CHAPTER XLII.
A FULL MEMBER OF THE JOCKEY CLUB.
I knew a great many men connected with the Turf, from the highest to the humblest; but although I have spent the most agreeable hours amongst them, there is little which, if written, would afford amusement: everything in a story, a repartee, or a joke depends, like a jewel, on its setting. At Lord Falmouth's, my old and esteemed friend, I have spent many jovial and happy hours. He was one of the most amiable of hosts, and of a boundless hospitality; ran many distinguished horses, and won many big races. I used to drive with him to see his horses at exercise before breakfast, and in his company visited some of the most celebrated men of the day, who were also amongst the most distinguished of the Turf. Amongst these was Prince B——, whose fate was the saddest of all my reminiscences of the Turf. I almost witnessed his death, for it took place nearly at the moment of my taking leave of him at the Jockey Club. There was a flight of stairs from where I stood with him, leading down to the luncheon-room, and there he appears to have slipped and fallen.
I don't know that it was in consequence of this accident, or whether it had anything to do with it, but I seemed after this sad event to have practically broken my connection with the Turf, and yet perhaps I was more intimately attached to it than ever, for Lord Rosebery asked me (I being an honorary member of the Jockey Club) whether there was any reason, so far as my judicial position was concerned, why I should not be elected a full member. I said there was none. So his lordship proposed me, and I was elected.
The only privilege I acquired by "full membership" was that I had to pay ten guineas a year subscription instead of nothing. I almost regularly had the honour of being invited, with other members of the club, to the entertainment given by H.R.H. the Prince of Wales on the Derby night—a festivity continued since his Majesty's accession to the throne. Nor shall I forget the several occasions on which I have had the honour to be the guest of his gracious Majesty at Sandringham; and I mention them here to record my respectful gratitude for the kindness and hospitality of their Majesties the King and Queen whenever it has been my good fortune to be invited.
Speaking, however, of racing men, I have always thought that the passion for gambling is one of the strongest propensities of our nature, and once the mind is given to it there is no restraint possible, either from law or pulpit. Its fascination never slackens, and time never blunts the keen desire of self-gratification which it engenders, while the grip with which it fastens upon us is as fast in old age as in youth. It will absorb all other pleasures and pastimes. I will give an instance of what I mean. There was a well-known bookmaker of my acquaintance whose whole mind was devoted to this passion; his lifetime was a gamble; everything seemed to be created to make a bet upon. Do what he would, go where he would, his thoughts were upon horse-racing.
I was staying with Charley Carew, the owner and occupier of Beddington Park, with a small party of guests invited for shooting. One morning there was to be a rabbit-killing expedition, and after a pretty good morning's walk, I had a rest, and then leisurely went along towards the trysting-place for lunch. It was a large oak tree, and as I came up there was Hodgman, the bookie, who did not see me, walking round the rabbits, which lay in rows, counting them, and muttering, "Two—four—twenty," and so on up to a hundred. He then paused, and after a while soliloquized, "Ah! fancy a hundred! One hundred dead uns! What would I give for such a lot for the Chester Cup!"
His mind was not with the rabbits except in connection with his betting-book on the Chester Cup. He was by no means singular except in the manner of showing his propensity. The devotees of "Bridge" are all Hodgmans in their way.
At the Benchers' table I was speaking of Clarkson in reference to the Old Bailey. He had been with me in consultation in a very bad case. We had not the ghost of a chance of winning it, and indicated our opinion to that effect to the unhappy client.
He turned from us with a sad look, as if desperation had seized him, and then, with tears in his eyes, asked Clarkson if he thought it advisable for him to surrender and take his trial.