NEWMARKET IN THE OLDEN TIME. 87 



had the charge of Lord Barrymore's string. It is told 

 of his eccentric lordship, that on one occasion he came 

 forth on to the pavement in front of his stables, and 

 collected a large crowd by roaring ' ' O yes ! O yes ! 

 O yes ! who wants to buy a horse that can walk five 

 miles an hour, trot eighteen, and gallop twenty ?" 

 and then discomforted a bidder by assuring him that 

 " when I see such a horse,! will be sure to let you 

 know," " Hell Fire Dick," so called from his mar- 

 vellous knack of getting horses on to their legs in 

 half-mile and quarter-mile matches, trained for " old 

 Gt" at Queensbury House, where the Prince had been 

 a constant dinner guest during the meetings. The 

 old ' { sallow leather " peer, with his three-cornered 

 hat (on which point Lord Clermont imitated him), 

 his sharp aquiline nose and keen sunken eye, was then, 

 both here and everywhere, owing to his extraordinary 

 carriage and cricket-ball matches, &c., an object of 

 the utmost interest; and he thought nothing of riding 

 his pony right up to the best windows in the High- 

 street, and ogling the fair maids and matrons within. 

 His character for acuteness may be seen from the 

 high place he holds in the following " Recipe to 

 make a Jockey/* which was handed about the coffee- 

 houses of that day : 



" Take a pestle and mortar of moderate size : 

 Into Queensbury's head put Bunbury's eyes : 

 Cut Dick Vernon's throat, and save all the blood ; 

 To answer your purpose, there's none half so good : 

 Pound Clermont to dust, you'll find it expedient; 

 The woi'ld cannot furnish a better ingredient : 

 From Derby and Bedford take plenty of spirit ; 

 Successful or not, they have always that merit : 

 Tommy Panton's address, John Wastell's advice, 

 And a touch of Prometheus 'tis done in a trice." 



Newmarket has undergone endless changes since all 

 these choice spirits exchanged minds on the Heath. 

 The mind of the venerable waiter, on whose head no 

 race-goer or villager could ever remember to have 

 seen a hat, and the ghosts of the chaises which rum- 

 bled that seventeen miles, year after year, past Bourne 



