But if there was no innocence on the turf, rogues could not live; they are not cannibals--not, at all events, while they can obtain tenderer food. And are there not commercial circles also which could not exist without their equally innocent supporters? Experience may be a dear school, but its lessons are never forgotten. A very little should go a long way, and the wisest make it go farthest. If any one wants a picture of innocence on the turf, let me give one of my own drawing, taken from nature. All my life I have loved animals, especially horses and dogs; and all field sports, especially hunting and racing. But I went on the turf with as much simplicity as a girl possesses at her first ball, knowing nothing about public form or the way to calculate odds, to hedge, or do anything but wonder at the number of fools there were in the world. I did not know "a thing or two," like the knowing ones who lose all they possess. Who could believe that men go about philanthropically to inform the innocent how to "put their money on," while they carefully avoid putting on their own? Tipsters, in short, were no part of my racing creed. I was not so ignorant as that. I believed in a good horse quite as much as Lord Rosebery does, and much more than I believed in a good rider. But there were even then honest jockeys, as well as unimpeachable owners. All you can say is, honesty is honesty everywhere, and you will find a good deal of it on the turf, if you know where to look for it; and its value is in proportion to its quantity. The moment you depart a hair's-breadth from its immaculate principle there is no medium state between that and roguery. However, be that as it may, I was once the owner of a pedigree thoroughbred called Dreadnought, which was presented to me when a colt. Dreadnought's dam Collingwood was by Muley Moloch out of Barbelle. Dreadnought was good for nothing as a racer, and had broken down in training. As a castaway he was offered to me, and I gladly accepted the present. As he was too young to work, I sent him down to ---- Park, to be kept till he was fit for use. He was there for a considerable time, and was then sent back in a neglected and miserable condition. I rode him for some time, until one day he took me to Richmond Park, and on going up the hill fell and cut both his knees to pieces and mine as well. This was a sad mishap, and, of course, I could have no further confidence in poor Dreadnought, fond of him as I was; so he was placed under the care of a skilful veterinary surgeon, who gave him every attention. His bill was by no means heavy, and he brought him quite round again. In the course of time he acquired a respectable appearance, although his broken knees, to say nothing of his "past," prevented his becoming valuable so far as I was concerned. Certainly I had no expectation of his ever going on to the turf. How could one believe that any owner would think of entering him for a race?