Members of the literary staff of a newspaper were, in the far-off and half-forgotten days, deputed to write graphic descriptions of what are known as “the classic events” of the turf. A big newspaper would send as many as three special correspondents to “do” the Derby. One correspondent devoted himself to the journey down by road, a second described the journey by rail, and a third gave an animated pen-sketch of the course. Indeed, some journals whose motto was “Thorough,” were accustomed to send a man to potter about the course the night before the Derby—a writer with the James Greenwood touch, who might be depended upon for a dramatic and humorous column and a half.
Ascot and Goodwood were the other “classic events” to which the descriptive writer would be despatched. Goodwood was always supposed to necessitate the employment of certain venerable clichés. And very old journalists used, therefore, to consider it a great privilege to be sent to that aristocratic meeting. Ascot naturally gave considerable scope to the journalist who flattered himself on an intimate knowledge of Society with a capital “S.” For a whole delirious week he never left Society. He watched its menials depart for the Thames Valley on the Sunday before the meeting, and on the Sunday after he was pretty certain to turn up at Boulter’s Lock, where some representative ornaments of Society should be on view.
Out of all the men on the daily Press who have been commissioned to attend race-meetings as descriptive writers, I have never known one who became a victim of the betting habit. Yet I have known several sub-editors whose functions did not take them near a race-course, but whose real business in life seemed to be betting, their sub-editing being regarded as a temporary means of obtaining the original stake which, some day, was to supply the foundation of a fortune. Members of the sporting Press were betting men to a scribe. And so it happened that, no matter what the salary of a writer on the sporting Press might be, he was always in financial difficulties. If these gentlemen, presumably “in the know,” found the game unprofitable, what chance should there be, I reflected, for an outsider? Nevertheless, and holding these virtuous views, I have from time to time fallen from grace. These occasional lapses have usually followed a casual bet where the odds have been long and the “tip” has “come off.” But eventually the bookies have always got their own back again—and a bit over and above.
This moralizing strain reminds me of the appearance of Robert Buchanan, the poet, as a backer of horses. Some graceless men were inclined to regard the contact of Buchanan with the Ring as something in the nature of a joke. To me it constituted a pitiful and sordid tragedy. Buchanan was another of those men who always wanted money, and who was ever on the lookout for some easy way of getting it. I do not know who it was that introduced him to the turf as a likely method of adding to his resources. But I should not care to be the man with that sin on my soul. If Buchanan knew a horse from a cow, it was about as much as he knew. As to the significance of the weights in a handicap he was entirely ignorant. He had got into his head that by luck and good advice large sums might be made out of the Ring. About twenty years ago I first came across him while he was thus engaged. It was at Epsom the day after the Derby. The grand-stand was but sparsely inhabited. In the interval between the last race and the last but one, I saw Buchanan coming across the course. I went down to meet him. He was in a flurried and excited condition. He had experienced a “rotten” day. Nor was I surprised when he proceeded to explain to me his modus operandi. It was this:
He had engaged the services of an infallible tipster. This infallible young person I afterwards discovered to be one of the notorious “boys” of the American Bar of the Criterion, the rendezvous from which the hero of Ardlamont, it will be recollected, chose his associates. For himself and this egregious seer he had taken rooms for the week at the Sun in Kingston, the pair of them driving over to the course each morning in an open landau. As he eagerly explained to me the unsuspected occurrences which had upset the calculations of his adviser, and within how very little he came of pulling off some uncommonly good things, I was profoundly moved. Here was the author of a work of fiction of the quality of “God and the Man,” and of poems like “Fra Giacomo,” plunging on a race-course with the most sordid motives and with the most ridiculous equipment, and associating with an adviser with whom no self-respecting sportsman would care to be seen talking.
He had a very strong tip for the next race, and he was anxious that I should share in any good fortune that might result from backing it. I looked at my card. Among the starters I saw a horse named Tandragee. I said, half in earnest, that, if I had a bet at all, I should back Tandragee. He inquired very anxiously whether I had heard anything. I assured him that I knew nothing whatever, but that the animal bore the name of “Kim” Mandeville’s place in Ireland. Buchanan looked at me reproachfully, as if to suggest that I was treating in a spirit of levity a very serious, and even tragic, business. I made inquiries about Tandragee, and a member of Tattersall’s ring laid me ten to one against it. My horse won easily, and Buchanan’s “certainty,” about which he had only got three to one, was not placed.
With the most ordinary care Robert Buchanan should have acquired a nice little fortune. As it was, he lived in a series of financial straits, and when he paid the debt of nature he left all his other debts undischarged.
My recollections of race-meetings will always be dominated by the figure of Caroline, Duchess of Montrose. I was young and impressionable when I first saw this formidable grande dame. I first beheld her on the lawn at Goodwood. She was accompanied by her husband, Mr. Sterling Crauford, one of the very best and most aristocratic of racing men. Her Grace had a really wonderful vocabulary. She could have debated a point with a bargee starting at even weights. Only once was she talked down. That was by the Thersites of the outer ring—Dick Dunn. This was an Homeric encounter. Rich and rare were the gems in Dick Dunn’s armoury of invective. While the battle lasted, it was a veritable interchange of torpedoes. But the vituperative book-maker won, and the Duchess burst into tears.
Caroline, Duchess of Montrose, was once in a towering rage over the defeat of one of her husband’s horses, which she had backed heavily, and, as was her wont, she was violently abusing the unhappy boy who had ridden. I rather think it was little Gallon, but am not sure. “You young rascal!” exclaimed the angry Duchess, “did I not tell you to get through and come right away before reaching the bend?”
“Yes, your Grace, you did,” blubbered the boy; “b-b-b-but I couldn’t come without the horse!”