Tired of reading? Add this page to your Bookmarks or Favorites and finish it later.
|
|
All through the Race-Week, Mr. Goodchild never divested himself of
this idea. Every day he looked out of window, with something of
the dread of Lemuel Gulliver looking down at men after he returned
home from the horse-country; and every day he saw the Lunatics,
horse-mad, betting-mad, drunken-mad, vice-mad, and the designing
Keepers always after them. The idea pervaded, like the second
colour in shot-silk, the whole of Mr. Goodchild's impressions.
They were much as follows:
Monday, mid-day. Races not to begin until to-morrow, but all the
mob-Lunatics out, crowding the pavements of the one main street of
pretty and pleasant Doncaster, crowding the road, particularly
crowding the outside of the Betting Rooms, whooping and shouting
loudly after all passing vehicles. Frightened lunatic horses
occasionally running away, with infinite clatter. All degrees of
men, from peers to paupers, betting incessantly. Keepers very
watchful, and taking all good chances. An awful family likeness
among the Keepers, to Mr. Palmer and Mr. Thurtell. With some
knowledge of expression and some acquaintance with heads (thus
writes Mr. Goodchild), I never have seen anywhere, so many
repetitions of one class of countenance and one character of head
(both evil) as in this street at this time. Cunning, covetousness,
secrecy, cold calculation, hard callousness and dire insensibility,
are the uniform Keeper characteristics. Mr. Palmer passes me five
times in five minutes, and, so I go down the street, the back of
Mr. Thurtell's skull is always going on before me.
|