TATTERSALL'S--BARON MARTIN, HARRY HILL, AND THE OLD FOX IN THE YARD.
Tattersall's in my time was one of the pleasantest Sunday afternoon
lounges in London. There was a spirit of freedom and social equality
pervading the place which only belongs to assemblies where sport is
the principal object and pleasure of all. There was also the absence
of irksome workaday drudgery; I think that was, after all, the main
cause of its being so delightful a meeting-place to me.
There was, however, another attraction, and that was dear old Baron
Martin, one of the most pleasant companions you could meet, no matter
whether in the Court of Exchequer or the "old Ring." A keen sportsman
he was, and a shrewd, common-sense lawyer--so great a lover of the
Turf that it is told of him, and I know it to be true, that once in
court a man was pointed out to him bowing with great reverence,
and repeating it over and over again until he caught the Baron's
attention. The Judge, with one pair of spectacles on his forehead
and another on his eyes, immediately cried aloud to his marshal,
"Custance, the jockey, as I'm alive!" and then the Baron bowed most
politely to the man in the crowd, the most famous jockey of his day.
Speaking of Tattersall's reminds me of many things, amongst them of
the way in which, happily, I came to the resolution never to bet on
a horse-race. It was here I learnt the lesson, at a place where
generally people learn the opposite, and never forgot it. No sermon
would ever have taught me so much as I learnt there.
Like my oldest and one of my dearest friends on the turf, Lord
Falmouth, I never made a bet after the time I speak of. No one who
lives in the world needs any description of the Tattersall's of
to-day. But the Tattersall's of my earlier days was not exactly the
same thing, although the differences would not be recognizable to
persons who have not over-keen recollections.
The institution has perhaps known more great men than Parliament
itself--not so many bishops, perhaps, as the Church, but more
statesmen than could get into the House of Lords; and all the
biographies that have ever been written could not furnish more
illustrations of the ups and downs of life, especially the downs,
nor of more illustrious men. The names of all the great and mediocre
people who visited the famous rendezvous would fill a respectable
Court guide, and the money transactions that have taken place would
pay off the National Debt. All this is a pleasant outcome of the
national character.
Do not suppose that Judges, other than Baron Martin, never looked in,
for they did, and so did learned and illustrious Queen's Counsel and
Serjeants-at-Law, authors, editors, actors, statesmen, and, to sum
it up in brief, all the real men of the day of all professions and
degrees of social position.
At first my visits were infrequent; afterwards I went more often, and
then became a regular attendant. I loved the "old Ring," and yet could
never explain why. I think it was the variety of human character that
charmed me. I was doing very little at the Bar, and was, no doubt,
desirous to make as many acquaintances as possible, and to see as much
of the world as I could. It is a long way back in my career, but I go
over the course with no regrets and with every feeling of delight.
Everything seems to have been enjoyable in those far-off days,
although I was in a constant state of uncertainty with regard to my
career. There were three principal places of pleasure at that time:
one was Tattersall's, one Newmarket, and the Courts of Law a third.
There used to be, in the centre of the yard or court at Tattersall's,
a significant representation of an old fox, and I often wondered
whether it was set up as a warning, or merely by way of ornamentation,
or as the symbol of sport. It might have been to tell you to be wary
and on the alert. But whatever the original design of this statue to
Reynard, the old fox read me a solemn lesson, and seemed to be always
saying, "Take care, Harry; be on your guard. There are many prowlers
everywhere."
But there was another monitor in constant attendance, who
was deservedly respected by all who had the pleasure of his
acquaintance--that is to say, by all who visited Tattersall's more
than once. He was not in the least emblematic like the old fox, but a
man of sound sense, with no poetry, of an extremely good nature, and
full of anecdote. You might follow his advice, and it would be well
with you; or you might follow your opinion in opposition to his and
take your chance. His name was Hill--Harry Hill they familiarly called
him--and although you might have many a grander acquaintance, you
could never meet a truer friend.
He was an old and much-respected friend of the Baron, and that says
a great deal for him; for if anybody in the world could understand a
_man_, it was Baron Martin. Whether it was the Prime Minister or the
unhappy thief in the dock, he knew all classes and all degrees of
criminality. He was not poetical with regard to landscapes, for if
one were pointed out to him by some proprietor of a lordly estate,
he would say, "Yes, a vera fine place indeed; and I would have the
winning-post _there_!"
The old fox and Harry Hill! The two characters at Tattersall's in
those days can never be forgotten, by those who knew them.
It may seem strange in these more enlightened days that at that time
I was under the impression that no one could make a bet unless he had
the means of paying if he lost. This statement will provoke a
smile, but it is true. The consequence was that I was debarred from
speculating where I thought I had a most excellent chance of winning,
having been brought up to believe that the world was almost destitute
of fraud--a strange and almost unaccountable idea which only time and
experience proved to be erroneous. Judge of the vast unexplored field
of discovery that lay before me! Harry Hill was better informed. He
had lived longer, and had been brought in contact with the cleverest
men of the age. He knew at a glance the adventurous fool who staked
his last chance when the odds were a hundred to one, and also the man
of honour who staked his life on his honesty--and sometimes _lost_!
There were "blacklegs" in those days who looked out for such honest
gentlemen, and _won_--scoundrels who degrade sport, and trade
successfully on the reputations of men of honour. You cannot cope with
these; honesty cannot compete with fraud either in sport or trade.
It was a very brief Sunday sermon which Harry preached to me this
afternoon, but it was an effective one, and out of the abundance of
his good nature he gave me these well-remembered words of friendly
warning,--
"Mr. Hawkins, I see you come here pretty regularly on Sunday
afternoons; but I advise you not to speculate amongst us, for if you
do we shall beat you. We know our business better than you do, and
you'll get nothing out of us any more than we should get out of you
if we were to dabble in your law, for you know _that_ business better
than we do."
This disinterested advice I took to heart, and treated it as a
warning. I thanked Mr. Hill, promised to take advantage of his
kindness, and kept my word during the whole time that Tattersall's
remained in the old locality, which it did for a considerable period.
The establishment at this time was at Hyde Park Corner, and had been
rented from Lord Grosvenor since 1766. It was used for the purpose of
selling thoroughbreds and other horses of a first-rate order, until
the expiration of the lease, which was, I think, in 1865. It was then
removed to Knightsbridge, where I still continued my visits.
The new premises, or, as it might be called, the new institution, was
inaugurated with a grand dinner, chiefly attended by members of the
sporting world, including Admiral Rous, George Payne, and many other
well-known and popular patrons of our national sport. There were also
a great many who were known as "swells," people who took a lively
interest in racing affairs, and others who belonged to the literary
and artistic world, and enjoyed the national sports as well. It was a
large assembly, and if any persons can enjoy a good dinner and lively
conversation, it is those who take an interest in sport. Mixed as the
company might be, it was uniform in its object, which was to be happy
as well as jolly.
That I should have been asked to be present on this historic occasion
was extremely gratifying, but I could find no reason for the honour
conferred upon me, except that it 'might be because I had always
endeavoured to make myself agreeable--a faculty, if it be a faculty,
most invaluable in all the relations and circumstances of life. I was
flattered by the compliment, because in reality I was the guest of all
the really great men of the day.
But a still more striking honour was in store. I was called upon to
respond for somebody or something; I don't remember what it was to
this day, nor had I the faintest notion what I ought to say. I was
perfectly bewildered, and the first utterance caused a roar of
laughter. I did not at that time know the reason. It is of no
consequence whether you know what you are talking about in an
after-dinner speech or not, for say what you may, hardly anybody
listens, and if they do few will understand the drift of your
observations. You get a great deal of applause when you stand up, and
a great deal more when you sit down. I seemed to catch my audience
quite accidentally by using a word tabooed at that time in sporting
circles, because it represented the blacklegs of the racecourse, and
was used as a nickname for rascaldom. "Gentlemen," I said, "I have
been unexpectedly called upon my _legs_--" Then I stammered an apology
for using the word in that company, and the laughter was unbounded.
Next morning all the sporting papers reported it as an excellent joke,
although the last person who saw the joke was myself.
After dinner we adjourned to the new premises, which included a
betting-room, since christened "place," by interpretation of a
particular statute by myself and others. Oh the castigation I received
from the Jockey Club on that account! Whether the monitory fox was
anywhere within the precincts I do not know, but I missed him at
that time, and attributed to his absence the lapse from virtue which
undermined my previous resolution, and in a moment undid the merits of
exemplary years. However, it brought me to myself, and was, after all,
a "blessing in disguise"--and pleasant to think of.
We were in the betting-room, and there was Harry Hill, my genial old
friend, who had advised me to take care, and never to bet, "because
we know our business better than you do." Alas! amidst the hubbub
and excitement, to say nothing of the joviality of everybody and the
excellence of the champagne, I said in a brave tone,--
"Come now, Mr. Hill, I _must_ have a bet, on the opening of the new
Tattersalls. I will give you evens for a fiver on ---- for the Derby!"
Alas! my friend, who _ought_ to have known better, forgot the good
advice he had given me only a few years before, and I, heedless of
consequences in my hilarity, repeated the offer of evens on the
_favourite_.
"Done!" said two or three, and amongst them Hill. I might have
repeated the offer and accepted the bet over and over again, so
popular was it. "Done, done, done!" everywhere.
But Hill was the man for my money, and he had it. Before morning the
_favourite was scratched_!
It was the race which Hermit won! Poor Hastings lost heavily and died
soon after. I had backed the wrong horse, and have never ceased to
wonder how I could have been so foolish. "Let me advise you not to
speculate amongst us," were Hill's words, "for if you do we shall beat
you;" and it cost me five pounds to learn that. A lawyer's opinion may
be worth what is paid for it in a case stated; but of the soundness
of of a horse's wind, or the thousand and one ailments to which that
animal's flesh and blood are heir, I knew nothing--not so much as the
little boy who runs and fetches in the stable, and who could give
the ablest lawyer in Great Britain or Ireland odds on any particular
favourite's "public form" and beat him.
Put not your trust in tipsters; they no more knew that Hermit had a
chance for the Derby than they could foretell the snowstorm that was
coming to enable him to win it.
This was the last bet I ever made; and I owe my abandonment of the
practice to Harry Hill, who gave me excellent advice and enforced it
by example.