rejoiced
that she was absent, for I had a degraded feeling like that of being the
favourite in a cudgel-bout. And the thought that her name was connected
with all this made my face twitch. I heard the people clapping and saw
them waving in the carriages as we passed, and some stood forward before
the rest in a haphazard way, without rhyme or reason. Mr. Walpole with
Lady Di Beauclerk, and Mr. Storer and Mr. Price and Colonel St. John,
and Lord and Lady Carlisle and Lady Ossory. These I recognized. Inside,
the railing along the row was lined with people. And there stood Pollux,
bridled, with a blanket thrown over his great back and chest, surrounded
still by the hunting-frocks, who had followed him from the White Horse.
Mixed in with these, swearing, conjecturing, and betting, were some to
surprise me, whose names were connected with every track in England: the
Duke of Grafton and my Lords Sandwich and March and Bolingbroke, and
Sir Charles Bunbury, and young Lords Derby and Foley, who, after
establishing separate names for folly on the tracks, went into
partnership. My Lord Baltimore descended listlessly from his cabriolet
to join the group. They all sang out when they caught sight of our
party, and greeted me with a zeal to carry me off my feet. And my Lord
Sandwich, having done me the honour to lay something very handsome upon
me, had his chief jockey on hand to give me some final advice. I believe
I was the coolest of any of them. And at that time of all others the
fact came up to me with irresistible humour that I, a young colonial
Whig, who had grown up to detest these people, should be rubbing noses
with them.

The duke put in an appearance five minutes before the hour, upon a bay
gelding, and attended by Lewis and Sir John Brooke, both mounted. As
a most particular evidence of the detestation in which Chartersea was
held, he could find nothing in common with such notorious rakes as March
and Sandwich. And it fell to me to champion these. After some discussion
between Fox and Captain Lewis, March was chosen umpire. His Lordship
took his post in the middle of the Row, drew forth an enamelled repeater
from his waistcoat, and mouthed out the conditions of the match,--the
terms, as he said, being private.

"Are you ready, Mr. Carvel?" he asked.

"I am, my Lord," I answered. The bells were pealing noon.

"Then mount, sir," said he.

The voices of the people dropped to a hum that brought to mind the long
forgotte