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!”