They recollect the history of that short period
in which they have been ornaments of the world by the names of winning
horses. As political men talk about 'the Reform year,' 'the year the
Whigs went out,' and so forth, these young sporting bucks speak of
TARNATION'S year, or OPODELDOC'S year, or the year when CATAWAMPUS ran
second for the Chester Cup. They play at billiards in the morning,
they absorb pale ale for breakfast, and 'top up' with glasses of strong
waters. They read BELL'S LIFE (and a very pleasant paper too, with a
great deal of erudition in the answers to correspondents). They go down
to Tattersall's, and swagger in the Park, with their hands plunged in
the pockets of their paletots.
What strikes me especially in the outward demeanour of sporting youth
is their amazing gravity, their conciseness of speech, and careworn and
moody air. In the smoking-room at the 'Regent,' when Joe Millerson
will be setting the whole room in a roar with laughter, you hear young
Messrs. Spavin and Cockspur grumbling together in a corner. 'I'll take
your five-and-twenty to one about Brother to Bluenose,' whispers Spavin.
'Can't do it at the price,' Cockspur says, wagging his head ominously.
The betting-book is always present in the minds of those unfortunate
youngsters. I think I hate that work even more than the 'Peerage.' There
is some good in the latter--though, generally speaking, a vain record:
though De Mogyns is not descended from the giant Hogyn Mogyn; though
half the other genealogies are equally false and foolish; yet the
mottoes are good reading--some of them; and the book itself a sort of
gold-laced and livened lackey to History, and in so far serviceable.
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