THE LAST OF THE CHIFNEYS, 17/ 



Ben Marshall, the painter, and never could there have 

 heen a better Mentor. Marshall, at that time, was the 

 ^' Observator/' or Turf correspondent of the Sporting 

 Magazine, and g-ot through his reporting just as lie did 

 his painting, in the laziest way possible, only too happy 

 with some one to chat to. Time, alas ! has rubbed many 

 of his sharp telling- remarks from the slate of our memory ', 

 but ^' that, young gentleman, is the famous bettor, Mr. 

 Jem Bland; just behind him stands Gully; there's the. 

 General ; and here " — sinking his voice to something 

 really like a tone of respect, though no mortal had ever 

 much less reverence about him — '^ and here comes William 

 Chifae}'" — that spare, mild, gentlemanly-looking man, 

 with so little '^ horsey " in his appearance, who is leaving 

 the course as they clear it for the first race. There goes 

 old Guildford, with that wondrous string-halt of his ; 

 and "Now my lad, look here!" That lengthy, tallish 

 jockey, sitting so well home on the sweet little chesnut, 

 is Sam Chifney himself, and his horse is their own Row- 

 ton, a Leger winner in his time, and which they are now- 

 backing for the Oatlands. And, despite the neat Saddler 

 and the famous Lucetta, they win it too, and the Chif- 

 neys' horse becomes all the rage for the Cup. This was 

 in 1832, but two years subsequent to Priam's Derby, 

 when William trained, and Sam could only tell his name- 

 sake, Sam Day, how to ride, as Lord Cleveland would 

 not give him upj while but three seasons previous, on 

 this very course, Sam Chifney had won the Cup on their 

 Zinganee, or, rather, Lord Chesterfield's when he started 

 — against the finest field of old horses that ever were 

 saddled — with Mameluke, Cadland, the Colonel, and 

 Green Mantle amongst them. It was then that the 

 Chifneys were omnipotent, with the finest houses in New- 



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