“Lord George Bentinck,” wrote Thormanby, a few years ago, “was the idol of the sportsmen of his own day.  The commanding personality of the man threw a spell over all with whom he was brought into contact; they were half-fascinated, half-awed—­judgment and criticism surrendered to admiration.  There are still veterans left, like old John Kent, who talk with bated breath of Lord George as a superior being, a god-like man, a king of men.”

From the day he joined the Army as a cornet of Hussars in 1819, to the tragic close of his life, Lord George always cut a conspicuous and brilliant figure in the world.  He was the spoilt child of Fortune; and, like all such spoilt children, was constantly getting into hot water—­and out of it again.  As a subaltern, for instance, he showed such little respect for his seniors that, one day on parade, a Captain Kerr exclaimed aloud:  “If you don’t make this young gentleman behave himself, Colonel, I will.”  Whereupon the insubordinate sub. retorted:  “Captain Kerr ventures to say on parade that which he dares not repeat off.”

Such was the youth and such the man—­gay, debonair, and popular to the highest degree, but always uncontrollable and reckless.  As a sportsman he was the chief of popular heroes, his appearance on a race-course being the invariable signal for an ovation, such as the King might have envied.  And, indeed, his Turf transactions were all conducted on a scale of truly regal magnificence.  Though he was never by any means rich, he often had as many as sixty horses in training, while his racing stud numbered a hundred.  He kept three stud farms going, and his out-of-pocket expenses ran to L50,000 and more a year.  To provide the money for such prodigality he wagered enormous sums.  For the Derby of 1843, for instance, he stood to win L150,000 on his horse Gaper, and actually pocketed L30,000, though Gaper was not even placed.  In 1845 his net winnings on bets reached L100,000; and he thought nothing of staking his entire year’s private income on a single race.

One by one all the great prizes of the Turf fell to him—­some many times—­but the only prize he ever cared a brass farthing for, the Derby, always eluded his grasp, though again and again it seemed a certainty.  So deep at last became his disgust and mortification at the unkindness of Fate in withholding the only boon he coveted that, in a moment of pique, he decided to sell his stud and leave the turf for ever.

“I’ll sell you the lot,” he impulsively said to George Payne at Goodwood, “from Bay Middleton to little Kitchener (his famous jockey), for L100,000.  Yes or no?” Payne offered him L300 to have a few hours to think the offer over, and handed the sum over at breakfast the next morning.  No sooner had the forfeit been paid than Mr Mostyn, who was sitting at the same table, looked up quietly and said:  “I’ll take the lot, Bentinck, at L10,000, and will give you a cheque before you go on the course.”  “If you please,” was Lord George’s placid answer; and thus ended one of the most brilliant Turf careers on record.