34 A MIRROR OF THE TURF. 



By the time Northampton is reached, the 

 racing fraternity has been well shaken down, and 

 the new hands in betting and bookmaking have 

 got pretty well mixed up with the old. Acquaint- 

 ances and " pals " have met once again, and Bill 

 and Tom, and Dick and Harry, have shaken hands, 

 compared notes, and exchanged small talk. All 

 meet on the hail-fellow-well-met system. There is 

 no formality. Nomenclature among the majority of 

 racing-men seldom gets further than the Christian 

 name, and even that must be abridged. The 

 wealthiest bookmaker, no matter that he is able to 

 keep a carriage for " the missus," and half-a- 

 dozen gardeners to grow his grapes, and as many 

 grooms to attend to the horses of his children, is 

 only Ned, or Ted, or Jack, or Jim, to his fellows. 

 In these matters the turf is a sad leveller. I have 

 myself heard Mr. Dawson hailed as " Mat, old 

 man," by a turf loafer whose whole wardrobe 

 would scarcely fetch two half-crowns, and, " Well, 

 Johnny," has been addressed to Mr. Osborne by a 

 half-drunken cabman who fancied he was patronis- 

 ing that well-known horseman by addressing him 

 so familiarly. The late Mr. Merry of St. James's 

 Street, who was long connected with the turf, I 

 remember knocked down a very cheeky turf 

 vagabond, who had the impudence to address him 

 as "Sam" in the presence of some members of 

 his family. 



It is not my cue to follow the racing crowd 

 on tour, or to fill many of the following pages with 

 an account of what takes place at every place of 

 meeting. The seats of horse-racing are too 

 numerous to admit of their being so dealt with ; 

 all I desire to do at present, is simply to give a 



