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.

“My good man,” said Clarkson, “it is my duty as a loyal subject to advise you to surrender and take your trial, but, if I were in your shoes, I’ll be damned if I would!”