationer's best sitting-room, three Lunatics are taking a combination- breakfast, praising the (cook's) devil, and drinking neat brandy in an atmosphere of last midnight's cigars.No family sanctuary is free from our Angelic messengers - we put up at the Angel - who in the guise of extra waiters for the grand Race-Week, rattle in and out of the most secret chambers of everybody's house, with dishes and tin covers, decanters, soda-water bottles, and glasses.An hour later.Down the street and up the street, as far as eyes can see and a good deal farther, there is a dense crowd; outside the Betting Rooms it is like a great struggle at a theatre door - in the days of theatres; or at the vestibule of the Spurgeon temple - in the days of Spurgeon.An hour later.Fusing into this crowd, and somehow getting through it, are all kinds of conveyances, and all kinds of foot-passengers; carts, with brick- makers and brick-makeresses jolting up and down on planks; drags, with the needful grooms behind, sitting cross- armed in the needful manner, and slanting themselves backward from the soles of their boots at the needful angle; postboys, in the shining hats and smart jackets of the olden time, when stokers were not; beautiful Yorkshire horses, gallantly driven by their own breeders and masters.Under every pole, and every shaft, and every horse, and every wheel as it would seem, the Gong-donkey - metallically braying, when not struggling for life, or whipped out of the way.
By one o'clock, all this stir has gone out of the streets, and there is no one left in them but Francis Goodchild.Francis Goodchild will not be left in them long; for, he too is on his way, 't'races.'
A most beautiful sight, Francis Goodchild finds 't'races' to be, when hehas left fair Doncaster behind him, and comes out on the free course, with its agreeable prospect, its quaint Red House oddly changing and turning as Francis turns, its green grass, and fresh heath.A free course and an easy one, where Francis can roll smoothly where he will, and can choose between the start, or the coming-in, or the turn behind the brow of the hill, or any out-of- the-way point where he lists to see the throbbing horses straining every nerve, and making the sympathetic earth throb as they come by.Francis much delights to be, not in the Grand Stand, but where he can see it, rising against the sky with its vast tiers of little white dots of faces, and its last high rows and corners of people, looking like pins stuck into an enormous pincushion - not quite so symmetrically as his orderly eye could wish, when people change or go away.When the race is nearly run out, it is as good as the race to him to see the flutter among the pins, and the change in them from dark to light, as hats are taken off and waved.Not less full of interest, the loud anticipation of the winner's name, the swelling, and the final, roar; then, the quick dropping of all the pins out of their places, the revelation of the shape of the bare pincushion, and the closing-in of the whole host of Lunatics and Keepers, in the rear of the three horses with bright-coloured riders, who have not yet quite subdued their gallop though the contest is over.
Mr.Goodchild would appear to have been by no means free from lunacy himself at 't'races,' though not of the prevalent kind.He is suspected by Mr.Idle to have fallen into a dreadful state concerning a pair of little lilac gloves and a little bonnet that he saw there.Mr.Idle asserts, that he did afterwards repeat at the Angel, with an appearance of being lunatically seized, some rhapsody to the following effect: 'O little lilac gloves! And O winning little bonnet, making in conjunction with her golden hair quite a Glory in the sunlight round the pretty head, why anything in the world but you and me! Why may not this day's running- of horses, to all the rest: of precious sands of life to me - be prolonged through an everlasting autumn-sunshine, without a sunset! Slave of the Lamp, or Ring, strike me yonder gallant equestrian Clerk of the Course, in the scarlet coat, motionless on the green grass for ages! Friendly Devil on Two Sticks, for ten times ten thousands years, keep Blink-Bonnyjibbing at the post, and let us have no start! Arab drums, powerful of old to summon Genii in the desert, sound of yourselves and raise a troop for me in the desert of my heart, which shall so enchant this dusty barouche (with a conspicuous excise-plate, resembling the Collector's door-plate at a turnpike), that I, within it, loving the little lilac gloves, the winning little bonnet, and the dear unknown-wearer with the golden hair, may wait by her side for ever, to see a Great St.Leger that shall never be run!'
