And now gentlemen, who heretofore have shown no more of the jockey than
Cinderella's feet in the early part of the pantomime disclose of her ball
attire, suddenly cast off the pea-jackets and bearskin wraps, and shawls
and overcoats of winter, and shine forth in all the silken flutter of
summer heat.
We know of no more humiliating sight than misshapen gentlemen playing at
jockeys. Playing at soldiers is bad enough, but playing at jockeys is
infinitely worse--above all, playing at steeple-chase jockeys, combining,
as they generally do, all the worst features of the hunting-field and
racecourse--unsympathizing boots and breeches, dirty jackets that never
fit, and caps that won't keep on. What a farce to see the great bulky
fellows go to scale with their saddles strapped to their backs, as if to
illustrate the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding
plate!
But the weighed-in ones are mounting. See, there's Jack Spraggon getting a
hoist on to Daddy Longlegs! Did ever mortal see such a man for a jockey? He
has cut off the laps of a stunner tartan jacket, and looks like a great
backgammon-board.
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