I have said plainly enough that every villainous human being seems to take naturally to the Turf; but unfortunately the fools follow on the same track as that trodden by the villains, and thus the honest gentlemen who still support a vile institution have all their work set out in order to prevent the hawks from making a meal of the pigeons.  One of the honest guardians of racing morality resigned in bitter despair some time ago, giving as his reason the assertion that he could trust nobody.  Nobody!  The man was a great lord, he was totally disinterested and utterly generous, he never betted a penny, and he only preferred to see the superb thoroughbreds gallop.  Lavish he was to all about him—­and he could trust nobody.  It seems that this despairful nobleman had tolerably good reasons for his hasty departure, for we have had such a crop of villainies to reap this year as never was gathered before in the same time, and it appears plain that no animal will be allowed to win any prize unless the foul crew of betting-men accord their kind approval, and refrain from poisoning the brute.

I address myself directly, and with all the earnestness of which I am capable, to those young simpletons who think that it is a fine and knowing thing to stake money on a horse.  Some poor silly creatures cannot be taught that they are not even backing a good chance; they will not learn that the success or failure of horses in important races is regulated by a clique of rapscallions whose existence sullies the very light of day.  Even if the simpleton chooses the very best horse in a race, it by no means follows that the creature will win—­nay, the very excellence of an animal is all against its chances of success.  The Ring—­which is largely composed of well-to-do black-legs—­will not let any man win too much.  What earthly chance can a clerk or shopman or tradesman in Manchester or Derby have of knowing what passes in the hotels of Newmarket, the homes of trainers, the London betting-clubs?  The information supplied so copiously by the sporting journals is as good as money can buy, but the writers on those papers are just as easily deceived as other people.  Men are out every morning watching the horses take their exercise, and an animal cannot sneeze without the fact being telegraphed to the remotest corners of the country; but all this vigilance is useless when roguery comes into the field.  Observe that for the moment I am not speaking about the morality of betting at all.  I have my own opinion as to the mental tone of a man who is continually eyeing his neighbour’s pocket and wondering what he can abstract therefrom.  There is, and can be, no friendship save bottle friendship among the animals of prey who spend their time and energy on betting; and I know how callously they let a victim sink to ruin after they have sucked his substance to the last drop.  The very face of a betting-man is enough to let you know what his soul is like; it is a face such as can be seen nowhere but on the racecourse