While he was still an undergraduate at Oxford the young Marquess who, from childhood, could not bear the sight of a book when there was a dog or a horse to claim his attention, began that career on the turf which was to be as tragic in its end as it was dazzling in its zenith.  He bought from a Mr Henry Padwick for L13,500 a horse called Kangaroo, which was not worth the cost of his keep.  What a fraudulent animal he was is proved by the fact that he never won a penny for his purchaser, and ended his career, as he ought to have begun it, between the shafts of a hansom.

But, so far from being disheartened by this initial experience, Lord Hastings had barely thrown aside his cap and gown before he was owner of half a hundred race-horses, with John Day as trainer; and was fully embarked on his turf-career.  From the very first year of his enlarged venture success smiled on him.  Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire for him, in 1864; the Duke captured the Goodwood Cup two years later; and the Earl carried off the Grand Prix de Paris.  In the four years, 1864 to 1867 the Marquess won over L60,000 in stakes alone, while his winnings in bets were larger still.  So excellent a judge of a horse was he that he only spoke the truth when he boasted, “I could easily make L30,000 a year by backing other men’s horses.”  Indeed on one race, Lecturer’s Cesarewitch, he cleared L75,000.  Such was the brilliant start of a racing-career which was to close so soon in failure and disgrace.

In the world of the Turf the youthful Marquess was hailed as a new deity.  At Epsom, Newmarket, and a dozen other race-courses his appearance created as much sensation as that of the Prince of Wales himself; he was greeted everywhere with cheers and a salvo of doffed hats; and the way in which he scattered his smiles and his bets was regal in its prodigality.

“As he canters on to the course,” we are told, “he slackens speed as he passes through the line of carriages, from which come shrill, plaintive cries, ’Dear Lord Hastings, do come here for one second,’ and others to like purpose.  Conveniently deaf to the voice of the charmers, he rides straight into the horseman’s circle, and takes up his position on the heavy-betting side.  ‘They’re laying odds on yours, my lord,’ exclaims a bookmaker.  ‘What odds?’ blandly asks the owner.  ’Well, my lord, I’ll take you six monkeys to four!’ ‘Put it down,’ is the brief response.  ’And me, three hundred to two—­and me—­and me!’ clamour a score of pencillers, who come clustering up.  ’Done with you, and you, and you’—­the bets are booked as freely as offered.  ’And now, my lord, if you’ve a mind for a bit more, I’ll take you thirty-five hundred to two thousand.’  ‘And so you shall!’ is the cheery answer, as the backer expands under the genial influence of the biggest bet of the day.  Then, with their seventies to forties, and seven ponies to four, the smaller fry are duly enregistered, and the Marquess wheels his hack, his escort