I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much, people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner, to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places, and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me. But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a cheque for £700 to the office of Mr. Punch. I have often regretted the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate coup on the Turf, and above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse.
Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed surprise that my horse had not been a favourite, considering his agreeable exterior.
"Why, you Juggins," he answered, "Rumtifoo was a moral—everybody knew that; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot—the little idiot!"
I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor Rumtifoo was "moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the Ethics. He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a horse?
There is, apparently, more in horse-racing than meets the eye. I am not addicted to remembering much about the "previous performances" of horses, as some men are, who will tell you that Cynic was third in the Kelso Hunt Cup for last year, and that you ought to keep an eye on him for the Ayrshire Handicap. But I have remarked that horses are not like men; they do not always run almost equally well, though the conditions of the race seem similar. No doubt this is owing to the nervousness of the animal, who may be discouraged by the noise, the smell of bad tobacco, and so forth.
I have given up Racing. That was after last year's Ascot meeting. I was staying at a country house, some days before, and somehow I lost my betting-book. It is really extraordinary how things do get lost. Perhaps I left it in a railway carriage. Afterwards I tried to put my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of Plotinus, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost, and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache, and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember having made a favourable impression.
THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.
Monday, May 16.—Sound the trumpets, Beat the drums! All Hail to Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, the most successful Knight of the Season! A brilliant audience in a brilliant house lighted by thousands of additional electric lights, acclaimed with rapture the awakening of Opera. Philémon et Baucis began it, a work by GOUNOD (which is not intended for swearing) of great sweetness and light; and this was followed by PIETRO MASCAGNI's Cavalleria Rusticana, "Rustic Chivalry," which might be epigrammatically described as a "Clod-hoppera." Philémon et Baucis is charming. M. MONTARIOL was a capital Philémon, and Mlle. SIGRID ARNOLDSEN as Baucis, a sort of classical Little Bo-peep, received a hearty welcome on her return to the Covent Garden House and Home. M. PLANÇON was the thoroughly French Jupin, and M. CASTELMARY an amiable Vulcan; both most accomplished Divines. Altogether, a perfect quartette. The graceful intermezzo only escaped an encore because the knowing ones among the gods and groundlings felt that too much enthusiasm at first might do serious damage to the subsequent reception of the great intermezzo of the evening. All on qui vive for great intermezzo. Anticipations of event heard in the lobbies. Anxiety depicted on some countenances, but most features looking happy and hopeful. The members of what was once known as "the Organising Committee" nod encouragingly to one another as they pass to and fro; the officials and habitués exchange greetings without any expression of opinion. Sir DRURIOLANUS does not issue forth until the right moment, when he can shut up his opera-glass with a click, and give the word to Field-Marshal MANCINELLI to lead his men to the attack. For the present, "Wait" is the mot d'ordre, "and this," quoth a jig-maker, "is the only weight in the entire entertainment."
