against a horse that can by no possibility
win: for "dead" is a metaphorical mode of
expressing the condition of an animal sure not to
run, or, if running, "made safe not to win."
In the old rude times of this profession, a
man, one Dawson, was hanged for poisoning a
batch of horses at Newmarket, in order to make
sure the bets of his employers, some of whom
were of considerable "turf" respectability; but
the march of knowledge has abolished such rude
methods, and it is found that a bucket of water
and a little hay administered by a bribed groomboy
at a wrong time, are less penal, and equally
effective in "stopping a flyer's gallop."

The great art of modern turf gambling is not
to ascertain what horse will win, but what horse
is sure, or can be made sure, to lose. A
stolid countenance, a comprehensive memory,
quick powers of calculation, hawk-like decision,
iron nerves, and no scruples, are the chief
elements of prosperity, in this now thoroughly
organised profession. If to these be added an
appearance of candour, either under the disguise
of blunt frankness, or bland politeness, greater
success is probable. Legs include men of all
ranks: successful pimps and broken country
squires. Even a convicted thief, if once
introduced into the ring, and punctual in his
payments, may become in a very few years a
great and honoured capitalist. Undoubtedly the
most successful are those who are unhampered
by the impediment of respectable associations,
recollections, or education. The keenest
graduate of Cambridge has little chance against
a calculating boy-groom. And it is among a
mob of these hard-headed, india-rubber-hearted
gentry that our callow youth, fresh from the
school and the university, plunge, in the hopeful
speculation of making a profit out of horse-
racing.

Wonderful are the mnemonics of the veterans
of five-and-twenty Derbys or St. Legers, and
cunning is the arithmetic which enables them to
calculate the odds at a moment's notice, a few
points in their own favour. Considering the
character we have on the Continent for cold-
blooded common sense, it is really extraordinary
to note how every year from the shop
and the factory—from the schools and the
universities—from the citizen's snug villa and
the peer's mansion—from the parsonage and
the dissenting minister's house—from the army
and even from the navy—a crowd of young and
tender aspirants for turf successes come forth to
feed and fatten these gentry. Of course, out of the
great annual supply of recruits to the turf, some
are endowed with special qualifications for
"robbery"—that is the playful term by which the turfman,
in his familiar moments, designates his large
hauls, his "great pots"—and thrive, or survive,
being by nature's gifts, although young, incipient
sharks—snakelings not yet come to their poison
teeth, or use of slime, or suffocating power of
tail. But the greater number of the juveniles
who pit their velvet skins against the tough-
hided, crafty Pythons, either perish in the
conflict, or retire permanently wounded.

To some, ruin means ten pounds; to others,
a hundred; to others, a thousand; to others,
ten thousand; of those who can afford to
lose and pay, some few return to honest
work, others sink to the lowest depths of
unsuccessful roguery. A select few acquire
strength as they go, after expending the income
of a German prince in acquiring experience. The
demigod of the passing generation of Turfites
is said to have lost a hundred thousand pounds
before he was able to turn the tables on his
tutors, and, by betting through commissioners
against his own horses, "sell the ring a real
bargain."

It is of him the story is told that, having
written instructions to one of his travelling
financial agents staying in Cottonopolis, to bet
for and against certain of his lordship's stud,
which were in favour with the public, but not
all intended to win, he was alarmed, after a
time, at seeing grave alterations in the price
current of the betting market. He received
no answer from his commissioner, and a special
messenger, after instituting searching inquiries,
ascertained that the letter, partly misdirected,
had never been delivered. But, by some mysterious
intuition, the sporting clerks of the post-
office happened to nave acted in accordance
with my lord's instructions.

No doubt there are unblemished gentlemen
who, being rich, acute, and calm, play with the
turf as they might play at whist, for nominal
stakes, and run their horses for pleasure without
troubling themselves with the toil of abstruse
combinations. To these the turf is a gentle
relaxation from more severe pursuits, and a means
of killing a little idle time.

There is a story current of a distinguished
nobleman who, many years ago, when he was poor
and not so famous as he is now, deferred paying
his "honest" trainer's bill so long and so
ingeniously, that the trainer was obliged to let his
lordship's filly win a great race, and thus squared
the account, leaving a balance for his employer.
But only a diplomatist of the first rank is equal
to such a feat.

Constant in his attendance at Newmarket is
the Earl of Gallowglass. For nearly forty years
he has never missed a race meeting there.
Violently rubbing his head, as if his whole fortune
depended on the event, he watches the running
of his remarkably unlucky colts and fillies,
which are found sometimes in front within a
few lengths of the winning-post, often second,
very rarely first, and thus soliloquises softly:
"Gallowglass wins—Gallowglass wins;" a
little louder, "Gallowglass wins!" in a scream,
"No he don't!—no he don't!" then, sotto
voce, as he walks his hack away in disgust,
"Gallowglass is a fool!" This enthusiastic old
gentleman has some forty or fifty thousand a
year, and spends ten thousand of it every year
in breeding, training, and running a most
unfortunate stud, considering, apparently like Charles
Fox, that, next to the pleasure of winning,
losing is the greatest pleasure in life. On the
same heath, which was solely dedicated to the