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.
Monday evening.Town lighted up;more Lunatics out than ever;a complete choke and stoppage of the thoroughfare outside the Betting Rooms.Keepers,having dined,pervade the Betting Rooms,and sharply snap at the moneyed Lunatics.Some Keepers flushed with drink,and some not,but all close and calculating.A vague echoing roar of 't'harses'and 't'races'always rising in the air,until midnight,at about which period it dies away in occasional drunken songs and straggling yells.But,all night,some unmannerly drinking-house in the neighbourhood opens its mouth at intervals and spits out a man too drunk to be retained:who thereupon makes what uproarious protest may be left in him,and either falls asleep where he tumbles,or is carried off in custody.
Tuesday morning,at daybreak.A sudden rising,as it were out of the earth,of all the obscene creatures,who sell 'correct cards of the races.'They may have been coiled in corners,or sleeping on door-steps,and,having all passed the night under the same set of circumstances,may all want to circulate their blood at the same time;but,however that may be,they spring into existence all at once and together,as though a new Cadmus had sown a race-horse's teeth.There is nobody up,to buy the cards;but,the cards are madly cried.There is no patronage to quarrel for;but,they madly quarrel and fight.Conspicuous among these hyaenas,as breakfast-time discloses,is a fearful creature in the general semblance of a man:shaken off his next-to-no legs by drink and devilry,bare-headed and bare-footed,with a great shock of hair like a horrible broom,and nothing on him but a ragged pair of trousers and a pink glazed-calico coat -made on him -so very tight that it is as evident that he could never take it off,as that he never does.
This hideous apparition,inconceivably drunk,has a terrible power of making a gong-like imitation of the braying of an ass:which feat requires that he should lay his right jaw in his begrimed right paw,double himself up,and shake his bray out of himself,with much staggering on his next-to-no legs,and much twirling of his horrible broom,as if it were a mop.From the present minute,when he comes in sight holding up his cards to the windows,and hoarsely proposing purchase to My Lord,Your Excellency,Colonel,the Noble Captain,and Your Honourable Worship -from the present minute until the Grand Race-Week is finished,at all hours of the morning,evening,day,and night,shall the town reverberate,at capricious intervals,to the brays of this frightful animal the Gong-donkey.
No very great racing to-day,so no very great amount of vehicles:though there is a good sprinkling,too:from farmers'carts and gigs,to carriages with post-horses and to fours-in-hand,mostly coming by the road from York,and passing on straight through the main street to the Course.A walk in the wrong direction may be a better thing for Mr.Goodchild to-day than the Course,so he walks in the wrong direction.Everybody gone to the races.Only children in the street.Grand Alliance Circus deserted;not one Star-Rider left;omnibus which forms the Pay-Place,having on separate panels Pay here for the Boxes,Pay here for the Pit,Pay here for the Gallery,hove down in a corner and locked up;nobody near the tent but the man on his knees on the grass,who is making the paper balloons for the Star young gentlemen to jump through to-night.A pleasant road,pleasantly wooded.No labourers working in the fields;all gone 't'races.'The few late wenders of their way 't'races,'who are yet left driving on the road,stare in amazement at the recluse who is not going 't'races.'Roadside innkeeper has gone 't'races.'Turnpike-man has gone 't'races.'
His thrifty wife,washing clothes at the toll-house door,is going 't'races'to-morrow.Perhaps there may be no one left to take the toll to-morrow;who knows?Though assuredly that would be neither turnpike-like nor Yorkshire-like.The very wind and dust seem to be hurrying 't'races,'as they briskly pass the only wayfarer on the road.In the distance,the Railway Engine,waiting at the town-end,shrieks despairingly.Nothing but the difficulty of getting off the Line,restrains that Engine from going 't'races,'too,it is very clear.
At night,more Lunatics out than last night -and more Keepers.
The latter very active at the Betting Rooms,the street in front of which is now impassable.Mr.Palmer as before.Mr.Thurtell as before.Roar and uproar as before.Gradual subsidence as before.
Unmannerly drinking-house expectorates as before.Drunken negro-melodists,Gong-donkey,and correct cards,in the night.