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