level of their race, and they make you think that Swift may-have been right after all.  From long experience I am certain that if a cultured gentleman, accustomed to high thinking, were suddenly compelled to live among these dismal beings, he would be attacked by a species of intellectual paralysis.  The affairs of the country are nothing to them; poetry, art, and all beautiful things are contemptible in their eyes; they dwell in an obscure twilight of the mind, and their relaxation, when the serious business of betting is put aside for awhile, mostly lies in the direction of sheer bawdry and abomination.  It is curious to see the oblique effect which general degradation has upon the vocabulary of these people; quiet words, or words that express a plain meaning, are repugnant to them; even the old-fashioned full-mouthed oaths of our fathers are tame to their fancy, for they must have something strongly spiced, and thus they have by degrees fitted themselves up with a loathly dialect of their own which transcends the comparatively harmless efforts of the Black Country potter.  Foul is not the word for this ultra-filthy mode of talk—­it passes into depths below foulness.  I may digress for a little to emphasize this point.  The latter-day hanger-on of the Turf has introduced a new horror to existence.  Go into the Silver Ring at a suburban meeting, and listen while two or three of the fellows work themselves into an ecstasy of vile excitement, then you will hear something which cannot be described or defined in any terms known to humanity.  Why it should be so I cannot tell, but the portentous symptom of putridity is always in evidence.  As is the man of the Ring, so are the stay-at-homes.  The disease of their minds is made manifest by their manner of speech; they throw out verbal pustules which tell of the rank corruption which has overtaken their nature, and you need some seasoning before you can remain coolly among them without feeling symptoms of nausea.  There is one peer of this realm—­a hereditary legislator and a patron of many Church livings—­who is famous for his skill in the use of certain kinds of vocables.  This man is a living exemplar of the mysterious effect which low dodging and low distractions have on the soul.  In five minutes he can make you feel as if you had tumbled into one of Swedenborg’s loathsome hells; he can make the most eloquent of turf thieves feel, envious, and he can make you awe-stricken as you see how far and long God bears with man.  The disease from which this pleasing pillar of the State suffers has spread, with more or less virulence, to the furthermost recesses of our towns, and you must know the fringe of the Turf world before you can so much as guess what the symptoms are like.