Where does the fun
come in for the onlookers? There is one good old thoroughbred which
remembers a fearful flogging that he received twenty-two years ago; if
he hears the voice of the man who lashed him, he sweats profusely, and
trembles so much that he is like to fall down. How is the breed of
horses directly improved by that kind of sport? No; the thousands of
wastrels who squander the day and render themselves unsettled and idle
for a week are not thinking of horses or of taking a healthy outing;
they are obeying an unhealthy gregarious instinct which in certain
circumstances makes men show clear signs of acute mania. If we look at
the unadulterated absurdity of the affair, we may almost be tempted to
rage like Carlyle or Swift. For weeks there are millions of people who
talk of little else save the doings of useless dumb animals which can
perform no work in the world and which at best are beautiful toys. When
the thoroughbreds actually engage in their contest, there is no man of
all the imposing multitude who can see them gallop for more than about
thirty seconds; the last rush home is seen only by the interesting
mortals who are on the great stand; and the entire performance which
interests some persons for a year is all over in less than three
minutes.
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