The Late George Fordham.

Evening Star, Issue 7414, 9 January 1888, Page 4

The Late George Fordham.

[By " Rai>ii:r," in' the ' Si'Ortinu and DItAMATIO.'] The sail news of poor George Fordham's death reaches us as we are going to press. We perhaps cannot do better than reprint the following " chat" with him, seeing that it contains muoh of the story of his life as taken down from his own lips : The homes of those few jockeys whom I have known have been in distinctly horsey neighborhoods. In stables near to the house the animals have rested whose names are household words in many households, together with the youngsters who "maybe anything," in trainers' phraseology. Past the windows strings of sheeted and hooded thoroughbreds have been accustomed to walk ; and as their hoofs sounded on the road my host and I have gone to the window and discussed the prospects of the bay mare, wondered whether the chestnut would win next week, and criticised the make and shape of the youngsters. George Fordham's residence in a Brighton street, a corner house overlooking Norfolk Square, is so unlike the conventional home of a jockey that I pause for a moment on the doorstep, look at the butcher's pony trotting past, and at the broken-kneed fly horse that stands asleep with drooping head close by, before I knock ; but my question, " Is Mr Fordham in ?" is answered by the maid with a ready " Yes, sir " ; and she leads the way to the dining-rooin, where I find the great George—great, not in stature certainly, but in skill and the best qualities of the professional horseman—struggling to undo a long thin roll of brown paper. When we have shaken hands, and I have congratulated him on the healthy color of his face and the clearness of his eye for thousands _of readers will be glad to hear he is looking much better than he looked at Newmarket last week—l tell him what the roll contains: his portrait, which we open between us and inspect. " That's the last of you. I wonder where the first is, for there have been a good many at different times," I say.—"l can show yon the first," he answers, with a smile. " There it is !" and he points to the photograph of a picture which hangs by the side of the <?lass over the fireplace. It represents a very small boy on a horse, which seems monstrous by comparison, and beneath is written : " George Fordham's First Winning Mount. Lowest weight, four stone. ' Hampton,' Brighton, 1851." " Yes ! that was the first, and that's the the second," and he showed me a prancing steed with an enormous chest —the artist's earnest endeavor to make a likenesß can scarcely have been successful—which is described as "Little David."

"I won the Cambridgshire on bim in 1858. He was a good horse—won easy by many a length from a big field, thirty-nine starters, and then ran away with me right through the town. I couldn't stop him !" " But you must have been a good boy in those days ; and I'm afraid we've not got many good youngsters training on now. What do you think about the boys to-day ?' : I ask.—" Well, of course the young 'uns lose their heads when it comes to the finish, but so do the old old ones too, very often. They begin too soon nowadays. They get to be jockeys all at once—l mean they are put up to ride a horse, and he carries them home, and then they don't win when it comes to real racing, and you hear about their "bad luck." It isn't bad luck, it's because they don't know how to ride—haven't learnt. I didn't become a jockey all at onee, I can tell you ; and in my yoHng days we used to ride heats, which was good praotioe. There's a Bible and Testament given mo for riding Ivittie David," and Fordham took the volumes out of a bookshelf; " that and a Rold.mounted whip with ' Honesty is the best policy' on it, That's what was given me for winning. Still, there are the Woodburna, and there's a boy named Goodwav, who are getting on ; and little Martin "again, he's very useful. When I came back aftei< I'd been ill and couldn't ride for two years, I found a new lot, and I said to Custanpe ' I don't know any of these boys, Cus,' 'Ah, but they'll very soon know you, George!' he said, " He's ft rum one, is Custance, you know. "' " I suppose they want patieuoe, chiefly ?" I remarked.—" That's it. They whip a horse a mile from home. Sometimes as we've been going in a race, I've seen them begin, and I've said to them • How the deuce do you expeot tp get home, if you're whipping him now ?"' "And, of course, it spoils horses, young ones especially," I continue.—" Yes; It's no use knocking the young ones about. I never

did it, you know. You see, they understand what they've got to do, and if they [ have not been taught it's very certain you j can't teacli them on a racecourse, where j there's often guns arid shouting and bustle all around to take off their attention, you know. Poor little brutes. They look at you sometimes, if they can't go the pace, to tee if yon are going to hit them ; turn their | heads and look at you, they do, expecting the whip. They are outpaced, they cant go any faster, and they dread they are going to catch it." "You took special care of Talisman, they tell me, last year. I don't want to ask you any secrets about him, but I should like to see him win on Wednesday, 1 observed. -" Yes. so should I, for MiLeopold de Rothschild's sake I should like him to win, he's such a kind friend to me. These grapes he sent me just now, and Fordham held up a magnificent bunch ; " in fact, ho is always sending me something. I should like to have ridden, but I'm not quite up to it, and he could not be in better hands than Tom Cannon's, yon know. Still he was a moderate horse last year, and never quite got home. Mr Rothschild fancies him, I know. He carried me very well the other day when I rode him in a gallop, and he's very well in himself, but his form was never near as good as the mare's. Rode him tenderly ? Yes, I never | do knock them aoout, you know. If I hit ] a horse once, and he does not answer, I stop. There's a chance of the others stopping and coming back to you perhaps, but it's no good flogging away at him." " She's a nice mare, Queen Adelaide, if she's fit and well at the post, but I expect Jewitt must have trouble with such a big framed horse ?" " but the Hermits don't want so much work, especially the mares." " What do you think the best horse you ever rode?" I ask presently, after a dark-eyed little Miss Fordham, of three and a half years old, has been in to greet her father after a morning walk. —" Well, it's hard to say, I've ridden so many !" is the answer. " Perhaps Nutbush was the speediest of all. The old Admiral used to say so. She was a little mare, but carried wonderful weights, and went an extraordinary pace. Then there was Formosa, she was a fine mare ; there she is !" and he pointed to a portrait of the speedy Oaks winner. "Then there was Lord Clifden, that I was just beat a head on for the Derby, you know T " I've heard people say that you beat Macaroni and won that Derby," I remark.— "Ah ! but I did not. No ! the other won. Mine was as lame as a tree, and a bad baby sort of horse—couldn't start. The touts wrote that he went a wonderful good gallop a few days before the Derby, but he did nothing of the sort, you knoiv. I trotted him, cantered him half a mile or so, pulled up and did another trot, and that's what the touts made into a grand gallop. He slipped up at exercise at Godmersham—Lord St Vincent's placeone day when ho was a two-year-old ; lay there, he did, for ever so long. We all thought he was dead, and that lamed him. I don't think ho es-er got right till the Legcr. When once he was set going he was a fine horse, no doubt. Lord St. Vincent thought I didn't do justice to him, you know, but I think I did; and afterwards, when they laid 4 to 1 on him, I beat him on Rapid Rhone. I was delighted that time," Fordham says. " It's a bit strange that you should only have won the Derby once," I say.—" Well, I don't know. I never won the Leger at all, although I've often been close up. I did think I was going to win on Tournament in Blink Bonny's year. Ah ! there were a lot of good horses that seasonBlack Tommy, and Adamas, and any number."

"And what happened ?"—" There were about forty false starts, and Tournament made the lot, I believe, lie was no sort of horse at all when they did get ofT at last." " The famous Lady Elizabeth. You rode her, didn't you V Did you expect to win that time?"—"No; she'd lost her form, and ran very badly." "How about Sir Bevys ? He wasn't a good horse, was he?" I asked.—"l daresay he wasn't a good horse, but the rest were very bad ones, They went a great pace at the start that year. I couldn't get near them going up the hill—couldn't get near them at all, and then had to pull out a long way to clear the orowd of horses coming round the corner. My horse was full of running then, and the others came back to me."

" You always tried for the sheep-track on the Cambridgeshire hill, didn't you ! " I inquire, liking to know the truth of all the Fordham legends.—" Yes, it was easier going on ihe track, if I could get there comfortably, I used to think." " And is that story true about your walking along a course at Newmarket and asking Lord Falmouth, as you came between the two winning posts, where he would win V They say that Lord Falmouth looked carefully and fixed on the spot, and you told him he was some yards out of the line?"— " Well, I've often, as I've walked along those courses, stood and tried to find out just the line, and sometimes I've asked other people where they thought it was. It's not so easy to find the exact place to win as some people think. I've told men who've been with me to stand in the place, and gone in the box and found they were a long way out. The best judges of racing are deceived about what's won when they stand near the winning post, you know. It's only the judge himself, who's got them in a line, that can tell. Some jockeys fancy that if they are the side nearest the judge they are most likely to catch his eye first, but therp's nothing in that. He's got a straight line, and oan see what paases over it first."

" The last race you rode was on Ladislas, wasn't it?" I inquired. "I remember that finish." —"Yes; Ladislas was a good horse that day when he beat Corrie Roy. He was coming on and just getting a good horse when racing was over. They tried him bad, and tried how to make him better, and made him worse ; but he ran very game that time, and stayed homo well, you know."

"You had some uncomfortable rides on Tristan last year. You gave up riding him, didn't you?'V-"I didn't care about riding him, and I let the long-legged fellows, Archer and Webb, ride instead. I can't afford to have horses pull, me about. The long-legged ones can get on and off easier. He was a troublesome horse, easy to get out of temper. Thoy tried to do mo in the Gold Cup at Ascot last yoar. Webb was on Wallenstein. He went off with the lead, and when he oame to the turn where Tristan's stables were he pulled up, you know, thinking mine would run out of the course. Tristan stopped too, and I had to halloa to the othors—they were just behind me—to keep clear of his heels, or he'd have been among them in no time." So far as I remember, backers laid 2 to 1 on that race, and their money would have gone if Webb's little scheme had succeeded. Talking about accidents, Fordham thought he had had his share, though except for the troublesome lung he is sound and hale. "I was engaged to ride Buckstone, you know, when he ran at Ascot and made a dead heat with Tim Whifller, but a two-year-old filly got me down at the post in the first race of the day. That was a bad fall, and I was dragged—thought I was done for that time, they did, and I couldu't ride for a long time: but it wasn't anything serious. I expect it's the wasting that has weakened me. I only weighed 3st 7lb when I began to ride—feather weights they were in those days—and when I got 4st 31b they wanted me to get down to 4st. Then I got 4st 71b, and they wanted me to do 4st 51b, and so they kept on at me," Fordham said. " I suppose you were really as small as you look on some of those horses ? What's that ?" I asked, pointing to a picture on the wall.—" That's Starke. Won the Goodwood Cup and a lot of races, and that one's Prioress."

"The dead-heater ?"—" Yes, dead-heat for the Cesarewitch in 1857. There was some good racing thaj; year. J don't know whether the old horses, some of them, the Bay Middletons and West Australians, weren't better than anythiug we've got now," he went on.

"St. Simon? Isn't he a real good one? Did you think Tristan had a chance with him ?" I asked.—" Yes, St. Simon is one of the old sort, as good as anything, I dare say, you know. No, from what I knew of their trials I vyas sure St. Simon could run away from him. He's a useful horse, Tristan, but he's not a wonder."

" What's that mare ?" I asked, returning to au inspection of the wall. "That's little Levity," Fordham replied. " She was mine, and I rode her in a match against John Jackson, on Neptunus. " Could he ride?" "Yes, he went well to hounds, but not much racing, you know." " Didn't trouble you much?" "No, I beat him easy," Fordham says with a smile. " There's another—Babylon he was called. I rode him 100 yards race on the July

Course at Newmarket against a wonderful pony Jackson had. It beat all the running men at Sheffield. Jackson's pony did it, but mine was a better; at least I won. Started by a pistol we were. The starter stood up in the .] uly Stand. I think 1 only won by about a head." "Is that story about you looking at the dog true ? " I inquired, recalling an anecdote of Fordham of which, I remember rightly, I made a note some time ago. Fordham asks what the story is about. " Why, they say that there was a man at Newmarket who said he could always tell just how you were going on a horse—that you never deceived hiin, however you rode. So one day in a race you determined to pay him out, and as you were coming up towards the post, getting home, you turned and looked over your shoulder. He thought you were winning easy, and were looking at the other horses behind you. He backed your horse, and when he found your number didn't go up, asked you about it, and you told him you were beaten a long way, and had only turned your head to look at a little dog." Fordham grins at the reminiscence. "Yes, that's irue. One of those clever fellows he was, you know, that understand everything. I was beat four lengths at the time, but he couldn't tell." A summons to luncheon cuts short our chat, and after a pleasant meal I am reluctantly compelled to decline "Fordliam'a suggestion of a stroll round the town. The amount of quaint turf lore which I miss, and my readers miss therefore, I regret, but possibly some of these days I may have more to say of George Fordham's experiences. Meantime, with his good wife to take care of him, he is getting strong again, and a ride in the east wind on Tuesday did him no harm. When the weather has settled fine, at Ascot perhaps, we may see one of the most interesting sights the modern racecourse offers George Fordham getting home cleverly by a head from something or other that ought to have beaten him, if the boy on its back had been a horseman.