a racing stud; how can any one find fault with him?  Such a man as Lord Hartington would never dream of betting except in a languid, off-hand way.  He (and his like) are fond of watching the superb rush of the glossy horses; they want the freedom, the swift excitement of the breezy heath; our society encourages them to amuse themselves, and they do so with a will.  That is all.  It may be wrong for A and B and C to own superfluous wealth, but then the fact is there—­that they have got it, and the community agree that they may expend the superfluity as they choose.  The rich man’s stud gives wholesome employment to myriads of decent folks in various stations of life—­farmers, saddlers, blacksmiths, builders, corn dealers, road-makers, hedgers, farriers, grooms, and half a score other sorts of toilers derive their living from feeding, harnessing, and tending the horses, and the withdrawal of such a sportsman as Mr.  “Abington” from Newmarket would inflict a terrible blow on hundreds of industrious persons who lead perfectly useful and harmless lives.  My point is, that racing (as racing) is in no way noxious; it is the most pleasant of all excitements, and it gives bread to many praiseworthy citizens.  I have seen 5,000 given for a Latin hymn-book, and, when I pondered on the ghastly, imbecile selfishness of that purchase, I thought that I should not have mourned very much if the money had been laid out on a dozen smart colts and fillies, for, at least, the horses would have ultimately been of some use, even if they all had been put to cab-work.  We must allow that when racing is a hobby, it is quite respectable—­as hobbies go.  One good friend of mine, whose fortune has been made by shrewd judgment and constant work, always keeps five or six racers in training.  He goes from meeting to meeting with all the eagerness of a boy; his friends sturdily maintain that his stud is composed of “hair trunks,” and the animals certainly have an impressively uniform habit of coming in last But the good owner has his pleasure; his hobby satisfies him; and, when he goes out in the morning to watch his yearlings frolicking, he certainly never dreams that he is fostering an immoral institution.  Could we only have racing—­and none of the hideous adjuncts—­I should be glad, in spite of all the moralists who associate horse-flesh with original sin.

As to the bookmakers, I shall have much to say further on.  At present I am content with observing that the quiet, respectable bookmaker is as honourable and trustworthy as any trafficker in stocks and shares, and his business is almost identical with that of the stockjobber in many respects.  No class of men adhere more rigidly to the point of honour than bookmakers of the better sort, and a mere nod from one of them is as binding to him as the most elaborate of parchments.  They are simply shrewd, audacious tradesmen, who know that most people are fools, and make their profit out of that knowledge.  It is painful to hear an ignorant man abusing a bookmaker