HORSE-RACING.
"_And so shall be the plague of the horse._" Zech. xiv, 15.
The horse is, doubtless, a noble beast; but, by some strange fatality,
all sorts of thieves and cheats gather round him while living, as do the
hungry crows when he is dead. Horse-racing may claim a place among
popular amusements, since there is probably nothing, except an
execution, more certain to attract a crowd. In many of the States of the
Union horse-racing has been prohibited by law, because of the numberless
evils connected with it, and the total absence of good. Within a few
years, however, the thing has been revived under another name. State and
county fairs are now held for the encouragement of agriculture, and
specimens of various farm products are exhibited to edify the novice and
quicken the zeal of the ambitious cultivator. Horses, of course, form a
prominent feature of these exhibitions. But a horse can only be half
seen till he is seen in motion, and so little "trials of speed," as they
were delicately termed, were given just to add a little interest to the
show. These trials of speed usurped more and more time and space, until
they have in many cases swallowed up every thing else, and brought back
the old-style horse-race, with its crowds, excitement, villainy, and
vice of every kind, and, in fact, every thing but the name. An
"Agricultural Fair" now means a plow, a pumpkin, a pig, and two hundred
and fifty trotting horses. These fairs are almost invariably conducted
with especial reference to the racing, and not unfrequently are
engineered wholly by the jockeys themselves.
It will hardly do for us to adopt the sneering philosophy of
Democritus, and find nothing but matter of merriment in the sins and
follies of our fellow-men; nevertheless, these annual country gatherings
have a comic side which one must be very blind not to see. The first
note of preparation is the posting of immense placards, printed in as
many colors as ever Joseph's coat knew, and offering premiums--ten cents
for the best plow, five cents for the biggest pumpkin, twenty cents for
the fattest pig, and one thousand dollars for the horse that can trot
around a certain circle in the shortest time. Every gawky boy who
rejoices in the possession of a long-legged colt, reads the flaming
proclamation with delight, and straightway redoubles his diligence in
training his colt and himself for the grand occasion. When the eventful
day comes he presents himself on the spot, sure of winning the prize,
and of seeing his name exalted in the county paper next week. He finds
nineteen other gawky individuals there with, nineteen other colts and
the same ambitious expectations. When they have paid their proportion of
the money which is to become the prize, and have entered in a book the
names of their horses--names, by the way, to devise which has cost many
severe mental efforts--a strange man writes the name of a horse never
before heard of in that locality. The contest proceeds. The strange man,
who had been so still and taciturn up to this moment, suddenly discloses
amazing energy, and shows himself an adept in all that pertains to the
important business in hand. He knows tricks that make the astonished
rustics open their eyes wide with admiration and dismay. He confuses his
competitors with his bewildering maneuvers, secures every advantage, and
urges on his own nag with a clamor and an uproar which drive the others
into unlawful paces, or make them bolt from the track altogether. In
short, science distances unsophisticated nature. The strange man and the
strange horse sweep around the circle and rush to the goal in triumph,
while the twenty are seen struggling far in the rear, a miserable
conglomerate of dust, disappointment, and profanity. Meanwhile, the
half-dozen secret confederates of the successful jockey have been
quietly mingling with the crowd, betting with all who were willing to
risk their money, and, of course, winning every time. Thus the concourse
divide into three classes, like the notes in music; the _naturals_
stare, the _flats_ are fleeced, the _sharps_ win. The performance being
over, the professionals joyfully divide the spoil, praising with
infinite glee "the way it was done," and venting their irrepressible
hilarity in stentorian laughter and clumsy imitations of Indian
war-dances.
The victims return home, the wiser ones satisfied with their recent
experience, and determined to sell their sulkies and break their horses
to the plow. The fools, on the other hand, are sure that now they know
all about it. They have seen a professor of high art, and burn with
ambition to be like him. They buy little caps of the same pattern, stick
their hands in their pockets as nearly as possible in his style, and
converse only in the phrases current in the stable. Their manners, as
well as their clothes, smell strong of the horse. They devote their
whole minds to the cause. They know more about the last race than the
last war, and are more familiar with the names of fast trotters than
with those of our great statesmen and generals. They can explain the
pedigree of some favorite nag in a more satisfactory manner than they
can their own, and take more pride in it. The tavern is the school where
they pursue their professional studies, and the sages of the bar-room
and the philosophers of the barn are their instructors. In some cases
idleness, low company, and drink produce their natural fruit; the
property inherited from the dead or dishonestly obtained from the living
is soon squandered, the victim graduates as hostler, and, like some
devotee of olden time, consecrates himself, soul and body, to the
service of the brute which he admires. In others, the aspirant really
reaches the high eminence at which he aims, and becomes a first-class
cheat, learned in horse-craft and equally wise in the art of deceiving
men--a restless operator in his chosen line of business, whose advent in
a neighborhood is a signal for all to be on their guard, and at whose
departure people breathe more freely.
The "Sports of the Turf," as they are called, are a mere compound of
fraud and folly. Betting is the soul of horse-racing, and a thievish
desire to get money without earning it is the soul of betting. How many
"trials of speed" would there be if, by some method which man has never
yet discovered, betting on the results could be wholly prevented? Vice
in all its forms--gambling, drunkenness, lying, cheating, profanity,
rioting, and fighting--are the natural adjuncts of every race-course.
Human birds of prey flock to it from under the whole heavens, and gorge
themselves to the full. And with all this evil it has not one redeeming
feature. As an amusement it is essentially low and animal. If two horses
run a race, any body who is not an idiot knows that in all probability
one will come out ahead of the other; and who but an idiot will care
which it is? What matters it whether a horse that belongs to some
branded swindler can go a mile in three minutes or two? Why should
people leave their useful employments, and assemble in thousands, from
far and near, merely to see one horse beat another horse? The whole
thing is senseless.
While there is not a single solid argument in its favor, there are
numerous and weighty objections against horse-racing. It involves a
fearful waste. A race-horse is more expensive to keep than a family of
ten children. The spectators who crowd to see the race lose time and
money. The betting, inseparable from the affair, opens the floodgates of
a deluge of fraud and falsehood. It fires the hearts of the ignorant and
inexperienced with that dangerous temptation, a thirst for money which
they have not earned. The sudden losses and gains rouse the passions,
and lead to collisions, fierce and furious, between losers and winners.
The vender of intoxicating drinks will be there, for he knows that his
chances are best when there is most of uproar and excitement. The
professional pickpocket and the gambler will be there, for they know
that the crowds will yield them a rich harvest of ill-gotten gain. The
public roads in the vicinity of the race-ground will be dangerous to
quiet travelers, by reason of the multitude of vehicles which dash along
furiously, the drivers crazy with excitement and drink, and the horses
wild with the shouting and the lash. And children will be there, their
sensitive natures receiving impressions every moment, their eyes
becoming accustomed to scenes of vice, and their ears familiar with the
voice of passion and profanity.
The members of the Church of Christ should never be seen at such
places. If one of them attending a horse-race should die there, by
casualty or sudden disease, would it be considered good taste to name
the locality in the funeral discourse? Would it figure well in the
published obituary? The path of duty is so plain that none need err. Let
no one, for a day or an hour, leave the rock and plunge into this abyss
of fraud and folly. Besides the open, visible evils which cluster about
a horse-race, there are great gulfs of villainy which few know of, and
yet by which many suffer. Not seldom is the matter of victory and defeat
secretly arranged days and weeks before the race takes place, and the
men who make the treacherous compact win their tens of thousands by
betting in favor of the horse which it is agreed shall distance the
others. The habit of betting is a vice which speedily destroys all truth
and honor. No amusement, so called, which lives by betting will long
retain even the semblance of honesty. Horse-racing is certainly not an
exception to this rule. Its whole history is black with treachery and
fraud. No professed follower of Christ can have any thing to do with it,
either in the way of active agency or secret encouragement, without sin.
We can not close this chapter more appropriately than by quoting the
emphatic words of Thomas Hughes, an able member of the British
Parliament and a decided friend of the American Republic. He had seen in
the public journals the statement that certain capitalists of New York
were about to establish somewhere on the Hudson a race-ground, which
they hoped would, in time, rival the doubtful "glories of Epsom and
Ascot:"
"Heaven help you! then; for of all the cankers of our old civilization
there is nothing in this country approaching in unblushing meanness, in
rascality holding its head high, to this belauded institution of the
British turf.
"It is quite true that a very considerable section of our aristocracy is
on the turf, but with what result? Shall a man touch pitch and not be
defiled? There is not a man of them whose position and character has not
been lowered by the connection, while in the majority it ends in
bringing down their standard of morality to that of blacklegs, and
delivering over their estates into the grasp of Jew attorneys.
"The last notable instance among our _jeunesse doree_ is that of the
Duke of Hamilton, who succeeded to a clear £70,000 a year, some three
years ago, and who is now a pensioner of his creditors in the ring,
while the old palace of the Douglas is at the order and disposition of
the celebrated Mr. Padwick. This gentleman, at his Derby dinner this
year, entertained three dukes, two marquises, and six earls, and I
believe there was only one untitled man at the board--all of these under
the thumb or anxious to cultivate the esteemed favors of this 'giver of
all good things.' Just consider for one moment what our modern system of
betting has brought us to. A reliable _tip_ is that which the most
scrupulous young gentleman on the turf desires above all other earthly
blessings before a great race; that is to say, some private information
which may enable him to overreach his dearest friend or his own brother,
if he can induce him to take the odds."
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