The Earl of Aylesford in the sixties was the owner of Packington Hall, and a princely income, and it was whilst I was staying with George Graham (owner of the famous Yardley stud where the great Stirling “stood”) that a jovial party drove over from Packington. Luncheon as served in those days was an important item in the programme, and long before the Packington party began to think of returning more than one had succumbed to the rivers of champagne that flowed. Bob Villiers (a brother of the then Earl of Jersey) was one of the first to collapse, and as he disappeared under the table the kindly host’s anxiety was curbed by a shout from Joe Aylesford, “Never mind, George, he’s only tried himself a bit too high.”
A few years later Joe was one of the party, selected in company with Beetroot (as Lord Alfred Paget was affectionately called) and others, to accompany the Prince of Wales to India, and it was during his absence that the troubles that culminated in disaster overtook the popular Earl. “Don’t go to India, Joe, if you value your domestic happiness,” was the advice of an old friend, but go he did, and then began the intrigues of a titled libertine, which ended in strong drinks and the mortgaging of the ancestral acres.
Amid this genial phalanx no better host was to be found than old Fred Gretton, and it was apropos of the Cambridgeshire that the following incident occurred.
Seated round the festive board were some dozen sportsmen, young men from town and old men from the shires; dear old George Graham (the breeder of Stirling) and his brother; Duffer Bruce (father of the late Marquis of Aylesbury), deafer than usual, but shouting the house down; myself, Peter Wilkinson, and three or four worthies of the farmer class who had come in the wake of Fred Gretton.
“I should like you to win a large stake,” whispered to me a jolly old squire who had been my neighbour at dinner.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” I replied; “the more so as this is positively the last meeting I am ever likely to be at before going to Gibraltar.”
“Eh, lad, and why so?” persisted my well-wisher. “I should like you to win a large stake,” and realising that it was now or never, I boldly replied: “Look here, Mr. Bowden, if you can put me on to a good thing I shall be eternally grateful.”
“I suppose you’ve never heard of Playfair?” inquired Mr. Bowden. “He’s Fred’s horse, and he’s certain to win the Cambridgeshire; he’s only got 6st. 3lb., the acceptances are just out, but, for God’s sake, don’t let Fred know. Now, lad, do as I tell you; I’ve taken a liking to you.”
It must be admitted I had never heard of Playfair—very few had—but acting up to the tenets I had learnt during my two years’ intimacy with the late Hastings, I boldly took 1,000 to 15 within the hour with the leviathan Steele.
“What are you backing?” inquired Mr. Gretton, who that moment came hurriedly up, and on being informed by the bookie, he turned to me and whispered into my ear, “There’s only one man could have told you, and that’s that d— drunken old blackguard Bowden; but not a word, mind you, you keep to that 1,000.” And so the kind old man toddled off. Shortly before the race, at the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly, where he always stayed in Town, he inquired of the two barmaids if they would like a sovereign each on his horse; and whilst the foolish virgin expressed a preference for the coin, the wise virgin elected to be “on,” and after the race received from the genial punter £35—a sum considerably in excess of the price.