So you have here an authentic sketch of this quiet, upright, gentle man, whom you may have misjudged somewhat from his writings, and from the acrimonious discussions which his antagonists and his disciples have raised over his grave, from time to time. For myself, I somehow have always looked upon him as an example of that “Justum et tenacem propositi virum” whom nothing could turn aside from the goal which he saw before him, and which he desired to reach. One who, no matter what occurred, you were quite certain that—to once more quote the lines of the long dead Roman poet—
“Si fractus illabitur orbis
Impavidum ferient ruinae.”
“If the shattered world falls, the wreck may crush him, but still undismayed.” “The gentlest are always the bravest; the bravest are always the best.”
Chapter XVI.
The Gist of it all.
And now we draw to the close this thesis on the racehorse in Australia. We have been, after all, but wandering upon the outskirts of a very vast subject, and were we proposing to indite a work for the use of experts—breeders, owners, trainers, even, let us add, punters—our thesis would swell into a large volume, our large volume into an encyclopaedia, and our encyclopaedia into a library. And the gist of it all? Is the entire business, with all its branches and ramifications, with all the employment offered by it to thousands of people, with all the land now in use for breeding, with all those beautiful parks reserved for racing purposes, in and near the great cities, is it all designed simply to furnish an Australian holiday? I do assure you that there is involved something a very great deal deeper than that. It is the horse, the whole future and welfare of the horse, that is the great stake for which we are playing, most of us unconsciously. The day of the noble animal is not over, and its future spells infinitely more than the mere fact of whether he can run a mile in a minute and 36 seconds, or whether he can cover three miles in 5.23. During the Boer War, such a short time since, but which seems to our children, perhaps, to have been waged centuries ago, we expended an enormous amount of horse life in a country where soldiers had perforce to be carried on horseback, and where all the supplies for an army were dragged upon wheels, and when motor power had not yet come into its own. And in the last great death grapple, with all the petrol which was exploded, with all the motor traction used, with all the amount of transport, and of scouting by air, we still required a larger horse supply than ever before. We cannot see so clearly into the future as did the poet Tennyson, when he wrote Locksley Hall. That wonderful seer, you may remember, wrote his poem in the early ’forties of the last century, and he predicted, as plainly as words could tell, the advent of the flying machine, for use both in commerce and in war, and “all the wonders that would be.” It is not given to many to possess the true prophetic vision, but it is a simple task to foretell that war has not yet ceased upon the earth, and that we have not even begun to make reaping hooks of our spears, or spades and ploughs and harrows of our guns. It is the improvement of our horse, for general utility purposes, and for war, that is really the motive which ought to promote this racing of ours, but which poor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in a fatuous moment, has lately dubbed “the curse of the country.”
If the supply of horseflesh is to be maintained, if we are not prepared to let the breed die out altogether, then horse racing is the only method whereby the standard can be preserved at a proper and efficient level. Shows, agricultural and otherwise, are powerless in their endeavour to accomplish this end. Magnificent looking creatures bred for the ring, only too surely and quickly prove themselves to be abject failures when tested on the course or in the field. Vitality, stamina, courage, soundness, are the qualities which we desire to perpetuate in our breeds. The show ring does not test a single one of these. The winning post must be our only guide.
Is it doing its duty in the matter? This might be a matter for endless debate, but it is safe to say that it is not doing that duty nearly so well as it might. For in our play we are so apt to forget that, after all, it is not only sport that we are following, but that perhaps the safety of our Australian nation lies in the qualities of endurance and of speed in those beautiful creatures which we are looking upon as our playthings of to-day. One’s mind invariably flies, whilst thinking over these matters, to a future and a possible “War of Defence.” Britain, let us imagine, is hampered with a Continental foe. America is on her back, and fighting for her life upon the seas. And we are lying here in the sunshine, a beautiful woman without means of defence, without oil for our motors, without ammunition for our guns, without horses for our men. With ammunition, and with half a million of splendid horses, and even more splendid men, we might do wonders, even without oil, until help could arrive. Without horses and ammunition we would be immediately destroyed. And we are not taking the trouble to breed chargers and transport horses for the purposes of war. Indian buyers, private dealers, your own eyesight, will tell you that we are not producing the quantity, nor the quality which we were so proud of fifty, forty, aye, even thirty years ago. We have become careless. Our young men do not desire the glorious companionship which their fathers enjoyed, that loving friendship between horse and man. They fizz through their stations now in a motor car, or possibly they even fly through the air to the back of the run, and are home for luncheon. Their sires and their grand-sires on these distant excursions camped out for nights, their saddle for a pillow, their horses, in hobbles, not far distant from their side. My young gentleman of to-day could do it all if he tried, but he does not care to ride, and hunting is a bore. But what will his son be? It is the old, old story. Read your Gibbon, study your Grote.
“All Empires tumble, Rome and Greece,
Their swords are rust, their altars cold.”