of morphia-poisoning!  Not long ago an exquisite mare was brought out to run for the Liverpool Steeplechase, and, like the two I have already named, she was deemed to be absolutely certain of success.  She came out merrily from her box; but soon she appeared to become dazed and silly; she could not move properly, and in trying to clear her first fence she staggered like a soddened drunkard and fell.  The rascals had not become artistic poisoners at that date, and it was found that the poor mare had received the drug through a rather large puncture in her nostril.

The men whom I seek to cure are not worthy of much care; but they have dependants; and it is of the women and children that I think.  Here is another pitfall into which the eager novice stumbles; and once more on grounds of expediency I ask the novice to consider his position.  According to the decision of the peculiarly-constituted senate which rules racing affairs, I understand that, even if a horse starts in a race with health and training all in its favour, it by no means follows that he will win, or even run well.  Cunning touches of the bridle, dexterous movements of body and limbs on the jockey’s part, subtle checks applied so as to cramp the animal’s stride—­all these things tend to bring about surprising results.  The horse that fails dismally in one race comes out soon afterwards and wins easily in more adverse circumstances.  I grow tired of the unlucky catalogue of mean swindles, and I should be glad if I never heard of the Turf again; though, alas, I have little hope of that so long as betting-shops are open, and so long as miserable women have the power to address letters to me!  I can only implore those who are not stricken with the gambler’s fever to come away from danger while yet there is time.  A great nobleman like Lord Hartington or Lord Rodney may amuse himself by keeping racers; he gains relaxation by running out from London to see his pretty colts and fillies gallop, and he needs not to care very much whether they win or lose, for it is only the mild excitement and the change of scene that he wants.  The wealthy people who go to Newmarket seek pleasant company as much as anything, and the loss of a few hundreds hardly counts in their year’s expenses.  But the poor noodle who can hardly afford to pay his fare and hotel bill—­why should he meddle with horses?  If an animal is poisoned, the betting millionaire who backs it swallows his chagrin and thinks no more of the matter, but the wretched clerk who has risked a quarter’s salary cannot take matters so easily.  Racing is the rich man’s diversion, and men of poor or moderate means cannot afford to think about it.  The beautiful world is full of entertainment for those who search wisely; then why should any man vex heart and brain by meddling with a pursuit which gives him no pleasure, and which cannot by any chance bring him profit?  I have no pity for a man who ascribes his ruin to betting, and I contemn those paltry weaklings whose cases I