Brave
sport, my masters! Gallant Britons ye are! Ah, how I should like to let
one of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like
boarhounds behind you!
There is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept
busy. Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at
their business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. If
the hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the
certainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant
sporting persecutors are going to ruin. Time after time, in monotonous
succession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized hares
twirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and
strength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the
sweet sun looks upon all!
Women, what do you think of that for Englishmen's pastime? Recollect
that the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense
daily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single
course--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands
are awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and,
although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your
husbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that
records the results in club and hotel--they may be risking their
substance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel.
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