The truth is that the sporting world was then, as it always has been and always will be, thronged with the toadies who were ever ready to fool a moneyed youngster to the top of his bent. He must vie with the richer and the more experienced, though he ruin himself in the doing of it, and bring his ancestral acres to the hammer, in the manner of a Mytton or a Mellish. The only satisfaction these reckless sportsmen obtained, beyond the immediate gratification of their tastes, was the eulogy of the sporting scribes, who discussed their style upon the box-seat with as much gravity as would befit some question of empire. Excepting “Nimrod” and “Viator Junior,” whose essays on sport in general, and coaching in particular, were sound and honest criticism, these writers were venal and beneath contempt. A “real gentleman,” according to the ideas of these parasites, was one who flung away his money broadcast in tips. Many foolish fellows, foolish in thinking the good opinions of these gentry worth having, spent their substance in this way. Of this kind was the amateur whip described by a writer in the _Sporting Magazine_ in 1831. This aspirant for the goodwill of the stable-helpers and their sort sat beside the professional coachman on the Poole Mail starting from Piccadilly, and when the reins were handed to him proclaimed his gentility by the distribution of shillings among the horsekeepers. First “Nasty Bob,” the ostler, got a shilling for talking about the leaders’ “haction”; then “Greedy Dick,” the boots, had one also for handing him the “vip”; and then came “Sneaking Will,” the cad and coach-caller, to say something civil to the “gemman”; and even the neighbouring waterman was seduced from his hackney-coaches to try the persuasive powers of his eloquence. Four shillings and sixpence this “real gentleman” distributed at Hatchett’s door, and left the capital with the best wishes of the donees for his safe return. His generosity was not allowed a long respite, for at “that vile hole Brentford,” a slowly manœuvring waggoner blocked the way; and finding that he could by no other means be induced to allow the mail to pass, our amateur descended from the box, and, slyly placing a shilling in the waggoner’s hands, said in a loud voice, “I don’t stand any nonsense, you know, so now take your waggon out of the way.” This forcible and intelligible appeal, so properly accompanied, was perfectly irresistible: the waggon was drawn to the roadside, and the mail proceeded.