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Title: Baily's Magazine of Sports and Pastimes, Volume 85
       January to June, 1906

Author: Various

Release Date: April 26, 2018 [EBook #57055]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAILY'S MAGAZINE OF SPORTS ***




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CONTENTS.

Warner Francis John Plantagenet Hastings, fourteenth Earl of Huntingdon, was born in the year 1868. His career as a sportsman dawned three years later, for at that, we trust appreciative, age he was blooded with the old “H. H.” in the County Waterford, where his father, then Lord Hastings, hunted a part of the old Curraghmore country, and what is now the territory of the Coshmore and Coshbride Hunt. The late Earl, it may be observed, in 1872 became Master of the Ormond and King’s County, and held office until 1882.

The subject of our portrait was reared in the atmosphere of sport which is so peculiarly strong in Ireland; indeed, so intimate have been his relations with hounds and hunting from his earliest days, that he says he was “reared in the kennels.” He lost no time in mastering the art of handling a pack, having owned and hunted beagles at the age of fourteen. He kept a regular pack of harriers in 1886, and showed good sport with them. In 1897, being then twenty-nine years old, he was asked to accept the mastership of the Ormond, in succession to Mr. Asheton Biddulph, which he did, carrying the horn himself, and hunting the country to the great satisfaction of field and farmers alike until 1904. During the season 1900–1901 the Earl hunted the East Galway twice a week in addition to the Ormond, bringing his hounds over from Sharavogue by van. Though a veritable “glutton for work” where hunting is concerned, he confesses that this was a very arduous season. On one occasion he had to get home forty Irish miles (which is about fifty Statute miles) after hunting: this, we imagine, must be the record back home. He was frequently out from 7 a.m. till ten at night; and when it is remembered that he was hunting hounds five days a week, we think it will be admitted that to continue such work long would have killed Squire Osbaldeston himself.

During his first (1897–98) season of mastership in the Ormond country he also kept (and of course hunted) a pack of harriers. These, with the foxhounds, gave him enough to do. One day he had the bitch pack out cubbing in the early morning; came home to breakfast; took the dog pack out cubbing till lunch time; came home to lunch; had out the harriers in the afternoon, and enjoyed sport with all three. Had there been light and another pack of hounds convenient, we make no doubt the indefatigable master would have gone out again after dinner; but the day’s work as it stands probably occupies a unique position in the annals of hunting.

In 1903, Lieut.-Colonel Harrison acting deputy master for him in the Ormond country, he came over to England and acted as huntsman of the North Staffordshire, Messrs. Phillips and Dobson being masters; and in 1904 he assumed the mastership of the Hunt. We may here remark that this is the twentieth season he has carried the horn with beagles, harriers, and foxhounds, having hunted as well deer and otter. As he has hunted with no fewer than fifty-eight different packs of all sorts in his time, Lord Huntingdon’s experience is probably about as varied as that of any man now living. He hunted much in Leicestershire while still keeping his harriers, Somerby being his centre. Of good runs he has borne part in many; he thinks one of the best he ever saw was that with the Belvoir from Harley to Staunton on December 14th, 1892, one hour and thirty minutes.

Lord Huntingdon has played polo for many years. He is President of the King’s County Club, also the Crystal Palace Polo Club, and is a member of the Roehampton, Ranelagh, and other clubs; for many seasons he played back in the King’s County Irish team for the County Cup.

A first-class rabbit and rifle shot, he is fond of the gun, and since he took Madeley Manor from Lord Crewe has begun preserving there; this, however, is his first season at Madeley, and a few years later will no doubt see a much larger head of game there than now exists. He used to do a little racing and also a little race-riding; in 1898 he won the private sweepstakes at Croxton Park, on Captain Herbert Wilson’s Sailor, in a good field of sixteen starters.

He has twice visited the United States, and has been in Canada, Japan, and China, but has not done much big game shooting. Interested in yachting, he is Commodore of the Lough Dearg Corinthian Club. He fishes when he has nothing else to do, principally in the Shannon and Lough Dearg; but with his numerous occupations we gather that the occasions when he has leisure to use the salmon rod are somewhat rare. He is a keen motorist, and drives a great deal; the machine he now uses is a 24–40 h.p. Fiat.

For some years he kept a stud in Ireland and bred horses of various breeds; he has now given this up, but still breeds a few half-breds at Sharavogue.

Lord Huntingdon, who is a Deputy-Lieutenant of the King’s County, retired last year as Lieut.-Colonel of the 3rd Batt. Prince of Wales’ Leinster Regiment. He was unable to go to South Africa, owing to an accident. He succeeded his father in the earldom in 1885. In 1892 he married Maud Margaret, second daughter of Sir Samuel Wilson, late M.P. for Portsmouth, by whom he has a son, Francis, born 1901, and three daughters, who are very keen sportswomen, and never so happy as when riding to hounds. Lord Huntingdon is also very fond of driving four horses, and until motoring started made many driving tours with his yellow coach and team of greys. Lady Huntingdon is also very fond of hunting, and is out regularly with the North Staffordshire. One of Lord Huntingdon’s brothers is the well-known gentleman rider, the Hon. A. Hastings.

The family of Hastings is a very old one. John of Hastings was Seneschal of Aquitaine, and a claimant to the throne of Scotland. Sir William, who became first Baron Hastings, was Master of the Mint under King Edward IV., and first coined the piece known as a “noble.” The first Baron became very powerful, and was eventually beheaded by Richard Duke of Gloucester. The third Baron attended Henry VIII. in his French wars, and was present at the capture of Tournay in 1513; it was this ancestor who became the first Earl.

In our school-boy days there were very few of us who could resist the opportunity of having a good stuffing, especially at Christmas, when the mince pies and plum puddings were an extra attraction, and when even the most austere of mothers did not gainsay our desires, although knowing full well that our penalty would follow in the shape of a black dose, or something worse.

It is not, however, to boyhood alone that Christmas has its temptations, and its feasts have their unpleasant accompaniments of dyspepsia and derangement, and we as in our boyhood lie down only to indulge in dreams and nightmares. The remembrance of these phantasies of a disordered stomach have a knack of being difficult to shake off, so much so, that I have determined for this once to chalk down some of the ideas that seem this Christmas indelibly written on my brain, and thus to rid myself of them.

I was carried sometimes into the near future, and then again into remoter times, yet ever onwards, wondering that there was no finality, no halting place, no respite from the excitement which relentless time casts upon our little world of sport.

I was bent on hunting, but I looked in vain at my front door for my hunter or hack. Instead, I found a horseless machine, which whirled me dizzily away against my will, and landed me amongst a throng of people with like machines, and clad like Laplanders, so much so that I turned over in bed, and shouted vainly for the sight of a horse and hound. The scene changed, and I was in a throng of gay horsemen and women at the covert side, and the odour of violets and nosegays was not wanting. Positions were continually shifting, chiefly through the threatening heels of ill-tempered horses, when on a sudden a whistle sounded, followed by one shrill blast of a horn, and away went the throng, blindly as it seemed, jostling and pushing, each one thinking only of himself or herself. Carried away as I was, only a unit in this surging crowd, I had little time to collect my thoughts—all I know was that I saw no hounds, only just indistinctly heard them at starting. Yes, before us were white flags at regular intervals, and here and there a red one, from which the ever lengthening cavalcade in their gallop turned aside, and I heard the words “wheat,” “beans,” or “seeds” growled out by our leaders. Where the white flags predominated in front of us the hedges had been cut down and levelled, as if for a steeplechase. There were visions of that demon barbed wire on either hand, but I learnt that those white flags meant safety. The jostling soon ceased, but loose horses came as a fresh trial to my troubled brain, and, oh, the shaves I experienced to keep clear of them. Then we crossed a road, where a liveried hunt servant stood sentinel over the motor brigade, that but for him would have barred our way. After this all was confused galloping and jumping, until the horn sounded in a wooded hollow, and there was a baying of hounds at a hole, which betokened the end of a twenty-five minutes’ gallop after this supposed fox (if, indeed, it was one), but it was several more minutes before that strung-out array of riders drew together again, mopping and mud-stained, yet masterful in their happiness. They had had their gallop, the motors were near at hand, grooms were requisitioned from them, and thus away went the majority of that gay throng, back to their cities and suburbs, leaving but a few to work out the rest of the day in the woodlands, when I can distinctly swear that they found a fox, for I saw him cross a ride—a mangy little beggar was he—and we revelled in no more green fields that day. But, ah, I forgot to say that before starting a hat was thrust in front of me, whose owner whispered, “For the farmers’ field fund, please sir.” Only gold was taken!

And I awoke finding myself in a train, whose engine neither puffed nor smoked—all went by electricity.

And soliloquising, as I rubbed my eyes, the interpretation meant hunting in A.D. 1925. Again I dreamt. I was on a racecourse on a June day, when all was bright and beautiful. Such gorgeous stands, such crowds of fashionable and unfashionable people, such an array of motoring machines lining the course opposite the stands, such order and regularity, no hoarsely-shouting crowd of betting men, no Tattersall’s Enclosure. What did it all mean? The numbers were up in blazing letters of the runners for the first race. Was racing to be carried on in dumb show? I looked again, and beheld people like bees clustering round some low buildings, pigeonholed like enlarged telegraph offices, and numbers and names of horses figured here. There the money flowed in with startling rapidity. In some places only cheques and notes were received, in others gold, in others silver, and all payers had a diminutive numbered receipt. Then came the race. Each horse accurately numbered, and silence no longer reigned. An electric gong proclaimed the start, and thousands of eyes and thousands of voices bore witness to their excitement as the horses swept towards the winning post. What has won? The judge has touched one of a set of electric buttons that are in his box, and the winner’s number is simultaneously shown in half-a-dozen conspicuous places. Soon tinkles a bell on the top of the low building, and thither fly the bees to gather the honey that they have won. But this time they find their gains on the opposite side of the building from which their money was deposited. All the takings have been counted like magic, the winning number sweeps the pool, after due deduction made by way of percentage for much that the country stands in need of.

I noticed, too, that bright liveried messengers plied amongst the stalls and boxes of the stands, doing the work of payment and receipt for the brilliant company sitting there. All this was repeated again and again, until my brain became accustomed to it. Presently, as if to cast a shadow on the gay scene, a red disc appeared on the number-board. “Objection.” The paying-out pigeonholes were closed for that race, and we held our breath; but not for long, since the tribunal of stewards had been chosen beforehand, and unless the subject of the objection had to be adjourned unavoidably, the disc soon proclaimed “Over-ruled” or “Sustained,” and the pay-boxes for that race were opened after the last race of the day.

Here ready money ruled the day. The welsher had been forgotten; the bookmaker had turned backer; the plunger could not find himself below the bottom of his purse; and roguery was worsted.

The Jockey Club at that time was no longer wholly self elective. There was a certain proportion of its members affiliated by election to it, as representing the racecourse interests and owners, outside mere aristocratic connections. It was to them that the reforms in turf management were mainly due. Can all this really come to pass? It is but a dream, and I am awake. Nevertheless, that the totalizer or tote, as it is called in Australia, or the pari mutuel, as it is termed in France, or the pool, as it is more likely to find its name in this country, is destined ere long to become here also the rule of betting is my firm conviction, and with it will come aids to agriculture and assistance to poverty, as well as in alleviation of bodily suffering, such as will recommend it to peer and peasant alike.

Once again I dreamt, and my dream was of the future. It was shooting that filled my troubled brain. A letter was before me inviting me to a great battue, and yet it could not be intended for me, as a high rocketting pheasant requires to be of haystack proportions in order to suffer death at my hands. Nevertheless, it ran thus: “Dear ——, Will you do me the honour of joining our party for shooting my coverts during the week beginning the —— day of November? We hope to kill at least 3,000 pheasants. My land steward will send you full particulars of the rules which regulate my sport, to which I hope you will find no objection.” And this was what the steward said: “Dear Sir,—I am directed by Mr. —— to inform you that the following are the regulations which dominate his shooting, and which it is my duty to see carried out. No tips are allowed.

“Shooting will commence at 10.30 each day.

“A map will be furnished each day to you showing the beats and stands for the guns numbered in the usual way. Everything will be supplied you, except a loader, and any excess above 1,000 cartridges. Low flying birds may be passed by. A whistle will sound at the commencement of each beat.

“Lunch will be at 1 p.m., and will be announced by a gong. In case of rain, canvas covering will be provided over the shooting stands. A motor-car will meet you on Monday on the arrival of the train, and convey you to the Hall, and a like conveyance on Saturday will convey you back to the station.

“Enclosed is a banker’s order, which you will kindly fill up for the sum of £5, and return same, which goes to form the keepers’ fund.”

He might have added, but it was not on the circular, that a light dose of sal volatile will be provided to allay the headache which each day’s battue was likely to cause. Yet the method and completeness of arrangement impressed me.

I turned in my bed thinking of my spaniels and retrievers, and the many enjoyable raids I had had with them, when there appeared before me an autograph circular from a well-known London sporting agent, and thus it ran. “The Earl of ——— has arranged for the coming season to invite five approved guns to shoot over his extensive Norfolk estate in company with three guns of his own choice. The sport will extend over eleven days, six of which will be partridge drives, and five pheasant shoots. The bag should amount to at least 3,000 partridges and 4,000 pheasants. The appointed days for shooting will be fixed by the Earl. Terms, 300 guineas for each gun, to include all expenses, to be paid me in advance. All applications for this exceptional offer must be made to me on or before the —— day of ——— next, and guns will be accepted in their order of merit.”

I awoke. And so this was the shooting sport of A.D. 1925! Well, perhaps by that time the people of this country will for the most part have become Daniel Lamberts, and sitting or standing behind butts, and having all the more or less tame creatures for their slaughter brought to them, will be their only means of enjoyment. Thank heaven that your scribe will not survive to see these days, although we are already becoming very luxurious in our pursuit of shooting. Perhaps our middle-aged and older men will tell you that they are able to get this exercise in the enjoyment of golf, and that this is a set-off against the limited exercise that shooting now exhibits, and this may save them from falling a prey to fatty degeneration of the heart.

These dreams are horrible phantasies that we have to indulge in whether we like them or not, and seldom are they pleasant, nor will they come at call. I tried to dream into the future of fishing, a sport I love so well. But, alas! the spirit moved me not. Those lusty trout and grayling, and those sportive salmon, refused to be allured by any new means; their ways were just the same, and no newly-defined artifices sufficed to bring them to hand more easily or with less practical skill. Only the ranks of their enemies seemed to have increased. More and more fishermen came on the scene, who sought them out farther and wider throughout remote countries, and more money and greater artifice was employed to effect their capture, so that their preservation became a question of the day, as it has, indeed, become so to-day.

Your younger readers will perhaps hail with delight these halcyon days of sport, which, if my dreams have any portent, are destined to come upon us all the more swiftly, seeing that riches as they accumulate bring in their train luxury and indulgence, and that it is to wealth that our landed estates must come, unless they are destined to be swept away by the flood of social democracy, which, thank God, does not come within the scope of my dreams, for if so, “I had,” as Shakespeare says, “passed a miserable night, so full of ghastly dreams.”

If perchance, however, my dreams should prove ominous, let me implore you who in the radiance of youth have the opportunity of guiding and shaping the destiny of sport, to hold fast by the truer principles which have hitherto held sport so high in this country, casting aside its meretricious aids and surroundings, which only sap its true vitality, and would fain emasculate its worth to us as a nation. Stand fast by “the horse and hound,” and maintain a deaf ear to the tempter that whispers of the gorgeous trappings and luxurious surroundings, which are the death role of genuine sport.

Shakespeare once more comes to my mind when in “Troilus and Cressida” he exclaims, “My dreams will sure prove ominous to-day.”

P.S.—Since writing the above article, I read with pleasure that the first blow has been struck at the Gimcrack Dinner by Mr. Hall Walker in favour of the Totalisator. He is not only an extensive owner of racehorses and a successful breeder, but also a man who has had ample opportunity of thinking out this subject from a national standpoint. This freely expressed opinion of Mr. Hall Walker’s on betting reform will, let us hope, bear fruit, even if it is after many days.

It might raise a considerable amount of discussion to assert that the foxhound had a longer line of ancestry than other breeds brought under the fostering care of Englishmen, but this much can be said, that when public opinion was turning towards the correct methods for the attainment of animal perfection, interest was taken in foxhounds similar to that taken in the racehorse, the shorthorn, or the red Devon. Could such a date be accepted at about 1730?—which was nearly a quarter of a century before Eclipse was foaled. The newly formed Ormesby stock of shorthorns was then about to be removed to Ketton, near Darlington, and the Davys and Quartlys had not commenced their improvements on the Devons. But there is evidence that foxhounds were beginning to be thought of at the time, and by 1750 a great many noblemen and gentlemen were very intent on hound breeding.

FOXHOUNDS

From the Painting by P. Reinagle.]

The Dukes of Beaufort had hounds, bred and walked at Badminton; the Pelhams had already formed the Brocklesby; Mr. Hugo Meynell had friends enough to apply to for hounds to hunt Leicestershire three or four days a week; and there were North country packs of fairly large dimensions. It was, indeed, a very interesting subject, and it is not a little singular that the idea of breeding hounds on scientific principles commenced at almost the same time as a change was taking place in regard to the animal to be hunted. Nearly half the eighteenth century had passed away before our forefathers had given up the custom of hunting the wild stag and the hare as almost the only quarries to be hunted on a line of scent. Just as the story of the Silk Wood run relates that the fifth Duke of Beaufort changed from stag to fox, because the latter gave the better burst, and laid himself out for a more open country, there was a general consensus of opinion that the time had come for a great breed of hounds to be carefully bred and trained for this special running. The bold onward style and cunning of the fox wanted something with more dash than was required for the short-running deer, or the hare always wanting to retrace her own foil. The fox taught that exquisite forward cast that almost sums up the pleasure of hunting; and the faster hounds will throw themselves on a line that is always well ahead of them, the more exhilarating is the sport. That is what the old pioneers of foxhunting lived for, and one may suppose it was brought about by selecting the hounds of the day that possessed the particular dash required. At any rate, old letters and manuscripts show that a vast number of sportsmen became very keen in regard to breeding such hounds. Long journeys were taken to secure their blood, and as one of the pleasantest of sporting writers has curtly put it, “the love of foxhunting was well in the air.”

It is almost incredible what the sportsmen of 1750 did do. As Mr. Pelham, the ancestor of the Earls of Yarborough lent a hound called Jimper to Lord Percival in 1760, and as he was stated to be by one called Rockwood, there is a suggestion of a back pedigree at that time. In fact, there was another of Mr. Pelham’s of 1760 called Marquis, by Rockwood a son of Rattler, by Lord Monson’s Mischief. Again, there is another of Mr. Pelham’s in 1766, by Tickler son of Ferrymann by Twister out of Careful, a daughter of Lord Granby’s Danger. Sir Walter Vavasour appears to have been in the thick of the hound furore of the time, and so does Sir Roland Winnes, Mr. Hassell, Mr. Watson of Old Malton, Mr. Lane Fox, Lord Middleton, and the then Duke of Devonshire.

But for the fact that lists were not generally kept in these early days, there is every reason to think that present hound pedigrees could be traced from the hounds of 1730 or 1740, but the registration departments of many of the great kennels could not have been very perfect as although Brocklesby can boast of records to 1713, there must have been some breaks up to 1745, when Mr. Pelham—afterwards the first Lord Yarborough—saw the necessity of keeping such accounts of breeding clearly and regularly, and so kept his stud books in his own handwriting. Whether this practice lapsed or not is not recorded, but when Mr. Tongue (Cecil) formulated his stud book, he could not go much further back than 1787; or at least that was the last date he gave to a hound called Dover, by Lord Monson’s Driver out of Whimsey. Cecil was a most industrious investigator, and he would have gone back to the Ark with sufficient evidence for the undertaking. As a matter of fact, my old friend, who gave me most of his hound lists, pulled up at something like the years referred to, his very latest date being 1779, when mentioning a bitch called Rosamond, by Mr. Meynell’s Roister out of Lord Ludlow’s Tasty. Of course, in making such researches, the difficulties to overcome are that many packs have been dispersed, and so records have ended. That really happened to Mr. Meynell’s, Lord Ludlow’s, Mr. John Muster’s, and Lord Monson’s, to the detriment of perhaps the hereditary packs that had been indebted to them for blood.

Considering that several changes have taken place in its history during the past hundred and fifty years, it is remarkable that so much hereditary material is forthcoming from Lord Middleton’s pack, but this is partially due to the fact that one man and his son after him were the huntsmen to it for nearly eighty years. These were William Carter and Tom Carter, the former being in office when Sir Tatton Sykes took on the country (with his brother, Sir Mark Masterman Sykes), that is now occupied by Lord Middleton. That was in 1804, but William Carter, who must have been an intelligent fellow, and particularly fond of dates and pedigrees, knew all the hounds from 1764. The book he compiled—and which is at the present time in the possession of Lord Middleton—was really perfectly kept, and through its pages some of the entries can be most certainly traced up to Cecil’s Stud Book, published in 1864, and so on to occupants of the kennel benches to-day.

I have no doubt that several lines can be taken, but I turn, for example, to a bitch called Jointress, who had quite a large family, in different litters, numbering about sixteen couples. She was out of Rosamond, 1775, by Sir William Vavasour’s Twister, out of Doxey, and the line had still greater extent, as Jointress had a sister called Jessamy, who was almost as prolific in producing good ones. Amongst the daughters of Jointress was Magic, and the latter had a daughter called Prudence, whose descendants came into the pack that was transferred by Mr. C. Duncombe to Sir Masterman Sykes; but William Carter, in his note to that effect, declares that most of these hounds were drafted. There is, however, the strongest evidence that Prudence produced a son called Pillager, and he was the sire of another Prudence, and in like manner a dog called Fairplay—from Famous, a daughter of Jointress—was a notable sire, and a son of his called Fairplay came into the Sykes’ pack at the above-mentioned date; he was the sire of Brilliant and Blossom, entered in 1805, and Brilliant was the sire of Boaster and Blue-Cap, and also of Blossom, Barrister, and Barmaid. Blossom subsequently produced in 1814 three couples, named Bounty, Blue-Cap, Beauty, Barmaid, Boundless and Bloomy; and Blossom likewise produced in another litter Bachelor, Barrister, and Blameless. Of these Blue-Cap certainly became a sire of note, and two and a half couples in two litters were put on by him in 1823, and one couple the year before. Sir Tatton Sykes appears to have stuck to this line, as Barrister, son of Blue-Cap, was also bred from, and was the sire of Brusher, Topper, Blue-Cap, Bachelor, and Blossom, and this last-named Blue-Cap was the sire of Bellman and Barrister of 1834. Then Bonny Lass was by Brusher, and she was the dam of Bellmaid. However, the very best branch of this family tree became noticeable in 1832, when Blossom, the sister to Blue-Cap, was mated to the Osbaldeston Flagrant, and the result was three couples of puppies all put on in 1833; they were Furrier, Ferryman, Finder, Famous, Flagrant and Favorite. Flagrant was possibly the best, as he was bred from in his second season, and produced Dreadnought, Domo and Desperate for the 1835 entry; but Famous in 1838 had a couple and a half in the entry, and Desperate had a daughter called Dainty entered in 1841. Primrose, a daughter of Famous, was by Bondsman, one of the family, and so Primrose was inbred to it. It may be thought that Bondsman was the sheet anchor really of the sort, as he must have lived to be a nine-season hunter, and one of his daughters, Music, and two of her sons, Denmark and Vulcan, were in the pack that the eighth Lord Middleton took over from Sir Tatton Sykes in 1853. There is more of the blood besides in the Birdsall Kennel at the present time, and so with a clear pedigree of a hundred and thirty years, to the good bitch Jointress of 1778, and her descent is easily traceable to 1764.

Lord Middleton has another line, though that is quite as certain in straining through the sixth Lord Middleton’s Vanguard and Darling to the famous Corbet Trojan; and let it be known that all the Oakley Driver sort—and there are none better at the present moment—trace to it through the late Mr. Arkwright’s Cromy by Lord Middleton’s Chanticleer, and so on to Vanguard, and his dam, Traffic, a great-granddaughter of Trojan’s. There has been a fortunate dependence on the fame of many noted hounds, such as Trojan, Vanguard, and, a little later still, to the Osbaldeston Furrier. The great Squire was so celebrated for everything that pertained to sport, that his declaration of Furrier being the very best hound he had ever hunted in his life told immensely with the great judges who became his successors, Mr. G. S. Foljambe, Sir Richard Sutton, Lord Henry Bentinck, and Mr. Nicholas Parry. They made Furrier the corner-stone of all their kennel-breeding operations, and so it is not difficult to-day to trace the excellence of Lord Galway’s Barrister blood, the Dorimont blood of the Blankney, all that remains of the Puckeridge, and the old Quorn Dryden family to Furrier. The most popular sire of to-day, the Belvoir Stormer, hits, according to my making out, thirteen times to Furrier, and in Weathergage it was certainly noticeable eight times. In all the great hounds talked of in the last quarter of a century, such as the Fitzhardinge Cromwell, the Belvoir Weathergage, the Croome Rambler, the Grafton Woodman, the Southwold Freeman, or the Quorn Alfred, there is the line to the little black and white—some have said shabby-looking hound—Furrier, who was got by the Belvoir Saladin in 1820, Saladin being by Sultan, by Lord Sefton’s Sultan by Mr. Hugo Meynell’s Guzman, of 1794, and Guzman was by German, also belonging to Mr. Meynell. On the female line Furrier was related to the Badminton Topper, and Sir William Lowther’s Dashwood to a bitch called Amorous, of 1791. This is as far as “Cecil” thought it advisable to go.

Mr. G. S. Foljambe, in the year 1835, had got some double hitting to the Furrier family, as he bred the brothers Herald and Harbinger, by the Osbaldeston Ranter, son of Furrier, out of Harpy by Herald son of Hermit, son of Saladin, the sire of Furrier. From the brothers in question Mr. Foljambe bred almost a pack. His Layman of 1861 was by Nectar, son of Nectar of 1849, and the latter’s dam was Princess by Harbinger, whilst the dam of the first-mentioned Nectar was Conquest, her dam Captive by Herald. Barrister of 1860 hit twice to Layman, and so again to the memorable brothers, and their blood was also in Sportsman and Forester, and very much again in Lord Henry Bentinck’s Contest, who was by Comus, son of Mr. Foljambe’s Herald, out of Sanguine, by the same gentleman’s Sparkler, by Singer, son of Streamer, by the Vine Pilgrim out of Sybil, by the Osbaldeston Ranter, son of Furrier. This is all combined in modern day pedigrees, and especially through Sir Richard Sutton’s Dryden, son of the Burton Contest, as he was the sire of Destitute the dam of the famous Belvoir Senator, again through the Croome Rambler, a descendant of the above Contest on his sire’s side, and through the Grove Barrister’s on his dam’s. Also to the Belvoir Weathergage, who was by Warrior, son of Wonder, son of Chanticleer, son of Chaser, son of Brocklesby Rallywood, who traced three times to Furrier, and then there was Royalty, the dam of Weathergage, got by Rambler, brother to the third Rallywood. It may well appear that the perfection of hound breeding was gained through their ancestry to the Osbaldeston Furrier, and principally by the means of four hounds selected to perpetuate the sort by probably two of the greatest masters of hound breeding ever heard of—Mr. G. S. Foljambe, who relied on Harbinger and Herald, and Mr. Nicholas Parry, who chose Pilgrim and Rummager. The last line to old Furrier might have been lost in the changes of time, but it looks now as if it will be stronger than ever through the policy that has been pursued of late by the Marquis of Zetland, Mr. Edward Barclay, the present Master of the Puckeridge, and Captain Standish, the Master of the Hambledon, through four and a half couples of whelps purchased in 1894 by the Hon. L. Baring at the Puckeridge break-up sales. Captain Standish is also breeding from the present Puckeridge Cardinal, who inherits the old strain from Gulliver. High breeding and to follow in the steps of the old master’s must do a great deal, as after all is said and done they must have known much about it a hundred years ago. The picture which accompanies this paper is dated 1804, and called “Foxhounds,” by Philip Reinagle, R. A.; Sir Walter Gilbey in his interesting work on animal painters tells us that Reinagle was born in 1749, and that he commenced to paint hunting scenes when about thirty-four years old, in consequence of his intense love of sport. He must have known all about it by the running of the pack in the distance, and by the two hounds with their heads at just the right level for that exquisite pose known as heads up, sterns down, and racing.

When the difficulties confronting the introduction and development of the modern motor-car are taken into consideration, the progress made may be regarded as remarkable. Although, as usual in mechanical matters, this country originated the idea, and had steam road carriages in use nearly a century ago, they succumbed to popular prejudices, were virtually interdicted, and the act of liberation came only in 1896, when the success of the internal combustion engine had revived them in a different form. Before they were again permitted to be used in England, France and other countries had obtained a decided lead in their design and construction, and for the last nine years British makers have been engaged in a keen struggle to regain what they lost by the tardy removal of their prohibition. That we have at last succeeded in holding our own in the competition was amply demonstrated by the exhibition held at Olympia in November last. Here the home productions compared favourably in every respect with the finest specimens from abroad; indeed, the show in Paris last month, though its artistic setting was superior, hardly afforded a better display, and was less international in character.

Automobilism may be regarded as still in its infancy, and although the late show introduced no revolutionary methods in principle or construction, it is impossible to foretell what radical changes may be brought about in course of time. At present the explosion engine carries all before it, but the use of steam has by no means been abandoned. Its advantages in flexibility and facility of control stand it in good stead, and although it costs more in fuel, this has become a matter of minor importance. The steam car is still engaging the attention of a few firms, and it may yet become a useful and acceptable type of vehicle. During the past year there has been a marked advance in every detail of construction, whilst the upholstering and appointments of the more pretentious cars have made them most luxurious equipages, the coachbuilder’s art being combined with the highest mechanical skill.

In the electric car, it is possible that those driven by petrol may, at some future time, find a serious competitor. The electric broughams used in towns exhibit the high state-of efficiency obtained by the employment of this propulsive agent, and the absence of noise and smell. Their future, however, depends upon the discovery of much more efficient accumulators or upon the establishment throughout the country of electrical charging stations, and until such time as one or other of these conditions is fulfilled their use must be limited to towns or the neighbourhood of works where their supply of electricity can alone be replenished.

The most important improvement introduced of late in connection with the motor is that of the six-cylinder engine. This stands to the credit of an English firm, and although when it was first brought out little was thought of it, experience has proved it to be of the greatest value, and it is being adopted by some of the best firms on the Continent. With fewer cylinders there are longer intervals between each recurring explosion, and the severity of each impulse has to be softened by the use of a heavy fly-wheel, which takes the jar off the driving gear, to which it communicates the power in a less violent and more protracted form. By the use of six cylinders a much greater continuity of propulsive effort is obtained, and to develop the same amount of power the violence of each explosion is diminished, with the result that there is greater smoothness in the running and less strain on the mechanism. Eight cylinders have been used by another firm, but it remains to be seen whether any advantage will be gained commensurate with the increased complication involved.

It is satisfactory to note that serious attention is now being given to the closing in of automobiles, and the latest car built for His Majesty the King is an instance of the advance made in this direction. No one would voluntarily ride in an ordinary open carriage in cold and wintry weather, yet people become so easily wedded to custom that they will travel long distances in open motor cars and expose themselves to the rigours of the blast of air that visits them with three times the severity, by reason of the speed at which they travel, that it would in a horse-drawn carriage. In the more commodious cars there is no difficulty in complying with a condition so essential to the comfort of the occupants; for, as it is, motoring in winter is a trying ordeal to all but the most robust. The motor car has assumed the form of an open conveyance owing to the fact that it has been developed on racing rather than utilitarian lines, and to the diminution of wind resistance being necessary to the attainment of high speeds. This is a factor of small account, however, when the pace is kept within legal or reasonable limits.

The dress of the motorist is fashioned and designed with a view to protect him from the effects of exposure to the weather, and in the more or less futile attempt to keep him warm when his journey is a long one and the day chilly. With the covered-in car the unsightly garments, masks, and goggles with which he has had perforce to bedeck himself, and which have brought much ridicule upon him, will be rendered unnecessary, and ladies and gentlemen when driving will be able to adopt more rational costumes than those which have distinguished them in the past.

Pneumatic tyres, which constitute the most costly item in the upkeep of a car, have been greatly improved, and retain their supremacy; for it is only by their use that high speeds are attainable and endurable. Not only do they conduce to comfort by their elasticity, but they save the mechanism from the severe shocks it would otherwise sustain in passing over rough roads. Metal-studded bands are coming largely into use for the double purpose of obtaining a better grip on slippery surfaces and preventing punctures, while at the same time they save the tyres from much wear and tear. Solid rubber tyres are offered as substitutes for pneumatics on slower and cheaper cars, and for various commercial vehicles, and sundry attempts are being made by the provision of springs to compensate for the elasticity they lack.

Up to the present time there are few signs of any appreciable reduction in the prices of cars, for, so far, improvements in details and the additions to their equipment have absorbed whatever may otherwise have been saved by economies in construction. Some unpretentious but serviceable little cars of limited capacity may, however, be now obtained at something over £100, whilst those who are prepared to spend double this amount will have a wide choice. Not until types become fixed and standardisation of component parts becomes possible can prices be materially reduced.

It has been the fashion to say that since grouse driving became a science the proportion of birds killed and left upon the moors is only a question of the will of the occupier. This season, in Scotland at any rate, has proved that this is not the case. Although there were not many moors perhaps where more grouse ought to have been killed, there were a good many where it was attempted to slay more than proved to be possible. The fact is, when the grouse take to the tops they are practically safe; especially is this the case when these tops are the “march” between two shootings. Then the grouse see the flankers as King Louis of France saw the figures of men in Tenier’s pictures. They look “like maggots,” and grouse are not afraid of those immature insects, although they do not eat them. It is the height and the angle that make all the difference in driving grouse that have become wild enough to take to the “tops,” for the very object of resorting to these altitudes seems to be the better to keep watch and ward against the arrival of the enemy.

As the season advances in the Highlands, bags quickly sink from hundreds of brace per day to tens, and very soon after this they would sink to units were it thought worth while to organise driving parties for the units; but it is not, and consequently the Highland grouse are growing to be almost as difficult to regulate in point of numbers, and more difficult in point of sex, than they were before driving came in. For the latter practice has everywhere increased the wild habit; it has not merely taught existing birds wildness for the time being, but the habit of standing up to look for danger instead of crouching in the heather to hide from it, has become hereditary and instinctive where driving has been the longest practised. Unless moors are very hilly this habit does not much matter, because, provided grouse can be properly flanked and flagged, they can also be driven, but on the tops in Scotland this is not possible, and the outcome is unfortunately that too many of the hens and the young males get killed on the flat ground. The old cocks are the first to take possession of their fastnesses, the tops, and there they remain until, in the breeding season, they take possession of the best breeding sites and drive away all the younger and more healthy birds. The worst feature of this is that these old cocks are like master swans, and think they require a kingdom for themselves, a kingdom without subjects, for none of their kind are permitted to live near them. Consequently the birds left to breed may be numerous, and yet be of no use. They have to move off at breeding time because of the persecution of the old birds. There is no much employed method of getting rid of these old cocks when driving them fails in the hills. There was one before the days of driving, but it is almost a lost art. This was called “becking.”

The practice of becking was very simple and easy to learn, indeed the grouse themselves teach it better than any schoolmaster. Any time in August, when the shooting lodge is really on the moor and not under it, one has but to sleep with an open window, and the first sound of the coming day to greet the awakening sleeper will be object lessons in becking. It is a habit of the proud old cock grouse to challenge each other in the morning. This they do by fluttering up into the air vertically some ten or a dozen feet and crowing. Rarely is the challenge accepted in the autumn, probably because these old grouse have long ago settled their differences, and one no longer trespasses on the ground of the other. Each is king of his brood and ready to defend his castle, but neither will enter willingly into the domain of another bird. Nature is at peace with herself. But when the moorland keeper arises before light and gets upon the moor before the grouse are awake, when he hides in some peat hag, or other shelter, and starts to crow, every old cock grouse within earshot becomes angry at the unknown voice of an intruder, and instantly the challenge is accepted. The intruder not being in a position to go out in search of mortal combat the oldest inhabitant comes to seek him, but instead meets a charge of shot, which unceremoniously, and in revolt of sporting feeling, knocks him over on the ground without giving him the proverbial chance for his life.

Before driving game came in, this was the only way to find grouse for the table, after the spirit of winter wildness had entered into the birds. Nobody thought of it as sport, but the keepers knew of it as a necessity in preserving, for the reason that it killed off the old cocks and none besides. It was an automatic selection of the most unfit, and had it been practised beyond the necessity of the table of the owner, would have done much more for the stock than any other thing could. But it was confined and limited by the state of the larder. Now even this demand has stopped, because cold storage supplies the table with better birds, that is young ones, killed perhaps on August 12th in one year, and eaten on August 11th upon the next, and admirable birds they are, too.

But not only has the necessity of the table ceased to operate for the good of the grouse stock, but driving the birds has rendered “becking” a lost labour in many places.

It is no good going out to beck on ground where the broods once were, after they have all united as one vast pack and gone somewhere else. That is too obvious almost to name, but suppose the neighbourhood of a big pack is found, and the “becking” keeper attempts to call up the old grouse, he soon finds out that the voice of the charmer has ceased to charm. What is the reason? Well, when there are practically one hundred challenges issued at the same time from every direction, and in voices unfamiliar to the hearers, the grouse become so used to the call to battle, that they take no notice of the battle-cry. If they did the attempt to find the offender by his challenge, would be like the attempt to flush a land-rail by following his “croak.” Voices resound on every side, and an angry bird soon finds that the only outlet to pent-up wrath is to challenge too, but not to search for challengers that are in as many directions as echo itself.

Once I read somewhere how a keeper had surprised himself in a morning’s “becking.” Soon after taking up position he was greeted by a return challenge, and the proud old cock soon appeared on a little “knowie” not far off. The keeper shot, but when the smoke had cleared there stood the bird as proud as ever, he shot again, and the black powder smoke hung in the still morning air, but it cleared at last, and still the bird was there to challenge. He shot again, again, and yet again, and at last, when the smoke cleared, the bird had evidently been killed. So he crept forth from his hiding place to gather this very refractory old cock. But instead of finding him, he found five fathers of broods which had each heard the stranger, and wanted to give him battle. Each in turn had seen his predecessor strutting on the “knowie,” and thinking the strange voice belonged to it, had arrived to do battle exactly at the instant his wished-for antagonist had “bitten the peat.” But, as the keeper probably knew very well, it would have been quite natural had he missed each of five birds in turn, for grouse, standing in the heather, require to be at least ten or fifteen yards nearer the gunner than when they are flying, and if they are not that much nearer it is just a little more easy to miss than to kill. Probably the reason is that the heather turns a good many pellets that might have hit, and also that when wings are closed, and the birds are facing the gunner, the only vitals are the head and neck. The wings glance a great many of the pellets.

I do not profess to be able to call grouse, but I have done the shooting while a keeper has successfully called up grouse after grouse. The puzzle is, why they do not mind the shooting. Obviously they are not troubled with “nerves,” and are so much preoccupied in their wish to make the stranger “leave that,” that they forget to enquire what made the thunder.

On the occasion referred to, I was provided with a very full choke twelve bore, which killed at least fifteen yards further away than an ordinary game gun, so that when a grouse appeared on a little “knowie,” I was prompt to align him and to pay no attention to the keeper’s advice that it was “beyont range.” I knew that keepers usually took only very certain chances, and that the cult of the choke bore was not within my companion, so I let off and my grouse disappeared. I, too, was evidently in for great good luck, like the keeper quoted above, for no sooner had one been knocked over than another was up and seeking for war; but not for five times, only four. After this there was a pause too long for patience, and I went forward to gather my game, and end the morning’s sport. The first grouse I came to was only wounded, he had an injured eye or head, and sat bunched up with the bad eye towards me. It ought to have been an easy bird to gather, but over confidence, or want of care, made him suspicious, and he flew away, and when I pulled trigger at him I found that I had not cocked my gun. There was no other grouse to be found, and it became obvious that I had only had one quick change artist to deal with all the time; he had evidently been knocked off his perch by shot that had not penetrated, or had made him uncomfortable enough for him to move at each shot.

I am told that the principal difference between a good shot and a bad one at driven grouse is, that the former knows how to select the easy birds. Without going as far as that I can say with certainty that a grouse, five yards too far off, becomes about twenty times as difficult as he is five yards nearer.

But although this experience of mine was as far from a brilliant success as could be thought of, yet I believe that “becking” is absolutely necessary to the highest possible preservation wherever the grouse do not pack. I should say it was just as useful where they do pack if it could be carried out, but it cannot. When hunger begins to harass the birds in the winter months, they often divide the sexes, like the high churches, as Sir Fred Millbank observed thirty years ago, and obviously when the cocks are all in the fellowship of the unemployed they are not looking out for somebody to have a row with. Nevertheless, there is often much open weather between the end of grouse driving and the end of the season, on December 10th, and where it can be practised successfully, it is well to remember, in the interests of the breeding stock, that “becking” is the only automatic selection of old cocks that has ever been practised, and had probably something to do with the fact that there were more grouse in Scotland in 1872, and before, than there are in these days of scientific heather management and artistic killing of grouse. On dog moors it is particularly necessary, and on them can be easily made successful.

One excellent sportsman of Shropshire, who was not unknown on the Chirk Castle moors, used to tell me that it was quite wonderful how well grouse kept, as he often had them in March. He explained that it was only the cocks that kept so long; and this was before cold storage was thought of.

Successive generations of Belvoir Hunt followers will remember the beaming countenance of old David Swinton, the enthusiastic foot-hunter. He always dressed in black, with a clerical-looking wideawake, and carried a stout oak staff. Swinton takes us a long way back into hunting history, for his first day’s sport with the Duke of Rutland’s hounds was in the middle ’thirties, when he was a lad at school. To-day, as he sits by the fireside, approaching his eightieth birthday, he is still hale and hearty, though not an active pedestrian, and is in the unique position of one who has enjoyed sport with the Belvoir hounds under the mastership of two Dukes of Rutland, Lord Forester, and Sir Gilbert Greenall. Though the classic pack can boast of huntsmen who served long tenures of office, Swinton has reminiscences of five since 1836, namely, Thomas Goosey, Will Goodall, James Cooper, Frank Gillard, and Ben Capell. Generations of sportsmen have come and gone in that time, and there are not many of Swinton’s early contemporaries left, though foxhunters are a long-lived race.

Until a season or two ago we still had with us Mr. John Welby, the Squire of Allington, one of the best that ever crossed a country, Lord Wilton, and Sir Thomas Whichcote, who were undefeated horsemen in their day. Another hardy old sportsman who rode up to the last, and only joined the great majority a few years ago, was Mr. John Nichols, of Sleaford, who, like Swinton, was entered to sport by Thomas Goosey, and would hunt with no hounds other than the Duke’s. The old runner had just the same sentiment, and although he has had a look at other hunts, he was always loyal in his allegiance to the ducal pack.

The Belvoir, so far as we know, have never had a paid runner, but Swinton became an institution, and certainly during Frank Gillard’s term of office was most useful in performing many little duties which help to keep the internal machinery of a hunt in smooth working order. Though scarlet-coated runners are to be seen with the Belvoir on the Leicestershire side, dividing their attentions between the packs that hunt within distance of Melton, they are never seen so far afield as Lincolnshire. The reason for this is that the area traversed is very wide, and the going is so much heavier that a man on foot would have little chance of keeping in touch with the hunt.

David Swinton dates back to the days when there were active pedestrians in the land, his keenness to see a hunt carrying him through a day’s fatigue such as the rising generation would never dream of. He thought nothing of going on foot ten or twelve miles to a fixture, and would “shog” home at hound pace with the pack at dusk, cutting corners when possible, but often arriving at his destination as soon as they did. Until three seasons ago, when in his seventy-sixth year, he often came out to get a sight of the sport he loved so well. His last appearance was at a Caythorpe fixture, where, he relates, our present field master, Mr. E. W. Griffith, found him out, and noting that he looked tired after walking, presented him with some money, that he might drive on the next occasion, and save his energies.

DAVID SWINTON.
(Fifty Years Runner with the Belvoir.)

Photo by H. L. Morel.

The other day we found old David in his cottage at Ancaster, the unquenchable fires of the chase burning brightly within him as he revived memories of many a happy day. “I enjoy hunting as much as ever, though now I can only read Mr. Tally-ho’s letters in the Grantham Journal; but I follow hounds, for I know every yard of the country,” said the old man, as he leaned on his famous oak staff. “My first sight of the Belvoir hounds I remember as well as if it were yesterday. I was a small boy, standing by Fulbeck Gorse, which was a very thick covert, and old Thomas Goosey, the huntsman, told one of his whips to go in on foot and see to the earth. The sharp gorse was not to his liking, and laughing, I said, ‘Why, he can’t half go through it!’ To which old Goosey replied, ‘It would fetch the bread and butter out of your fat legs, you young rascal!’ That was in 1836. After that I never missed a chance to run with hounds. I was a tailor, and had lots of work to do, but I planned it to see as much hunting as possible, my wife and I often being up nearly all night stitching, to get clothes finished off.”

Lord Forester held the mastership of the Belvoir from 1831 to 1857, and Swinton reminds us that he was “a tall, fine gentleman, and a splendid horseman, who rode right up to the pack.” He used to stutter when giving his huntsman orders. Will Goodall carried the horn in those days; he had been second whip to Goosey, and was promoted over Tom Flint, who had “developed a thirst.” Those were long days for hunt servants at Belvoir, for the rule was to draw covert while daylight lasted, no matter what might be the distance back to kennels.

Swinton in those days had a tailor’s shop at Ropsley, where they had a half-way kennel for hounds when hunting the wide fixtures on the Lincolnshire side of the country between twenty and thirty miles distant from Belvoir. Thus he saw a good deal of Goodall and his whips, for after making the hounds comfortable for the night, they used to refresh at the Fox Brush Inn. About eight o’clock at night Goodall used to mount an old brown hack mare, and gallop the fourteen miles back to Belvoir in the hour, to be ready to hunt a fresh pack on the Leicestershire side next morning. He always took a whipper-in with him. Goodall was a very daring horseman, and he took his fatal fall when only forty-one years of age off a horse called Rollison; it happened on the first of April, and he died on the first of May. “I made his last pair of breeches, poor chap!” says David.

The next huntsman, James Cooper, was a little fellow, sharp as a needle, and a very fine horseman who loved a good horse, having one of his own called Turpin. In those days David used to work very hard making liveries; this gave him the chance to stay at villages on the far side of the country for a week together, and he managed to see much hunting. He has been out on foot four days in succession, doing sometimes thirty miles in the day; but of course that made a hard week’s work. He did not care how he got out so long as he could go. For a time he had a little white pony which could go any distance, and he used to lead through gaps and keep going on the road to make his point, not being very far behind at the finish.

The most memorable day’s sport he ever had was March 6th, 1871, when the Prince of Wales, now King Edward VII., hunted with Squire Henry Chaplin and the Blankney hounds. It was a very rough morning, and David, though doubtful if they would hunt, walked from Ropsley to Navenby, fifteen miles, on the chance. He made for Wellingore Gorse, where he met the Rev. —— Peacock, rector of Caythorpe. A few minutes later a fine old fox came into the gorse with his tongue hanging out, as if he had been a bit dusted. So David walked about, wide of the covert to keep him there, and be sure to see if he left. Not long afterwards Charley Hawtin, the Blankney huntsman, came up with hounds hunting the line into the gorse.

Well, they got him away, and ran for the best part of three hours, although he returned to the gorse twice. At last he got to the end of his tether, and David viewed him crawling into the gorse dead beat. As Mr. Henry Chaplin rode up with the Prince of Wales and Lord Brownlow, the smothered worry could be heard going on. The gorse was very thick, but David crawled in on hands and knees and got the dead fox away from the hounds, bringing him outside. “You are a rum fellow,” said the huntsman, “not one in fifty dare do a thing like that, you might have got killed yourself.” “Its all right,” said David, “naught never in danger, but I should like one end of the fox now I have rescued him!” They gave him the mask, which he had set up in memory of the Royal day. Mr. Chaplin asked him if he intended to eat it.

It was a long spell of fine sport they had during the twenty-six seasons Frank Gillard was huntsman, 1870 to 1896; he was in touch with all the country side, and people did all they could to further a day’s sport. Many is the half sovereign David had from Gillard to see that earths were stopped or gates shut after hunting. When it came to digging out a fox it always meant five shillings to distribute amongst those who worked at the job. “Frank Gillard could always trust me,” said David; “he used to say when he heard my halloa, ‘There’s old Dave’s voice, true as a clock!’ You know I never barked false! What long days Gillard did make to be sure, he was never tired of hunting! I have often spoken to him in Ancaster Street, as he rode through with his hounds at eight o’clock at night, and often it was raining hard. He had to get on to Grantham where the three-horse van was in waiting for the hounds, and that meant reaching Belvoir kennels at nine o’clock or after.”

After hunting three years on foot without a ride, David was given a mount by a friend on a nice little horse, and as he rode up to the meet, old Tom Chambers and the whips shouted: “Hurray, we’ve got old Dave mounted at last! What are you doing up there old friend, are you purchasing?” “How the swells did laugh to be sure!” adds David.

One of the hardest days he ever did on foot was a hunt from Barkstone Gorse. They found at twelve o’clock, and never stopped going until three o’clock. David thinks he did not stand still five minutes, and for an hour and a half he had the Rev. —— Andrews, of Carlton, running with him, till he said, “I can’t stand it any longer. Swinton, you’re killing me!” Hounds kept running in big circles out to Sparrow Gorse, and David viewed the fox several times, and never really lost sight of the hunt for more than ten minutes at a time, as he managed to keep inside the circle. Well, hounds hunted him right well, getting him very tired, so that he returned to Barkstone Gorse. He viewed him again coming away, but before hounds had run two fields they threw up, and David could not make head or tail of it, no more could the huntsman, though he did all he knew to help hounds to recover the line. “Well,” I said, “Gillard, he’s done you!” To which he rejoined, “I think by the looks of you he’s done you twice over!” “No mistake, I did have a doing that day.”

Times have altered since those days, and since Sir Gilbert Greenall became master nine years ago. With Ben Capell huntsman, a day’s sport is very much faster, and David has got very much older. He tells the whips to-day that they live like gentlemen, compared with what the Belvoir hunt servants had to do in the past, for everything now is planned to save wear and tear to horses and men.

The old runner’s experiences give us an outline of two different phases in the history of foxhunting, which might be termed the ancient and modern systems of conducting a day’s sport. Though there are some left to tell us of the great changes that have come over our sport, still Swinton’s story goes to prove that hunting people are as kind and generous to-day as they were seventy years ago, for the old runner has many good friends to help him in his declining days.

Dick Baker.

A man of cheerful, if somewhat rubicund, countenance is Dick Baker. His outlook upon life is that of one who takes no thought for the morrow, and can justify this light-hearted attitude of mind by the circumstance that the world has always treated him well in every sense of the word “treat”; for Dick acknowledges that he is “very fond of his refreshment.” There are many people who welcome their acquaintances with a smile; Dick goes one better, for he generally starts laughing when any one speaks to him; his risible faculty is so delicately poised, that “good morning” has been known to provoke a jovial roar. He may be said to have solved the great problem set by some novelist-philosopher a generation ago, “How to be Happy on Nothing a Year.”

Dick Baker was born sixty-six years ago. How he came to adopt the career he has followed since he was twenty-one years of age, he can hardly explain. He was always fond of horse and hound, and he never took kindly to discipline; running with hounds therefore appealed to him as the ideal occupation for an active and hardy young man who liked to be his own master. Fondness for refreshment, notwithstanding, Dick has reached a hale and happy old age. He can still “keep going” throughout the longest day, and thanks to an outdoor life and a sound constitution, suffers from neither cold nor rain. He dates his career as a runner from about the year 1860, and probably knows more about the Essex, Hertfordshire, and Puckeridge countries than any man living, having spent forty-five seasons running with those packs.

“DICK.”

From a Painting by G. F. Thompson.]

He was for several years under Mr. Parry, when that gentleman was master of the Puckeridge, and he tells many anecdotes of the various huntsmen he has known, Dick Simpson, Hedges, Allen, and Will Wells among the number. Dick’s early ambition was to be a hunt servant, but the Fates denied him; he is, he now admits, safer on his own legs than in the saddle. Upon a day it fell that Mr. Rowland Bevan gave Dick his horse to lead home after a hard gallop. Dick thought it a pity not to try what he could do as a horseman, and reflecting that, inasmuch as the horse had had a long day, it would at least be quiet on this occasion, he mounted. Before he got the horse home he had taken three heavy falls on the macadam; but seemingly he was born a master of what some one has called the “inexact science of falling,” for he boasts that he was none the worse. He has confidence in his lucky star, and expresses it in a fashion that has the merit of originality.

“Why, Dick, I thought you were dead,” said a member of the Puckeridge on one occasion.

“No,” replied Dick, calmly; “God never kills good-looking people.”

How far Dick’s appearance justifies his opinion of his personal attractions our readers are able to judge for themselves.

His master passion is anxiety to be identified with the hunt; to be recognised as a member of the staff. To this end Dick, through the good offices of an indulgent member who at the time held office as hon. secretary, took advantage of the visit of a photographer to the Puckeridge kennels to get his portrait taken with a couple of hounds; in character, as it were. It is probable that this was the proudest moment of his life. That he possesses some business capacity which might have been profitably directed into other channels, is proved by the way he turned this opportunity to account. He ordered a dozen copies of the photograph at the aforesaid member’s expense, and retailed them to members of the Hunt at two shillings apiece.

Dick acknowledges but one enemy in this world, and for that enemy he cherishes hate, the deeper because he cannot be avenged of the outrage it committed upon him. This enemy is the Great Eastern Railway Company, which, with the heartlessness peculiar to railway companies, once “ran him in” for travelling without a ticket. It was really not his fault, he explains; he finished a long day with hounds many miles from home, and thinking he had a shilling in his pocket jumped into the train intending to pay at the other end. The fact that he was mistaken as to the contents of his pocket does not, in his well-considered opinion, justify the Company in haling him before the Bench, and getting him fined ten and sixpence and costs. It was the most costly journey he ever made, and he is unlikely to forget either it or the sequel.

Entertaining, as already mentioned, strong objections to anything like discipline, a master of hounds being, in his judgment, the one mortal being who is entitled to command his fellow-creatures, Dick has rarely attempted permanent work: and when he has done so it has always proved temporary after all; for what reason it seems unnecessary to enquire. In summer he is usually to be found in attendance at cricket matches, and in less exalted cricket spheres rather fancies himself as a bowler. He possesses quite a remarkable instinct for discovering occasions, show, celebration, athletic meeting, or what not, which will yield an odd shilling; and will put in much more and harder work to earn the odd shilling than he could ever be persuaded to do to earn the certain half-crown. He has a family; and it is in no spirit of reflection upon a hard-working spouse that he responds to enquiries with the cheerful—always cheerful—assurance that “the cubs are all right.”

There are times when the tented field is as still as death, times when even the hub of the universe is as dull as any Little Pedlington in the Kingdom. We usually make up for it, however, by a great bustle of company meetings in the concluding month of the year, and these functions have been characterised during the past few weeks by a quite unwonted show of animation. The shareholder, as a rule, is a very patient and long-suffering kind of animal. He pockets his grievances, passes the resolutions submitted for his acceptance, and goes away thankful, in most cases, for very small mercies indeed. When he does break out, however, he is apt to be a very ugly customer, and the lot of the proverbial policeman is quite a happy one in comparison with that of the luckless wight whom duty compels to face the music in his capacity as a director. I do not know whether it is the contagion of heated political assemblies that is spreading its virus in the City, or whether we have come under some malign planetary influence; but certain it is that there is a nasty spirit abroad, and the shareholder goes to his meeting prepossessed with the idea that it is enough to be a director to be either a fool or a knave. For several years in succession it was the fate of the Westralian companies to furnish occasion for these angry gatherings. They, however, are at length vouchsafed a well-earned rest, and the miserable wretches who pull the labouring oar in South African ventures are being given their turn.

That, perhaps, is not altogether surprising. Eldorado has become, in the popular imagination, a veritable Nazareth, out of which no good can come, and since shareholders cannot get out to Johannesburg to vent their wrath upon the heads on which it might with some propriety descend, they are with one accord taking it out of the English companies operating in South Africa which lie within their reach. This is not in consonance with strict justice, no doubt; but it will serve its purpose all the same, for it can hardly fail to convey a hint to quarters in which hints are greatly needed that the time has come for setting their houses in order, lest a worse thing befal. It is probably the case, as I have seen it stated, that the noise is made in inverse proportion to the stake. The big shareholder is intelligent enough to know something of the difficulties which follow upon the heels of a war and broad-minded enough to make allowances. The man with ten shares or twenty, who gets no dividend, and sees the market go steadily or unsteadily against him, loses all patience, and is fired with an ardent longing to break somebody’s head. What the small man voices, however, the big man feels, and the moral which these merry meetings should convey to Johannesburg is that shareholders have not put their money into South African ventures as an erratic form of recreation, but with the reasonable expectation of getting in their own lifetime a reasonable return. It is too much the fashion out there to regard the shareholder as a negligible quantity. Everybody seems to be bitten with the idea that the thing to aim at is bigness of aggregate return, bigness of mills, bigness of expenditure, bigness of everything except of the dividend declared. Megalomania of this description spells ruin to the proprietorial interest, and it is not compensated for by all the booby-talk about prolonging the lives of the mines. It is easy to understand the advantage of this prolongation to directors and managers and secretaries and engineers, and all the other hangers-on of the industry; but where the shareholder benefits from a division of his dividend by two and doubling the terms of years in which it is paid, is more than the average arithmetician can understand. The wrong turn was given to everything by Lord Milner, who saw with his mind’s eye a population of several millions on the Rand, and laid his lines accordingly. Lord Selborne, who is apparently a man of sense and moderation, is doing his best to curb and correct the extravagant ideas that had their genesis in the time of his predecessor, and there is much reliable information to warrant the belief that 1906 will be attended with very different results from 1905. It need be, for only another such year as the last is required, and South Africa will be for ever and a day undone so far as the British public is concerned.

The change of Government made no more difference in the markets than if it had been a change of footmen. The event had, in City parlance, been already discounted. To men who had imagined to themselves the vain thing that their exit would shake the financial spheres, as some of them doubtless did, it must have been gall and wormwood to see quotations actually rise on the day when their resignation became an accomplished fact. This could only be due to a sense of general relief, and to the feeling that the Liberal bark would prove far worse than its bite, so far as the interests dear to the City are concerned. It certainly was not owing to the new team being conspicuously strong either in business or finance. It is an anomaly, to say the least, that the transformation should result in a barrister being enthroned as the Chancellor of the Exchequer and a solicitor installed as the President of the Board of Trade; but Mr. Asquith has shown himself quite at home with figures and fiscal questions during the past two years, and Mr. Lloyd-George has the reputation in the House of knowing a thing or two besides the wickedness of Mr. Chamberlain and the clauses of the Education Act.

Until the elections are over and done with, it is not probable that we shall witness anything very theatrical in Throgmorton Street; but the knowing ones are counting upon a marked improvement of gilt-edged securities when things have settled down. Just as Nature abhors a vacuum, so does the Stock Exchange abhor stagnation, and the one question on everybody’s lips is what to go for in the New Year. Yankees, too dangerous; Home Rails, not to be touched with a barge-pole; Foreign Rails, quite high enough already; Foreigners, not another eighth to be squeezed out of them; Breweries, wait a bit; Copper stocks, a gamble for lunatics. Such is the rough-and-ready pronouncement of three out of four of the old hands one meets. What all are agreed upon is that gilt-edged descriptions must advance and that Kaffirs cannot, the one owing to the plethora of money they see looming in the near distance, the other to the alleged but scarcely demonstrated fact that the public have spewed out their mining stocks and will not have them back at any price. I always like to note these confident predictions. They are so often made and so seldom borne out by the event. How easy it would be to make fortunes if they were! Except for the puff palpable—the price of which is as well known as that of a postage stamp—the financial press is shrewd enough for the most part to refrain from prognostications after the manner of the vaticinators in the sporting journals; but how much it would add to the gaiety of nations if they made selections for the rise and fall after the fashion of their compeers in Fleet Street! The only thing that may always be predicted with certainty of markets is that what will happen will be the unforeseen, and this is intelligible enough. The calculable influences are few in comparison with the incalculable—something occurs to upset the best-laid schemes of mice and men—and you will meet a dozen men who have made their little pile out of the short view for one who has staked his fortune without regret upon the long one.

I will not emulate, therefore, the fame of Zadkiel. I shall not prophesy because I do not know; but it scarcely needs a prophet to perceive that much in the coming year, if not everything, turns upon the course of events in the Empire of the Czar. It is easy to see how pregnant with possibilities is the situation if one takes into account that big dominating factor, and rules out all the rest as of minor account or of no account at all; and it is equally easy to perceive that we are at the mercy of a chapter of accidents. None will undertake to say what the outcome will be, least of all a Russian himself who knows his people and the subtle influences by which they are or may be moved. I have had the advantage during the past few weeks of coming into contact with several recent arrivals from that unhappy country, and the accounts they give are so confused and so contradictory as to leave one in a more impenetrable fog than if one had never taken any pains to learn the truth at all. On some things, however, they are all agreed. Russian news in the newspapers, so they say, must be taken with a liberal quantum of salt. The Jews, not without reason, hate Russia, or rather the established order in Russia; they control, directly or indirectly, the bulk of the leading journals of all countries, and the news agencies as well; their mission is to set down things in malice, to paint everything in the blackest colours, to ruin Russian credit abroad, and to bring down upon the Russian people the execration of the civilised world. The fires of revolution are alight, it is true, but the conflagration is not so widespread nor so all-consuming as the enemies of Russia would have the world believe, and a free and purified Russia will emerge. What will happen then is the problem; and all my Russian friends are at one in saying that any representative Government that may be established will set before itself two objects of policy—a better understanding with England, based upon a solemn renunciation of any designs against India, and development of the resources of the Empire by the aid of foreign capital.

So far as the former of these objects is concerned, it goes almost without saying that any English Government in power would go more than half-way to meet amicable and sincere advances; and as to the latter—with another entente cordiale once established—the chances are that British capital will flow into Russia as it has flowed in turn into America, North and South, into Africa, into Australasia, into India, and into every quarter of the globe in which capital can be freely and safely employed. It is premature, perhaps, to say that Russian ventures will be the outstanding feature of 1906; but the event is on the cards, and the pioneer enterprises are already on the stocks. The world has not been standing still while the nations have been at war and the heathen have been raging furiously. During the past year or two, no end of little expeditions have been poking their noses into the recesses of the Ural region and the vast areas of the Siberian provinces, sending back reports of riches, mineral and agricultural, beyond the dreams of avarice. It is difficult to believe that resources of this description still exist in their virgin state so near comparatively to the Western capitals; but the evidence, coming as it does from so many capable and unimpeachable sources, is quite irresistible, and the inference appears to be inevitable that the exploitation of Russia is the next big task to which the world of finance and industry will direct its attention. The exploitation of China may wait, or be relegated to our friends and allies, the Japanese.

It must not be presumed from our readiness to settle the affairs of the nations that we have lapsed into indifference in the City as regards various little matters of domestic concern with respect to which agitation has been simmering for some time past. The relations of the House and the public are being canvassed more freely now than I have ever known, from within as well as from without. There is a consensus of opinion that things are not quite what they ought to be, as indeed they never have been and never will be even in this best of all possible worlds; but the insiders are afraid of pulling bricks about lest they should bring the entire edifice about their ears, while the outsiders are wanting in the organisation to give the old walls such a shove as would be felt by those within. It will not be long, however, before events compel the general overhaul which is recognised as a prime essential to the revival of business on such a scale as will enable the Stock Exchange man to live without sapping the very vitals of his clients. The complaints of the latter go to the very foundations of business as it is carried on to-day. Why should one pay brokerage when he buys? In every other business, it is the seller alone who pays. The answer is that the buyer must pay, or the broker, who deals with a jobber, would get no benefit from the transaction; to which comes the rejoinder that the jobber is the fifth wheel on the coach, and should not be privileged if he wishes to dispose of his wares. The force of the argument for dispensing with the middleman is perceived by all who are not hide-bound by tradition, use and custom, while practical recognition is being given to it in much of the business that is being transacted outside.

Then it is perceived that no sort of logical justification exists for the enormous difference made in brokerage between one class of goods and another, and between one client and another. For example, bonds are bought and sold on a commission of 1
16 per cent., mining shares on varying scales which work out at an average of ¾ per cent., which is enough to kill the finest business in the world. This excessive charge is not defended; but it is explained. When mining shares were first introduced, the public were very shy of them—and the House, too, for that matter—and promoting firms were ready to pay liberal commissions in order to get them placed, an operation often attended with difficulty and risk. Thus there came to be established a standard of expectation, the public paying whatever charge the broker chose to exact, and the mining market became the happy hunting-ground of new recruits by the thousand, who perceived in it the opportunity of quickly getting rich. Short cuts of this kind, however, generally prove the long way round in the end. Brokers as a class cannot thrive by bleeding their clients white by excessive commissions and contangoes. Either they make losses, which wipe out their gains, and more, or they kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. They cannot acquit themselves altogether of some share in the collapse by which speculation of this character has been overtaken. Commonsense and competition point with unerring finger the direction of amendment and reform, and I expect to see established at no distant date an almost universal charge of ¼ per cent. upon the money, whether shares are bought or sold, or ½ per cent. if commission be charged on sales alone. Pending this concession, it is not probable that speculation will revive upon any considerable scale in the market which has been in the past the most attractive of all markets, and may be again if things are well and wisely handled. The loss of it would not be compensated for by rubber trash and cab companies, over which there will be some burning of fingers before long. “Trash,” did I say? Well, of course, that is much too sweeping a generalisation. As a fact, the great majority of the rubber concerns are moderately capitalised, and the demand for their product is going up with such leaps and bounds that they can only be regarded as sound and stable concerns. That, however, is where the trouble comes in. On the back of every successful form of enterprise kindred ventures are too often floated without much regard to the question whether they contain the elements of success or not. Like the razors that were made to sell, and not to shave, these undertakings are launched for the sake of the promotion, and for no other reason apparent to the wit of man. Promotion in the miscellaneous market has seldom much behind it. The shares once placed, those who are in may whistle for the day they will get out. There is but one fitting inscription for that section, regarded as a whole—“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Mining descriptions, with all their drawbacks and all their dangers, have as a rule at least the inestimable advantage of a “shop.” Mining promotions, I am given to understand, are likely to be almost nominal in the coming year; but there are miscellaneous things enough to stagger humanity awaiting a favourable moment to be launched.

The mention of red deer reminds me of roe. As all the sporting world knows, Mr. Seymour Dubourg, before he took the South Berks country, was master of the Ripley and Knaphill Harriers. With these, at the end of the season, he used to hunt an occasional carted stag, but more frequently the wild roe deer, which were at that time to be found (they were never plentiful) between Windlesham, Bagshot, and Easthampstead, also in the heath and pinewood country south-west of the River Blackwater. It was a most interesting sport, and none the less attractive as coming at a time when foxhunting is practically over. The hounds were small foxhound bitches, I should say rather under than over twenty inches. With so accomplished a huntsman as Mr. Dubourg, I make no doubt that they did their work, as harriers, as it ought to the done. However that may be, they were the best pack of staghounds I ever saw. They went the pace, and were not big enough to kill a deer, bar accidents. With roe they drove like furies, but, I suppose from their harrier training, hardly ever over-ran it.

It is the manner of a roe, when first found, to make a point of 2 or 3 miles; then he returns almost to the starting place, or anyhow to its neighbourhood, and begins “making work.” In the straight part of his flight he is seldom far in front of hounds. But having begun his dodges, if he gets half a chance he will steal away, and, as likely at not, run the pack out of scent. His resources are legion. He can squat like a hare, swim like a fish, meuse through a fence like a rabbit, and jump over any ordinary park palings. He is most difficult to view, as he will crawl up a ditch or drain, and utilises every depression in the ground, and of course every bit of covert. He has the cunning of fox and hare combined, but not very much more stoutness than the last named. In France, roe-hunting packs are not uncommon, and a friend of my own has one in Belgium, which, however, hunts hare as well. And a French friend of mine once asked me to stay with him for roe-hunting, promising to mount me, and doubtless I should have had a most enjoyable visit, but I preferred to stay at Melton. By the way, this gentleman valued Belvoir blood above all else.

The objections to the roe as a beast of chase may be gathered from the above. It is pretty hunting, but almost all in covert. The advantages are that you can hunt him all through the winter as you do the fox, and also that you can draw for him without any bother of “tufting,” as you never find more than a brace, or at most three together. When the latter is the case, it is a family party—buck, doe, and kid. The latter would stand but a poor chance were it not for its squatting, when the hounds dash away and settle to the moving scent. When roe are carefully preserved the woods will be full of them, as the young trees will soon tell you. I know nowhere at present, even in Scotland, where they are too numerous, and in the country I have described I should say that they are all but extinct, although some three years ago I saw a brace when Mr. Garth was drawing St. Leonard’s Forest.

With Mr. Dubourg’s hounds one had to ride up to them, if one wanted the venison. If he happens to read this, he will doubtless remember what happened once near Black Bushes Farm. Hounds had been running some time, and we thought “catching time” could not be far off. They came to (for that country at least) a very small wood. We each took one side of the covert (only the master and writer being there), but to our surprise saw no hounds away. To dive into the wood was, for Mr. Dubourg, “the work of an instant.” Arrived at his pack, he found that in those very few minutes they had not only killed the buck but (not bad judges!) had eaten the haunches, &c., and left only the head, neck, and forequarters. Unlike our other deer, the roe is at his best as venison, from the middle or end of October to the end of the hunting season. He sheds his horns late in the autumn. Roe venison has an undeservedly bad name, as lessees of Highland shootings often kill them in the grouse season.

As July and August are the months in which most of them pair, August for choice, côtelette de chevreuil is best avoided until after the stalking season. By the way, the “stags” mentioned in the late Colonel Anstruther Thomson’s most interesting book were roe. My kind old friend wrote to me shortly before his death, to explain that his South Country hunt servants would call them stags, hence he got in the way of it. Of course, no red deer have been wild in Fife since almost prehistoric times. But some folks never can learn the proper names of deer. Once, in forest-hunting with our late Queen’s hounds, I saw an “instructor” from Sandhurst, who told me that the deer had just passed him, and that it was a fallow deer! “Are you sure of that?” said I (I never yet saw one there, unless he had been put there). “Oh, yes, it had no horns!” was the startling reply.

A short time ago there was a discussion in the Field as to whether the progeny of hounds hunting deer, or hares, should be elegible for the Foxhound Stud book. I think it was decided against them, the theory being that staghounds do not carry a head. Now this is merely a question of their quarry. After a few days roehunting, Mr. Dubourg, (by invitation), uncarted a stag near Bracknell. Comins, at that time the Royal huntsman (or acting huntsman?), had been roehunting, and we both remarked the head these hounds carried then. We had a good run and took our stag safely, but from the moment the hounds were laid on, they went stringing along (I do not mean “tailing,” a very different thing) “just exactly like my hounds,” as Comins said to me. I saw the Queen’s hounds once run a cub in Swinley Forest, on a steaming, warm, wet October morning, and as they crossed a ride, close to the said cub, which was dead beat, they carried a head that neither Belvoir, Quorn, nor Pytchley, could have beaten. They were stopped just in time to save young Reynard. It was in October, as aforesaid, by which time a cub should be pretty well able to take his own part. Strange blunders have found their way into sporting history and been accepted as facts merely for want of contradiction, e.g., how often have we read that, in the spring, Mr. Meynell entered his young hounds to hare, for want of woodlands.

The absurdity of entering young hounds just in from walks, and with all their troubles before them, is obvious to any one who has ever been within measurable distance of a kennel. And as for no cubhunting ground, what was wrong with Charnwood Forest, the best cubhunting district in the world, and even better then than now, in the days preceding the Enclosure Act? Then, also, foxes were not much outnumbered by pheasants. Another victim of misstatement is Mr. (“Flying”) Childe, of Kinlet. I lately read that he hunted the Ludlow country after he left Leicestershire. It was the other way about. He and the first Lord Forester went to Loughborough for the Quorn together, Melton not being invented when he gave up the Ludlow country, and set the fashion of pressing on hounds. In fact, Mr. Meynell describes Mr. Cecil Forester as coming out of cover between the fox and the pack! Again, the name of Mr. Childe’s Arab was not “Skim,” as we are told, but Selim, corrupted into Slim. His tail (grey) is still at Kinlet. He left some good hunting stock behind him, and I know where a portrait of a chestnut son of his is to be seen. Of Mr. Meynell “Nimrod” says, “In chase no man rode harder.” But he gave his hounds room, which from all accounts the immigrants from Salop did not. Yet I have read that he and his field merely crawled over a country. Also quite lately I have seen Mr. Edge, the welter weight Nottingham Squire, who refused a thousand guineas for his two horses, Banker and Remus, described as the “humble, silent friend” of Mr. Assheton Smith! Why on earth will people write on subjects of which they are ignorant? An outsider, writing on sport, or soldiering, is sure to make a spectacle of himself. Though this is a hunting subject, I cannot but call attention to a masterpiece of this kind in “Charles O’Malley,” by the late Mr. Charles Lever. In one of the Peninsula battles, he tells us that a general officer galloped up and gave the word, “14th, threes about, charge!” As this involved their charging tail foremost, no wonder that the French fled precipitately!

I am often asked whether hunting has altered during my time. I answer, “In the Shires little, if at all, but provincial sport has, I fancy, deteriorated. In bad scenting countries nose should be more thought of than looks, but is it so? We hear a lot more about bad scenting weather than we used to do. No one would keep a throaty hound, though no less an authority than “the other Tom Smith,” uncle, by-the-by, of my dear friend “Doggie,” of that ilk, has said that he never knew a throaty hound without a good nose. The greatest enemy to hunting, in these days, is the shooting tenant. He destroys the breed of good wild foxes, and can only be disposed of by the hunt renting shootings. But for the railways, the Quorn country would be more easily crossed now than when I first knew it. “Oxers” have nearly all vanished, hand-gates and bridges have replaced yawning sepulchres—notably so at John O’Gaunt, the bottom below Wartnaby Pond, and at Sherbroke’s covert, over the Smite, which is the “march” ’twixt Quorn and Belvoir. Also the Twyford brook need no longer be ridden at, unless one chooses. The Whissendine brook, however, retains its old fame. “Lady Stamford’s Bridge,” over the South Croxton and Queniboro’ brook, was just made in the earliest of the sixties. As regards dress, we are not very different from the heroes depicted by old H. Alken, in Nimrod’s “The Chase.” “Snob, the tip-top provincial,” appeared then in a frock coat, and so he would now. But I have always wondered why the artist should have made the fence which stopped “the little bay horse” a high bank, suggestive of Shropshire, or Essex, but of a pattern non-existent in any part of the county of Leicester, and especially as the letterpress so carefully describes the obstacle—ditch from you, but the lower part of the fence bristling towards you after the fashion of the old “Prepare to receive cavalry” of an infantry square. In the old days the master was dressed like other people. He often wore a hat, and so did many more. Mr. Tailby always wore a cap. Lord Gifford dressed like a hunt servant, ditto Captain Percy Williams and Colonel Thomson; but they did not spoil the effect with a moustache. One very dear friend of mine, who dressed the character, though “with a beard on him like Robinson Crusoe,” was tipped a sovereign by a stranger, who had been impressed by the masterly way in which he hunted and killed his fox. I regret to say that it did not profit him, as, on his return, the predominant partner nailed it, to keep as a curiosity, as (she said) the only money that “Charlie” had ever in his life honestly earned! A master’s, as indeed a huntsman’s and first whip’s second horseman, used to be dressed like yours or mine. Now most hunts have, in servants alone, six “scarlet and leathers” men. This hardly makes for economy, and we hear too much of expense. Up to the end of the late Duke of Rutland’s reign, the hunt servants wore brown cords, “drab shags,” as Mr. Jorrocks called them. I think white cords look better, but looks are not everything. No men ever went better to hounds than his late Grace’s servants, and what do the breeks matter if their wearer can, and will, give you a lead over the Smite?”

As regards horses, I think, speaking under correction, that we have got them too high on the leg; the result is that “boots” form a predominant item in the saddler’s bill. I have before remarked that, in my young days, there was about one roarer in a hunt. Now, if there be only one in a stud the owner is lucky. As we breed our racehorses from roarers, and as they are the sires of our hunters, this is not wonderful.

In talking of dress, I ought to have mentioned that, as a small boy, visiting a schoolfellow in Cornwall, I saw a pack of harriers belonging to the last Lord Vivian but one, with which every one was in red coats, officials and all. A similarly attired Yorkshire huntsman of harriers told me that he and his whip wore pink, as being more easily distinguished on the moors. This is a good reason. I have omitted to mention a pack of staghounds which, for some seasons, showed excellent sport—I mean the Collinedale. Mr. George Nourse was master, and hunted them himself. A better staghound huntsman I never saw. This was lucky, as he was not well whipped in to.

The first time I ever saw these hounds is worthy of mention. A friend of mine asked me at the club whether I should like a mount with staghounds next day. I gratefully accepted the offer, and asked at what station I should meet him. “Oh,” said he, “come to my house to breakfast and we’ll ride on to the meet.” I asked no questions, but duly appeared at my friend’s very charming house; a little beyond the Swiss Cottage station, and then nearly in the country. We rode on to the meet, which was at the Welsh Harp, Hendon. We had two stags, but they had hardly got over their autumn dissipation. One turned round and charged the hounds, and the other went over a fine country, the Harrow Weald, but not far enough for me to get on terms with my mount, a hard-pulling four-year-old, with a very light bridle. And the Berkhamsted, which are still going, deserve a word of chronicle. I only saw them once, but thought them a marvellously clever pack, and not too big. Any possible deficiency of size was made up for in the person of their master, the late Mr. R. Rawle. He was a keen sportsman, a capital huntsman, and as polite and kind as any man could be. I was never impertinent enough to ask him his weight, but, crushing though it was, he got wonderfully to his hounds. He rode the right sort to carry weight. None of your seventeen-hand prize-winners in a show ring, but steeds more on the lines of the baby hippopotamus, with well-bred heads; hence these triumphs.

An old Suffolk M.F.H. told me, in my youth, that Mr. R. Gurney’s famous “Sober Robin” was only 15.2. He also remembered the moonlight steeplechase from Ipswich Barracks. Another fine old sportsman told me that he recollected the “orange” coats worn with the Atherstone in Lord Vernon’s time. He described them as looking much like ordinary “pink,” until you saw one of each together, then the difference was clearly marked.

(FROM THE SPORTING MAGAZINE OF 1805.)

A bet was made some time since between Peter Mackenzie, Esq., of South Molton, and two brother shots, for twenty guineas aside, that the former gentleman did not kill one brace of partridges every day, Sundays excepted, for six weeks in succession from the first day of September last. This was determined on Saturday, October 12th, when Mr. M. having completed his engagement with apparent ease was consequently declared winner. This is looked upon by the amateurs as one of the first field exploits that has been performed for many years.

Extraordinary Steeple-Race.

On the last Wednesday in November came on for decision a match which had excited much interest in the sporting world, and which amongst that community is denominated a Steeple-Race, the parties undertaking to surmount all obstructions and to pursue in their progress as straight a line as possible. The contest lay between Mr. Bullivant, of Sproxton; Mr. Day, of Wymondham; and Mr. Frisby, of Waltham; and was for a sweepstake of 100 guineas staked by each. They started from Womack’s Lodge at half-past twelve o’clock (the riders attired in handsome jockey dresses of orange, crimson and sky blue respectively, worn by the gentlemen in the order we have named them above) to run round Woodal Head and back again—a distance somewhat exceeding eight miles. They continued nearly together until they came within a mile and a half of the goal, when Mr. Bullivant, on his well-known horse Sentinel, took the lead, and appearances promised a fine race between him and Mr. Day; but unfortunately in passing through a hand-gate, owing partly to a slip, Mr. Day’s horse came in full contact with the gate-post; the rider was thrown with great violence and, as well as the horse, was much hurt. Nevertheless, Mr. Day remounted in an instant, and continued his course. Mr. Bullivant, however, during the interruption, made such progress as enabled him to win the race easily. The contest for a second place now became extremely severe between Mr. Day and Mr. Frisby: the last half mile was run neck and neck, and Mr. Day only beat his opponent by half a neck. The race was performed in 25 min. 35 sec.

Newmarket Jockies. Court of King’s Bench, December 6th. Irish v. Chifney.—The defendant in this case is the celebrated Newmarket jockey, the plaintiff is a bit-maker. When the cause was called on, Mr. Serjeant Best asked whether or not the defendant was ready to start? and being answered in the affirmative, the learned Serjeant led off in a superior stile. The action was brought upon an agreement signed by the defendant for the payment of £15 which the plaintiff claimed as his due, for making a certain number of bits for racers which Mr. Chifney conceived were superior to any others, and the principle of which originated from his own fertile invention. The agreement was proved by a very respectable witness, and the defendant’s counsel endeavoured to cross the witness in order to prove that these bits had been exposed to sale contrary to the orders of Mr. Chifney; but on this point he failed, as the witness would not take the bit; and although he was finally rubbed down, came in for the legal plate without any competitor. There was no kind of defence, and the jury found a verdict for the plaintiff for fifteen pounds.

The first two days of the Cattle Show found the delegates of County Cricket busy at Lord’s, appointing on the Monday their umpires, and on the Tuesday their matches. In the absence of the Australian team, the programme has settled down very much on the usual lines of a domestic English cricket season. Mr. Lacey, the head Secretary of the M.C.C., announced that he was arranging fixtures for a West Indian team that is desirous of playing a series of matches in this country next summer. Mr. Lacey is reported to have said that as the West Indians were coming for the purpose of improving the standard of cricket in the West Indies, and not with the idea of making money, he trusted that he would receive the assistance of the counties in doing all that was possible to make the tour a success.

We have not seen an authentic list of the matches arranged, but we gather that our visitors will play a very mixed card, commencing at the Crystal Palace on June 11th, against a London County team of Mr. W. G. Grace’s.

Other fixtures in chronological order are against Essex, Middlesex, Warwickshire, Wiltshire, Hampshire, South Wales, Kent, M.C.C., Derbyshire, “All Scotland” at Edinburgh, and “All England” at that great centre of gate-money, Blackpool. Then against Yorkshire at Harrogate, and to finish with a burst of alliteration, Norfolk, Notts, and Northampton. This seems a fairly good all-round sample of English cricket, and our visitors ought to get a good look at the game as played in England; and we hope that they will achieve their purpose, insisted upon by Mr. Lacey, of improving the standard of the game in the West Indies.

In 1900, when a team visited us from the West Indies, the Marylebone Club did what they could to discourage our guests and to lower the standard of their play by a proclamation that none of the West Indian matches were to count in the first-class averages. We hope that this time Mr. Lacey will advise his Committee to join in the general note of encouragement by permitting at any rate some of their matches—for instance, those against Surrey, Yorkshire, and Kent, to rank as high as, say, Somerset v. Hants.

There is nothing very interesting about county cricket nowadays, not even in regard to the arrangement of championship matches.

It is worthy of notice that Northamptonshire, who only just wriggled into the first-class last season, have had to struggle hard to maintain their position there, and have only just succeeded in arranging sufficient matches to again qualify. This came through the agency of Notts, who have dropped their matches with Kent, and have taken on Northants instead. For a long time Notts and Kent have been regular antagonists, and it seems almost a pity that their matches should be dropped; but even the best friends amongst the counties sometimes drift apart for a year or so, as has been shown again this year in the coy conduct of Surrey, who again refuse to play with Somerset, the county which has done so much to encourage Surrey cricket, originally by consistently beating her, and then by paying her the compliment of adopting and developing her most promising young players. Apropos of Somerset, we read with regret that Mr. S. M. J. Woods has announced his intention of retiring from the captaincy of the eleven at the end of next season.

Certainly his twelve years of office are very noticeable. In 1894 Mr. Woods took over a team of mixed possibilities and impossibilities, and has kept the concern going up to to-day, with most attractive and varying vicissitudes, and probably “Great Heart,” as he has been styled by his friend Mr. C. B. Fry, is about the only man who could have so long stood the strain of so frequently facing fearful odds. Somerset have now fifteen years’ experience of first-class cricket and have done many brilliant things, but for the second year in succession, and despite the fact that the Australian matches brought them in a nice profit, the club is confronted with an adverse balance well over four hundred pounds. It would almost seem as if cricket, the national game, were a hybrid growth in Somerset, where the natives do not support the game very conspicuously either by play or pay.

The dates of the big matches at Lord’s are: Oxford and Cambridge, July 5th; Gentlemen and Players, July 9th; and Eton and Harrow, July 13th. It will be seen that these games follow one another as closely as possible, so it is to be hoped, for the sake of the Marylebone Club finances, that the weather for that fortnight may prove favourable. For many years the match between Oxford University and M.C.C. and Ground has been arranged at Lord’s as the match to immediately precede the Oxford and Cambridge match, and in order to give the Oxonians a day of rest before the stress and strain of the ’Varsity match, the game with the M.C.C. has been limited to two days’ play, and in an epoch of good wickets this has taken much of the interest out of the game. Common sense has at length prevailed in this matter, and now the Oxford v. M.C.C. match has been moved forward to a week before the Oxford and Cambridge match, and the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday preceding the ’Varsity match are allotted to Middlesex against Essex at Lord’s.

It seems a pity that the Hastings Cricket Festival should die out, but such would appear to be the case, as no matches have up to now been arranged for it. We hear that the last three years have each proved disastrous financially, and the promoters probably consider that they will be justified in contenting themselves with the week of Sussex county cricket which has been allotted to them by the County Committee at the end of August, when Warwickshire and Essex are to be engaged.

Of benefit matches there are not so many as usual. According to custom, the Whit-Monday match at Lord’s, between Somerset and Middlesex, is given as a benefit to a deserving member of the ground staff of the M.C.C. V. A. Titchmarsh, at one time the mainstay of Herts, and nowadays one of the most reliable of umpires, takes his turn on June 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and we wish him a bumper.

The great match of the year at Old Trafford, is the August Bank Holiday battle with Yorkshire, and this is to be for the benefit of John Tyldesley, who cannot possibly get more from it than he richly deserves, both from his country and his county.

At the Oval, Walter Lees is to have a benefit, and he too deserves well at the hands of Surrey cricketers, and was probably very unlucky never to have actually taken part in a Test Match, after having so often last season been amongst those selected to play for England.

At Lord’s the programme is no more interesting than is usually the case at headquarters in the absence of an Australian team. Middlesex, of course, will play all their home matches there, and, apart from the three big-gate matches already referred to, there is nothing very attractive about the fixtures arranged for Lord’s. Yorkshire, Sussex, Derbyshire, Kent, and Notts play the M.C.C. and Ground, the latter county, as usual, playing the opening match at Lord’s, beginning on the first Wednesday in May. They are quite devoid of interest these three days’ matches between some generally moderate Marylebone amateurs, pulled through by the professional element, against a county team from which the most prominent members are for this unimportant occasion taking a rest.

We wonder if the management at Lord’s will one day be able to devise some better plan of disposing of their dates and their money. To our mind the game between Actors and Jockeys played last September might to advantage be moved forward into the season proper.

It has always been very difficult to gain any reliable information as to the personal profits made by members of Australian teams touring in this country. Our enterprising contemporary the Daily Mail, has endeavoured to shed some light upon the profits of the last tour, by the help of some evidence given in the bankruptcy proceedings of S. E. Gregory. According to Gregory’s evidence as reported, the members of the team were to share and share alike in the profits of the tour. That was tacitly agreed upon. All the members signed an agreement on board the steamer Majestic, between America and London, by which they bound themselves to keep order, to abstain from writing for the Press, and to observe minor conditions. There had as yet been no balance-sheet of the tour prepared, but it was anticipated that the gross proceeds would be about £800 a man. Out of that the players had to pay their travelling expenses to and from England, and while in England. The Melbourne Cricket Club advanced the necessary money to players, and had it deducted from each man’s share.

The players very seldom saw one another except on the cricket field or on the boat coming out. One of the team had told him he had about £50 still to come, which would mean about £500 net for the tour. With regard to his expenses in England, Gregory said: “I had to go very slow not to spend more than £150. That amount went in cab fares, theatres, return “shouts,” clothes, and cricket bats, although most of our bats were presented to us.”

These figures are in a way interesting, and we cannot understand how the Marylebone Club was able to lose so much money over their tour in Australia, when Australian visitors are able to carry away a profit of £800 per head amongst fourteen of them, besides enriching the coffers of our counties to a very considerable extent.

The English team in South Africa succeeded in winning their first match at Cape Town, against the Western Province XI., by an innings and 127 runs. Towards the total of 365 compiled by Mr. Warner’s team, the captain scored 56, Denton 78, Mr. Fane 60, and Relf 61 not out. For the Western Province Whitehead took six wickets for 160 runs, but Kotze, who made such an impression in this country with his extra fast deliveries, proved altogether unsuccessful.

The home team could only accomplish 26 and 142 in their two hands, Coggings with 20 and 43 being their most successful batsman; whilst of the English bowlers who were tried Haigh and Mr. J. N. Crawford have the best figures, getting five wickets each for 31 and 5 runs respectively.

Against the country districts at Worcester in Cape Colony the visitors won by an innings and 52 runs, and apparently the country districts batsmen cannot be of any high calibre, since in their first innings Mr. Hartley took nine wickets for 26 runs, and in their second Mr. Leveson-Gower had five for 14; Mr. Leveson-Gower also scored 82 runs, which constituted quite a successful first appearance for him in the team.

We note from South African Exchanges that Major R. M. Poore, of Hampshire fame, is again busy playing for his regiment, the 7th Hussars, at Potchefstroom. His scores of 44 not out, and 115, prove him to be in good form, so that he is likely to render a good account of himself when he runs up against the English bowlers; as he did against Lord Hawke’s team in 1896, when he took more than one century off the late George Lohmann and some very fair amateur bowlers.

The above question, though not a very cheerful one to mention near the commencement of the hunting season, is one which has nevertheless to be faced by all hunting men, with whom the answer must chiefly rest. The reply, as to most complex questions, must be both “yes” and “no.” Geographically and in the very nature of things, hunting is doomed in the ever-increasing black countries of mines and factories, of bricks and mortar, of railways and canals, and with the modern innovation of light railways even crossing our fields.

When even Salisbury Plain has become a military camp, who can say that Dartmoor and Exmoor will not in another generation re-echo the sound of bugle and trumpet instead of the horn of the hunter?

Still, where estates are large, the Master of Foxhounds, patient and realising the changed conditions of modern hunting and fox preserving, and the farmers long-suffering, as they will still be if properly treated, foxhunting may yet survive for another century at least.

What hunting men must realise and acknowledge is that, now that the feudal system is as extinct as the dodo, and scarcely one applicant for a vacant farm can be found where we used to have twenty, hunting can only be carried on through the goodwill of the occupier of the land which is ridden over, whether landowner or tenant farmer. In the good old times, before the disastrous season of 1879 and the extension of foreign competition, when farmers were rich and the “fields” were small and consisted chiefly of his own friends and neighbours, the farmer as depicted in Punch might be the first to ignore the warning cry of “’ware wheat!” on his own farm, but now that times are permanently bad but few farmers can afford to hunt, and railway facilities—and now that modern Juggernaut the motor car (patronised even by masters of foxhounds who will probably soon adopt a motor-hound van)—bring strangers by the hundred who know not wheat from grass nor seeds from bare stubble, and care less, and spend nothing in the neighbourhood, no wonder the crushed farmer turns, and some even insist on their undoubted legal right of warning off the trespasser, and if necessary protecting their own property vi et armis (with a pitchfork). Hunting, formerly arising out of the absolute rights of the lord over his serf, continued through the mutual good feeling between landlord and tenant, but now that many landlords are absentees and scarcely know a single tenant by sight, they cannot expect to let their land while still retaining it for sporting purposes without compensating the tenant or recognising the sacrifices which he endures for sport. One who was “blooded” by that best of sportsmen, the late Sir Charles Slingsby, half a century ago, at the early age of six years, and has had a life-long experience of every phase of country life both as landowner and farmer, while equally keen on both hunting and shooting, can see a good deal of both sides of this question.

To begin at the top, though the Master of Foxhounds, especially nowadays, has of all men the most need of tact and the patience of Job, how many are there in possession of those estimable qualities?

Although James Pigg had his prototype, dear old Jorrocks must be regarded as somewhat of a caricature; but Lord Scamperdale and his bully, Jack Spraggon, were taken from real characters, and the race, I fear, is not now altogether extinct. I have known a master, an old country squire and no ignorant upstart, abuse as a vulpicide another poor crippled squire in his carriage before the whole field, with the not unnatural result that he who for fifty years had preserved foxes throughout his vast extent of coverts solely for the benefit of others, as he could never hunt himself, went home and ordered every fox on his estate to be killed for two years as an object lesson; thereby quite ruining one day in every week. One cannot approve of such wholesale punishing of the innocent with the guilty, but cannot wonder at it. The same master, before throwing off, abused publicly on his own doorstep at a meet another landowner from whose five-acre covert I had myself had the satisfaction of holloaing away no less than seven foxes while shooting the week before. Another Master of Foxhounds in my hearing slanged the best of sportsmen and a keen fox preserver because he himself in a fit of temper had drawn blank at a hard gallop two hundred acres of coverts from which, to my own knowledge, five foxes at least had been halloaed away. My own Master of Foxhounds, a real good sort and an intimate friend, once received me, until I laughed him out of it instead of taking offence myself, with unaccountable coolness at Peterborough Hound Show; though I think he might have guessed that the unpleasing present which he had that morning received of the pads of a litter of cubs was scarcely likely to be sent by a keen preserver of foxes for twenty years with the well-known postmark of his own parish. Obviously I myself was the most injured as well as insulted party. Still, happily, these cases are exceptions in an experience of some scores of masters in every part of England, and I may especially mention the courtesy shown to a stranger in days of old in the Croome and Blackmore Vale countries.

It is vain for a Master of Foxhounds, not himself a landowner, to state that foxes do no harm to game, to me who have counted eighteen nests, say one hundred brace of partridges, destroyed around a single field; not that one grudged it, but one likes sometimes to have one’s sacrifices a little appreciated. We feel well repaid for the hundreds of rabbits consumed in the summer if only one of the right sort is found in our coverts when needed, and the master cheerily shouts as he dashes past, “I knew we could always depend on you, old chap.” Again, masters and fields, especially non-subscribers from towns, do not recognise the difficulty of showing foxes when needed. A good fox is not like a hand-reared pheasant, a tame animal to come when whistled for, but a wild animal going far afield and lying out in turnips or taking refuge in the tops of pollard trees; coverts may have been lately shot, timber may have been felled, a strange dog may have hunted them; worst of all, a fox may have been chopped there, or a score of things happened of which the grumblers are ignorant. A reputed millionaire Master of Foxhounds in a grass country brought his oats, hay and straw from abroad, losing hundreds of pounds of goodwill from the aggrieved farmers for every ten pounds saved. And now for the average man, who hunts to ride, or often only to sport pink at dinners or balls, and actually seems to believe himself that he confers a favour on the poor farmer by ruining his crops and breaking his fences and leaving his gates open, and whom he will sometimes curse incontinently if he is the least slow in throwing open his gates to the trespasser, to whom in rare cases he may throw a copper as to a beggar, contemptuously. Such an one buys everything at a distance, not only clothes, boots, saddlery and horse clothing, and stable utensils, but hay, corn and straw, while he buys his horses from the London dealer and not from the farmer. The chief reason of this is not only thoughtlessness but the fact that too many masters are morally the slaves of the servants who rob them, and who, with an ignorant, timid, or indifferent master, will often represent local goods as inferior, and even make them so to secure the commissions, as the cook does with eggs, poultry, meat, &c. It always puzzles me, too, why hunting men will pay two to three hundred guineas to a London dealer for a pig in a poke rather than buy a hunter from the breeder and trainer whose animal they can see day after day doing an excellent performance with hounds, and of which they may have any reasonable practical trial in the field before buying. The grooms can make the purchase a failure if they do not get substantial “regulars,” and their master is a duffer, and many men explain that with dealers they can swap and change, forgetting that it is the dealer and not themselves who is sure to benefit by each exchange.

It astonishes me as a practical breeder how valuable studs can be reared as well as herds of pedigree cattle and flocks of sheep in the Shires, where on every day in the week, Sundays only excepted, any one of half a dozen packs may stampede the lot, causing laming, staking and slipping, or casting their young; for it is trouble and risk enough with horses alone to have to round up and shut up all one’s brood mares and young stock rather than have them excited and dispersed over the adjoining parish through gaps and gates left open. It is not the fliers of the hunt who do the most damage, as experience teaches them to ride at the post or stiffest part of a fence that a horse will clear, instead of blundering through, but the ignoble army of skirters, who will tear down any fence in their efforts to regain the safety of the hard high road. Fortunately, the boastful thruster who shows off by turning a somersault through a new gate when hounds are not running is rare. Much might be done by reducing the quantity and improving the quality of the second horsemen, especially in the crowded Shires.

To sum up; the hunting man would do well in his own interest to show appreciation of the self-denial of the farmer by buying horses, forage and all that he can in the country which he affects, and avoid as far as possible all injury to growing crops, especially when hounds are not running or scent is bad—the days are only too few and choice when one must go straight and fast or go home—and then little harm results. Fences need seldom be broken nor gates left open where stock is, and any man who can afford to hunt can afford to pay a good subscription to enable the Hunt to compensate the farmer by removing and replacing the barbed wire, or, better still, supplying timber for fencing instead, and tactfully recouping Mrs. Farmer for loss of her just perquisite, poultry, even if, with the privilege of her sex, she sometimes opens her mouth a little widely and loudly. I have heard masters of hounds explaining to those who, like myself, have seen “bold Reynard” (see Sponge) carrying off fowls in broad daylight, that foxes do not injure poultry. Unfortunately the vulpine instinct is to prepare for a rainy day, and though we are assured that foxes leave home preserves alone as a reserve fund, it makes little difference whether neighbours or “travellers” clear off and bury the feathered contents of our henroost for future use, whether hungry or not, as the best fed dog will do with a number of bones.

RETURNING FROM MARKET, 1838.
(From Sir Walter Gilbey’s paper on “Farms and Small Holdings.” Live Stock Journal Almanac 1906.)

Photo by W. Shayer, Senr.

Still, fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer are a good sort, the former with an innate love of sport and the latter not impervious to soft sawder if laid on judiciously; and if game preservers will unselfishly remember the lines, even if exaggerated, that

and if each Master of Foxhounds will spend as much of the needful as he can locally, and remember that in the twentieth century men do not come out to be d——d; and those who take part in the pleasures of the chase, would subscribe to the great and increasing expenses of the packs which they favour (?) with their presence, observe the courtesy which they would show when “standing down,” and show some consideration for farmers and their gates, fences and crops, I have no fear but that the farmer will do his part as he has hitherto done in the more prosperous past; and to the question as to whether hunting is doomed to extinction or not, we may hopefully and confidently respond, in the words of the good old song:

The “Live Stock Journal Almanac”^[1] for 1906 contains a great many matters of interest. Sir Walter Gilbey’s article on “Farms and Small Holdings as Affected by Enclosures, Markets and Fairs” is full of information, and is particularly opportune in respect of the author’s remarks on small holdings. It is made clear that the oft-urged plea for the return of the excess urban population to rural pursuits cannot be acceded to under existing conditions. It was right of common that made the small holding possible in old days; and now that successive enclosure acts have removed the facilities the small holder enjoyed for pasturing his stock, the situation is radically altered.

Mr. G. S. Lowe contributes a very entertaining paper on “Horse Dealers Past and Present,” a subject full of possibilities, and of which he makes good use. Mr. C. J. Cornish deals with a topic that appeals to the naturalist in “Animals’ Foster-Children”; he reviews numerous curious cases of adoption, the strangest, perhaps, being the appropriation of chickens by a cat; the reverse, a hen taking possession of kittens, has also been recorded. All who wish to see betting placed on a sound and intelligible footing will be glad to see that Sir Walter Gilbey is heartily in favour of adopting the pari mutuel, or totaliser system, in this country; he makes out a strong case for it in “How Betting should Aid Agriculture.” The advantages of the system are so manifest that it is strange we should not have accepted it in England long since. Mr. C. B. Pitman, as usual, writes on “Thoroughbreds in 1905,” reviewing the performances of the more conspicuous horses of the season, the sales at Newmarket and Doncaster, and the show of the Royal Commission. Mr. Scarth Dixon writes on Cleveland bays and Yorkshire coach horses, and “E.” considers the Hackney: we notice that he regards the classes of Hackneys at the Royal this year as much above the average. The pony-breeding industry continues to make progress. Breeders of ponies for polo—all interested in the game—should read Mr. John Hill’s informing article on “Ponies in 1905.” In “Show Hunters of the Year” the successes of various studs and individual horses are reviewed; a portrait of Mr. Stokes’ gelding, Whiskey, accompanies the article. Mr. Vero Shaw deals with “Harness Horses”; old favourites, as he observes, have been mostly to the fore during the year. Passing over the very instructive articles on the heavy breeds of horses, we come to an essay by Mr. Harold Leeney, M.R.C.V.S., on “Brain Diseases in Animals,” an obscure subject to the lay reader. Mr. Leeney, however, tells us that the veterinary practitioner has to deal with a good many cases of brain and spinal cord trouble among domestic animals. Mr. C. Stein contributes an interesting article on “The Jersey Cow at Home,” while Mr. John Thornton’s comprehensive review of Shorthorns in 1905 is full of interest as usual. All the more notable varieties of cattle and sheep are dealt with in turn by acknowledged experts, but space forbids us to glance at the contents of these essays. Mr. F. Gresham must be thanked for his article on the “Working Spaniel,” directly and closely appealing to sportsmen who have ever used spaniels. Mr. Tegetmeier’s article on “The Management of Farmyard Poultry” contains many practical and useful hints.

Admirably illustrated and full of items of information indispensable to the dweller in the country, the Almanac seems to us to be more complete than ever this year.

We have received Part V. of “George Fothergill’s Sketch Book,” a work by this time well known to sportsmen who can appreciate clever drawings of hunting subjects, as well as to a wider circle of readers and picture-lovers. A coloured portrait of Mr. George Rimington, eldest brother of the soldier who made such a reputation in South Africa, forms the leading feature: it is faced by “Gone Away,” a set of hunting verses which possess spirit, rhythm and swing, recalling “We’ll all go a-hunting to-day.” The majority of the pages are occupied by sketches of Haughton le Skerne in co. Durham and its environs. The career of William Bewick, the artist-naturalist, furnishes Dr. Fothergill with subject matter for an interesting biographical sketch.

Thomas’ Hunting Diary, edited by Messrs. W. May and A. Coaten, and published at the County Gentleman and Land and Water office, grows larger and more complete every season. Mr. A. E. Burnaby contributes a good article on “The Art of Riding to Hounds.” Mr. Richard Ord has some very judicious observations to make on “The Duty of the Foxhunter towards the Farmer.” “Maintop,” the pseudonym adopted by a well-known Irish sportsman and writer, discusses “Knowledge of Hounds” in a particularly practical spirit, and incidentally touches lightly but firmly on the “sins of some ladies” in the hunting field. Then we have some chapters on hunting clothes and their care, and some informing pages concerning the packs of foxhounds abroad. It will perhaps surprise some readers to learn that foxhunting exists in nearly every British Colony.

Gale’s Almanac, published at 12, St. Bride Street, E.C., is full of information indispensable to racing men and to athletes, containing, as it does, a mine of facts relating to the turf, to cricket, football, billiards, athletics, rowing, lawn tennis, boxing and swimming. Racing occupies the bulk of the Almanac, and the information bearing on horses, their performances, form and prospects, is well worth careful study. The “Racing Facts” in particular appeal to us. The Almanac is well illustrated with portraits of owners, trainers, jockeys and horses of note.

The ever-welcome Badminton Diary, published at 43, Dover Street, W., makes its appearance this season in a new cover, which makes it look somewhat larger than the handy friend now so familiar. The new issue contains several new features, chiefly appealing to the motorist and polo player: the former will find a “motor trip register,” a list of motor records, motor road signs and identification marks. The lists of polo clubs, fixtures and records are also new.

It is interesting to see how fully those to whom is entrusted the development of our colonies are realising the value of game as an attraction to settlers of the most desirable stamp. We have received from the Agent-General of British Columbia a beautifully illustrated pamphlet which contains full particulars of the game, beast, bird and fish of that colony, with much helpful advice as to ways and means. The vast areas of virgin country offer great choice of game to the shooting man: three species of bear, four species of mountain sheep; also wapiti, caribou and deer. Various species of grouse, wildfowl and snipe are abundant, while every stream and lake offers salmon or trout-fishing, or both.

If anybody had the requisite industry to compile a history of modern pike-fishing, it would be found that 1905 would stand out very prominently in at least two respects. In the first place, it has been a remarkable year for the number of heavy specimen fish caught by honest angling with rod and line; and in the second place, the year has been noteworthy for the number of curious stories which have appeared in the sporting prints dealing with what is commonly called the “voracity” of the pike. I have no wish to make this article a mere epitome of the angling reports which appear week by week in the various fishing journals, but as I have for many years past compiled a diary of all important catches, I am entitled to say that 1905 was a specially interesting year in the matter of big pike hooked and landed. This last reservation is needed, for we all hook, but very rarely land, the biggest fish in the waters wherein we angle. For instance, it has been my own ambition for years to catch a 20 lb. pike, and I have spent months and months at the water side in its vain pursuit; yet nothing bigger than a ten-pounder has ever fallen to my lot, while I have had the grim pleasure of seeing comparative novices hook and carry away with unconcern fish I myself would almost have given an ear to have played on my own rod. Yet I verily believe I have hooked fish of specimen size. Thus, I have an old spoon bait which is not merely indented with numberless teeth marks, but is even jagged and torn as though it had been placed in a vice and then wrenched. It was no ten-pounder which did that! But this and all other similar phantom fish are for the moment excluded from our chronicles. We will deal only with pike whose capture and weight are completely verified.

To deal with big pike is to open the door for the weaver of fishing yarns. A good deal of misconception exists as to the weight of pike. There is a boatman on Windermere Lake who tells you, and possibly believes it, that he knows of a pike at the southern end of the lake which must be 50 or 60 lb. weight. He has seen it! He will tell you how it pulls ducks beneath the water, how it takes a spinning bait and crumples rod and line ere it breaks everything before it, and he will solemnly warn novices not to allow themselves to be pulled out of their boat by this insatiable monster. All this is moonshine. The Lake district is favourable to the growth of big pike. Lakes ten, eight and six miles long, swarming with trout and perch, offer exceptional facilities for pike, yet very big fish are rarely caught. For many years past I have only heard of one twenty-pounder, though all the lakes are keenly fished. The record is a pike of 34 lb., caught in Bassenthwaite in 1861, on a spinning bait. The fact is that only few pike reach 20 lb., and fish over that weight, when caught, should be celebrated by a dinner and a fitting glass case. No, the modern pike is not the creature of our youthful imagination. I make it a point to verify all reported fish of over 20 lb., and it is curious how, after a few letters, these monster fish dwindle away. Thus, a 39 lb. pike from Ireland, reported in The Field and Fishing Gazette in 1904, turned out to be a twenty-eight-pounder when my inquiries were completed. All the apology offered by the correspondent for this most sinful deception was that it was a “mistake.” Then what is the biggest pike of which we have any record caught by angling? The honour belongs to Ireland. A pike was caught there in 1900, and sent to the Fishing Gazette Office, and it was made clear beyond doubt that it weighed 40½ lb. But the fish was caught in the spawning season, was heavy with several pounds of spawn, and in normal conditions would probably not have weighed more than about 35 lb. The fish next to this should really come before it, for it was caught in the early part of this year, in the winter, was free from spawn, and every ounce of it seems to be honest weight. It was caught in Lough Mask by a water bailiff named Connor, and its weight was verified by railway officials who saw it weighed, as well as by Williams and Son, the Dublin naturalists, to whom it was sent for preservation. It weighed 38 lb. Unhappily, we are not so clear as to the method of its capture. I wrote to Williams and Son, and received a letter back in which they lamented its inglorious end. They told me it was netted. I published this letter in the Fishing Gazette, when lo, the Rev. Mr. Curran wrote and denied it, and affirmed most positively that Connor caught it by fair fishing, on a rod and line, with a Blue Phantom as bait. Coming a little lower in the scale, there is no doubt at all about the next best fish to this monster from the Mask. The honour of catching the record English pike belongs to Mr. Alfred Jardine, who in 1879 caught one in a private water of the weight of 37 lb. He had already previously captured one of 36 lb. Since then that record has only twice been beaten by the two Irish pike mentioned above, and, as I have shown, one of them should be disqualified by reason of being with spawn, and the other is still invested with mystery as to the method of its capture. If we admit gaffed or netted fish into our chronicles we must enlarge our figures, for netting and gaffing are purposely carried on when the fish work into the shallows to deposit their spawn, and they naturally reach heavier weights then than at other times. There are authentic records of fish over 40 lb. thus caught.

In the early part of 1905, Major Mainwaring verified in The Field, two pike gaffed in Lough Mask—one 42 lb., the other 48 lb.; the latter had just spawned; otherwise, as the Major wrote, it might very easily have brought down the scale at 60 lb. Then there is a record of a pike weighing 61 lb. being caught in the River Bann in Ireland, in 1894, measuring over four feet, and containing over 7 lb. of spawn; and we have English records, mainly from the Norfolk Broads and the Lincolnshire Fens, of pike netted during the spawning period and weighing full 40 lb. We are face to face with the fact, therefore, that we can verify the capture of a pike 37 lb. by an English angler, and that by netting or gaffing, pike up to 60 lb. or thereabouts have been taken out of Irish waters.

It is necessary that these figures should be stated, because they are useful as a standard to compare the pike caught in the early months of 1905. The record for the season weighed 33½ lb. Quite a number over 30 lb. were caught, more so than for a number of years past. But, to my mind, the two facts of greatest importance which emerge from a study of my pike records are these: first, that February is the very best month of the year for catching pike; and second, that spinning is the deadliest method. Take the first of these propositions. In February last Mr. Oliver Procter and two friends had a day’s pike fishing on a private water in Nottinghamshire. The name of the place was not given, but internal evidence in their narrative tells me that it was the private lake at Clumber, the Duke of Newcastle’s place. In one day these three rods caught, by spinning, fifty-six pike, weighing 468½ lb. The best fish weighed 31 lb. and the smallest was actually 6 lb. One rod got 32 fish, weighing 275 lb.; another rod had 17 fish, weighing 119½ lb.; the other rod, Mr. Procter himself, had seven fish, weighing 74 lb. The latter average is very high, but it included the best fish of the day, the 31-pounder. As each rod could only keep three fish, all the rest were safely returned to the water. I have asked the reader to note that this was a February catch and that they were caught spinning. A few days later, in the same month, three Nottingham anglers had a day on this same water. By spinning they accounted for 52 pike, weighing 425 lb. The heaviest was 33½ lb., was the record pike of the year, and was caught by Mr. F. W. K. Wallis, of Nottingham. I have not yet done with February, nor with spinning. In the same month two Wolverhampton anglers, one of them a clergyman, fishing a water not named, caught 52 pike between them, all by spinning. The total weight was not recorded, but they gave away over 2 cwt. to the deserving poor of Wolverhampton. Another February case was that of Mr. R. C. H. Corfe and Mr. M. R. L. White, of the Fly Fishers’ Club. Spinning, they caught 55 pike in a day’s angling. The largest was only 18½ lb., but they touched bigger fish, for as they were landing a four-pounder it was wrenched off the hooks and carried away by a pike which Mr. White estimated at 30 lb. or thereabouts. They were all caught by spinning dace or sprats on an Abbey Mills spinner. Again, in that same February, a college student reported to The Field how, in two hours’ spinning, during a snow-storm, using a silver Devon on the Wye near Hereford, he caught four pike, 27½ lb., 15 lb., 8 lb. and 6 lb. These records, all from 1905, surely establish February’s claim to rank as the premier pike month of the year. Going further back, I find that other years substantiate this claim. Mr. Jardine, in his book on pike-fishing, gives a list of sixty record fish, and thirty of them belong to the end of January and the month of February.

There can be no doubt, therefore, that the angler who defers his pike fishing till the winter is nearing the end has the root of the matter in him. There are some waters in Lincolnshire, the home of big pike, where you are not thanked to go a-fishing till near the Christmas holidays. The old couplet about winter “driving into madness every plunging pike” was founded upon very close observation. The dying away of weeds and the consequent loss of shelter to the pike, and the hibernation of the small fish upon which he preys, added to the frost, give him a keen appetite, and it is then that the angler has his best chance, for, after all, you are likelier to catch any fish when he is hungry than when he is lazy and fat and has no need to bestir himself to find a meal. This very naturally brings me to the second of my propositions, that spinning is in winter the deadliest method of capturing pike. In the early autumn live-baiting and paternostering are, to my thinking, the more effective. The pike is then in his lair. He is lying up in his weed bed, grimly watching all that goes on in the watery world outside. You take your live bait, either on float-tackle or on a paternoster, and you drop it right in front of his nose; and he is a very sulky pike indeed who allows it to pass him by without a protest. If you are spinning you may cover acres of water and never have the luck to get near enough to him to attract his attention, but in winter the conditions are altogether different. Cold and hunger have driven him out of his summer fastnesses. He is roaming hither and thither in search of food. Every faculty is on the alert, and woe betide the hapless creature that comes within the range of his vision. It matters not whether it is a rat swimming across to his hole on the opposite bank, a dab-chick aimlessly swimming about, a water-hen or a duckling, it is all the same to Master Pike. What more natural, therefore, that a well-spun bait drawn across his very eyes should in a moment rouse him to anger? All the records I have already given were the result of spinning. Now in the Badminton volume on Pike Mr. Pennell, who is a confirmed pike-spinner, rather suggests that the biggest pike are generally caught with live-bait and not by spinning. True, Mr. Jardine’s 37-pounder was on live-bait, but the Irish 38-pounder, according to my clerical correspondent, was on a spinner. This year’s record, a 33½ pounder, was on a spinner, and so was Mr. Procter’s best fish, a 31-pounder. The record of 1903, a 34-lb. pike taken in the Wye, was caught by spinning a dace on Abbey tackle, and in February, it may be added. That same year Canon Dyke, of Ashford, Kent, wrote to The Field, saying that spinning had always brought him good results. He instanced several pike up to 28 lb. he himself had caught while spinning. More conclusive than this, however, was a remarkable diary published in The Field in 1903. In 204 days’ fishing the diarist caught 1,665 pike, an average of about eight fish per day. The gross weight was 2 tons 10 cwt. 62 lb., and it works out at an average of nearly 3½ lb. per fish; but the most striking thing about the record is this, that all were caught by spinning. About a dozen were taken on a spoon, the remainder fell victims to spinning a five-inch dace. The moral of this is obvious. If you want to catch large pike and many of them, you must spin. If you merely want an isolated fish, if you set your mind on some monster whom you know to inhabit a certain hole, you may adopt the method of the dry-fly man and stalk him with a lively roach of ½ lb. weight, but if you are in earnest and wish to make a big bag, you most assuredly will have to arm yourself with plenty of spinning tackle. I can give instances without end of good pike which have fallen to the spinner. Here are a recent few at random: a 27-pounder, 1903, from the Irish Blackwater, caught by spinning a trout; a 34½-pounder, caught with a spoon, by a Bolton angler, in 1903, at Lochmaben, near Dumfries, and so on. And here are other fine records to the credit of the spinner. In September, 1903, two members of the Palmerston Angling Society, fishing two days in a Cambridgeshire water, landed 127 pike, all of them falling to pickled sprats and dace.

Then there is a remarkable catch by Mr. F. Shroeder, a York angler, who, fishing Hornsea Mere, near Hull, in 1902, caught 65 pike in a day, weighing 348 lb. The heaviest was 13½ lb. Another day Mr. Shroeder tells me he caught ten pike in the same water before breakfast, weighing 110 lb., including a 23-pounder and a 20-pounder. I asked Mr. Shroeder how he got them, and his reply is, in the morning by spinning a dead bait on an ordinary flight, and in the afternoon by live-baiting, but principally by spinning. I have just tracked another remarkable catch to the credit of the spinner. Mr. Albert Shlor, of Worksop, wrote in October this year to the fishing papers, stating that he had just caught twenty-one pike, in a private lake, in five and a half hours, of a total weight of over 149 lb., the heaviest being 13 lb. 11 oz. I wrote to Mr. Shlor, and he tells me he caught them all by spinning. Fifteen were taken on a Colorado spoon. Then he put on a dead gudgeon, on an ordinary flight made by himself, and having no flanges or spinning arrangement, the spin being obtained, as in Mr. Shroeder’s case just mentioned, by bending the tail of the fish. Well, out of seven runs with this tackle Mr. Shlor, who is only twenty years of age, landed six pike. That is something like fishing, and it is something like spinning. For, as Mr. Shlor tells me, his brother, who was fishing with him and using live bait, only landed two fish, and only had three runs altogether! But if this is not enough, Mr. White, of the Fly Fishers’ Club, says in a letter that he has frequently had up to forty-five pike to his own rod in a single day by spinning, and once, in company with another, they took seventy-five in a day’s spinning, though they “shook off,” all under about 10 lb. or so. Had they retained all, their total would have been fully 100 pike for the day. And while this is in the printer’s hands, I have a letter from Mr. O. Overbeck, of Grimsby, the champion carp fisher, who tells me that it was spinning dead roach that he caught, at Clumber in 1903, thirty-one pike in four hours, of a total weight of 187½ lb.

Now, if spinning is the deadliest method, it is a fair question to inquire which particular form of spinner holds the field for the best results. Every pike angler has his favourite lure. Personally, I find the spoon the most effective. In an article in The Field once I gave the tabulated results of my season’s pike fishing. I used two artificial baits, a Kill-devil Devon and a common spoon, and pickled dace on an Archer spinner. The spoon easily came first, then the Kill-devil. I obtained the worst results with the natural bait, but the local conditions and personal preference count in this vexed question. For instance, in the Lake district a spoon is always the most effective. Pike there feed on perch every day of their lives. There is nothing tempting or novel to them in the sight of a spinning perch. Put a spoon on, or a Phantom, and you will be into good fish almost immediately. There is even room for taste in spoons. You may fish half a day on Esthwaite Lake with a plated spoon and never touch a fish. Change it for a Norwich spoon, on which is painted the head and eye of a fish, and you may catch half-a-dozen good pike in the hour. Who shall account for this? There are other waters where the spoon is never looked at by a fish. You must have real fish for bait, or you will do nothing at all. My own observation leads me to this conclusion, that in the North of England the spoon is the best lure; in the Midlands and the South natural fish have the advantage as bait. Finally, a word as to size. It seems to me that in spinning for pike the very reverse holds good to the ascertained facts of live-baiting. In the latter form of fishing you must have large baits to catch large fish. Mr. Jardine’s 37-pounder was caught with a ½-lb. roach. Some anglers—Mr. Pennell is one—use and recommend jack up to 2 lb. as lively bait for their big brothers and parents, but in spinning you must use a small bait. If it is a spoon, or an imitation fish, anything over three inches and a half is a waste of money and a menace to good results. Pickled dace or roach should never exceed five inches. Mr. M. R. L. White has often emphasised this point. He says he has many times turned a bad day into a good one by changing to the smallest bait he had, and he tells of one occasion where, obstinately sticking to big bait, he hardly got a fish, while his friend, fishing the same water with him, but using smaller bait, landed thirty-five. A correspondent in the Fishing Gazette last year drew attention to the fact that the three largest pike which had come under his personal notice were taken on small baits, one of 38 lb. on a spoon only an inch and a half long; another of 32½ lb. on a roach of three and a half inches, and a third of 30 lb., also on a very small roach. I am entitled to claim, therefore, that this rapid survey of some recent records of pike fishing demonstrates three facts which are worth remembering: that February or thereabouts is the best time to catch pike, that spinning is the deadliest method, and that a small spinner, whether natural or artificial, has undoubtedly all the advantages on its side.

It is with some diffidence that I approach the second half of my subject. For years the angling humorist has poked fun at what the newspapers all agree in terming the “voracity” of the pike. Let me say at the outset that the reader will find nothing here of that pike which chased an angler round a three-acre field in a snow-storm; nor of that other pike which leaped out of the water, seized the angler’s pannier and made off with its contents; nor of that other which, when an unfortunate rodsman fell into the river, kindly took him in his mouth and gently conveyed him to the bank again. The recital of these yarns must be sought for elsewhere. Still, I cannot help recalling the capital story told by Lord Claud Hamilton at the last dinner of the Fly Fishers’ Club. An Irishman had caught a big pike. Noting a lump in its stomach, he cut it open. “As I cut it open there was a mighty rush and a flapping of wings, and away flew a wild duck; and, begorra, when I looked inside, there was a nest with four eggs, and she had been after sitting on that nest.” The pike has always been fair game for the yarn-spinner, and some of the very best of his products have naturally come from Ireland. The most curious story of 1905 hailed from Pickering, in Yorkshire. Dr. Robertson, of that town, is its author. He tells how he was sent for by a farmer friend to see his son, who, so ran the message, had been bitten by a fish. On arrival, the doctor found that the lad’s foot bore unmistakable marks of teeth, and the wound was so severe it required stitching. The lad’s story was that he had been bathing. After leaving the river he sat on the edge of the bank, with his foot near the water, and while there a pike jumped up and bit him. His cries attracted a woman, who bound his foot up and assisted him home. To complete the story, a local angler was shown the spot, and on casting over it with a spinning bait he hooked and caught a 6 lb. pike. Now, there is nothing improbable in this, though a good deal of unkind fun was poked at Dr. Robertson. But the doctor was responsible for nothing beyond telling the tale; and remember, he had seen the lad and stitched up the wound, he had seen the woman who had carried him home, and he had seen the angler who subsequently caught a pike at the very spot. What we know of the propensities of the pike is sufficient to make us believe anything which throws light upon the ferocity of his nature. Most anglers have had their hands gashed by the snapping brutes during the operation of releasing tackle on waters where most of the fish have to be returned. I have seen an oar deeply bitten by a 10 lb. pike; and one of my heavy fishing boots has marks on the heel where a small pike once caught on like grim death. Indeed, my companion had to kick him loose. For my own part, I believe Dr. Robertson’s story. He had no motive to embellish it, and there were so many parties to it that exaggeration would sooner or later have been discovered. As it is, the incident is a striking corroboration of the remarkable stories collected by Mr. Pennell in the Badminton volume on Pike.

Now, the orthodox stories of pike “voracity” divide themselves into two clearly-defined sections. The first of these is concerned with its gluttonous appetite—its onslaught on smaller fish, its appetite for rats, ducks and kindred morsels. I have collected some thousands of these incidents. But why reproduce them? We all know that the pike has a fearful appetite, that his swallowing powers are enormous, and that sometimes, to use an expressive Americanism, he bites off more than he can chew. Thus, we read of a 3½ lb. pike choked trying to swallow a 1¼ lb. trout; of a 9 lb. pike containing a 1½ lb. perch; of a 28 lb. pike containing a 6 lb. grilse; of a 2 lb. pike taking a spoon when he was so full that the tail of a pound trout was protruding from his mouth; of an Irish pike of 3½ lb. containing a trout of 1¼ lb.; and of others containing ducks, rats, waterhens, and even stoats. The plain fact is, of course, that the pike is a creature of prey, and like all creatures of prey, he is savage and implacable. He eats till he is full, and even then he takes good care not to refuse any tempting morsel which comes within range of his fearful jaws. His destructiveness can hardly be estimated in figures. If he eats his own weight per week, which is surely under the estimate, he requires a fish colony for his own table purposes alone.

A pike of 25 lb. was this season netted in the Lune, a first-class northern trout-stream. By his look he was an old fish, and he was well fed. How many tons of trout had he got through in his long lifetime? It is bad enough when they confine themselves to big fish, but when they get among the fry it is even worse, for they are destroying the very sources of a stream’s productiveness. And, alas, they have a liking for young and tender fish, as the keepers of our best waters know to their cost. Last year a pike of 4 lb. 11 oz. was caught by a Birmingham angler, and on opening it at the clubhouse its stomach was found to contain no fewer than 274 small fish of an inch to an inch and a half long, the fry of roach and bream. No wonder that in trout and salmon waters the pike is regarded as a pest and is kept down by every method the wit of the harassed keeper can devise.

To my mind, the most interesting pike stories are those which centre round its capture. What must Mr. White’s feelings have been like when his 4 lb. pike was snatched off the hooks and carried away by a 30-pounder just as he was about to gaff it? Or that of the angler in Tyrone, who, reeling in an 8 lb. pike, had it attacked by a much larger pike, which, though it could not pull the fish off the hooks, scored it with wounds five inches long, and half an inch deep.

Most of us have had similar experiences, if on a small scale. In a trout stream where pike abound, it is a common thing to lose your trout just at the supreme moment through a pike thinking he has a greater right to him than you have. But it is not often that the angler is so fortunate as was a correspondent who wrote to the Fishing Gazette. His 2 lb. trout was seized by a 5 lb. pike. The pike held on while the angler reeled in towards the boat; then the attendant slipped his net beneath them and landed the pair. Thus was piracy adequately punished. Sometimes, ignoring the bait, a pike will seize the float or the lead, and his teeth becoming entangled in the line he will be landed.

Once an account appeared in The Field of a good-sized pike caught in a most remarkable fashion. A net of fish as bait was hanging over the side of a boat. A pike attacked these fish, and becoming involved in the mesh was drawn aboard and killed. I think there can be no reasonable doubt about the fact that pike do not feel pain. Else why do they repeatedly go for the same bait? I was once minnowing for trout and hooked a big pike. He broke me and sailed away with a yard of gut, to say nothing of three triangles somewhere about his jaws. I put on another minnow and resumed fishing. Two or three times that pike followed my bait to a yard of the side, irresolute. At last he took it. He was more than I could manage, and again he broke me, and again he sailed off with minnow, hooks, and half my cast. He had now two minnow tackles about him, representing six triangles, or eighteen hooks in all, and if they caused no pain they at least must have produced discomfort. But note what happened. In my bag I found by accident I had put in an old spoon on gimp. I put this on my trout line and cast again. Would it be believed, that pike came once more and took my spoon. Surely, thought I, he is mine this time. I played him ten minutes and then drew him to the side, but somehow, my line fouled and we parted company, myself minus a spoon and triangles. Altogether that pike had twenty-four hooks of mine in his possession. I returned next day with a pike rod and tackle, but he had had enough. Now, although this is an extreme case, it is almost paralleled by other experiences. An angler last season on Frensham Pond, Surrey, using two rods, hooked a pike and lost it on one tackle, the line breaking. Within five minutes the same pike took the other bait and was landed on the other rod, with the first tackle securely fixed in his jaws. A very curious instance was reported from the Thames. In March, 1903, a Mr. Wilton hooked a pike which broke away and took his Archer spinner with him. On February 28th, 1904, eleven months later, Mr. Wilton and his nephew were fishing in the same spot. The nephew hooked a pike, and, on taking it out of the water, Mr. Wilton’s spinner was found in his lower jaw. There was no doubt about it being the same spinner, as Brookes, the fisherman to the Guards Club at Maidenhead, supplied it and was there when it was recovered, and identified it by his wrappings. The lapse of a year had dulled the pike’s memory of the earlier encounter, but there are innumerable instances of pike going for bait twice within a few minutes. Thus a Thames reporter tells how a trout spinner, in March, 1905, saw his bait taken and his line broken by a pike. He put on another bait and tackle. At the very first cast he hooked and landed the same pike, and thus recovered intact his first flight. Obviously the fish had felt neither pain nor discomfort from his first experience, otherwise he would never have been rash enough to repeat it five minutes later. One other similar instance out of many. In August of this year an angler caught a pike of about a pound in the Medway. He put it back, but first cut off part of one of its fins to test its rate of growth if ever it were caught again. Then he baited again, and in less than a quarter of an hour caught that identical pike a second time. So I might go on telling of pike that have gone for two baits at once and been hauled in by a couple of rods simultaneously; of pike that—but hold, enough! Surely I have fulfilled the purpose with which I set out, and that was to demonstrate the interest and excitement of winter pike-fishing, and to show that no branch of the angler’s art is more surrounded by incident and anecdote than the quest and capture of the king of all the coarse fish.

I do not suppose that William Somerville, the poet of “The Chase,” is much read nowadays, though, doubtless, musty and dust-covered, his poems lie among the neglected classics in the libraries of most country houses. Yet he can lay better claim than any other bard to the title of “Laureate of the Hunting Field” and he was a royal good sportsman to boot. “A squire, well-born and six foot high,” is his own description of himself to his brother poet, Allan Ramsay; and among the squires of his native Warwickshire he held a foremost place. For his estates brought him in £1,500 a year—a rental equivalent to at least £4,000 in the present day. A jovial soul he was, too, with a heart as big as his body. Generous to a fault, and freehanded in his spending of money, William Somerville, like many good sportsmen of the same type before and since, ran through his patrimony before he was forty. His friend, William Shenstone, another almost forgotten poet, gives us a melancholy picture of the latter days of the sporting squire, whose verses won the high commendation of Johnson and Addison. “Plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense, he was forced to drink himself into pains of the body, to get rid of the pains of the mind.” He died in 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley-in-Arden. In the churchyard there is a monumental urn erected to his memory by Shenstone, but “Tempus edax rerum” has made the inscription almost indecipherable.

I am reminded of Somerville in writing this rambling gossip on hunting men, because no one has depicted with more animation and spirit than he the opening of the hunting season; and there are at any rate three lines of his which are familiar to all educated sportsmen, if only through Mr. Jorrocks’s emendation:

It is to Somerville, then, that we owe the phrase, “the sport of Kings,” more often, with better reason, nowadays, applied to the Turf.

Indeed, the Chase no longer merits the designation in its literal sense, for Royalty is conspicuous by its absence from the hunting field. I note, too, that English statesmen are no longer so keen to ride with hounds as they once were. Golf seems to have more charms for Ministers than hunting. Time was when Premiers and Secretaries of State were as familiar figures at a meet of hounds as at a meeting of the Cabinet. Sir Robert Walpole, the Duke of Grafton, Lord Althorp, Lord Palmerston, Earl Granville, were all hard riders to hounds and loved no sport better than the Chase. Even Mr. Gladstone, though not much of a sportsman in his later life, was, I am told, in his earlier days sometimes to be seen in Nottinghamshire, mounted on his old white mare, galloping after hounds with his friend and Parliamentary patron, the Duke of Newcastle. And I have met those who remember seeing the “Grand Old Man” at a still earlier period of his career, in Berwickshire, keeping close up to Willie Hay, of Dunse Castle, during a hard run.

And this, let me tell you, was no mean feat, for Willie Hay, when mounted on his famous hunter, Crafty, despite his welter weight, was hard to beat. In fact, he nearly always led the field with Crafty under him; and after a bursting hour and twenty minutes the horse seemed as little the worse for the going as his master, for both were thoroughbred ones. Willie, to distinguish him from others of his numerous clan, was known as “Hay of Drumelzier.” He came of an old Border stock—for he was of the Tweeddale blood on his mother’s side—and there was a touch of the ancestral reiver about him—the lawlessness, the recklessness, the boldness of the Border cattle-lifter, were latent in Willie and found vent in the hunting field. He was present at Waterloo as a spectator, like the Duke of Richmond, but tradition has it that, unable to control himself at the sight and sound of battle, he dashed incontinently into the fray and rode right through one of the cavalry charges unhurt, more fortunate than his younger brother, an officer in a Highland regiment, who was slain on the slopes of Mont St. Jean.

The late Earl of Wemyss, then Lord Elcho, was another Scotsman of that time who had a reputation for dare-devil riding. Indeed, he was known all over the country, not only as a splendid horseman, but as one of the finest all-round sportsmen of his day. As a youngster he had gone the pace and “made things hum” to such a tune that his father found it necessary to screw him up tightly.

But this did not prevent him from getting a pack of hounds together in 1830. He had the misfortune to lose his huntsman at the commencement of his first season—the man broke his leg and died from the effects of the accident—and Lord Elcho hunted the hounds himself. In this capacity he showed that he could combine with hard riding a creditable amount of Scottish canniness and caution.

In Joe Hogg, moreover, he had a capable first whip, a man who would follow wherever the master or the hounds led. One day the fox made for a bog and crossed it, the hounds, of course, following in pursuit, while behind them came Lord Elcho and Joe Hogg, the latter entering as keenly into the spirit of the adventure as his master. Next day some one said, “Joe, how did you feel when you were following his Lordship over the bog?” “Lord, sir,” he replied, “I did expect to be swallowed fairly up alive every time my horse jumped, but nothing else could be done, for the hounds were running right into him.” The bog was a mile and a half across, and the frost was just enough to make firm the driest parts, which admitted of the horses jumping from one tussock of grass to another.

Lord Saltoun, again, was an excellent rider, and with pluck enough to ride down the jagged steep of Berwick Law. He shone, too, with equal light at the festive board, where his rendering of the “Man with the Wooden Leg,” and other comic songs of the day, always “brought down the house.” He fought with his regiment at Waterloo, where he greatly distinguished himself in the defence of Hougomont, and afterwards remained in France with the army of occupation. And thereby hangs a tale.

While in quarters at St. Denis, Lord Saltoun, Lord William Lennox, Sim Fairfield, and one or two more, when they got to their billets in an hotel one night, found all their beds occupied. A French cavalry regiment had ridden up, and the officers had taken possession of every bedroom and locked themselves in. What was to be done? The Britishers were by no means disposed to submit tamely to this unceremonious invasion. They held a council of war. A bright idea suggested itself to Lord Saltoun, he propounded it to his comrades; it met with their enthusiastic approval, and they forthwith proceeded to carry it into execution. First, the waiter and ostler were bribed to secrecy. Then the conspirators went softly to work and changed all the boots which stood outside each door. When this was done, Sim Fairfield, who could play any instrument from a Jew’s harp to a trombone, got hold of a trumpet and sounded the French “Boot and Saddle.” In an instant every Frenchman was out of bed—doors were opened, boots eagerly snatched, and then—the band began to play! Never was there heard such scrambling and swearing: the air reeked with blasphemy. Men with large feet had got hold of small boots, men with small feet found themselves lost in “jacks” a world too wide for their shrunk shanks. Some tugged and cursed, others stumbled and swore, till they all got outside and finally galloped off. Then Lord Saltoun and his brother-plotters quickly took possession of the vacant beds, barricaded their doors, and slept the sleep of the just.

Another great Scottish foxhunter was brought to my mind not long since when I was skirting the coast along the Sound of Kilbrannan. About four miles from Campbeltown, in the Mull of Kintire, I passed the beautiful bay of Saddell, the graceful sweep of which attracted my attention, and as I let my eye wander upwards over the strip of creamy white beach I was struck by the singular charm of the landscape. Right up into the heart of the wooded hillside runs a lovely glen—in the foreground among its trim lawns, stands Saddell House; close by are the ruins of a grim old castle-keep, and one can trace the venerable avenue of stately beeches which leads to the ancient Abbey, where the old monks of Saddell enjoyed themselves six hundred years ago. It is a place which has a peculiar interest for sportsmen, for it was the home of John Campbell of Saddell, one of the greatest foxhunters of his day, whose hunting songs have won for him in Scotland a reputation as great as that of Whyte Melville or Egerton Warburton in England. A man, too, who could not only write good songs, but sing them as no one else could.

“Johnny” Campbell was a welter-weight, scaling something like sixteen stone, yet he was always in the first flight. He chose his horses more for strength than appearance, and was seldom seen on one over fifteen hands, but they were all short-legged, well-bred, steady and strong. He thought a good deal more of the safety of his horses than of his own. When he was at Melton Mowbray in 1832 English foxhunters looked upon him as the maddest of Scotchmen, because, in trying to save his horses, he would jump into the hedges instead of over them, quite regardless of the consequences to himself; for, like Assheton Smith, the Laird of Saddell did not mind how many falls he got. He was a tall, fine, handsome man, and when dressed at night in his scarlet coat with green facings and buff breeches (the uniform of the Buccleuch Hunt), his equal would have been hard to find in the three kingdoms.

It is not often that the qualities of poet, singer, bon vivant and sportsman are found combined in one personality as they were in “Johnny” Campbell, and, consequently, it is not surprising that the Laird of Saddell was immensely popular. Both in England and Scotland he was voted the best of good fellows, and was the life and soul of the convivial parties to which every host was eager to invite him. He would sometimes astonish and delight the company by improvising a song, setting it to an air and singing it the same evening. One memorable feat of this kind he achieved when he was a guest at Rossie Priory, the seat of Lord Kinnaird, in Perthshire, in 1831. They had had a famous run that morning with Mr. Dalzell’s hounds, and, taking that for his theme, he rattled off a parody of “We have been friends together.” Beginning with “We have seen a run together,” he described the run throughout, and concluded with:

But there were times when “Johnny” Campbell was not altogether a desirable companion to those who valued their lives and limbs, for he had a strong smack of Jack Mytton’s devilry in him, and when the demon of mischief possessed him he did not care a rap for his own skin or that of any of his companions. One night—or rather dark morning—a party of four gentlemen, including “Johnny” Campbell and Sir David Baird, who had been dining at Marchmont House, started to drive home to Dunse in a post-chaise. After passing through the park gates the post-boy got down to close them. Campbell thereupon leaned out of the window, and with a terrific “Who-oo-op awa’,” set the horses off in a panic. There was an open drain in front of them, a big mound of earth to the left, and a lake to the right. What the fate of the chaise and its occupants would have been had not the post-boy, who was a particularly smart young fellow, sprinted to the horses’ heads and stopped them just in time, one shudders to conjecture. Campbell laughed heartily, and thought it was an excellent joke. Sir David, who was a dare-devil himself of a different kind, preserved a saturnine indifference; but the other two were scared almost out of their senses. Never again would either of them trust himself in anything on wheels with Campbell of Saddell, for, as one of them remarked, “Johnny Campbell is one of the most agreeable companions—anywhere but in a post-chaise.”

Lord Eglinton, who for five-and-twenty years was, I suppose, the most popular man in the United Kingdom, was another notable hunting contemporary of Campbell of Saddell and Lords Elcho and Saltoun. He was then only twenty-four years of age, and the classic triumphs of Blue Bonnet, Van Tromp, and the immortal Flying Dutchman were yet in the future. But he had already proved himself an exceptionally bold and skilful horseman, both across country and on the flat. His half-brother, Charlie Lamb, too, was another of the right sort, who could hold his own with the best on the racecourse or with hounds. But Charlie had, what Lord Eglinton lacked, a dry humour, which gave a racy flavour to his personality. An anecdote of his earlier years will suffice for a sample:—

“Why don’t you send Charlie to sea?” an old friend and a right honourable old maid one day said to the Countess, his mother. “It is very bad for a young man to be idling away his time at home.”

After a short pause, Charlie, who was present, furnished the answer himself.

“Do you not think,” said he, “the stomach pump would answer as well?”

But enough of Scottish sportsmen for the present; let me turn to England and her foxhunters. The name of John Warde is, of course, familiar as a household word to every one who takes the slightest interest in hunting-lore, for was he not one of the greatest among the “Fathers of Foxhunting”?

Well, there are some stories of John Warde which will, I dare say, be new to many readers of Baily. Richard Tattersall, the then head of the famous house, always gave a “Derby Dinner” late in the week preceding Epsom, to which some of the most distinguished men of the day were invited. John Warde never missed this function; indeed, the festive occasion would have been nothing without him to represent foxhunting. Sure as the dial to the sun, a few minutes before six his portly form would issue from his yellow chariot, in his silver knee and shoe buckles. The pipe of port which the host and his brother Edmund laid down annually had to pay a heavy tax laid on it, for each man had to drink “John Warde and the noble Science” in a silver fox’s head, which held nearly a pint, and admitted of no heel taps. None stood the ordeal better than “glorious John” himself; he would rise from the table steady as a rock, and before he left always made a point of going up to the drawing-room in the small hours to bid Mrs. Tattersall good-bye, for that good lady never went to bed till she had seen her husband precede her.

His mother lived to a great age, and became very deaf, but she always had her page-boy in every Sunday to say his Collect and Catechism, and although she could not hear a word he said, yet from the earnest expression of his face, and his never hesitating, she took it for granted that he repeated them properly, and invariably gave him a shilling. John, however, getting a hint that the young rascal imposed upon the good-natured lady, one Sunday morning hid himself in the room. As usual, young Buttons was called up, and requested to commence his religious exercise; then, with a perfectly solemn face, he began, “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon,” and so on to the end of the old nursery rhyme.

“There’s a good boy,” said the old lady, putting into his hand a shilling. But just as Master Hopeful was departing, jubilant, whack came a whip, with which John had provided himself on spec, down upon his shoulders. The welting he got made him remember Collect and Catechism for many a day.

Warde attained the patriarchal age of eighty-five. Like all sportsmen of the “golden time,” he was a bon vivant, but in his last days he had to give up wine.

By a strange irony of fate, he died of water on the chest.

“This is a pretty business,” he said. “Here is a man dying of water, who never drank but one glassful of that nauseous liquid in his life.”

Hunting has its enthusiasts—its almost fanatical enthusiasts, I may say—and probably most readers of Baily have met with one or more of them. For my part I have come across many, but neither in my experience nor my reading have I encountered a more thorough hunting enthusiast than the hero of the following anecdote.

Many years ago a Mr. Osbaldiston, younger son of a gentleman in the North of England, was foolish enough to fall in love with one of his father’s maid-servants, and quixotic enough to marry her. As soon as the news came to the parental ears the imprudent Benedict was turned out of doors, his only worldly possessions being a Southern hound in pup. He and his partner in disgrace started for London, and after a while the young man succeeded in obtaining a clerk’s situation in an attorney’s office at £60 a year. As time went on olive branches gathered about him to the tune of half-a-dozen, from which it may be supposed he had enough to do with his small pittance to keep eight pairs of grinders in work. Yet he not only discharged these onerous domestic duties as beseemed a good husband and father, but he also enjoyed his favourite sport, and kept a couple of horses and two couples of hounds!

But how in the name of wonder could a young man with an income of five and twenty shillings a week and with a wife and family to provide for, afford to keep horses and hounds? Of course he neglected his home and his business, and ended his days in the workhouse. Nothing of the kind! His wife and children were well fed and comfortably clothed, he never ran into debt, and always had a decent coat on his back. And the way Mr. Osbaldiston managed it was this:—

After office hours he acted as accountant for certain butchers in Clare Market, who paid him in kind. The best of the meat provided the daily dinner for himself and his family, and the scraps and offal fed the hounds which he kept in his garret. Having saved up sufficient to buy his horses, he stabled them in a cellar, fed them on grains from a brew house close by and damaged corn from a chandler’s—writing letters, correcting bills, keeping books, and assisting with legal information the proprietors, and so saving all expenditure of coin. Down in the country where he hunted in the season he gained the good-will of the farmers by giving them a hare now and then and tipping them a legal hint, while the gentlemen over whose manors he rode were so delighted with his enthusiasm for sport that he could go almost where he pleased. If any poor hunting enthusiast of to-day were to keep hounds in a garret and horses in a cellar, he would meet with a very different fate; he would promptly be indicted as a nuisance and summarily be suppressed by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Times are indeed changed!

The poet of “The Chase,” whom I have already quoted, describes hunting as the “image of war without its guilt.” It is not only the “image of war,” but it is the finest possible training for facing the perils and confronting the crises of actual warfare. The following anecdote of a once famous Leicestershire hunting-man, “Tommy” Yule, is one of the best illustrations of this truth that I have ever come across.

On the night of December 5th, 1857, the 11th Native Cavalry, stationed at Jalpaiguri, 650 strong, mutinied during the night, slew their English officers, and galloped off to meet the other portion of the regiment, then encamped some thirty miles off. Next day, having effected a junction with their comrades, they started to join the revolted Sepoys at Dacca. They rode in the direction of Purneah, with the intention of plundering that station on their way to the North-West. But they left out of their calculations a little man who was John Company’s Commissioner at Bhagalpur. Mr. Yule was an old Leicestershire hunting man, and was one of the most daring riders to hounds ever seen even in the Shires. He had ridden at both Newmarket and Liverpool as a gentleman jockey; he could box, shoot, fence, and play cricket in brilliant style—in fact, was a first-rate all-round man. He knew very little about soldiering, but he knew too much for the Pandies.

Well, to “Tommy” Yule the news was brought that the mutineers were “on the rampage.” At Bhagalpur he had with him fifty of Her Majesty’s 5th Regiment, 100 sailors, and two guns. As Commissioner of the district he was in command. Off he started without a moment’s delay to stop the game of murder, plunder, and ravishment. He came up with the rebels just outside Purneah, and dashed at them at once. They, however, had no heart for fighting, bolted, got round the station and made off for Dacca. But Yule’s blood was up. He had brought his stud of hunting elephants with him. He mounted fifty sailors and forty soldiers on them, and pounded after the flying foe. The little party marched all day and night, and got in front of their quarry the following morning. Then the rascals had to fight; ten Pandies to one Englishman, these were odds that even a modern Greek would face. They could not charge; their horses were fagged out. But Yule charged them, with some of his men on the elephants and some on foot, and killed 111 without losing a man. And the nerve, the pluck, the dash which achieved that brilliant success had been fostered and trained by hard riding over the pastures and bullfinches of Leicestershire.

I remember hearing Lord Wolseley tell the following story, which is a further proof of my assertion that hunting develops a man’s pluck and confidence.

“I once saw,” he said, “a Staff officer, a man well known in the hunting field, gallop with an order to a column of cavalry which had been drawn up in a sheltered position behind the village to be screened from the enemy’s fire. As he drew near the column, a round shot struck the ground under his horse’s belly. The horse made an effort to swerve, which was checked by its rider, without taking the cigar out of his mouth. He galloped up to the column, coolly gave his orders, and cantered back over the open ground, where the round shot were striking pretty thickly, still smoking his cigar as if he were taking his morning exercise. A few shots had previously plunged into the column, causing some excitement, which always happens when horses get knocked over; but the jolly indifference of this officer, and the manner in which he appeared altogether to ignore the existence of danger, had a capital effect upon the men.”

Lord Wolseley did not give the name of the officer, but I have been told that it was “Bob” Wood, sometime Colonel of the 8th Hussars.

Lord Roberts, too, paid a high tribute to a noted foxhunter when he declared, after his great campaign in Afghanistan, that one of the most valuable Staff officers in the British Army was Lord Melgund (the present Earl of Minto) who had few equals in those days as a cross-country rider.

The late Earl of Wilton, himself one of the finest horsemen and most enthusiastic followers of the chase the Shires have ever seen, used to say that he “had often heard the great Duke of Wellington remark that England would rue the day when her field sports were abandoned,” and that “amongst his best Peninsular officers were those who had most distinguished themselves in the hunting field,” courage and decision being the necessary attributes of success in the chase.

The “Iron Duke” himself was a keen lover of the sport. Mr. Larpent, who was Judge-Advocate of the British forces during the Peninsular War, relates, in his private journal, some anecdotes which prove how hard a rider and good a sportsman the conqueror of Napoleon was. For his own personal service Wellington kept fifteen horses, and paid high prices for them; and when one reads of such galloping to and fro as Mr. Larpent records, one is not surprised at the number of the Duke’s stud.

Here is an extract from the journal which illustrates both the tireless energy and the keen sportsmanship of the Duke:—

“Lord Wellington is quite well again; was out hunting on Thursday, and being kept in by rain all yesterday, is making up for it to-day by persisting in his expedition to the Fourth Division. He was to set out at seven this morning for the review of General Cole’s division, on a plain beyond Castel Rodriques, about twenty-eight miles from hence; was to be on the ground about ten, and was to be back to dinner to-day by four or five o’clock. This is something like vigour, and yet I think he overdoes it a little; he has, however, a notion that it is exercise makes headquarters more healthy than the rest of the Army generally is, and that the hounds are one great cause of this.”

Of these hounds Mr. Larpent gives the following details: “We have three odd sorts of packs of hounds here, and the men hunt desperately. Firstly, Lord Wellington’s, or as he is called here, ‘the Peer’s’; these are foxhounds, about sixteen couples; they have only killed one fox this year, and that was what is called mobbed. These hounds, from want of a huntsman, straggle about and run very ill, and the foxes run off to their holes in the rocks on the Coa. Captain Wright goes out, stops the holes overnight, halloes, and rides away violently. From a hard rock sometimes the horse gets up to his belly in wet gravelly sand; thus we have many horses lamed and some bad falls. The next set of hounds are numerous. The Commissary-General, Sir R. Kennedy, is a great man in this way, and several others. And thirdly, Captain Morherre, that is, the principal man of this place, has an old poacher in his establishment, with a dozen terriers, mongrels and ferrets, and he goes out with the officers to get rabbits. Lord Wellington has a good stud of about eight hunters. He rides hard, and only wants a good gallop, but I understand knows nothing of the sport, though very fond of it in his own way.”

MONAUL PHEASANTS.

KOKLASS PHEASANTS.

The Duke, as most readers of Baily are no doubt aware, was a warm friend and admirer of that great king of the hunting field, Thomas Assheton Smith, whom Napoleon introduced to his officers as “le premier chasseur d’Angleterre.” And it was always a subject of regret to the hero of Waterloo that Assheton Smith had not joined the Army; “For,” said the Duke, “he would have made one of the best cavalry officers in Europe,” and he frequently remarked that many of his own distinguished cavalry officers in the Peninsular War owed their horsemanship to the example of Assheton Smith.

I have said that the Duke took a keen interest in hunting, and I may add that he gave practical proof of his genuine love of the sport; for when he was once asked to subscribe to a pack which was in financial difficulties, he said, “Get what you can and put my name down for the difference.” The “difference” was £600 a year, which the Duke cheerfully paid for many years.

There is grand sport to be had in certain parts of the Himalayas in the glorious autumn weather peculiar to those mountain ranges.

For beauty of plumage and dashing flight few game-birds can compare to the monaul (Lophophorus impeyanus), and his haunts are among the wildest and most magnificent scenery.

In the Himalayan districts I am acquainted with, Kumaon and Garhwal, monaul are seldom found much below 8,000 feet altitude, but from that elevation up to about 12,000 feet are fairly plentiful. On the southern and western sides of the mountains, the forests monaul inhabit are usually evergreen oak, with a few spruce and cypress trees scattered about. On the northern and eastern slopes, which are clothed with forests to higher altitudes, monaul are found in woods of pine, deodar, spruce and birch. From the middle of October till end of December the weather is nearly always bright and clear in the Himalayas. The sun is not too powerful, and the nights cold and frosty. The best way to have sport with monaul is for two shooters, who know each other well, to go together, and beaters from six to a dozen, according to the nature of the ground. The beaters should be in charge of an experienced shikari, who is also a “master in language.” A local shikari will point out the best places for monaul, and the guns, one behind the other, about fifty yards apart, will walk slowly along the hillside, on a path if possible. One gun should be about sixty yards ahead of the beaters, and the other in line with them. The foremost gun, in most cases, will get the greatest number of shots.

The tactics of the beat, however, must vary according to the nature of the country, as ravines are usually beaten straight downwards, but in some cases, where a path leads zigzag up a long ravine, the beaters should get well ahead of the guns, and beat upwards. Monaul are exceptionally strong fliers, and about the toughest birds I know. If not hit well forward they will not come down, and the gun to use is a 12-bore cylinder with a charge of 13
16 oz. of No. 5, or 1¼ oz. No. 4 shot. I always use Ballistite powder and have never had a bad cartridge, always finding this powder equally good, whether in hot valleys at low elevations, or up in the cold at over 12,000 feet above sea level.

A mature cock monaul, with his plumage glistening in the sun, is a grand sight, and sometimes, especially early in the morning, he will fly with a kind of soaring motion, wings extended, as if to show himself off, and come sailing proudly overhead; at these times they are comparatively easy to shoot. Generally, however, they give really good rocketting shots, but at times will fly at a terrific pace straight down the hillside, keeping about the same distance from the ground all the way. These are difficult shots. A good dog is required to retrieve—a big dog—as monaul are heavy birds, full-grown cocks often weighing 5 pounds and more.

Another grand bird is the koklass (Pucrasia macrolopha), a beautifully-marked, gamey-looking bird, with a very quick flight. I believe the koklass to be the fastest game-birds that fly, and they get into their flight as quickly as partridges. Like monaul, too, they often dash straight down a hillside, keeping a few feet from the ground, and with a curve in their flight. They are found in the same forests as monaul, but also at lower elevations. In size they are about half the weight of monaul and much the same in shape. They are the best of all birds for the table.

The cheer (Phasianus wallichii) is, I believe, the only true pheasant found in India. They do not give as good sport as monaul and koklass, but I have often enjoyed myself with them. They frequent very steep pine-covered slopes, landslips, rocky scrub near precipices, and uninviting-looking places. Cheer shooting is about the hardest work I know, toiling about the steep hillsides among long grass and scrub. These birds lie very close, and after being flushed and marked down, often take a long time to rouse again. Wounded birds are extremely difficult to find, and your dog should be a steady and persevering retriever. Cheer are not found at very high elevations, from about 4,000 to 7,000 feet being their usual haunt, but occasionally, when the grass on the pine-covered slopes has been burnt, they will go into the oak forests above, where there is a thick undergrowth of ringalls. At these times they are harder to find than ever, and unless the beaters keep well in line, or you have a bustling spaniel to make them get up, it is almost impossible to bring any to bag.

Other so-called pheasants are the hubwaul or snow-cock (Tetrogallus himalayensis), the white-crested kalij (Euplocamus albocristatus), and the crimson tragopan (Ceriornis satyra).

The hubwaul is a fine bird, in shape like a gigantic partridge, found in coveys on the higher ranges above the forest limit. They are very wary and hard to circumvent, as they run long distances, and when put up often fly in a different direction to that expected. I have, however, often got at them in big ravines by sending a man to out-flank them on each side, myself keeping well out of sight behind boulders. I have also defeated them with the aid of a good bustling dog, and when they do come over one’s head give as good shots as any birds I know. In the winter they will come into wooded crags and precipitous ground, when the higher ranges are covered with deep snow.

The kalij pheasants are really more like jungle fowl than pheasants, frequenting thick scrub and undergrowth, near villages and in the vicinity of cattle sheds. They are great runners and fond of flying up into trees when bustled by dogs, but when they do fly put on a good pace and nearly always fly down hill. Plenty of beaters are required to put them up. Their flight is not high and bold like that of the monaul and koklass, and they are not found at high altitudes; from 4,000 feet to 8,000 feet being about the elevations at which they occur.

The tragopan is a very handsome bird, and rare, few being shot. He is the hardest bird of all to bring to bag, being a tremendous runner and keeping to the densest thickets, usually in ringalls and creeping rhododendrons, which are almost impenetrable to man. A good dog will flush them, when they will fly downwards a few feet over the undergrowth, taking long flights and running again immediately they alight.

In the autumn a varied bag can be made, either singly or with a boon companion. There is the friendly rivalry, the jolly fellowship of sportsmen, the chaff, the mid-day lunch by some brawling stream, the laze and smoke in the sunshine and clear mountain air, and the beat back to camp again in the evening. Scolopax rusticola is often to be found when beating for pheasants, also a solitary snipe or two; and two sportsmen who pull well together can have a rare time in the mountains, as besides shooting birds together they can often find room to separate and go after big game in different directions. Then there are the yarns to be told round the campfire after dinner, “sublime tobacco” to refresh the memory, and just “a dash” of good old Scotch to lubricate the throat and loosen the tongue.

RACING.

Reading about the Derby autumn meeting in mid-winter is not so inappropriate as it might appear to be, for with sleet and snow falling on the first day the elements were more wintry than autumnal. I have seen this meeting celebrated with much more go than on the present occasion. It is essentially a meeting for hunting folk, so far as the county stand is concerned, and one seemed to miss far too many of the familiar faces. The impression conveyed by the gathering was of the lack-lustre order. Large fields of nurseries have long been a feature of the meeting, but of course the winning or losing of them conveys little merit or demerit. The fields for them have been larger; but I am not a worshipper of large fields, not being a clerk of the course or a holder of racecourse shares. From one point of view the field of twenty for the Gold Cup was very satisfactory, for it meant that twenty horses were thought to have a chance in a race of a mile and three-quarters. Fields for distance races undoubtedly have been looking up of late years. Yet few of our courses are less suitable for a race over such a distance as that at Derby—a parallelogram with rounded corners. So soon as horses have begun to stretch out along either of the longer sides—long only in comparison with the extreme shortness of the other two—than they have to steady for a corner. In such circumstances a mare like Hammerkop, who was carrying 9st. 3lb., could stand but little chance. At Newmarket she would have been well fancied. Yet there are people who grumble at those fine, straightaway stretches of turf, because the horses start so far away. These prefer courses of the circus order, for the sake of the spectacle. Although the regulation straight mile has by no means met with universal approbation, its introduction has more method than madness about it. In the formation of a new course the laying out of a straight mile must be associated with a good deal of luck, for, run in one direction, it might prove popular and the reverse if run the other way. At Gatwick there is a rise of some 6 ft. from start to finish of the straight mile, and at Newbury, I understand, the rise is much more than this. Experience has taught us that rising straight miles are not so popular as falling ones, which may be argued to show a tendency to weakness in horse-flesh, the qualities which take horses successfully up the long hill at Sandown being not often met with. Here we have a hint at a clashing of interests between such as like to have things made easy for them and those which may be regarded as making for the higher interests of the turf. This clashing of interests we shall always have with us, so we may take it by way of our daily salt, with equanimity.

The Derby Gold Cup, as a trophy, was a perfectly delightful production, it being a gold tankard in the 16th century style, and no one would appreciate it more than the owner, whose sideboard it was destined to adorn, for the race was won by Lord Rosebery’s Catscradle. Her starting price of 20 to 1 was justified by her previous running and when she made the first bend nearly last of all 40 to 1 would not have been taken. However, it was her day, and she came through her field to win in comfortable fashion by a couple of lengths from Airship. She ran practically unbacked by her connections. The race for the King’s Cup of two miles “did not fill.” Bachelor’s Button, who had acted as a spoil-sport at Lincoln, by frightening away opposition for the Jockey Club Plate, and walking over for the £300 given by the Jockey Club for the express purpose of furthering sport at meetings where such assistance would be welcome, had not been started for the Gold Cup. He was in reserve for the King’s Plate, but the race “did not fill,” so the meeting saved their £200 instead of increasing the winning account of Bachelor’s Button by that amount.

As season follows season the Manchester meetings attract a diminishing amount of attention. It is a question of reaping what you have sown. Large sums of money were spent upon an unsuitable site, much of the money in the erection of buildings more adapted to municipal purposes than to racing. Except that the big turn is one of the finest in England, the course has proved unsatisfactory, in consequence of the rapidity with which the going goes wrong under wet. In this respect the course is not much better than the old one, which it will quite resemble when it has undergone a course of protection from frost by means of hay for the same number of years. “Disappeared in the main drain, I assure you,” explained the late Duchess of Montrose on the occasion of one of her horses coming to grief in the evil going of the old course. People of the Turf standing of the late Duchess do not find themselves at the new course. The better classes of Manchester firmly decline to be attracted by the races, despite the club stand, the contrast with Liverpool being remarkable. The weather rarely fails to make the November meeting a ghastly affair. In going back to Castle Irwell the management deliberately went to the home of fog, and, in consequence, most of the racing, as a spectacle, is a farce. We are all aware that the period at which the November meeting is decided is too late for good weather, but any attempt to move the fixture forward, supposing such a desire existed, of which I have no knowledge, would scarcely meet with success. If the Stewards of the Jockey Club regard the meeting as an unimportant one they can claim to take this impression from evidence supplied by the meeting itself, the average value of stakes not entitling it to any standing. Eight of the twenty races provide the minimum £100 allowed to the winner, for instance. There must be some significance in the reduction of the Whitsuntide meeting, at which all the money is made, from four days to three. This year’s November meeting was treated to continuous wet, the going of each succeeding day being worse than that preceding it. The November Handicap was run on the last day, and the field of nineteen included some good handicap horses. As at Derby, form was knocked into a cocked hat, the 25 to 1 Ferment gaining a decisive victory. It is a pity that the racing season is each year brought to a close in this uncomfortable manner, and if one cannot quite go with those who recognise no racing previous to that taking place at the Newmarket Craven meeting one can at least see some plausibility in ending it with the Houghton. If mudlarking is to be done, one may as well do it personally, to the tune of hound music.

Although racing ends for the year at Manchester, the curtain cannot be said to fall until the Gimcrack Club dinner has been held. The function to which custom has given such wholehearted recognition sits well on the shoulders of the York Race Committee, which, as the Chairman at the recent dinner very properly pointed out, gives back to the Turf everything that is earned by the races. There are not many race-meetings of which this can be said; and what a contrast to money-grabbing Doncaster! Of course it is not wholly and solely custom that assigns to the Gimcrack dinner the importance which attaches to it. We have a trenchant way nowadays of kicking overboard any custom, however hoary, which has outlived its utility. For the Gimcrack dinner there is much need, for it is the only occasion of the year upon which Turf topics may be publicly ventilated. As to the kind of topics touched upon and their treatment, those depend upon the particular person who may be called upon to ventilate. When we consider that the guest of the evening, to whom free rein is given if he wants it, is the owner of the winner of the Gimcrack Stakes, we realise how very uncertain must be the question of oratory. It is possible to conceive an owner of a Gimcrack winner taking but little stock in the higher interests of the Turf. Mr. Hall Walker, whose filly, Colonia, won him the Gimcrack Stakes of 1905, is, however, not a man of this sort. How it came about I do not know, but some people expected Mr. Hall Walker to say “straight things” to the Jockey Club; but nothing could have been more exemplary than his references to that body. He was full of anxiety for the welfare of the Turf as connected with the welfare of the horse, and his enthusiasm led him to propound schemes some of us, I fear, will be inclined to regard as Utopian. Taking as his text the statement that, “In all the leading Continental States the production and development of the horse is made a subject of governmental care and solicitude,” Mr. Hall Walker proposed that the British Government should grant, if not funds, at least power to the Jockey Club, who was to embody amongst its functions that of a society for the encouragement of horse-breeding. In order to accomplish the desired ends, the Jockey Club was to have the power to establish race-meetings over all or any common land free from interference by local councils and the freedom to acquire by purchase any existing race-meeting. I do not pause to consider the plausibility of such a project or the probability of the Jockey Club embarking upon it, for I have used the word Utopian; Mr. Hall Walker next referred to the means by which any shortage in funds was to be made good. They were to be provided by the introduction of the pari-mutuel. He added—“The advantages of the pari-mutuel are clear and decided. In the first place, it would provide large sums of money for the end we have in view, and it would practically bring about the abolition of street betting.” The writer’s views on the subject differ from those advanced by Mr. Hall Walker, but space does not permit of a discussion of the question raised.

Lord Downe in a speech, the tone of which charmed every one, maintained that the only solution to the betting difficulty was to license bookmakers and making betting debts recoverable. Of course his lordship does not propose that the Jockey Club should take the initiative, remembering, as he does, that when the anti-gamblers were last at work, betting at Newmarket was disavowed. The Club could not well ask to have that legalised which they claim does not exist. That the licensing of bookmakers is a desirable thing all sensible men will gladly admit. Racing would be all the better for it, but unless the trend of thought takes an entirely new channel, I cannot see any form of Government legalising gambling in the shape of wagering on horse-races.

Viscount Helmsley, who added to the nice things said by Lord Downe about the Press, who came in for a rough handling at last year’s dinner, suggested the institution of races for ponies up to 14.2, for the encouragement of the breed. Racehorses in the past have not always been the 16 hands animals that are now so common. Two hundred years ago Mixbury, by Curwen’s Bay Barb, standing only 13.2, was the most famous galloway of his day. Pony and galloway racing is no new thing in the present generation, but it has not taken kindly to the sport. An experiment was made at Plumpton on Whit Monday, 1903, which resulted in complete failure, and it is not quite clear what racing under Jockey Club rules could do. A race here and there would not effect much, and it is an open question whether enough thoroughbreds of 14.2 and under exist to fill many races. There are at least a few clerks of the course who are enterprising enough to welcome any novelty, and if fields could be assured a first step would be taken. Without such assurance he would be a bold man to take the step of opening such a race. It might be worth the while of those interested in pony breeding to provide the stake in the first instance, and see how the suggestion took with others. Experience in India teaches us that good sport is to be had out of ponies.

Hind-hunting is at its best in November and December. The hinds are difficult to kill; they are then stronger than stags. It is for this reason that I record what must be considered to be a notable performance of the Devon and Somerset from the Heathpoult on December 3rd. The fixture was for 10 a.m. You want all the daylight there is to kill a stout hind. There was a thick fog and they had to wait some time before it was possible to hunt. At last Mr. Morland Greig gave the word, and kennelling the pack, tufters were taken to Slowley. The run began almost at once, and the chase was nearly all over an enclosed country. The pace was often good, and the hunt lasted for two hours. But the feature of it was that we never got the pack, and that the whole was carried on by the huntsman with four or five couples of hounds. The hind escaped, but not till nearly four o’clock. A week later, in thick fog and driving rain, Mr. E. A. V. Stanley and the Quantock hounds drove a hind straight and fast from the same covert, and killed her near the pier-head at Minehead. Taking the weather into consideration this was a noteworthy gallop.

Two memorable runs have taken place with foxhounds during the past month. The week from December 5th to December 10th was perhaps the best of the season, and there was sport in every country. The Quorn was stopped by fog and hindered by absence of scent on the two days in the week—Monday, Friday—they were in the best country, but as we shall see, made up for it on Saturday. It is not the least remarkable feature of these waves of sport that they affect, about the same time, countries of different soils, climate, and contour, often widely separated by distance.

What I think may be called the two historic hunts of the month took place in Rutlandshire with the Cottesmore, and in Somersetshire with the West Somerset, on December 5th and 7th, while on the latter date the Pytchley had a good run, and on the Friday several packs, including the North Cotswold, enjoyed sport better than ordinary.

The Cottesmore met at Tilton on the first Tuesday in December. There were some preliminary chases which came to nothing, but served to show that there was a scent. The fox of the day was holloa’d away on the side of Skeffington Wood nearest the road. The hounds, when they hit the line, swung left-handed over the grass fields between the covert and the road. At Brown’s Wood, Thatcher, no doubt fearing a change, held the pack round outside. He was right, his fox had gone on across the road, but there was another line, and part of the pack were away. However, the huntsman and his division worked out the line over the road and into the fields beyond, the hounds clearly gaining confidence as they went. The whipper-in, having stopped the main body smartly, arrived in the nick of time with the rest of the pack. The hounds now settled to work, and improving the pace as they went, ran to Rolleston and on to Noseley, held on still to Glooston. At this, point the fox began to turn, and the Ram’s Head covert was reached and left behind. Thence they dipped down to the East Norton road, which the fox ran for some distance, and then turned left-handed as though for Launde Park Wood. By this time many good horses were stopping, for the pace and the severity of the country, which is all up and down—some of the hills are very steep—told on them. In the early part of the run the followers had been favoured by convenient gates, but now the pace improved, and it was not easy to skirt and keep one’s place, yet the fences, though fairly practicable, took much of the remaining steel out of the horses. When hounds turned up to Prior’s Coppice they began to run for blood. Bending towards Owston Wood the field thinned down, and horses began to stop everywhere. In the meantime hounds ran from scent to view, and rolled their fox over in the open close to Cheseldyne Copse. The run lasted one hour and forty minutes, covered fourteen miles as hounds ran, but as the course was a wide curve the point is of course not a long one. The run is remarkable for the wise tactics of the huntsman at the beginning, for extraordinary excellence of the country crossed, as well as for the steadiness of hounds in a well-foxed country, and the condition they showed in hunting for so long a time, and fairly running into their fox at last. That the pace was fast is shown by the number of horses in the best-mounted field in England that stopped by the way.

Into close connection with this run we may bring the other great hunt of the month. Although the country was very different the chase was not dissimilar. Indeed, before we can admit a run to the list of great chases it must fulfil certain conditions, of which the principal is that it must be fast and continuous. If hounds are merely hunting more or less for two or three hours at a slow pace, we often have an interesting day’s sport, but we have not had a great run. I should like to add that it must be after a single fox, but that would exclude so many famous hunts, but if the fox that started is the fox killed, then, no doubt, the triumph is all the greater. The West Somerset run was after one fox, the time was an hour and thirty-five minutes, the pace was good, the distance covered as hounds ran was fifteen miles, and the point rather over seven.

The fox was found on Sir Walter Trevelyan’s property and on the shooting in the occupation of Mr. Townsend Marryat, of Treborough Lodge, who had been keeping the Roadwater coverts quiet for the Hunt.

The fixture was the “Valiant Soldier,” Roadwater—a well-known anglers’ house—on Wednesday, December 7th. The fox was afoot in ten minutes after the start, and it was about twenty minutes more before he was fairly away. Once he was headed, but he resolutely swung round to make his point. Then the pace was very fast, and indeed there was need to gallop to keep on terms with the pack in this rather difficult country. The fox’s point was up wind for a certain well-known covert, but this he failed to reach, turning away within sight. Judging from the pace hounds had brought him along he had no choice but to turn or die. This move saved him for the time, for he gained ground and reached Sir John Ferguson Davie’s covert at Bittescombe Manor, within the borders of the Tiverton Hunt. Finding, however, no refuge there the fox turned back and made for Clatworthy Wood. Hounds were now gaining. He was too hot to stay in the covert and he broke again. The pack turned him in a big field, and catching a view rolled him over. The fox was easily identified as the one that started, as he was curiously marked.

As a run it was a hound chase, for the pack were not touched from find to finish. They cast themselves when necessary and twice picked up the line on the roads. They killed him unaided, as although the Master saw the kill he could not get to them, nor could the huntsman. Every hound was up—a great performance in a rough country. The mask was given to Miss Luttrell and will find a place at Dunster Castle, rightly enough, since the hounds are lent to the country by Mr. G. F. Luttrell.

While on the subject of historic runs news reaches me of a run with Sir John Amory’s staghounds which is in every respect a record, at all events, since the days of the Rev. Jack Russell. The distance, the pace and the line of country taken by the deer were all alike remarkable and interesting. This wonderful stag-hunt took place on Saturday, December 9th. The fixture was Chawleigh, in the Eggesford country, so long known to foxhunters as Lord Portsmouth’s. Seven deer were roused; a young stag was chosen. The hounds were laid on and the stag began by making a wide ring. He then ran by rather devious ways to the River Taw, which stag and hounds crossed. Those who have seen this river in flood will know that the ordinary fords are then impassable. Some miles had to be covered to reach a bridge and return towards the place where hounds were last seen. Luckily the stag and hounds had not vanished into space. The stag probably meant to return to the moors, but on reaching the railway he was blanched by a passing train, and this gave the field time to come up. The quarry was now driven clean out of his country, and he ran straight forward, heading for Torrington, near to which place they took him at 4.15, having been running for four hours and a half. The hounds were left at Eggesford, and the Master, Mr. Ian Amory, his brother, and Mr. de Las Casas made their way back to Tiverton which they reached about midnight.

In illustration of the fact that hounds can run in distant countries on the same day, the Quorn and Cottesmore both had a scent on the 9th, though the latter were hindered by fog. The Quorn were in that section of their country in which Bunny Park is a favourite covert. This part of the country has some plough, but grass and arable alike often carry a good scent, and on Saturday, 9th, hounds ran brilliantly over both alike. Scent held all day, but the fox was saved in the first run by a timely rabbit-hole, in the second by the darkening twilight of a short winter day. The Cottesmore, again, had a run on Tuesday, 12th, which would have been noteworthy had it been possible to see it, but fog caused many of the best followers to miss the fun. I think a great run should, especially in the grass countries, have its glory and pleasure divided between the hounds and the horses. In that most delightful country, Lord Bathurst’s division of the V.W.H., a very noteworthy gallop came off on November 24th. The point was the best I have to record this month, being nine miles in a straight line, with a deviation making up three more perhaps. Thus it will be observed that the run was unusually straight. This country is somewhat heavy going in wet weather, when it holds the best scent. Somerford Common supplied the fox. The pack started at once and settled to run. There was thenceforth small opportunity to make up a bad start. There was a short hesitation at Flisbridge, then they went on through Oaksey Wood, crossed into the Duke of Beaufort’s country, and arrived at Redmorton, where few saw the end. The fox saved his life here, as the covert was full of foxes.

The North Cotswold bitches are giving their master a brilliant season to finish with. Nor can we imagine a greater pleasure to any one than to see a pack one has built up one’s self gaining triumph after triumph. I cannot help thinking that the fact that this pack kill their foxes is one reason for their success.

Hounds that are successful become so full of confidence in their huntsman and in themselves, that they make light of difficulties that would daunt others. It looks as if Belvoir blood needed a quick huntsman to bring out its best qualities, for I have heard people say that they were not so fond of the strains in provincial countries. But facts are stubborn things, and the Duke’s kennel seems to be the true foundation on which to build a fast and killing pack.

Of the other packs hunting in fashionable countries, Mr. Fernie’s, the Atherstone and the Pytchley have all enjoyed good sport during December without, so far, any run above their usual level, which, be it remembered, is very high. It takes a very excellent gallop indeed to be considered out of the usual run of these countries.

Sometimes I think it possible that farmers may wonder whether the deeds of hunting people are in proportion to their professions of gratitude. At all events, the Warwickshire Hunt are doing their best to manifest the reality of their regard. They have voluntarily taxed themselves 10s. or £1 a-piece, according to their means, one-half of the fund so collected going to the “Royal Agricultural Benevolent Society,” and the other half to the relief of farmers in distress within the limits of the Warwickshire Hunt country. This scheme will, it may be hoped, find imitators in other countries. This and the Hunt Servants’ Benevolent Fund are the charities which no hunting people ought to neglect.

Rumours die hard, and the report that Mr. Hubert Wilson is going to resign the Cheshire is still going about. The fact is that he is willing to go on, and the country most anxious to keep him. The sport he has shown and his popularity, together with that of his huntsman Champion, should promise and secure a long reign. Frequent changes of mastership are a disadvantage not only to the individual country, but to hunting at large. So far there are but two countries likely to be vacant, and I hear that there are many applications for the North Cotswold, the chance of possessing that incomparable pack of bitches being no doubt a great attraction. The other pack is the Ledbury, which it is expected Mr. Carnaby Forster will resign before long, and I fear that the state of his health makes the report more than probable. He will leave a fine pack and a tradition of good sport behind.

The most important event in connection with hunting which has taken place in Yorkshire since the season begun—perhaps the most important event in the hunting history of the century so far—was the cap which was taken at the Habton fixture of the Sinnington Hunt on December 7th for the Hunt Servants’ Benefit Society; for if Lord Helmsley’s example is followed, as followed no doubt it will be and should be, that deserving Society will receive such an access of income as will enable it to fulfil all the duties of a benefit society in a manner which its founders in their most sanguine moments never dreamed of. Lord Helmsley’s happy inspiration met with a cordial response from those who threw in their lot with his hounds on the 7th, and, as many anticipated, annual subscribers to the Society answered cheerily to the courteous appeal of Mr. Alfred Pearson, who stood at the gate with the cap; the result was that a sum of £21 was collected. Ever prompt in anything which furthers the interests of hunting and those who hunt, Captain Lane Fox announced that a cap would be taken at Tockwith for the same purpose on the 15th, and though at the time of writing no account is to hand of what took place, there is no doubt that the response from the Bramham Moor field will be found as generous as that of their Sinnington friends. If this happy idea of Lord Helmsley’s is taken up all over the country and becomes an annual institution, as there is no reason that it should not, it would mean an access of income to the Hunt Servants’ Benefit Society of something between £4,000 and £5,000, and yet none would feel one penny the worse for the trifle he had given, whilst he would enjoy his sport all the better for knowing that he had done something to assist a deserving body of men to whom he owed so much.

The Bramham Moor have had a succession of good sport. On November 18th they had a capital day from Hutton Hall. They did little with their first fox, but with number two they had a brilliant forty-five minutes over the cream of the Ainsty country. He was an outlying fox, found in a turnip field outside Robin Hood’s Wood, and they raced him by Healaugh, Duce Wood, Askham Grange, and Ainsty Spring, and rolled him over in Bilbrough Park. A travelling fox was viewed as they were breaking this one up, and they ran him hard by Catterton, and then round by Askham Richard, and on to Healaugh, where they rolled him over.

On the 24th they had another good day. Finding a fox in White Syke Whin they ran him by Hutton Thorns, Rufforth and Rufforth Whin, and a ring round by the Harrogate railway, nearly to Hutton Thorns again, and up to Rufforth Village, where they checked. Hitting off the line they hunted on over the Boroughbridge road and into Red House Wood, where they marked their fox to ground.

They had another good Friday on December 8th, when they met at Wighill Village. Curiously enough, like the Hutton Hall day, it was a day of outlying foxes. A fox was viewed as hounds were moving off to try Shire Oaks, and for an hour hounds ran him very cheerily by Duce Wood, New Buildings and Wighill Avenue, over the Thorp Arch road, and on to the Carrs, below Esedike. Thence they ran a very similar ring by Shire Oaks and back by Wighill Avenue and Village, to the banks of the Wharfe, where they marked him to ground. Then came a fine burst of twenty minutes from Shire Oaks, by Tadcaster and Catterton Spring to Healaugh Church, near which the fox got to ground just in front of hounds. The day was brought to a conclusion by a gallop with another outlying fox, who jumped up in front of hounds at Angram, and they hunted him cheerily by Askham Whin, Collier Hagg, Healaugh and Normans to Askham Whin, where he beat them.

The Sinnington had a capital day from Habton Village on December 7th. They found their first fox in Skelton Whin, and had a good hour’s run with him by Riseborough and back through Skelton Whin up to Little Barugh, whence they ran a ring back to the whin and killed. They had barely eaten their fox when another went away, and they ran him at a good pace by Riseborough Hill and Normanby, and past Hobground House to Brawby Bridge, where a check took place. The fox was thought to have gone to ground, but he had gone through, and it was probably him that they killed when they went back to Riseborough.

Wales seems to be popular ground for the decision of spaniel trials, for since the Sporting Spaniel Society instituted working tests for “the handy man” of the varieties of dogs which are used in field sports in the autumn of 1898 the Principality has been visited some four or five times. In 1904 Sir Watkin Wynn’s unrivalled coverts in Wynnstay Park were placed at the service of the Club, and a very successful meeting was the result, but for the gathering which was held early in December the Vale of Neath was revisited, Mr. A. T. Williams, the President of the promoting Society, having invited the Committee to decide the competitions on his shooting at Gilfach, only a little over a mile from the flourishing town of Neath. It was to be regretted that the entry was so meagre, only half-a-dozen owners supporting the stakes; for not since the trials were started in Mr. Arkwright’s park near Chesterfield had better ground been visited, although no fault could be found with that at Ynisy Gerwn, on the other side of the valley, when the Welsh spaniels of Mr. A. T. Williams, Mr. W. H. David, and other local breeders, made so bold a show at one of the largest supported meetings of the series. The poor entry, by the way, was not caused by lack of interest in the work of the Club, but, for one reason and another, such men as Mr. Winton Smith, Mr. J. Alexander, Mr. Charles Watts, and Mr. J. P. Gardiner, whose spaniels had gained high honours at other trials, were prevented from sending dogs which had been broken and thoroughly trained with a view to competing. Then Mrs. H. D. Greene, the wife of the member for Shrewsbury, who is a great admirer of the Welsh spaniel, had to withdraw her entries because one of her brace was shot only the day before the trials when being put through her final facings. That was a great disappointment to the Shropshire lady, who had hoped to do well with the representatives of the Longmynd kennel. The conditions of the competitions were the same as usual, the spaniels being shot over in the customary sporting manner, while the principal points which were considered by the judges were scenting power, keenness, perseverance, obedience, freedom from chase, dropping to shot, style, method of beating and working to the gun, whether in covert, hedgerow, or in the open. In the single stakes the spaniels were also expected to retrieve at command, tenderly, quickly, and right up to the hand. Additional points, of course, were given for dropping to hand and shot, standing to game and flushing it at command.

The trials were worked on very sporting lines, and Mr. Williams and his keeper had certainly spared no trouble in preparing the shoot for the meeting, rides having been cut through gorse and bracken, while on the low-lying ground—which could not be worked because of the heavy rain on the first day—the earths had been stopped. The coverts swarmed with rabbits, and at the top of the hill on open fields a few hares were started from their forms and gave the shooters employment as well as providing capital tests for the spaniels.

As had been the case at all recent meetings, the chief honours were taken by the spaniels of Mr. C. C. Eversfield, a Sussex owner, and the best dog at the trials was Velox Powder, a liver-and-white dog of the old-fashioned English springer type, bred by Sir Thomas Boughey, and about as useful a dog in the field as any man could have. He took a positive delight in working rough ground to his owner’s command; he was absolutely steady to both shot and wing, while as to chasing a legged or running rabbit, nothing seemed to be further from his thoughts. He quite outshone all his kennel mates, and in addition to winning the chief single dog stake, he was awarded the dog championship, that which was offered for bitches being taken by Denne Ballistite, a daughter of Velox Powder. Brace and novice honours also went to Mr. Eversfield’s spaniels; in fact, the only other single dog at the meeting which showed anything like form was Mr. Arkwright’s Beni Hassan, an alert young spaniel of the Sussex type, which had been bred by Lord Tredegar. She was very nicely handled by Gaunt, who is so well known in connection with the Sutton pointers at the spring and autumn trials. The pick of the teams were the Welsh spaniels of Mr. A. T. Williams, and no finer work was seen during the meeting than that which they put in on the second day, when set the task of beating a patch of young gorse. They faced it unflinchingly, the English team sent from Hampshire by Mr. Warwick having to be almost forced into it, and even then it was all too evident that their task was distasteful. In rough covert it was once more shown that Welsh spaniels are unrivalled.

Further trials were held under the management of the Spaniel Club on Mr. Fydell Rowley’s estate near St. Neots in Christmas week. They promised to be a great success, judged by the good entry which was received by Mr. John Cowell.

The brief series of Christmas Shows which begin at Norwich, are continued at Birmingham and Edinburgh, and terminate at Islington, have not presented any feature of very special importance, but the interest in them has been well maintained and the quality of the exhibits up to the average. The Norwich Show has for many years been the first, and it is always a very pleasant one, though it would be still more so if the final phase of the judging, when the champion prizes are awarded, was not unduly prolonged, a number of visitors being obliged to leave the Hall to catch their trains before the prizes have been allotted. The exhibitors included, as usual, His Majesty the King, who sent several entries of cattle from Sandringham with which he was moderately successful, and two or three pens of Southdowns, with one of which he won the championship for the best pen of sheep in the Show. This same pen of Southdowns, it may be added, went on to Birmingham, and, after winning first prize in its class, was given the reserve number for the championship, the actual winners being a pen of Hampshire Down lambs from the flock of Mr. James Flower, who is almost invincible with this breed. But the rubber game had to be played at Islington, and the King’s Southdowns came victorious out of the contest, for they were first in their class, first for the cup given to the best of the breed, first for the champion plate given to the best pen of short-woolled sheep, and finally took the Prince of Wales’ challenge cup for the best pen of sheep in the whole Show. As His Majesty won this cup last year with another pen of Southdowns, it has now become his absolute property.

To revert to the Norwich Show, in the contest for the champion prize for cattle the issue was narrowed down to Mr. E. T. Learner’s cross-bred (Shorthorn and Aberdeen Angus) heifer Luxury and one of the many good animals which Mr. R. W. Hudson sent from Danesfield. The verdict was given in favour of Mr. Learner’s cross-bred. Mr. Learner’s heifer and Mr. Hudson’s exhibit both went on to Birmingham, where, by the way, the Norwich judgment was reversed, Mr. Hudson’s beast being greatly admired for its admirable quality. The Norwich Show always has three or four classes for the red-polled breeds, and the competition is not altogether confined to the Eastern counties, for Sir Walter Corbet generally sends some of his Shropshire herd, and he did so with marked success on the present occasion, his principal opponent being Lord Amherst of Hackney.

Not a few of the Norwich exhibits went on to Birmingham, where the Show opened, as usual, on the Saturday week following Norwich, that is to say, on November 25th, and there was a notable gathering of Midland agriculturists, though Lord Bradford, the President for the year, was not well enough to attend, while by a melancholy coincidence the late President, Sir Henry Wiggin, had died a few days before the Show. The most salient feature of the Birmingham Show was the unbroken success of His Majesty the King, who sent from Windsor ten entries of Herefords, Shorthorns, and Devons, and won with them four first prizes, a second, and two thirds, while in addition to this he was awarded three special prizes for the best of each breed, and the President’s prize of £25 for the best of the exhibits in the cattle classes. After all these awards had been made the contest for the three challenge cups began, being presented by Messrs. Elkington, Thorley, and Webb, for the best animal in the Show; but while the Elkington challenge up has no restriction as to breeder, it is stipulated in the conditions of the two others that they shall be given to animals which have not passed out of their breeders’ hands. This did not prove any obstacle to the King winning all three, for he makes it a rule to exhibit only home-bred stock, so that the Hereford steer, the Shorthorn heifer, and the Devon steer, which had each been proclaimed the best of its breed, were all three in the ring to compete for these valued trophies. They had to meet two or three very fine specimens of the Aberdeen Angus and Shorthorn cross-breds, exhibited by Mr. R. W. Hudson and by Mr. Learner, to which reference has already been made in connection with the Norwich Show. The judges, however, gave the preference to the King’s trio, and, after eliminating the Devon, they dwelt for a long time between the two others, their ultimate decision being in favour of the Hereford steer, which scaled nearly 18 cwt., and was preferred to the Shorthorn heifer. Thus the King won all that was possible in the cattle section at Bingley Hall.

While it was in progress the Scottish National Show was being held in Edinburgh, and the principal winner there was a heifer of the Aberdeen-Angus breed, which, as will be seen below, not only carried all before her at Edinburgh, but followed up this by winning the Championship at Islington. This heifer, bred, and still owned, by Colonel McInroy, C.B., of the Burn, Edzell, has a remarkable record, and at the age of two years nine months her live weight was just over 16 cwt., which for an Aberdeen-Angus is very good. Burn Bellona, as this heifer was called, was much admired at Edinburgh, but it was scarcely to be expected that she would secure so complete a triumph at Islington, especially with such a strong opposition to face as she had in the Norwich and Birmingham champions, to say nothing of the King’s other representatives. His Majesty, strongly as he has been represented on previous occasions, has never had so many entries at Islington as this winter, he having sent nineteen head of cattle, sheep, and pigs from Sandringham, several cattle from Windsor, two of Aberdeen-Angus from Ballater. It was generally expected that His Majesty would follow up his Bingley Hall triumph, an impression which was strengthened when it was seen that the Hereford and the Shorthorn had won the Cup as the best of their breeds. These prizes had been won before the arrival of the King, who had, at considerable personal inconvenience, arranged, upon the eve of a political crisis, to come up and see the Show. His Majesty was received on his arrival from Sandringham, shortly before three o’clock, by Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Lord Tredegar, the President of the Smithfield Club, Sir Walter Gilbey, Chairman of the Royal Agricultural Hall Company, the Earl of Coventry, Sir R. Nigel Kingscote, and Sir John Swinburne, and he paid a visit to the avenues in which the Devons, Herefords, and Shorthorns were placed, these being the classes in which his most successful exhibits were located. After he had inspected them, his pens of Southdown sheep, one of which had already been awarded the Championship, were brought out for the King to see, and not the least interesting feature of his visit was the presentation of some of the New Zealand football players, who had been invited to lunch by the Council of the Smithfield Club, and who could scarcely have anticipated being accorded such an honour. His Majesty’s engagements did not admit of his remaining to see the championship for cattle decided, the judges having been so much retarded by the even quality of the competitors, and had he been able to stay, he would not have had the satisfaction of witnessing a repetition of the Birmingham triumph, as the Hereford steer and the Shorthorn heifer were both beaten by Colonel McInroy’s Aberdeen-Angus heifer referred to above. Moreover, the Hereford steer, which had been placed in front of the Shorthorn heifer, had lost flesh a trifle since Birmingham, and their respective positions were reversed, the Shorthorn heifer being the “runner up.”

There was a general meeting of the Club on Tuesday, when Lord Tredegar, whose elevation in the peerage will give general satisfaction, took the chair for the last time, and will be succeeded by the Prince of Wales, whose term of office now begins, so that all bodes well for the Smithfield Club Show in 1906.

Unlike wild partridges after their flight, it does not take Light and Dark Blue athletes long to settle down. Reinforced by an exceptionally smart lot of all-round Freshmen, they got to work betimes this year, and with admirable results. Rarely, if ever, have the respective prospects been so rosy in most departments of sport at this stage. And October Term, 1905, will long be remembered for the many fresh records accomplished during the preliminary and (so to speak) educational period of preparation and practice. “Wet-bobs” on both rivers have been very busy. Magdalen (Oxford) and Third Trinity (Cambridge) carried off the Coxwainless Fours, the last-named “for the sixth successive year”—a record, by the way. They won with great ease, but Magdalen only just snatched the Oxford race from New College, after a magnificent finish. Racing on the Cam for the Colquhoun Sculls was of the sensational order. In heat 1, President R. V. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity) won with great ease in the grand time of 7 min. 49 sec., or eight seconds better than R. H. Nelson’s 1902 record. D. C. Stuart (Cheltenham and Trinity Hall) qualified to meet him in the final, and the well-known L. R. C. man only succumbed by one second in the truly marvellous time of 7 min. 46 sec. This record is likely to stand for many a long year. Both the Trial Eights races were rowed on December 3rd, the Dark Blues’ at Moulsford, and the Light Blues’ at Ely. H. C. Bucknall’s crew had an easy victory on the Thames, and Lewis’s crew even an easier on the Ouse, but, individually, some promising work was shown. It is probable that Messrs. Kirby, Illingworth, Wilson, Arbuthnot (Oxford), and Cochrane, Donaldson, Lewis, Shimwell (Cambridge), will receive ample trial for the representative eights early in the new year. As several Old Blues and Seniors otherwise are also available this year, a stubborn fight is thus early anticipated for either March 31st or April 7th.

Athletes proper have been equally busy. The Oxford Freshmen’s Sports unearthed some promising talent in Messrs. Lloyd (Ramsgate), Stevens (an American Rhodes Scholar), Hallowes (a distance runner above the average), Doorly (another Rhodes Scholar, high jumper), and Darling (the Old Winchester quarter-miler). On the whole the performances were fully average, as proved later by the L.A.C. v. O.U.A.C. meeting result. The Dark Blues won by the odd event, despite the fact that they were mainly represented by junior men. As President Cornwallis will be assisted by numerous Old Blues in the spring, he ought to put a strong team against Cambridge on March 30th or April 6th. The Cambridge Freshmens’ performances in toto were hardly so good, but Messrs. Halliday (Harrow), K. G. Macleod (Fettes), Horfield (Harrow), and Just (St. Paul’s), all shone out individually. Some of the Old Blues have already been giving a foretaste of later quality. R. P. Crabbe (Corpus) created a new half-mile record for Fenner’s ground by running that distance in the splendid time of 1 min. 56½ sec. on November 15th. Other fine performances have been done with the hammer, at long-jumping and distance running. On November 29th, F. M. Edwards (Queen’s) won the Sidney College Strangers’ Three Miles Race in 14 min. 42⅖ sec., or only four seconds outside H. W. Gregson’s record. The Trinity College v. Racing Club de France International meeting at Fenner’s was won by the Light Blues by 6 events to 3. For the Collegians, Messrs. Welsh, Just, Ryle, and the Hon. G. W. Lyttelton did best. The latter’s “put” of 38 ft. 5½ in. was exceptional for this early stage of the season. Messrs. Soalhat, Molinie, and De Fleurac showed fine form for the Frenchmen, who, by the way, were not at full strength.

Two Inter-’Varsity contests have been decided before Christmas, as usual, i.e., the cross-country race at Roehampton on December 9th, and the Rugby football match at Queen’s Club three days later. As generally expected, the Cantabs excelled at hare and hounds work, winning by 23 points to 32. A. H. Pearson (Westminster and Cambridge) finished first, and in the grand time of 41 min. 11 sec., which creates another record. The previous best was A. R. Churchill’s 42 min. 17⅕ sec. last year. Although beaten, the Oxonians made a big fight of it, and F. O. Huyshe, their captain, gets his full Blue for finishing in the first three, an honour also attained by Pearson (Cambridge). The cross-country records now read: Cambridge, 16 wins; Oxford, 10 wins. Cambridge were very strong favourites for the Rugby football match, many critics anticipating a record score for them. In the result, however, Oxford put their detractors to the blush by holding their own splendidly from start to finish. The Light Blues won by 15 points (3 goals) to 13 points (2 goals and 1 try)—merely a matter of place-kicking as will be seen. It was a most interesting game, full of incident, surprise, and fluctuating fortune, in which the Oxford forwards were always in evidence. They beat their heavier Cambridge rivals fairly and squarely, and at half-back, too, the Oxonians were the smarter. The Cantab “threes” line was vastly superior, but rarely did they get the upper hand, thanks to excellent generalship by “Captain” Munro (Oxford) who, personally, was a class by himself. So far, Oxford claim 13 wins in these matches, Cambridge 12, and there have been 8 drawn games. The records of the two clubs after the match read:—

These emphatically show that records of any sort are “a slender plank to lean upon”—as Sterne has it.

Appreciable progress has also been made at Association football, golf, hockey, boxing and fencing, billiards, lacrosse, &c. Space will not permit detailed comment, but, so far, Oxford appear stronger at “Soccer” football, billiards and fencing. Both Universities are strong in boxers this year, and Cambridge appear smarter at golf, in particular, and lacrosse. As at present arranged, the dates of next term’s Inter-’Varsity contests read thus: Association football, at Queen’s Club, February 17th; Hockey match, at Surbiton, February 21st; Lacrosse match, at Lord’s, March 3rd; Sports, at Queen’s Club, March 30th or April 6th; and Boat Race, from Putney to Mortlake, March 31st or April 7th. Of all-round progress I hope to chat with readers of Baily later. As in the last, so in the present ministry, many ex-’Varsity athletes of renown find place, notably Sir Robert Reid, the new Lord Chancellor. Other prominent University athletes have been honoured by the King in various ways, and everybody congratulates Mr. W. H. Grenfell, M.P.—the modern Admirable Crichton of Sport—upon his accession to the peerage. Alas! that it should be so, one has also to extend the hearty sympathy of all University sportsmen to that fine old English gentleman and prince of good fellows, Mr. Albert Brassey, M.P., M.F.H., of the Heythrop Hounds, upon the death of his son. He was persona grata at Oxford and Cambridge alike, and played polo v. the Light Blues at Hurlingham only last year. His death at Huntingdon came as a shock to hundreds of his friends who will mourn him long.

The course of the Royal St. George’s Club at Sandwich has been reconstructed on lines calculated to meet the new conditions brought about by the rubber-cored ball. Large tracts of new ground have been brought into requisition, and several of the holes have been greatly changed, though the first and last remain as of yore. It is expected that when next a championship meeting is held at Sandwich the scores will be higher than heretofore.

The congestion on the golf course at North Berwick is to be relieved by the creation of new links at the East end of the town. The ground has been gone over by James Braid and Bernard Sayers, who have laid out a course nearly 3½ miles in length. At present the ground is rough, but experts are agreed that it can be put into excellent condition for golf. If the new links prove a success, they will increase the popularity of North Berwick vastly, for at present there is great difficulty in getting a comfortable game.

The Batty Tuke Cup has been won this season by Edinburgh University, who playing at North Berwick defeated somewhat easily St. Andrew’s University. Each University has now won the Cup twice.

Andrew and Jack Kirkaldy, of St. Andrew’s, played a match over the old course at Gullane against Bernard and George Sayers, of North Berwick, and won by 8 up and 7 to play on the two rounds.

The London Playing Fields’ Society, which already possess permanent playing fields in the south-west, north-west and south-east of London, is endeavouring to secure a permanent playing field in the east, so that each district of London may have its own field. An opportunity now presents itself of acquiring forty acres of suitable land close to Fairlop Station, on the Great Eastern Railway. The sum of £6,000 is required for the purchase and laying out of the field, towards which the M.C.C. have promised £200 and a member of the Society has offered £1,000. An appeal is now being issued for the balance of the sum required. The scheme is being warmly supported by many influential men, and the G.E.R. has already consented to make a reduction in fares for cricketers and football players using the ground when it is completed.

“THE MOUNTAIN CLIMBER” AT THE COMEDY THEATRE.

Mr. Huntley Wright has so often made us happy and merry in his studies of musical comedy, under the banner of Mr. George Edwardes, that it was with feelings of deep interest that we went to see him play unmusically at the Comedy Theatre.

“The Little Father of the Wilderness,” a comedy in one act by Messrs. Lloyd Osbourne and Austin Strong, presents Mr. Huntley Wright as Père Marlotte, a Jesuit priest of the period of Louis Quinze. He has done enormously good work as a missionary in North America, and has been summoned to the Court of the flippant monarch in connection, as he presumes, with the work of his life. It turned out otherwise, however, and to his sorrowful amazement, the Little Father finds that his presence at Court is only commanded in order that he may decide a bet of the merry monarch as to the height of the Falls of Niagara. The heart-broken little priest is disappearing from the Court for ever, but for the sudden appearance of a most important Canadian dignitary, who recognises in the priest “The Little Father of the Wilderness,” and explains to the King some of the wonderful services that Père Marlotte has rendered to the world.

The sketch closes with Père Marlotte, momentarily translated to the See of Toulouse, blessing the entire company, including the King. Mr. Huntley Wright is extremely good as the Little Father, and it would be very difficult to find another part less like those in which we have been accustomed to see him at Daly’s Theatre.

Of “The Mountain Climber” we have not much to say, but all that we have to say is in praise of the performance. Any one in search of a hearty laugh should go to the Comedy Theatre “again and again and again”; for Miss Lottie Venne is playing there, and she is always worth taking a lot of pains to see, and in this production she has much to answer for. Mr. Huntley Wright as the spurious “Mountain Climber” is most actively amusing, and a great source of laughter throughout the play; but to some of us his acrobatic antics, expressive of mental distress, become somewhat upsetting, and one could have half wished that a rest-cure could have been instituted for this too highly strung hero. Mr. Wright is always funny, and we have no doubt but that a short experience of what we suppose we must style unmusical comedy will bring him to a stage of less restlessness. At any rate, even if the entertainment is now just the same as it was upon the first night, we can confidently recommend it to readers of Baily as a most amusing entertainment. And we have been told it is better than that!

Mr. Paul Rubens is a young gentleman of proved ability, and he has accomplished a feat of exceptional difficulty: he has produced a new and original comedy with music, in three acts, written and composed entirely by himself. That is a feat, but it need not be exceptional—the exceptional part of Mr. Paul Ruben’s performance is that his comedy is drawing crowded houses at every performance, and competition for stalls is quite fierce.

Mr. Popple is none other than our valued friend Mr. G. P. Huntley, very much at home in clothes of country cut and material, with fine pocket accommodation for apples and such country produce; in fact, at the finish of the play we are disappointed that he has not produced a ferret from some pocket. Mr. Popple is at home in his ulster and travelling cap, but he is certainly not at home either at the Hotel Blitz, Piccadilly, nor at the flat in Fount Street, kindly lent to him by an eminent actress, La Bolero, played by the charming Miss Ethel Irving.

And here is another important factor which makes for success, and much of the popularity of the production could be traced to the personality and charming singing of Miss Irving. Moreover, Miss Marie Illington is here with that artistic method of hers which gives point to any lines she has to speak. Miss Coralie Blythe also is good as the maid to La Bolero, and in the scene at the Motor Carnival scores a success with a song about “Bah! said the Black Sheep.”

There is a definite story running through the piece, and there are some tuneful musical numbers of the Rubens school. Probably the majority of the admirers of the author-composer would prefer more of his composition, without there being less of his authorship, if such a consummation could be arrived at. But at all events, so long as Freddy Popple is none other than Mr. G. P. Huntley, we fancy that his stay in town is likely to be a prolonged one. And probably by the time he is able to return to Ippleton he will find an improved train service, which will do away with that tiresome change of trains at East Wobsley.

Well done, Mr. Huntley, and well done, Mr. Rubens.

We regret to record the death, from heart disease, of Mr. Harvey Combe, which occurred on November 27th. On the death of his father, Mr. R. H. Combe, the deceased took his colours and had since kept some horses in training. Mr. Combe was only 44 years of age.

The sad accident which happened to Mr. Ralph A. Brassey whilst riding Carrigdown at the Cambridge University Steeplechases, on November 28th, we regret to say terminated fatally on the morning of December 4th, at the Huntingdon Hospital, the unfortunate young gentleman never having recovered consciousness. He was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Brassey, and was only 22 years of age, whilst he had been four years at New College, Oxford. The deceased was Master of the University Draghounds, and in other branches of outdoor sports and pastimes was more or less prominent, indeed, he for the two past years represented his University against Cambridge in the polo matches.

The Ystrad and Pentyrch Hounds had a marvellous escape on November 28th. While crossing the Great Western Railway an express train dashed into the pack, but fortunately only one hound out of seventeen couples was killed.

As the result of injuries received while riding his horse Wych Elm in the Open Military Steeplechase at Aldershot, we regret to record that Captain E. Meyricke died on November 30th. The deceased, who was only 30 years of age, was a good all-round sportsman.

It is reported that Prince Edward and Prince Albert of Wales had their first experience with hounds during the month of November, meeting the West Norfolk at Herdman’s Barn, Massingham.

Mr. Charles Seymour died at his residence at Fulham on December 3rd, aged 73 years. Mr. Seymour, who came of old coaching stock, in his younger days drove the London and Hatfield coach, and was considered a fine whip.

The usual December sales were held at Newmarket, by Messrs. Tattersall, from Monday, the 4th, to Friday, the 8th December. The attendance was good and business throughout brisk; the total realised during the week being close upon £110,000.

The highest price obtained, on Tuesday, was 7,500 gs., paid for Delaunay, who goes to France, being purchased for M. de St. Alary from Sir James Miller. M. F. Brugmann bought Roquebrune, dam of Rock Sand, for 4,500 gs., and she goes to Belgium; Mr. Simons Harrison gave 2,500 gs. for La Sagasse from the same owner. Mr. Basil Hanbury’s Desinvolture made 1,000 gs.; from Mr. R. H. Henning’s lot Sir E. Cassel bought Xeny for 1,650 gs., and the Marquis of Serramezzana secured Best Light at 1,000 gs.

On Wednesday the Duke of Devonshire purchased the St. Simon mare Grand Prix at 3,000 gs.; Count Lehndorff took Flor Fina at 1,300 gs., and Ladyland at 1,000 gs., both from Mr. Simons Harrison’s contingent. Mr. Cleary gave 1,250 gs. for Refusal, by Bendor; Mr. W. B. Purefoy’s Nausicaa went to Sir E. Cassel at 1,000 gs. On the following day Mr. Cheri-Halbroun was a considerable purchaser, and he secured Lord Clonmell’s Galopin mare Dainty, at 2,000 gs., Sir R. Waldie Griffith’s Vittel, 850 gs., Mr. J. B. Joel’s Yola, 720 gs., and a number of others. Lord Clonmell gave 650 gs. for Mr. W. M. G. Singer’s Ladasia, and Sir P. Walker took Therapia from Mr. J. G. Baird Hay at 650 gs. The best prices obtained for the Duke of Portland’s were 880 gs. for Flete, Mr. Gurry, and 710 gs. for Raeburn, Baron Harkanyi. On the concluding day Sir E. Cassel sold Love Charm, Exchequer, and April Morn, each making 500 gs.; Mr. James Joicey’s Orpheus obtaining the same figure.

While hunting with the Atherstone from Newbold Revel Park, on December 8th, Colonel Worsley Worswick, of Normanton Hall, Hinckley, had a bad fall and succumbed to the injuries received on the following morning. It appears the horse fell at a stiff fence. The deceased was very popular in the country, and as a tribute of respect hunting was suspended for a week.

Mr. Alfred A. Stokes, Hon. Secretary to the Ledbury Hunt, died at his residence, The White House, Pauntley, Newent, on December 10th, at the age of 67.

The huntsman to the Bexhill Harriers, Carey Witherden, has been the recipient of a testimonial in recognition of his services with the pack during a period of nineteen years and under seven masterships.

As a result of injuries received while out hunting with the Essex Union Hunt six days previously, Mr. Albert E. Clear, of Maldon, died on December 13th. Mr. Clear was well known as a breeder and exhibitor of wire-haired fox-terriers.

The list of winning owners during the past season is for the first time headed by Colonel W. Hall Walker, M.P., whose six horses have secured stakes to the value of £23,687. Lord Derby occupies second position with £18,524; the next best being Mr. S. B. Joel with £17,944.

We regret to record the death of Mr. E. D. Brickwood, which occurred in London on December 14th, in his sixty-eighth year. The deceased gentleman, who was a brilliant oarsman in the late ’fifties and early ’sixties, was a well-known writer, and for forty years had editorial charge of the rowing department of the Field.

The famous stallion Diamond Jubilee, bred by and the property of H.M. the King, has been sold to the well-known Argentine breeder, Senor Ignacio Correas, at a high price, 30,000 guineas being stated as the figure. Foaled in March, 1897, Diamond Jubilee is by St. Simon, dam Perdita II.; in 1900 he won the Two Thousand Guineas, Derby, and St. Leger.

With reference to the several cases reported of hounds being impaled upon the spiked iron fencing in use in many parts of the country, Mr. Henry O. Ll. Baker, of Hardwicke Court, Gloucester, writes: “Spiked railings are much on the increase round new houses in the country. If owners could see the many cases that I know of, of unfortunate dogs being impaled on this very un-English kind of fence, they would do something to lessen the danger. A strip of wood fixed on the top of the spikes is all that is required. However much any one may object to hounds or dogs of any sort crossing their gardens, no one, I am sure, wishes to torture them. What is known as the bow-topped fencing answers the same purpose, without the risk of such terrible cruelty.”

Mr. R. W. McKergow, the Master of the Southdown Hounds, has called attention to a deterrent to the pleasure of hunting which has arisen through the inconsiderate behaviour of motor-car drivers at meets. The complaint has, of course, been lodged before now by other Masters who have also suffered from the same trouble, but the thoughtlessness, it is probably nothing more, still goes on. As Mr. McKergow points out, it is now a usual thing for several motor-car drivers to run right up to hounds and horses, continually sounding the “hooter” and keeping the machinery in motion, with the result that horses are frequently upset, to the great danger and discomfort of pedestrians, horsemen, and hounds.

The Master of the Southdown, however, has, says the Field, still another charge to bring, for he adds that when hounds move off the cars make for the most convenient spot to view fox and hounds, and so considerably interfere with sport by heading the fox, and he suggests as a remedy that if owners of cars would give instructions to their drivers not to get within, say, 200 yards of horses and hounds at the meet and to desist from following they would confer a great favour on all lovers of hunting. There is, unhappily, too little of the give and take policy observed nowadays, but it surely is not too much to expect motor-car owners, who, of course, have every right to attend an appointment, to observe these “rules and regulations,” and so help to make and not mar the enjoyment of their mounted fellows.

Mr. Ernest Robinson, who held the mastership of the disbanded West Surrey Staghounds during the last two years of their existence, was the recipient of a presentation from the members and farmers at the recent meet of the Ripley and Knaphill Harriers at Knowle Hill Park. The gift consisted of an illuminated address and a handsome silver salver, which, on behalf of the subscribers, were handed to Mr. Robinson by Mr. C. E. Denny, who said that this was a small expression of the warm thanks and appreciation of some of those who had enjoyed sport with the West Surrey. Mr. Denny mentioned that with the wind-up of the Hunt, after paying other things, he had about £80 in hand, which was to be handed over to the Royal Agricultural Benevolent Institution in the names of the farmers over whose land they had hunted, giving them a life membership of £10 10s. each.

At the recent Smithfield Club Show, London, the St. Pancras Ironwork Co., Ltd., 171, St. Pancras Road, London, N.W., so well known for their patent stable fittings, made a new exhibit in the form of a steam motor wagon and petrol van, showing good design and workmanship of the highest class.

TURF.

FOOTBALL.

November 15th.—At Oxford, the University v. Clapton; former won by 6 goals to 0.†

November 18th.—At Cambridge, the University v. Clapton; latter won by 3 goals to 1.†

November 18th.—At Edinburgh, Scotland v. New Zealand; latter won by 12 points to 7.*

November 18th.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Oxford University; former won by 8 points to 0.*

November 20th.—At Oxford, the University v. Edinburgh Academicals; latter won by 29 points.*

November 22nd.—At Oxford, the University v. The Army; former won by 3 goals to 2.†

November 25th—At Dublin, Ireland v. New Zealand; latter won by 15 points to 0.*

November 26th.—At Cambridge, the University v. Dublin University; drawn, 10 points each.*

November 26th.—At Blackheath, Blackheath v. Richmond; former won by 20 points to 3.*

November 27th.—At Oxford, the University v. Edinburgh University; latter won by 25 points to 13.*

December 2nd.—At Crystal Palace, England v. New Zealand; latter won by 5 tries to 0.*

December 2nd.—At Leyton, Cambridge University v. The Army; former won by 10 goals to 1.†

December 2nd.—At Blackheath, Blackheath v. Oxford University; latter won by 13 points to 3.

December 9th.—At Queen’s Club, Oxford v. Cambridge; latter won by 15 points to 13.*

December 9th.—At Tottenham, Tottenham Hotspurs v. Corinthians; former won by 3 goals to 1.†

December 13th.—At Headingley, Yorkshire v. New Zealand; latter won by 40 points to 0.*

December 16th.—At Cardiff, Wales v. New Zealand; former won by 1 try to 0.*

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HOWARD A. JONES, COLL

CONTENTS.

Born in the year 1847, William Alexander Cardwell was entered to foxhunting when nine years old, having been blooded with the Southdown in the fifties when Mr. Donovan held office. He made his mark in the cricket-field among his contemporaries, and when he went to Harrow in 1862, took with him a reputation which gained for him the distinction of being first choice for his House eleven. Unfortunately his health broke down while at school, and in 1864 he had to leave and go abroad under medical orders. After a year or two on the Continent he returned home to finish his education at Oxford, where he found time and opportunity to indulge his taste for sport and games. He was a member of the Bullingdon Club, and in 1869–70 was master of the ’Varsity draghounds. He also played in his College (St. John’s) cricket eleven, and coxed his college eight. Colonel Cardwell was a good lightweight in his young days; he rode in all the College “grinds,” and also in the inter-’Varsity steeplechases at Aylesbury, with a fair measure of success. He was the possessor of a mare named “The Kitten,” in those days, and he cherishes for her memory the affection which is the rightful due of an animal on which the owner won his first race, for “The Kitten” carried Colonel Cardwell successfully in a good many steeplechases. He hunted frequently with the Quorn and the Bicester in his younger days, and has also seen much sport with the Badminton and Vale of White Horse; but residing, as he does, on the south coast, he has of late years done most hunting with the Southdown and East Sussex, after, of course, his own pack, the Eastbourne, of which he has been master since 1895. In August and September he usually hunts with the Devon and Somerset and the Quantock staghounds from Minehead. Sport in Sussex is carried on under very happy conditions; the farmers are a thoroughly good lot of sportsmen who always have a welcome for the hounds, and do all they can to further the interests of the Hunt. Wire, that burning question in so many more conspicuous countries, is practically unknown in the territory of the Eastbourne Hunt. As there is a good deal of game preservation in the country, the Master has considerable difficulty early in the season in arranging meets to suit the convenience of covert owners, who are also shooting men, but his experience is that consideration on the one side is invariably responded to by consideration on the other. Foxes are fairly plentiful in the Eastbourne country; mange gave trouble at one time, but the Hunt is now nearly free from it.

Colonel Cardwell has maintained his interest in cricket since his college days, and for twenty years was captain of the Eastbourne club. He was also captain of the Eastbourne Polo Club. Love of polo seems to have been hereditary, for his son, Mr. H. B. Cardwell, was captain of the Oxford Polo Club, and played in the winning team of the Eden Park Club for the County Cup in the years 1901 and 1902.

Colonel Cardwell has always taken a great interest in Volunteer Artillery. He raised the 2nd Sussex R.G. Artillery Volunteers, and commanded it for twenty-seven years, having retired only in June, 1903; he has also taken great interest in horsing and training the sixteen-pounder batteries.

In 1872 he married a daughter of the late Sir B. C. Brodie, Bart., of Brockham Warren, Betchworth, by whom he has four daughters and two sons, all of whom inherit their father’s sporting proclivities, and ride very straight to hounds.

The eyes of the world have been lately turned to the stately progress which has been made by the Prince and Princess of Wales through the length and breadth of our Indian Empire. In a sense they may have had wider and more instructive experiences than fell to the lot of our King when, thirty years ago, he undertook the same Royal duty, and for the first time made the peoples of our great dependency personally acquainted with a Shahzada. But in some respects they have probably found that, since that date, something of the old glamour has passed away from the East. It has more and more assimilated Western ideas, and the great princes and feudatories have all been anxious to show to their future Sovereign how nearly they, their subjects, their armies, and their various public institutions, have approached English models. Practical value has been everywhere in evidence as much as possible, and as the old native picturesqueness has been somewhat dimmed, the ancient characteristics of the land may have been less sharply accentuated. In nothing has this been more seen than in the warlike equipment of the armies of the semi-independent states. All of these, with a view to taking their share in the defence of the peninsula, according to the requirements of modern war, are now trained, equipped and armed like British Sepoys, and the quaint bravery of mediæval sword, spear, shield, and armour has very generally disappeared. It is worth while, therefore, to say something about these time-honoured arms before they have become altogether things of the past.

A quarter of a century ago it was possible to find in India many of the weapons with which the natives had been provided in the days before the Pax Britannica secured the personal security of every individual inhabitant from raid and outrage, before the disarming act had been put in force in all districts under British rule, and while the military forces of semi-independent states still preserved their Oriental character. Now, I am told that, though many weapons may be bought, their genuineness is in most cases more than doubtful. The stock of old weapons has been absorbed in various ways, and there is no longer any production of such things for practical use. The tulwars and daggers which are sold to the globe trotters who, in their thousands, sweep over India during every cold season, are “bazaar made,” i.e., they are made by inferior workmen in the bazaar for sale and not for strife, and are very poor imitations of the real arms once worn by the old fighting men.

When I was serving in India, not long after the King’s visit, the country was still comparatively free from the tourist, and anybody who had a taste for Eastern art in any form was able, during his sporting excursions or in his other peregrinations, to meet men who still owned genuine old articles and were not indisposed to part with them, and made acquaintance with English officials and influential natives who were good-natured enough to assist him in his collections.

Many Europeans did not take advantage of their opportunities, but fortunately for myself I did not altogether neglect mine, and I now reap the reward by seeing, hanging in my modest hall, such a representative display of Indian weapons as it would be very difficult, if not almost impossible, to procure nowadays without the aid of great influence, much exertion, and a very considerable expenditure of money. Many of these weapons have been used by myself and friends in somewhat feeble attempts to emulate the feats performed with them by natives, and I have therefore a slight personal knowledge of their qualities and characteristics, and may at any rate claim that they have always been to me things of the greatest interest.

First let me notice the fact that it is not every Indian sword that can be handled and tested by a European. Our Aryan brethren have very small extremities, and the hilts of their swords do not, as a rule, give space for the more massive and heavily-jointed hand of an Englishman. It seems marvellous indeed how the sometimes ponderous weapons can have been easily wielded by the slight limbs for whose use they were made, but it must be supposed that well-trained wiry sinews may have as much executive power and endurance as bulging muscle, and that the proper method of using the individual weapon may have drawn more upon dexterity than upon the exertion of strength. And here it must be pointed out that, in all specially Oriental feats of arms, success is by no means to be attained by the exertion of great force. It rather depends upon accuracy of eye, perfect coolness of nerve, and deftness of hand. In the particular performance which English soldiers have most eagerly adopted from their Indian comrades and made their own, and has been found such an admirable exercise for promoting horsemanship and soldierly efficiency—tent-pegging—no great strength is required. And, in the same way, the class of swordsmanship for which Indian men-at-arms have been so remarkable is a matter of perfect mastery in handling a blade rather than of weightily applied blows. Probably no more graphic description of the difference which even to-day exists between Eastern and Western swordsmanship was ever written than in the story, in Sir Walter Scott’s “Talisman,” of Richard Cœur de Lion and Saladin giving each other proofs of the powers of their swords. I would fain quote the passage, but it would take up too much space, and I can only suggest that reference be made to it, and, if the whole romance has not before been studied, I congratulate the person who has so much available delight still untasted.

So many spectators have watched, in England, illustrations of tent-pegging at military tournaments and other gatherings that it is unnecessary to describe it, but it may fairly be said that the feat requires a higher form of skill and more consummate horsemanship than the old English exercises of a like nature, tilting at the ring or tilting at the quintain, neither of which appeals either to the performer or to the spectator as an example of very formidable fighting qualities.

The Oriental ideas about the use of the sword differ so completely from those of Western peoples that they may be briefly referred to. In Europe, the sword has generally been used for a trenchant cut, though the employment of the point has also been cultivated by some nations, especially among the higher ranks. About the only army in history that has used the point alone was that of Rome. The legionaries did little or no cutting, and this was the more remarkable because the Roman broadsword was a very short weapon, and all modern experience has seemed to point out that, if a sword is to be principally used for pointing, it must be of more than ordinary length. But, in the East, the trenchant cut, depending for its effect on the weight and power with which it is delivered, has never found favour, and the use of the point has equally been of very small consideration. The Oriental swordsman has always made use of what may be called a drawing cut, placing against the object that he wishes to sever the edge of his weapon, and either pulling it towards him or pushing it away from him, preferably the latter. The action is not, of course, in itself so instantaneous as that of the trenchant cut, but the whole time consumed by the swordsman is no longer in one case than the other, and may even possibly be shorter, for there is no preliminary swing of the arm and the drawing cut can be delivered without leaving a position of defence. The curved shape of most Oriental sword blades has been adopted for the purpose of giving the greatest effect to the drawing cut, as will be apparent to any one who considers the matter, for the curve naturally follows the action in the most complete manner, the keen edge being in contact with its object throughout the whole length of its blade. How deep an Oriental sword could bite in the hands of a skilful man, when used in the way that has been described, has been proved from time immemorial. On the battlefield it was no unfrequent circumstance to see heads and limbs cut clean off, and the wounds were generally of a terrible character. So well known was the deadly power of the Indian sword that, in our Eastern wars, precaution were often taken by our soldiers to protect with chains the shoulder and forearms (the places at which the enemy most often struck), and this modified form of armour may still be seen in the shoulder chains on one of the many patterns of service coat that have been issued to our cavalry in recent years.

Among the most popular feats of swordsmanship that are to be seen even to-day in the East are those that Saladin exhibited to Richard Cœur de Lion, cutting in two a down cushion or severing a floating veil—feats absolutely impossible of execution with a European sabre—and these are done, with many variations, not only dismounted but on horseback at full speed. Then there is the well-known performance of cutting a dead sheep in two. The sheep is hung by its hind-legs from the arm of a sort of gallows, and the swordsman, galloping past, delivers a back cut at it, aiming between the ribs and the haunch, and seldom failing to sever it. This feat, as it is now generally performed, is not so difficult as it may appear from description, for the carcase is skinned, and the backbone, with the slenderest portion of the body, offer really small resistance to a keen blade. But it is understood that, in olden days, it was not usual to skin the sheep, and the presence of skin and wool must then have made the swordsman’s task hard indeed. Many English officers have, with fair success, tried to cut a sheep in two, but, even though they used the curved Eastern sword, they always seemed to perform the feat by main force, and not by the proper use of the drawing cut, and I have in my possession a tulwar with a notch in the blade, showing where, in the hands of a very powerful man, it rent a sheep’s backbone. If a native had handled the weapon no such accident could have happened, for the drawing cut, depending only on the keen edge and the way in which it is applied, could not possibly have chipped the blade, no sudden shock being given by it to the highly-tempered steel. Lemoncutting, which is now often seen in England, was introduced from India, and here again neatness of performance is much more likely to be attained by the drawing cut than by the swashing blow employed by so many of our cavalrymen. True, the swords generally available for our competitions at home are hardly ever sharp enough to be used in the best way, and indeed the clumsy weapon now issued to English soldiers, with its absurd steel scabbard that quickly blunts a keen edge, is ill adapted for any practical purpose whatever.

So far, I have only talked about the most common and characteristic swords of India, which, with many minor distinctions and under the names of Tulwar, Selappa, Tegha, &c., &c., are found everywhere from Cape Comorin to the Himalayas, but there are several other swords, completely different, which are peculiar to individual tribes or nations among the vast congeries of races united under British rule or influence. First, the long, straight, double-edged blade, fitted into a gauntlet hilt which, though found in the north and south of India, is best known in the Punjab, where the Sikhs, in their sword play, still practise its use. The generic name of this sword is Pata, and it is said to have been the principal weapon used by the cavalry of the Great Mogul. To a European eye, it certainly appears a somewhat unwieldy weapon and ill-adapted to the purposes of a mounted man. Its blade is over three feet long, and it is fixed in a handle made like a plate mail gauntlet, which covers the arm nearly as far as the elbow. On account of its peculiar hilt, this sword is not manipulated like others from the wrist, but from the elbow; and, as far as I know, it is the only weapon known in the world which does not in some degree demand flexibility of wrist. Unlike the curved Tulwar, which has a rigid and rather narrow blade, the blade of the Pata is broad and flexible, and I have one specimen before me in which the point will almost meet the hilt. The qualities of steel from which the two kinds of swords are made are in this respect very different, but they are alike in that both can take the finest of edges. And all Eastern swords have this also in common, that all have wooden or leather sheaths, so that no risk is run that the edge of the blade shall ever be dulled from want of care. To-day, the Pata is never carried by Indian princes or nobles, even on occasions of state and ceremony, and it is never seen in the hands of anybody except the professional swordsmen, who give exhibitions of their skill at the great fairs and at Mohammedan or Hindoo festivals, such as the Mohurrum or the Dussera. The performances of any one of these men are wonderful. He will show the keenness of his weapon and his command of its weight by cutting in two a leaf laid flat on the outstretched palm of a friend, or by severing a cloth hanging loose in the air. He will then squat down on his hams and will slice from side to side a small nut, which is tossed on to the flat ground in front of him. He will grasp a sword in each hand and, so armed, will spring from his feet and throw somersaults backwards and forwards. Again, with sword and shield in his hands, he will leap head foremost through the stretched-out loop of a rope, held by two men at the height of their heads, as a circus-rider leaps through a paper hoop, and alight safely on his feet. These exhibitions are extremely popular, and the harvest of small change collected by the plucky athlete from the crowd of gaping spectators must do something to prevent the knowledge of the old sword-play from dying out. I have never seen or heard of a European essaying to handle the Pata, and, indeed, I have seldom seen a Pata whose gauntlet hilt would admit the grasp of even a small European hand.

Another straight-bladed and double-edged sword is the Khanda of the Rajput, and as the Rajputs are the most long-descended, chivalrous, and warlike of all the nations in India, so was the Khanda held in the highest honour and reverence, so was it worshipped yearly at the festival of the Karga S’hapna as a symbol of Heri, the god of battle, and so was an oath sworn upon it the most binding of compacts. Even to-day the Khanda, or indeed any sword, is recognised as an offering showing the profoundest homage and the strictest fidelity, by the universal Indian custom of presenting the hilt to a superior, who touches it in acknowledgment of the implied loyalty. The Khanda, like the Pata, is made of flexible steel of various degrees of excellence, though all blades are of the most reliable description. A rough test may be given, by which the merit of any particular straight blade may be approximately gauged. If it has one groove running down its length, it is good; if it has two, it is better, and if it has three, it is of special worth. Sometimes the Khanda has a long iron spike projecting from the hilt, and this was probably for the purpose of using the sword double-handed in case of need, and it could possibly also serve as an additional weapon in a close mêlée. It is to be remarked that, in using the Pata, Khanda, and other straight swords, the drawing cut is still the favourite, though the form of the blade involves that it must be somewhat modified.

Pass we to a class of swords which demand special remark, on account of their appropriateness to the districts in which they have originated, and of these there are two especially which attract our notice as being essentially the same in character, though they differ somewhat in shape. The Kukri, the national weapon of Nepal, is only eighteen or nineteen inches in total length, and has a blade of bright steel, incurved, heavy, and widening towards the point. It has more the qualities of a good billhook than anything else, and it was no doubt originally devised to do duty as a billhook as much as for fighting purposes, for the Gorkha had to clear his way through the thickly growing vegetation of the Terai forests. I have often lent to my shikaris, when shooting in the Western Ghauts, a Kukri for use in the jungle, and it always proved invaluable. What a handy tool it is in the grasp of its true proprietor, the Gorkha, is well known—how formidable it is as a weapon, those who have been in action with our Gorkha battalions can emphatically testify, and this can be the more clearly realised when it is told that, with his Kukri, the Gorkha can strike off the head of a bullock at one blow.

Like the Gorkha Kukri, the Ayda Katti, the big knife of the Coorg mountaineer, derives its shape from the daily requirements of life in dense jungles. The heavy monsoon clouds which, in their course, first meet and void their moisture on the hilly west coast of India, nourish an extraordinarily luxuriant vegetation, and the tribesmen there found the constant want of an implement to cut a path through the lush bamboos and creepers. The Coorg knife is about the same size as the Kukri, but is wider and heavier. It has also an incurved blade, and is equally useful for all the services of peace. The men of Coorg have had no recent experience of war, but legend tells that, sword in hand, they were in old days dreaded for their prowess in battle. The army of Hyder Ali found the Nairs (Coorg tribesmen) the most redoubtable opponents that it had to deal with before it had the ill-fortune to be marched against British battalions. The Coorg knife has the peculiarity that it alone, of all varieties of swords, never has a sheath. It is so constantly required on the west coast that it is generally carried in the hand ready for immediate use. When, of necessity, it is put aside, it is carried, still with the blade uncovered, slung across the owner’s hips.

No record of Indian swords would be complete without some mention of the Salawar Yataghan, the Khyber or Afghan knife, though perhaps it more properly belongs to the frontier. This is the weapon that in the hands of the Ghazis, drunk with bhang and lust of slaughter, has, in the actions on the North-West Frontier, done such stern work, and has also been signalised as the terrible instrument with which the wounded, who fell into Afghan hands, have ever been bloodily dispatched and mutilated. It has a broad, heavy, single-edged, straight-backed blade with a sharp point, and is so balanced that its trenchant cut is weighty indeed.

The Afghan gives no drawing cut with his Yataghan, but cuts like a European and, on occasion, uses the point. The weapon seems to be especially devised for the use of desperate men who wish to kill, without any thought of protecting themselves, for its handle being absolutely plain and unguarded like that of an ordinary carving knife, it can never be used effectively for warding a blow or parrying a thrust. The blade is generally about two feet and two or three inches long, and, made of bright steel, seems to derive its strength from its proportions and its thickness rather than from high temper. The Salawar Yataghan cannot be classed as a weapon adapted to any of the scientific niceties of swordsmanship, but must be thought of rather as a murderous knife, fit alone for purposes of slaughter.

There are other forms of swords to be found on the frontiers of India, the Burmese Dha, the Malay Kris, &c., &c., but none of them have any special merit as warlike weapons, and they are really almost impotent for attack or defence when opposed to the more well-considered weapons of more cultivated peoples. All of them have their limitations of value; they can inflict injury, but from their form they are essentially feeble in defence.

It was natural that swords, in their hilts, their blades and their sheaths, should, from the variety and general elegance of their shapes, have been the basis of ornament to a very great extent. The Monarch, the great Prince, or the warlike leader of men has, if he allowed himself ornament at all (and here be it remarked that the most potent individuals have almost always been remarkable for their personal simplicity), generally lavished such ornament upon his sword, the emblem of his power. And when he sent a gift to a brother potentate, or a man whom he delighted to honour, it was not infrequently a sword of the most perfect quality, adorned with jewels and workmanship of notable value. The ornamentation of swords gives to us a strongly-marked and trustworthy indication of the religion and often of the nationality of the men who fashioned them. There is as much difference between the artistic ideas of the north and south of India as there is between the delicate and graceful architecture of the great Mohammedan shrines and palaces, and the heavy, massive and sometimes grotesque construction of the old Hindoo temples. To enter into all the peculiarities of ornament would take too long, but it may shortly be said that, bearing in mind that it is contrary to the Prophets’ law to reproduce the similitude of any living thing, a sword ornamented with delicate tracery and a floral pattern may generally be supposed to come from a Mohammedan race in the North, while one bearing representations of men, beasts or birds, has probably been made in the Brahminical South.

All kinds of materials have been used in ornamenting swords. Besides precious jewels, gold and silver, a place has been found for Jaipur enamel, Koftgari work, Bidri work, &c., &c., and all means have been taken to add to artistic beauty, contrast of colour and intrinsic value. If any one would see how rich is the effect thus produced, let him take an opportunity of visiting one of our great national collections, those places full of articles worthy to be “stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings.”

There is one most invaluable quality in which all Eastern swords are well-nigh perfect. They are all most admirably balanced and can all be most effectively employed with the minimum of personal exertion. To appreciate this transcendent quality at its proper value, it is only necessary to handle an English cavalry sword, which is as much lacking in true balance as any Indian sword possesses that most essential character. The West has still some lessons to learn from the immemorial East.

To talk of the swords only of India has exhausted all my space, and yet but a very meagre sketch has been accomplished. Perhaps what has been written may, however, induce some reader to make an exhaustive study of the subject. He would surely be rewarded by learning much that is of the highest artistic, historical and practical value.

The other weapons of India, and there are many, are of nearly, if not quite, equal interest. Perhaps I may some day be allowed to say something about them.

Any one who has wielded his pen with the independence which you, Mr. Editor, have permitted me to practise must expect criticism, nor should he turn a deaf ear to it. Critics, friendly or otherwise, have passed judgment on my Christmas dream of sport, my hazy forecast of its future, and some have thrown at me the pertinent query of, “What next would you have us believe, ‘you veiled old prophet of Khorassan’?” My only answer to-day is that of the sucking dove. “Wait and see.”

In this new year I do not stand alone when the momentous question is passed round of “What next?” among sportsmen, politicians, and populations. Hard nuts to crack there are on every side, and we envy not the jaws whose lot it is to deal with some of them.

Sportsmen, however, are for the most part content to sail with the breeze—contrary winds are troublesome, and they do not like losing sight of old landmarks, albeit in times like the present they are being wafted farther and farther away from them. This their compass, if they will only stop to consult it, must tell them only too truly. Ought they to put back into harbour, or boldly dash on towards other coasts and new scenes, of which it may profit them to know more? Does it not behove them to live and learn in a wider sphere of life than when they started on their life’s voyage; and, as politicians would put it, to think Imperially, even of their sports?

Thus they must ere long come to see that in the unison of ideas, the blending of nationalities, and the gradual bridging over of our insular position, we are fated to learn, however unwillingly, that the past and the future stand in an entirely different relation to one another than they have been wont to do.

Sportsmen, I would appeal to you. Is it not in your inmost hearts a question of what next all round the country? It was, perhaps, a bold stroke on my part to advocate even the partial extinction of the bookmakers, the reform of the Jockey Club, and the use of the Totaliser, or pari-mutuel, so strongly as I did last month; yet common-sense, expediency and profit seem to put this in the forefront of reforms on the Turf in reply to the question which heads this article. Our object-lesson on this subject is, undoubtedly, France, where, since September last, the bookmaker as such has been totally excluded, and we are indebted to a very lucid and exhaustive letter from a French backer, in the Sporting Times, for a knowledge of the results of its first two months’ working. He tells us that, taking the race meetings of Longchamps, Maison-la-Flite, Chantilly, Auteuil, Colombus, St. Ouen, St. Cloud, Compiegne and Enghien, the sum of 5,927,318 francs (£237,092) more were taken at the mutuel than in 1904, the total takings from September 3rd to November 13th, 1905, being 66,917,515 francs (£2,676,700), against, in 1904, 55,787,910 francs (£2,231,516), showing an increase of over eleven million francs. It follows that the deduction of 8 per cent., which is made for the benefit of horse-breeding, agriculture and the poor of France, has brought an increase of 890,368 francs (£35,612)!

If the same ratio of increased receipts is maintained through next year’s racing, the Societé des Courses alone will secure as its share of the profit about one million two hundred thousand francs! Stubborn facts these, which even the most inveterate Radical voter may take to heart in choosing his candidate for whom to vote, although for this election at least all votes will have been cast ere this article is published. If it were possible to gauge the probable receipts in the United Kingdom of the Totaliser as compared with France, we believe that the figures would considerably exceed those of France, seeing that the stakes annually run for in the United Kingdom, including steeplechasing and hurdle-racing, amount to not far short of a million pounds, and that race-meetings in this country are more widely distributed than in France. I am below the mark in calculating that at least ten times the stakes are made in bets, from which the deduction of 8 per cent, would produce a sum of eight hundred thousand a year.

What would the poor, the sick and the honest unemployed give for a dole out of this fund?

What would oppressed agriculture, unendowed horse-breeding, or the poor Royal Agricultural Society, say to the chance of a dip into this lucky bag? In almost every other country besides our own where racing flourishes, such an opportunity of effecting an economic reform, without increasing taxation, or interfering with vested interests, has been hailed with delight. In fact, we stand alone as a civilised nation in our abstention from its adoption, yet we have not, as it would seem, the motive power. If our conscientious objectors could but be made to see that by its adoption the worst features of our gambling pursuits would be checked, if not abolished, and that true sport in all its branches would thrive under its ægis, perhaps our legislature would throw no obstacles in its way. Perhaps then our Jockey Club, always so slow to lead the way, would throw off their vis inertia and become its disciples?

Perhaps, however, this important question may remain buried in the lap of the future, unless public attention is called to it ever and again with increasing vehemence, and we are able to see more clearly the bane of our insular position, and the false pride which blinds and prejudices us.

I have had the opportunity of discussing this question with many racing men, and with scarcely an exception they have brought no arguments forward antagonistic to it, the majority indeed being its advocates; yet there comes the reiterated cry from those who call themselves practical men: “My dear fellow; how are you going to act about it! What chance is there of obtaining sanction from the legislature?”

Supposing I were to suggest the similitude of the bye-gone Welsh remedy, which in its result swept away the multiplication of turnpikes in South Wales some seventy years ago, which materially hindered the traffic between Wales and England. These Welshmen donned the nightdresses of women, calling themselves daughters of Rebecca, who was “not afraid to meet her enemies in the Gate,” and on swift cobs they swooped down at night on all the gates, smashing and burning them. Neither the police nor military could catch one of them, and very soon it began to dawn on the Government that a good reason underlaid this lawlessness. A Royal Commission was appointed, which was the means of an Act of Parliament being passed which swept away the objectionable gates and placed the roads under Government supervision, and they then became the best in the Kingdom.

And now to apply the simile. The legislature has decided by the Kempton Park case that a racecourse is not such a public place as stated in the last Betting Act, where betting can be prohibited. Why, therefore, should not the Totalizer be erected there, and betting by such means be allowed just as much and as legally as it is now carried on by bookmakers. This cannot, to my thinking, be considered as a lottery, pure and simple, because it does not depend upon your merely drawing out the lucky number. You have all the prowess of the horses and the skill of their riders weighing in the balance, and you stand in exactly the same position as the man that speculates in stocks, or insures his risks. Why not, therefore, erect the Totaliser on some enclosures on our racecourses? and even should they prove targets for the attack of the police, or possibly the bookmakers, at starting, I believe that ultimately, sooner indeed than later, their case will prevail, and then the greatest and most wholesome reform in racing will take effect. It will then be time for my critics to exclaim, “What next?”

As regards hunting, I have only to appeal to your correspondent J. J. D. J.’s article in your magazine of last month, “Is Hunting Doomed?” to show that we cannot hope to see it carried on in many countries in the same haphazard way as of old. Despite the fact that its devotees are as keen and as good as ever, its facilities are narrowed year by year, and its difficulties multiplied. Oh, that it were not so, for as your readers, especially your elder readers, must know, in “Borderer’s” heart as a true sport, where gain or loss has no part, hunting stands alone as the best, most ennobling, and manliest sport that we can enjoy. Cosmopolitan also it has hitherto been. How long it will remain so we dread to contemplate. That also lies in the lap of the future.

When the what next of shooting is considered, I confess to being completely carried off my legs. Gunners have of late increased so rapidly in numbers and methods, that we know not where we may not be within the next few years, looking at the fact that circumstances are annually lending themselves to the extension of game preserving, and that the nouveaux riches can so easily indulge in this taste, which requires little learning, and short practice. Its aids to introduction into Society; its excuses for hospitality; its Royal patronage—all bring it immeasurably to the front; and when we read, as we did last month, of over 8,000 pheasants being slaughtered in three days at Vater Priory, we wonder what are the probabilities, or possibilities, or the future of shooting. Truly they can only be measured by the depth of the purse. All else can be thrown in.

I see that the Sporting League have issued a manifesto, warning sportsmen of dreadful things which the change in the Government is likely to bring about. Lord Daney’s Betting Bill is to be revived in its worst phases, and the sporting correspondent of Truth vouchsafes the opinion that he will see the sun and the moon drop from the sky before ready money betting will be legalised! This latter declaration fills me with hope, knowing, as we do, how often these truthful prophecies turn out to be fallacious!

Nor do I set much value on the fears of the Sporting League, because, if the vox populi is tested, as we are given to understand that it will be under Radical dominion, the betting question is much more likely to take a wider range, and peer and peasant alike will have equal rights of investing their money under perfect security on racecourses without let or hindrance. This can only be accomplished by means of the Totaliser, and working men will soon come to know that the usages of our Colonies and other neighbouring countries to their own have come to appreciate the benefits that it confers on them, and thus they will demand a vote in its favour at home.

It will take me a long time to believe that the faddists and the working men are destined to lie down together in perfect peace. Their ideas and methods are so utterly opposed. Indeed, my faith in the coming about of this great reform rests in “the tail wagging the head,” and that if the Jockey Club are to be stirred up, and the middle classes moved to action, it will be done by the progressive shoulder-to-shoulder pressure of the people, when once they appreciate the position, and realise the advantages to be gained, of which no small share will fall to their lot.

Thus perhaps the answer to “What Next?” will ring out.

THE SIRES OF THE DAY.

There will always be a certain amount of controversy in regard to the choice of sires. Some people are bigoted enough still in the belief that good looks and a level formation have nothing to do with the success of hound-breeding, and that attention only should be paid to abilities in the hunting field. If this had been the dictum of the Dukes of Rutland and Beaufort, or of Lord Henry Bentinck, or Mr. G. S. Foljambe, the breed would have well-nigh died out; but the great masters would have necks and shoulders, intelligent heads, deep ribs, straightness in fore-leg, and the round, cat-like foot. There is everything to charm one in the well-bred foxhound, and is there anything like him? The Peterborough Shows have done good in bringing the best-looking together, and in giving opportunities for seeing the best. There has been everything to prove that the best-looking are generally the greatest; they are so in nineteen cases out of twenty, and as they are picked for appearances as puppies, there should be nothing to offend the eye at all in any well-regulated pack. At Belvoir a moderate-looking one even cannot be seen. They are all beautiful hounds, and the difficulty is to find fault. This is the general high standard of the country, and with masters of hounds in great numbers who will have perfect hounds in and out of kennel, the conclusion must be arrived at that there is no other breed of animal so well looked after. The winners of the Champion Prizes at Peterborough during the last twenty years have been very great as sires. What a deal of good can be traced now to the Fitzwilliam Selim, and what a magnificent hound he was; and then there was the Warwickshire Hermit and Harper, the Oakley Rhymer, the Pytchley Paradox and Potentate, the Craven Vagabond, the Puckeridge Wellington, the Cleveland Galopin, and not to forget also the Quorn Alfred, the champion of his time, as did not Tom Firr lead him back a winner? There have been lots besides as either champions or winners in the couples of unentered ones, such as the Dumfriesshire Resolute, who has replenished half the Scotch kennels with good hounds, and the Pytchley Marquis, who stood in the ring with Resolute for the Single Puppy Cup, when the judges, Lord Enniskillen and Mr. Austin Mackenzie, eyed the couple for five minutes before they could decide that the Pytchley young one was a shade the better. Never have two young champions done more for the cause of sport, as to ask concerning all the good that has been done by Marquis is to set John Isaac on the pinnacle of excitement.

[PUCKERIDGE.]
Colonist (1903).             Cardinal (1902).
[By Chancellor—Sarah.]       [By Chancellor—Dauntless.]

Belvoir has never shown at Peterborough or any other show. Frank Gillard used graciously to say that it was charity to give other people a chance; but anyway, the ducal kennel has always had plenty of good mention at Peterborough, as a great many winners have been by its sires; and it has become a practice also amongst far distant masters of hounds to visit Belvoir on the day after the show, and thus to extend their insight amongst all exquisites of the foxhound family. It is just thirty years ago (1876) since Belvoir Weathergage was entered, and what an enormous amount of good has come from this single hound. At home he was the sire of Gambler and Gameboy, besides others of lesser note; and for other packs there was the Brocklesby Weathergage, the Fitzwilliam Weathergage, the Grafton Why Not, the Southwold Freeman, and the Warwickshire Why Not, all very noted hounds. One can scarcely say how many more famous sons of Weathergage there were, but just as he was spoken of by Frank Gillard as the best hound he ever hunted, Mr. Rawnsley, of the Southwold, says the same of his son Freeman, whilst very similar in character must have been the Grafton Why Not. In the next generation the excellence was again well continued; as where have better hounds been seen than the sons of Gambler, with Nominal and Gordon at home, and Lord Middleton’s Grimthorpe and Grasper, Mr. Austin Mackenzie’s Rallywood, Lord Galway’s Gambler, and the Grafton General and Gorgon. Gameboy, brother to Gambler, brought more kudos into the famous line, as he was the sire of the Holderness Gaffer, sire of their Steadfast, and the latter has been very useful in many packs. The line has apparently got stronger in years and generations, as from Watchman, son of Nominal, comes Dexter, a great sire certainly during the last six or seven years, and his son Stormer is the most fashionable, if not the greatest, of the day.

Belvoir Stormer (1899) is a very grand hound of the Gambler type, but a bit on the big side, good twenty-four inches, but there is all the quality in him of the Belvoir hound, and he has beautiful legs and feet. I make him out to have as much or more Osbaldeston Furrier blood in him than in any other to be found in the Stud-book. It came in through Weathergage, of course, back to Senator, and he got it through his dam Destitute, by Sir Richard Sutton’s Dryden, by Lord Henry Bentinck’s Contest. But then there was so much Senator blood in Gratitude, the dam of Gambler, and again in Needy, the dam of Nominal, as she was by Syntax, son of the Grafton Silence, son of Statesman by Senator, by the Oakley Sportsman, her dam Needless by Contest, out of Novelty, by Senator. The success of Stormer for other packs than his own has been almost extraordinary, and this can be seen in Baily’s Directory, giving the names and the pedigrees of the prize puppies at the various kennel puppy shows. They were first in the Quorn, Tynedale, Duke of Buccleuch’s (in bitches), Pytchley (in bitches), Lord Middleton’s (in bitches), and second in the North Staffordshire (dogs), the latter a remarkable puppy called General (a present as a whelp from Mr. R. Corbett, of the South Cheshire, as he would persistently join the pack when at walk, and hunt like an old one before he was entered).

It may be thought that there was more honour attached to Stormer in his earlier days, as the sire of the Atherstone Struggler and Streamer; of Lord Bathurst’s Stentor, unfortunately dead, when he promised to be one of the pillars of the family, as besides being the best puppy of his year at Peterborough, he got some very good stock, as seen by the puppy shows. Then there is Lord Yarborough’s Harbinger, exceedingly good looking, and so good in his work as to have been used in his second season; and some others in various kennels thought very highly of. Stormer, though, was in no degree more useful or popular than his sire Dexter, whose son, Daystar, was supposed to have been the best-looking hound bred at Belvoir since Gambler, but he was unfortunately killed by a kick in the hunting field. Dasher, another son of Dexter, met with a similar fate. Both these hounds got beautiful stock. But besides Stormer, there was another son of Dexter of the same age in Handel, almost more bloodlike in outline than the other, and as the sire of the Warwickshire Traveller to be held much in esteem. Both Stormer and Handel are still in orders at Belvoir. Lord Middleton has a great opinion of his own Dexter by the old Belvoir hound, and he has used him freely. Some very good sorts are brought in through the Birdsall Dexter, as his dam Woodbine was by the Grafton Woodman, so on both sides accounting for his excellence in the field. There is really a plentitude of the Belvoir Dexter and Stormer blood throughout the country, as through the former’s son, Dasher, again comes in the Rufford Furrier, with every promise to become a great sire; and there was a young hound in the Bicester kennels last year called Deemster, by Dasher, out of a beautiful bitch called Bravery, that looked like making a name if he has gone on all right.

If a breeder of hounds commenced his operations from the Belvoir Weathergage (1876), there are probably six distinct lines to work upon, or most certainly four, and he need hardly go further afield for blood, but cross from one to the other, just as old Mr. Parry used to do with his Pilgrims and Rummagers, and Mr. G. S. Foljambe did from the brothers Harbinger and Herald. The subsequent occupants of their kennel benches were not too nearly bred, five generations off was old Parry’s plan; but still, they were all blood relations. To speak with any certainty I should take the four lines from the brothers Gambler and Gameboy, and the two others from the Grafton Whynot (1882) and the Southwold Freeman (1885). The Gamblers I have pretty well referred to above, but his brother, Gameboy, was almost as important as the sire of the Holderness Gaffer, sire of their Steadfast, and of Mr. Austin Mackenzie’s Guider and Gambler. Of these Gaffer occupies an important page in the “Foxhound Kennel Stud Book,” as he was the sire of the Warwickshire Sailor, the sire of the Brocklesby Wrangler. Steadfast, again, was the sire of two very good stud-hounds of the present day, namely, Lord Harrington’s Sultan and Salisbury (brothers). The Grafton Whynot was in no degree less important than any of the above, as he was the sire of Workman, sire of Wonder, sire of Woodman, whose good ones throughout the country have been almost legion, to include the Craven or Old Berks Woodman, the Vale of White Horse Worcester, the Grafton Whynot (of 1897), the Puckeridge Chancellor (1898), and the Badminton Whipster (in orders five years). In my most recent travels I have heard of nothing but praise of the Grafton Woodman’s stock, splendid for nose, hard workers, demons on a dying fox, and always dependable for season after season. The old dog was thirteen years old before he was put away last spring, and I shall always regret not seeing him, as, to judge him from every point, he must have belonged to the very greatest. His son, Worcester, in Mr. Butt Miller’s kennels, enjoys the same reputation so closely associated with his sire, as there could be no better foxhound on the line of a fox, and he has got good ones right and left for Lord Bathurst’s, the Duke of Beaufort’s, the Craven, the Morpeth, and other packs all having representatives by him, besides a big following at home. The Craven regretted that their litter by him of three couples were all bitches, as they were so good, and a dog to have been a sire would have been all too acceptable. However, Lord Bathurst has got two very good sons of Worcester in Weathergage and Wellington, who trace back on their dam’s side also to some very telling blood from Mr. Austin Mackenzie’s Dexter, Belvoir Weathergage again, Warwickshire Harper, and Lord Coventry’s Rambler. Cooper thought last year that Weathergage might be the best foxhound in England. He should not be missed, therefore, by hound-breeders. Mr. Butt Miller has naturally several young Worcester sires, the brothers Bandit and Barrister striking me as about the best when I saw them. It is noticeable that the Morpeth’s second prize puppy, Whynot, was a son of Worcester’s.

The Bicester have had reason to uphold the Grafton Woodman line, as some of their best are by Whynot, notably a grand third-season dog called Wrangler, who gave one the impression of becoming a stud-hound of note some day. There are two or three of Mr. Heywood Lonsdale’s worth taking a good journey to see, Conqueror being one, and he is quite one of Lord Chesham’s breeding, going back into the Blankney sorts. The second prize puppy of the kennel last year was by Conqueror.

To turn again, though, to the Grafton Whynot. I saw him last May, with nine seasons marked against him, and the rumour was that he had been promised to Squire Drake, who might breed a pack again for the Old Berks through this son of Woodman alone, if he could keep the old fellow in useful orders long enough. He got rare stock for the Grafton, and so did his son, Wiseacre, who died too prematurely; whilst another son called Waggoner—still available, I expect—had the reputation of being the hardest driver in the pack. Of the Grafton dogs, though, I liked President the best, and he was out of a Woodman bitch. The next share of usefulness to be credited to Woodman may come from the Puckeridge, as Mr. Edward Barclay bred from him in 1897 with a bitch that went back to old Mr. Parry’s sorts, through Lord Portsmouth’s Gainer, a very noted worker, as I well remember, and got by Mr. Parry’s Gulliver far back in the sixties. Gainer was so good that the late Lord Galway favoured him extensively, entering three couples by him from four litters in 1873. Mr. Lane Fox was one of his patrons, and also Belvoir; but for the latter great kennel he did not get them very good about the knees.

The result of Mr. Barclay’s patronage to the Grafton Wonder, was Chancellor, and he was like all the rest of them, quite A1 in his work, and going on into his eighth season, at any rate. He has been bred from for the last five years with bitches mostly of Belvoir extraction, and in the Puckeridge list of 1904 there were eight couples by him in different years; all very good, so Mr. Barclay and his late huntsman, Jem Cockayne, have stated; but the best of all was Cardinal, out of Dauntless, by Belvoir Watchman, son of Nominal, son of Gambler, son of Weathergage, her dam Dahlia by Shamrock, son of Dashwood by Founder, belonging to the Fallible family. A splendidly bred hound, therefore, is the Puckeridge Cardinal, entered in 1902, so now just in his prime. He is a fine big hound also, and so good in his work as to have left a very strong impression upon Jem Cockayne, who was never happy unless Mr. Barclay kept breeding from him heavily, and about the first thing he did when engaged for the North Warwickshire was to get Mr. Arkwright to do the same. He told me he should like to have a kennel full of Cardinals, and really the puppy boxes at Brent Pelham last year were full of them. Another by Chancellor in the Puckeridge Kennel is Colonist, a year younger than Cardinal, but with almost as great a reputation, and bred very like his companion, as he was out of Sarah, by Belvoir Dashwood. Colonist took second prize as a puppy at Peterborough.

Yet another line from the ever-telling Belvoir Weathergage may be traced from the Southwold Freeman, who was thought by Mr. Rawnsley to have been the best hound he ever hunted in his life, and for the last twenty years this gentleman has shown a strong determination to hold the line. He had five and a half couples by him before the good hound was a five-year-old, and six couples and a half were entered afterwards from numerous litters. The same line can be traced through several channels at the present time, and to Frantic, sister to Freeman. Much of his has been crossed again to the Grafton Woodman, as Workable, a well-known Southwold bitch, has been a great treasure in the field and as a breeder of good ones; and Valliant, possibly Mr. Rawnsley’s best sire, is by the Brocklesby Wrangler, one of the sorts, as I have mentioned in this paper, out of a Freeman-bred bitch. To trace the branches from the Belvoir Weathergage, there is everything, then, to show that the merit has been almost inexhaustible, and that, if anything, it has increased in intensity by intercrossing: the Grafton Wonder, with the Gambler line, as instanced in the case of the Puckeridge Cardinal, and the Freemans, as shown by the Brocklesby Wrangler and Vanity, in their production of the Southwold Valliant; and again in the case of Worcester breeding his best from Nominal- or Gambler-bred bitches. It is a problem of breeding, and all compassed in thirty years. I can hardly believe it to be so long ago, looking back to 1873, when chatting to Frank Gillard, on the old flags at Belvoir, we admired Warrior, the crack of the kennel, as I then opined, and how Gillard told me that the beautiful blood-like hound before us was rather the result of an experiment. He hardly dared to breed from Wonder, on account of his swine chap, but he was tempted by his beautiful voice, and his union with Susan produced a perfect litter, to comprise Woodman, Warrior, Woeful, Welcome and Whimsey, all good-looking enough to be put on, and useful in producing subsequent Belvoir beauties; but the star of all was Warrior, the sire of Weathergage. Nearly all the best foxhound sires of the day trace to the latter, and it would be no very bad policy to breed from the older ones of their generation as long as they can be found—Belvoir Stormer, Handel, Grafton Why Not, Cricklade Worcester, Brocklesby Wrangler and Badminton Dexter—but still to remember that there is a younger generation, or even two, that is quite as good, and maybe safer, when enumerating the sires of the day, as the Warwickshire Traveller, the Belvoir Vaulter and Royal, the Atherstone Struggler and Streamer, the Grafton Waggoner and President, the Birdsall Dexter, the Puckeridge Cardinal, the Bicester Wrangler, the Fitzwilliam Harper, the Southwold Valliant, the Cricklade Bandit and the Cirencester Weathergage.

No better tribute to the scope of the runner’s usefulness could be put forth than the fact that he is running with us to-day. As might be expected, quite a little band of scarlet-coated runners live within easy reach of Melton and Oakham, a privileged area in which sport with one or other of the four Leicestershire packs may be seen on six days of the week. Theirs is a hard life at best, and were they not thoroughly endued with the spirit for sport, they could not for long follow their calling; but the runner of the rising generation has not the enthusiasm of a former generation. As for reminiscences, his begin and end with the week’s sport; as for the future, he hopes the going will not be any heavier in the coming week.

LEICESTERSHIRE RUNNERS.

The journey to covert through the characteristic Leicestershire gates, across grass fields and cow pastures, is the runner’s opportunity to be useful; at the meet the possession by the great majority of hunting men of second horsemen render his services less in demand than they used to be. The hunt runner is not the character he was in our forefathers’ day; but there are still uses for him in certain districts. At the present time both the Quorn and the Cottesmore have recognised men to lead their terriers, and perform other functions. With the Belvoir a runner may be seen joining the hunt on a Leicestershire day, but he is more or less “on his own”; for if a terrier is out it is running with the pack or led by a second horseman. So far as the Lincolnshire side of the Belvoir country is concerned, it is no country for runners; the area traversed is very wide, and the going is much too heavy to let a man on foot keep in touch with a well-mounted hunt. The same applies to the Blankney country, where we never remember seeing a runner on any occasion; the Blankney Hunt terrier is always carried by one of the second horsemen, slung in a game-bag so that he can be brought on the scene at the shortest notice.

When Lord Lonsdale instituted his memorable reign as master of the Quorn in 1893, he organised every detail of his staff, from Tom Firr in leathers and swan-necked spurs, to the hunt runners carrying the very latest pattern of bolting apparatus. No commander-in-chief of an army ever entered on a plan of campaign better found in every department, and the result was entirely satisfactory for sport, good runs, with a fox at the finish, being the order of things. On the opening day of that season at Kirby Gate, we had the good fortune to be one of the field mounted by Mr. James Hornsby, who then lived at Stapleford Park. Amongst the crowd at the meet, the figure of Harry the runner came in for general observation. He turned out in scarlet coat of a texture not too heavy; white flannel knickerbockers, black stockings, and a well-groomed hunting cap. He led a couple of varminty wire-haired terriers of the celebrated Lonsdale breed, and strapped to his back was a patent sapper’s spade with pick, made of the best steel. Thus equipped, Harry appears in one of the Quorn series of hunt pictures by Major Giles, which depicts hounds marking to ground in one of the characteristic hills typical of the woodland side of Leicestershire. With Harry was another runner, a strong athletic young fellow with a heavy moustache, who carried a bolting apparatus in the shape of thirty-five feet of piping with a brush at the end of it, not unlike that used by chimney-sweeps. Known to the hunt department as Sunny Marlow, he has always worked with Harry.

On the occasion before us, contrary to custom, the first draw was Welby Fishponds, instead of Gartree Hill, and we were marshalled by the field master, Mr. Lancelot Lowther, a field away whilst hounds drew covert. At last the silver whistles proclaimed hounds away on the back of a fox, and the cavalcade swept down the hillside. After a hunt of about an hour, with a somewhat catchy scent, and a blind line of country that laid the field out like ninepins, hounds marked to ground over a drain between Old Dalby Wood and Sixhills. Before we had been there five minutes, Harry was on the scene with his apparatus and terriers. Unstrapping the spade, he took off his coat, and putting his back into the work, he cut the sods out in double quick time. It was a characteristic shallow Leicestershire drain, running across a grass field, and crowning down into it, a terrier was put in at the far end. This moved the fox, and Alfred Earp, the whipper-in, was ready to seize him by the brush as he tried to slip further up. Wriggling like an eel at arm’s length, he was flung adrift, and the pack coursing the length of a field, rolled him over—the first fox of the season.

An official Quorn runner must be a good hand with the spade, for he gets many a rough day’s work in the off season digging out badgers, which abound in high Leicestershire. As most people know, badgers are very untidy neighbours for a fox covert, working out the earths so that stopping out becomes an increased difficulty. Very often digging out a badger earth may mean a week or two of solid work, for badgers go very deep, often among the roots of trees. As a rule the soil is light and sandy, working well; where badgers have been imported into clay soil districts to work out earths for foxes, they have at first opportunity migrated to districts where the digging suited them better. This last autumn one of the hunt runners told us that after some very hard digging they got hold of three badgers whose combined weight turned the scale at a hundredweight, the largest measuring 3 ft. 10 in. in length. The badgers are killed, and their skins sent in to the Master of the Hunt as trophies.

Since Captain Forester undertook the mastership last season, Harry has again, we understand, become a paid member of the staff as in Lord Lonsdale’s time. If the two men are not seen running with the Hunt on the same day, the one is pretty sure to be stopping earths in another district for next day.

A runner with the Cottesmore has to put a great deal of travelling into a day’s hunting when the fixture is wide of Oakham; on Mondays and Thursdays an average journey to the meet is from twelve to fifteen miles, with no chance of a lift by rail. Sellars, who has been runner for the best part of twenty seasons, tells us that he frequently starts from Oakham, with his terriers, at eight o’clock in the morning, to reach such fixtures as Castle Bytham, Holywell Hall, Stocken-Hall, or Clipsham, by eleven. Fortunately at the end of the day, hounds work back towards Oakham, so that when they whip off the runner is nearer his well-earned supper. Sellars is a well-set-up, active fellow, who relies on his own energies to carry him through, and where the heart is keen for sport it is astonishing what a man can accomplish. A younger runner to-day of shorter build lessens his labours by using a bicycle, which certainly gives him an advantage in districts where the roads serve. But Sellars has ridden to hounds in his time second horseman, as far back as when William Neil carried the horn, and he is hardly likely to adopt the “wheel.” In his cap, scarlet coat and leggings, he is the typical, sharp-featured runner, in hard condition to go all day, perfectly at home in the country, which he knows by heart.

With the respectful manner of one who has been in touch with hunting all his life, Sellars is not a great talker; he is a silent admirer of all connected with the Cottesmore Hunt, in which his sun rises and sets. During the hunting season there is plenty of work to be had between times in the shape of badger digging and earth stopping, besides taking a turn as beater when there is shooting going on in the district. The hay and corn harvest gives every available hand the chance of a fair day’s work for good pay, the farmers then finding the Hunt runners employment.

Sellars calls to mind the memories of a long succession of brilliant Cottesmore Hunt servants: mentioning William Neil and his famous first whip, Jimmy Goddard, who was the beau ideal of a horseman, and hung a boot better than most. The long service of George Gillson, as huntsman for the best part of twenty years, was remarkable for consistent and good sport, very popular with the countryside. A whipper-in who had a long tenure of service at that time was George Jull, who remained on for a season or two under Arthur Thatcher, and then went to Ireland. Amongst the many occasions that Sellars has helped to extricate horse and rider after a fall, he calls to mind an incident when Jull came such a crumpler, that he had to be conveyed by the Hunt runner to the nearest farmhouse.

Sellars was one of those who rendered first aid when Colonel Little took a bad fall this season, his horse rolling over him with serious consequences. A runner, if he is worth his salt, must be ready for any emergency, from rendering “first aid” to handling a fox or leading an unwilling hound. Very often his duties are in the track of the hunt, shutting gates and collecting strayed stock, so that he must be included amongst those who further sport by repairing mistakes of the careless.

To some who have read and heard what a sight it was in the old days to witness the coaches—both mail and stage—coming into and leaving Cheltenham, it may be a matter of surprise to learn that as late as 1862 a mail coach was running daily between Oxford and Cheltenham, an illustration of which is given with this short article, this being taken from a water-colour drawing by Mr. Bayzand, of Oxford, who has very kindly given me some interesting particulars of the coach and those connected with it. And I am also indebted to the courtesy of my friend Mr. Hendy, of the G.P.O., for further information as to dates, &c., &c.

OXFORD AND CHELTENHAM COACH.

It appears that the coach first commenced to run in 1846–7, and did not carry mails until 1848, from which time till October 1st, 1855, mails were carried by it free of charge, i.e., merely in consideration of freedom from tolls; but from the date mentioned the sum of £150 per annum was given to the proprietors in addition to this privilege. The original owners were Mr. Waddell and Mr. Dangerfield, of Oxford, but after three or four years the concern was taken over and worked by Isaac Day, the trainer, of Northleach (through which quaint, and to this day remote, little town the coach of course passed daily), John Mills, of Burford, and Daniel Blake, of Cheltenham; and a little later still the last named took it over entirely, ultimately disposing of the business to Messrs. Edward Allen and William Colee, of the George Hotel, Cheltenham. Mr. Allen died in 1854, and the coach was then run by William Colee himself till the summer of 1856, when Mr. Richard Glover took it over, Colee retiring. George Colee, brother to William, is the coachman shown in picture, he used to drive from Oxford half the journey, bringing the up coach back, it being a day coach leaving Oxford and Cheltenham respectively at 11 a.m. Though starting from the “Old Three Cups Hotel,” Oxford, the coach was kept and horses stabled at the “Lamb and Flag,” St. Giles; the horsekeeper’s name there was Morgan. I am told that two portraits in the picture are particularly good—that of George Colee, and the grey leader; this mare was bought by Mr. Blake from Isaac Day, and I fancy she must have been a real good animal, as it is still remembered and recorded that her name was “Skater,” and she was blind. Isaac Day, by the way, was noted for his liking for a good cob, and no doubt during his connection with the coach he horsed his stage, or stages, well. The old trainer died in 1859, just about three years before the coach ceased to run, as it made its last journey in January, 1862, in which month the Witney branch of railway was opened. Though a mail the coach was not a fast one, being timed at from seven to eight miles an hour. After it ceased to run George Colee, I understand, contracted for the Steventon Mail, and one or two others local to Oxford, in which city he died. To those among the readers of these lines who knew Oxford in the old days, it may be of interest to note that in the picture the coach is represented on the Botley Road, passing Morrell’s old rick yard and the path leading to Ferry Hincksey, now all built over.

To the greater bulk of the thousands who visit the Broads season after season the great water-ways of Norfolk and Suffolk are an attractive summer holiday resort—that and that only. The all-round excellence and great variety of sport obtainable throughout the year is known only to a comparatively small number, and is indulged in by but few even of those. Probably summer sailing will remain the principal pastime—it is possibly the most enjoyable—on these waters for all time. And with good reason. Granted some knowledge of sailing craft and decent care in navigation, absolute safety is assured for even the smallest craft. The numerous regattas offer opportunities for the more skilful to prove their skill in friendly competition before admiring associates. Scores of miles of rivers and acres upon acres of broads are open to all—expert and novice alike. Equally enjoyable, in the opinion of many, is a holiday spent on a wherry, and not a few parties “swear by” the keen pleasure associated with a holiday under canvas, “camping out.” Inseparable from all is angling. And what a variety of anglers one meets with on the Broads! They fish from wherries, from yachts, from boats, from the bank, and, indeed, from any and every point of vantage. They use all sorts of tackling, from the boy’s polished ash-wood rod and ready furnished line—evidently purchased merely for the holiday and the fun of the thing—to the perfectly tapered roach pole and line of gossamer fineness, greatly prized tackling handled by an expert, who means fishing in all seriousness. Not infrequently a young couple, “pegged down” in very close proximity and evidently preoccupied with some other matter nearer and dearer than angling, allow the rod at their feet to angle for itself—which is, perhaps, the very best thing they can do if they really wish to catch fish.

CASTING A NET FOR SMALL LINE BAIT.

Photo by Clarke and Hyde.]

The artist, the botanist, and entomologist are numbered among the holiday seekers; and the indolent individual, “come to do nothing but lazy around,” is also in evidence, of course. All alike are happy as the days come and go and the summer wears on. Not the least enjoyable time is the late evening, when the wherries and yachts are moored for the night and the canvas camps are lit up. The solemn quietude of Broadland reigns on all sides, and than Broadland at night, can anything be more quiet, more peaceful, more soothing? The distant barking of a dog, the sound of song or music floating on the air from some craft, the splash of oars as a belated boating party passes by on the smooth surface of the stream, the flop! of a big bream “priming”—all these only go to accentuate the actual and wonderful quiet. So quiet is it, indeed, that as our ardent angler, out fishing for the night, lights his pipe, the scratch of the match on the box may be heard for some considerable distance. Thus the summer wears away; the end of the holiday comes all too soon, and the Broads lie neglected—or nearly so.

Yet the opportunities for sport after the holiday folk have departed and before they return are many. Those sportsmen are not wanting who will tell you that they prefer the room of the holiday seekers to their company, and that “sport on the Broads has gone to the deuce since the advent of hordes of cheap trippers and big boys with boats.” This is, however, too severe an estimate of the character of those who frequent the Broads during the summer. Other and probably more sound reasons could be given for the falling off in sport of late years; although it must be acknowledged that the presence of large crowds through the summer must have a more or less bad effect on sport all the year round. That sport on the Broads has declined is, unfortunately, beyond doubt. Granted this, however, there still remains satisfying sport available if only the sportsman will adapt his methods to the altered condition of affairs.

A BROADLAND SPORTSMAN WITH HIS PUNT AND DOG.

Photo by Clarke & Hyde.]

Take, for instance, the rudd-fishing. The bags of these fish are considerably smaller now than they were ten, aye, even five years ago. It is quite possible that the crowds of summer holiday folk are partly responsible for this falling off; but is it not also probable that the gradual filling up of some parts of the Broads, mostly those parts where rudd do love to congregate, is by far the more important cause? Where the angler used to find the rudd in, say, two feet of water, there is now but a foot—in many cases barely that—yet the fish are still there. It is rather amusing than otherwise to watch the holiday folk going for these wary fish in such shallow water with the orthodox tackle of years gone by, i.e., a fine running line, float and shotted bottom; it is surprising to see a sportsman doing the same thing. Now, the rudd is essentially a summer-feeding fish, and what is more he is, when shoaling, a surface-feeding fish; therefore, even while the summer holiday folk are present, get you an eleven-foot fly rod, attach to the end of your taper line a two-yard fine taper gut cast, armed at the end with a fairly large crystal-bend hook; fill the hook with well-scoured gentles (half-a-dozen is not too many), and casting as you would with a fly, put this bait among the rudd that are shoaling in the shallow water, and see what will happen! The lid of your creel will constantly creak a welcome to a lusty specimen, and you will return to quarters with a heavy bag and a light heart, while the man with the float and shots will most probably return with a light bag, swearing at the decadence of sport on the Broads, and cursing the “cheap-tripper” as the cause of his non-success. So, too, with the bream-fishing. The day has gone by when you could pitch anywhere and make sure of a big bag of bream. This, also, is a summer-feeding fish, principally. Yet you have only to go about your work in a methodical and common-sense manner to command, at any rate, a respectable bag. Even while the crowd is in full evidence, look you for a quiet nook with a decent depth of water. You should have no difficulty in finding one; and having found it, nurse it even as a Thames or a Lea or a Trent angler nurses his swim. Bait it carefully, fish it as carefully with decent tackling, and success shall be yours clean in front of the man who, following the orthodox methods, follows also the “milky way” over the broad waters that are now continually disturbed by passing craft of all descriptions.

The best of the pike-fishing is to be had during the winter months, when the greater bulk of the weeds and rushes are rotted, and a keen frost is in the air. If you do not care to face the cold winds that sweep over Broadland at this time of year, then you must rest content with the comparatively indifferent sport with these fish obtainable in more genial weather conditions. But if you do not mind the cold, give the Broads a trial for pike during December, January or February. Certainly you will not be troubled with a crowd through the winter months! You will, as a matter of fact, have miles of river and acres of broad water to yourself. You can spin, paternoster or live-bait to your heart’s content, and you will catch fish that will handsomely reward you. No one who has only killed pike in Broadland during the late summer and early autumn months would credit the enormous increase in fighting power one’s quarry develops during the winter. The most successful tackling in the rivers is the paternoster, and for that matter it is the best on the Broads also. But spinning may be resorted to in the latter waters, and where a big fish is known to lie a live bait on snap tackle will most probably tempt him. You can catch your own baits from the rivers, but it is best to make sure of a supply from some fishing tackle dealer.

The ruthless destruction in the past of rare birds (and, by-the-by, the so-called “cheap-tripper” was not responsible for the unsportsmanlike slaughter) has rendered it necessary to protect many of them against utter extinction. The best of the wildfowling is strictly preserved. There is, however, some very good wildfowling to be had still from November until February. Here, again, the sportsman must not expect the bags obtainable years ago, but with careful stalking he should do fairly well. Some decent flight-shooting is also available. The three things absolutely necessary to success are, a handy punt, a hard-hitting gun, and a well-trained dog. The latter is the most important of all.

THE TROUT SEASON, 1905.

Although at the present day, more than ever before, fishing in all its branches has an extensive literature of its own, there is, perhaps, no subject that requires more careful handling by an author anxious to interest his readers than dry-fly practice in general, and the sport obtained by his own rod in particular, during the long trout season. Nor is it easy to condense within the limit of a single article anything like full details of, and the actual incidents connected with, his captures—and also combine references to the delightful environment in which he is wont to pursue his fascinating art (the most humane of all sports where killing is concerned), and briefly to other matters, to embellish his descriptions. But I have done my best in what follows, and I hope the reader, all the better if he be an expert himself, will in imagination follow me through the verdant, flower-decked water meadows, and share the pleasures of an angler’s quest.

Long weeks before the first of April, which is the earliest date dry-fly sportsmen commence fishing in the Itchen, my preparations were completed—the eleven-foot “Perfection” split cane rod overhauled by its makers, and after many years’ hard work made to look like new (a trusty weapon as good as any angler need possess), was more than once taken from its case and within doors lovingly waved about as if casting a fly. An ample supply of well-tied flies was duly received, and on opening each small box the contents made one smile to look at because they would certainly be killers, i.e., red quills with gold tags, olives in three shades of colour as to wings, Englefield’s green quill-bodied flies with silver tags; gold-ribbed hare’s ear, and Wickham’s fancy, all dressed on sharp, full barbed, sneck-bend hooks in several sizes, and supplemented by old flies left over from previous seasons, which, when trout or grayling are well on the feed, are often accepted as readily as new ones—which would seem to prove that the fly is not of so much consequence as some people imagine. But beyond rod and flies, I attribute my success to always using a fine dressed running line, and the finest of gut collars, prepared by myself thus: Four strands of 18-inch picked refina natural gut knotted smoothly together, and pointed with two strands of 18-inch 4x fine drawn gut, forming a length of 2¾ yards, finer all through than usually supplied from shops, and yet strong enough to hold and play to a finish any trout up to 4 lb. I mention all this for the benefit of some men who I am certain do not fish fine enough in the clear Itchen.

All through April the river had a winterly appearance, the fish were not in condition, the weather unpropitious, and those too ardent anglers who did try met with poor sport; nor were blank days unknown.

For these reasons I did not make a beginning until May 19th, and it will somewhat simplify the following details of my dry-fly sport, and save much unedifying repetition, if I state at the beginning that all of it was obtained on the prolific River Itchen (at present as much deserving to be called “the queen of Hampshire rivers” as was formerly the Test), namely, from two meadows on the east bank above Winchester, where I rent the exclusive right ad medium flumen, but by the usual tacit understanding between owners of opposite banks, casting all across was not interfered with; in fact, it happened that no other rod fished there. It is a great advantage having even a small length of well-stocked water all to one’s self, and to watch it closely for flies and fish rising during the morning or evening, and take the benefit of such knowledge by resuming the rod at the nick of time, thus avoiding over-fatigue, and perhaps disappointment, while waiting long hours by the river-side to no purpose.

And by favour, annually granted to me for many years past for a liberal number of days after June, I plied my rod in the three miles of the main river, mill, and side streams of the Abbot’s Barton fishery between Durngate Mill and Headbourne Worthy. Also I was courteously offered sport in the lower reaches at Twyford and Shawford.

On my opening day, May 19th, at Winnall, a leash of trout weighing 5 lb. 2 oz. was killed. The next time I tried was on June 3rd, for only a quarter of an hour after sunset, in the much overfished public water known as “The Weirs,” when a brace, 2 lb. 1 oz., came to hand. On the 13th a brace was caught before noon in my private fishing, weighing 2 lb. 15 oz., and on the 22nd six, scaling respectively in the order of capture—1 lb. 9 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 2¼ lb., 2 lb., and 1¼ lb.; aggregating 9 lb. 11 oz., and proving the best day’s sport of the season, although on one of its hottest days. Two days after, in an hour while the sunset glory was fading, a handsome brace weighing 3¼ lb. was brought to grass. And during July, in the same limited extent of water, nearly always about sundown, the following were creeled—i.e., on the 1st three fish, 4 lb. 2 oz.; on the 3rd two, 2 lb. 3 oz.; on the 14th one, 1 lb. 14 oz.; on the 18th one, 1 lb. 2 oz.; and on the 29th one, 1 lb. 14 oz. Also on August 5th one, 1 lb. 9 oz., and on the 8th one, 1 lb. 5 oz.

On July 21st an early train landed me at Shawford, and on entering the beautiful park where is the seat of Sir Charles E. F., Bart., I turned short off to the right, and through a tangled undergrowth of wild flowers, weeds, and nettles, prickly bramble bushes and the trailing branches of Rosæ canina, soon reached the back stream, only to find a large group of cattle standing in it, tormented by flies, and churning the water into the colour of milk all the way down, spoiling one’s chance of fishing. But at the lower boundary of the demesne, where the main river mingles, it was clear and a few flies floating on it. Directly I knelt in the sedge a brace of partridges sprang from it and whirred away. Rooks were noisy in the elms, and from trees on a small eyot stock-doves told their monotonously mournful tales. But my eyes were watching a trout under an overhanging branch opposite. At length he rose and took a small, pale-winged sub-imago fly, and while I tied on to my fine gut cast the nearest artificial I could select in size and colour to the natural flies on the water, he dimpled the surface several times, but at the first wave of the rod down he sank to the bottom. Nevertheless, after a pause I threw my lure well over him—a yard in front, so that he might see it. At the first cast he moved, at the second boldly came up and snapped at it; was well hooked, played, and netted out, not much disturbing other trout in view, one of which a few minutes after shared the same fate, the brace weighing over 2 lb. Large fish are scarce in this fishery at present.

As I crossed over to the lower reach of the chief stream, my steps were stayed to admire the surroundings: the various stately trees in full foliage in solitary grandeur, or in groups adorning the emerald sward, which was profusely embroidered with Flora’s gifts. And on the river banks were seen the familiar flowers an angler loves, amongst them “love’s gentle gem, the sweet forget-me-not,” tall, graceful willow herb, spiked purple loosestrife, meadow sweet, mimulus reflected in the glassy stream, yellow iris, hemp agrimony, and a crowd of others. The blazing sun was now near the zenith, and the morning rise of ephemeridæ at its best; fish were feasting on them freely, not only in their haunts at the sides, but on the middle, over thick beds of starwort and waving crowfoot. For two hours I was almost constantly at work hooking and returning some ten- to eleven-inch fish and killing a leash about a pound each. It was very warm, and as I neared the small waterfall a clear space on the hard chalky bottom hidden from view almost tempted me to bathe; but instead I wetted a leaf of butterbur, and folding it inside my cap to cool my head, laid the rod aside and quietly sat on a prostrate tree to rest awhile. But reflecting that I had done fairly well, and the 2.36 Great Western train was available, I hastily put my tackle together, interviewed the keeper to show the sport, shouldered the creel, and arrived at the station just in time.

On July 31st I again had the privilege of fishing in the park. A gentle wind stirred the leaves to whisper, and it was only pleasantly warm. While I sat in the garden reach making all ready to begin sport, the gurgle of the falling water through the six hatches had a soothing influence on one’s spirit, and taking Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” from my side pocket I read a few passages, but as that was hardly in form for a dry-fly fisherman with the clear stream at his feet and fish in view waiting to be caught, I soon went above the hatches, and from the cottage gardens on the east side by 11.30 a.m. managed to creel a brace, and above Shawford Bridge from the west bank, another brace by two o’clock. Then, as before, I went back by train, and resumed practice in the evening; but there was no rise until 7.45, when phryganidæ were on or hovering over the surface of the water, chiefly in mid-channel, and trout, also grayling, were eagerly on the feed, making a splash, sometimes “a boil,” as they seized a fly. For a full hour with little cessation I was casting over them, hooking, unhooking, killing two brace, or returning fish. Altogether it was a fairly successful and very enjoyable day; but the four brace scaled only 7¾ lb.

By the courtesy of Alexander P. R——, Esq., I had the choice of a day’s fishing in his Twyford preserves, and after waiting for a favourable forecast of the weather, a bright morning and a gentle wind from the south tempted me to try on August 17th. A survey of the water showed it to be choked with weeds, some in flower standing out above the surface or greenly covering the bottom, except in a few places where the force of the stream had cleared spaces between, showing the chalky bed. Many dry-fly fishermen dislike such a dense mass of weeds, because it is so difficult to draw a hooked fish through or over them; but for several reasons I much prefer a fishery where they are seldom cut to one where they are shaved close by the chain scythe or torn out by grappling hooks, leaving little or no cover for the piscine denizens, and destroying their food; for young weeds are the habitat of larvæ, gammarus pulex, mollusca, &c., on which trout largely subsist. There are several inviting seats along the west bank on which one can rest at ease and watch for rises, or even cast one’s fly from, and also to admire the panoramic view along the bright water meadows stretching away to St. Cross, and beyond to historic Winchester, and shut in by undulating hilly downs on both sides, which ages long ago were probably the banks of a wide river, an estuary of the sea. Opposite is the church and pretty village of Twyford, where the remains of a Roman villa can be visited, and in the churchyard is a famous yew-tree.

From 9.30 a.m. until one o’clock I fished persistently, using small flies, but except one trout creeled weighing 1¼ lb., only undersized ones came to hand. There was no evening rise until 7.30, and very sparse then, but afterwards three trout were landed and put back, and one over a pound killed to make up a brace. The keeper then coming up to me, remarked that there had been no May-flies at Twyford this season.

On August 24th I made a good although delayed beginning on the Abbot’s Barton fishery. After stalking along the east bank from nine o’clock until nearly mid-day, and casting without once having a touch, hope waxed faint, and I thought I had made a mistake in choosing the day; but when the last meadow opposite the new gasworks was reached, a trout in position close under the sedge and sword-grass covered right bank on which I stood, was rising and sucking in large dark-winged olive duns as they floated toward him. I carefully drew back, and assuming the kneeling and crouching low down posture—also well hidden from view—I saw with satisfaction that I had not disturbed him from continuing his repast. But as I am not ambidextrous, it was difficult to place one’s fly by the right hand the proper distance before him. Trial after trial was made until he became suspicious and sank to the bottom, but was not scared away; I could see him plainly. Anon he rose again, but, fortunately for me, not so close to the sedge. To have made any bungle in casting now would have been fatal, therefore I felt it to be a crucial test of skill to place the lure just right. At the first presentation he took it, and by a gentle turn of the wrist, making a draw rather than a strike (for my red quill fly was dressed on a 000 hook), he was firmly hooked, and instantly rushing up stream ran out ten or fifteen yards of line ere I durst attempt to restrain him. And when I did so, wound the line in, and played from the bowed rod, he turned and scurried down stream, leaping out once only, but flouncing several times on the surface, thus helping to exhaust himself. Now was the moment for masterful pressure to be put on him; accordingly, when I drew back the line by degrees, and he felt the strain, he turned and headed up stream in wild affright, and it seemed some minutes before his struggles were over and he was safely netted out, the gut cast several times twisted tightly round his gills. He was a splendid trout weighing 2 lb. 13 oz. Men from the adjacent gasworks during the latter part of their dinner-hour had been watching behind me, but I was quite unconscious of their presence until they called out: “That is a nice fish, Sir,” and crowded round to admire it. About three o’clock another chance offered lower down at the first wide bend. Two fish, both within reach of where I knelt, were rising, but only at long intervals—probably their feast on flies was nearly finished and they had become fastidious, for when, at the second throw my fly covered the nearest one, he quietly sidled off under horse-tail weeds. But the other fish was not so shy, and after casting over him several times he accepted the fateful fly, was hooked in the tongue, and immediately bolting up stream made fast, for an anxious minute, in a weed-bed of water celery, from whence, however he was drawn forth by taking the line in the left-hand fingers and using gentle but gradually increasing force, while the right hand held the rod sloping backward from the vertical position, ready to play him when released. An excellent plan, but not fully effectual until the unavoidably slack line could be reeled in, the quarry held taut from the bending rod and drawn gasping into the landing net—a well-conditioned fish scaling 2 lb. 5 oz. The brace weighing 5 lb. 2 oz. was shown to the head keeper on my way back. There was absolutely not a single rise afterwards that I noticed. And another rod had the same experience, but not the same sport.

I have been particular in describing some of the details of the foregoing captures, as they are typical instances of dry-fly practice, and therefore, and also because the space at my disposal is necessarily limited, I may be excused for shortening what follows.

On September 1st three trout were killed, weighing 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 9 oz., and 1 lb. 2 oz.

On the 4th two, weighing 1¾ lb. and 1 lb. 10 oz.

On the 11th the vane stood due west, the sky was lowering, and rain fell at intervals, but a straight stick umbrella sufficed to keep one dry, and tied to the landing net handle when not in use, is far more convenient to carry than heavy waterproofs, which at best are heating and uncomfortable. I recommend fly-fishers to try it. Above the G.W. railway arch, on the broad shallows and past the “plantation,” grayling (only in recent years introduced) seem at last to have made their headquarters, and from eleven o’clock to three p.m. three were unavoidably hooked and returned, for the lessee of the fishery, Mr. J. E. B. C——, wishes them not to be taken at present, so that they may live to increase and multiply. But a leash of trout were caught and creeled during the time. And as the morning rise was nearly over I slowly retraced my steps, observant of any break of the surface of the water; climbed the steep railway bank, crossed over the bridge, passed down the line for a long distance to the stile, and resumed the rod on the Winnall side, where, from the last meadow bounded by the ditch, two more trout were killed, making up 2½ brace, scaling 6 lb. 6 oz. On my way I noticed a profusion of the coral-like hips of the wild rose, haws on the hedges, scarlet viscid berries on yew-trees, and beautiful clusters or cymes of clear red berries like currants on the water elder; also amongst many other wild flowers, scabious, candy-tuft, corn cockle, yellow foxglove, clover, ragwort, &c., and, standing erect, Lysimachia vulgaris.

On the 16th a fine trout weighing 1 lb. 14 oz. was hooked and landed when it was almost too dark to see where one’s fly fell.

On the 19th the wind was northeast, and therefore unfavourable; added to which in the upper half of the water mudding out was being done by one man, while another, in a ballast boat, poled it up and down laden with chalk to repair the banks. This not only disturbed the stream, but coloured it, and I was about to forego fishing, in despair, when, looking back as far as I could see clearly, fish were rising. By a wide détour I carefully got below them, and at once noticed that they were feeding on nymphæ and sub-imago flies, and the water there was less turbid, indeed during the men’s dinner-hour it cleared. By two o’clock two trout, weighing 2 lb. 1 oz. and 1 lb. 6 oz., were tempted to their fate by my red quill fly, and another soon after, 1½ lb. In the evening, after sunset, two more were killed, 1 lb. 7 oz. and 1 lb. 9 oz.

On the 27th five were drawn to net, and weighed by steelyard as soon as landed, and in the order of capture, 1 lb. 14 oz., 1 lb. 7 oz., 1 lb. 2 oz., 1 lb. 9 oz., and 1 lb. 5 oz. As the shadows made by the declining sun were lengthening swallows were congregating high in the air, looking like mere specks, and also many were swooping over the smooth river, snatching with unerring sight from its surface midges and black gnats; and yet not so later on at dusk, for a house-martin seized my artificial fly as it was being whirled in the air in the act of casting, and was fast hooked at the point of the beak, wildly fluttering in alarm until wound in to the top ring of the rod, there very tenderly handled, caressed, and released—not much pained or damaged.

On the 29th, after a stormy night, when a great number of eels were caught in the large iron grating trap at Durngate Mill, through which the main stream can be strained—a deadly device—I made no attempt to fish until after luncheon, when in no hopeful mood as to sport (for thunderclouds were gathering in the distance as black as ink, and a few premonitory big drops of rain were falling) I waited on the east bank watching for any movement. A trout rose under the opposite side and sucked in a natural fly. Many times my lure was presented, with occasional intervals between. At last he rose to it and fastened, fighting well, but a losing battle, and was soon brought to grass, weighing 1 lb. 7 oz. In the evening, when the weather had somewhat cleared, I went along the west side as far as the Spring Garden lower hatch, to make a last attempt to catch a goodly trout I had often observed and cast over. He fed close to a mass of green tussock grass overhanging the water, and under which was his haunt when idle. The set of the stream round the wide bend of the river brought floating ephemeridæ, trichoptera and nocturnal lepidoptera to the tussock, often touching and even clinging to its blades trailing on the surface; the wily fish therefore invariably took up one and the same position when hungry, opening his mouth wide to receive the tempting morsels. It was difficult for a dry fly to be placed in front of him by the most skilful angler, for his hook so often caught on the grass, which was tough, and in pulling the gut broke. I much coveted that fish, and did not like to be beaten. I had, therefore, a few days previously resorted to the expedient of having the huge tussock grubbed up and taken away entirely.

Approaching him now on tiptoe with the utmost circumspection, I knelt within a long casting distance of where he was rising, intently intercepting brown sedgeflies. I changed the small fly I had on for a red quill on No. 1 hook, and sent it forward over him in a line with the natural flies. No notice was taken of it; nor again and again, until, when a puff of wind diverted it to the right, he moved after it, and with an audible snap, and instant spring out of water, hooked himself. For several minutes an exciting time for me followed, and fatal for him, as he was netted out and killed—a beautifully marked fish, weighing 1 lb. 13 oz.

On the 30th, the last day of the trout season of 1905, an excellent finish was made in a few hours by the capture of three trout, weighing respectively 1½, 1¾ and 2¼ lb.

At foot is a concise statement of the above described sport—not so good as in many former seasons; but to kill an excessive number of fish, especially on a private fishery, is no longer the object of a dry-fly purist and sportsman. And it will be noticed that on most days I have only fished for a few hours, yet quite enough for pastime and recreation, and the full enjoyment of Nature’s many attractions while wandering by the peaceful river.

(FROM THE SPORTING MAGAZINE OF 1806.)

Wiltshire Hounds.—Saturday, January 14th, a pack of foxhounds met at Horkwood, and soon after throwing in unkennelled a fox in the first stile. After trying the earths at Farmclose, Donhead, &c.—which had been previously stopped—he crossed the Salisbury Road, through Charlton; taking over Charlton fields he went for Melbury, over the heath, and then gallantly faced the hills, leaving Ashmoor close on the right and Ashcombe on the left; came into Cranbourne Chase; left Bussey Lodge far on the left, came to Chettle Down; leaving Chettle on the right, running nearly up to Handly, at which place he was headed; then running up to Critchell he was run into, attempting to cross the river by Horton Farm. This chase lasted an hour and thirty-five minutes, and the distance could not be less than twenty-five miles. It is supposed to have been the severest run ever remembered in this part of the country.

Thornville Royal.

This magnificent seat of princely festivity and general hospitality, for so many years in the possession of Colonel Thornton, was on Monday, January 6th, surrendered to his successor, the present purchaser, Lord Stourton; but not until the Colonel who, determined never to violate the charter, had, according to annual custom, thrown his doors open, filled all his rooms and tables with his friends, during a whole month spent in unremitted cheerfulness and good humour, passing the days in various field sports, the evenings in convivial harmonious hilarity, inspired by the natural urbanity of the Colonel’s manners, and the choicest and oldest wines now in Great Britain. Perhaps a more splendid and brilliant Christmas was never witnessed in this country.

On New Year’s Day, the neighbourhood were indulged with the finest coursing possible in the park; after which a grand dinner, at which were wines—none under thirty years old, and many at the age of sixty. On this occasion the house and the Temple of Victory were illuminated in grateful remembrance of the soldiers of the York Militia.

After amusing the party and the rustics in the neighbourhood with seeing the upper lake let off, where pike from five to twenty pounds, carp from twelve to fifteen pounds, tench from four to six pounds, perch from two to three pounds, were discovered, to the great satisfaction of the curious in lake fish; a few were taken and one-half sent to the present owner, Lord Stourton.

The Colonel then, attended by his friends, proceeded to Falcover’s Hall, carrying with him the warmest wishes of all those who have so long and so often experienced the effects of his liberal disposition.

Thus terminated his residence at Thornville Royal, which for sixteen years has been the scene of every species of elegant mirth, wit and amusement, and where the prince and the peasant have been alike gratified by that benevolence and vivacity so peculiar to the character of Colonel Thornton.

After establishing “Lights Out” as a success at the Waldorf Theatre, Mr. H. B. Irving proceeded early in the New Year to produce “The Jury of Fate” at the Shaftesbury Theatre, the house, by the way, in which Mr. McLellan’s first great success was first seen in London, “The Belle of New York.”

“The Jury of Fate” is a lurid story told in seven tableaux, and its most obvious disability is that since each tableaux must of necessity be abbreviated, the story can only be told in a spasmodic series of impressions, and the players have but a poor chance of getting a hold of their audience. The theme of the play is undoubtedly a good one, that of the man who at the early end of a misspent career prays of the messenger of Death that he may be allowed to live another life on earth in which he shall atone for his follies and wickedness, and so gain a favourable verdict from “The Jury of Fate.”

This is the first tableau, and the second tableau shows us twenty-five years later René Delorme at his old game again, a voluptuary with a pretty talent for drinking, who loses no time in snatching from a most admirable young worker his affianced bride, the fair Yvonne.

A year later we find René with his wife in the garden of an inn near Paris; he has by this time become a successful playwright, an unfaithful husband, and an industrious drunkard, and after an unfriendly conversation with his wife, he proceeds to inaugurate an intrigue with the mistress of a friend of his, who is unfortunately lunching at the same inn.

This lady appears as a kind of Public Prosecutor of Fate, and openly sets to work to ruin and destroy the too impressionable René, and we are not surprised to find a year later in the dining-room of René’s house that her unkindly influence has materially assisted the fine champagne in making a mess of the promising playwright.

This fourth tableau is perhaps the strongest of all, and it concludes with René, deserted by his friends and his wife, the author of a miserable failure just produced, confronted in his solitude by the ghostly figure of the stranger—Death.

Two years later we find René, at a low café in Paris, urging a mob of his discontented workmen to deeds of anarchy and pillage, and not even the dignified advice of David Martine, the workman of tableau two, and the respected and successful employer of labour in the subsequent tableaux, can save the degenerate from his degeneracy; for upon that self-same night René leads a disorderly attack upon the Martine Bridgeworks, and finding, as needs he must, his wife on the premises, most innocently conversing with Martine, a pistol shot makes him the murderer of his wife, according to the dictum, that “All men kill the thing they love.”

By this time “The Jury of Fate” have agreed upon their verdict, and it only remains for René to lose himself in a wood, accompanied only by a thunderstorm of portentous severity and ominous dread. To him arrives the Stranger with the sword, and, with only an unconvincing plea in mitigation of sentence, René falls prostrate before a very much misplaced crucifix, having done far more harm in his second effort than was the case in his previous conviction.

The part of René is in the very capable hands of Mr. H. B. Irving, and he plays it for all it is worth.

Another piece of fine acting is that of Mr. Matheson Lang, in the double part of Pierre and David Martine.

Miss Lillah McCarthy, whose work at the Court Theatre has given us so much pleasure, is excellent as Therese, the courtesan who causes René so much worry, and the part of the injured and slaughtered wife is well played by Miss Crystal Herne, a recruit from America.

The play is extremely well put on, and admirably acted, whilst the thunder and lightning and other meteorological effects are terrible in their perpetual and impressive reality.

At the Garrick Theatre, Mr. Arthur Bouchier had the courage to stem the prosperous tide of “The Walls of Jericho,” in order to produce “The Merchant of Venice” and the fine performances of himself as Shylock and Miss Violet Vanbrugh as Portia, with the environment of a beautiful production, have filled the Garrick for well over a hundred performances.

In our opinion Shylock is quite one of the best things Mr. Bouchier has done, most convincing in its masterly restraint and complex simplicity. And too much praise cannot be given to Miss Vanbrugh who is at her best in the trial scene, when the charm of her voice is heard to the utmost advantage. That experienced actor, Mr. Norman Forbes, affords a splendid study of Launcelot Gobbo, and is well supported by Mr. O. B. Clarence as Old Gobbo.

A happy memory of the early days of the O.U.D.C. is afforded by the fact that Mr. Alan Mackinnon supervised this production, and this carries our thoughts back to 1886, when Mr. Bouchier first dealt with Shylock at the then new theatre at Oxford.

The Vedrenne-Barker management at the Court Theatre continues to enjoy its well-earned prosperity. The plays are interesting and exceptionally well acted, and at present the name of Mr. Bernard Shaw is one to conjure with.

“Major Barbara” is his latest achievement, and if one confesses to a feeling of disappointment, the probable reason for it is that Mr. Shaw has led us to expect so much from him in the way of quality.

Mr. Shaw confesses in the prelude to one of his books, that by one of those little ironies of life which sometimes beset even such clever people as himself, he has only won the right to be listened to by the public after the vein of originality which was once so rich within him has been hopelessly worked out. Of the truth of this, there is in his new play, “Major Barbara,” very conspicuous evidence. The changes are once more rung upon the old theme which served Mr. Shaw in “Widower’s Houses,” and to a certain extent also in “Mrs. Warren’s Profession.” In “Widower’s Houses,” it is a man whose belief in his own honesty and usefulness is shattered by the sudden discovery that his income comes from a polluted source; in “Major Barbara,” the central figure, a woman, is by very much the same process suddenly thrust, as it were, into a moral cul-de-sac; that is to say, she is offered a sum of five thousand pounds which she would give her very soul to take, in order to save the lives of hundreds of starving folk, and at the same moment discovers that this money has been made by industries which cause the very starvation she is attempting to remedy. It is this situation which Mr. Shaw considers strong enough to justify him in putting into his heroine’s mouth some of the most sacred words which have ever been uttered—and it is at any rate a satisfaction to feel that his critics have for once drawn Mr. Shaw into the honest confession that he did himself consider that he had here created a serious and tragic situation. To be quite frank, there cannot be the faintest question but that the verdict in this little dispute must be against Mr. Shaw and with his critics. Mr. Shaw’s idea of a play seems to be that you can dive from the burlesque tosh of “Cholly” from the pantomime of the Greek Professor beating his drum straight into the sublimest realms of tragedy, much as a man can go straight out of the hot rooms into the plunge at a Turkish bath; but, as Dr. Johnson said of some contemporary writer who was at the moment attracting attention, “Sir, it does not do to be odd; you will not be read for long.”

At the Haymarket Theatre Mr. Charles Hawtrey is as delightfully vague as ever in “The Indecision of Mr. Kingsbury,” a play adapted from the French by Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox. Mr. Hawtrey is well supported by the author who plays the part of a full-blooded and voluble Frenchman; by Miss Fanny Brough as a distressed dowager; and Miss Nina Boucicault as a much maligned widow, who wins the hand of the undecided Mr. Kingsbury. The story is just strong enough to carry four acts, and there is plenty of fun in it, so that we may credit Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox with yet another success.

At the Imperial Theatre Mr. Lewis Waller has replaced “The Perfect Lover” by “The Harlequin King,” a costume play of mediæval romance, in which Harlequin, having in a fit of jealousy killed the heir apparent, proceeds immediately to occupy the throne.

It is a very confiding court in this eccentric kingdom, and the only person who discovers the imposture is a blind old lady, the Queen Mother, who at once finds it out, but for the good of the country consents to crown the Harlequin. As a reigning monarch Harlequin cuts a poor enough figure, and to us it is a great relief when in due course the time comes for him, in order to save his skin, to confess his fraud, and fly the country. Mr. Lewis Waller does the best that can be done for the wretched Harlequin, and Miss Millard is good as Columbina, but perhaps the best performance of all is that of Miss Mary Rorke as the blind Queen: as an example of quiet dignity and perfect elocution her performance is most valuable.

We could wish that Mr. Waller would once more produce a really good play; he and his company are well qualified to do full justice to a good play, and it seems a thousand pities that their abilities and enthusiasm should be devoted to nothing better than the “Perfect Lover” and this most recent production which, by the way, is styled “A Masquerade in four acts, by Rudolf Lothar, adapted by Louis N. Parker and Selwyn Brinton.”

The opening of the new Aldwych Theatre fitly enough signalised the return to London of Miss Ellaline Terriss and Mr. Seymour Hicks, after their triumphant tour in the provinces. “Bluebell in Fairyland,” that very successful Christmas piece which, two or three years ago, ran well into the late summer months, was the play selected for the opening, on December 23rd, of Mr. Hicks’ beautiful new playhouse. With the advantage of a large stage and every latest modern appliance, Mr. Hicks has been able to amplify and develop his production to a degree which was impossible at the Vaudeville Theatre. There are some two hundred performers engaged in this musical dream play, which is in two acts, of six and seven scenes respectively.

Miss Ellaline Terriss is Bluebell, as charming as ever, and one can utter no higher praise than that.

Mr. Seymour Hicks again doubles the parts of Dicky, the Shoeblack, and the Sleepy King, and infuses marvellous vitality into all that he does, even into the snores and grotesque clumsinesses of the Sleepy King.

There are many new-comers, prominent among them being Miss Sydney Fairbrother and Miss Maude Darrell, whilst one of the hits of the entertainment is the song of Miss Barbara Deane, in which she reproduces popular comic songs of the day with the method of a ballad-singer. Miss Barbara Deane has a charming voice, and as she has youth on her side, she should have a very distinguished future before her. Miss Dorothy Frostick—now almost “a grown-up”—and Miss Topsy Linden do some pretty dancing.

It was a marvellous tour de force on the part of Mr. Seymour Hicks, after less than a fortnight for rehearsal, and with no dress rehearsal at all, to have presented such a gigantic production, without a hitch, upon the very night which he had promised some months ago.

“Bluebell” is a delightful play, and the Aldwych is a beautiful theatre, and if Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks gain half the success which they deserve, they should have a signal triumph.

At the Royalty Theatre, that delightful artiste, Mme. Réjane and M. De Ferandy have been giving a series of French plays, prominent among them being “Les Affaires sont les Affaires,” which Mr. Beerbohm Tree has shown us under the title of “Business is Business,” and “Décoré,” the amusing comedy of M. H. Meilhac.

For Christmas Mr. Beerbohm Tree deserted the popular “Oliver Twist,” and put up a revival of “The Tempest,” followed in January by “Twelfth Night,” which is to be supplanted, shortly before these lines attain the dignity of print, by one of the colossal productions for which His Majesty’s Theatre has become so renowned. Probably by the time these lines are read the version of “Nero,” by Mr. Stephen Phillips, will be the talk of the town.

The Gibraltar racing season has now come to an end, and but for a probable Sky meeting the first week or so in January, 1906, no more racing will be held here till March. In this article it is the endeavour of the writer to say a few words of interest regarding the general racing on the “Rock” and concerning the meetings during the present year. On the whole, the racing during the year has been very satisfactory; more meetings have been held and more patronage, both by owners and the general public, afforded to them than has been the case for some time. A certain portion of residents on the Rock always keep racers. The success, however, of “Gib.” racing is, in the main, dependent on the sport afforded to it by the officers, naval and military, of the garrison. This year there has happily been no lack of support, and a considerable number of officers of the Gunners and of the three line regiments stationed here own racers. A few lines may be with advantage devoted in explaining how the racing is carried on in the fortress.

The racer at “Gib.” is rather hard to define. Owing to the paucity of animals running in comparison with the number of races, it is impossible to have open events for the ordinary animals here, and the only method which has been found to answer is to have a system of classes. There are no less than four of these classes at present, and there is a rumour to the effect that a fifth class may shortly be formed. The classes are as follows:—

Class I.—Thoroughbreds. Any animal may, however, run in this class if the owner so wishes.

Classes II., III., IV.—Those animals classified as such by the Classification Committee consisting of six elected members of the various clubs. In Class II. one generally finds half-breds, English galloways, and ponies. Classes III. and IV. are confined to Barbs and Arabs. In Class III. animals which have been reduced from the second class are often running, and also those horses promoted by the above Committee from the fourth class.

The Barb pony constitutes the whole of Class IV., and naturally this class holds by far the greatest number of animals. Polo ponies, hunters, and, in fact, nearly all the general animals seen on the Rock, are classified as fourth class for the purpose of racing. Every animal, before being allowed to run in any race confined to Classes II., III., and IV., must be classified by the Classification Committee. This Committee records the animal’s height, colour, breed, sex, markings, &c., and places it in the class the various members think fit. As a general rule Barbs under 14.2 high are put in this class. Arabs and Barb horses in Class III., and half-breds in the second class. Animals which prove in their running to be too good for the class which they are in are promoted to the next higher one, or if in Classes I., II., and III., reduced if necessary.

To make this system of classification work properly, prizes more valuable in proportion are given to the higher classes. This scheme also induces owners to procure and race a better class animal. Even with this classification, so great is the difference in speed between animals in each special class, it is necessary to make each race a handicap. In fact, except for a few fourth class maiden races and the weight for age first class races, one may say that every race is a handicap.

A fifth class has been asked for by many, especially by officers of the line regiments quartered in the station. The point urged is that unless they have a very good Barb (and they are difficult to procure now) it is useless to run him in an ordinary race, as they cannot, in the first place, gallop with the majority of fourth class ponies which are raced; and secondly, owing to gentlemen riders only being allowed in the lowest class, capable light-weights for their ponies are impossible to be found. However, not being a member of the advisory committee who manage these matters, the writer will not touch any more on the subject of a lower class, beyond mentioning the fact that the introduction of this fifth class would give pleasure to many subalterns, and offer them an excellent chance of riding their own ponies in public.

Stakes vary in accordance with the class. No race above 100 dollars is allowed to be given in the fourth class, between 150 to 200 dollars is the limit for the third, and 200 to 300 dollars for second. In first class races the prize may be anything from 250 dollars upwards. Cups are sometimes given in conjunction with a money prize. A hundred dollars may be taken to average £15 English money, though the exchange varies slightly from time to time. Entrance fees are usually one-fifteenth to one-twentieth of the value of the stakes.

With reference to the above remarks on classes it may be of interest to readers to know where these animals are procured from.

No animals being bred on the Rock itself, all horses are imported privately or by dealers from Africa, Spain, England and France. The thoroughbreds racing in the first class come from English and French stables, and are not by any means the weedy types of broken-down platers that one would expect. Very few are stabled and trained at “Gib.,” but come down for the races from Madrid and Andalusia; certain well-known owners who are interested in the racing here vying with one another to bring down a better type of animal each successive meeting. During this season it may safely be said that a better lot of horses have run in first class races than ever previously, and there is every promise in the future of the good standard being upheld. The other three classes of horses are generally kept on the Rock itself or in the immediate vicinity. A second class horse is, as a rule, a half-bred, and imported from over the water or bred in the province of Andalusia.

The third class contains Barbs over 14.2, and the best class of Barb ponies, with a few Arabs. An owner wishing to procure a third class animal has generally to be content with buying a horse which has run at “Gib.” previously, owing to the fact of the classification Committee nearly always placing a raw horse (one just imported on to the Rock) in either the second or the fourth class. Fourth class horses are imported from Africa by the local dealer. There is only one dealer here at present, and he holds the monopoly of selling raw animals, regulating his supply according to the demand, thereby keeping up a fixed price. It should be mentioned that in “Gib.” it is customary to term all animals, whether 13 or 16 hands high, as horses. These fourth class horses are practically all Barbs of polo height (14.2 and under), generally very handy, but sluggish, and requiring an enormous amount of driving. They are nearly all stallions, very few mares ever being imported. Prices average about £30 for a raw animal from the dealer—Sant, senior, who is to be thoroughly recommended—though regiments buying a batch of seven or eight at a time will get them considerably cheaper. The element of luck is brought largely into the business of buying these animals raw, for the worst-looking Barbs often prove capable of beating those of much better conformation.

A third class animal is, as has been stated before, rather hard to procure raw. An Arab may be placed in this class, but the uncertainty of the classification of this class makes owners extremely shy of importing or having imported for them horses too good for fourth class but not up to second class form. A third class horse which has shown good form can be procured for £40 or £50, but prices vary according to the proximity of the meetings. A second class half-bred coming from Oran or Algiers may be bought for about £70. Thoroughbreds anything from £20 upwards. All betting is done through the means of the pari-mutuel, the unit of investment being one dollar (about three shillings) and five dollars. The various clubs deduct 5 per cent. on the turnover. Lotteries are held the night previous to racing, 250 dollars being the average pool to the winner, though of course pools vary considerably according to the number of speculators present.

Weights vary in handicaps from 12 st. 7 lb. downwards. Frequently, however, 13 st. is top weight, lowest weight being seldom less than 8 st. Weight for age races when held have a scale of weights as follows:—

A new innovation has come into force this year, to the effect that gentlemen riders only are allowed to ride in fourth class races. In all other races professionals may ride, gentlemen riders (who must be members of the Army or Navy or be given permission to ride by the Jockey Club) receiving a 5 lb. allowance when competing against them. The new rule above mentioned of confining fourth class races to gentlemen riders only and excluding professionals has, in a way, done good and been a success in bringing forward new riding blood and inducing more amateur jockeys to figure in the pigskin, but on the other hand, owners of horses handicapped at a low weight find it impossible to procure fit and capable gentlemen riders. In many cases this rule has curtailed entries and caused some dissatisfaction. Really capable professionals on the Rock are very few in number, and four of them stand out far and above their confrères—Frank Sant, Goodman, Aldorino and J. Zammit being their names. These four jockeys are all good and naturally in great request, especially the first named, who, having every attribute of a first-class jockey, could without doubt hold his own in most parts of the world. Five dollars (sixteen shillings) is the fixed fee to a losing jockey and 10 per cent. of the stakes to the winning one, though, as is always the case, large presents are often given.

Of gentlemen riders there are a number, though only a few are really useful. Some new riders have been performing lately, and there are several the writer could mention who with a little more practice will soon be able to hold their own with the second rank of professionals without the 5 lb. allowance. Mr. C. Larios, brother of the M.F.H., and first whip, Captain Taylor, R.G.A. (a veteran heavy-weight, but still a very cool rider), and Captain Salt, late of the Lancashire Fusiliers, are perhaps the pick of those riding at present.

A word about the various clubs. In “Gib.,” perhaps unfortunately, there are no less than three racing clubs, the Gibraltar Jockey Club, the Calpe Turf Club, and the Civilian Racing Club. The Gibraltar Jockey Club is the senior club in the Gibraltar racing world. It is composed mostly of military and naval officers with a few civilian representatives. This club practically governs the racing at “Gib.,” owning the course and being under the authority of the English Jockey Club. The Calpe Turf Club, founded and directed by the Messrs. Larios, and the Civilian Racing Club, managed by a civilian syndicate.

These two latter clubs are composed mainly of civilians with a few military and naval members. Both these two clubs conform to the rules of the Jockey Club. A movement is being set on foot by certain influential personages, interested in the welfare of the racing here, to combine the three clubs into one. This movement, as may be understood, would be in many ways beneficial. Owners, and others, however, rather welcome racing with different clubs, as there is considerable competition between them in the way the meetings are conducted, each trying to outdo the other in general arrangements.

Until recently all starting has been carried out by means of a flag, but last May the gate was first tried in five-furlong races. At the last meeting it was used at both the five- and six-furlong starting posts, and next year will probably be always adopted. Other improvements have taken place during the year, and it is proposed to enlarge the stands and premises, which will be greatly to the advantage of every one. Concerning the course, the writer will give a brief description for the benefit of those unacquainted with “Gib.” It is situated on the sandy isthmus that connects the Rock with the mainland of Spain. The course is a mile in circumference, and oval-shaped, while the going, though nominally of grass, is for the most part of a sandy nature. The last two furlongs constitute the straight, which is enclosed on either side by the orthodox white rails. The remainder of the course is marked out by means of large whitewashed stones dotted round at three yards’ interval. On the extreme outside is situated the tan galloping track. A small charge is made to all persons using the same by the Jockey Club.

At the Autumn meeting of the Jockey Club an objection was raised to a horse for having gone inside three of the stones marking the course, and to prevent a repetition of the occurrence the authorities decided that at all future meetings movable posts, strung together with white tape, should be used. It is, unfortunately, impossible to rail the course right round, owing to a rifle range being situated in the centre, and rails anywhere else, except in the straight, would interfere with the view of the targets. Tapes being very dangerous both to horses and riders, a scheme for the construction of permanent sockets holding movable posts is being considered.

Altogether during this year there have been sixteen days’ racing in “Gib.,” not including nine days at the neighbouring Spanish Club at Campamento (four miles off), with seven or eight races per day, with an occasional steeplechase for officers’ ponies. The Spanish Club, which is really another edition of the Gibraltar Civilian Racing Club, holds its meetings, as a rule, on Sundays, and is run on pretty well the same lines as those in force on the Rock, except that the Club recognises a fifth class with low stakes. The course is a very good one, though new, the going being nearly always better than here. The Club does very well in its own way, and those not averse to Sunday racing speak very well of it. The King of Spain encourages the Club, presenting money and cups to help the prizes. The sixteen days of racing above-mentioned were taken up by the various clubs as follows: The Jockey and Calpe Turf clubs seven days each, and the Civilian Racing Club two days. All the meetings were a success, but perhaps the honours of the best meeting held during the season lie with the Civilian Racing Club. This was the Royal Sky Meeting, specially organised on the occasion of the visit of Her Majesty the Queen to “Gib.” Saturday, May 6th, was the day in question, and on the Thursday previous no racing for the following Saturday was contemplated. Her Majesty, however, had expressed a wish to see some racing, and with very commendable promptitude the Civilian Racing Club obtained permission and organised the meeting. In spite of such short notice the entries were exceptionally large, and wisely confined to third and fourth class horses, so as to allow of the officers of the garrison being able to participate in the meeting more largely than usual.

Her Majesty very kindly gave and presented a cup in one of the races, which was won by Major Labalmondiere’s (R.G.A.) black Barb horse Dominico, carrying top weight, and ridden by Captain Taylor. Needless to say, both owner and rider came in for many congratulations in winning the much coveted cup.

In every way the meeting was a very great success, and it is only to be hoped that on some near future occasion Her Majesty will again be a spectator at a “Gib.” meeting.

The best race of the year as regards the class of animal was undoubtedly the first class weight for age race at the Calpe Turf Club Autumn Meeting. A field of ten better class horses has never been seen on the “Gib.” course previously. A good finish resulted in a win for that great supporter of the higher class racing at Gibraltar, Mr. Garvey, through the medium of his chestnut three-year-old English-bred filly Bizantina, closely followed home by Captain W. P. Salt’s Chartres, ridden by owner.

On the whole the various clubs have had an excellent season, and a great improvement on previous ones. The standard of horses racing in the various classes has improved, and the riding, especially of the amateurs, has been much better than formerly.

With the Gunners and the three line regiments, the Yorkshire Light Infantry, the Munster Fusiliers and the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, keen on the “Great Game,” together with a large number of civilian Turfites, the prospects for the racing season of 1906 are very promising. Gibraltar and Campamento racing clubs can hardly expect to show such racing as is seen at home, but the writer doubts whether any stranger visiting our racecourses will have any cause to complain of the sport and amusement shown to him.

Once in my life I have heard a fox cry out when seized by a hound; it was a cub, at Cream Gorse, and Tom Firr jumped down and saved it. The noise was a sort of twang! As I said at the time, it reminded me of the snapping of a harp string. I have more than once seen a fox turn to bay and defy a hound, and in such cases have been very sorry for him if, later on, the end came.

By the way, in my last I was made to say that the M.F.H. often wore a “cap.” I wrote a “hat”; not the same thing quite.

Of fatal accidents—fatal on the spot, I mean—I am happy to say that I have had but little experience. Both victims, however, were friends of mine. The first was Lord Somerville. We were out with Mr. Tailby, and were running from Manton Gorse; the ground was greasy to a degree; poor Somerville, Captain Smith, and I, all rode, I may say, together, at a low post and rails, but wide of each other. I never knew that any one had fallen, but Somerville’s horse, a favourite mare called Honesty, slipped, chested the rail, and landed completely on to him. Death must have been instantaneous. The other unfortunate was my dearest of dear old friends, Captain David Barclay. The accident happened just in front of my second horseman, and at a gap into the Sandy Lane, near Gartree Hill. In this case my poor friend’s mare, a star-gazing little beast, slid into the ditch, a deep one. The rider’s foot was caught on the top of a stake, and he was canted out of the saddle, alighting on his head. From all accounts he was dead when picked up.

To talk of a less sad subject, I may say that my old joke about the Peterborough Show having caused so much bad scenting weather has become quite a stock phrase. We have heard of going back to the bloodhound and the Welsh hound to regain the “tender nose.” Pace “Borderer,” the faults of the Welshmen are riot, babbling, and a disinclination to draw strong gorse, at least this is my limited experience. Whipcord might improve the riot, but I should fear that this class of hound would sulk under punishment. A friend of mine is trying the cross in his kennel; I hope he will succeed with it. As to bloodhounds, I have mentioned the North Warwickshire of 1861–2. They were originally bloodhound and Belvoir, and were first started in the Wheatland country. They were all that could be desired when I saw them.

There was a half-bred bloodhound, called Bonny Lass, in the Ludlow pack, in the days of my youth. I remember she was none of the stoutest with an afternoon fox; but Mr. Sitwell bred from her, and put forward at least one of her daughters, Brilliant (I think, by Harold). But the pure bloodhound is a single-handed dog. I worked one in a scratch pack, but she never would go to cry, nor believe a word that her comrades said. I had a day once with the bloodhound pack started by Lord Wolverton, but then owned by Lord Carrington. We met, by invitation, at the White Hart, Winkfield, and took the deer near Reading, at “something” field. The King, who was out, timed the run at “the best part of three hours,” but the hounds had very little to do with it. I only saw them run, as a pack, over one grass park at Binfield. Lords Carrington and Charles Beresford “rode the deer,” or we should not have known which way she had gone. She was taken in a pond of extra black mud. Beresford went in to take her, thereby giving an opening for some graceful badinage about blue water, and other hues. Except on the one occasion, hounds never seemed to settle even for one field, and there were lots left behind. The Berkshire yokels, who were only too fond of catching up an amiable Ascot staghound, with a view to bucksheesh, on delivery, tried the same game with some of the “Talbots,” but with direful results. They were savage, sulky brutes, and murderously quarrelsome in kennel. My bitch was good tempered enough, and, though noisy on any living scent, quite mute on a drag, which—boys will be boys—I occasionally ran.

Twice I have seen the haute école with hounds, the Quorn each time. The first time the owner of a circus, then performing at Leicester, came out on a trick horse. While we were drawing he cantered across the field and dropped his handkerchief, then, dismounting, sent his horse to fetch it, which the animal did, retriever fashion. Having thus advertised himself, he, when we got away, “took on” all the highest timber which he could find, but was caught by a blind ditch, “to him.” My friend, Dakin, of the Carbineers, offered the man £150 for his horse, which was refused, the price demanded being £300. As I said at the time, I did not know which of the two parties to this transaction was most wanting in wisdom. The horse was a weedy thoroughbred; and, unless one wanted handkerchiefs retrieved, worth in a fair some £30 to £20. The other time matters were more serious. The venue was Scraptoft, as before. But the impresario brought out some half-dozen of his lady riders. Their habits represented all the colours of the rainbow, and their behaviour was most alarming. Their intention seemed to be to wipe out all Melton and Harboro’. Poor Fred Archer’s half a length which he allowed to Mr. Coupland at a fence, was considered short measure, but half a head was more the form of these homicidal houris. At length they received, and took, a hint to the effect that they should not over-fatigue themselves in view of their evening performance.

I have said but little of the Belvoir, as Frank Gillard’s book deals with the days in which I knew them best. But, if I mistake not, he confuses the late Mr. Little Gilmour, an opulent Scotsman, who was a great friend of the late Duke of Rutland, and who, by the way, was a competitor in the Eglinton Tournament, with Mr. (or rather Captain), Parker Gillmore, the explorer, big game shooter, and author (“Ubique”). Mr. Little Gilmour, Lord Gardner, and Lord Wilton were the only ones I knew of the heroes depicted in “The Melton Breakfast,” of which meal the late Sir Frederick Johnstone seems to have had a monopoly. The scene of this banquet is a disputed point. Some say that it is the dining-room at “The Old Club” (which never was a “club” in the ordinary sense of the word), others that it is the coffee-room at the “George.” My “key” describes the servant as the waiter at the “George Inn.” Concerning the many remarkable men, remarkable for other things besides the chase, though of course they were foxhunters, I may, perhaps, be allowed to continue my “havers” in the coming by and by. Yet, two or three men I must crave permission to mention. One was the late Mr. Ambrose Isted, who was mentioned by “Nimrod” in his “Hunting Tours.” Being born deaf, he was also dumb, or nearly so. He was, however, a wonderfully good draughtsman; and, when I stayed in a country house with him, between pantomime and pencils, we got on as regular compadres. The engraving of Mr. Osbaldeston and Sir Harry Goodricke in “Silk and Scarlet” is from a sketch by him. I must really tell one tale about him. His property was in the Pytchley country, and I made his acquaintance there in the spring of 1862, when my “base” was Rugby. A brother officer of mine, poor Walter Bagenal, long since dead, was riding at a fence, when Mr. Isted, somewhere close by, made a sound of some kind and held up two fingers. I should never have even guessed his meaning, and should probably have got a “crowner,” but the Irish intuition of poor dear Bagenal rose to the occasion. Perceiving that the warning indicated a “double,” he roused little “Aladdin” and triumphantly cleared both ditches. In another style Mr. Henley Greaves was a wonderful man. What his weight was no one ever knew, but on foot he was a marvel of activity. I once came down with him to the Smite. The squire hailed two yokels, jumped the brook clean on foot, and then received his horse. I tried to imitate him, but “dropped my hind-legs.” Once I, out of curiosity, tried to follow him up a bridle road. He absolutely lost me. The pace he went between the gates, the way they seemed to open spontaneously for him, and the manner in which he slipped away on the further side, are beyond my powers of description.

Another remarkable man in a different way, and in his way a hero, was Mr. Baldwin, “the lion-hunter.” He had made so good a business of a big game shooting campaign in South Africa, that, what between the sale of his spoils, ivory, &c., and of his book—a most clever and amusing work, with no chronicle of the long-bow in it—he managed to have two or three seasons’ hunting in Leicestershire. I may say that I should imagine him to be the only man who has ever taken up a lion for a ride behind him! He confessed that the lion had every reason for annoyance, as he had been insulted by having dogs set on him. Anyhow, he did what I am told that lions seldom do. He not only charged his foe, but followed him up, and, overhauling him, jumped on to the horse’s hindquarters. Naturally the steed disapproved of this arrangement, and then it became a mere question as to whether the man or the lion should be kicked off first. Luckily it was the lion. Had Mr. Leo put his claws into the man’s back, it would have been a case of stand or fall together! Poor Baldwin lost an eye in a most unlucky manner. He never cared what he rode, though he rode them all in the right place; but his stud could not have been described as animals “suitable to carry a lady.” He was trying to open a gate, which was bushed up along the top bar, as in those days many were. In some inexplicable manner he got a thorn into one eye, and, having made up his mind to lose it, gave away a chance, by not only not consulting a specialist, but by coming out hunting again, if not the next day, at a suicidally early date. I last heard of him as hunting in Cheshire, and trust that he is still pursuing the chase.

I can just remember a certain sportsman, who shall be nameless, but who headed so many foxes, that Sir Richard Sutton, when Master of the Quorn, offered to settle an annuity on him, on condition of his leaving the country. Mr. Surtees often stayed at Quorn, and this offer is revived in “Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour,” as having been made to him by Lord Scamperdale. The history of the Quorn country is none too complete. Even in your Hunting Directory, Mr. Editor, there is no mention of the Donnington Hunt as carried on by the Marquis of Hastings, the last but one. They had very good sport, but I seem to have heard that many of their best things were with bagmen. These were trained, so the story goes, and even physicked. “I know not how the truth may be, I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.” The Marquis, like his son, was never a rider to hounds, but “Nimrod” tells of him that when buying horses from John Potter, of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, he took a delight in larking over all the artificial fences which the trial ground contained. He was passionately fond of hounds, and, judging from a sketch which he made of what he considered a perfect foxhound’s head, a pretty good judge of them. At his death the Hunt was carried on by Mr. J. Storey, of Lockington (the “old Jack Storey” of my youthful days), and, I fancy, Sir Seymour Blane; but to this I cannot swear. Sir Richard Sutton retrieved this country when he began to find the miles rather long between Harborough and Quorn, and put “Young Dick,” grandfather of the present Baronet, to represent him at Billesdon; or was it Oadby? No! I cannot help thinking that Dick Sutton’s kennels were at Skeffington. On this point I must confess myself open to correction.

The men of old time were not so particular about country as the heroes of to-day. Loughborough was the headquarters of the Quorn Hunt under Mr. Meynell, by no means in the cream of the country. The late Admiral Meynell once asked me (in the early sixties) whether Button (properly “Buddon”) Wood, close to Quorn, was still a crack covert. At that time I should think that very few Meltonians could have located the place at all, and it certainly is nasty to get away from. Still, even in those days it was not all beer and skittles. In the diary of Jones, Mr. Meynell’s cork-legged whip, appears this entry: “Found in Mr. Kent’s Thorns” (now generally called Cant’s Thorns). “The gentlemen over-rode the hounds at starting, and we lost him.” I have seen something very much like that happen at that place myself. Certainly a Leicestershire huntsman has not a bed of roses. As poor Tom Firr once said to me, at a check, “Most huntsmen have to think where their fox is gone, but I’ve also to guess where my field is coming to!” And of many men, riders or not, it may be said that, the longer they hunt the less they know about the chase!

No doubt in old days, when foxes were really wild and stout, grand sport was had in rough countries. Any one who has read “Nimrod’s” “Hunting Tours” must allow that. But the men of old times worked harder than the Agamemnons of to-day. “Nimrod,” in his northern tour, mentions the fact of the late Sir David Baird having ridden fifty miles to covert, and the same distance home, after hunting. And I have lived to see certain of the silver-gilt go by train from Melton to a meet at Brooksby, six miles. I should have thought that the bother of catching a train would be far greater than getting on to one’s hack, and cantering to the meet, especially as there are good grass sidings all the way. However, “Chacun à son gout,” and this is supposed to be a free country.

I have tried to remember all the packs with which I have ever hunted, not including harriers, whose name would be legion. But I have quite forgotten one, the Surrey Union to wit. I was at a “Crammer’s,” near Leatherhead, and as Paidogogos liked a holiday as well as I did, I got out as often as a certain very tidy little hireling could come. Colonel Sumner was Master, and his kennels were, I think, at Fetcham. He had a hound called Falstaff, of which I believe he thought highly, but I do not remember much about the pack. I do remember, though, a meet at Epsom Windmill, and also seeing a fox found on Box Hill. I see an advertisement in a Highland paper for “freshly caught foxes.” They are to be delivered in the Old Surrey country; I presume that the advertiser has shot his coverts. As he is the son of an old schoolfellow of mine, I will mention neither name nor place.

I can safely say that, out of Leicestershire, the most charming line of country over which I ever rode was with the Meynell. The late Mr. Clowes and Lord Waterpark were then joint masters. I cannot say exactly where we ran, but it was an eight-mile point, all over grass. I only saw one bit of arable, it was certainly not four acres. But I remember it because the fox crossed it (we had no need to do so), and I noticed that the hounds “said more about it” up that furrow than they had been doing over the grass. This was on the Radbourne side, and I believe the cream of the country, as well it may be. The fences, though wanting a hunter, were “nout to boggle a mon,” to quote Mr. James Pigg, and though we had a bit of a brook, it was also of an inviting nature. Lord Harrington went gallantly on a three- or possibly a two-year-old thoroughbred one. He saw the run, at the expense of two or three rolls! I much admired the hounds, having seen the dogs on one day, and the ladies on the Radbourne side. I thought the bitches had more muscle on them than the dogs, but that may have been fancy. One has to see hounds on the flags before one can pass a judgment of this kind. We did not catch our fox, which was a pity, as the hunt, with a kill, would have been perfect.

As droll an arrangement as I ever saw was that by which, with the late Sir Humphrey de Trafford’s Harriers, every one was mounted excepting the huntsman. In a wired country one could understand this, but in those happy days wire had not made its detestable appearance. However, this man legged it to such good purpose, that perhaps a horse would have been thrown away upon him! A certain M.F.H. once gave as his reason for not allowing his huntsman a second horse, that this official took quite enough out of one!

Mr. G. S. Lowe, in the January number, seems under the impression that Osbaldeston’s “Furrier” was a mean-looking black and white hound. I possess a portrait of him, in oils, and must repeat what I wrote about him elsewhere: “Light of bone, and not straight, but no better topped dog is now in the Belvoir pack, and he is the right colour too” (black, white and tan). I do not like the custom of not rounding the ears of foxhounds, if only that the ears are a distinction between a full-grown puppy at walk, and a stray hound, which may be a matter of moment to a whip going back to look for the latter. And I do not think that hounds, in good kennels, have improved at all in the last fifty years. They certainly cannot go faster than Bluecap and Wanton did when, in 1762, they ran four miles in, as nearly as possible, eight minutes. I have always thought that the Quorn couple got “cut off” on that occasion.

Besides we all know that hounds, running a drag, will often leave it if they are pressed upon by horses. Certainly they go fast enough for most of us now. I once, some thirty years ago, saw two Belvoir puppies, outside Old Hills, fairly course down and catch a hare in view. Hares are not at their strongest in October; but I said nothing, and let them enjoy their prey, as I admired their performance, illegitimate though it was!

I fear that we have, as I hinted before, seen the best of foxhunting. New difficulties seem to crop up daily, but the worst of them are the pheasant and the wire fence. Too many foxes are practically bagmen, having been turned down a day or two before the coverts are drawn, and if a hunt is to rent even half the shootings in its limits, hunting will indeed be the sport of the rich, and most likely the nouveau riche at that. Let us hope for the best, but ere now Hope “has told a flattering tale!” I have omitted to mention Mr. George(?) Grey, of Dilston(?), who not only when some 70 years old cut down many of the young Meltonians, but when totally blind, rode over Northumberland, after a pilot, who described the fences as he came to them. Space prevents my saying much about the Cottesmore. At an interval of over forty years, they ran from Launde Wood to Kirby Park, killing each fox, one under the park wall, the other a bit farther on, by the River Wreake. But as space is wanting, good-bye, Brave Boys.

The recent invasion of England by the all-conquering New Zealanders—who established the wonderful record of thirty-one victories out of thirty-two matches played—has arrested the attention of a great many people who hitherto have taken little or no interest in Rugby football. The game as played by these men from over the sea was Rugby football in its most attractive form, and those who were privileged to see their victories over Middlesex or Blackheath, could not fail to be delighted with their skill, nor could they possibly deny the fascinating charm of the game when properly played. But with their departure interest in Rugby is likely to flag, and we are faced with the question, “Why is Rugby football not more popular; how is it that a very large section of the community take no interest in football at all, whilst another large section prefer the charms of Association?”

From the point of view of the player, it is easy to see that the game is not quite suited to every one. Though Rugby is often wrongly considered a rougher game than Association football, it certainly lays a premium on strength and size, whilst there are few things—except perhaps rowing—which make a greater claim on a man’s stamina and endurance. It is, therefore, a game which requires certain natural qualifications and a certain amount of training; hence a large number are excluded from active participation. In Wellington, one single town in New Zealand, over twelve thousand men play Rugby football every Saturday afternoon during the season; it is the national game “down under,” and spectators flock in their thousands to see the matches, but in England a man has so many interests, the open-air life is not so general and the weather conditions not so good.

Perhaps the greatest disadvantage under which Rugby football labours is the fact that it is a winter pastime, and therefore often played in miserable weather. A greasy ball and slippery turf are sufficiently trying to the players; from a spectator’s point of view the game is entirely spoilt, whilst the accommodation provided for the onlookers is frequently most inadequate. At the best of times a covered stand is a cold and draughty place, but it is better than the open field; yet with Rugby clubs the covered stand is often conspicuous by its absence. Moreover, the approaches to so many football grounds are so bad that many people are deterred from patronising the matches; crowded trains followed by a long drive or walk is very damping to the enthusiasm.

Then again, a football match can never be a social function like a cricket match; it therefore loses a great deal of feminine patronage. Except for the small minority, who really understand the game, football is regarded by ladies as a brutal trial of strength, and they fail to see the attraction of grovelling in the mud; but if there was a little tea-party at half-time it would put quite a different complexion on the game. It must also be borne in mind that three of our greatest public schools play a game peculiar to themselves, whilst Charterhouse, Repton, Malvern, Westminster, Radley, Bradfield, Shrewsbury and other big schools play only Association. This means that a very large section of the English youth take absolutely no interest in Rugby at all, though they may—if they go to the Varsity—occasionally watch a Rugby match in the same way that the cricketer patronises the river during Eight’s week.

But the unpopularity of Rugby football as a spectacle is largely due to the apparent complexity of the rules, which makes it very difficult for the uninitiated to follow the game. It is largely due to this that Association has a greater hold on the affections of the people, whilst the game is not stopped by the continual blowing of the referee’s whistle. An elderly gentleman who, needless to say, does not often attend a football match, was heard, the other day, at the Crystal Palace, to exclaim, “There’s that referee interfering again; how exasperating!” This was probably the feeling of a great many who were watching Rugby football for the first time, and they must have carried away the opinion that the whole game consisted in a succession of scrummages and a vast expenditure of useless energy. It is, however, difficult to see what could take the place of the scrummage, which is formed whenever the ball is thrown forward or knocked on, or when the ball is not thrown in straight out of touch, or for any other unintentional breach of the rules. It must be remembered that the scrummage was the essential feature of the game some twenty years ago, when the formation was ten forwards, two half-backs, two quarters and a full-back. In those days little passing was seen, and the ball was seldom heeled out of the scrummage. It is interesting to note how the game has been changed. Fifteen years ago, nine forwards, two half-backs, three three-quarters and a full-back was the rule, till the Welshmen—who are generally the pioneers of any progressive movement in Rugby football—evolved the system of eight forwards and four three-quarters. This year we see the scrummage still further diminished, the New Zealanders playing only seven forwards with a winger—who was nothing else than a half-back—one half-back, two five-eights, three three-quarters and a full-back, whilst the Welsh team has adopted practically the same disposition, playing only seven forwards, three half-backs, four three-quarters and a full-back.

Thus in the course of about twenty years the proportion of forwards to outsides has been reduced from ten forwards and five outsides to seven forwards and eight outsides. It is, therefore, not difficult to see which way the wind is blowing, and there is food for speculation as to what will eventually become of the scrum. The abolition of the “dead-ball” rule and the necessity of playing the ball immediately you are tackled has done much to make the game faster, but it is a matter of doubt whether the game will be improved, from the players’ point of view—which is, after all, the primary consideration—by the reduction of the forwards to a mere heeling machine. Undoubtedly Rugby football, as it has been played in the past, is frequently most uninteresting to watch; the delight of getting the ball in the scrummage and of heeling it out cleanly, or a well-executed wheel when the forwards break away with the ball at their feet has little fascination for the spectators, whilst the satisfaction of grappling an opponent or stopping a rush by falling on the ball must appear very crude and barbarous compared to the admirable finesse of Association football. The tendency at present is to bring more skill into the game; the heavy, lumbering forward has given way to a quicker and more active type, whilst every effort is made to execute that brilliant hand-to-hand passing which is so attractive and generally so effective. Yet there is a danger that the increased number of outsides may lead to overcrowding and to “too many cooks spoiling the broth,” and we frequently see a centre three-quarter boring his wing into touch, or the ball being passed along in a stereotyped fashion, when an individual dash for the line would spell ruin to the opposition. The brilliant individual run through a crowd of opponents excites the admiration of the spectators just as much as a perfect round of passing, and, provided it is not attempted too often, is very deadly in its effectiveness.

In conclusion, it may be said that the unpopularity of Rugby football as a spectacle chiefly results from the difficulty of getting to the matches, the lack of accommodation for the spectators, the apparent complexity of the rules, the somewhat peculiar manner of scoring, by which a try counts three points, a goal from a try five points (in which case the try does not count), a dropped goal four points, and a penalty goal three points, and, lastly, the “exasperating interference” of the referee, with the continual scrummages which result therefrom. A suggestion, which has the support of several great players, is that the numbers should be reduced to thirteen a side instead of fifteen, with the formation of six forwards, two half-backs, four three-quarters and a full-back, or even twelve a side with only three three-quarters. At present the game is killed by the number of the players, whilst the packing of seven or eight forwards in the scrum is very difficult. With six forwards the packing is simple, even for a scratch team, whilst the fewer players and greater space would lead to more open play and brilliant running. We might then see one team winning by thirty points to twenty-seven, and no one could deny that this would be highly interesting and exciting from the spectators’ point of view. Finally, more attention should be paid to handling the ball. The majority of present-day forwards seldom handle a football during the week except in matches, and not always then; hence it is not surprising that many passes go astray, but it should be considered just as heinous a crime to pass forward, or to fail to take a pass, as to miss a catch at cricket, or to knock the tail-feathers out of a pheasant. It should be regarded as equally heinous to pass when you have a good chance of going through yourself, or to hold on to the ball when you ought to pass.

But Rugby football makes it its boast—a boast of which it is justly proud—that the player is the first consideration. The Rugby Union has always set its face against the evils of professionalism and the commendable and unflinching attitude which it has taken up has been reflected in the players, who somewhat foolishly have taken up an attitude of “noli me tangere” towards the spectators, and have resented anything in the form of interference. Anything like playing to the gallery has been righteously condemned, and the player who takes more than ordinary care of himself is often scoffed at. But what is worth doing is worth doing well, and players are now waking up to the fact that Rugby football can no longer be played properly in the happy-go-lucky way, but requires great physical fitness and very skilful use of both hands and feet. Moreover, it is patent to everybody that for a game to last, however good it may be, it must be popular. One often hears the remark, “We don’t want the spectators, and they have no right to dictate to us; if we choose to keep the ball in the scrummage, why shouldn’t we do so,” but if we do not want the spectators, we should like their sons to be brought up to play one of the finest games in the world. The enthusiasm in Wales for Rugby football is unbounded, as a recent incident at Cardiff serves to show. When the Barbarians were playing Cardiff before some ten thousand spectators (the day before there had been something like forty thousand spectators, when the home club were playing the New Zealanders), there was an interval of about five minutes at half-time, which was turned to account by some tiny little boys, none of whom could have been more than ten years old. They seized the football, and were instantly in the throes of an exciting game, which culminated in one little fellow dodging through several opponents and dropping a goal, amidst the applause of the crowd. If, however, you fail to interest the parent, you may fail to interest the offspring. There is no reason why the game should not be made more interesting to both the players and the spectators. It is unfortunate that so many people only go to watch the big games, International and Trial matches, which are seldom productive of good or interesting football, being for the most part struggles between scratch teams.

Wales, alone of the four countries, places anything like a combination of players in the field, and hence the apparent superiority of the Welshmen. Rugby football should not be judged by the form shown in International matches. The New Zealanders showed us what Rugby football could be like, even with a wet ball and a sodden ground, when played by a strong combination of brilliant individuals filled with a burning enthusiasm. The whole question resolves itself into this: Make the game interesting, and it will be popular; if it is popular, that enthusiasm will be aroused, without which nothing can succeed.

DO WE MAKE THE BEST OF HIM.

The racing season of 1905 is a thing of the past, and I think that even the most optimistic will scarcely look upon it with feelings of unqualified satisfaction. There has been a feeling of dulness at many of the meetings which on occasion almost became depression. Many races which looked so well upon paper have fizzled out and been won by horses which, if not moderate, were at any rate not in the first class; and there has undoubtedly been a lot of very moderate horses indeed running, and, what is worse, winning races.

In these days it seems dangerous to write or talk about the thoroughbred horse. There are some to whom the very name is anathema, associated in their minds only with short distance racing and the routine of Turf life. To them a thoroughbred horse is full of every equine imperfection—light in bone, faulty in conformation, weak in constitution. Others, again, see in the thoroughbred nothing but good. We have, say they, as good horses as ever we had, and better, and they are as extravagant in their optimism as their opponents are in their pessimism.

It is not my intention to take sides with either of these parties. They are quite able to fight their own battles, with more or less acrimony, without any interference of mine. I purpose, however, to mention a few things which have come under my own notice, and to make a few suggestions about the horse, which at his best is undoubtedly the best type of the equine race the world has seen, the English thoroughbred.

It has been customary of late to speak of the sixties, seventies, and eighties as the palmy days of the English thoroughbred, and it will, I think, be generally admitted that we had a smaller proportion of moderate horses and more really good horses in the three decades mentioned than we have had since. That we have had quite as good horses as the best of them in the last fifteen years I readily admit, and the names of Common, Galtee More, Flying Fox, Ard Patrick, Persimmon, Sceptre, and Pretty Polly come trippingly off the tongue. But it is too true that we have a lot of very inferior horses running, and it is no argument to say that a race takes more winning than it used to do, as is sometimes said when an attempt is made to bolster up the reputations of the moderate ones. Before the argument will hold water it is necessary to ask what sort of a race it is.

That a certain amount of deterioration has been seen during the last few years is, I believe, generally admitted. But there have been lean years before now, and the deterioration has only been temporary. For instance, that was not a very grand Derby field in which Palmbearer ran second. It is our concern to see that the falling off to which I allude is only temporary; there is the material to work upon, of that I am quite certain.

It is frequently stated that it is early two-year-old racing and short distance races which have brought our thoroughbreds to the present position. This I take leave to doubt. Early two-year-old racing did not affect the horses of the sixties and seventies, and they got plenty of it. Neither did short distance racing hurt them, for there were half-mile handicaps in those days; and we have to look farther than this for the cause of the decadence. Let us, for the sake of argument, say that they are more delicate, and that stayers are not so frequently to be found amongst them. Let us say this for the sake of argument only, for it is the opinion of the writer, based on experience, that many a horse that is looked upon as a non-stayer would stay well enough if given the chance. At any rate, if the proposition is not true, there is a fear of it becoming so. It is not to the short distance racing that we should look for a cause, but rather to the absurd fashion for persistent inbreeding in one line, viz., to the Darley Arabian, to the neglect of the Byerley Turk strain (of which Herod stood out as one of the best sires of all time). Inbreeding, when carried to the extent that it has been carried with us, is sure to have its effect upon the average members of any breed. Occasionally, it is true, there will be exceptionally good individuals, but they will be few and far between. But the case is by no means hopeless; there is no need to try to evolve any other breed by means of elaborate crossing. All we have got to do is to use a few vigorous out-crosses. These might not answer for racing purposes in the first cross, but then, again, they might; but they would be sure to come out in the second cross. The Shorthorns are an analogous case. The breed had sunk low indeed through indiscriminate inbreeding, but a few generations have raised it to greater heights than ever as a general utility breed.

The temper and soundness of our thoroughbred horses are sources of considerable anxiety to those who look upon them as something more than mere instruments of gambling or adjuncts to a sport, and here there is cause for concern. Never, probably, were there so many rogues running as there are now, and in the experience of the writer never were there so many horses with forelegs which, to say the least of it, are continually on the verge of unsoundness.

Nor is it difficult to see why this is. The racehorse is not used in accordance with Nature. In his early days his growth is forced by stimulating food, in order that he may come into the sale ring “a well-grown yearling.” Long before he is two years old he is broken and mounted and galloped, and taught to face the starting-gate. He is “jumped off” from a stand with the whole of the weight he is carrying in the wrong place—in the place which ensures the strain coming with undue force on his forelegs. Be it understood that I am not discussing the starting-gate and its utility on a racecourse; with that I have nothing to do here. I am merely stating that starting horses at top speed, or as nearly top speed as is attainable, from a stand, with all the weight on the top of the shoulders, so that the strain comes fully on to their sinews, is quite sufficient to account for the “dicky” forelegs and feet which are so frequent on our modern racecourses.^[2]

The artificiality of our modern racing, the multiplication of meetings at one place, and the gradual decay of the old country meetings, combined with the immense increase in the value of stakes—an increase, by the way, which owners principally provide themselves—have all had an effect on sport which is not altogether advantageous. But where, it may be asked, can these things have any effect upon the breed of horses as a breed? They have more effect than at first sight would appear. They tend to bring racing into fewer hands—into the hands of rich men. They tend to increase the service fees of stallions. They tend also to shut out the small man and the small breeder, because they make racing more expensive.

The old country meetings encouraged the small breeder. His expenses for entry, &c., were small, and if the stakes to be won were small, his travelling expenses, jockeys’ fees, &c., were on a similar scale. He could, if fairly well-to-do, afford to race for sport. For him fashion had no charm. A practical horse-breeder, he had his own fancies as to how to mate his mares; he ran his horses at local meetings, was delighted when he won a fifty pound plate, and his horses travelled in his neighbourhood and filled it with a good half-bred stock.

It may be said that we cannot go back, that gate-money meetings have come to stay, and that the country meetings can never be revived. Perhaps this is so, but if it is, it is all the worse for the Turf, and for the thoroughbred, the interest in which is undoubtedly dying out in some parts of the country.

So far I have endeavoured to show how we fail to make the best use of our thoroughbreds as racehorses; how we breed them injudiciously, feed them injudiciously, and put too great a strain upon them before their bone is set. For there can be little doubt but that the strain upon the young thoroughbred in training is much greater now than when the starting gate and the modern seat were unknown.

Now I will proceed to the other side of the question—to the thoroughbred as a general purpose horse. It is obvious that the value of the breed depends in a great measure upon his qualities of speed, pluck, and endurance with a man of ordinary weight on his back and doing ordinary or extraordinary work. On the qualifications of the thoroughbred as a general purpose horse there are wide differences of opinion and some very bitter things are said of his lack of stamina and his unsoundness and many other of his shortcomings which readers can fill in for themselves. Notwithstanding all these things that are said about him my own practical experience teaches me that for any purpose, what the late Whyte Melville described as “a thoroughbred with brains” is the best horse. The best hunters I have ridden and seen ridden have been thoroughbred; the best harness horse for work I ever sat behind was bought out of a selling race for £15, and the late Major Dalbiac, than whom no better horseman was to be found, told me that the best charger he ever rode in action was a thoroughbred that had had little preliminary training. This, of course, is a very different thing to saying that all thoroughbred horses, or that even a very large percentage of them, are good hunters, harness horses, or chargers. But it shows that, if they are fairly used and the most made of them, there would not need to be such an outcry as there is now as to the scarcity of good saddle horses.

An out-cross has been alluded to, and unfortunately the famous Herod line is nearly extinct. But it is not quite extinct, and as the line is not fashionable, what stallions there are with the Herod blood in their veins will not be out of the reach of breeders who do not breed for the sale ring. An Arab out-cross might be very valuable. It is true that the Arabs have inbred for generations to as great an extent as we have, but they have not inbred on the same line, and therefore an Arab cross might be very valuable. It does not necessarily follow that because the Arab is undersized and light in bone that the offspring of a thoroughbred mare and an Arab sire would be undersized and light in bone. That it would be valuable as a racehorse is perhaps open to question, but the value of the out-cross would be seen in three or four generations, even for racing purposes. It will probably be urged that it would be an expensive experiment to try, for it is palpable that such an experiment should not be tried with a mare of inferior quality. That may be admitted at once, and the reason of its being expensive is that, owing to the greatly increased value of stakes in these days, racehorses have come to have a fictitious market price, and especially stallions which have a good winning record. But surely there are to be found men who would run the risk of a problematical loss—in the North there is a proverb to the effect that a man cannot lose what he has never had—for the sake of the good which would result to the thoroughbred as a breed. For once establish the practical value of an out-cross in the thoroughbred and the result would be the same as it was with the Shorthorn—every one would hasten to adopt it.

There is also another plan which might be adopted, and it is surprising that it has not been adopted; and that is the establishment of a small stud of thoroughbreds, with the avowed object of breeding them for general purposes, and not for racing. This did not succeed so very badly in the past, and there is no reason why it should not succeed again. It is true that a possible Derby winner might be found carrying a man to hounds^[3] or about the country roads, but he would not have cost much to produce and breed, and would doubtless have been sold at a remunerative price.

The writer is convinced that a stud of this kind, well managed, would pay its way, from the way he has seen several purchases at the yearling sales turn out. It is with some gentlemen a regular custom to attend the yearling sales, with the view of purchasing youngsters that will develop into hunters. They never give more than an average of twenty-five guineas for them, and very rarely is that sum exceeded for an individual. Care is, of course, taken to pick a big bony, growing colt or filly, and he or she leads a perfectly natural life from the moment of arriving at the new home, running out the whole of the winters, but getting shelter at night and a little corn twice a day. At three years old they are mouthed, and at four they are broken, and a large percentage of those that have come under my notice have turned out good hunters up to from thirteen to fourteen stone.

By doing away with inbreeding on such an extensive scale as it is now practised, and by treating our horses more fairly in every way—putting no undue strain on immature young horses—we may find those “careful steps” which Professor Ridgeway urges should be taken “to preserve our good breeds and not permit them to be contaminated and destroyed by rash experiments in breeding.”

On the early morning of January 3rd one of the greatest cricketers this world has produced passed peacefully away, after a brief illness, in his sixty-ninth year.

Of all families associated with the national game, the Walkers of Southgate are pre-eminently the most famous; all the seven brothers were devoted to cricket, and six of them took very high honours at the game, whilst of “V. E.” the universal opinion of those best qualified to judge is, and long has been, that whilst W. G. Grace is the greatest cricketer that ever lived, V. E. Walker was the greatest cricketer who preceded him.

Mr. Walker was born on April 20th, 1837, at Southgate. His earliest studies in the science of cricket were pursued on the common at Stanmore, where he and his four elder brothers were at school before proceeding to Harrow. 1850 found him building a big cricket reputation at Harrow, and by the time he left school in 1854 he was recognised as one of the most promising and prominent amateurs in the country, so that it was only in the natural order of events that he should represent the Gentlemen against the Players a year or two later. From his Harrow days up to the year 1877, when he retired from the captaincy of the Middlesex County eleven, his was one of the most conspicuously active figures in the world of cricket during an epoch of over a quarter of a century.

Lillywhite’s for the year 1859 pronounces Mr. V. E. Walker to be “undoubtedly the best all-round cricketer in the world,” and in 1860 we find the same writer affirming: “To Mr. V. E. Walker we gave last season the credit of being the best all-round cricketer in the world. We have no reason now to alter our opinion, as the figures in the batting and bowling departments will justify the statement.”

In “The Cricketers’ Guide for 1860” we find the following: “Bell’s Life in London considered this gentleman to be A1 last season altogether. It said of him: ‘In coming to the most useful man in an eleven we should not be far wrong in selecting Mr. V. E. Walker.’ As a slow bowler no one (with his fielding) can touch him. A very dangerous bat, and anywhere in the field he is sure to save a vast number of runs. Certainly England cannot be well represented without him, and we doubt whether such an omission will for some years be ever attempted.” It is interesting to remember that at the time all this high praise was justly showered upon V. E. Walker he was only twenty-one years of age. It was in 1859 that he performed his great feat at the Oval, when he scored 20 and 108, and secured the whole of the ten wickets in the first innings. When Mr. Walker had taken nine wickets, and the last two men were together, Julius Cæsar was missed off his bowling, but after this he got rid of Martingell, and so accounted for the dismissal of the entire side, whilst the not-out man had actually been missed off his bowling. There must have been an exciting finish to this match, for we read that “Surrey were all disposed of in the last innings for 39 runs! which lasted over an hour and a half. 20 to 1 was repeatedly laid when England was got out—half-past four on the Saturday—that the match was a drawn one. The day was very dull, and therefore the light was bad, which, coupled with Jackson’s extra-pace bowling, will account for the small innings. Mr. V. E. Walker’s performances in this match are unprecedented. Upon two other occasions Mr. Walker took all ten wickets in one innings—for Gentlemen of Middlesex against Gentlemen of Kent in 1864, and for Middlesex against Lancashire in 1865.”

Mr. Edward Rutter, who played regularly with him, says: “He was a most formidable customer as a bowler, and he was the most athletic fellow that I ever saw in the cricket field. I have seen him catch a man behind the batsman’s wicket near short leg, which shows as well as anything that I can think of what a lot of ground he covered. It did not matter to him how hard the ball was driven back to him; if it was within reach, he made a catch of it with either hand. His action was peculiar; it was a sort of ‘half-cock’ action, for his hand, which was higher than the hip when the ball was leaving it, was at some distance from the body. He always bowled round the wicket, so that the ball came at a considerable angle. But, in my opinion, the greatest reason for his success in bowling was the way in which he fielded it; he was all over the place. How he managed to get his spin I do not know, but he had enough of it.”

Another interesting reference to Mr. Walker’s method of bowling comes from Canon McCormick, of St. James’s, Piccadilly: “I think that ‘V. E.’ was the best slow bowler I ever played, after old Clarke, who bowled as a rule faster than ‘V. E.’ ‘V. E.’ and W. B. Money were perhaps nearer each other in style than any other two bowlers of the time. I never think that Money had full justice done to him. ‘V. E.’ was better than he in both judgment and the way in which he fielded his own bowling; they neither of them tossed the ball in the air as much as other bowlers. ‘V. E.’s’ difficulty chiefly lay in his deceptive variation of pace. He was a splendid judge of a batsman’s abilities, and very quickly found out his weak spots. He did not concern himself with averages, his one leading idea was to get a man out.”

V. E. Walker earned every distinction and honour which the world of cricket could offer. Admittedly the greatest cricketer of the age, he was asked to captain any team representative of England, the South of England, or the Gentlemen, and indeed his marked ability as captain of a side was one of his most valuable qualities.

Mr. C. E. Green says: “Teddy was a splendid captain at every point of the game, and was always cheery under the most disheartening circumstances. Even when you had tried for a catch and missed it, feeling that you were a worm, you did not feel miserable for long, for he would come up to you and say, ‘Well tried, old chap. No one else would have got near the ball.’ The result was that you began to think you had done something rather clever, and it would be a bad look-out for any batsman who selected you for a catch after that.”

He was one of the founders of the Middlesex County Club in the early sixties, and captained the team until he gave up first-class cricket in 1877. The history of Middlesex cricket is intimately associated with the Walker family; they started the Club, and supported it not only by their brilliant cricket gifts, but financially. In the early days of Middlesex cricket their matches were played on the old Cattle Market ground at Islington. When this site was handed over to the builders Middlesex migrated to Lillie Bridge, but quickly moved on to the luxurious ground of Prince’s Club, where Hans Place now stands. When this ground was built over Middlesex accepted the invitation of the Marylebone Club to make Lord’s their headquarters, and during the last few years it must have been interesting to Mr. Walker, as President of the Middlesex Club, to see a handsome income rolling in each year to the credit of the Club, which he and his brothers had for so many years supported and financed. In 1866 Middlesex were what would nowadays be styled Champion County, winning six out of their eight matches and only losing one, when they were beaten by Cambridgeshire.

It looks now as if the time is remote when Cambridgeshire will again beat Middlesex. When a couple of years ago Middlesex were again Champion County, Mr. Walker and his brother, the celebrated Mr. Russell D. Walker, entertained the County team to signalise the event. In the fifties and sixties the cricket played at Southgate was second to none in the world. The Walker brothers were in every sense of the word hosts in themselves, and by the addition of a few of their personal friends they were able to get a Southgate team fit to beat all comers.

Here is a very interesting extract from the “Cricketers’ Guide” with reference to the match of the United All England Eleven against John Walker, Esq.’s, Sixteen at Southgate in 1859. “Grand preparations were made in Mr. John’s usual liberal manner. The betting was spirited, especially when it was known that the valuable services of Mr. C. D. Marsham (which proved so effective in 1858) could not be obtained. The ground was in first-rate condition, the usual labour and attention having been paid to it. The splendid band of the 2nd Life Guards was in attendance, and a very large assemblage made their appearance each day. Vehicles from all parts lined the ground, and the Great Northern Railway ran trains to the Colney Hatch station about a mile and a half from Southgate. The eleven were most hospitably entertained by this well-known supporter, who, it will be noticed, manages to get hold of sufficient strength to always win. For the United, Carpenter scored 9 and 27, J. Caffyn 124 and 30, J. Grundy 56 and 1, Lockyer 20 and 37. For Southgate, Mr. J. Chalkley 18, Mr. E. Dowson 21, Mr. V. E. Walker 88, Mr. F. P. Miller 26, Mr. H. Perkins 60 and 4. Notwithstanding the tremendous scores of the United men, they could not pull it off—Southgate winning in the most plucky manner.”

What with Southgate and Middlesex, with several matches under the auspices of the Surrey Club at the Oval, and occasional matches for the Free Foresters and other clubs, Mr. Walker was able to fill up his cricket season to the best possible advantage; but we shall always regret that his cricket career had just terminated before the visit to this country of the first Australian team in 1878, so that he never had an opportunity of playing in an International match, although to his wise judgment and that of his brother, I. D., was entrusted the selection of the first team to represent England at the Oval in 1878.

V. E. Walker was always in office at Lord’s; in 1891 he filled the post of President, and afterwards was one of the three trustees of the Marylebone Club. He was Chairman of the Wood Green Bench of Magistrates, and only a month or two ago he was the recipient of a presentation walking-stick from members of the police force to commemorate the services he had rendered to a constable in dealing with a violent ruffian. V. E. Walker was a great philanthropist; he gave a public recreation ground to Southgate, he spent thousands of pounds for public improvements in his neighbourhood, and no one will ever know the extent of his private charities.

In every circle in which he moved his death has created void which cannot be filled.

RACING.

The retro- and introspection with which some indulge themselves during the dead winter season for flat-racing must leave in the minds of such feelings of uneasiness. One had but to read the sporting papers very deeply to realise that racing was not being indulged in in the typical spirit of give and take; and when we found staring us in the face the advertisement of the Racehorse Owners’ Association, instituted for the protection of owners’ interests, one realised clearly enough that grievances were felt to exist. Possibly in due course the particular grievances which the covenanting owners desire to see redressed will be set forth, for of course the trouble was not taken to found the Association without some ostensible reason. In the meantime, the Jockey Club has declined to take official cognisance of the Association. So far as we have gone, the state of affairs seems to be that certain owners have formed themselves into an association, and have applied to the Jockey Club for official recognition. In effect the Jockey Club asks the Association, “Who are you?” Having so long ruled supreme and unchallenged, the Jockey Club no doubt feels it a little abrupt when a body formed outside itself suddenly appears, and practically suggests that it shall have a word or two to say in the government of the Turf. If it is not to have some sort of say, then there seems to be no reason for its advances towards the Jockey Club, or for its existence even. Enough has been said in print during the past twelve months to make the Jockey Club aware that the advance is not being made in a too friendly spirit towards them; therefore they practically reply, “Thank you, we can get on very well alone, and without your assistance, as heretofore.” It does not follow that an association of racehorse owners cannot exist and do good work without any reference whatever to the Jockey Club. Leaving outside the government of racing as conducted by the Jockey Club, there is plenty of room for the operations of such an association. Combination between owners has been sadly wanting. Now that there is some sign of it, one would like to see the body establish a right to its existence by the carrying out of measures of benefit to the owners and, by consequence, to racing as a whole. To the outsider it seems a little premature for a body, before it has won its spurs, so to speak, to aspire to deal on equal terms with the ruling powers. There are several matters connected with the practice of racing with which progressive or reforming owners might profitably interest themselves in conclave. Before a body can hope to be regarded as a negotiable quantity it must show some capacity for self-government and for dealing with questions of a kind that come naturally within its scope. Owners, as a whole, complain that their interests are not sufficiently considered. The complaint is not here refuted, but so far there has been lacking that combination of action which alone can effect changes. It is not too much to say that an association of owners can bring about that which it is beyond the powers of the Jockey Club to effect, because outside their scope. The Jockey Club can only be administrative; and already it has been accused of going too deeply into minutiæ. Those details which concern the owners should be settled by the owners themselves. It does not seem necessary for them to approach the Jockey Club at all in order to make their presence and power felt. They have but to agree amongst themselves how to act and how not to act under certain conditions, and the rest will come. One can speak in this way so long as one is in the dark concerning the aspirations and intentions of the new body, which has yet to issue its propaganda. When details appear it will be possible to discuss them. For the present, therefore, we must wait in patience.

Amongst the most important matters which a body of owners coming together for the protection of its interests can take in hand is the jockey question. Despite all that has been done the jockey is still the master of the situation; and this is bad for racing. A position in which the jockey dictates the terms is an intolerable one, but that is the position in which the Turf finds itself. It is not a new state of things by any means. The “It’s no use asking me what will win; go and ask that long-legged devil,” of Matt. Dawson could be paraphrased to-day, though the question of dishonesty is not being trenched upon here. What owners have to consider is, whether the relative positions existing between owner and jockey are those of master and man, and whether the reward given the jockey is not altogether out of disproportion to the service rendered. The enormous issues that are at times at stake, and the fatal power for good or evil that is given into the hands of the jockey, as forming the last link in a chain every other link of which has been forged with scrupulous care and disregard of cost, are what give the jockey his advantage. And this advantage he will always hold so long as he is allowed to feel his power, and not made to understand that there is a master mind over him. If the hard truth has to be told, the master mind is what is lacking. By slow stages at first and then rapid ones, we have passed from the times when the jockey stood humbly upon the mat awaiting the pleasure of his lordship, to a day when it is the owner who metaphorically stands upon the mat. To put the matter in a few words, the jockey is enabled to make an income that is not only far too large to be good for him, especially when we consider the lowly station from which he usually springs, but, in addition, is immeasurably in excess of his deserts. Clearing ourselves of the glamour of custom, it must appear plain that it is a ridiculous thing to give a jockey, say, £500 for winning a race, even be it the Derby. How can a jockey ride worth £500? Only on the supposition that if he is not able to anticipate some such guerdon of victory he will not put in his best work and so possibly lose the race; in which case he will be a dishonest jockey and should be dealt with in a totally different manner. The writer does not hesitate to put it on paper that there is no reason why a jockey should be paid more for winning the Derby than for winning any other race, for the simple reason that it is just as easy to win; and we do not have to go back many years to find a jockey who rode an indifferent race, but won through the merit of his horse, rewarded in a manner that would have been extravagant had he performed some prodigy of horsemanship and snatched the race out of the fire by its means. The thing is so glaringly disproportionate, that one is driven to assume that the giving of large presents to jockeys for winning certain races is done out of deference to a custom, the courage to disregard which is lacking. So much is the thing overdone, that one almost comes to applaud instances in which an entirely diametrical course has been pursued, in which the suggestion of parsimony in the case of meritorious riding has been braved.

Even when we take the purely commercial side of racing, in which the sole object is to bring off a betting coup, we see no reason why the jockey should be made a party to the pecuniary gains. It is, of course, the common custom to make him a party by putting him on so much to win. But why? Surely, looked at dispassionately, five guineas is a very nice reward for riding a race. The question of trying or not trying is, of course, quite outside the question. The jockey who does not try when he is being paid to do so is a thief, pure and simple. Consequently, when a jockey is being bribed by promise of extra reward to try, he is merely being educated to be a thief. Why should one be compelled to say, as one practically is, “If you win I will give you so and so?” The assumption should always be that when a jockey mounts a horse he will do his utmost to win: whatever the practice may be, this is the only tenable theory. But we may set aside the proposition of trying and not trying, and come to the position of a jockey not riding at all except at a certain fee. This position is one which the owners themselves only can deal with, and here, I fancy, the Racehorse Owners’ Association, if ever they come to consider the question, will meet a serious stumbling block. The strength of those owners, racing chiefly for sport, whom, purely for the sake of convenience, I will call the Jockey Club circle, is that they do not meet in fevered competition for the services of jockeys. Here we find the distance between master and man kept as wide as it should be, and as it was in the past. The two parties concerned do not meet on the same plane as is the case when mere money is at issue and the end is considered justified by any kind of means. For the state of things at which we have arrived owners must be considered solely to blame, for they have the remedy in their own hands. No fault can reasonably be found with the jockeys for making what hay they can whilst the sun shines. Owners are not unjustifiably complaining of the heavy expenses of racing. Is not the heavy expense of jockeys an item worthy of consideration?

In this matter of over-paying jockeys it seems as though the trainer is not being treated with justice. If, for the sake of argument, it be right and proper for the rider of a Derby winner to receive a present of £500, how much, in the name of equity, should the trainer not receive? He spends anxious months, even years, with animals of enormous value under his charge, which must be kept well and brought to the post trained to the hour. Upon the successful exploitation of the horses entrusted to his charge he has to bring several qualities to bear; and if outsiders are apt to think £2 10s. per week a considerable sum to pay for the charge of a selling “plater,” it becomes insignificant enough in the case of a possible Derby winner, even if the charge be as high as three guineas. The owner has yet to be met with who says to his trainer: “You have a Derby horse of mine. If he wins I shall pay you £10 per week for his training instead of £2 10s.” But this would not be out of keeping with the presentation of several hundreds of pounds to a jockey for riding a single race. The trainer, of course, takes his chance, but so should the jockey, and it is not at all creditable that he should be made the spoiled child of the Turf that he is. The statement that jockeys make more money than anyone else is scarcely to be contradicted, and such a state of things is entirely wrong. So far from the jockey of to-day doing more work for his money, the contrary is the case, as those in the habit of watching morning gallops can testify. It is a difficult thing now to get a jockey who has reached the stage of “fancying himself” to trouble himself about morning gallops. So much, at least, English jockeys have condescended to learn from the Americans.

The National Hunt is still active in its endeavours to devise a satisfactory hurdle, but its latest effort has by no means met with general approval. The Clerk of the Course at Hurst Park received instructions from the Committee to supply a hurdle, the foot of which was to measure 16 in from the bottom rail and be wholly inserted in the ground. It was to be put in at an angle so as to slope the hurdle, the common method adopted by the farm labourers who usually undertake such work being to ram the hurdle in straight and then force it over to the required slope. This is an abundant cause of the swinging-back hurdle that is so dangerous. So far so good; but the Committee provided further that the hurdles were to be bushed in the middle part only, the bottom and top rails standing out clear. It was of course the top rail that mattered, for horses accustomed to bushed tops might easily fail to see it. The innovation came in for severe criticism at the hands of trainers, some horses being sent home without competing. The very reasonable objection was made that it is scarcely fair to horses to spring a surprise of this sort upon them. It is one thing to school a horse carefully at a new kind of obstacle, and quite another to ask him to race over it. A further item of complaint, with which, however the National Hunt had nothing to do, was against the too solid nature of the end uprights of the hurdles, two coming together, making quite a formidable obstruction that suggested risk to life and limb.

By the death of Mr. William George Craven, which occurred at his residence, 63, Curzon Street, Mayfair, last month, the Jockey Club has lost its oldest member, with the exception of the Earl of Coventry, who was elected forty-six years ago, twelve months prior to the election of the late Mr. Craven. The deceased gentleman was instrumental in obtaining several reforms in the Jockey Club which were much needed at the time. Born in 1835, the late Mr. Craven was the eldest son of the late Hon. George Augustus Craven. He was educated at Eton, and served a few years in the 1st Life Guards. He was elected a member of the Jockey Club at the early age of twenty-six, and three years afterwards was appointed a Steward. He was again appointed Steward in 1879, during which period of office he was called upon to deal with the memorable objection to Bend Or after the Derby of 1880. Mr. Craven owned many good horses in his time, and among his winnings were the Gold Vase at Ascot in 1864, and the Great Metropolitan Stakes at Epsom the following year. Most of his horses were, however, sold in 1866, since which date his colours have been seldom seen on the racecourse.

The past month will be remembered by hunting people for the number of long, well-sustained hunts that have taken place. Almost any one of them would be entitled to take a place among the historic runs recorded from time to time in Baily. The most remarkable was the run of the Albrighton on Saturday, December 30th. It will be remembered that this well-known Staffordshire hunt started the season with a new master, Lieut.-Colonel Goulburn, and a new huntsman, Morris, who had been first whipper-in, under Tom Bishopp, with the Grafton, and had succeeded the latter as huntsman. The fixture was at Dudmaston, in the Bridgnorth district. This is a meet which attracts few, for one of the last lessons we learn in hunting is that it is better to go to meets, good or bad by reputation, if you have a horse fit to go. We never know where or when the great run will come off. The first fox went down to the Severn and swam across. The next fox, after a much longer hunt, also ran down to the Severn, near Apley Park, which river here divides the Albrighton from the Wheatland country. Without hesitation he entered the river and, followed by the pack, swam across. This of course threw out the huntsmen and field, but they found a bridge, and Morris got to his hounds in time, by a judicious cast, to hit off the line. Not without checks and difficulty, but with hounds and huntsman working well, the line was kept until at last darkness set in, and after two hours and a half hounds had to be stopped.

The coming change in the Blankney Hunt is a matter of rejoicing, because once more a Bentinck will be connected with a hunt which Lord Henry Bentinck did so much for. Readers of Baily who will turn back to their old volumes will learn easily how much. Then Lord Charles Bentinck, who is to become huntsman and joint master, is a well-known soldier and polo player. He was one of the team of the 9th Lancers, in their best days a most brilliant regimental team. Lord Charles will no doubt make a good huntsman, and keep up the Blankney record of sport over what is probably the best scenting and perhaps the stiffest country in Lincolnshire. On the other hand, I am sorry that it should displace an excellent hunt servant and old friend in George Shepherd, who, under three masters, has done so well. It is not likely, however, that so good a huntsman will be long in want of a situation. He is one of those instances where a first-rate whipper-in has made an excellent huntsman.

Among the packs that have had noteworthy runs must be included the Heythrop. Theirs took place on Friday, December 22nd. They met at New Barn, and found at once. In the Bourton Vale hounds ran well. The scent, though not burning, was holding, and hounds worked out the line without much help. The finish was a kill in Bruern Wood after a fine hunt of two hours and a quarter. The distance from point to point is ten miles, but hounds must have covered fifteen miles or more. Captain Daly, Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Lord, and Major Scott were among those who saw it all.

As I write the news reaches me that the North Cotswold have found a master. This country, of course, is neighbour to the Heythrop. Mr. McNeill’s successor is Sir John Hume Campbell, at present Master of the Ormond, where he has not found that foxes are preserved as they ought to be. In the North Cotswold there is nothing to be desired. Sir John intends to hunt the hounds himself. It is not stated whether Mr. McNeill’s wonderful pack of Belvoir-bred bitches will be kept in the country, but no doubt this will be the case. Masters are not scarce, for there were no less than twenty-two candidates.

Melton condition seldom fails to carry the sportsman to the end of the day, but on Monday, January 8th, the Quorn, having met at Nether Broughton, hounds led them such a dance in the Belvoir Vale that many horses could not reach the end. No doubt the going was heavy, for there has been a fall of rain which has made up for the drought. In Welby Osier Beds they found their fox, and this covert is a key to the best of the Belvoir. At Bescaby Oaks, the traditional first draw of the Belvoir on the opening day, the fox saved his brush.

Even more remarkable was the run the Woodland Pytchley had on January 8th. The big woods of this country are divided by grass fields and big fences, and it always seems to me that to be practicable at all there are no more formidable fences than some of the boundary fences of this country. During the early months of the year, in a well-preserved country with strong coverts, foxes are on the move, and a stout travelling woodland fox takes a great deal of killing, even with that sharp pack of bitches which Tom Carr handles so well. Hounds ran two wide rings from Carlton Wood, and then perhaps with a fresh fox hunted on to Desbrough. Had there been a kill, this run would have been perfect in its way. In any case, it adds one more to the many old-fashioned runs we have to tell of this month.

To this must be added the run of the Blankney also on January 8th, which was one of the days that have provided a good scent in many countries. Mr. Edgar Lubbock took his hounds, by Sir Gilbert Greenall’s invitation, to Aswarby. Sir George Whichcote is such a careful fox preserver that the Belvoir, with their wide extent of country, cannot come often enough. It was a gallant old customer that they found in one of the plantations. The line was very straight, and that they travelled a nine-mile point in fifty minutes shows that the pace was more than ordinarily good.

No country has, without adding to our list of historic runs, had a better average season than the Atherstone under Mr. Munro and Whitemore. But for a long and sustained chase ending with a kill the palm must be awarded to the Fitzwilliam at Tillbrook. The bitch pack dropped on to an out-lier. Starting close to his brush, the pack settled to hunt at a fair pace, and, best of all, never left the line till they reached Barnwell Wood, through which good scenting covert hounds ran furiously for blood, and were not long in catching their fox. This was one of those runs not too fast for the horses, with no checks, and hounds doing their own with lots of drive and merry music, that keep up one’s love for foxhunting.

Still another long and good run is to hand. There are people who tell me, and I can well believe it, that Dursley is an admirable centre. Indeed, many West country people migrate thither after Christmas in search of sport, and are seldom disappointed.

The Fitzhardinge, meeting on January 9th, at Empney, on the Gloucestershire side of their country, drew Monkshill, and found a fox which within a radius of five or six miles knew a lot of country. He stood up for two hours. Several times hounds went very fast, and the fox was kept moving the whole time. Nevertheless, he beat them after all, fairly running hounds out of scent. Then came a bright scurry; but perhaps it is on a working day the Fitzhardinge pack are seen to the best advantage. No “sleeping partners of the chase” are allowed in the Berkeley Castle kennels.

Foxes and stags choose strange refuges, and this month has seen a fox found on a lime-kiln and in a coal-hole; a stag was hunted through the streets of Lancaster town. This season I saw a fox run up a lane on the road, spring on to the bank, and double back along the top of the bank, and lie down in the hedgerow. Naturally the hounds hit it off in the lane, and running up some distance, were then cast on either side of the road, but of course without effect. It was late in the day, and the Master had actually started for home, when some one saw the fox, which, however, deserved to escape.

No pack has had a better season on the average than the Duke of Beaufort’s. Their country always seems to me to hold a scent well, and the Duke and his huntsman are such masters of the science of hunting that it is a pleasure to see them handle hounds. Though the day in question, January 6th, at Hullavington, afforded nothing extraordinary, yet if every day we could hunt over a line as pleasant and varied as this side of the Duke’s country we should have nothing to complain of. Foxes, too, are always plentiful, and the more I hunt and the more experience of different countries I have, the more fully do I appreciate Beckford’s wisdom in liking plenty of foxes.

I suppose that the present season will be looked back on by the followers of the three staghound packs in the West as one of the best hind-hunting seasons on record. In the first place, the inclement weather which often makes hunting on Exmoor in the winter months a doubtful pleasure has this year not been endured. A few days of frost, a few of fog, and some wet days, but on the whole the weather and the scent have been in favour of the hounds, and hounds have run very straight. That is, they have made good points, but a red deer hind generally runs a ring or two, and then just when you think she is beaten away she goes straight and hard as if she never meant to stop. Mr. Stanley’s hounds, meeting by invitation of the Devon and Somerset at Slowley Wood, on Saturday, December 30th, had a run which was remarkable for straightness and pace. It lasted about three hours. There is always some preliminary work with a hind. Much depends on whether hounds can be kept at her. This one had little peace. She was found in the open, and about half an hour later the Master sent for the pack. He was enabled to steal a march by lifting hounds into the Avill valley, where they took up the line by the well-known farmhouse, and at once climbed the hill at its steepest part. Going up with them one lost ground, as they ran well and straight into a linhay behind Alcombe Village. This seemed to be the end, but some excited lads frightened the hind out. She dashed right through the pack and then went straight away for Dunkery Beacon. Those who had ridden the run had been galloping hard for two hours, and horses climbed the steep sides slowly: far more quickly did hounds reach the top. Three-quarters of an hour later this hind soiled in the stream at Nutscale and, unable to leave it, was killed. The first point to Alcombe was five miles, the second about seven, and the hind travelled quite twice as far to make her points. Allowing for the turns, though the pace was very good, hounds hunted beautifully, and every one was up at the finish. Perhaps even more remarkable was the run of January.

The Devon and Somerset met on Thursday, January 11th, at Heathpoult—a geographical expression—near the famous coverts of Throatcombe and Chargot. Three hinds were roused, and one was quickly singled out. From that moment till the hind was killed hounds hunted continuously. It was an exceedingly fine performance on the part of the hounds and huntsman. About eight couple of tufters were out, and on these fell most of the work. One incident showing the control of the huntsman over his hounds and what can be done to make foxhounds handy. These hounds, be it remembered, are big doghounds with a few large bitches. Now doghounds, as we all know, are apt to be self-willed and headstrong. I may also note that the heel-line of a red deer is often very tempting. Well, the huntsman was on one side of a valley, and the hounds were working on the other, when two or three couple hit the heel-line and threw their tongues eagerly. “Ware heel,” said the huntsman, naming the hounds. They stopped, looked across, and as if seeing it was their huntsman, left the heel-line and drove forward, and picked up the line of their quarry which had gone on. Once again the huntsman delighted me when hounds divided, by going to fetch those running on the fresh line. He saved the situation in a most difficult place. After a long, interesting and intricate hunt, we at last emerged on the heather, and for some miles stretched over the heather as far as Exford Common. Twice the hind took refuge among other deer, and each time she was driven out.

Then at the nick of time the Master (Mr. Greig) brought up the pack, and we had a glorious gallop right back to Annicombe. Then away to Cloutsham, and then the whole length of Horner to the mill; then up over the hill and across the valley to West Luccombe, where hounds took their deer. We ran from about 10.30 to 2. Besides the Master and hunt servants, only three of those who had started from Heathpoult were present. Several joined us by the way, and some good and true followers were left on Dunkery. The pace was good at times, but formed an intricate piece of hound-work, and an example of how handy foxhounds can be made, and how they can hold to the line of their quarry; for we saw at least thirty other deer on the way. With this run may be compared the very fine bit of hound-work displayed by the Cottesmore when they met at Luffenham. Thatcher is another huntsman who has made his big doghounds as handy as beagles.

I believe with these the whole secret is personal attachment to the man who hunts. Self-willed and sulky if knocked about or rated, a dog-hound will do anything for the man he loves.

The Cottesmore ran from Luffenham, though in the first place a hunt for the lover hounds, was not without interest for the riding man, since the line lay over that wild and delightful tract of the Cottesmore country which lies round Wing and Manton. From field to field hounds hunted, always working forward, always on the line, ever drawing nearer to their fox. If the fox regulates his pace, as I believe he does, by the strength of the chorus behind him, this fox could have had but little rest, as the sustained roar of the pack told him that they were relentlessly pursuing. The end came at Glaston Gorse, when a thoroughly wearied fox succumbed at last to the pack. During the past week—Thursday, January 11th—the Cottesmore and Mr. Fernie’s hounds met at East Norton, which is on the border of the two countries. Charles Isaac, Mr. Fernie’s huntsman, handled the combined packs, with his late whipper-in, Thatcher, of Cottesmore, to help him.

In consequence of the prolonged ill-health of Mr. C. E. Green, the Committee of the Essex Hunt have decided to seek a new Master, and the following advertisement has appeared in the papers: “As a Master will be required for the Essex Hunt at the end of the season, any gentleman wishing to offer himself as Master is invited to apply to the Hon. Secretary, Mr. A. Waters, Coopersale Lodge, Epping, Essex.”

Fine open weather continues, and at the time of writing—the day on which the mean temperature is, on an average, the lowest in the year—it is so mild that one would almost think the season would get through without any lengthy stoppage. Whether sport does not benefit by a little frost is a question which is open to discussion, and at any rate it cannot be said that the most open seasons have been distinguished by the most historical runs.

Nor has there been a great average of sport since I last wrote, though there have been a few runs the records of which are worth preserving; the disposition to fog, however, is decidedly against sport, and we have had a lot of fog this season, hounds having been stopped by it several times.

It should be noticed that the good example set by Lord Helmsley in the early part of last month has been followed in many parts of Yorkshire and the neighbouring counties, and it is satisfactory to see that the Hunt Servants’ Benefit Society is likely to benefit to a considerable extent by the plan which had such a happy inception when the Sinnington met at Habton Village early in December. It may perhaps interest some of my readers to know that over £80 was collected on the day the Bramham Moor met at Tockwith. That same day when they met at Tockwith (December 15th) they had a good day’s sport. White Syke Whin, which has been a certain find this season, and has now got to be a very fine covert, provided a brace of foxes to begin with, and with one of these they had a brilliant forty-five minutes by Marston Whin, which they skirted, Bilton Grange, Bickerton Village, and Ingmanthorpe Willow Garth to Lingcroft, where they rolled him over. A second fox from the Rash took them by the banks of the Nidd, and over it to an osier-bed near Kirk Hammerton Hall, where they marked him to ground; and a short but merry burst from Hutton Thorns to Collier Haggs, ending in a kill, brought a good day’s sport to a close.

On Monday, December 25th, they had a very good hunting run of a couple of hours. The fixture was Woodhall Bridge, and as they were moving off to draw, a travelling fox was viewed near Addlethorpe. Smith soon had hounds on his line, and they ran fast by Lund Head to Ingham’s Whin, and through it by Parkin Wood to Cocked Hat Whin. They checked for a moment, but ran on again cheerily over Barrowby Hill to the Punchbowl. Then came some slower hunting to Leconfield Whin, and nearly to Rudding Park; and then over the railway, when the pace improved, and they fairly raced over the grass of Spofforth Haggs to Ingham’s Plantation. Here they checked, but they hit off the line again over the Spacey Houses road, and hunted nearly to Swindon Wood, where the fox beat them.

They had a useful day’s sport on Friday, January 5th, when they met at Walton. Walton Wood, as usual, held foxes, and one went away without much pressing in the direction of Thorp Arch.

Whether he was headed, or whether it was a travelling fox making for the wood, it is difficult to say, but as Smith was taking hounds to the holloa they met a fox, and soon ran into him. Then came a long draw before they found again in New Spring, whence they hunted at a holding pace by Heslock Field Rash up to Cowthorpe Village. A right-hand turn took them thence through Lingcroft, where the pace improved, and past Bickerton Village, and they finally marked the fox to ground not far from the York Road. Champagne Whin held a fox, which after half an hour’s ringing round about the Igmanthorpe coverts was killed in Hatfield’s Plantation. They found again in Thorp Arch Whin, and hunted with no great scent over the park, and by Walton to Walton Wood, where the fox beat them.

The Bedale have been having some good old-fashioned hunting runs during the month. On Friday, December 29th, they met at Scorton, and found in a small covert named Greenberry. The fox had apparently been gone some time, for they hunted slowly at first by Hewson Hill to Streetland. Here the pace improved, and hounds ran smartly, pointing for Pepper Arden, and then by Rushwood to the Hobden Hill Plantation at Kiplin. They hovered for a moment when they got through this covert—it was scarcely a check—and Freeman held them over a sticky fallow on to the grass, and away they raced again nearly to Ellerton. Then they turned along the Swale-side to Loughton Village and Loughton Hall. Then crossing the Swale a little further on they pointed for Kirby Fleetham. Then skirting Scruton Wood they ran by Morton Flats up to Morton Bridge. The fox crossed the Swale again at the bridge, and hounds ran on by Morton Grange and Langlands, and over the Howe-beck, and past Greenhills and Low Sober, to the Low Plain Plantation at Solberge, within a couple of fields of which they ran into their fox after a good run of two hours. The point would be from seven and a half to eight miles, but hounds would run over twice the distance.

On Monday, January 8th, they met at Rudd Hall, and had another good sporting run. They found in Goskins, and ran first by Tunstall Village, pointing for Brough. Scotton Village was next reached, and then they made a wide circuit past Hawxwell Hall and Garriston. A long check took place at Garriston, and then hounds hunted through the Constable Burton coverts, and then turned to the right over Barden Moor. They hunted steadily on by Laverock Gill, and ran parallel to the Richmond Road down to Hipswell coverts, where they worked up to their fox, and they rolled him over in the open midway between the railway and the River Swale, opposite Easby Abbey, after a good hunting run of two hours and three quarters.

The Cleveland had a capital run on Monday, January 8th, when they met at Marske Station. They had a long draw, all the low coverts being blank, but they found a good fox on the historic Briar Flat in Wilton Wood, and ran him at a great pace by Dunsdale and Court Green to Guisbrough Park. Thence they ran along the brow of the hill to Osborne Rush, and skirting Jackson’s Plantation, passed Upsall, and ran by Hamilton Hills and Marton Gill, where they bore slightly to the left and hunted with a much worse scent by Grey Towers and Sunny Cross to Seamer Whin, where the fox beat them after a good run of an hour and twenty-five minutes. It was a seven-mile point, and hounds crossed a lot of country of varied kind.

Lord Galway’s had a capital day’s sport from Gringley-on-the-Hill on Monday, January 8th. Finding in Gringley Gorse, they raced over the grass to Pear Tree Farm, where the fox was headed, and crossing the Beckingham Road, ran by Clayworth Wood and Beckingham Village, and over the Great Northern Railway to Morton Point, where they turned left-handed over the railway again and ran by Walkeringham on to Mr. Naylor’s farm, where they ran him to ground in view after forty minutes at top pace. Another fox that had evidently done some work was found in Gringley Gorse, and killed after a sharp short burst on Red Hills. They found again in a patch of gorse on the banks of the River Idle, and ran by Drakeholes, nearly to Everton, and then crossed the Chesterfield Canal, took a line by Prospect Hill to Winton New Covert. Then recrossing the canal they ran by Mr. Otter’s thorns, and marked their fox to ground between Hayton and Clayworth after a good fifty minutes.

This is the time of year when changes in hunting establishments begin to be talked about, and an important change will take place in Lord Galway’s country, for Sam Morgan, who has been at Serlby for twenty-nine years, has resigned his appointment. Morgan will have been forty-one seasons with hounds at the end of this season. His first place was as extra whipper-in under his father, Jack Morgan, when the latter was huntsman for the sixth Lord Galway. He held this place for a year, and then went to the late Lord Portsmouth, with whom he stopped nine years, two as second whipper-in and seven as first whipper-in. From there he went to the Percy, then under the mastership of Major Brown, as first whipper-in, and from Northumberland he went to Serlby again. Forty-one years as a hunt servant, and only in three places during that time, is indeed an honourable record, and all hunting men will be sorry to learn that Morgan is leaving the country with which his name and the name of his family is so closely associated. I also hear that Freeman is leaving the Bedale, and rumour has it that he is going to hunt one of the Midland packs.

The “Van Driver” is indebted to an American correspondent for particulars of the work done by the competing packs in this unique “match,” which took place in the Piedmont Valley, Virginia, during the first fortnight of November last. The American pack consisted of 6½ couple belonging to the Middlesex Hunt and the English of 18 couple belonging to the Grafton Hunt. The stakes were $1,000 a side, and the test was to be the killing of the fox. The English hounds were hunted on five days by Robert Cotesworth, and the Americans worked on six days hunted by the Master, Mr. H. Smith. The only kill was scored by the English pack, and as their victim proved to be a tame fox, accidentally released when the hounds were near, this did not count, and the judges had to decide the question of merit on the work they witnessed. It does not appear to have been a very satisfactory method of determining relative merit, as when scent served well either pack ran clean away from the field, “held up” by wire or by the occurrence of land on which the farmers did not desire the presence of horsemen. The number of refuges open to a hunted fox explains the lack of blood obtained; stopping earths seems to have been neglected. The judges gave their award in favour of the American hounds as having “done the best work with the object of killing the fox in view,” but English sportsmen will learn with astonishment that on two occasions when the American pack were at fault a judge lifted them and got them again on the line! Unfortunately the account sent does not give any information concerning the breeding of either pack; beyond the fact that the English were imported hounds and the American bred in the States we are left in the dark. A picture from a photograph in the Rider and Driver, showing the American pack on the kennel bench, suggests that these are pure-bred foxhounds.

THE NEW ARMY POLO COMMITTEE.

It will be remembered that at a meeting of senior Army officers held last summer at Hurlingham, it was unanimously agreed to form a new polo committee, consisting of the Inspector of Calvary (President), cavalry brigadiers, officers commanding regiments, and representatives of corps, interested in polo, and the three members of the Inter-Regimental Tournament Committee (with the Secretary to act in a similar position to the new committee). The meeting agreed that the objects of the new committee should be: (1) To deal with questions affecting principle in the management of regimental polo, especially with a view to keeping down expenses, &c. (2) To act as a consultative and authoritative body on all questions affecting Army polo. (3) To receive from regiments any suggestions, &c., regarding principle or expenditure connected with polo, &c.; and (4) to strengthen the Executive Inter-Regimental Tournament Committee, but without interfering with its management of the details of the tournament. As a result the following Committee has been formed for 1906:—

Major-General R. S. S. Baden-Powell, C.B., Inspector of Cavalry, President; Major-General H. J. Scobell, C.B., 1st Cavalry Brigade; Brigadier-General Hon. J. Byng, M.V.O., 2nd Cavalry Brigade; Brigadier-General M. F. Rimington, C.B., 3rd Cavalry Brigade; Brigadier-General E. H. Allenby, C.B., 4th Cavalry Brigade; Major-General F. J. W. Eustace, C.B., and Colonel E. J. Phipps-Hornby, V.C., representing Royal Artillery; Colonel G. F. Gorringe, C.M.G., D.S.O., representing Royal Engineers; Major-General Sir W. G. Knox, K.C.B., Major-General A. H. Paget, C.V.O., C.B., Brigadier-General E. A. Alderson, C.B., A.D.C., and Colonel A. J. Godley, Irish Guards, representing Infantry; Colonel T. C. P. Calley, C.B., M.V.O., 1st Life Guards; Colonel C. F. Anstruther-Thomson, M.V.O., D.S.O., 2nd Life Guards; Colonel H. T. Fenwick, M.V.O., D.S.O., Royal Horse Guards; Colonel S. B. Bogle-Smith, C.B., 1st Dragoon Guards; Lieutenant-Colonel H. Mercer, 3rd Dragoon Guards; Lieutenant-Colonel C. W. Thompson, D.S.O., 7th Dragoon Guards; Lieutenant-Colonel C. Williams, Royal Scots Greys; Lieutenant-Colonel H. W. G. Graham, D.S.O., 5th Lancers; Lieutenant-Colonel E. A. Herbert, M.V.O., 6th Dragoons; Lieutenant-Colonel R. L. Walter, 7th Hussars; Lieutenant-Colonel H. N. M. Thoyts, 8th Hussars; Lieutenant-Colonel W. H. Rycroft, 11th Hussars; Colonel E. D. J. O’Brien, 14th Hussars; Colonel G. P. Wyndham, 16th Lancers; Colonel P. S. Marling, V.C., C.B., 18th Hussars; Lieutenant-Colonel H. G. de Pledge, 19th Hussars; Lieutenant-Colonel W. D. Whatman, 20th Hussars; and Colonel J. Fowle, 21st Lancers. Major Lord C. Bentinck, (9th Lancers), Major G. F. Milner, D.S.O. (1st Life Guards), Major G. K. Ansell (6th Dragoons), and Major S. L. Barry, D.S.O. (10th Hussars) (Hon. Sec.), Inter-Regimental Tournament Committee.

The Committee will assemble at Hurlingham the day of, and previous to, the final of the annual Inter-Regimental Tournament.

Two defeats out of the first three eleven-aside matches was a pretty bad start for Mr. Warner’s team, a batting collapse against the Transvaal being followed by a defeat by one wicket in the first so-called Test Match. One may well ask, “Why Test Match, and of what is the match supposed to be a test?” If a test of anything it is probably a test of the judgment, or rather lack of judgment, of those who selected the M.C.C. team. If the South Africans, who are paying the piper, had called this tune and asked for a nice easy team to beat, we could better apprehend the position, but we understand that the South African cricket authorities took an early opportunity of remonstrating against the unrepresentative quality of this team sent out under the ægis of the Marylebone Club. There may be many points of resemblance between the management of the War Office and the Marylebone Club—at any-rate, they seem to have been of one mind in consistently and resolutely under-rating the strength of our opponents in South Africa.

In 1904, when a strong South African team visited this country, they modestly enough asked that they might be allowed to play just one match at the headquarters of cricket against a team representative of the strength of England.

Instead of this, the Marylebone Club put “An England XI.” into the field, and the South Africans won with great ease a victory to which they attached but little importance. This slight has been followed by this unfortunate selection of a team to represent, not the Marylebone Club, for some of the players have nothing to do with that institution, but probably the authority and wisdom of the M.C.C.; and for English cricket and for Mr. P. F. Warner—the Commander-in-chief of this at present somewhat unfortunate team—we much regret that cricketers more representative of English cricket should not have been chosen. But still more do we regret this error of judgment from the point of view of South African cricket. Here is a colony which has beaten the Australians, which has beaten most of our counties, and triumphed over “An England XI.,” at Lord’s, asking for a good England team to come out and teach her cricketers something more; and then comes this melancholy but extremely probable downfall of a moderate enough team in no way representative of English cricket.

No doubt the difficulties in the way of our best amateurs getting away for a winter’s cricket tour are very great; but if it is impossible to get a really good side to accept the hospitality of the South Africans, it would be almost better for the M.C.C. executive to confess their inability to organise a team than to send out anything second-rate.

The Royal Liverpool Club has come to arrangements with Lord Stanley of Alderley, for a lease of the ground at Hoylake, with the loss of which it was threatened some time ago. Considerable addition of expense is entailed upon the club, and to meet it the club subscription and other charges will have to be raised, but the result of the transaction is to preserve the round at Hoylake in its entirety, a consummation for which all golfers will feel devoutly thankful.

It is announced that the Irish Open Championship meeting will be held this year in the first week of September. Last year the experiment was tried of holding it a month earlier, but it did not succeed, and it is hoped that reverting to the old date may draw to the meeting many of the best golfers on this side of the Channel. Portrush is the place of play on this occasion.

The Cricketers’ Golfing Society has set on foot an inter-county tournament on the lines of the County Cricket Championship. The membership of the society is confined to members of first and second class county cricket teams and to University Blues, and it will furnish the teams for the golf tournament.

Teams representing the Stock Exchange and the Dramatic Profession in London engaged in a competition on the links of the Burnham Beeches Club, the former winning by 8¾ against 5½ points.

The Earl of Dudley has decided to give a Challenge Cup for competition each year among members of the two clubs which play on the links at Dollymount and Portmarnock. This cup is intended as a souvenir of the Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland of Lord Dudley.

THE WINTER EXHIBITION AT BURLINGTON HOUSE.

The thirty-seventh Winter Exhibition of the Royal Academy opened on New Year’s Day, consisting this year of a very excellent and representative collection of works by the old masters and deceased masters of the British School. The exhibition is particularly strong in paintings by Reynolds, Gainsborough, Romney, and Turner; and among more recent painters represented are admirable examples of Millais and Burne-Jones. Sporting and animal subjects are not very numerous on the walls. Attention may be drawn to J. F. Herring’s “Return from Deer-stalking” (No. 40); to Sir Edwin Landseer’s “The Catspaw” (No. 50), which, it will be remembered, furnished the late Sir John Tenniel with a text for one of his cleverest Punch cartoons; and to Ralph Caldecott’s animated “Hunting Scenes” (Nos. 240 and 243); “Rabbiting near Cromer” (No. 51), by James Stark, deserves notice, and so does James Ward’s spirited picture of “The Hetman Platoff on the charger which he afterwards gave to Hugh, Earl Percy” (No. 67). The charger, a grey Arab, is a singularly fine piece of work, though it may be objected that no horse, even an Arab, possesses eyes so large as those in the head of this otherwise perfectly drawn animal. The Arabs or Barbs in J. F. Lewis’s “Study of Horses” (No. 246) are well worth close examination as masterpieces of equine anatomy.

Those who have organised the new club at Olympia have left no stone unturned to provide for the increasing demand for all kinds of games during the winter months. There is something very novel in seeing football played under cover upon the huge grass carpet, provided, we understand, at a cost of some five thousand pounds, and covering the entire floor of the building. There are four or five squash racquet courts, twice as many billiard tables, a rifle range, and sufficient space for several games at croquet. But the attraction which will probably draw many visitors to Olympia is the game of Pelota, the national game of Spain, now played for the first time in England by six pelotari, drawn from the professional champions from the Basque country. The game is played on a cement court eighty yards long, by fifty broad, with a front wall, but no side or back walls, though in Spain we believe that some of the best courts have back walls. It is of the same nature as racquets, only the ball—a rubber-cored ball of the size between a base-ball and a fives-ball—is slung by the players against the front wall after being caught in a sickle-shaped basket-work scoop, resembling more than anything else the semi-circular mud-guards held over the wheels of carriages to prevent the soiling of ladies’ dresses. This scoop or chirista is about two feet long, and the dexterity with which the players catch the ball in it, whether it comes straight to them or they have to take it back-handed or on the half volley, is little short of marvellous; the pace of the ball from the back-handed swing is simply terrific, and when it is remembered that the line above which the ball must strike the front wall is of much the same height as that in an ordinary racquet court, it can easily be realised that the server and the front players, who are constantly under fire from the slingers at the back, require a skill which can only be acquired by life-long habit not merely to take their part in the game, but to avoid being seriously injured.

FANCY DRESS BALLS AT COVENT GARDEN.

The fortnightly masquerades at the Royal Opera House are more popular than ever with light-hearted Londoners. Now that the autumn season of opera is over, the whole of the large house is available for the accommodation of the merry throng of dancers who flock to Covent Garden on alternate Fridays, and the additional space afforded by the stage and its surrounding area is beautified by scenery from the near East. The competition for the prizes for the best and most original dresses is apparently more keen than ever, and the march past of competitors is certainly one of the sights of London.

The name of Cinderella certainly is just about now one to conjure with. The phenomenally successful “Catch of the Season” is none other than our old friend in modern dress; at Drury Lane the most attractive pantomime is “Cinderella,” and now the management of the Empire have produced a beautiful ballet in five scenes, which present for more than an hour twice a day a series of some of the most beautiful and striking effects that have been seen for many a long day.

The one and only Mademoiselle Adeline Gênée is the most delightful and dainty Cinderella, and of all her artistic triumphs she has enjoyed none greater than the present, and she is well supported by Mademoiselle Zanfretta as the fairy godmother, Mr. W. Vokes as the décavé Baron, and Mr. Fred Farren as the Baroness. “Cinderella,” produced as a matinée on January 6th, speedily found herself in the evening bill as well as in daily matinées.

The revue “Rogues and Vagabonds” has proved a great attraction, thanks to the extremely clever mimicry of Mr. Arthur Playfair and Miss Marie Dainton, and the performance of Miss Sibyl Arundale as Harlequin. Miss Arundale has a genius which seems to be incapable of being misplaced, and whether she play “Lady Molly,” “Nanoya, the Cingalee,” “The Gipsy Girl,” or Harlequin, she is invariably a great artist.

With the revue written up to date, there seems no reason why it should not remain a prominent feature of the Empire programme for a long time to come.

The Barber-Ritchie cycling trio is one of the cleverest turns at the Empire, and certainly it seems unlikely that proficiency in cycling can well reach a much higher development than this. Unless our memory fails us, we were thrilled some months ago by seeing Mr. Barber loop the loop on the Empire stage, and Mr. Ritchie is, we hope, none other than our old friend the Tramp Cyclist, whose grotesque disasters and stock of superfluous collars caused us so much merriment a little time ago. We hope that the Barber-Ritchie combination will be visible in London for some long time to come.

BALLET AT THE ALHAMBRA.

The grand ballet “Parisiana” now holds the stage at the Alhambra, and a very magnificent show it is, with its variety of kaleidoscopic scenes ranging from 1760 down to 1906. The chief scenes are by Menessier, representing “Grand Magasins du Printemps,” with a ballet of peignoirs, parfumerie, corsages, and so on, and the final scene, “La Fête de Neuilly,” which is a fine spectacle.

Mademoiselle Jane May, the pantomimic success of “L’Enfant Prodigue,” is to be found playing a silently voluble Pierrot and gamin, and perhaps there is almost too much of her performance, as the pantomime appears rather to check the action of the ballet. La Sylphe executes some of her characteristic dances, and the entire setting of the production is very beautiful. “My Lady Nicotine” still holds its place in the programme of the Alhambra, in which also La Sylphe and Miss Edith Slacke are to be seen. The other items of the programme are good, but almost too fleeting for us to mention in a monthly notice, although “Urbanora,” or “We put the world before you,” is always with us, and very amusing indeed are the pictures of “Dolly Land” and “Noah’s Ark.”

We have received from Messrs. Lawrence and Jellicoe, Limited, 16, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W.C., a set of four coloured drawings by Mr. Leonard Ravenhill, entitled “Bridge Problems.” The drawings, which are published by special arrangement with the proprietors of Punch, depict the humorous side of the game, the expressions of the players’ faces being particularly well portrayed. The set of four signed proofs can be had from the publishers at four guineas, the price of a set of prints being one and a half guineas.

Such elementary ideas as to the correct management of foxhound puppies as those possessed by many by whom the youngsters are walked must have frequently given cause for anxiety to the Master and his kennel huntsman, who have entrusted their charges to the tender mercies of the walkers. Often a few hints are all that are needed to enable the well-meaning but inexperienced walker to provide against the mishaps to which puppies are peculiarly liable. These hints are supplied in a leaflet by an M.F.H., which gives instructions on walking hound puppies, and which is being sold for the benefit of the fowl fund of an Irish hunt by Lady Coghill, Glen Barrahane, Castletownshend, co. Cork, at 2d. each, or 1s. 6d. per dozen. Directions as to food, lodging, manners, and illness are briefly given, which, if intelligently followed, will prevent avoidable illness, which so often ends the career of a promising puppy, and will make the huntsman’s task of training them far easier than is often the case when the puppies have contracted riotous habits while at walk.

On December 16th, Sir C. Courtenay Knollys, K.C.M.G., Governor of the Leeward Islands, died at Southsea. The deceased was in his college days a very fine sculler, and in 1872 won the Diamond Sculls. In the following year he rowed in the Oxford crew at Putney.

There was an interesting function in connection with the meet of the Sinnington Hounds at Douthwaite Dale, Kirby Moorside, on December 16th. This was the presentation to the late Master, Mr. Sherbrooke, and Mrs. Sherbrooke, of a large oil painting, representing Mr. and Mrs. Sherbrooke, mounted, with hounds, in charge of Mr. Robin Hill, breaking cover at Riseborough Haggs. The presentation was made by Lord Helmsley, who followed Mr. Sherbrooke in the mastership of the pack, and who paid a warm compliment to the manner in which hounds had been hunted during the ten years Mr. Sherbrooke had held the mastership. In his reply, Mr. Sherbrooke spoke with deep satisfaction of the host of valuable friends he and his wife had made during the time hounds were under his care.

We have to record the death of Captain Hugh Browning, of Clapham Park, Bedford, which occurred on December 18th, in his sixty-seventh year. Captain Browning was Master of the Oakley Foxhounds from 1888 to 1897, and showed consistently good sport with the pack.

We regret to record a nasty accident to Lord Chesham, which occurred while out with the Pytchley Hounds on December 20th, and resulted in three fractured ribs, through his horse falling in jumping a fence.

At the meet of the Earl of Eglinton’s Hounds on December 23rd there was a pleasing incident, when Mr. and Mrs. William Baird, of High Balsarroch, were the recipients of a presentation from the members and subscribers of the Hunt on the occasion of the sixtieth anniversary of their marriage. The presentation was made on behalf of the subscribers by Lord Eglinton, and consisted of a piece of plate and a purse of sovereigns. His lordship alluded to the assistance Mr. and Mrs. Baird and their family had rendered to the Hunt during their long residence in the country. They have been at High Balsarroch for twenty-six years, and occupied the neighbouring farm of Mount Fergusson for thirty years previously.

Mr. William Hanway, of Laragh, near Maynooth, died from heart failure on December 24th, in his seventy-first year. Mr. Hanway, who was a well-known rider across country and at the Kildare and Punchestown meetings, rode at the latter in April last, and was out with the Kildare Hunt the day before his decease.

A banquet was given at the Blue Bell Hotel, Belford, on December 28th, to Mr. Richard Burdon-Sanderson, who relinquished his pack of foxhounds last season after a long period of office, when a testimonial was given. The presentation took the form of a dessert service of old silver, and there was also given to Mr. James A. H. Burdon-Sanderson a silver tea-tray in recognition of his valuable services as deputy master of his brother’s foxhounds. The presentations were made in the presence of a large company by the Duke of Northumberland.

At the early age of fifty-one years, Mr. Clervaux Morley Saunders, of Bovicott, Devon, died at his residence on December 28th. Mr. Saunders was well known in the West country as a keen sportsman, and only a few years ago formed and hunted the Bovicott Otterhounds. He was also a breeder of horses, a member of the Council of the Polo Society, and a good supporter of agriculture.

While hunting with the Whaddon Chase Hounds on December 30th, the Countess of Orkney was thrown from her horse and sustained concussion of the brain.

On January 4th there died at Tissington Park, Derbyshire, the Rev. Sir Richard Fitzherbert, Bart., who was in his day a fine athlete and horseman. In the sixties the deceased gentleman represented Cambridge against Oxford at the hurdle race, and he was always a very good man across a country.

While out with the Duke of Buccleuch’s Hounds on January 6th, Mr. John Clay, of Chicago, who is hunting from Sunlaws, Kelso, had the bad luck to break his collar-bone.

Will Thompson, huntsman to Lord Fitzhardinge’s Hounds, sustained a bad fall on January 6th, through his horse swerving and coming down at a gate.

On January 6th, the Hon. Ivor Guest sold Pat 350 gs., Cotton 200 gs., Rarity 350 gs.; Captain the Hon. F. Guest’s Ireland made 200 gs., Spade Ace 280 gs., Scotchman 150 gs., Limerick 200 gs.; the Earl of Lonsdale’s Wallaby 300 gs., Fairy Saint 120 gs.; the Hon. Gilbert Johnstone’s St. Patrick 140 gs., Clansman 100 gs., and Call Boy 110 gs.

The Bedale Hunt has lost a prominent member in Mr. R. Hutton-Squire, who died suddenly at his residence, Holtby Hall, Bedale, on January 10th.

The skeleton of Ormonde has been received in England, to be added to the relics of the many other famous British racehorses now reposing at the Natural History Museum. Mr. Macdonough, his owner, having generously acceded to a request of the British Museum that his remains should be sent to this country to be preserved in the national repository of his native land. The skeleton will, it is understood, soon be exhibited to the public in the Gallery of Domesticated Animals.

A really comfortable general purpose glove, adapted equally well for use when hunting, driving, riding, or walking is a very desirable article to possess. The “Pytchley Hunt” glove would almost appear to fill the requirement. Manufactured of tan cape, specially cut, hand sewn, with Bolton thumb, it is claimed for it to be the best all-round glove upon the market. One feature is the fastening, a single button, which is on the reverse side to the ordinary use and undue pressure upon the wrist is prevented by this arrangement. The glove is one of the specialities of the Barnard Glove Depot, 52 and 53, Cheapside, London, E.C.

We regret to record the death of Mr. W. N. Heysham, the Honorary Auditor of the Hunt Servants’ Benefit Society. Mr. Heysham was one of the originators of this Society, and from its conception was one of the most energetic workers on its behalf. Mr. Heysham was an old contributor to Baily.

Last year the only stallions to be represented by two-year-old winners alone, according to Horse and Hound, were Balsamo, £475; Benvenuto, £100; Bertie, £547; Catch the Wind, £141; Damocles, £826; Diamond Jubilee, £3,999; Diplomat, £973; Elopement, £100; Grebe, £424; King’s Messenger, £1,246; Mackintosh, £395; Galashiels, £2,723; General Peace, £292; Glencally, £200; Ninus, £196; Spook, £276; Tom Cringle, £195.

The bay horse, Pietermaritzburg, foaled 1898 by St. Simon—Sea Air, by Isonomy, has been sold by Mr. George Faber to go to the Argentine for £16,000. As a four-year-old he won the Jockey Club Stakes.

The sales of hunters during the past few weeks include Colonel Grenfell’s Rogers 200 gs., Gimlet 175 gs.; Mr. Austin Carr’s Electric and Duchess 135 gs. each; The Slave 120 gs., Favourite 100 gs.; Mrs. Barclay’s bay gelding 160 gs.; Colonel Malcolm Little’s, C.B., Kuroki, 300 gs.; Mr. Charles Jenkinson’s Mars 160 gs., Ladybird 180 gs., Ginger 130 gs., and Rattle 135 gs.

A celebrated oarsman lately passed away in Mr. H. W. Schreiber, of Trinity Hall, President of the C.U.B.C. in 1855. In that year the long “Crimean” frost, which did not break up till February 24th, and which left Father Thames full of ice-floes for much later, effectually preventing any Putney matches being brought off. But by consent the two U.B.C.’s met in the Grand Challenge Cup at the ensuing Henley Regatta, and Cambridge won somewhat easily. Mr. Schreiber on that occasion, says the Field of December 23rd, rowed No. 3 at 11st. 5lb. In the following year he was expected to take an oar in the Cambridge Putney crew, but was prevented from doing so by reason of examinations.

TURF.

FOOTBALL.

December 16th.—At Birkenhead, North v. South, latter won by 16 points to 10.*

December 16th.—At Inverleith, Edinburgh Wanderers v. Cambridge University, latter won by 21 points to 6.*

December 21st.—At Swansea, Glamorgan v. New Zealand, latter won by 3 tries to 0.*

December 26th.—At Cardiff, Cardiff v. New Zealand, latter won by 2 goals to 1 goal 1 try.*

December 28th.—At Everton, Northern Nomads v. Corinthians, latter won by 4 goals to 3.†

December 30th.—At Swansea, Swansea v. New Zealand, latter won by 4 points to 3.*

December 30th.—At Blackheath, Blackheath v. Marlborough Nomads, former won by 2 goals 2 tries to 1 goal 1 try.*

January 1st.—At Glasgow, Queen’s Park v. Corinthians, latter won by 2 goals to 1.†

January 1st.—At Paris, France v. New Zealand, latter won by 38 points to 8.*

January 6th.—At Upton, Casuals v. Clapton, latter won by 2 goals to 1.†

January 6th.—At Richmond, London Scottish v. United Services, former won by 27 points to 5.*

January 6th.—At Leyton, Casuals v. Belgian Association, former won by 12 goals to 0.†

January 6th.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Marlborough Nomads, former won by 1 goal to 0.*

January 8th.—At Fulham, Amateurs v. Professionals, latter won by 1 goal to 0.†

January 13th.—At Richmond, England v. Wales, latter won by 15 points to 3.*

Early Carriages and Roads

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CONTENTS.

Mr. Edward Mashiter, better known in Essex under his old name of Helme, was born in 1842, and was entered to hounds at the age of eight in Thoby Wood in the Essex country, during the mastership of Mr. Henley Greaves. His love of hunting, which is as keen now as in his youth, is inherited from his father, Mr. Thomas Helme, who hunted for many years in Essex, residing at Thoby Priory. Mr. Mashiter was educated at Winchester, settled down in Essex in 1861, and from that time to the present has hunted with the Essex and the Essex Union Hounds. He became Secretary to the Essex Union Hunt in 1878, and held that office during Mr. White’s, Captain Carnegy’s, and part of Captain Kemble’s masterships. On resigning the secretaryship in 1891, he was presented with a testimonial, consisting of silver candelabra, by the members of the Hunt. Mr. Mashiter resided at Hornchurch Lodge, his father’s place, from 1867 until 1890, subsequently living a few years at Hou Hatch, Brentwood, and in 1898 became Master of the Essex Union Hounds, in succession to Colonel Hornby, and has continued Master to the present time.

In the ’seventies Mr. Mashiter twice narrowly escaped losing his life in the hunting field. Whilst hunting with the York and Ainsty Hounds, during the mastership of Colonel Fairfax, his horse was carried off his legs when crossing a ford of the River Nid, near Kirk-Hammerton, with the result that Mr. Mashiter had to swim across the river, but got safely out with a ducking. Some years afterwards, when hunting with the South and West Wilts, of which his cousin, the late Captain Burchall Helme, was then Master, a collision with a runaway horse in the village of Tisbury gave him a fall which knocked him out of time. The runaway broke its shoulder in two places and had to be destroyed.

Mr. Mashiter assumed the name of Mashiter instead of Helme in 1899 in accordance with the will of his great-uncle, Mr. Thomas Mashiter, of Hornchurch Lodge.

On undertaking the mastership of the Essex Union Hounds Mr. Mashiter put on Arthur Thatcher, who had been the first whipper-in to Mr. Fernie for several seasons, as huntsman, and very good sport Thatcher showed. He left the Essex Union after two seasons to go as huntsman to the Cottesmore, where he has made his mark as one of the best huntsmen of the day. George Tongue, from the Blankney, succeeded Thatcher and has given very great satisfaction in every way.

Mr. Mashiter is a magistrate for Essex. He has also been a director of the well-known Romford Brewery for many years, but has ceased to take an active part in business since he became Master of the Hounds. He married, in 1867, Augusta, who died in 1895, eldest daughter of the Rev. Henry Annesley Hawkins, of Topcliffe, Yorks, and a niece of the late Captain Cooper, known as “Billy Cooper,” well known in the coaching world as one of the best amateur whips in England.

Mr. Mashiter now resides at Gatwick, near Billericay, in order to be near the kennels.

With the view of collecting information on the subject of distemper, we addressed enquiries to the masters of a number of those hunts in whose kennels last season the disease took an unusually serious form, and also to masters whose kennels had escaped lightly. The replies received are exceedingly full and informing; and as the views of the writers cannot fail to be of interest, we propose in the following pages to set out a selection of opinions collected.

It will be convenient to give the letters in the alphabetical sequence of the writers’ names.

Mr. E. E. Barclay, master of the Puckeridge, whose kennels sustained very serious losses in 1904–5, writes:—

“Distemper is like ‘scent,’ the more one sees of it the less one knows about it. All I do know is that it is a terribly fatal disease amongst hounds of all sorts, and in my experience almost invariably seems to pick out and kill the strongest and best of one’s entry. I have kept hounds (harriers and foxhounds) now for twenty-eight years, and have always bred a good many young hounds, so necessarily have seen a good deal, in fact, far too much, of distemper, and have now come to the conclusion that physic of any sort has very little to do with getting a hound through an attack. The only thing one can do is to keep them warm; don’t let the temperature of the hospital fall below 60° during the twenty-four hours, with plenty of fresh air but no draughts, and nurse them very carefully, feeding them a little at the time and often. Keep them clean, often sponging their eyes, nose, and lips with disinfectant to keep the offensive discharge, which usually accompanies bad cases, from getting caked.

“In the form that attacks their heads with twitching and blindness, setons in the back of the neck often help. In the more fatal lung cases with pneumonia, applications of mustard to the chest and sides is the only thing that may do good, but this form often turns to double pneumonia and the patients die in a few hours. In some cases distemper seems to turn to blood poisoning, attacking especially the feet, so that the feet almost rot away.

“I have found that those hounds that have frequent fits seldom recover, and if by chance they do pull round they are generally left with ‘snatches’ or chorea. Strychnine will often help ‘snatches’ at first, but if a hound has got them badly he seldom gets much better of them, though he may recover from the distemper itself.

“I only remember two summers when we did not have distemper badly in kennel, but in both these years the young hounds went down with it badly in the middle of December and we lost several, just when they were in hard work; and of course those that recovered were of little use for that hunting season.

“A medical friend was telling me one day of the way they now treat bad cases of pneumonia by putting the patient into an iced bath. This is done, of course, to get the temperature down, for what so often kills in cases of pneumonia is the collapse of the heart owing to high fever. Just at this time I had a very nice young dog-hound, who had been ill with distemper for a long time; it turned to pneumonia and he was ‘blowing’ like a grampus. He had a temperature of 105°,^[4] and was apparently as good as dead and would have been so in an hour. We carried him into the feeding room and turned the cold water hose on him—down his neck, back and all over him. He very soon began to revive and in a short time stood up with his stern erect, evidently enjoying the treatment; he stopped ‘blowing’ after a short time, and in about fifteen minutes his temperature was 101½°. We carefully dried him without rubbing him more than we could help, and put him back into hospital. He seemed quite comfortable, the ‘blowing’ had entirely ceased and did not return.

“That hound did well for the next ten days, and we quite thought we had saved him when he suddenly died of heart failure. I own this experiment was not a success entirely, but here we had a case of very bad pneumonia in which the patient after a long illness was at the point of death, who through our success in getting his temperature down and completely stopping the ‘blowing,’ lived on and did well for ten days. I firmly believe if his strength had not been undermined by a long spell of illness before we tried the experiment that he would have recovered.

“I have tried all the so-called ‘cures’ for distemper, both old receipts and new, in the form of balls, powders, and liquid, and have come to the conclusion that they have little to do with a hound’s recovery.

“You use someone’s ‘Distemper Balls’ one year when you happen to have a mild run of the disease, and having very few fatal cases that year, you at once think it is this wonderful ball that has cured them!

“Next year you use the same ‘cure’ and your young hounds die like flies. I notice that puppies at walk often get what seems to be distemper and get over it, but when they come in down they go with the kennel distemper and they die.

“We always keep going in the hospital one or more Cresoline lamps, such as are sold at chemists, for burning in rooms of children suffering from whooping cough; this, I am sure, helps the lung and throat cases, and at any rate is a good disinfectant and can do no harm. I am now erecting, detached from the rest of the kennel buildings, a large brick hospital with a range of hot water pipes round three sides of the room, with Tobin ventilators to admit fresh air without creating a draught, and a good-sized lantern skylight in the roof to let out the foul air; and hope this may help us to nurse a larger proportion of distempered hounds through their trouble.

“It is a curious fact, but I have constantly observed that when, as there often are, among the lot ‘down’ with the disease, a young hound or two which, by reason of size or some other cause, are useless, and for that reason get no extra attention and no physic; these pull through without difficulty, whilst the pick of the entry, with every care bestowed upon them, die off wholesale. I am quite sure the distemper one gets in hound-kennels is quite different from that which the ordinary cur dog gets.

“I have tried carefully for two seasons Dr. Physallix’s inoculation serum, under two different veterinary surgeons, both clever men; but all to no purpose, the mortality being quite as high in the inoculated cases as in the whelps that had not been inoculated.”

Mr. Barclay holds that the subject of distemper is one that should receive the special attention of the M.F.H. Association, that it should be taken up in earnest and researches pursued systematically.

Mr. Assheton Biddulph (King’s County) holds that the strictest care and cleanliness in the kennel do much to minimise the consequences of an attack of distemper. In his kennels a very thorough system of cleaning and ventilation, combined with very free use of disinfectants, is enforced. The kennels are washed carefully and often with disinfectants, and are subjected to a weekly purification with chloride of lime, which is spread about under the benches; moreover, they are washed out at intervals daily with some carbolic fluid. “For several years,” says Mr. Biddulph, “I had no distemper in my kennels, from the time I began to follow the system above mentioned; and I feel convinced that it was neglect and the omission to carry out my orders that caused a sore visitation of it some five years ago. Since then I have had years without suffering an attack at all, and when the disease has appeared it has been in the mildest form.”

Mr. Biddulph attributes the immunity from illness enjoyed by his horses to similar precautions.

Mr. A. Scott Browne, who reported last summer that distemper appeared in the worst form known in twenty-five years’ experience, states that the disease took the form of septic pneumonia; hounds attacked often died before they lost condition, sometimes within thirty-six hours of the first symptoms of illness appearing. Most of those that succumbed had been inoculated with the serum tried by Mr. Barclay, “but,” adds Mr. Scott Browne, drily, “I have no reason to suppose, from a previous experiment, that this caused them to contract the disease in a more virulent form.”

Mr. T. Butt Miller (V.W.H., Cricklade) is unable to express any opinion; his experience is representative of the mysterious and fitful character of the disease. In 1904–5 he was very fortunate in escaping lightly. This year he has had it very badly, not only among the puppies at walk, but also among the young hounds that were entered this season.

Captain H. A. Cartwright (Wilton), writes as follows in explanation of the comparative immunity his hounds enjoyed in 1905:—

“I believe my walks on these Wiltshire Downs are very healthy, and being few, we only breed from the very best bitches likely to produce vigorous offspring, and do not breed from inferior bitches on the chance of getting something good or having a draft to sell. We are, however, handicapped by the necessity for confining the bitches in whelp, and with whelps, to the paddock, as it is near a big game preserve; and although I have a couple of bitches at a time on my own farm here, it is dangerous, owing to the prevalence of poison.

“As regards treatment, Sweetman, my huntsman, relies more on nourishment than physic, and allows the sick puppies no water. We lose more by yellows than distemper.”

Mr. A. W. Hall Dare (Wexford), believes that all hounds must have the disease some time in their lives; he has found that a really bad attack always leaves some weakness. Most cures are useful in some cases, according to his experience, but none are infallible.

Mr. Henry Hawkins, whose harriers suffered severely last spring, attributes the numerous deaths among his puppies chiefly to the fact that there was a continuous and cold east wind blowing at the time of the mortality.

Mr. M. L. W. Lloyd-Price, who has kept hounds for sixteen years, and a great many other dogs for over thirty years, having usually reared from twenty to thirty couples of whelps annually, writes as follows:—

“I have taken great pains to try to discover everything I could re distemper. I can give you no fresh idea for prevention of the malady. I have been, I may say, very lucky with regard to it, only getting it on an average bi-annually, and losing on an average only 10 per cent. Of this fact I feel confident, that the disease is not so bad among hounds in Wales as in England; possibly English hounds are higher bred, and that may be to some extent a reason. Also, I believe, hounds in Wales are more roughly brought up at their walks than in England, and allowed more liberty. This may be a reason also, although, as the farmer’s sheep-dogs get it very severely and many succumb, this is doubtful. I have been much troubled by kennel lameness, and a prevention for this would be more valuable to me even than one for distemper.”

Mr. R. W. McKergow (Southdown) writes: “In answer to your letter of yesterday, I cannot give any definite reason as to why we lost so many young hounds at walk in 1904–5. I think we had too many in some of the villages, and when the distemper broke out the whelps infected each other. We found that puppies at walk in more isolated districts stood a much better chance of recovery. I may add that this year we have chosen our ‘walks’ rather more carefully, and I believe we shall have a much better return. We sent out about fifty couple last year, and have, I believe, about thirty-two or thirty-three couple standing up and doing well. I may add that motor-cars were responsible for the death of some three couples last year, and during the last few months we have lost a further couple and a half from the same cause.”

Colonel A. C. Newland (Tivyside) says that although he lost only one hound last season the whole of the young entry suffered from distemper, and badly, too, in several cases. He continues: “I can only attribute our being fortunate enough to lose but one to the fact that every care was taken from the moment distemper showed in a hound to feed it up as much as possible, port wine, eggs, and beef tea being administered if necessary.”

Mr. A. L. Ormrod (Aspull Harriers), in course of an interesting letter, says: “Two or three of the puppies that came in from walk in the spring of 1905, so far as I can tell, have not suffered at all from distemper. The change of food and general conditions of living on first coming into kennel is always a trying period for puppies, and any inherent weakness in their constitution is likely to make itself manifest then. I should be interested to know how the proportion of hounds received back into kennels from puppy walkers compares with the experiences of breeders of other classes of hounds or dogs, such as greyhounds, sporting dogs, or even terriers.”

Mrs. Pryse Rice, who last summer was happy in her ability to report “no losses, nor have there been any for a number of years,” writes: “I regret to say I know of no prevention for distemper. All our hounds have it either at walk or when they come in to kennel. In the last ten years we have sent out to walk 115 couples, and the total losses, as returned in our puppy register, by distemper, have been two hounds in kennel (when we had it in a very bad form), and one of the whelps now out at walk. This year I think we have had distemper in its very worst form, not only having the puppies at walk down with it, but also the whole of the entry taken ill within three days of one another in the middle of the hunting season. Of the former we have lost the one previously mentioned; of the latter the greater part are now hunting again, and the others will be out in a few days. I think the small losses we have are, in the case of the whelps at walk, due to the very great interest taken in the puppies by the walkers, who, immediately a puppy seems out of sorts, report to the kennels, and on learning what to do take every possible means to save it. The reason we lose so few in kennel is, I think, due to the fact that neither we nor our men neglect the slightest symptoms of distemper in a hound that has not had it, and even though it appears to be but a slight cold, give at once a distemper powder. The cure for distemper I would sum up in a few words—good nursing, plenty of fresh milk, and use of Heald’s distemper powders immediately the slightest symptoms declare themselves.”

Mr. E. P. Rawnsley (Southwold) writes: “My losses of last season were not serious, because, instead of losing the best hounds, the worst died, though all had it. In the Southwold kennel we never fail to have the disease badly, though I have tried every sort of prevention and cure. My own idea is that it is almost an inevitable complaint, but if hounds could be separated, only a couple being put together, and one experienced man was told off to each four couple to nurse them night and day, with special cooking for them and the use of every modern antiseptic treatment, very few would die; the amount of room required and the expense entailed would be enormous, as thirty couple or more may be all down with it.”

Mr. Thomas Robson (North Tyne) attributes the virulence of the disease to the kennels. “Although,” he says, “we had no loss when the puppies were at walk, I lost some after they came in—in fact, this place seems fatal. I have lost as many as nine puppies in a fortnight, the only survivor being a collie which lay outside in a straw stack and got no attention whatever, while the other patients were coddled and got every attention; these, however, were younger than the collie. I lost seven greyhounds out of nine in October, and it is only an odd terrier I am able to rear here. I have known a tame fox die at the same time as terrier and foxhound puppies.”

Mr. H. W. Selby Lowndes (East Kent) writes: “There is no doubt that distemper is contagious. It assumes different forms at different periods. I consider that there is a difference in dogs as regards their susceptibility. It is noticeable that mongrels and hardy dogs will escape, while pure-bred dogs of a valuable breed are most susceptible.... As a rule, dogs have distemper but once, but I understand cases are known of dogs having it three and even four times. There are several forms of the disease. (1) That which is accompanied by a nasty husky cough, sneezing, increase of pulse, and temperature irregular; sickness is an early symptom, the animal soon wastes away, and there is a discharge of muco-purulent matter, and weeping from the eyes. (2) This form takes the shape of fits, and is most fatal. (3) The hepatic form, in which the leading features are yellowness of the skin and visible mucous membrane, constipation, hard and colourless fæces, urine deeply coloured, with little wasting, no cough, but symptoms of fever.

“As regards management, the following are the methods adopted in my kennel, which are fairly healthy. I have a grass yard and lodging which was used for many years for young hounds that came in from walk. During the first two years of my mastership, when the young hounds used the grass yard, distemper broke out very badly, and I lost a great many. Since then young hounds have not used the yard, and have been kept, as far as possible, on entirely fresh ground each year. They are kept in an ordinary kennel and flagged yard, but have any amount of liberty and exercise, and are taken where they can eat fresh grass, the natural physic of dogs. My kennels are annually disinfected, and, above all, the drains are carefully overhauled.

“When young hounds come in from walk Benbow’s mixture is a rare tonic for them. When seized by distemper, in the first stage we give an emetic—tartarised antimony 2 grs., and calomel 2 grs., followed up by a vegetable tonic such as gentian, ginger, &c., 10 grs., and in all cases good nursing. If the hound rejects his food and is sick, we give diffusible stimulants, and as a tonic 1½ grs. of quinine and a little port-wine three times a day. When a hound’s brain is becoming affected, as a rule any discharge from the nostrils diminishes; the animal begins to eat, and appears to be doing well; then suddenly he becomes excited, and fits follow. When this occurs a seton should be put in between the ears, and if the hound is constipated a mild purgative should be given. Fits, as said above, however, usually indicate a fatal form of distemper.

“In cases of yellow distemper give an ounce of Peruvian bark and a glass of port-wine three times a day.... Whatever remedy of the many in favour is used good nursing is most essential, plenty of air during the day, and warmth at night. Benbow’s mixture gives an appetite, and thus helps to keep the hound’s strength. When the appetite is gone, the patient should be given any dainty morsel procurable. Artificial heating in the hospital is a mistake. In all cases tonics should be the foundation of the treatment, with good nursing.”

Captain Standish (West Hambledon) remarks that distemper varies in intensity from year to year. The diaries kept by his father during his mastership of the Hursley, 1862–69, and the New Forest Hounds, 1869–74, show that he sustained heavy losses: and this despite the fact that in those days the absence of motor-cars and less rigorous game preserving made it possible to give hounds at walk greater liberty.

The Earl of Stradbroke (Henham Harriers) writes:

“After enjoying freedom from distemper for several years, it broke out last November, having been introduced by a retriever. The disease attacked the older hounds, none of the younger ones being affected; possibly the latter may have had distemper while at walk. One hound died. The disease seemed to be in the head and lungs. The treatment I adopted was to give a dose of castor oil directly a hound showed any sign of being amiss, and then Spratt’s Distemper Pills, feeding on milk or gravy, and avoiding all solid food for some days. Several of the hounds were very ill, the strongest being the most severely affected, but, with the one exception, they all pulled round, and none of them seem any the worse now, though it took them some weeks to recover condition.”

Mr. Hubert M. Wilson (Cheshire) thinks that his small losses of the spring of 1905 were rather a matter of good fortune than anything else. But he says: “I certainly had the young hounds put in couples as soon as they came in from quarters, and regularly exercised instead of being turned loose into the kennel. I also built a new kennel of wood, with a very good cinder yard, where they seemed to do very much better than in former years. These are all the precautions that occur to me at the moment that were taken. But I cannot help thinking that the hounds that are in-bred to certain strains are, if not liable to distemper, certainly less able to resist it.”

In answer to a further query, Mr. Wilson says that his last remark was meant to apply to in-breeding to any strain too much, and not to any particular strain of blood.

Some interesting and suggestive points are raised in the foregoing letters; as these indicate the necessity for further enquiry, and as space forbids any adequate review in the present number of the information kindly furnished by our correspondents, we propose to return to the subject in a future issue.

I saw a good deal of sport with the Pytchley and Quorn and also with Mr. Tailby’s hounds in old days. I remember one season, when I was staying with Mr. Angerstein at Kelmarsh, the Pytchley had been passing through a phase of indifferent sport, not having killed a fox for several days. On one of these days, after dinner, there was much talk on the subject, and some abuse of the huntsman, Charles Payne, and the hounds; I had a high opinion of both, and defended them, saying that the fault lay not with them, but with the Northamptonshire squires and the field. Mr. Vyse thereupon said he should like to know what I should do were I the master. I told him I would not put meat in my mouth until my hounds had been fed upon fox.

The reply brought down a good deal of chaff upon me. Next day, as it happened, we had a good run with an afternoon fox. After passing Yelverton Gorse, I felt sure that the main earth on the Hemploe was his point, and determined to give hounds a helping hand if it could be done; so, riding straight across the vale to the Hemploe, I reached the main earth barely two minutes before the hunted fox arrived, and turned him away. Hounds were coming steadily along, but half-way up the hill several foxes were afoot, and the pack divided, only five hounds sticking to the line of the hunted fox. Payne blew his horn to get them together, and the second whipper-in, attempting to stop the five, I told him they would kill their fox if he left them alone.

“What am I to do, Sir?” he asked.

I said, “You hear the huntsman’s horn?” and the man did nothing. Very soon after Payne came up, rather angry. The whipper-in, however, disarmed him by confessing that he had done wrong; “But,” he added, “I could not stop them, as Mr. Fellowes said they were killing their fox.” Whereupon Payne laid the body of the pack on the line, and killed in a few minutes.

I had the best of it that evening after dinner.

I was in the famous Waterloo run of February 22, 1866. Its merits have been very much overrated, for hounds were constantly changing foxes, and were never near catching any one of them. It was only a journey.

One of the fastest runs I ever saw in the Midlands was fifty-five minutes, from Thorpe Trussels to Rolleston. William Coke (otherwise known as “Billy Coke”), my old college friend, Stirling Crawfurd, Little Gilmour, and myself were alone with hounds when they killed in Rolleston Spinney; the pace had beaten the rest of the field. Another time I had a very fast gallop from Parson’s Gorse up to Bunny Park. The incident remains in memory, as I had it all to myself on a five-year-old horse, The Kite (by Falcon, dam by Julius Cæsar), belonging to Mr. Crawfurd. The Kite’s portrait, by Ferneley, now hangs at Buchanan Castle.

I had some good horses in those days. In a run from Crick Gorse hounds crossed the Stamford and Rugby Railway, then in process of construction, and enclosed with new double posts and rails. My horse jumped them both, in and out, and I was up when the fox went to ground in the yard at the back of Standford Hall.

The first man to come up was that fine old fellow, Sir Francis Head; I did not know him to speak to. He, however, made me a profound bow, saying he “hoped I was satisfied with myself.” I said my satisfaction was less with myself than my horse, as indeed it was, for that was my first day on him.

The Wizard was one of the best hunters I ever had. At the finish of a fine run with the Pytchley he jumped the Avon, in spite of the fact that the flood water was out on each side of him. It was a big jump; Jim Mason, the steeplechase rider, and many others, failed to reach the other side. Mason was so impressed with The Wizard, that he offered to pay me the value of the stakes of the Liverpool Steeplechase before the horse started, if I would lend him for six weeks; but I refused. He was well suited for the Liverpool course: fast, good at water, and also at banks—thanks to his training in Norfolk.

Mason had a vein of originality in him. Returning from hunting to Market Harborough from Langton one afternoon, he and some others had to cross the brook. Fog came on very suddenly, and they could not find the ford; they turned back, but it was so thick they could not find the gate. Mason then said there was nothing for it but to cry “Murder,” to bring some one to their aid, and he did it lustily. Nobody coming to help, he changed his tactics. “Let’s be very jolly and laugh,” he suggested. The rest agreeing, they laughed so long and loudly, that three labourers came to see what the joke was.

The Coot, a chestnut, was another good horse. On him I had a grand gallop from Waterloo Gorse, by Tally-ho Stick Covert to ground near Cottesbrooke Park. It was a very fast thing, and there was nobody else in sight of hounds during the latter half of the run.

The Coot was well known in Leicestershire in his day. Visiting the patients in the Leicester Infirmary one day, a poor fellow, who lay very ill in his bed, called to me, “Squire, Squire,” as I was leaving the ward. Going to his bedside, I found that he wanted to enquire after the health and well-being of the Coot.

One morning, when staying at Lamport Hall, I went to meet the Quorn at Keythorpe Hall, and as I came near, Charles Leslie (then M.P. for Monaghan) came galloping forward to meet me with a message from Sir Richard Sutton. It appeared that at a large party which had taken place overnight at Quorndon Hall there had been much talk about various riders, and Sir Richard had declared that if I were out I should beat the whole field. Leslie had sent his best horse, Marmion, for me to ride; but I preferred my own, and did not regret it.

It was as well that hounds were able to run that day, for there was some pretty hard riding. They found in Ram’s Head Gorse, and ran fast, over a very strongly-fenced country, to Stockerston Wood. I led during the whole run, jumping gates and whatever else came in the way; and when hounds entered the wood the only other man in the field was Little Gilmour. Lord Cardigan was close up with him: he had put his thumb out of joint in a bad fall, and had to go home.

In talking over the riders he knew with Lord Cardigan, he paid Lord Wilton what I thought a great compliment, saying he thought nothing of his riding, “for he would jump through the bars of a gate.” It seemed to me to prove the ease with which he crossed country, and certainly few men were often as near hounds as Lord Wilton in a good run.

Sir Richard Sutton was always very kind to me. I well remember his gratification when I justified his good predictions that I should cut down the field. But on another day I had the misfortune to get into his bad books. He was going to draw Norton Gorse, and on the way we had to pass through Ilston Spinney. Having had a hint from a farmer, I made haste to get through the spinney, and when half-way heard a view halloo. Away went the fox and away went the hounds on a blazing scent—no master, no servants, and a hard riding field on the top of the pack, with nobody to keep them in hand. It was a regular scurry, and many of them got falls, among them Lord Wilton. At last hounds checked, and the Baronet came up. We had unduly pressed hounds, and nobody had a word to say when he spoke his mind about it. We all caught it in a strain we remembered, though Sir Richard never allowed an abusive word to pass his lips. Egged on by others, I begged him to let us off, promising to help kill the fox, for I had seen him in the Norton Brook while I was in the air. Hounds were got on to the line, and, settling to it, soon killed him.

“Now,” said Sir Richard, “I will serve you all out; I’ll find my next fox in Charnwood Forest.”

There was general dismay at this announcement, for Charnwood Forest was fourteen miles off. Lord Gardner, recovering the shock first, came up to me.

“You must stop this!” he said. “Go and apologise for us.” I declined, feeling and saying that I was no better than the worst among the offenders; but on Lord Gardner’s urging that “there was nobody else he would listen to,” I gave way, and Sir Richard, like the really good, kind-hearted master he was, let us off, and found another fox close by.

There were two lively young members of the Quorn who habitually pressed hounds, Colonel Forrester and Bromley Davenport, whose shortness of sight may perhaps be pleaded in extenuation. On arriving at the meet in his chariot, as the vehicle was called in the ’forties, Sir Richard enquired of his first whipper-in whether these gentlemen were out. He was told they were, and forthwith the whipper-in was ordered to draw some of the best hounds, which were put into the carriage and sent home!

Sir Richard Sutton had a strong sense of the duty of a master and the right way to discharge it. On one occasion he killed his fox in the shrubbery of a clergyman. The place was very nicely kept, and the hunt servants having made, as was rather unavoidable, rather a mess of the paths, &c., the owner wrote to complain. Sir Richard, instead of going to the meet with a pair of horses next morning, ordered out four, and went a good deal out of his way to call and apologise; to offer payment also. The clergyman, a very gentlemanly man, repented the tenor of his complaint, and Sir Richard’s anxiety to put matters right quite disarmed him. He apologised for having written, would not hear of accepting compensation, and expressed the hope that he might see hounds in his neighbourhood again soon! So much for civility.

My acquaintance with Lord Gardner, to whom I have referred before, began in a way which illustrates one phase of that good sportsman’s character. One day, when still fresh from college, I was riding a five-year-old. Lord Gardner took my place at a fence and nearly gave me a fall. I passed him in the next field, out of which there was only one place, and that beside an elm. He came at it with a rush; I gave my horse his head, and jumping side by side with Gardner threw him heavily against the tree. He reported this to Mr. Little Gilmour, but got little sympathy, Gilmour telling him that if he meddled with me he would probably get himself killed. “Do you think so?” said Gardner. “Yes I do,” replied Gilmour. “Then please introduce me to him,” said Gardner. We became fast friends, and our friendship continued all the time he stayed in the country.

Rather a funny incident occurred with the Quorn one day in a scurry from Cream Lodge Gorse. A sporting captain’s horse fell over a large ant-hill, and the soldier came down rolled in a lump. I got down and stretched him out in a furrow. It was damp, and he soon changed his position; so, remarking that if he was able to look for a dry place I thought he could take care of himself, I jumped on my horse again and went on. The gallant soldier was grievously hurt by my remark, considering it implied that he was soft. His feelings suffered more injury than his body.

In a good run with the Quorn the fox crossed the canal. We most of us rode for the bridge and stood on it until the hounds were well over. Cardigan and Wilbraham Tollemache stuck to the hounds and crossed the canal with them, Cardigan exclaiming: “I am in first, Wilbraham!” In a minute his brother-in-law exclaimed, “I am out first, Cardigan,” and jumped on his horse, leaving Cardigan struggling in the water. A man on the bridge called out: “Paddle with your ’ands, my lord; paddle with your ’ands.” There were not many feet of water.

In those days there was scarcely any wire, and the now familiar warning to “ware wire,” was rarely heard. In a gallop from Masterton Oziers one large field was fenced with it, and we made for a gate. One man stuck to the hounds, and falling head over heels over the fence was a good deal hurt. We had called out “wire” repeatedly, and the more we did so the faster he rode. His reason for doing so, he said, was that he saw it was a big jump, and thought we were calling “fire, fire,” for him to fire away at it, with plenty of steam on! Mr. Haycock, a hard-riding yeoman, went head over heels in a bottom and could not get out. Lord Macdonald coming next pulled up. Haycock called out “Come on, my Lord, there is accommodation for you here as well as for me.” The Lord of the Isles declined the invitation. Haycock sold a nice horse to a Duke, who took him to task for selling him such a brute. “What’s the matter, your Grace?” “He has been running away with me all the morning.” “If that is all I don’t care; when he was mine I was always running away with him.” Sir James Musgrave, riding a nice horse, told him he was slovenly at timber. “Take him out on Sunday morning, Sir James, and give him a few heavy falls over timber,” was his advice.

No fence is as nice as timber if your horse knows his business, but do not take liberties with it with the sun in your horse’s eyes, or be heard to call out “ware horse”; it is always “ware hound.” Another hint—do not hunt in a cap, as it will not give way in a fall, but your neck may.

Gumley Wood was at one time unintentionally spoiled as a covert by the clergyman of Gumley. He was a mighty collector of moths; he so bedaubed with treacle the trees in the wood that the foxes would not lay in it; but we always found in the gorse close by. In the next parish lived one of Whyte Melville’s heroes, Parson Dove. Jogging home after hunting one evening, I asked him how he filled up his spare time in the summer; he said he gardened a good deal. Enquiry elicited that there was but one flower he cared for, and that was a cauliflower.

Within a few short weeks the unwelcome words, “To finish the season,” will all too often appear as the corollary to the weekly newspaper announcements of hunting fixtures, and already “the stinking violet,” that is reported to have been anathematised by one of the greatest among huntsmen of the past as the means of smothering scent, is filling the air with the perfume of spring.

THE MOTHER.

At this season, when the trout fisherman is rejoicing in the warmer weather, that promises to bring about a hatch of March browns, and the shooting man is thinking of the first eggs of early-laying pheasants, when all the world welcomes the balmy days of spring, only the foxhunter is heard to complain. He is forgetful of the fact that he alone of the army of sportsmen enjoys a full six months of his favourite pastime, a six months that may be extended to eight, if he will content himself with the sport afforded by one or two of the woodland packs which, beginning cubhunting in the month of August, never consider the season finished until a May fox has been killed.

But even the discontented foxhunter, if he be worthy of the name of sportsman, can find something to do in connection with the “sport of kings” to while away the weary months until the dewy September morning, which finds him once more revelling in the music of hounds as they teach the cubs their business.

For some weeks, at any rate before his charges return to kennels, he cannot find better employment than the personal supervision of the education of the puppies, one or two of which, as an enthusiastic hunting man, we must take it for granted that he is walking. True it is that he will not have many weeks to devote to them ere the spring cart from the kennels makes its appearance to carry them off, loath though they may be to undergo what will be to them the most important part of their training, or to be drafted into the ranks of the unentered should they not prove equal to the standard, either in height, pace or quality, required by the particular hunt to which they belong.

Short although the time remaining may be for what we can term the preparatory schooling of the puppies, the ardent foxhunter may yet do much to make the youngsters committed to his care more fitted to take their places in the public school to which they are so soon to be removed. During the busy hunting season when their care has been in the hands of his deputies, our hunting man has probably thought little of the education of the puppies, which, maybe, will later on contribute to his next season’s enjoyment. But now that he has perforce to remain more at home he may discover that his duty as a private schoolmaster has been sadly neglected, and the puppies that should have been a credit to him have, from lack of the proper attention, grown up dunces, with all their good manners yet to be learnt, and many bad ones to be thrashed out of them. Let him then take them in hand at once, and endeavour to repair some of the mischief that his laxness has brought about. The hours spent in thus occupying himself will not be wasted, and he will feel the satisfaction of having done something for the hunt that has so often provided him with sport in the past.

To judge by the accompanying picture reproduced from a coloured engraving of considerable antiquity, the custom of sending puppies out to walk is of very long standing. It will be noticed that the puppies are to be conveyed to their destinations in bags or panniers slung across the saddle. The artist has depicted the kennel huntsman, faultlessly arrayed in scarlet, tall hat and top boots, trimming with a pair of scissors the ears of one of a good litter of puppies about to be sent to walk. The picture is suggestive of a train of thought that it may be well to give expression to at the present time, when the duty of puppy-walkers to their charges is under consideration, and possibly a few thoughts upon puppy management may induce the negligent walker to exercise greater care another season, even if it is too late to put them into practice during the time that remains before last year’s puppies return to kennel.

“SENT TO WALKS.”

First and foremost comes the thought of the comparatively few who are really qualified to walk a foxhound puppy. Many who undertake the duty do not appear to have their hearts in the work, their main object being to keep the puppies out of harm’s way—not so much to save the puppy from harm as to prevent him doing harm. On the other hand, there are some walkers who, in their anxiety to do well by the puppy, and give him enough exercise, allow him to run wild and to hunt hares. Of course, plenty of exercise is essential for the well-being of a foxhound, and in order to ensure his getting it the puppy should daily accompany some reliable person, be he the groom exercising horses or the tradesman who has long country rounds to make. The importance of his being a trustworthy man, who has his heart in the work, cannot be overrated, far more harm than good being done if, instead of keeping his charges in order, he encourages them to run wild. In this connection it may be mentioned that it does not always follow that foxhounds entered in their youth to hare are afterwards useless for fox, for many instances can be recalled of such puppies having turned out to be thoroughly reliable hounds, that would stick to a cold line even with hares jumping up in front of them; but it is a risky proceeding to give puppies exercise by allowing them to hunt ground game, and may lead to endless trouble.

As to the home treatment of foxhound puppies, no better advice can be given than that contained in a leaflet recently noticed in these pages. One thing to which due attention is often not paid is the accommodation provided for young foxhounds. Too many puppies are allowed to run about all day picking up filth, disturbing coverts, and doing all kinds of mischief; and then are left to find a damp, draughty bed in a wood house. On really wet days it is better to keep them shut up, except for a short time, during which they should have a sharp run, care being taken that a good bed of clean straw is afterwards provided in which to dry themselves. If allowed to remain wet, and to lie on the damp ground, evil results are bound to follow. It is also of the utmost importance that they should be shut up at night, otherwise everyone is molested, and bad habits, such as cattle and sheep worrying, are sure to be contracted.

A couple of puppies should always be walked together. They certainly thrive better, nor do they fret so much when first sent out, or when first taken back to kennels, although it must be confessed that where two or three are gathered together the capacity for mischief is not only doubled, but perhaps quadrupled. But if it is, the sport they will some day provide will more than compensate their walker for the few shillings they will cost him. As companions to children foxhounds cannot be surpassed, and many an hour will be whiled away in each other’s company, each keeping the other out of mischief.

A very sore point with puppy walkers, and one to which more attention might well be paid, is the fact that they are often requested to walk and do well for a couple of puppies possibly for six months, but when these puppies are returned to the kennels it is only to be destroyed, and often their fate has been perfectly evident for some months previously. The walker naturally feels aggrieved when such an ending comes to hounds on which he has spent time and money. Now, to remedy this state of affairs, it has been suggested that the kennel huntsman or some other responsible person should always be in touch with all puppies at walk, and should, as soon as he can detect for certain the worthlessness of a puppy, be entitled to relieve the walker of it, and thus save him unnecessary expense and much disappointment.

In conclusion, every member of a hunt, and everyone who has the well-being of foxhunting at heart, should feel himself under an obligation to walk a couple of puppies for his hunt, and thus relieve the master of the necessity for sending promising hounds to unsuitable walkers. But, quite apart from any obligation, the pleasure to be derived from seeing “puppies grow into hounds” will well recompense him, even if they never become shining lights in the pack, or win prizes at the Peterborough Show.

The shooting season is drawing to a close. One can almost fancy that there is a touch of spring in the air. The long frost has gone at last, and the thoughts of bird and beast are turning once more towards love and war. Far above us in the rocking elms, the rooks are noisily putting their own houses in order, and thievishly beggaring their neighbours. The partridges, no longer huddled together in thinned coveys, their feathers so fluffed out that they look double their natural size, have here and there already paired off. Old George, the keeper, reports that another twenty or thirty cocks can be spared, and that during the frost the hungry rabbits have been working havoc among the young trees. They must be thinned, or something is sure to be said presently on the subject of damages.

So a day is fixed for a last shoot, and, making an early start, four old friends walk across the quiet fields towards the Big Wood. Two guns are placed forward, and two walk with the beaters. I am one of the former, and, left to myself, the mystery of the Big Wood gets into my bones, and I begin to dream dreams. The silence is absolute. Presently, a tinted cloud of long-tailed tits invade the bushes round me, eager to discover an atom of greenery, and, if they do, quite prepared—if I may be allowed a forlorn little joke—to nip it in the bud. They remind one of a troop of lesson-freed children raiding the strawberry beds, in the hope that some early fruit may happily be found, ripe enough, in their very liberal interpretation of the term, to eat. My covert is drawn blank, so the tits are off, with a scolding complaint, to try their luck elsewhere.... Two rabbits, unconscious of impending fate, chase each other far down the ride which stretches before me. Silence reigns once more. Then, long before I can hear the beaters, pat, pat, pat, come some halting footsteps over the carpet of leaves. It is a wary old cock pheasant, already on the alert, and by no means unconscious of trouble ahead. He looks inky black in the shadow. He runs forward a few yards, then stops to listen; on again to the right, but, not satisfied, bustles back. An excursion to the left, but scenting danger there, he is back again. Then, irresolute, he stands facing me in the sunlight, with his bright eyes and gorgeous coat of many colours. He has played this game many times, and so far his head has kept his life. With my back to a tree, I do not move an eyelid, but he sees me, or smells my pipe, and back for good and all he scuttles, head down, with the evident intention of executing a flank movement to the rear. There is a cry of “cock back,” in the direction in which my friend disappears, but no answering gun. I like to think that the wicked old rascal has once more out-manœuvred us, and saved his skin. As the beaters push on, all the guns become busy. The bunnies are hustled noisily forward, and in the comparatively open space are bowled over, or, bolting back, have a shade of odds in their favour, some of them, I am afraid, being “picked off the beaters’ toes.” Hens come whistling over, offering most tempting shots. B., on my left, crumples up a very high one, because, he says, she had a leg down. Beaters and the other guns now emerge, and the slain are laid out and counted. Twenty-five rabbits, two cocks, a hare, and B.’s hen. Old George eyes her and B. suspiciously, and, feeling her all over, mutters “he didn’t see no leg down.” Nearly all the cocks have run on, but will be cornered presently. So the day wears on, monotonously delightful, one beat in the Big Wood being very much like another. But at lunch there seems to be some mystery in the air. Our host and old George are to be seen whispering together like conspirators; old George’s ribston pippin of a face screwed up into something as near a grin as it ever wears, while our host looks humorously perplexed. I notice afterwards that we leave out a certain beat, and call old George’s attention to the omission. “Never you mind Muster A., you go where you’re told,” is all I get for my pains. The old man still treats me as if I were about ten, the age at which he began to teach me to shoot. The mystery remained one until after dinner that night, when our host let the cat out of the bag, under solemn vows of secrecy. That beat was left out because in it lay a fine dog fox, shot through the head by the Master who was out with us, and who had shot at a rabbit in the thick undergrowth. Thus was the blood of many a bunny avenged, and poor “Charlie” met an inglorious end in the house of his friends. Old George, and no one else, happened to see the tragedy, and notwithstanding my protest that it was much too good a story to keep to ourselves, the Master knows nothing of the murder to this day.

As I have said, George and I are very old friends, but we are also very old antagonists. He is a great politician; a Radical of the Radicals, while of course with him I am a Tory of the Tories. To-day I manage to score off him; no easy matter at any time. He had picked up some early primroses in the wood, and put them into his button-hole, to keep for a certain young lady, a prime favourite of his, who, with our hostess, is to join us at lunch. Before he could give them to her I caught him by the sleeve, and, pointing to the flowers, cried:—

“Hullo, George, I’ve always said that you would see the error of your ways some day. So you’ve actually joined the League. Who captured you? Lady Mary?”

Now, Lady Mary is the energetic wife of our Conservative Member, and it is a matter of common knowledge that there is no love lost between her and George. First game of the rubber to me! But we were soon all square. In the afternoon, coming through a thick hazel copse, stooping and worming myself along, half blinded with the irritating blows from the whippy twigs, a five-pound note worked out of my waistcoat pocket, into which I had carelessly stuffed it. Old George, whom nothing escapes, picked it up, but said nothing. When the beat was over, and, before moving on again, guns and beaters were gathered round the game, he asked me, “Be you dropped hanything, Muster A.?”

“Not that I know of, George,” I replied. “Why?”

“’Cos I picked up this here, which I think come out of your pocket.”

“Yes, by jove, it’s mine,” I cried.

“I reckon they lie a bit thicker in Lunnon than down hereabout. When I seed it fust I thought it must be”—he paused for effect—“a luv-letter.”

As my aspirations in a certain quarter, not quite unconnected with the aforesaid young lady, were pretty well known, this sally was greeted with a loud guffaw at my expense, and the game was “one all.”

Later in the day he won the rubber. I was one of the forward guns in the last beat, and having placed my gun at safety against a tree was lighting my pipe, when, for the first time during the day, there was a cry of “woodcock forward,” and he flitted past me in his usual silent, ghostly fashion, quite close. I grabbed my gun, covered him, and pressed, then frantically pulled at the trigger. Long before I realised what was the matter, and had slipped up the safety-bolt, the cock had placed a thick tree between us, and my shot hummed harmlessly through Hampshire. I hoped against hope that I had not been detected. But as we gathered round I soon realised that I was lost.

“Did you see that there woodcock, Muster A.?” asked old George.

“Yes,” I replied with assumed carelessness. “I think I saw it: wide of me on the right.”

“Oh!” grunted the old man, “wide o’ you, was it? Where might you be a-standin’, then?”

“Oh, somewhere over there,” said I, waving my hand vaguely, and, trying desperately to create a diversion, added, “That was a high cock to wind up with, B., a regular clinker.”

“But,” persisted old George, “wasn’t you a-standin’ by that there hold hoak?”

“I believe I was, George,” I yawned, “somewhere there.... What did we get this beat?”

The old scoundrel walked off to my “hold hoak,” and picked up a cartridge. I was the only gun using a 16-bore.

“Bain’t this your cartridge?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, George,” I said.... “Shall we make tracks, it’s getting rather chilly.”

“Hout of range, was he,” said the imperturbable old chap. “Why, that there woodcock comed out by that there holly, and you could ha’ knocked ’un down with a stick.”

I ran up the white flag, and said humbly: “I was lighting a pipe, George, and was at safety.”

“I knowed that,” replied my tormentor, looking round in triumph, “for I see’d yer.”

The stars are shining frostily as we finish, and the full moon rides above the tree-tops, “like a rick a-fire.” Each beater gets a couple of rabbits and an extra shilling, as it’s the last day. Pipes are lit, and we walk home out of the Big Wood, more ghostly than ever in the moonlight, across the stubble and the plough, on to the open road. Bag: 28 pheasants, 7 hares, 120 rabbits, a couple of jays, and a rat.

Having on a former occasion advanced some reasons for discrediting the theory that fish hatched from the ova of autumn-running salmon must immigrate or run inland in autumn; and that, similarly, the progeny of spring salmon must regularly return to the rivers in spring, in obedience to inherited proclivities, we may now be permitted to give additional reasons, not less weighty perhaps, for our disbelief. The gist of our previous argument in controverting the theory in question was that since the strength of the migration of grilse—and fish-culturists and competent observers have conclusively proved that grilse are the adolescents of spring and of autumn salmon alike—is always evident in summer, this fact alone completely knocks on the head every iota of what has been advanced to prove the existence of two different breeds of British salmon, each inheriting an instinct for ascending the rivers at a particular time, irrespective of age, sex, or condition. This theory of transmitted instinct to obey a seasonal duty may at first sight appear plausible enough to some, but those who give credence to it cannot, we fear, do so from ascertained facts. Why, for instance, as already remarked, the ascent of the grilse in summer should alone be sufficient to demolish such a theory, since, when making their first ascent, and while yet adolescents, they are not obeying, as is perfectly clear, an inherited instinct for ascending during what may be called the “parental ascending season.”

From personal observation and a mass of reliable data, we have the strongest reasons for believing that the spring salmon of the Scottish rivers—not the winter salmon, which, as a rule, are older and larger—are the most vigorous and active fish of all; that the grilse are the young of spring, summer, and autumn salmon alike, ascending at a time when the temperature of the fresh water suits them, for though scarcely less active, they are less vigorous and certainly more sensitive than the spring salmon; and that the autumn salmon, generally, are fish that have already been inland as spawners, and from not going back to the sea till late in spring or early in summer, are therefore later in reascending the rivers than they were in ascending them on the previous occasion, not returning from the feeding grounds till autumn, when they are heavy with spawn, and consequently unable to remain long in the fresh water without injury to themselves.

Mr. J. A. Harvie-Brown, F.Z.S., foremost and most versatile of authorities upon the salmon, entirely agrees with what we have stated. “The spring fish,” he says, “are vigorous younger fish and reach highest up the rivers, and can stay longer in the fresh water without hurt to themselves. The autumn fish are older, larger fish: and many begin to go out of condition before they leave the brackish, as they are less able to stay long in the fresh.”

In his book on “The Salmon,” the late Mr. Russell, of the Scotsman, argues “that the facts are at the least equally compatible with, and indeed entirely suitable to, the theory that the fish coming up all the year are the adults of various ages, and that those rushing up in a body in summer are the young of the same species. What are those clean salmon that run up the rivers in late winter or early spring? Where have they been in the preceding months? What do they want now? They cannot be wanting to spawn, for there is no spawning for at least six months to come. They cannot have spawned early in the preceding or rather present spawning season, gone down, recovered, and returned, for numerous experiments show that the period of return is about three months, and it is only about three months since the earliest fish had begun to spawn in the rivers which these are now ascending. They must have passed the autumn or earlier winter in the sea. Then they must have passed the winter without breeding.”

Briefly put, the views we hold concerning the whole matter (as regards long-seasoned rivers) are: That the early running salmon are fish that have not spawned in the immediately preceding season (the great majority, which are small fish, females preponderating, have passed their girlshood in the sea); that the late spring and early summer salmon, for the most part, are fish that have not been gravid in the preceding spawning season; that the salmon appearing later in the summer, say from June, represent the first-descended of the previous season’s spawners returning again to the rivers; that the grilse that arrive inshore in summer seeking the fresh water are the breeding portion of the stock of grilse for the year, as proved by their ova and milt, and that the autumn salmon, the great majority of which are large fish, are those that spawned latest in the previous season, or, as kelts, were exceptionally late in getting back to the sea.

What we have stated and emphasised above is expressly intended to show how untenable is the theory that spring and autumn salmon (or, as we should call them, if we are to speak accurately, spring-run and autumn-run salmon) are distinct and separate breeds.

We now come to give other strong reasons for discrediting the notion, theory or hypothesis, that there are different breeds of salmon in the Scottish rivers. Accordingly it is advisable to be specific, necessary to select certain rivers and state the facts. Our choice is the Don and the North Esk. Now as regards these rivers, what are the facts? First, that early every year thousands of salmon are netted at their mouths and in their tideways, and many thousands more above their tideways; second, that owing to the severe river netting plus the fixed obstructions which no fish can pass as long as the water has a low temperature, not a score, perhaps not half-a-dozen, pairs of so-called “spring fish” survive, and eventually reach the upper strath or glen sections. These are strictly facts, facts that cannot be disputed, facts that the Fishery Board for Scotland may conveniently verify. Now we should like to ask, is it at all likely that the many thousands of salmon that are netted in these rivers in spring are exclusively the progeny of three, six, or even a dozen pairs of spring-run salmon? We answer that it is not likely. We go farther and say it is impossible. But some one will query: Are there not in ten spawning salmon more thousands of potential salmon than the thousands that are caught annually in spring by the rods and nets conjointly? Quite true—say fifty thousand in a dozen fish of 8 or 9 lb. each (a good average weight in spring). But then the crucial question must be asked? What percentage, reckoning all the risks from frost, drought, spates, and so forth, hatches out? And what proportion, considering the scarcity of their food at recurrent periods, and all the perils and all the enemies to which they are exposed during the years of their growth in sea and river, survives to reach the adult stage? Let us suppose that 5 per cent. of the whole hatched ova—and this is a liberal estimate—advances through all the stages—parr, smolt, and grilse—till the adult fish is reached. On this calculation the mature progeny, resulting from a dozen pairs of spring salmon, would number two thousand five hundred.

No, we cannot accept the theory that spring salmon are a different breed from autumn salmon; nor can we agree with the dictum that they are to be preferred for hatchery purposes. No fish-culturist who has devoted himself with eminent success to the breeding of salmon, would ever dream of preferring the spawn of fish that have been ten or eleven months in the fresh water, to the spawn of fish that have been in the rivers only two. Numerous experiments have proved that of the ova of spring salmon about 75, and of the ova of autumn salmon about 95 per cent. is the average that hatches out and reaches the parr stage; and that as a particularly high percentage, 98 is more common in the latter than 78 in the former case. How, then, can it be contended that spring salmon are to be preferred for their ova? In conclusion, the whole argument may be clinched in a single sentence thus: If from twelve pairs of spring salmon, the maximum number of “escapes” in Don and North Esk annually, there survive to reach maturity a progeny of two thousand five hundred, are we not warranted in assuming that the grand result from the ova of the many thousands of fine large fish that ascend these rivers in autumn and early winter would be millions on millions of salmon, or more than the pools could comfortably hold? Enough! Enough! Informed opinion is against the theory of different breeds of British salmon with different inherited migratory instincts.

VANGUARD RUNNING A FOX TO GROUND.

(From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain,” by permission of the publishers.)
[From a picture at Birdsall.

History has been lavish in a casual sort of way with hounds and hunting during the last century. “Nimrod” in early days initiated descriptions of our most fashionable and best countries, as well as their denizens, and did a leading part to bring sporting literature into popularity; yet he was in no sense a hound man—he loved the horse and his rider, and was, par excellence, their historian. “Cecil,” who followed him, was, on the contrary, a hound man, his happiness lay in the kennel, and in his descriptions of the countries through which he toured, his pen ever hung on the treasures of the kennel, and its management in breeding. “Druid,” in his unique and gossiping way, gathered his facts and hound-lore from fireside chats with huntsmen—the best of his day. To him sketches of hunting countries mattered little; he simply delighted his readers with fragmentary touches, so pithy and telling, of men and hounds, and their manners, which, however, added little to the general history of hounds or hunting throughout the country. It has been left to Sir Humphrey de Trafford in this twentieth century to initiate the idea, and carry it out, of gathering together all the threads of bygone days, and weld them together in a comprehensive form, showing what our foxhounds throughout the United Kingdom are at the present time—their early history, their main features, their chief supporters, and their hound-lore. To bring all this into the compass of one volume was no easy matter, where so many interesting facts had to be garnered into a given space, and that by those best versed in their subject; yet the task has been accomplished in a way which I venture to think its readers will appreciate as eminently practical and useful.

Whether you take this historical sporting book as a whole, or in the light of individual packs and their countries, you cannot fail to be struck by the landmark that it is for us to-day. Here we find one hundred and ninety-nine English packs of foxhounds in England and Wales (and I have failed to discover one that is missing), twenty-four packs in Ireland, and eleven in Scotland; and it needs little research to see how they have one and all grown and flourished through good and bad times, fighting and encompassing difficulties, spreading, subdividing, increasing in numbers and in importance, ever onwards, until it can hardly be said that there is a square mile of country outside large towns or manufacturing centres where the foxhound is not honoured and welcomed. This is veritably a proud thing to say in the year 1906, yet it brooks no denial. It will surprise many readers to find with what authenticity some of our great packs can carry back their history to bygone centuries. Of these the Berkeley bears the palm, for did not a Lord of Berkeley so far back as the fourteenth century establish a metropolitan pack with kennels at Charing Cross? His descendants had so fostered and spread their hunting that in 1770 the then Lord Berkeley held all the country from London to Berkeley Castle, in Gloucestershire, a distance of 124 miles, with kennels at Cranford, Gerrard’s Cross in Bucks, Nettlebed in Oxon, and at Berkeley Castle. Thus arose the old Berkeley Hunt, which became a separate country in the year 1800, only to be since sub-divided into an east and west pack. The Berkeley also annexed at one time nearly the whole of Gloucestershire, and founded the Cotswold when they built kennels at Cheltenham. The noted Harry Ayris was huntsman at Berkeley from 1826 to 1857.

SIXTH VISCOUNT GALWAY IN 1875, WITH HIS FAVOURITE HOUNDS, BRIDESMAID AND RUBY.

(From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain and Ireland,” by permission of the publishers.)

The Belvoir also claim a very old heritage, viz., from the reign of James the First, and the first Duke of Rutland hunted about the year 1650. The Bramham Moor pack was instituted in the reign of Queen Anne, and will ever be associated with the family of Lane Fox. The Burstow owe their origin to Sir Thomas Mostyn, who migrated from North Wales. The Burton will always be coupled with the name of Lord Henry Bentinck. The Badsworth claims 1730 as its date of origin, while the Badminton commenced its unbroken reign of ducal mastership and signal success in 1762, including as it then did the present Heythrop country and nearly all Wiltshire. The long service of their huntsmen has always been phenomenal. Philip Payne served as huntsman under four dukes, and Will Long, who succeeded, served as whip under him for seventeen seasons; and now Will Dale is continuing the rôle, in succession to Charles Hamblin, although as huntsmen themselves the last three Dukes of Beaufort have had no compeers.

The Bedale is inseparably associated with Lord Darlington and the dukedom of Cleveland; while the Old Berkshire country is, curiously enough, indebted to the Church for its early history; the Rev. John Loder being its founder in 1760, only to be succeeded by his son-in-law, Mr. Symonds, another clergyman, in 1850. This would seem to be a fitting history for a pack kennelled so near Oxford University; but indeed, as I have had occasion to mention in a former article in your Magazine, foxhunting owes much to its patronage by the Church from time immemorial, and surely this is not its most inglorious tradition.

We cannot help being struck with the number of packs that come under the letter B in this volume, no less than twenty-three of them, including the Duke of Buccleuch’s, in Scotland; and the letter C comes next with over twenty.

The Earl of Yarborough has the proud distinction of being the owner of a pack that through eight generations has been handed down lineally as a private pack to the present day, and from 1714 its kennel book has been maintained carefully. It is, indeed, hard to say how much foxhunting owes to such splendid sportsmen as the Pelhams have been in their care and breeding of hounds. The Yarborough pages in this book are a revelation to sportsmen who appreciate what a landowner can do with 60,000 acres within a ring fence, and able to indulge to the full in hereditary tastes.

Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn’s pack, the Wynnstay, is another instance of the success of a territorial magnate successfully forming an historic pack and country.

The Quorn, the head and front of fashion, that has led the way among the daring hard-riding spirits of Great Britain for more than 200 years, is most ably dealt with in this volume. From the days of John Boothby in 1700, and of old Hugo Meynell, who succeeded him in 1753 up to 1800, there have been twenty-five masters of the Quorn who have one and all handed down their names to posterity as worthy of note, and have earned the gratitude of many thousands of men who have in their time satiated their ambitions over those Leicestershire pastures, where the oxer still holds its own, and wire is treated as a noxious weed. The picture of old Hugo Meynell and his old huntsman, Jack Raven, is inimitable; you can see there the characters of those two aged sportsmen discussing the pros and cons of the day, and can fancy how fully they are entering into it. Let us leave that Meltonian chapter with all its particulars and prints to the full appreciation of its readers.

The Cottesmore is scarcely a less interesting chapter. Founded by the Noel family at Exton Park in 1753, that adjoins the village of Cottesmore, from which it takes its name, it soon came into the Lowther family, and was hunted for a long series of years by the first Earl of Lonsdale. Then we find Sir Richard Sutton at the head of affairs, followed by Sir John Trollope, afterwards Lord Kesteven, and Mr. Henry Greaves—always in high feather—with its glorious sweet-scenting country, its grand woodlands, strong foxes, and expansive acreage of upland pastures. Surely, if any country in the world is made for the sport of kings, that country is the Cottesmore, which now enjoys the acme of sport, and worthily so.

We long to dwell on the Atherstone, the Meynell, the Oakley, the Grafton, Lord Harrington’s, Lord Galway’s, and the Rufford, did our space permit, but are not their stories all faithfully and succinctly told there?

Cheshire stands out well, and the old Tarporley Hunt Club is a lasting tribute to the hunting instincts of that famed shire, where every other sport stands aside to make way for it. Shropshire also is its goodly neighbour, hunted as it is from end to end, right up into its Welsh border, in a style worthy of its best traditions; and viewed from its grand old Hawkstone on the north to gaunt Clee Hill on the south, is a fair domain of sport.

Yorkshire, of course, is another leading feature in the book, as well it must be, and so are our southern, eastern, and western counties; none, indeed, escape all the notice that is their due; and as it is not given to all sportsmen to revel in the realms of pasture, unalloyed by the drawbacks of small enclosures, hills and dales, crags and boulders, mud and marshes, or impenetrable woodlands, so we all accommodate ourselves to locality, and are happy in our less ambitious surroundings and histories. To these this book will not the less be a treasure. Whether we happen to be east or west, north or south countrymen, we recognise a friendly word, a well-known and honoured portrait on every page.

Neither Ireland nor Scotland has been forgotten, as it is well they should not be, for as far as hunting is concerned, are we not united in a bond of love and friendship, which it will indeed be hard to sever? For is it not to those Irish horses that we owe our mainstay over here, that so soon learn to jump our flying fences as easily as their native banks? And do not we welcome some of our finest riders from across the Irish Channel?

In dealing, however, with the historical side of our foxhunting book, we must not overlook its value as regards the foxhound himself. Great pains have been taken by the compiler of this work to define the combination of blood which has been diffused into each individual kennel and has contributed to its success. To hound-lovers this book must prove of especial value, and we can picture the delight of our old friend, Mr. Cecil Legard,—whose portrait is to be found in the introduction—when he scans its pages, and the satisfaction he feels at having spent many years in perfecting the Foxhound Stud Book. It would ill become me to enter into much foxhound lore in this short review, further than to say that, from the days of the old Corbet Trojan down to those of Brocklesby Rallywood, and so on through the Belvoir celebrities and the Craven and Warwickshire favourites, as well as others in profuse plenty, not only are they made mention of, but the portraits of many of them adorn the pages and speak for themselves as to the symmetrical beauty of the modern foxhound—a fact that the success of the Peterborough Hound Shows bears ample evidence to. When I look at these splendid specimens of hound culture I cannot ever refrain from picturing what natural perfection there must be in the grand attributes of that little animal the fox, which for centuries right up to to-day has been enabled to withstand the onslaught of his foes, and defy all their artifices.

A leading feature of this book is its illustrations. It will be evident to all who study it that to gather such a collection of portraits of men and hounds, as well as innumerable hunting groups and meets in almost every country, has been a work that has taxed the energies of all who have had a hand in its compilation. Such a thing has never been attempted before, and its accomplishment will suffice for many a long year. Turn over page after page as you may, you come across old and young friends, the Nestors of bygone days, and our best young Nimrods of to-day. This is in itself a theme on hunting, which I long to go away “full cry” on, were it not that you, Mr. Editor, let fall the threatening crack of the whip, warning me homewards. It concludes with tabulated pedigrees of some of our most celebrated hounds that have won the leading honours at Peterborough, such as Fitzwilliam Harper, V.W.H. Damsel, Belvoir Dexter, Grove Druid, Puckeridge Cardinal, Zetland Rocket, and Lord Middleton’s Cheerful, and winds up with a key plate of the Quorn meet at Baggrave Hall.

Perhaps we ought to say a few words in commendation of those fourteen sportsmen whose brains and pens have assisted the Editor in bringing this great work on foxhounds before the public. They knew their subject, and have striven hard and well to draw together all the cardinal points of interest in each country with which they had to deal. How far they have succeeded it will be for readers or critics to say. Inasmuch as I am myself a helpmate in this matter to a small extent it will not become me to say any more than that it has been a labour of love to me, and that I feel sure that Sir Humphrey de Trafford will, as the Editor, hand his name down to posterity in honour for this standard work.

For those who like to combine hard riding with careful and interesting hound work, there is no sport to equal hind-hunting. It is not easy work. Indeed, there is no form of hunting which is harder upon man and horse. Patience, judgment and courage are required in no small degree by the man who would see a red-deer hind fairly hunted on Exmoor. In the course of a run we may and often do cross moor and fell, grass and plough. We plunge into the recesses of deep woods, clatter up the beds of mountain torrents, climb up ascents so steep that one wonders the horse can ever face them, and come down hills which seem more fitted for sheep or goats than horses. All this you must do if you wish to see hounds at work. You may do your best, and yet lose the chase, to recover it again later on, or perhaps be left alone to find your way as best you can. If the charm of hunting is uncertainty, then hind-hunting ought to be the most delightful form of the chase, for in none is there more. Sometimes the hinds will not run at all, at others they twist about so persistently that do what you will you cannot keep in touch with the chase, and find and lose the hounds half-a-dozen times in the course of a run. The knowing ones ride to points, cut off corners, wait for hounds to come back to them. But that is not the best way to enjoy a hind-hunt; indeed, taken in that form it might be thought a tedious and unsatisfactory form of hunting. I was for some time rather inclined to undervalue it. The whole secret of the pleasure is to see as much of hounds as you can. In doing that the interest never fails; if there is anything like a good run you want to be ever pushing on, always striving to get forward to take advantage of every check, and get the best of every turn. If one is always galloping to catch hounds, no horse could live through a really fine hind-hunt, a chase which may last for three hours or more, and cover any distance (as hounds run) from fifteen to thirty miles. But so long as you can keep near the pack, there will be many opportunities of easing the horse and nursing him to the end of the run.

Let me tell the story of a hunt with its moments of joy and excitement and its times of deep depression. It is a clear, bright morning, with not too much wind, so that one can both see and hear. The air is keen as we ride on to the meet, fixed for some cross-roads near the haunts of the deer. The first few miles are along a commonplace road enough, and then we turn up a steep hill and gradually come out on the higher land. This is not the Exmoor of the holiday stag-hunter, with its deep leafy combes, its broad expanse of purple heather. It is a study in browns and russets, with the grey-purple of Dunkery in the distance, and here and there a golden blossom of heather in the foreground. The landscape is like a chequer board, with the tiny square enclosures which creep up to the edge of the moorland.

There is one advantage about hind-hunting, you know where to look for your quarry, and they are not seldom out in the open. The Master takes with him four couple of hounds, and goes to look for the hinds. We all go, too, for sometimes the best of the run may come with the tufters. I have known them to get away with the hind, and the body of the pack never to have a chance of coming up.

Presently we hear the horn, a hound challenges, and we know the hunt is up. So closely do hinds resemble the heather in its winter brown, that it is not easy to see them. At last we obtain a glimpse of one as she comes stepping high over the heather with a free, easy and proud step. There is nothing more beautiful than the action of a hind; it is far more graceful than the lumbering lollop of a fat old stag with his mighty weight of body and antlers. The way she goes leads to a covert on the side of a hill, and we make for this point, arriving there before she does. This is one of those cases in which you cannot ride to hounds—there is a bit of impossible ground. We are now on one slope of a deep valley cut by a stream. On the opposite side is a hanging wood, and along its steep sides the hind is working, the hounds hunting fitfully behind. She dodges about, running twice up to the boundary fence, and twice turning back. This is the critical spot, for it is easy to be left here and very difficult to keep touch with hounds. The hind, moreover, comes straight across, almost touching one rider; the hounds stream after her, we scramble up the slope, and down she goes again. Galloping along the top we find an impenetrable beech fence, and by the time we are clear hounds have gone.

This is one of the dark moments of the chase. Though we do not know the country well, we do know that in front there are thick and extensive coverts. We are out of the fun unless we can pick up the pack, which has not yet been laid on. Luck favours us, and after a long trot we find them waiting in the heather on the open moor, and what is also good, our second horses. With hounds now eager for the hunt and a fresh horse, we canter easily over the heather, which is far better going now than in summer, soft, springy and delightful. Watch the hounds, how they try for the line. Presently one hound bounds over the heather and quickens its pace, and then another and another. “For’ard, for’ard!” shouts the Master, and touches his horn, then one and another of the pack speak. There is none of the dash, none of the clamour of foxhounds hitting off a line. The hounds are lobbing over the heather, and we drop into a hand gallop. Now one way they swing, now the other, for the hind seldom runs straight, but in a curious, hesitating, wavering, sort of way. This gives us many a turn. But we need to keep close, for hounds leave us in a moment if we are slack. Downhill she has run straighter, hounds pack more, and speak to the line more freely. This is a delightful gallop over the heather, the horse going easily as we turn down hill. Now catch hold of him and pull him back, and we stride down without an effort, and economise the strength we shall need later. Somehow the hind doubles back, aye, and nearly escapes, were it not that two couple of hounds hold to the line. This saves the situation, though it is quite a quarter of an hour or more, during which we have scrambled down a steep path and up another, before hounds are really going again. Then comes another phase of the chase. The hind has left the open moorland and taken to the fields. A very pretty hunt it is. The pastures hold a scent, and we hunt on merrily till a sharp turn nearly throws us all out. The master’s eye sees the pack at fault. He gallops up the hill, fetches his pack, and casts boldly and quickly down hill. The hind has taken to the water, and it would not be wonderful if she was near the end of her strength. We have been running for about two hours, and have made a seven-mile point.

“This hind must have had about enough,” remarks the Master; but she is not, in fact, near the end of her resources as yet. As soon as hounds touch the line she leaves the water, and runs along the cover on the wooded slopes above us. Suddenly we see the leading hounds turn, for a hind has as many turns and twists as a hare. Now comes an exciting time for us. Hounds are running in an inaccessible bottom, and we have to ride a path about two feet wide on the side of a hill, with tangled cover and brushwood. A branch bashes in one’s hat, another almost sweeps a rider out of the saddle; but the notes of the hounds coming up fitfully and always further on beckon us forward. The going may be bad, but we must get forward. What a relief to find one self on the open heather once more! The horse is not done yet, and we work our way back to hounds, which have a long start.

But now a deep, dark wood swallows them up, and we follow the Master on trust. How he knows or divines which way hounds are going it is hard to say; but it is all right, and we find hounds running over a grass field, and then comes a stretch of most appalling ground. Frozen turf, an outcrop of slippery rock, a hillside broken up as though a number of small earthquakes had taken place; somehow we scramble down. But the hind is really beaten at last. We have been hunting since 11 a.m., and it is now long past three.

This is a good, but not an unusual example of a hind-hunt in the winter or spring, on a day when the weather is fairly favourable. When the weather is bad on the moors it is very bad. For example, the hind has gone up on to the moor, but the hounds have changed in the coverts. The Master and one follower are sitting with a couple or so of hounds for half an hour waiting for the whippers-in to bring on the hounds, while pitiless rain-, hail- and sleet-storms sweep over the exposed hillside. At last the hounds come, and what is wonderful, they can still hunt, though a storm has swept over the moor and their deer is three-quarters of an hour in front. We ride to them a short distance, plunge into a deep valley, and failing to hit the right path where the hind turns up, lose hounds altogether for the day.

Again, sometimes the hind never runs at all, but dodges and turns and twists until at last she fairly beats off her pursuers. These erratic courses of the hind are, so far as we can tell, governed by two motives. The first is to lead hounds away from her calf—the red-deer calves run with the mother till they are nearly as big as she is—and having shaken off pursuit, to return to the place she started from. There is no device to this end she will not try. Sometimes she lies down in the open, and so well concealed is she that it is impossible to distinguish her from the heather. Again, she will work her way down the middle of a stream for a long distance, so that the winter flood may carry away the scent, or she will run backwards and forwards in a covert till the line is foiled. Worst of all she will join a herd. If a hunted stag endeavours to join a band of stags, the others will butt him out of their company. They are not going to be compromised by the presence of an unlucky relative. But a bevy of hinds seem to try to shelter a distressed one, and by running on with her in a bunch to puzzle the hounds. Thus hind-hunting stands very high in the estimation of lovers of hound work. Hind-hunting brings out many latent hereditary qualities of the foxhound. We are reminded that the foxhound’s ancestors hunted stag before they hunted fox. There are, unluckily, very few foxes in the west of England, but there are still some, though mange, traps and fox-sellers or stealers have worked great havoc. Yet hounds seldom run fox when once entered to deer. These staghounds soon develop a considerable aptitude for distinguishing the scent of the hunted animal, so that amidst a multiplicity of lines they hold to the line of the hunted deer. A hound named Tradesman, belonging to Mr. E. A. V. Stanley’s pack, ran a hind from Lype Common to Cloutsham, right round Dunkery, never changing and never losing the line. When the pack were astray, he held on by himself. When they were with him he led them, and was, no doubt, the cause of the death of a stout hind after a long chase. This is a trait which is greatly valued in France, but has been almost lost in most foxhound packs in England, since the huntsman is as ready to change his fox as the hounds are apt to run more eagerly on a fresh line than a stale one. Then the foxhound often recalls his bloodhound forbears, or at least those stately white Talbots, so much favoured by our ancestors, by his steady tracking of the hunted deer.

Like bloodhounds, the staghound runs silently, speaking for a find, for the recovery of the scent after a check, and in covert, in order no doubt that the pack may keep together, but when working over the heather the pack string out in a resolute, silent and rather blood-thirsty fashion, for a staghound means and expects to have blood, and there is quite a different note in his voice as the chase begins to draw to its finish. In most cases in the last stages of a hunt the hounds are close to their quarry, and they know what it means. A curious trait about a hunted hind is that while pursued by hounds she seems almost devoid of fear of horses and men. It seems as if the red deer, from having been a hunted animal for so many ages, was able to distinguish between a real and imaginary danger. A hind has the reputation of being a timid animal, but if you try to ride one off from a point she is bent on making you will soon find that she cares nothing for you, but will hold on obstinately, or perhaps stop short and dodge behind your horse and so make her point.

So, too, I have seen a hind spring up almost in the middle of the pack and endeavour to bother the hounds by running in among the horses. Not the least remarkable thing is the unconcern with which stags look on in the hind-hunting season. I had heard of this, but never saw so flagrant an instance as during the winter of 1905. There was a bevy of hinds on the side of a hill. They were moved by the tufters, which also disturbed a big stag that was lying in the heather. He sprang up and trotted at his leisure up the hill and watched the proceedings. As soon as he understood that hinds, not stags, were the quarry of the day, he strolled quietly back to his lair and laid down again in the place from which he had been disturbed. In the same way bevies of hinds will wheel round, apparently not the least alarmed by the passing of a stag-hunt. Most hind-hunts are long and devious, but every now and then a hind goes right away in a straight line. This, I think, depends a good deal on the cry of the hounds. The red deer, like the fox, regulates its pace by the waxing or waning of the clamour of the pack. As a rule I do not think that Exmoor carries a very good scent in the winter, and the surrounding cultivation is chiefly poor scenting ground. The Brendon Hills, too, do not favour hounds, so that they do not speak much. It is only the sweet scent and enduring foil of a red deer that enables hounds to hunt as well as they do. Of course here as elsewhere there are days when scent is good. With the hind, as with the fox, a strong scent makes a straight-necked quarry, and hounds will drive a hind right away and kill her in an hour and a half or so, which for a hind-hunt is quite a moderate run. It is a very fine form of hunting, especially if you treat it more as a foxhunt than a stag-hunt. The latter is to most people a series of passing pictures of the chase, with a glorious background of wild and magnificent scenery. It is a holiday recreation, rather than a serious business like our winter fox-hunting. But few people make a serious attempt to ride to hounds when hunting on Exmoor. When first I went out hind-hunting I did the same. But I reflected that if one had two horses that it ought to be as possible to see most of the hunt as for the master and the huntsman. Even they cannot go everywhere. Parts of the country are actually impracticable, but they manage in the main to be with hounds. Men who know the country manage with one horse, but the stranger naturally goes further and works his horse harder.

How do you get your second horse? If you send him with the master’s second horse, he is pretty sure to come up with you sooner or later. Of course you can see a great deal with one, but it is unsatisfactory not to be able to see hounds hunt. To enjoy hind-hunting, one ought to see enough to have a general idea of the working of the pack during the whole hunt. Some idea of the way hounds work may be useful, and if, as not unusually happens, the rider finds himself alone with three or four couple of hounds, he can be of use by stopping them; or, if that is not always possible, at all events by keeping the leading hounds in sight, so that when the pack check he may be able to give useful information.

After their second season staghounds generally run mute, or nearly so. Thus they are particularly liable to slip away unseen or unheard. Unfortunately, these are the more experienced members of the pack, which are able to hold to the line of the hunted hind amidst the many temptations to change which will meet them in the course of a winter’s day on the moor. Yet so staunch do the older hounds become, that I have known four couple of hounds to carry the line through Lord Lovelace’s coverts from Culbone Stables (one of the most hind-haunted places in Exmoor) and kill the hunted hind after all in one of the deep-cut combes many miles away. These hounds hunted themselves, but I had the luck to pick them up. Coming over some grass fields only one spoke at all; the same hound with a peculiar shrill note spoke again in the covert when they came out on the moor. The leading hound wasted no breath on talking, but just scoured away. The others whimpered eagerly, but none actually spoke till we touched the wooded side of the hill. In the valley where runs the stream to which two-thirds of the stags and hinds come to die, strangely enough hounds would not speak, though they were on moist grass and the hind was close in front. The leading hound plodded on, always on the line, solemn, intent, resolute, until we actually came up with the hind cowering under the bank by the bridge. She was crouched into so small a space that she was scarcely visible, and her coat harmonised with the brown stream, the dead foliage on the banks, but with the spirit of her race directly a hound bayed her she stood up and faced him as proudly as any stag could have done. The odd thing was how difficult it was to get the hounds to see her, and the old hound that had done all the work seemed to take very little interest in the subsequent proceedings. The rest of the work was done by a large black, tan and white hound, who bayed the hind, hunted her down the water, and was in at the death. The others may have done more, but the silence of staghounds inclines one to give them less than their due credit. The hound, like the man who talks much and loudly, gets the most credit, and in the case of the dog with justice.

If any one wishes to see this fine but little-known sport he cannot do better than go to Minehead, and find a judicious pilot; for it takes an apprenticeship to learn how to ride over the moor in winter. The main principles which experience has taught one, is that heather is reasonably safe going, and to be made the most of, and that in this as in other forms of hunting, the nearer you can keep to hounds the happier you will be.

A friend of mine who came down asked me once for advice, and the answer was: “never lose sight of the hounds if you can help it, and if you do, get back to them again as soon as you can.” A year later he told me, “I have done my best to carry out your advice, and have never seen reason to regret it.” The other matter to be borne in mind is that somehow or another you must go at a fair pace down hill, which to the new-comer looks a great deal more alarming than it really is when you become accustomed to the process. There is another point of view which may be touched on here, and that is that it is not an expensive form of hunting; three stout horses (any will do that are well bred, temperate, and have good shoulders) would afford four and a half days a week. Thus two would go out hind hunting on Tuesday and Friday. One would do a couple of days with foxhounds and harriers, and in most weeks one of the two hind-hunters would put in half a day with the harriers besides. The early spring, March and April, are good months, when the mild western climate will be appreciated. Hunting is slack at home, and we want something new. Well, you have heard of autumn stag-hunting, now try hind-hunting in the early spring.

Mr. Alec Goodman, 1852, 1866.

Tom Olliver, 1842, 1843, 1853.

Mr. Tom Pickernell, 1360, 1871, 1875.

John Page, 1867, 1872.

George Stevens, 1856, 1863, 1864, 1869, 1870.

Mr. J. Maunsell Richardson, 1873, 1874.

Mr. E. P. Wilson, 1884, 1885.

Arthur Nightingall, 1890, 1894, 1901.

Mr T. Beasley, 1880, 1881, 1889.

To design a picture, and then be able to write personally of the subjects contained therein, is certainly a pleasant phase of magazine work; at least, in illustrating this article and telling all I know of those who hold the best riding records in connection with the still greatest of all steeplechases, so I take it to be. Proud indeed am I to claim either a friendship or marked acquaintance with those gone to the great majority, as well as those remaining with us. The former in my picture consist of Tom Olliver, Mr. Alexander Goodman, George Stevens, and Mr. T. Beasley; of the latter I am pleased to think that Mr. Tom Pickernell, Mr. J. Maunsell Richardson, John Page, Mr. E. P. Wilson, and Arthur Nightingall are very much in the land of the living. I find that in riding in the National my nine friends or acquaintances can boast of accomplishing feats which have not fallen to the fortune of others engaged in the chase. Men like Lord Manners, Captain H. Coventry, and Mr. F. G. Hobson, it is true, were successful in their first and only mounts, a great thing to tell of; then Mr. J. Maunsell Richardson certainly goes one better in scoring two wins on Disturbance and Reugny in his only four efforts. But to stand by my picture. Besides Mr. Richardson, it contains men who have triumphed twice or more, and otherwise figuring at the head of the Liverpool riding records. In my table the amateur, it will be seen, has just a slight pull over the professional. There are five of the one and four of the other, but the professional really comes out on the top, for George Stevens out of fifteen mounts won five, was third once, and never met with a fall, while Tom Olliver and Arthur Nightingall, like Mr. Tom Pickernell and Mr. T. Beasley, have won it three times. It will be seen by the little tabulated figures that in attaining his three victories Olliver rode no less than nineteen times; that is in itself a record.

The space allotted to me for this article naturally compels omission of a wealth of detail I possess of these splendid records, either left by my father or since collected by myself; indeed, it was my father who introduced me to each of the three riders at the head of the table. Tom Olliver I never saw ride, but it was in the early sixties I first saw him at the side of Fairwater as the winner of the Worcestershire Stakes. He trained the mare, and the portrait here given of this hitherto famous horseman recalls indeed other happy times at Pitchcroft, and of those who then, summer and autumn, visited its races. Tom Olliver must have been a wonderful man. In 1839, the inauguration year of the Liverpool Steeplechase, he was second to Jem Mason on the famous Lottery, which belonged to Mr. Elmore, who likewise owned Gay Lad. The latter gave Olliver his first win in 1842, and the next season, the first year it was transformed into a handicap, he was on the back of the hero Vanguard. His third win, in 1852, was on Peter Simple, in the colours of Captain Little; and when the latter won the chase on Chandler in 1848, Olliver was second on The Curate, half a length dividing the pair. Another of his three seconds, St. Leger in 1847, was only beaten a length, but neither of his three victories, it seems, were close fighting. In his nineteen rides, he only came to grief three times. The result in one of these was a broken collar-bone. The late William Holman once told me that an arm in a sling in later times due to Olliver’s just-referred-to Liverpool fall, prevented his piloting Freetrader, the victor of 1856. Holman, who trained the winner, likewise gave me the information that in seeking a fresh jockey the late Fred Archer’s father was offered the ride, and it was his refusal that gave George Stevens the first of his five Liverpool wins. The last time Olliver, however, rode in the Liverpool was in 1859, so in one-and-twenty years he missed riding only twice. Claudian his final mount, was unplaced; Half Caste won. In or out of the saddle mirth and wit was characteristic of Black Tom, as Olliver was often termed. Indeed, many good stories of his private and public life are recorded in the earliest numbers of Baily. To reproduce them here would fill pages.

It was at Worcester, as I have said, I made the acquaintance of Tom Olliver, so at the “faithful city” in those youthful days a friendly relationship sprang up in my home, and that which sheltered Edwin Weever at Bourton-on-the-Hill, and that of George Stevens and the Holmans at Cheltenham. Then again of my picture: among my father’s friends were Mr. Pickernell, more publicly known as Mr. Thomas, and Johnny Page. Mr. Alex. Goodman I never shook hands with until at a later period, the veteran then loving to chat of his recollections of Miss Mowbray and Salamander. That was in my early reporting days, which likewise brought me into contact with Mr. J. M. Richardson, at those University grinds some seasons before his most successful Disturbance and Reugny double was accomplished. He was always most kind in imparting information as to his race riding to me. The same I can say of Mr. E. P. Wilson, at a period when he was associated with now almost forgotten chasers bearing names like Starlight, Nebsworth, late Jacob, late Titterstone, and so forth, all before the great striding, but perhaps non-staying, Congress gave him his first four successive Grand National rides. Then of my two other portraits, associations remain of more than ordinary racecourse knowledge. Mr. Beasley is the one, and Arthur Nightingall the other. Indeed, I was pleased to see the last-mentioned put a cap and jacket on for the first time, I think, this season at a recent Kempton meeting. Nightingall, well aware of my being full of National records, jocularly reminded me of the fact that he was “still at it,” only, as he said, “to pass the winning score of Mr. Thomas, Tom Olliver, and Mr. Beasley,” even if he did not last long enough to catch up George Stevens’ five wins.

When George Stevens first won the Liverpool on Freetrader, he had only ridden once previously. That was on Royal Blue, who was unplaced in 1852, and in the three year interim he had no ride prior to his so-called chance winning mount. But of his other victories. When the Colonel won the last of the five, that was his hardest bit of riding, and the only time onlookers in the National saw him fight like grim death and by a neck dispose of his friend and saddle contemporary, George Holman, on The Doctor. On Freetrader I have heard it said he was lucky to win a length from Minerva, as the latter badly over-reached herself at the last jump. When he piloted The Colonel to victory the first time, he won by three lengths, a distance by which he, singularly enough, beat Arbury on Emblematic in 1864. Emblem’s success the year before was quite a runaway victory. Even with her 10 lb. penalty, Arbury there had less chance than with Emblematic. Stevens, of course, thought much of the great double he accomplished for Lord Coventry, but in later years I am inclined to think for “greatness” he leaned more to the side of The Colonel’s repetition. Be that as it may, he was naturally very proud of both, and unfortunately was not spared very long to enjoy a well-earned retirement. For Baron Oppenheim he tried to surpass his already earned record a third year on The Colonel. The weight, however, was too much, and in the position of sixth the second year The Lamb won Stevens rode his last National mount.

It was indeed only a few months after this that his life was cut short by a fall from his cob while riding to his cottage called Emblem, outside his birthplace, Cheltenham. Sad indeed is the story, too long to repeat here, but to commemorate his great Liverpool name and fame, there still exist of him at his native Cheltenham certain mementoes. The house he was born in I believe has vanished, but on the footway by the road-side where he met his death there is a little stone with the plain “G. S., 1871,” upon it to indicate the spot of so sad an end. Furthermore, there is another mark of esteem in the public cemetery. Here is a more conspicuous erection in the shape of a grey granite monument, included in the inscription on which are the names of the four horses upon which he triumphed at Aintree. He married the niece of Mr. Mat. Evans, once part owner of The Colonel. The widow is no more, but I believe the only son is alive and doing well at Derby in a very different calling from that of his father. Those who remember Stevens when he won the Liverpool twice for Lord Coventry, will recall his face beneath a cap he put on as a help to the artist who painted him on Emblem in Lord Coventry’s famous picture. The vignette I place in the centre of my group is, in fact, the original, and was kindly lent me by one of the deceased’s friends, Alfred Holman, who still keeps up the old family training traditions at Cheltenham.

When George Stevens was beaten on The Colonel in 1871, the year proved, perhaps, the most famous of Mr. Thomas’ three victories. It was The Lamb’s second success, and associated with this beautiful little chaser was the fact that Lord Poulett, his owner, had dreamt in the previous December he had seen his horse win with “Tommy,” as he called Mr. Pickernell, in the saddle: and he at once asked the pilot of a previous heroine, Anatis, to ride. The original letter making mention of this successful dream I have seen in Mr. Pickernell’s well-preserved scrap-book, containing much of his riding and other exploits. One of course there finds a deal about The Lamb. Besides the story of the dream, one can glean much of the many efforts of Anatis besides her win. There is plenty, too, of other sporting qualities of her owner, Mr. C. Capel, who, only about twelve months ago Mr. Pickernell followed to his last place of rest. I think Mr. Capel lies in the same cemetery as George Stevens. Now, concerning Mr. Thomas’ third successful ride in the National, well preserved in his book is yet another letter. This is not one of dreams; it is that of congratulation in the hours of Pathfinder’s glory, and is from the pen of none other than the late Admiral Rous. Mr. Pickernell once told me he had few keepsakes of his successful Nationals except those two letters, and to which he then added, “are they not enough to be proud of.” Only twice in nineteen years did Mr. Thomas miss a ride in the Liverpool. His first mount was Anatis, the year before she won; his last occurred in 1877, when he was third to Austerlitz on The Liberator, two years before Mr. Garry Moore won on the last named. The years Mr. Thomas missed mounts in the Liverpool were when Emblem and Emblematic won; not through spills or broken bones, or anything of that sort. Just at that time he became a benedict, and it was family persuasion kept him out of the saddle. Not for long, however, for what he picked up from Tom Olliver was well in the flesh, and of one reception he met with on his return to the pigskin he is quite as fond of talking of as of his three Liverpool victories. And well he might be. The calendar records tell that in 1866 he won all the three steeplechases run at Aintree’s autumn meeting, and they, of course, included the Sefton on Sprite. Here, with a broken stirrup leather carried in his hand, by a neck he beat Stevens on Lord Coventry’s Balder amid great enthusiasm. Mr. Thomas, who lives at King’s Heath, near Birmingham, last September attained his seventy-first birthday, and although if now never seen on a racecourse, he enjoys fairly good health. He likes to compare the old with the new; he knows, too, in his retirement all about regulation obstacles. Did he not give up the official berth of inspector of fences before the National Hunt placed Mr. William Bevill in that position. Mr. Bevill never knew what it was to taste the sweets of a Grand National victory. He is, however, one of those named in its records in connection with many luckless efforts.

Pathfinder’s victory saw the final National ride of another of my subjects, Johnny Page. He there was on the back of Baron Finot’s La Veine, and the French Baron being offended with not a very pleasant greeting at Bristol, curiously enough never tried his luck in the National again. Page, back in England many years ago from France, and down Henley-in-Arden way, is still alive to tell of his experiences of the Liverpool Steeplechase. He won it on Cortolvin and Casse Tête, was second on the former to Salamander, and third, as already said, to Pathfinder. In 1871 he was fourth on Pearl Diver to The Lamb, and all in eleven rides. He had early tuition as a jockey on the flat, for as a lightweight he steered First Lord (5 st. 8 lb.) when he won the Northumberland Plate. This, no doubt, assisted him in being so fine a judge of pace between the flags, and likewise gave him the ability in a finish, so much feared by his pigskin contemporaries. For this most of them gave him praise. One of the number, however, is Mr. Richardson, who, with Capt. Machell, so well managed the Disturbance and Reugny Limber Magna coups. Indeed, at the quiet little Lincolnshire nook even their near neighbour, the late Sir John Astley, according to his own words, hardly reckoned on their achievement. He tells us so in his book, and if he did not participate very much in their sweets he got up a

words “The Mate” had printed on the invitation tickets to the Grimsby Town Hall Dinner, prepared in honour of Mr. Richardson’s victory. After Reugny’s success the rider of the latter and Disturbance married the Countess of Yarborough; and, long since retired from the race saddle, now amuses himself at golf in the summer and hunting in the winter. He comes racing occasionally, and has for years had colours registered. They were of a different hue until the death of Capt. Machell, when the white and blue cap which he has on in my picture was substituted. The photo is a copy of a painting in oil, a presentation to Mr. Richardson after his two Liverpool wins.

In Mr. E. P. Wilson’s sixteen attempts to win the Grand National, he was very near the mark on Congress when Regal beat him by a neck in 1876. He travelled as far as 1884 before scoring his first win on Voluptuary and then followed it up the next season on the uncertain Roquefort, on which he would probably have won a second time had the horse not fallen over the rails in the straight, when Gamecock triumphed. At any rate, in his long career, which started in 1873 and terminated in 1890, he did remarkably well. Congress, as before said, was his first mount, Hettie the last, and it was on the latter mare, although unsuccessful, he had the honour of wearing the colours of the King. A portrait in the Royal racing livery would no doubt be more effective to my group, but is not available, so one in hunting costume, from a recent photo taken by Frost, of Loughboro’, takes its place. Mr. Wilson some time ago changed his home from Ilmington to Loughboro’, retiring first from race-riding and then from training. He has, however, started a new career. At Loughboro’ I hear that he makes a good host at the Bull’s Head Hotel; when away from home he sometimes is found wielding the flag and officially despatching the racer and steeplechaser he loved so well.

Mr. Beasley’s death some months ago, after retirement from riding between the flags, caused general regret, but yet recalled a splendid Liverpool career. His three winners, Empress, Woodbrook, and Frigate, were all praiseworthy triumphs, the last-named being the most difficult, but perhaps the most acceptable, as the old mare had previously tried there so often. But Mr. Beasley was not without his disappointment at Liverpool, for fresh in my memory is that of the 1882 defeat of Cyrus, when Lord Manners won on a former stable companion, Seaman. That defeat was a head, and on one other occasion only has the judge ever given a Liverpool by that distance. Spahi in 1887 was also a disappointment when he fell so early in the race. Of Mr. Gubbins’ horse much more was expected. Mr. Beasley, however, knew how to take failures as well as sweets. He came of a good riding family, as the National of 1879 corroborates. Neither was successful, but in connection with the chase I think it is a record to find Tommy, Harry, Willie, and Johnnie, four brothers, all in one Aintree battle. The Liberator won that year. It is Mr. Harry Beasley I have to thank for my portrait of the brother with such a splendid Liverpool score against his name. Mr. Harry’s record is not quite so good, but nevertheless will bear inspection. One win (Come Away) and three consecutive seconds and a third is certainly not so indifferent out of thirteen mounts.

And last, but not least, Arthur Nightingall is approached. He began to ride in the Liverpool in 1886 on Baron de Tuyll’s The Badger. He had no mount through a mishap to his horse at the eleventh hour last year, and as I have said earlier he quite expects to make another effort this season. Nightingall is of opinion that Ilex, the first winner he rode, was the best, and his subsequent running with such as Cloister, and Come Away under big weights corroborates the notion. His win on Ilex, however, was far more easily achieved than that on either Why Not or Grudon; in fact, when speaking of Why Not, Nightingall has been heard to say that he was glad when he lifted the horse over the last fence; furthermore, so beaten were his opponents at the finish that he thinks he could have won on either of the other three who followed him home. Why Not did fairly well in his hands again when Soarer scored.

Now I am at my journey’s end. Space has not permitted me to tell of the many riders of single winners, but before I stay my pen in this long story of National successes, I must, indeed, indulge in the old cry of “one for the losers.” Plenty of good men and true, if they have only ridden one winner, well know the difficulty of accomplishing success. In my researches I find at Aintree fine horsemen, professional or otherwise, like Mr. Arthur Yates, Mr. W. Bevill, Robert I. Anson, Richard Marsh, the King’s trainer, Mr. Gordon, Mr. W. R. Brockton, Capt. W. Hope, Johnstone, Ben Land, the Earl of Minto (then Mr. Rolly), the brothers Holman, James Jewitt, Mr. Lushington, Capt. Smith, Col. Harford, and many others I cannot now recall are of the number. Many of these, too, are still in the land of the living.

(FROM THE SPORTING MAGAZINE OF 1806.)

A notorious deer stealer, of the name of Smith, was apprehended by Hamilton and Lovett, officers, on Thursday morning, January 30th, by virtue of a warrant issued by the magistrates of Northamptonshire, which was backed at Marlborough Street office. The charge against the prisoner was for deer stealing in the park of the Earl of Pomfret, in the county of Northampton, where depredations had been committed to a considerable extent, as well as in various other parks in that neighbourhood. It was stated that a white buck had been selected for Christmas dinner in Earl Pomfret’s park, but that he was discovered to have been stolen when the keepers sought to take him for slaughter. The prisoner was represented as belonging to a gang of offenders some of whom were in custody in the country. He was the Robin Hood of the gang, and when committing depredations in the forests his bravado and fierceness of temper struck such terror into the minds of the keepers that when he was known to be poaching, even alone, no one dared to approach him. The prisoner, according to his own account, had carried on a successful trade in this way for many years with impunity. He did not consider deer stealing as any moral offence, but merely sporting, which he had been brought up to, and which he could never desist from. He was ordered to be committed to the county gaol of Northampton.

A match of pigeon-shooting took place at Heston on Thursday, February 13th, for twenty-five guineas, between J. Aaron, Esq., a gentleman of sporting celebrity, and Mr. Dunford, who was considered one of the first shots in Hampshire. Fifteen pigeons were allotted to each sportsman, and Mr. Dunford commenced the sport—which of these should produce most dead birds in fifteen shots. He killed the first nine, but hit the tenth bird without effect, and the eleventh he missed. The other four birds were despatched, making thirteen dead. Mr. Aaron followed, and killed eleven birds successively, when betting was seven to four on his performance. The twelfth and thirteenth birds were hit without effect, and the fourteenth he killed, and missed the fifteenth, by which he lost the wager.

Monday, the 10th, the stud of the late Premier, Mr. Pitt, consisting of nine saddle horses, was disposed of by public auction at Tattersall’s. The hon. gentleman was not distinguished for the excellence of his cattle, and in his carriage he actually drove job-horses. Of those brought to the hammer a bay gelding, six years old, by Pipator, fetched the greatest price, and sold for 130 guineas. It was put in at 40 guineas, and when it had reached 50 a person present, who had been in the employ of the late proprietor, bid at once 100 guineas, and it was ultimately knocked down to him. A gelding, by Grog, which Mr. Pitt used as a charger, fetched 72 guineas, and the whole 438 guineas.

The forty-third edition of John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanack^[6] is a bigger thing than ever, and now the chronicle of the cricket of the year consists of over 700 pages, which fact demonstrates very forcibly how the popularity of cricket has increased since the first issue of Wisden in 1864, when 112 pages comprised the whole work.

Now that the other cricket annuals, the old green and red Lillywhites, no longer appear, the responsibility of chronicling the history of the game falls upon Mr. Sydney Pardon, the well-known journalist, who has now for some years so ably edited Wisden.

We agree with Mr. Pardon that the task of preparing Wisden does not become easier with the lapse of years, so vast is the amount of interesting matter which has to be compressed into one volume. The five cricketers of the year, whose photographs form the frontispiece, are Joe Vine, that keenest of cricketers in Sussex, who seems to enjoy nothing in life more thoroughly than chasing the ball all over the field, and if required will cheerfully field in the country at both ends.

He is a very good batsman, as his many fine partnerships with C. B. Fry for the first wicket amply testify. But the most interesting feature of Vine’s cricket was his bowling, which for a year or two nonplussed the best batsmen. He was able to bowl the leg-twisting ball at a quicker pace, both through the air and off the pitch, than any other English bowler, and when he found his length he was very deadly, reminding one of the best ball of Mr. G. E. Palmer, the Australian.

It is an interesting enough historical fact with regard to the greatest leg-twist bowlers, that their careers have generally been extremely brief. Mr. Palmer seems to have lost his length owing to his cultivation of the leg-twist. Mr. R. C. Ramsay, in 1882, was for Cambridge University a terror for a few weeks, and Messrs. C. L. Townsend, the late E. A. Nepean, and the brothers Steel, have all had great successes by this method in their time, but, somehow, no cricketer seems to have succeeded in the craft of bowling leg-twisters for a very long time, with the notable exception of Mr. Warwick Armstrong, who, during the last Australian tour in this country, bowled no less than 1,027 overs, of which 308 were maiden overs.

Joe Vine can point to a couple of very fine bowling performances. In 1901 he took sixteen wickets at Nottingham—eight in each innings—for 161 runs, and so enabled Sussex to win at Trent Bridge for the first time for forty years. In 1902, at Hastings, against the Australians, he took 7 wickets for 31 runs; but sad to say, in 1905 the 21 wickets he captured for his county cost over 41 runs apiece!

Mr. L. G. Wright, the veteran Derbyshire cricketer, justly enough, is one of the selected five, and although he is now over 44 years of age, he is by common consent held to be the best “point” amongst first-class fieldsmen of to-day. He stands close up to the batsman, and his agility and quickness are quite astonishing, for of recent years perfect wickets and academic batsmanship have rendered the post of point proper all but obsolete.

An interesting feature of Mr. Wright’s cricket is, that like a good vintage wine, it appears to improve with age. He first played for Derbyshire in 1883, and since 1887 he has been a regular member of the team when he could play, and last year, in his twenty-second season, he came out easily top of the county averages, with an aggregate of 1,651 runs for 38 innings, giving an average of 43 runs per innings.

Amongst other big performances he scored a century in each innings against Warwickshire at Birmingham. He scored 176 out of 323 in the first innings and followed on with 122 out of 197, in first and out last.

We understand that a very influential committee has been formed to organise a testimonial, and we wish the scheme every success. Probably, Mr. Wright holds the record of having played upon the losing side in more county matches than any other cricketer, and so his sustained good play for Derbyshire is all the more commendable.

George Thompson is another star cricketer who has lent much importance to the doings of a weak team, and it is not too much to say that, but for Thompson, Northamptonshire could not have last year gained admission to the first class. Since his first appearance in 1895 he has put in consistently good work both with ball and bat, and, whether for his county, or for the Players, or the Marylebone Club, he is always one of the most useful men on a side, as he also proved himself to be when, with Mr. Warner’s team in New Zealand, he took 177 wickets at a cost of under seven runs a-piece, and, in the West Indies, with Lord Brackley’s team, he took 126 wickets for ten runs a-piece.

Those tried and valuable cricketers, Walter Lees and David Denton, complete the gallery of five, and it may well be said of them that if they had played more often in the test matches of last season no one would have been surprised. In the absence of Mr. MacLaren, Denton was included in the England team at Leeds, but it was not one of his lucky days. Lees was reserve man on each occasion, without actually playing in any of the matches. At the time of writing Denton is the mainstay of the batting line of Mr. P. F. Warner’s team in South Africa, and it is just as well for the party that the Yorkshireman should find himself in luck.

There are some interesting personal reminiscences of the late Mr. R. A. H. Mitchell, written by Mr. Russell Walker and another old cricketer; and Captain W. J. Seton contributes a very complete article upon public school cricket. The list of cricket records is a rapidly increasing feature of the general information supplied by the editor, and now extends to some twenty-two pages, whilst no fewer than seventeen pages are taken up by short obituary notices of cricketers who died in 1905, there being many well-known names in the sad list. The record of the year’s cricket is more voluminous than ever, and the full doings and analyses of the Australian tour run into sixty-two pages.

In the records of the Australian wicket-keepers we are surprised to notice that whilst Kelly caught 19 and stumped 7, Newland caught 12 and stumped 7, and yet Newland was regarded by everybody as very considerably inferior to Kelly, and kept wicket upon comparatively few occasions.

Fig. 73.—Proportions of the Horse in Profile

From Goubaux and Barrier. (By permission of Messrs. Lippincott)
(From “The Horse: Its Treatment in Health and Disease.”)

It is rather remarkable that of the many cricketers who played against the Australians only two bowled more than 100 overs against them, and these two, Mr. W. Brearley and Wilfred Rhodes, bowled 214 and 208 overs respectively. The bowler who bowled the highest number of overs next to these two is Haigh, with 99·4 overs, so that he was only short of 100 overs by two balls.

Mr. Brearley, with 37 wickets, got nearly twice as many Australian wickets as any one else, and Jack Hearne gets the best average with 7 wickets for 67 runs.

Mr. J. N. Crawford, the Repton and Surrey cricketer, supplies an interesting page in cricket history. Up to the end of July he was Captain of the Repton XI., and scored for his school 766 runs for an average of 85·11, and took 51 wickets at an average cost of 12·96. After this he was able in the few remaining weeks of the season to play enough first-class cricket to amass 543 runs, with an average of 33·93, and to take 47 wickets, his bowling average of 18·46 placing him eighth in the list of English bowlers. We cannot call to mind a parallel case of a school-boy doing such an exceptional amount of good work, both in school cricket and county cricket, in the same season. It would appear that the only thing to have prevented Mr. Crawford from representing the Gentlemen against the Players was that Repton School had a prior claim upon his services. This winter Mr. Crawford is enjoying great success in South Africa, both with bat and ball, and his return to this country will probably be jealously awaited by the keenest members of the Surrey Club. The date of Mr. Crawford’s birth is given as December 1st, 1886, so he has time in his favour, anyway.

The study of Wisden in the winter months is a fascinating pastime, but we have run on long enough, and must leave our readers to their own cogitations and musings over the book itself.

The second volume^[7] of Professor Wortley Axe’s comprehensive work is now before us, and we may say at once that its contents maintain in every respect the high promise of its forerunner. Section III., dealing with the “Varieties of the Horse,” begun in the first volume, is completed, the majority of our breeds of ponies, the heavy horses and the foreign breeds most frequently imported being reviewed. The author regards the good representative Welsh pony as “one of the best and most serviceable animals” among his kind. It is unfortunately true that the Dartmoor, Exmoor and New Forest breeds, more especially the second, have been made the subject of so many experiments in crossing that the original type is become obscured, if not entirely lost. Sir Walter Gilbey has set out the history, or as much of it as can be discovered by assiduous and careful research, of our native breeds of ponies in one of his well-known books; and Professor Wortley Axe’s observations form a very able summary of all that has been written of the several breeds. The historical sketch of the Shire horse is also excellent; as regards the debated question of “feather” on the legs of the breed, the author urges that the desirability or the reverse of hair in quantity is a matter which should be left to practical men who are not likely to allow sentimental considerations to weigh with them. The author is not able to throw any fresh light on the origin of the Clydesdale; it would be surprising if he had, in view of the researches which have been undertaken with the object of elucidating the matter; what is known he epitomises with his usual conciseness and point. The Suffolk breed is hardly more satisfactory as an historical subject; it was certainly well-established in the earlier decade of the eighteenth century, and, without the possibility of doubt, was so at a much more remote date. The author is a warm admirer of the Suffolk, whose good qualities furnish him with the theme for one of his best chapters.

The Arab naturally leads the way among the foreign breeds noticed. The author adopts a judicial attitude concerning the merits of the breed; he appears to share the opinion of those who think the Arab susceptible of improvement, while he recognises the intrinsic qualities which render an Arab so valuable for crossing with our own light horses.

The greater portion of the volume is occupied by the veterinary chapters: those matters of which the reader must acquire knowledge as a condition of understanding the descriptions of symptoms, &c., which follow. We have, always in simple and lucid language to be understanded of the layman, most valuable and helpful chapters on the diseases to which the mouth, throat, stomach and intestines of the horse are liable. The descriptions are supplemented by excellent drawings, which cannot fail to be of service to the reader.

The illustrations, in colour or from photographs, are exceedingly good.

From the first part of “The Horse: Its Treatment in Health and Disease,” the following is quoted:—

Ever since the days of Bourgelat the study of proportions in respect to the various regions of the horse has been vigorously pursued, especially by French hippotomists, and it is to the founder of veterinary schools we owe the first serious attempt to “establish the relation of the dimension which should exist between the parts of the body,” or, in other words, a law of proportion. As a result of numerous measurements, Bourgelat selected the head as a basis of proportion for all other parts, and the more recent researches of the distinguished savant, Colonel Duhousset, led him also to adopt this, and give it as a unit of measure.

The results of his observations are recorded by Goubaux and Barrier, from whose able work on “The Exterior of the Horse,” we extract the following list of proportions:—

1st.—From the back to the abdomen N O, fig. 73 (thickness of the body).

2nd.—From the top of the withers to the point of the arm H E (shoulder.)

3rd.—From the superior fold of the stifle joint to the point of the hock J J.

4th.—From the point of the hock to the ground J K.

5th.—From the dorsal angle of the scapula to the point of the haunch D D.

6th.—From the xiphoid region to the fetlock joint M I; above this latter in large horses and race horses, below it in small horses and in those of medium size.

7th.—From the superior fold of the stifle joint to the summit of the croup in subjects whose coxofemoral angle is large; this distance is always less in other cases (G and B).

1st.—The height of the withers H, above the ground.

2nd.—The height of the top of the croup above the ground.

3rd.—Very often the length of the body from the point of the arm to that of the buttock, E F.

The length of the croup from the point of the haunch to that of the buttock D F is always less than that of the head; this varies from 5 to 10 centimetres. As to its width from one haunch to another, it often exceeds only very little its length (often it is equal to the latter), G and B.

The croup, D F, exists quite accurately in length four times in the same horse.

1st.—From the point of the buttock to the inferior part of the stifle joint F P.

2nd.—In the width of the neck at its inferior attachment, from its insertion into the chest to the origin of the withers S X.

3rd.—From the insertion of the neck into the chest to the angle of the lower jaw X Q, when the head is held parallel to the shoulder.

4th.—Finally, from the nape of the neck to the nostril n n or to the commissure of the lips.

The measure of one half of the head will also guide us very much in the construction of the horse, when we know that it is frequently applied to several of his parts, namely:—

1st.—From the most prominent point of the angle of the lower jaw to the anterior profile of the forehead before the eye, R Q (thickness of the head).

2nd.—From the throat to the superior border of the neck behind the poll Q L (attachment of the head).

3rd.—From the inferior part of the knee to the coronet, T T.

4th.—From the base of the hock to the fetlock, V U.

5th.—Finally, from the point of the arm to the articulation of the elbow (approximate length of the arm).

After the experiences of very nearly a century it was singular indeed that the Hunters’ Improvement Society and the Royal Commission on Horse-breeding cold-shouldered the idea that like has a tendency to get like. For twenty years no clause appeared in their schedules that the thoroughbred horse eligible for a premium should have been a turf performer of some kind or other, and so sires obtained honours that were simply laughed at by owners and trainers. Sam Darling, John Porter, the late J. Humphreys, and Mr. Ben Ellam have had their jokes over the things, as they have called them, that have satisfied the State. Humphreys used to chaff a breeder about one that he was certain could not have gone fast to keep himself warm, and yet he won three Queen’s Premiums, and was sold as a hunting sire for 500 sovs. The conditions have now been altered to a certain extent, as turf performances are given in the catalogues, and the judges are invited to take notice of them. A shorter and better plan would be to admit no horse into the entry that had not won a race worth 100 sovs., or, to make it still easier, one that had not been placed in such a race. This would make the franchise, so to speak, sufficiently low, as there is this to be taken into consideration, that winners in these times of any event that savours at all of consequence are so terribly expensive as to make hunting sires, of great turf class, difficult to secure. The great points to be gained, though, from a racing career is that they can go fast enough to live with other horses, and that they have stood the exigencies of training to test constitution, temper, and the strain on limbs. The more proof of all this the better, as, to quote the late Lord Portsmouth’s views—and there was no greater judge—the best hunting sire has invariably been the racing slave; the horse that has commenced at two years old and run everywhere and often until he is six or seven. Whether the best are those that have won long-distance races, or to have been simply the quick, sharp sprinters, are other questions; but it will be generally allowed that gameness over any course is a quality to be held greatly in esteem.

The old-fashioned breeders of hunters were, no doubt, imbued with the idea that stoutness as shown on the racecourse was the essential quality to be looked for, and they had plenty of examples on their side down to quite 1840. The Boston side of Lincolnshire was filled with good hunters early in the last century by a Cup winner of Lord Egremont’s, who had the misfortune to break his leg in running for a race at Ascot. When the gun was being brought out to put an end to him, a sporting blacksmith from Lincolnshire begged the life of the noble steed, and contrived a sling for him in a building hard by. It took four months to get the limb thoroughly set, and then the blacksmith walked the horse to Boston, where he developed into the best hunting sire of that quarter, and after fifteen years’ service the grateful farmers had the horse painted by the senior Ferneley, and presented the picture to the blacksmith. Such were the feelings or sentiments for great hunting sires a hundred years ago, and perhaps the country is indebted for the good foundation in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, and Shropshire, to such notable racers as Catton, Lottery, Clinker, the sire of the famous hunter of that name so memorable in the Melton matches, and the elder Clinker was second in the St. Leger of 1808, and got by Sir Peter the best horse of his day. It was said that Clasher, the successful rival in the great match with Clinker, was by the same sire, but other statements showed him to be by Clasher, another son of Sir Peter. Anyway, the two were closely related, and no two horses ever went over a stiffer four miles of country. Again, there was Cannon Ball, a winner of four mile races in his day, and the pride of the Quorn country as a sire, and was not Pan, the Derby winner of 1808, doing duty amongst the commoners of Shropshire in the days of Jack Mytton?

There is good reason to think that when the golden age of foxhunting was at its zenith the notable hunters were all by famous turf performers, and that the same views were taken in regard to hunter-breeding for the next five-and-twenty years. This would comprise the days of Perion in Yorkshire, Gainsborough in Devonshire, Doctor Syntax in Durham, Sir Peter Laurie in Gloucestershire and Herefordshire, and Arthur in Ireland—the kind of horses, in fact, of proved class that were used to get hunters. After this the ready materials became somewhat mixed, though there were still exceptionally good sires in the ’fifties, ’sixties, and ’seventies, with such stock to their credit that may well have been called magnificent.

To select the best may be difficult when such names as Mogador, Lambton, Maroon, Ugly Buck, North Lincoln, Pride of Prussia, Allow-me, and Lord Derby recur to memory, but taking all into consideration, both for England and Ireland, I should say that preference could be given to the two V.’s, Van Galen and Victor. They were both born within the same decade, and just after the second half of the century had commenced, as Van Galen was foaled in 1853 and Victor in 1859. They were both also bred in Yorkshire, and it is possible that they became hunting sires more by accident than anything else. Van Galen gave early indications of being a good racehorse, as he was highly tried as a two-year-old, and won his first race, the Tyra Stakes, at Newcastle in a canter. Then he suffered defeat when 7 to 2 was laid on him, and he ran forward in the Champagne Stakes at Doncaster. Through some accident, he had to be thrown out of training during the ensuing winter, and early in life became a hunting sire. He was just the sort for that vocation—a big brown horse, standing, when grown to his best, rather over 16 hands, and his card used to disclose at a glance a fine old Yorkshire pedigree by Van Tromp, winner of the St. Leger, and got by Lanercost out of Barbelle (all Yorkshire by Sandbeck), the dam of the Flying Dutchman, the dam of Van Galen, Little Casino, by Inheritor, dam by Waverley. To the best of my recollection, Van Galen travelled through, the country that comprised Northallerton, Bedale, Middleham, and Harmby—much the same ground, in fact, that was covered by Perion thirty years before; and I bear in mind staying near the last-mentioned Village in 1867, and that the Van Galen hunters were then the talk of the country. Mr. Bruere, a gentleman who kept a charming little pack of harriers near Middleham, had a beautiful hunter by Van Galen called Charlie, for whom, it was said, £700 had been refused, and he was certainly one of the best-looking and most mannerly hunters I have ever seen. He was in some of the great hunt steeplechases of the ’sixties. So were many others of the Van Galen family.

I bear in mind a horse called Vanbrugh, of the same type, big, weight-carrying, bloodlike horses that were natural jumpers from the time they were foals, and no days were too long for them. This is the character they gained in Yorkshire, and Van Galen hunters were sought after as much as the Perions had been. Like many other greatly patronised hunting sires, the famous son of Van Tromp had few opportunities with thoroughbred mares, but a chance union with Sybil, a mare belonging to the late John Fohert, the trainer of the Flying Dutchman, produced quite the stoutest horse of his time as the winner of the Chester Cup, and dead-heater for the Ascot Cup with Buckstone, to whom he gave a lump of weight. Tim Whiffler was quite in the family order, a big brown horse, and pity it was that he was sold to Australia after he had got some very useful ones, including Footman, who was backed heavily to win a Grand National. If ever there was one horse more than another bred to get great cross-country performers, it was Tim Whiffler, as his dam, Sybil, was by the Ugly Buck, whose fame down Northamptonshire way as a hunting sire was almost equal to anything. It was in after generations that Van Galen’s name lived so long, as a second visit to Harmby twenty years afterwards gave strong evidence that breeders had no intention of dropping the line, and that his daughters and granddaughters were regarded in the highest esteem as hunter producers. Another son of Van Galen’s, too, was Ploughboy, who was out of a Stockwell mare, and he did capital service for some seasons when he stood at the Newbiggen House stables, Beverley.

Victor left Yorkshire in very early life, as he was bred by Mr. R. Hunt, but for some reason not explained, he was taken to Lincoln as a two-year-old during the race meeting. Mr. George Hodgman, in his interesting book, called “Sixty Years on the Turf,” relates that having nothing to do one morning he strolled through the City, and passing the Saracen’s Head, saw a rough sort of countryman holding a horse in the adjoining yard. He had not the least idea of buying or dealing, but taking stock of the animal rather liked him, as he had good quarters, and was well ribbed up; his chief defect, so he thought, being his fore legs as he stood a bit over. “He don’t look much like a thoroughbred,” Mr. Hodgman remarked. “That’s just what he is,” was the retort; “perhaps you don’t know much about horses.” “You are quite right, I don’t,” said the now interested would-be buyer, “but what’s he by?” “By Vindex, Sir Charles Monck’s horse.” “Ah, well, just let the boy trot him about.” The boy took hold of the halter string and cantered him up the yard. Mr. Hodgman was satisfied. “How much do you want?” “Eighty pounds.” “I suppose he’s yours?” This suspicious remark occasioned some bad language, but then followed, “All right, keep your temper.” “I will give you eighty pounds, and he is mine.” The countryman pressed half-a-crown into Mr. Hodgman’s hand for luck money, and the deal was done. Victor did not do much that season, running twice, but unplaced, and he ran again as a three-year-old without distinction. At four he was specially prepared for the Royal Hunt Cup, Mr. Hodgman spending a hundred pounds for him to do his work on some ground at Winchester, which was precisely similar to the Ascot Royal Hunt Cup course. Tried good enough to win Mr. Hodgman invested a thousand on him, through Mr. George Herring, the now famous philanthropist. Victor started favourite at 3 to 1 in a field of twenty-eight and won in a canter by four lengths. In the same year he broke down when running in the Cambridgeshire, and ultimately Mr. Hodgman sold him at Tattersall’s for 28 guineas, the buyer being Mr. Simpson, of Diss, who some time afterwards sold him to the late Mr. George Arthur Harris, who imported him to his own stud farm in Ireland.

It was fortunate indeed for the land of hunters that such a purchase was effected, and Mr. Harris used to tell the story, that at the same time Mr. Simpson would have sold him Vedette for £40, but this was before the latter had got Galopin. In his new Irish home Victor was not long in making his mark, as from the very first he got beautiful weight-carrying hunters that had taken as naturally to jumping as small ducks to water. By about 1872 the dealers were enraptured with them. The five-year-olds had been seen in England, and there was a demand for as many as Ireland could supply. The fashion to get over a country on the Victors spread far into the shires. In Leicestershire, Yorkshire, with the Heythrop and Bicester, I was for ever hearing of them in my travels, and a great many in Ireland could not be purchased for any money. It was shown in later life that he could get steeplechase winners out of cart mares, and a great many winners of cross-country events were credited to young Victors. There had never been such a hunting sire since Arthur, and, like Van Galen in Yorkshire, he got a great Turf winner in Valour, the hero of the Manchester Cup of 1881, and certainly one of the best performers of his time. There must have been something in the blood of Victor that hit with the Irish mares, as no matter what they were like, from the Connemara pony to the cart mare, they all produce hunters to him with beautiful fore hands, galloping horses, in fact, that could jump. He really set people thinking as to what kind of horse is likely to be the best to get a hunter, as here was a quick, sharp horse over a mile that could slip a big field of twenty-eight and win in a canter, and the old-fashioned sire of the Gainsborough stamp was not believed in unless he had won over four miles in heats. There was no reason, though, why Victor should not have been a stayer, as he was by Vindex, son of Touchstone, and Garland by Langer, out of Caststeel, by Whisker, her dam Twinkle by Walton, the dam of Victor, the Scroggins mare, out of Miss Eliza, by Humphrey Clinker, who was by Clinker, the old-time sire above alluded to, out of Romulus’s dam, by Fitzteazle, son of Sir Peter. It is all the kind of blood that has told before, but not quite in racing pedigree, and that was the opinion formed of Valour, who was not a stud success. However, Victor’s path in life was that of a hunting sire, and as such he will never be forgotten. He lives still through his daughters and granddaughters, now the very best of hunting brood mares. The late Mr. Harris formed a stud for him, and it will always be called the Victor stud. A more prolific stallion there has never been. For many years his subscription list at Kilmallock, county Limerick, averaged from eighty to a hundred and twenty-eight a season, and when he was twenty-eight years old he got fifteen foals from twenty-five mares. He died in 1888, when he was in his thirtieth year. His owner, Mr. G. A. Harris, died in 1891, leaving the Victor stud to his son, Mr. John Harris, who is now also manager of the Ballykisteen stud, where court is held by Santoi Vites, Uncle Mac, and Wavelet’s Pride. There is something very remarkable about such horses as Van Galen and Victor. They have contributed much to the enjoyment of sportsmen, as their sons and daughters have made fox-hunting delightful. There cannot be made hunters without the material, and with that guaranteed the trade in hunters has increased; more people want to hunt, and the very breed of horses for the country’s good is greatly improved and advanced. How much is England and Ireland indebted then to the like of Van Galen and Victor.

Simultaneously with the appearance of Baily for March, both the 1906 crews go into strict training for their race of April 7th. This date is certainly late, but not unduly so. April has been the month selected on numerous occasions of recent years, and Saturday, of course, especially appeals to Londoners. From the first, the Oxford President, Mr. E. P. Evans (Radley and University) has been in a position to view the outlook with a good deal of equanimity. For one thing, he has been blessed with a plethora of talent this year. Quite an exceptional lot of matured oarsmen are in residence and available. For another, he has had the valuable assistance of Mr. W. A. L. Fletcher, D.S.O., as coach, from the very beginning. This famous old Blue has been dubbed the “Kitchener” of coaches, and with a good deal of reason. His co-operation has ever been a potent factor towards victory both ways. As last year, he has given every aspiring Dark Blue oarsman his chance, and, thanks to his powers of discrimination, fewer changes have been made than usual. How rich in aquatic material Oxford is this season can best be gauged by the fact that many notable oarsmen have failed to find seats.

After his 1905 prowess, Mr. H. C. Bucknall (Eton and Merton) is very properly setting the work again. He was the hero of last year’s race, and is undoubtedly a stroke of the nascitur non fit order. If anything, he is rowing longer and stronger this season. No. 7 thwart has been occupied respectively by Mr. E. A. Bailey (Marlborough and Merton) and Mr. A. C. Gladstone (Eton and Christ Church), stroke of the winning eight at Henley in 1905. Mr. Bailey is the stronger oarsman, but hardly so good a waterman as the Etonian. Any sacrifice of avoirdupois, therefore, will be amply compensated for giving the last-named’s permanent inclusion. When once the machinery is seen in motion any prejudice on this score vanishes. The president himself is at No. 6, backed at Nos. 5 and 4 by A. G. Kirby (Eton and Magdalen) and L. E. Jones (Eton and Balliol). Mr. Kirby is a freshman, who also rowed in the Eton winning eight at Henley last year, and Mr. Jones an old Blue, who got his colours in 1905.

All these heavy-weights are rowing well and long thus early. They not only possess great strength, but know how to apply it. Mr. J. Dewar (Rugby and New College) has been rowing at No. 3 thwart, and already in capital style, but if Mr. Gladstone remains at No. 7, Mr. Bailey may supersede the old Rugbeian. Mr. C. H. Illingworth (Radley and Pembroke) makes a very fine No. 2. He is an old Radleian captain of boats, who has figured at Henley on many occasions. The old Blue, R. W. Somers-Smith (Eton and Merton), and G. M. Graham (Eton and New College), have both been tried at bow by turns. Mr. Somers-Smith is the more polished oarsman, but his rival is much more powerful and effective. And, since his permanent inclusion, he has come on very appreciably.

Mainly composed of old Etonians and old Radleians, this year’s crew is exceptionally weighty, three of the men scale over 13st., and Mr. Jones over 14st. Avoirdupois is decidedly a feature, but, even thus early, they make good use of their weight. Mr. Fletcher has certainly succeeded in inculcating the theory of the right mode of applying force. Individually there is not a bad oarsman among them; and there are no ugly bodies. The blade-work is good, the catch fairly so, while, on the whole, the stroke is rowed right home with excellent leg-work. “As a crew,” they are just the one for Putney, if not for Henley. Perhaps their gravest fault at this stage is a lack of combination in swing and drive. The slides are used up too soon—before the hands are fairly into the chest; this makes them rather short back, and affects the finish. Altogether, however, they are rapidly developing into “a crew,” and a good one at that. They go to Henley for a fortnight’s practice within the next day or so, and will be fully ripe for the change. As the outcome, better uniformity in swing, sliding, and blade-work—so essential to a fast crew—should speedily obtain. Given such improvement, they will migrate to Putney about the middle of the month, distinctly one of the most promising Oxford eights sent out for many a long year.

In lesser degree, the Cambridge President, Mr. R. V. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity) has also been confronted with an embarras de richesses this year; or, rather, he has had to discriminate between a large number of experienced oarsmen much-of-a-muchness in calibre. This, of course, has made his task much more difficult. For it is not enough that the men selected should separately be good, each must fit into his proper place, or the whole plan may be ruined. Mr. F. J. Escombe, the famous old Blue and coach, has assisted him from the first, which has meant a very great deal. Like Mr. Fletcher, he is nothing if not “observant,” while he is a past-master in the art (for an art it is) of gauging an oarsman’s real abilities. A lot of changing about has necessarily been imperative this year, and, as at Oxford, many notable oarsmen have failed to find places. For some weeks President Powell himself set the work, but his right place is at No. 6, by common consent. He is now rowing with remarkable power and polish at that thwart, and Mr. D. C. R. Stuart (Cheltenham and Trinity Hall) is at stroke.

This gentleman will be remembered as the famous London Rowing Club oarsman and sculler, who has figured prominently at Henley and Putney of recent years. He is not only a strong man physically, but applies his strength scientifically and keeps a good length. Even at full racing pace he appears easy to follow. He is admirably backed up at No. 7 by Mr. E. W. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity), brother to the president and a freshman this year. While the younger Powell is a stylist above all things, he puts a lot of power into his work and is very effective. So also is Mr. B. C. Johnstone (Eton and Third Trinity), the old Blue and C.U.B.C. Secretary, at No. 5. He and Mr. M. Donaldson (Charterhouse and First Trinity) at No. 4, are the heavy-weights of the crew, and splendid specimens of manhood. Both have improved hand over hand during the last three weeks, and, with President Powell, are the backbone of the crew. Mr. M. M. Goldsmith (Sherborne and Jesus) and Mr. J. H. F. Benham (Fauconberge and Jesus) are rowing at Nos. 3 and 2, respectively, up to date. They showed promising form in this year’s trial eights, and have gone on improving subsequently. As generally expected, Mr. G. D. Cochrane (Eton and Third Trinity), the reserve man last year, is seated at bow. He has recovered much of his best school form, and works as hard as any man in the boat. His colours are assured and deserved.

As will be seen, individually, the crew is somewhat heterogeneously composed. “As a crew,” however, the men have long since settled down to a very pleasing, effective, and uniform style. Taken individually, they are as good a set of men in a boat as the Oxonians. It is collectively that they fail to hit it off so well as their rivals at present. There is a smart recovery, a fair catch, and a fairly clean feather in evidence so far. But (by comparison) the less ostentatious but firmer and more vertical entry of the Oxford oars in the water produces more lift on the boat and more pace in the long run. A much improved leg-drive is now observable, but even yet the Cantabs do not make the best use of their weight. These and other irregularities will doubtless be rectified “bit by bit”—as Mr. Ashton Dilke puts it in another direction—as both Mr. Escombe and his charges are in deadly earnest. They also will migrate to upper Thames waters within the next day or so. A fortnight’s work on the livelier Bourne-End reach will do them all the good in the world, and prepare them gradually for their later Putney experiences. Oxford’s chances of success appear the rosier at this stage, but there is plenty of time for Cambridge to equalise matters. Oftener than not the last few weeks’ practice has sufficed to dash the cup of certainty from the lips of assurance. Will it this year? Under this heading I may have something to say to the readers of Baily next month.

Perhaps there are some of your readers, especially those devoted to the sport of wildfowling, who may like to have an account of rather a good day’s sport I enjoyed amongst these birds in a country where they are very plentiful.

It was a lovely day, early in the fall of the year, that I and a friend started out from the little town of Boissevain in our four-wheeled Canadian buggy, bound for Lake Whitewater, some fifteen miles across the prairie, where we had heard the most wonderful reports of the countless number of wild geese that frequented it. We were both armed with 10-bores, as a 12-bore is not very effective against these birds, owing to the great thickness of the down with which they are covered. As we drove along through the vast fields of stubble (the grain having been all cut, threshed, and safely stowed in the vast elevators by this time) we encountered numerous flocks of prairie chicken (a bird not unlike a greyhen, and of the grouse tribe), and managed to secure two or three brace of these birds from the buggy, the horses not minding the report of the guns at all.

In the distance we could see the shimmer of a large piece of water surrounded by tall rushes, which we rightly took to be our destination. It seemed to be only two or three miles away, but as a matter of fact we still had ten more miles before us. The air was so wonderfully clear and transparent that we could see the people walking in the main street of the little town of Whitewater, which stands at the north shore of the lake from which it takes its name. As we drew nearer the lake we could hear a noise something like a vast crowd cheering at a football match, and we both looked at each other and exclaimed, “Can those really be geese?”

It was now 10 a.m., about the time that the geese return to the lake after feeding on the stubble since daylight. As far as the eye could reach (and the country being perfectly flat for miles we could see a tremendous distance) there were countless flocks of these birds, all bound for the same destination, each flock in the shape of a triangle, with a leader. Some flocks must have had from three to five thousand in them, others only a few hundred, some less. They looked like a vast army in battle array, some quite white (the Wavey), others of a darker colour (the Honker), and some were cross-bred, with an occasional flock of Brants. But they were all too high and out of range of our guns, so all we could do was to sit there and gaze in open-eyed amazement at that vast throng, wondering if it could be real, as we are only accustomed to seeing these birds in singles and pairs in our native Wales, and then but very seldom. We were now fast approaching a farmhouse close to the shores of the lake, where we intended to make our headquarters for the day, and, if necessary, stay the night, so as to be on the spot for the early morning flight out on to the feeding ground (generally the best flight of the day). The owner of the farm, an Englishman, needless to say, received us hospitably, the more so when he heard we had not forgotten the demijohn of rye whisky, so much appreciated by the Englishman in Canada; this is really much better than the average Scotch whisky, after being kept seven years in bond by the Canadian Government before it is allowed to be sold.

After lunch we decided that the day was too still to get near the geese, as they only fly low when there is a wind; so we hid ourselves in the rushes, the water being up to our middles, and there to wait for any duck, &c., that should come our way. This belt of rushes, which is about half a mile broad and surrounds the lake, is noted for all kinds of duck and teal. In half-an-hour I counted six different kinds, including Mallard, Pintail, Canvass Back, Grey Duck, Blue- and Green-winged Teal, and I managed to secure five of the latter; but they are very hard to find when dropped in the thick rushes. By six we had each shot a score of ducks and my friend had also a snipe to his credit, so we trekked back to the farm to supper, and after turning to with the milking, &c. (or “chores,” as they are pleased to call all small jobs round the house, and I believe the word is derived from the French word choses) we had a pipe and a glass of grog and turned in, as we had to be up by 4 a.m. the next morning. For a long time I lay awake listening to the “honk, honk” of the geese returning to the lake, till at last they settled down for the night, and all was still except for the croaking of the frogs.

By 4.30 next morning we were lying in the long grass on the shore of the lake, opposite a large sand-bank, on which we could dimly see dusky forms stalking about. There was a stiff breeze from the north, and everything augured well for our day’s sport, if only they would come low enough and in our direction. Gradually the sun rose like a golden ball in the east and the birds seemed to be getting uneasy. All at once there were shrill cries, and we knew the morning flight had begun. My heart was beating like a sledgehammer, as I had never yet shot a goose.

We had both taken the precaution to bring cartridges loaded with No. 1 shot, and I had also a few loaded with B.B. shot, as they were said to be more effective.

I raised myself gently on my elbows, and peeping over the top of the grass, I saw thousands upon thousands of grey and white forms circling in the air above the sand-bank. The noise by this time was deafening, and although we were only lying twenty yards apart we could not hear each other speak. The noise suddenly seemed to grow louder, and looking up I saw a large flock making straight for the spot where we were lying, and only about forty yards high. We crouched lower and lower and waited breathlessly. The leader was a large white Wavey, and I made up my mind to have him somehow. Just as he got directly over my head I turned on my back, and let drive both barrels at him. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, the whole flock being thrown into confusion, and then he gradually fluttered down almost on my head. I rushed upon him for fear he should escape, and after wringing his neck madly, I danced a pas de seul round him for some minutes, quite forgetful of the hundreds of geese streaming over my head. But my friend recalled me to my senses quickly, and in language not quite parliamentary told me to lie down again and not be a fool. So I got down in the grass again on my back just as another flock came over, and out of which we got four apiece: it being a large flock we had time to reload and get in two barrels at the tail end. The great object is to shoot the leader, and that throws the whole flock into confusion, and you secure more time to reload, as they never go on till they have chosen another leader. An American told me a yarn of a countryman of his that used to ride along on horseback under the flock killing off the leader time after time, until he had exterminated the whole flock, but I give you this for what it is worth.

It was now about 5.30 a.m., and they were coming over us in one long stream all the time, evidently following the same flight which the first flock had taken, which I believe is their general custom.

By the time the last flock had disappeared on the horizon there were fourteen dead geese lying on the grass around us, and five wounded birds had flown back to the lake to die. A farmer living on the north shore of the lake told me he always went out directly the lake froze up and gathered in all the wounded geese that had been unable to fly and got frozen in with the ice. He said he often got from forty to fifty in this way.

By this time we were getting very stiff with the long wait, and were very glad to get up to stretch our legs, and congratulate each other on our excellent luck that the flight should just have come in our direction and within range.

We heard afterwards that more than a dozen sportsmen (amongst whom were two well-known Wall Street brokers who had travelled 2,000 miles for a week’s sport at this well-known Eldorado for wildfowlers) had that day lined the west shore with the hope of their taking that course, and they never saw a goose all day.

We now began to wonder how we were going to get our bag back to the farm, about a mile and a half distant, as fourteen geese are no light weight, and they were all fine fat birds (the stubble holding lots of feed for them that year, the crop having been a good one). Eventually we tied them all round our shoulders and waists and thus managed to stagger back to the farm, quite ready for our breakfast.

After breakfast we hitched up the horses, and bidding our host farewell, leaving him a few geese for his trouble, we started on our fifteen miles back to the little town of Boissevain. It was one of those glorious mornings with a lovely deep blue sky overhead that one only sees in North America at this time of year. We saw numerous flocks of prairie chicken, and added three brace of these birds to our bag.

At 12.30 we pulled up before the hotel from which we had started two days before, and were received with eager enquiries as to what luck we had had, or whether we had returned because the whisky had run out. Thus ended my first experience of goose shooting, and I have often wondered since why people use the expression “a silly goose,” for nobody could ever accuse a wild goose of being at all stupid.

In case any of your readers should ever find themselves in the neighbourhood of this lake I will try to give them some particulars of its situation and the best time of year to go there.

The wild goose is the only bird in Manitoba that is not protected by the Game Laws, and you can shoot him all the year round if you can get him. About the second week in April they come north from Mexico and Florida, and remain on Lake Whitewater till the first week in May, when they go north to the shores of the Hudson Bay to breed, coming south again in the fall of the year, remaining till the lake freezes up, when they go south as far as Mexico for the winter. I have known keen sportsmen, to whom time and money are no object, follow them thus through North America. Lake Whitewater is about fifteen miles long and six miles across, and not more than 5 ft. deep in the deepest part, with about 1 ft. of mud on the bottom. The water is alkali, and no fish are able to live in it. Its bottom is covered with small shells and this is the only reason I can think why the geese are so partial to it. They can feed on the bottom of the lake with ease, and being in the centre of a splendid wheat country they can quickly get out on to the stubble, and they feel they can sleep safely on the lake at night. The latest reports I had from this neighbourhood were very bad.

It appears that there is an American syndicate armed with a swivel-gun that comes over the line (the lake being close to the American border), and shoots the geese down in hundreds as they lie peacefully on the surface of the water at night, and, of course, they have hitched up and driven over the border with their spoil before daylight.

The local Game Guardian is evidently afraid to tackle them by himself, and the Western Canadian farmer is not sufficiently a sportsman to lend a hand. But it is a standing disgrace to the district that they should allow such a resort for geese to be ruined by a handful of Yankees, who have no legal right to shoot there whatever. Besides, the lake is quite a source of income to the little town which adjoins it, where the sportsmen who frequent this spot year after year buy all their provisions, ammunition, &c. If the citizens would only band together and make up their minds to catch the marauders red-handed, it could easily be done at a small cost, and this splendid resort for the wildfowler preserved for the future, whereas under the present conditions the birds will soon either be exterminated or driven to choose some other spot for their abode.

So much has it become an accepted fact that ladies in the hunting field, like motor cars, are there to stay, that it is perhaps unnecessary to trace the evolution of the modern sportswoman, or note her gradual development from the timid heroine of former days to the Diana of the present time, who is capable of holding her own with some of our best men across the stiffest country, of selecting her own hunters, and who possesses a thorough knowledge of all the details of stable management.

“Hunting ladies,” says a well-known contemporary, “drop into two classes, the industrious apprentice and the lotus eater,” and, without entirely endorsing such a sweeping assertion, there is much truth in the statement.

“The industrious apprentice” knows all about stable management and the price of forage, can identify a vixen with the tail of her eye, and may be followed with confidence in a big wood. She rides to the meet, knows all the bridle-roads, and three or four times during the season spends a Sunday afternoon on the flags.

Have we not all met her prototype?

The “lotus eater” will ride nothing but the best, has a preference for long-tailed horses with plaited manes, drives to the meet in a brougham, rides home at an inspiriting canter, and devotes the evening to the care of her complexion, the repose of her person, a Paquin tea-gown, and the infatuation of her latest admirer!

Possibly some may think this an exaggerated picture; still, many women in hunting countries go out because they are bored at home, because they see their friends and can talk scandal, because the hunt uniform is becoming; in short, for every conceivable reason, save and except a true love of sport.

It is, however, with the different types of the genuine sportswoman that we are now principally concerned, and though comparisons are always odious, yet we must acknowledge that it is only by comparing our own talents and performances with those of others that we can obtain a true estimate of their merit.

There is perhaps no more wholesome or profitable lesson for either man or woman than to be transplanted from the small provincial pack, where they have been considered a “bright and particular star,” to a fashionable hunt in the Shires, there to find themselves pitted against other stars whose light is considerably stronger than their own.

No doubt the good man or woman in an indifferent country will soon come to the front in any hunt, but competition is very severe, and whereas it is comparatively easy to make your mark in a field of forty, it is undoubtedly difficult to obtain a like distinction amongst the flower of a Leicestershire field.

Hunting is almost the only national sport in which men and women meet on really equal terms, and of late years women’s horsemanship, and perhaps we may say capacity for self-help, has increased so enormously that it must be a selfish man indeed who could truthfully declare that the presence of the average hunting woman in the field is now any real detriment to sport.

Also beauty in distress is a rarer object than in former days. Some few years ago, taking a lady out hunting practically meant an entire sacrifice of the day’s sport; now we seldom see Mr. B. off his horse, in a muddy lane, doing his frenzied best to improvise a breast-plate from a piece of string and the thong of his hunting crop for Mrs. G.’s horse, who possesses that intolerable fault in a lady’s hunter, a lack of “middle.” Self-girthing attachments have also obviated the irritating and incessant demand, “Would you be so kind as to pull up the girths of my saddle?” And ladies are undoubtedly much more helpful about mounting themselves.

We often hear it stated by the last generation that, since women invaded the masculine domain and took to cultivating field sports so enthusiastically, men have become less chivalrous and considerate in their manner and behaviour to the weaker sex.

Of course, now all intercourse between men and women is on a completely different footing to what it was fifty years ago, nevertheless there is no reason to suppose that a man respects a woman less because he does not address her in the language of Sir Charles Grandison, and there is still ample opportunity for the ordinary attentions and courtesies which women have a right to expect, and which we must own, in strict justice, it is usually their own fault if they fail to receive.

As far as horsemanship is concerned, we think men and women may be considered to divide the honours of the hunting field fairly evenly.

Even Surtees, who was by no means an advocate of hunting women, pronounced that when women did ride “they generally rode like the very devil,” they know no medium course, and are undeniably good or seldom go at all.

Every one will allow that with the long reins entailed by their position in the saddle, their firm seat and light hands, women are singularly successful in controlling a fidgety or fretful horse, and, in fact, are capable of riding any good hunter, provided he is not a determined refuser and puller; but if we analyse those qualities in which even good horsewomen fail, an eye for country and an ability to go their own line are unquestionably absent.

We once heard an enthusiastic sportsman declare that, in his opinion, no one who could not go their own line should be allowed to wear the Hunt button, but if all M.F.H.’s agreed with him upon this point, the greater percentage of their field would go buttonless.

Whyte Melville used to entreat lady riders “not to try to cut out the work, but rather to wait and see one rider at least over a leap before attempting it themselves”; still, with all deference to such a well-known authority, we cannot agree upon this point, as riding one’s own line entails that combination of valour and judgment which is the test of a really first-rate man or woman to hounds.

It is wonderful in a large field of horsewomen how remarkably few can live even three fields with hounds without a pilot; the path of glory may be said to lead, if not to the grave, at least to loss of hounds and frequent falls, yet, perhaps, there is no such intense rapture experienced as the bit of the run which we can truthfully assert we rode entirely “on our own.”

If a lady is unable to go her own line and selects a pilot, she should remember that she is conferring no honour or pleasure upon her chosen victim, rather the reverse, as in most cases her company is “neither asked nor wanted.”

In return for his good offices, therefore, she should at least refrain from reproaches, if his judgment is not always infallible, neither should she weary him with unnecessary and tiresome questions, such as, “Can Tally-ho jump a really big place?” or, as we once heard while a whole field were waiting, strung up at the only available place, in the fence, “Bertie, Bertie, ought I to jump on the beans?”

Many women ruin their nerve and limit their amusement by persistently riding only one or two especial horses; whereas, if they made an occasional change in their stud and rode as many fresh mounts as they could possibly obtain, it would be an incalculable advantage to both their courage and their horsemanship.

If there is one point more than another in which the modern horsewoman triumphs over her prototype of the last generation, it is in the matter of economy. Up to a few years ago, in addition to the chaperonage of a male relative, it would have been considered quite impossible for any lady to hunt unless she had a groom especially told off to dance attendance upon her, a necessity which added very considerably to the expenses of hunting.

Now that both this custom and the also old-fashioned idea that a horse required special training to render him fit to carry a lady have died away, women can mount themselves both better and cheaper than formerly, and, thanks to their good hands and light weights, are able to make use of the many good little horses which fetch such comparatively small prices at Tattersalls’ and elsewhere.

Those who regard hunting as a luxury to be reserved exclusively for the wealthy would possibly be surprised to find upon how very small a sum many keen sportswomen obtain their season’s amusement; and certainly in this department, at all events, the “industrious apprentice” triumphs over her “lotus-eating” sister. We have read in sporting novels, and even come across an isolated case in real life, of a lady who professed to act as her own groom. Yet here we must draw the line, for it must be an exceptional woman indeed who can turn to and strap a horse after the exertion a day’s hunting entails. The majority of ladies in such circumstances, we feel sure, would agree with the ethics of an old “teakettle” groom, who was wont to observe that he did not “’old with all that they cleaning and worriting ’oss, after ’unting; guv ’im a good an bid o’ straw and let ’im roll and clean hisself!”

Still, without actual manual labour, the eye of a mistress who knows how things ought to be done is a valuable adjunct to the efficacy of stable management; and when this is the case, old Jorrock’s precept may be laid down as correct, namely, “Hunting is an expensive amusement or not, jest as folks choose to make it.”

Finally, do men admire ladies in the field, or do they prefer to find their womenkind daintily attired by the fireside awaiting their return from the chase?

We all have our fancies and ideas as to what is most pleasant and agreeable, and like many things in this world, the key of the situation probably lies in the identity of the lady who hunts.

If she is pretty everyone welcomes her; if the reverse, they wonder “What brings her out?” As Surtees, again, justly remarks, “dishevelled hair, muddy clothes and a ruddy and perspiring face, are more likely to be forgiven to the bloom of youth than to the rugged charms of maturer years.”

Some men think mounting themselves quite as much as they can manage in these hard times, and would rather have a wife looking after the house than tearing across country in hot pursuit of hounds; also (but let us whisper such a terrible suggestion), the lady might have the temerity to ride in front of her lord; and then, indeed, would come the end of all domestic peace and concord.

Most close observers, however, will have noticed that the real good sportswoman is a success in almost every relation of life, for she brings to bear upon the situation both courage, pluck and endurance, learnt amongst a host of other useful and valuable qualities in that best of all schools, “The Hunting Field.”

He is a bold man, indeed, who presumes to write on the art of horsemanship. The very attempt is, as it were, a challenge to a host of critics—some competent, many otherwise, but all blessed with a keen eye to detect the incompetencies of the writer. And though the latter, in warming to his subject, may write with an air of final authority on what he thinks are incontravenable truths, still he is always open to a very different conviction, if only these said critics can contradict him to his own satisfaction. But in the art of horsemanship there is always one great drawback, that only those can thoroughly understand a comprehensive treatise thereon who are, and save the expression, expert themselves. For this reason the writer confines himself to one or two aspects of the art, only at the same time he must confess that if what follows is understood and successfully practised—well, then, the foundations are laid, the walls are built, and the sod before long tumbles naturally into its place.

Now riding is essentially a sleight of hand, and though we may all be clowns to a limited extent, yet no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown without hard work. And so the suggestion is thrown out here that no one ever became a perfect horseman without assiduous practice. On the other hand, no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown—or shall we say acrobat—who is not naturally endowed with certain india-rubber characteristics. And here, again, no one ever became a perfect horseman who was not naturally the possessor of an active and elastic, though not necessarily india-rubber, body. From this we may infer that practise can make a good rider, but that natural bodily activity as well is essential to the making of a first-class rider. It is a misfortune that there is no tyro more jealous of instruction than the tyro in horsemanship.

I have seen so many young riders, and it is they alone who concern me, who have really had latent possibilities, but who, from an original faulty position in the saddle, and, alas, a deaf ear, have not made the progress they should. Still, if they do not listen to the counsels of wisdom, and yet aspire to go straight, they will find sitting astride on their saddle that hard-bitten dame, Experience. She rides with us all. She likes hunting—is seen to play polo, and is known to go racing. Those, therefore, who like to find out all for themselves, can listen indefinitely to this good lady, and so take it first hand.

And now to get to the point, I would say to every tyro, watch carefully all good riders and compare them with yourself, and remember that in your present state of inefficiency you cannot judge for yourself. You must take them on trust.

And here let us marshal what might well be axioms of a textbook on horsemanship, namely:—

(1) That riders are made, not born.

(2) That an active, pliable body is the foundation of horsemanship.

(3) That in as far as the pliable body is born so is the horseman born.

(4) That pliability can be largely developed.

(5) That a really good seat is never seen without really good hands.

(6) That, therefore, hands and seat are an indivisible term.

(7) That a merely stick-fast seat, without ease, is not a good seat, and is always minus hands.

(8) That a really easy seat is a firm seat and goes with hands.

(9) That the really easy seat is due to balance, and balance is due to a correct position and great flexibility.

(10) That a proper grip, i.e., a non-fatiguing grip, is founded on balance and not balance on grip.

(11) That a true balance not dependent on grip alone gives a free, quick, strong leg—the mark of a “strong” rider.

(12) That a true balance is founded on a proper length of stirrup, which alone can ensure the rider sitting really on his saddle.

(13) That the true balance, founded on a proper length of stirrup and pliability of body alone, gives the long free reins which is half the problem of hands.

(14) That to ride with too long a stirrup is a very common fault. It means too forward a seat, hence too short a rein, and consequently bad hands.

(15) That to ride with too short a stirrup is an uncommon fault, and only interferes with the hands in as far as it affects security of seat.

(16) That there is little variation between the seats of six first-class horsemen, a great deal between the seats of six secondary horsemen.

And so on with postulates ad infinitum, but to tabulate thus may make for lucidity.

Take No. 1. Many hunting men must constantly have seen a useless hand ride himself into a higher sphere of horsemanship, must have seen him by constant practice change from a stiff automaton at variance with his horse into a quick, pliable, strong rider; and Experience has been the mistress. But real experience means riding, firstly, many different horses; secondly, horses nice-tempered, but beyond him; thirdly, unbroken, hot and bad-tempered horses, and last, but not least, a “slug.” No man will learn to really ride if he always rides what he can manage; for that is not experience.

But to make a rider into a first-class man, to make him acquainted with the power of the leg, to teach him how absolutely essential it is, and how the automatic and non-fatiguing use of it alone makes the “strong” rider, and is half the battle in keeping to hounds, check-mating refusers, ensuring a perfect bridling of the horse and getting the uttermost jump out of him at a fence, then let him finish his education, which, by the way, never is finished, by riding a well-bred slug for a whole season on the top of hounds.

The remaining postulates more or less speak for themselves. They are all part of a whole, for it is hard to believe, if a man is to go in unison with his horse, that he can divide his equestrian body into parts. Hands and seats, as the writer understands hands and seats, are one, if horse and rider are to be one.

Take, however, No. 14. What is the chief mechanical fault that lies at the bottom of bad and second-rate horsemanship, the mechanical foundation upon which all the subtleties of horsemanship rear their intricate selves? Unquestionably too long a stirrup. This is the common fault, every potentiality is nullified by it. It is a fatal bar to riding, but, alas, its cure does not necessarily mean horsemanship. It is easy to shorten the stirrup. It is far harder to acquire flexibility; but with too long a stirrup real riding pliability and the hands that accompany it are unattainable. Every good rider must remember the time when he rode with too long a stirrup. He must remember, too, how the gradual shortening was followed by an immediate improvement in his riding, and the greater enjoyment thereof.

Probably he went to the other extreme and used too short a stirrup, and nearly, or perhaps quite, lost his seat.

Now, how is the rider to find a proper length of stirrup? Not, it is quite certain, by an absurd comparative measuring of legs and arms; individual proportions differ. No, it is a matter of experience. It is certain at first to be overdone, or underdone, but there comes a time when a rider can attune his stirrups, according to the difference in the width of horse or size of saddle he bestrides, with automatic readiness.

Now the first sensation of a rider who has been riding too long is that he is now riding too short, and it requires a great deal of firm persuasion on the teacher’s part, and docility on the pupil’s part, to keep him at the proper length.

Now, why does he feel too short and insecure when his double may be rejoicing in the security of the same seat? In the first place, with too long a stirrup he has been relying unduly on their support for his balance. He has also, to negative the action of the horse, been rising far too strongly on them. Now let him watch first-class riders. He will notice that they rise but little in their stirrups, the motion of the horse is mainly taken in an easy motion of the loins and shoulders; and, owing to the fact that they are sitting on the horse and not standing in too long a stirrup, they show but little daylight, and their feet are not dangling toe downwards for a support a good seat does not require.

Let the young rider, then, shorten his stirrups and sit down on his horse. He will gain the rudiments of balance without as yet much grip. For some time he may feel bumpy, insecure—in short, like a man who is trying to float on his back for the first time.

Still it is the only way to acquire the flexible body, and lose the yearning for excessive stirrups. The mere fact that he will at first still sit too much over his shortened stirrups and will try to rise on them as of old, will tend to raise him out of the saddle and give a great sense of insecurity. To lessen this unpleasant feeling, he must for self-protection sit further back, when he will shortly find a balance, this time founded on a real seat. The knees will find themselves where they grip the best. The new position is also in that spot which is best calculated to set up that rhythmic ease of body which not only means hands, but by taking up the motion of the horse reduces rising in the stirrups to a minimum. This will leave the actual seat undisturbed—free to grip, to sit easy, what it will.

It stands to reason the motion of the horse must be transmitted to its rider, but it must not be transmitted to the gripping machinery nor the seat. It must be transmitted to that part of the body best built to bear it, namely, the loins and sliding shoulder blades, which act as springs, buffers, or cushions. It is possible, of course, and in bare-back riding essential, for the loins and shoulder blades to take all the motion and the stirrups none. But the stirrups are there for reasonable assistance only; they are aids, not necessities.

We know if a loose marble was placed against the end of a fixed iron rod, and the other end of the rod was smartly tapped, that the marble would move. In the same way, if we substitute the action of the horse for the tap and the immovable iron bar for the rider’s grip, we shall find in the lively marble the pliable loins and shoulders of a good rider, which are far more seat than that part of the rider which is in actual contact with the horse.

The foregoing, then, is the secret of a firm seat and an easy one. From such a seat spring fine hands, long reins, and the whole bag of subtle tricks, which are otherwise, to mix one’s metaphors, a closed book. In the above it should have been said that it is taken for granted the rider rides “home” in the stirrup. Few real horsemen ride otherwise, except in hacking. Using the stirrup in a limited degree, they prefer to have it where it requires no attention, and is not liable to be lost. It would mean a hole longer in the leathers, and of course a rider can ride that way. But where a rider says he rides thus for the sake of the spring it is a confession at once of too long a stirrup and inferior riding. He is dependent on his stirrup a great deal too much. His stirrup is taking far too much of that motion which should be finding expression in the motion of the body. The leg, that is to say, is doing a duty which has very little to do with it. It cannot, therefore, properly discharge its own, which, as a free member, independent of seat, is to squeeze and encourage the horse at will.

A toe in the stirrup, then, is often, but not always, an indication of too long a stirrup, resulting in bad hands and all its host of attendant evils.

RACING.

Quite a fillip, which was very welcome, was given to racing under National Hunt Rules during the week which included the last days of January and the first days of February. Gatwick began it, and, with two stakes of £500 each, and the minimum of £100 only once not reached, success was well deserved. One doubts whether much profit can accrue from a meeting run on these liberal lines in winter. The meeting had been brought forward from March with the view of steering clear of the whirlpool which, later on, draws everything that can jump into the Grand National. The experiment must be deemed successful, for horses were numerous on each of the two days, whilst the public turned up in good numbers in anticipation of sport that was not denied them. One felt almost as though attending at a revival, so mediocre and tame had been much of the racing earlier in the jumping season. On the first day the chief item was the Tantivy Steeplechase, and in this the five-year-old Sachem, who had shown ability over hurdles, winning two hurdle races at the Sandown Park December Meeting, one of them the Grand Annual Hurdle Handicap, came out as a steeplechaser for the first time in public. He did so with conspicuous success, for he was carrying 11st. 10lb. and won in excellent style. By far too many people knew that he had been fencing in good form at home for the price about him to be long, and only the presence of Rathvale prevented him from starting favourite. On the second day came the International Hurdle Handicap, and in this Isinglass’ son, Leviathan, did well by carrying home 11st. 12lb. to victory.

Kempton Park followed on in the same liberal style, and met the same degree of success. The £500 race on the first day was the Middlesex Hurdle race, in which that expensive purchase, Sandboy, who had won a couple of hurdle races, was running, weighted the same as The Chair. The last-named always had the foot of Sandboy, being sent on a pace-making mission which he carried out with such effect as to lead to within twenty strides of the post. A sudden dash by Therapia, however, gave her the race by a neck; and whether the rider of The Chair was caught napping is a question upon which no agreement is likely to come about. On the second day, John M.P. created a great impression by the way he won the Coventry Handicap Steeplechase, named after the Earl of Coventry, carrying 12st. 2lb. The way he strode along and jumped made one think of Aintree, but two miles over ordinary fences is a very different story to four and a half miles of the Grand National staggerers. If John M.P. proves to be a genuine stayer, then he must have a great chance. The only previous outing this season of John M.P. was a hurdle-race under 12st. 7lb.

Sandown came in for some icy weather for its February Meeting. Over the three miles of the Burwood Steeplechase Ranunculus did a very smooth performance, but had nothing to push him, much less beat him. In winning the Sandown Grand Prize, a Handicap Hurdle Race, under 12st. 7lb., Rassendyl showed himself improved out of all knowledge, and scored his fourth consecutive win out of four times out. Mr. Stedall is persevering enough to deserve a good one now and then.

At Hurst Park the next week a splendid entry was obtained for the Open Steeplechase, but the race fizzled out to a field of three, and of these Kirkland was as fat as the proverbial pig, though looking extremely well. John M.P. gained a very easy win from Desert Chief, who, besides chancing his fences in a way that spells grief at Aintree, altogether failed to get three miles.

It is not unlikely that some clerks of courses will, in the future, make a slight alteration in the distance of some of their handicap steeplechases, so as to escape the action of the new conditions for the Grand National, one of which penalises a winner of a handicap steeplechase over a distance exceeding three miles 6 lb. extra. Winners of any two steeplechases of three miles or over are penalised 4lb.

For the sport of the month past we have nothing but praise. It has been one of those months which live in the memory of hunting people. The principal chases of which we have to write are notable alike for pace and for duration, the Cottesmore on three consecutive weeks having enjoyed runs which were of the kind which for want of a better word we must call “old-fashioned,” in that they lasted over an hour and covered a great variety of country.

I may repeat here, because it is a remark which cannot be gainsaid, and is not without its moral, that those countries have much the best sport which have the largest stock of foxes. The reasons for this are clear and I think easy to see on reflection, that where foxes are numerous hounds have plenty of blood, and there is a wider field for natural selection in improving the breed of foxes. Sport, as might be expected, steadily improves as the season goes on, the bad foxes are weeded out, and their places are often taken by more mature animals from other countries. Whether foxes are or are not bred in a covert it will never want foxes if suitable in the shelter and food it affords. The best of the Cottesmore runs which must be placed on record, was the one from Prior’s Coppice on Tuesday, January 23rd. There have been longer points and straighter runs than this, but none where a better pace was sustained over a beautiful but not easy country for a prolonged time.

Many days have threatened fog or frost in the mornings, and yet have been pleasant enough before the day was over. So it was on January 23rd. The morning fog was cold and discouraging. How true is Whyte Melville’s saying, that “Courage is a question of caloric.” Prior’s Coppice was reached, and though hounds left some at least of their followers at a disadvantage, yet when once clear of the covert it was clear that hounds were bending left handed. By the time Cole’s Lodge was reached the pack had started to hunt at a good pace, and the field were in their places. Those who had galloped to reach hounds had now to sit down to ride to keep with the pack. A slight turn helped. Then came a climb that made one feel the advantage of after-Christmas condition. Before Christmas a horse that had climbed the Hog’s Back would have needed a pull, now we can ask him to gallop freely.

The fox worked as if Wardley Wood was his point, but his strength began to fail, and he turned away before he crossed the road. Hounds swung round with him, and it was the pressure they exercised that defeated him. Now he began to turn and twist, but still keeping out of the way of hounds in the most gallant fashion. He was actually in the brook with the hounds, and at last crawled into Manton Gorse, from which he came out to die. An hour and three quarters of the best country, and at a pace that found out the weak points of many horses. Those who rode it fairly on one horse knew that they had to quote Whyte Melville once more, “not merely a good hunter, but a good horse.”

To find any run equal to this we have to go back to the Pytchley hunt after a meet at Weedon Barracks, on Friday, January 12th. In this case hounds hunted a fox which has, it is believed, run before them once at least before this season. This great hunt lasted at least for two hours, and there was just that amount of difficulty and hindrance for followers in the early stages that enabled hounds to settle down to their work. There was much heavy going, too; horses began to stop before, near Ashby Ledgers, hounds on the grass began to run away from them. Near Daventry wire cut the huntsman off from hounds, and with a beaten fox crawling in front hounds lost him after all.

The best Wednesday was at Yelvertoft. The fox an out-lier, hounds laid on in a grass field over which the fox had run a minute or two before. Fences that held up the boldest, while hounds settled down, made a hunt a certainty. There were a good many casualties at the flooded streams.

Never touching a covert and running fairly straight hounds ran on by Naseby Covert; there were two lines here, and hounds no doubt took up the fresh one. An eight-mile point in an hour tells of a first-rate hunting run. Another half-hour and the fox that intervened paid the penalty with his life. One of the great events of the hunting season is the Quorn Hunt Ball. This year more than 300 people gathered in the Corn Exchange at Melton, a gathering which included hunting people from many parts of the world and all parts of England. It often happens that show days are below the average of the sport usually shown. But Captain Forester, who was hunting the hounds, was fortunate in finding a fox which, if it made no great point, showed to the visitors a fine selection of the famous riding grounds of the Quorn hunt.

The fixture after the ball, on Friday, February 2nd, was at Egerton Lodge, which has been with so many generations the social centre of the hunting world. This was appropriate, and so was the drawing of the Hartopp coverts at Gartree Hill, and the visit of the fox to the Punch Bowl, his timely excursion over the Burton Flats, which is, perhaps, to the stranger the simplest form of Leicestershire. After running through Adam’s Gorse the fox led the visitors into an almost perfect region of grass and fences.

Altogether it was a day of which one could remark that anyone who rode the line faithfully would have a fair idea of what hunting with the Quorn meant.

On Saturday, February 3rd, Tom Bishopp once more carried the horn after being laid by with influenza. The Normanton Hill coverts held a traveller. For an hour and forty minutes hounds drove their fox over a country which is for Leicestershire rather given over to arable. But scent and a fairly straight line helped them, and when the end came at Broughton Station they were nearly eleven miles from their starting point, and had been going for an hour and three quarters. Thus the pace must have been good. This was the straightest run of the whole week if we except the Duke of Beaufort’s two gallops after meeting at Cherrington on February 2nd in the Tetbury country. Hounds dashed away for four miles. They were stopped and brought back. A third fox proved equally good, for he led them right away into the choicest of the V.W.H., the followers enjoying a variety of fencing, beginning with stone walls, and including the rough hedges sometimes set on banks, and the wide ditches of the vale country. The Duke’s country and the V.W.H. ride deep in wet weather, but they also carry a scent under such conditions. Hounds had come some nine miles in a direct line before they turned and came back by Charlton Park. But in point of distance the run of the month was in the remote district of East Cornwall, where hounds are hunted by Mr. Connock Marshall, and Mr. Philpotts Williams controls the field. It was in Torr Brake the fox was found, and a ring was worked out without any extraordinary promise. On leaving the covert again the scent improved, and from that point onwards hounds were well served. Even supposing, of which there is no certainty, that they came away from Torr the second time with a fresh fox, it was a marvellous run and a wonderful instance of endurance for fox and hounds. It was not till two hours and a half were over that hounds began to run for blood, and near Berry Tor the leaders caught a view, and ran into a most gallant fox that struggled to the very last. It is said that twenty-five miles was covered as hounds ran, and if this is correct the pace was fast, as the run lasted under two hours and three-quarters from find to finish.

The Woodland Pytchley had what may be described rather as a very excellent day’s hunting (on Feb. 5th) than as a great run. They were stopped at the end of five hours, having been hunting all the time. But there were several changes, how many it would be difficult to say, since such fox-haunted coverts as Rushton, Pipewell, Brampton, and Dingley Warren, were some of the coverts visited during the day. It was a remarkable performance for the hounds, and, like the run last mentioned, speaks volumes for the kennel management of the pack.

Staghounds have, like the foxhounds, had a capital month. Mr. Stanley brought off a notable performance on the Brendon Hills. He found a hind, and hunted her for four hours with a moderate scent. The hounds worked well, and their admirable condition carried them through. But we know, of course, that much in these cases depends on the combination of patience and promptness in the man who hunts them. The point was that there was no change in spite of the danger of this on the moorland at this time of year. That the chase of the carted deer has some points of resemblance with that of their wild kindred, is shown by the experience of the Surrey Staghounds when visiting the Kentish side of their country. They had two admirable runs, and in both the quarry ran into herds of park deer, the second one having to be left in Knole Park after a fine chase of two and a half hours. It seems as if there was no limit to the powers of a red deer hind in the winter, so that as the old huntsman used to say, “She can run so long as she have a mind to.”

The changes among masters which January brings are not very numerous. None of the leading hunts are vacant, and some of those which were in want of new masters have succeeded in finding them. The latest resignations are from Hampshire, where Mr. F. L. Swindell and Mr. Yorke Scarlett are resigning the Hursley and the Tedworth. In no county are shooting and hunting more likely to clash than in Hampshire. Moreover, the county is a difficult one to hunt, yet the various packs, including the Hambledon, the H.H., and the Vine have had a good season on the whole. No doubt the plentiful rain has helped to bring about this result. But good masters and huntsmen such as Hampshire has throughout its hunting history had quite its share of having helped this result greatly. Mr. Long, the grandson of a former master of the Hambledon, will, it is said, take the Hursley. In the north Mr. J. B. Pease succeeds Mr. Alec Browne with the Percy. In the Midlands, Sir J. Hume Campbell buys Mr. McNeill’s famous bitch pack with which to hunt North Cotswold, to the great satisfaction of the country. Among huntsmen the changes are neither few nor unimportant. It is said that Gosden will leave the Meynell; it is certain that John Isaac retires from the Pytchley after twenty-six years of faithful and efficient service with that pack. He will be succeeded by Frank Freeman, a son of the Will Freeman whom I recollect with the South and West Wilts. Gillson, a son of George Gillson of the Cottesmore, who has been hunting the last-named pack with great success, is to follow Freeman in the Bedale country. I can recollect him a mere lad as second whipper-in to Shepherd, so long with the South Oxfordshire. Gillson has not forgotten, I dare say, the queer-tempered horse he used to ride, and the kicking matches which, though unpleasant when he wanted to turn hounds, no doubt helped to make him the horseman he is.

The death of Charles Littleworth, formerly huntsman to the fifth Earl of Portsmouth, removes from hunting circles one of the best judges of foxhounds and terriers, and a most admirable woodland huntsman. Of those I have known in a lengthening experience none were better than the late Lord Macclesfield and Charles Littleworth at hunting a fox in strong woodlands. Both, I think, liked a big dog-hound for the work. The blood of the Eggesford kennels, as it was in Lord Portsmouth’s time, runs in the veins of many of the best packs of the present day, the Badminton and the Four Burrow each owing something to the Eggesford kennel. Then the famous pack with which Sir Richard Glyn and John Press hunted the Blackmore Vale owed much to the lucky cross of the Portsmouth Commodore with Mr. Villebois’ Matchless. But this is too large a subject for such notes as these. As a breeder of working terriers Charles Littleworth had no superior and few equals, as those who have had the luck to own one of his strain will bear witness.

The death of Lady Howe removes one who as a sportswoman stood among the first. It is only as a rider to hounds that I have to write of her in these columns. It has been my good fortune to see all the leading riders to hounds of the last twenty years, and among them there was none better than Lady Georgiana Curzon. It used to be said that there were five ladies who stood out as riders to hounds, and the late Lady Howe was one of the best of these.

We have had an open January, hounds having only missed an odd day here and there, and it is not till the day that these notes are written that we have had any real wintry weather, though for a few days previous keen northeasterly winds and flying showers of hail and sleet have shown that there was frost and snow coming. Should the stoppage be a short one, sport will undoubtedly benefit, and there will be a good tale to tell in the April number of Baily. Sport, on the whole, has not been great since I last wrote, though there have been a few runs which stand out, notably a moorland run with the Cleveland, in which a good point was made and a lot of difficult country covered. Before proceeding, however, with a record of the sport, some coming changes should be referred to. Fred Freeman, who leaves the Bedale, will hunt the Pytchley next season, and I am told that his uncle, Dick Freeman, who has shown such excellent sport in the North Durham country for so many years, will retire at the end of the season. An item of news which will please all his many friends is that Tom Smith, of the Bramham Moor, has returned from his short visit to Blackpool fully restored to health.

Lord Fitzwilliam’s had a famous day’s sport on Wednesday, January 10th, when they met at the Oaks, Norton, on the Derbyshire side of their country. In Whenacre they found a strong show of foxes and hounds divided, one lot running by Sicklebrook to Troway, where they marked their fox to ground. With this lot were Bartlett and the bulk of the field. The other lot ran through the Norton Coverts, and turning to the right from Gleadless Toll Bar, they rattled on to Hazelhurst, where Bartlett came up with the rest of the pack, and they ran on at a good pace past Lightwood to Charnock Hall. Some foot people on the hill headed the fox and brought hounds to their noses, and they hunted slowly down the valley and through the Royal Wood, where they worked up to their fox, and rolled him over near Ford, after a fine hunting run of an hour and a half. A capital forty-five minutes from Hanging Lea by Hackenthorpe Church and Birley Spa, and the Beighton Gorse to Beighton Village, where they marked their fox to ground, made up a good day’s sport.

The Bramham Moor had some fine hunting in the cream of their country on Friday, January 12th, when they met at Hutton Hall. There was a brace of foxes in Hutton Thorns, with one of which they went away to Collier Haggs with a rare rattle, but the fun was soon over, for he went to ground near where they met. The other fox was viewed at Marston Village, and Smith went to the hollow. Of course he was a long way ahead, but hunting with the perseverance for which they are so famous, hounds hunted him slowly back to Hutton Thorns and over the Marston Road, and a couple of wide rings round to Hutton Thorns again, where he beat them. They ran a second fox from White Syke Whin, leaving Wilstrop Wood on the right, up to Skewkirk Bridge, and along the Nidd Banks for half a mile, where hounds were stopped, as the fox had crossed the river into the York and Ainsty country.

They had another good day on Thursday, January 18th, when they met at Deighton Bar, the day of the fixture being changed on account of the Barkston Ash election. They had rather a long draw for the country, for they did not find till they got to Igmanthorpe Willow Garth. They ran hard by Bickerton and Minster Hagg up to the Cowthorpe and Tockwith road, where the first check took place. Hitting off the line over the road, they ran down to the Nidd, which they crossed midway between Cattail Bridge and Hunsingore. No sooner had they crossed the river than they recrossed it, and they hunted down the banks of the Nidd with a failing scent to Thornville Old Hall. Thence they swung round in the direction of Tockwith, and finally were run out of scent between Minster Hagg and Bickerton. A heavy snowstorm drove them home as they were about to draw the Thorp Arch coverts.

The Hurworth had a rare day from Crathorne on Saturday, January 13th, running over some of the finest country in the north of Yorkshire. They found in Trenholme Bar Whin, and ran by Crathorne and Mr. Dugdale’s coverts to Leven Banks, and on to Crathorne Mill, where they crossed the Leven and pointed for Hutton Rudby. Leaving Rudby Wood on the right, they skirted Windy Hill, and with a right hand turn below Seamer Village, they ran by Tame Bridge, and over the Stokesley Road up to Busby, finally marking their fox to ground in Carlton Bank in the Bilsdale country. This is the second time the Hurworth have run into the Cleveland west country, and it recalls old days when visits were constantly paid to each other’s countries by the neighbouring packs, and the best of sport was shown by the stout foxes for which both districts were then famous.

The great moorland run with the Cleveland took place on Monday, January 22nd, when hounds met at Kilton. The morning was dull, and there was a little fog about, and at times the mist hung thick on the moor, and getting to hounds over the rough country crossed was no easy matter. They found under Howson’s Nab, and ran sharply up to Liverton Lodge, where they turn right-handed up Church Gill to Liverton Village. They left Porritt Hagg to the right, and ran up Moorsholme Gill and on to the moor. Then crossing the Peat Bogs and the Castleton Road, they pointed for Skelton Warren, but swung left-handed before reaching Lockwood Head, and crossing Commondale Moor they ran by North Ings and Sleddale Bog, and through Percy Cross Plantation into Nanny Howe, where the fox probably got to ground, and hounds went away with a fresh fox over Ayton Banks and into Brown’s Intake, where they divided. One lot ran to the top of Roseberry where there were open earths, but they did not mark the fox to ground. A holloa for’ard at Langbarough Ridge, took hounds into the low country, but this was evidently a fresh fox, and the rest of the pack ran a very tired fox by Pinchinthorpe Hall and Ward’s Farm, but he was a long way ahead, and they had to give it up. Only four men got to the end. I should add that I never remember hounds running from Kilton to Cook’s Monument, nor do I remember coming across any record of the same line being crossed.

On January 20th, after a brief illness, the cause of death being influenza followed by pneumonia, this celebrated cricketer passed away at Clarence House, Windsor.

Mr. Evan Alcock Nepean was the eldest son of Sir Evan Nepean, at one time Director of Army Contracts; he was born in 1865, and educated at Sherborne School and University College, Oxford. He went up to Oxford from a very moderate school with something of a reputation as a steady batsman and an eccentric bowler, with not much length and a curl from leg.

This was in 1886, and Mr. Nepean playing for his college eleven had to endure the mortification of standing about in the field during long afternoons watching the chastisement of very moderate bowlers by moderate enough batsmen.

Mr. Nepean was an early apostle of the twisting methods which have since won such renown for Warwick Armstrong, Braund, and many another; but in the dark ages of the middle ’eighties he had to plead hard to be allowed to bowl an over or two, so great was the contempt inspired by his so-called “Donkey Drops” or “Cock-a-doodles.” But sometimes his frequent request to be allowed to bowl was listened to, and historically was this the case in 1887 in the Parks at Oxford, when he was playing in a trial match for the Etceteras against the Perambulators. The academic and fast-footed methods of the, for that day, at any rate, much miscalled Perambulators led to their downfall at the fingers of the leg-twister, and in a brief summer afternoon Mr. Evan Nepean had fully established his claim to be regarded as a bowler to be reckoned with, although but for his batting ability it is possible that he would never have had an opportunity of bowling an over in first-class cricket.

The success of his methods, at that time regarded as barbaric and unfashionable, led to his gaining a trial for the ’Varsity team, and it was found that the best professional batsmen did not relish the task of fencing with his insidious deliveries. “It may be awful tosh, but it gets them out,” was the verdict of the Oxonians; and so Mr. Nepean having twisted himself into the Oxford eleven of 1887, took five Cambridge wickets at a cost of 83 runs, and going in first scored 58 not out, when the Dark Blues went in to get the runs and won by seven wickets. The astute intelligence which at that time controlled the fortunes of Middlesex cricket speedily retained the eccentric bowler for county purposes, and from 1887 regularly until 1889, and after his call to the Bar intermittently for a few years, Mr. Nepean rendered great service both with bat and ball to the cosmopolitan county.

The season 1889 was the most successful Mr. Nepean enjoyed; he headed the Middlesex averages with 41 wickets, at an average cost of just over 18 runs apiece, and in that year he played for the Gentlemen against the Players at Lord’s, Kennington Oval, and Hastings. It was against professional batsmen that he had his most marked successes, and the great Notts batsmen of that day, including Arthur Shrewsbury and William Gunn, at the top of their form, would often fall a prey to his insidious twisters; in fact, his record for Middlesex against Notts in 1889 was 12 wickets for 88 runs, at a time when Notts was one of the strongest batting sides in the country. To a batsman quick on his legs the bowling of Mr. Nepean presented few terrors, but to the academic player accustomed to stand fast-footed in his ground and play gracefully forward or back, the Shirburnian proved a severe thorn in the flesh. As a batsman he displayed little of the enterprise associated with his bowling methods, but his stolid defence often realised a good score, for he was never in any hurry, and did not believe in sacrificing his wicket.

Mr. Nepean was an industrious barrister, with a good and growing practice, and had for some years held the post of revising barrister for one of the Metropolitan divisions.

By his death a distinguished cricket career was terminated, and a most promising professional career was cut short.

Mr. Mackintosh, the Australian, was once more favourite for the £1,100 and Trophy, which entitles its holder to claim to be the best shot in the world.

The accident of England being the only country in the world which makes driving more fashionable than walking up game, has taught young shooters here that pigeon shooting is not now good practice for game killing. On the other hand, clay-bird shooting at the clubs is good practice for pigeons, and so it happens that the man who seemed to have the only chance of winning for England at the end of the seventh round of the Grand Prix was a clay-bird shooter of pronounced success, viz., Mr. Cave. This was also true of the last Englishman to win the trophy, viz., Captain Pellier Johnson.

On the other hand, the most successful Englishman in the present season at Monte Carlo has been a regular Hurlingham and Gun Club pigeon-shooter for many years. This is Mr. Hodgson Roberts, who took the Prix Journu Handicap from the extreme range of 30 metres with 15 straight kills on January 9th, and on January 30th won the Grande Poule d’Essai, an even distance event, with 19 consecutive kills. Nevertheless, the betting for the bigger event favoured Mr. Mackintosh all through the season, although in the last-named event he had killed but four birds, and had not been either lucky or great during the season. His principal triumph was the Prix Myosotis Handicap, which he divided from the 31 metres mark, but with only 7 kills; the famous French shooter, M. Journu, being in with him from the 29½ metres distance. On January 15th Mr. Roberts and Mr. C. Robinson (the latter representing America) had won the Prix H. Grasselli, with a run of eight kills each. This prize is named after the victor in 1902 and 1905, and should have its amount multiplied by three in future years, as an honour to the Italian shooter who has become the first three-times-victor, who also has won twice consecutively, for, in spite of the penalty distance, he has now won a third time. Surely where pigeon shooting counts as a proof of marksmanship he must be held to be the greatest shot in the world. The triumph of Italy was almost a foregone conclusion when Mr. Cave failed for England at his eighth bird, but it was not Signor H. Grasselli who the Italians backed then, but his runner-up last year. This was Signor Marconcini, who, having killed his eleventh bird without a a miss, went to the traps with £1,100 and the trophy trembling in the balance against the life of one pigeon. Nerves were on the side of the latter, which was, however, an easy bird and feathered by both barrels, but fell dead just the wrong side of the boundary, which made all the difference to Signor Marconcini, who was not even amongst the six victors in the end. The betting at the start was 100 to 7 Mackintosh, 20 to 1 against H. Grasselli, last year’s victor, and then 25 to 1 was obtained about Roberts, Robinson, and P. Thellusson. The first named of these three missed his first bird, and the last named his second. Probably the betting really indicates the status of the shooters quite as much as the chances of war and eventual victory, and for that reason it may be added that 33 to 1 was to be had against Journu, Marconcini, Wilder, Lazzara, Habite, Moore, Huet, and F. Thellusson, and 50 to 1 each against Chiannini, Bruce, Moncorge, Hans, Marsh, H. Cave, C. Cave, Webb, Horadetski and Rosslyn, and 66 to 1 against any others. As there were 175 shooters, it cannot be said that the odds were upon the liberal side. The strength of the birds and some wind soon settled the chances of more than three parts of the competitors, but those who had the luck to get to the last day had no wind to contend with, although the birds were of the best throughout. Of course the entry was the record, for in spite of our insular prejudice the event grows in importance. Signor H. Grasselli won with 19 kills in 20 birds; Signor Bordoni killed 18 out of 20 birds and took second, and Dom Luro, from Brazil, with 16 out of 18 obtained third place. The fourth prize was secured by 15 out of 16 shots by three shooters, who divided, these were two Italians and one Frenchman, so that there were four Italian victors out of six. The fourth men were Signor Chirericati, Signor Schianini, and Count Lazzana. The victories are now twelve times for England, all but three of them in the first half of the competitions, twelve for Italy, all but three of these being the last half of the annual events. Four times Frenchmen won. Three times Austria and Hungary have taken the trophy. Twice it has been won by Belgium, and Spain has taken it once, as also has the United States, which was in the year of its initiation. America, for different reasons to England (for game driving is unknown there) seems to have dropped almost out of the competition, although it is probable that the best pigeon shots are to be found in that country. At any rate, the best clay-bird shots are, and the ease with which they overthrew the English team in which Mr. Cave shot a few years ago will hardly be forgotten, and they did it with one barrel against the English two.

The General Election took from the membership of the House of Commons several good golfers, including Mr. Arthur Balfour, Mr. Gerald Balfour, and Mr. Alfred Lyttelton, and made only one notable addition, namely, Mr. Frank Newnes, the new member for the Bassetlaw Division of Notts. The two best players at Westminster, Mr. Eric Hambro and Mr. H. W. Forster, retained their seats.

The Walton Heath Club has inaugurated a competition which promises to excite much interest among London golfers. The competition is for a challenge trophy presented by the club, and is confined to clubs whose headquarters are within thirty miles of Charing Cross. Each club will provide a professional and an amateur player, or two amateurs, and the couple will play a two-ball foursome on a neutral green, until the final round is reached, when the play must take place on Walton Heath. If the response to the invitation for entries is at all general there will be fine play, for the London clubs include some of the best players, amateur and professional, in the country. The latter include Harry Vardon, James Braid, J. H. Taylor, Jack White and Rowland Jones; while among the former are Mr. H. H. Hilton, Mr. Harold Beveridge, Mr. W. Herbert Fowler, and Mr. T. R. Pinkerton.

Four professionals from this country, Jack White, Alexander Herd, Andrew Kirkaldy and Rowland Jones, went to Mexico and took part in the championship meeting there. They, however, found the conditions far from their liking, and made an indifferent show. The championship was won by Willie Smith, an old Carnoustie player, who has been some time in America, and can play on sand greens. A team competition was arranged, but in this the home professionals did no better than in the championship play. Andrew Kirkaldy had for opponent Bernard Nicholls, the young professional who beat Harry Vardon twice in America. Nicholls on this occasion defeated Kirkaldy by two holes.

Harry Vardon is staying at La Touquet this winter for his health, and has distinguished himself by making a record score for the course of 68. This indicates surely that his health is mending.

A scheme has been started for the laying out of a full golf course at Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, and the conversion of Norris Castle into a clubhouse, with bedrooms for the accommodation of golfers as well as yachtsmen.

Following the great success of “Nero” comes the marked success of Pinero, and Mr. George Alexander is to be congratulated upon the reception which his recent production has received from public and critics alike.

Mr. Pinero rising, phœnix-like, from the ashes of “The Wife without a Smile,” has, according to many intelligent playgoers, soared to a greater height than ever before, and people have not hesitated to declare “His House in Order” to be a finer play than “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.”

A few years ago Mr. Pinero was reported to have said, upon some public occasion, that what a dramatist requires is praise. Our leading playwright ought just now to be like the little boy in the advertisement, “He is happy now he has got it.”

With everybody loud in their praises of the play, we have to ask for sympathy in the disappointment we suffered on seeing it. We have always been full of admiration for Mr. Pinero’s genius, and having been told to expect so much of his latest work, we were discontented with what we saw and heard. To begin with, we could not find in the play one single character with whom we could sympathise or whose cause we could espouse with any enthusiasm.

Nina is presumably meant to appeal to the sympathies of the audience, but, after all, her only claim to this appears to be that she is mortified and distressed by the brutality of the relatives of the first wife of her husband. Nina Jesson seems to be just a middle-class little thing who, entering the Jesson household as governess, marries Jesson on the death of his first wife.

She is devoted to ill-mannered dogs, which she would love to encourage about the house; she is a confirmed cigarette-smoker, having been instructed in this accomplishment by her father, the clergyman, and she appears to be untidy, unpunctual, and generally impossible; whilst she is sneak enough to read other people’s letters and to use them for her own ends. And so to keep Jesson’s house in order, the deceased wife’s sister acts as hostess instead of the unpractical Nina—and that is the grievance. She and the other three members of the Ridgeley family do not hesitate to enlarge on the shortcomings of the second Mrs. Jesson, and hence our tears are invoked on behalf of the ex-governess.

We may say, however, that for Miss Irene Vanbrugh, who plays Nina, we have nothing but the warmest admiration. She plays the part for all that it is worth, and her performance is the finest feature of the play.

The members of the Ridgeley family are, to our mind, like nothing in the world except themselves, and they certainly are so much like one another that Nina might have drawn them at any time by saying: “There are not four Ridgeleys but one Ridgeley.”

Mr. Pinero has probably met a Ridgeley somewhere, but we hope there are not many of them about. Hillary Jesson, in one of his flights of declamation, denounces the Ridgeleys as “individually and collectively one of the pests of humanity,” and this line got the most hearty applause of the evening. Obviously the Ridgeleys never go in front at the St. James’s Theatre, and it is not at all a bad device of stage-craft to direct all your slings and arrows against a class of people who, if not absolutely non-existent, are certainly never to be found amongst the audience in a theatre. The middle-class Puritanical goody-goody must always be a safe butt for the player and playgoer.

But there are much worse people than the Ridgeleys in the play. There is a Major Maurewarde who seduces the wife of his friend, sneakingly claims the only offspring of that marriage as his own natural son, and after the death of the lady contrives to enjoy the hospitality of the cuckold and the affection of the bastard—a nice specimen of an officer and a gentleman!

Then there is a British Minister to some foreign republic, unfortunately home on leave, who must have a finger in every pie and put the whole world straight. He espouses the cause of Nina, but when she is going to use the compromising letters of her predecessor in the affections of Jesson, Hillary Jesson, his brother, the meddler, prevails upon her to do no such thing, but to hand over the compromising documents to his safe keeping, with the result that he loses little time in handing them himself to his brother, the deceived husband.

As a reward for having nearly talked her to death, her self-elected champion asks Nina to present him with her cigarette case that he may add it to a very bizarre collection of curiosities he has made, including “the blood-stained handkerchief of a matador, and a half-smoked cigarette that has been pressed by the lips of an empress—one of the noblest of her sex.” To our mind, the man who can talk such rot as this is likely to be a much more troublesome creature than any of the despised Ridgeleys.

Then the husband Jesson would not be everybody’s choice; he certainly treats his second wife very unkindly, and as far as we can see the only reason for his kicking out the Ridgeleys, and allowing his wife to resume the proud privilege of keeping house for him, is that he becomes aware of the infidelity of his first wife and wreaks his vengeance upon her relatives.

We are told that two wrongs cannot make one right, and there seems no reason why the accidental revelation of the infidelities of a dead woman should suddenly transform a bad housekeeper into a good one, as probably Mr. Jesson soon discovered.

Upon the theme of this interesting play one might wander on indefinitely, but space fortunately forbids our saying more now, except that everybody should go and see “His House in Order,” and everybody should be interested by it; but we cannot think that anybody ought to call it Mr. Pinero’s masterpiece, for Mr. Pinero has written some very fine plays indeed.

On January 17th Her Majesty the Queen attended the meet of the West Norfolk Foxhounds, at Rougham Hall, in a motor car; the Princess Victoria, and the Princes Edward and Albert of Wales were present on horseback. The Queen showed great interest in the pack, and photographed the hounds.

While out hunting with the Woodland Pytchley Hounds, on January 17th, Mr. John Thornton, of Pilton, Northamptonshire, when jumping a high fence, was thrown from his seat and came down on the point of the saddle, sustaining severe internal injuries, to which he succumbed on the following day.

Mr. J. G. Blanshard, who had been for some thirty years secretary of the Wetherby Steeplechase Meeting, died at his residence, Walton, near Wetherby, on January 18th, at the age of seventy. Mr. Blanshard was a well-known judge of horses, and bred many good hunters in his time.

On January 18th there died at his residence, Wynnstay Gardens, Kensington, Mr. Thomas Hughes, aged eighty-three years. Mr. Hughes was, in his day, a well-known personage on the turf, and so far back as 1859 he did well when The Brewer won the Liverpool Autumn Cup; and in 1864 he won the Chester Cup with the eight-year-old Flash-in-the-Pan.

The Croome Hounds had a good run on January 20th, during which the pack got upon the railway and had the misfortune to lose a hound.

At the early age of forty-two years, Sir James Percy Miller, Bart., died at Manderston, Duns, Berwickshire, on January 22nd, as the result of a chill taken while out hunting the previous week. The deceased baronet had a very successful career on the Turf, and in 1903 won the Derby with Rock Sand; he was also well known in the hunting-field, and had been from 1897 Master of the local pack.

Owing to the death of Sir George Shiffner, which occurred on January 23rd, in his eighty-sixth year, at his residence, Coombe, Lewes, the Southdown Foxhounds did not meet for several days.

A painful incident occurred with the Meynell Hounds on January 25th. The meet was at Brailsford Bridge, and Captain Frederick Livingstone Campbell, superintendent of the Sheerness Dockyard, who was out, suffered a seizure just as the fox was killed, and fell from his saddle, dislocating his neck; hounds were at once called off.

The death occurred at Mython House, near Shrewsbury, of Mr. Alfred Roqueir Candon. The deceased, who was an old member of the Cotswold Hunt, was this season hunting with the Shropshire hounds. On January 30th, while exercising a hunter, after taking several fences the horse bolted and threw its rider at a gate: Mr. Candon broke his neck, death being almost instantaneous.

One of the best-known writers on natural history and country life subjects, Mr. Charles John Cornish, died at Worthing on January 30th, aged forty-seven years. The deceased was a keen lover of field sports and wildfowling, and his experiences were most agreeably related in many books and articles contributed to the Spectator and other periodicals.

Lord Newlands, who was in his eighty-first year, died at Maudslie Castle, Lanarkshire, on January 30th. For many years he was a keen supporter of coaching, and was a member of the Four-in-Hand and also of the Coaching Clubs, being elected President of the last-named in 1902. Lord Newland was a prominent supporter of the Lanark Races.

On January 30th the death occurred of a well-known Yorkshire sportsman and ex-M.F.H., Mr. John Hill. He was in his eighty-fifth year, and passed away suddenly at the Low Hall, Brompton, Yorkshire. Mr. John Hill and his father before him, Mr. R. Johnson Hill, hunted the country around Scarborough, now known as Mr. Sherbrooke’s, from the year 1808. Mr. John Hill took over the Mastership upon the death of his father in 1855, but sold the hounds in 1862 to the Duke of Grafton. Frank Beers was well pleased with the pack, and their blood is to be found, says Horse and Hound, in the Grafton Hounds to-day. Mr. Hill was succeeded in the Mastership of the Scarborough country by Mr. Harcourt Johnstone (the present Lord Derwent), for whom he hunted them for many seasons, and another member of the family, Mr. Robin Hill, is at present acting as amateur huntsman to Mr. Sherbrooke.

Mr. John Bell Irving, of Whitehill, Dumfriesshire, died on January 31st in his ninety-fourth year. The deceased was the oldest Justice of the Peace in Scotland, having been on the commission for sixty years. He was a famous breeder of stock and a prominent coursing man, having owned many well-known greyhounds, and was the only survivor of a band of county gentlemen which started the Dumfriesshire Foxhounds. Last year, at the age of ninety-three, he was present at the annual races. His wife, who predeceased him eighteen months ago, was the sister of the late Sir Robert Jardine.

On February 3rd Charles Littleworth died at his residence at Crediton, aged seventy-six years. The deceased, who was born in Hampshire, entered hunt service in 1854, when he became second horseman to the Earl of Portsmouth, then Master of the Vine; later he went with Lord Portsmouth to Devonshire as first whipper-in to the Eggesford, and was soon after promoted to huntsman. He remained on active service in the country for nearly forty years. In 1890 he was presented with an illuminated address and a purse of 200 guineas. Charles Littleworth took a great interest in the breeding of fox-terriers, and often acted as a judge at shows.

On February 3rd there passed away Major T. H. Preston, of Moreby Hall, near York, in his eighty-ninth year. Very keen to hounds and a fine shot, Major Preston was one of the few survivors of the disaster to the York and Ainsty Hounds on February 4th, 1869, when Sir Charles Slingsley, the Master, and other members of the Hunt lost their lives through the capsizing of the ferry-boat on the River Ure.

Mr. John Arkwright, who was for many years Hon. Secretary to the North Warwickshire Hunt, died on February 12th at his residence, Hatton House, near Warwick, aged eighty-two years. Mr. Arkwright was presented with his portrait a number of years ago, when there was a great gathering of hunting men at Stoneleigh, and the late Lord Leigh made the presentation on behalf of the subscribers. The present Master of the North Warwickshire, Mr. J. P. Arkwright, is elder son of the deceased gentleman.

A veteran Irish sportsman has passed away in the person of Mr. Philip Blake, who died at his residence, Ladyrath House, Navan, aged eighty years. He was well known with the Meath and the Louth Hounds, and in the sixties was Master and owner of the Meath Union Harriers.

Some good prices for hunters have been obtained at the Leicester Repository. Lord Chesham sold three: Patrick, 160 gs.; Goodman, 170 gs.; and Dulcimer, 230 gs. Three sent up by Captain G. E. Belleville sold as follows: St. Maur, 210 gs.; Oatmeal, 185 gs., and Samuel, 150 gs. Mr. Alex. Browne, M.F.H., realised an average of £283 10s. for eleven hunters; The Dub, 600 gs.; Daly, 500 gs.; Silver Cloud, 400 gs.; Galway, 350 gs.; Ludlow, 260 gs.; Grantham, 200 gs.; Leicester, 175 gs.; The Chef, 160 gs.; Tinker, 130 gs.; Benjamin, 125 gs., and Jedburgh, 70 gs. Other properties included Bay g. 125 gs.; Hall Weston, 200 gs.; Lady Sissie, 120 gs.; Nimrod, 100 gs.; Princess Osra, 180 gs., and Buller, 110 gs.

Amongst the more important sales by Messrs. Tattersall at Albert Gate during the last few weeks may be mentioned: Mr. E. W. Bradbury’s Starlight, 105 gs.; Imperial, sent up by a lady, 130 gs.; Major Sherston’s bay, 110 gs. From Mr. H. Thompson, Crossgar, the following made three figures: Nine Pins, 100 gs.; Mullingar, 140 gs.; Gentleman, 105 gs.; The Stag, 120 gs.; Ebony, the property of Mr. J. Blackburn, realised 130 gs.

Owing to her great age and increasing infirmity, it was found necessary to destroy the famous old mare, Mowerina, at the Hunciecroft Paddocks, Welbeck. Herself and her children have won just over £87,000 in stakes, the offspring including Modwena and her brother Donovan, a very good horse indeed, who won £55,154 in two years’ racing. Mowerina’s daughter, Semolina, was a good early two-year-old; she won the Brocklesby Stakes; and Semolina’s brother, Raeburn, was the only horse to ever beat Isinglass, and is now in Hungary, having been purchased at the last Newmarket December Sales by Baron Harkanyi.

Harvester, by Sterling-Wheatear, who ran a dead heat with St. Gatien in the Derby of 1884, when the stakes were divided for the first time, recently died at the Zabola Stud, in Hungary. Bred by Lord Falmouth in 1881, Harvester won as a two-year-old the Thirty-sixth Triennial at Newmarket, and the Clearwell Stakes, and in the spring of 1884 was sold to Sir John Willoughby, for 8,000 gs.

Ship-building Surgery.—The steamship Forth, one of the Carron fleet running between London and Scotland for passenger and goods traffic, is at present laid up for an extraordinary operation which will lengthen the boat by 40 feet. She was hoisted on a large cradle and cut right through just forward of the bridge deck. The cradle was also sawn asunder, and the two parts with their respective portions of the ship were drawn apart to a distance of 40 feet, which space was then built in. The alteration will enable the Forth to carry about 200 tons more cargo, and her steaming capabilities will not be impaired. On the contrary she will now rank amongst the finest steamers on the East Coast.

TURF.

FOOTBALL.

January 20th.—At Cambridge, the University v. London Scottish, latter won by 30 points to 8.*

January 20th.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Blackheath, latter won by a try to 0.*

January 22nd.—At Oxford, the University v. Woolwich Arsenal, latter won by 4 goals to 0.†

January 22nd.—At Leeds, North v. South, latter won by 2 goals to 0.†

January 24th.—At Oxford, the University v. Casuals, former won by 4 goals to 2.†

January 24th.—At Cambridge, the University v. Tottenham Hotspur, former won by 3 goals to 1.†

January 27th.—At Cambridge, the University v. Casuals, former won by 3 goals to 0.†

January 27th.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Oxford University, latter won by 4 goals to 2 goals 1 try.*

January 27th.—At Richmond, London Scottish v. Harlequins, former won by 2 tries to 1.*

January 27th.—At Cardiff, Cardiff v. Blackheath, former won by 2 goals 2 tries to 0.*

January 27th.—At Queen’s Club, Corinthians v. Oxford University, former won by 4 goals to 0.†

January 29th.—At Oxford, the University v. Oxford City, latter won by 3 goals to 2.†

January 31st.—At Oxford, the University v. Guy’s Hospital, former won by 16 points to 15.*

February 3rd.—At Oxford, the University v. Lennox, former won by 24 points to 9.*

February 3rd.—At Cardiff, Wales v. Scotland, former won by 9 points to 3.*

February 3rd.—At Queen’s Club, Corinthians v. Manchester City, former won by 4 goals to 1.†

February 3rd.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Cambridge University, latter won by 3 goals 3 tries to 1 try.*

February 3rd.—At Leyton, Old Reptonians v. Oxford University, latter won by 1 goal to 0.†

February 3rd.—At Blackheath, Blackheath v. Harlequins, former won by 2 goals 3 tries to 3 goals.*

February 3rd.—At Richmond, London Scottish v. London Welsh, latter won by 7 points to 0.*

February 5th.—At Oxford, the University v. The Navy, former won by 5 goals to 0.†

February 7th.—At Queen’s Club, Old Malvernians v. Oxford University, latter won by 7 goals to 0.†

February 10th.—At Leicester, England v. Ireland, latter won by 2 goals 2 tries to 2 tries.*

February 10th.—At Oxford, The University v. West Norwood, former won by 2 goals to 0.†

February 10th.—At Blackheath, Blackheath v. London Irish, former won by 1 goal 1 try to 1 try.*

February 10th.—At Cardiff, Cardiff v. Moseley, former won by 4 goals 4 tries to 0.*

February 10th.—At Richmond, Richmond v. Rosslyn Park, latter won by 1 goal 1 try to 1 try.*

February 12th.—At Cambridge, The University v. North of Ireland, former won by 6 placed goals 1 penalty goal and 4 tries to 0.*

PIGEON SHOOTING.

January 30th.—At Monte Carlo, the Grande Poule d’Essai, Mr. H. Roberts won the gold medal, and divided first and second with Count Chiericati.

February 8th.—At Monte Carlo, the Grand Prix du Casino, Signor H. Grasselli won.

February 10th.—Mr. Greig won the Prix de Monte Carlo Handicap.

Early Carriages and Roads

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Riding and Driving Horses, Their Breeding and Rearing

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Seventeen Chapters, Horse-breeding in England; Eight Chapters, Horse-breeding Abroad; Thirteen pages, Horse-breeding in India. Nine Illustrations. Octavo, cloth, price 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

The Great Horse or War Horse

From the Roman Invasion till its development into the Shire Horse. Seventeen Illustrations. Octavo, cloth gilt, price 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

The Harness Horse

The scarcity of Carriage Horses and how to breed them. 4th Edition. Octavo, cloth gill, 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

Modern Carriages: Passenger Vehicles in the Victorian Era

The passenger vehicles now in use, with notes on their origin. Illustrations. Octavo, cloth gilt, price 2s. net; post free, 2s. 3d.

Young Race Horses—suggestions

for rearing, feeding and treatment. Twenty-two Chapters. With Frontispiece and Diagrams. Octavo, cloth gilt, price 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

Small Horses in Warfare

Arguments in favour of their use for light cavalry and mounted infantry. Illustrated, 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

Horses for the Army: a suggestion

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Horses Past and Present

A sketch of the History of the Horse in England from the earliest times. Nine Illustrations. Octavo, cloth gilt, 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

Poultry Keeping on Farms and Small Holdings

Illustrated, octavo, cloth, 2s. net; by post, 2s. 3d.

Animal Painters of England

from the year 1650. Illustrated. Two vols., quarto, cloth gilt, Two Guineas net. Prospectus free.

Life of George Stubbs, R.A.

Ten Chapters. Twenty-six Illustrations and Headpieces. Quarto, whole Morocco, gilt, price £3 3s. net.

Vinton & Co., Ltd., 9, New Bridge St., London, April, 1906.

ELLIOTT & FRY PHOTO.       HOWARD & JONES, COLL.

CONTENTS.

The subject of our portrait, Mr. Henry Hawkins, of Everdon Hall, near Daventry, was born at Kegworth, Leicestershire, in the year 1876. All his life he has been devoted to field sports of every description, and has played cricket seriously since he first captained the eleven of his preparatory school at the age of ten years. Since 1901 he has played for the county of Northamptonshire, and was one of those selected to play against the Australians in August last; he also plays for M.C.C., Warwickshire Gentlemen, and other clubs.

For some years he went in for racing with no small amount of success, owning Alpha, Hottentot, Bellamina, Stella III., and other well-known steeplechase horses, but he has nothing in training at the present time.

It was in the year 1901 that Mr. Hawkins purchased his pack of harriers from Mr. Horsey, and he has now hunted them at his own expense for more than five seasons over the beautiful vale which surrounds Everdon. In the Pytchley, as in every other country, much depends on the good-will of the farmers, and with the farmers Mr. Hawkins is a great favourite. He is a thorough good all-round sportsman, and is, in fact, immensely popular with every one with whom hunting brings him into contact. He has brought his pack, which consists of thirty couple of hounds, all in the Stud Book, to a fine state of perfection, and has taken the highest honours at Peterborough. Last season they accounted for more than twenty couple of hares, and this year bid fair to exceed the average, for they have been showing most continuous and wonderful sport.

I seldom brought home a tired horse or had a fall. My good fortune in the latter respect I attribute much to the practice adopted early in life of riding steadily at fences other than water. Only men without nerve go fast at their fences. One day with the Pytchley, jumping a fence uphill, the ground broke away on the take-off, and my horse fell back on me in the ditch. We had to be dug out. I had the misfortune to lose a very fine horse close to Thorpe Trussels. Jumping quite a small fence, he dropped his hind-legs in a grip on landing and broke his back. I lost another good one (a mare) by a somewhat unusual accident. Alighting on rotten ground over a very ordinary fence, she snapped a fore-leg, and of course had to be destroyed.

One can take liberties with a sensible horse. In a run with the Pytchley one day hounds crossed the Welland, and a man tried to ride over a board footbridge. When he got to the middle one of the planks broke and he and his horse fell into the river. Riding a horse of the sensible sort, I gave him his head to follow; he stepped nicely across the open space, and we had the rest of the run up to Loatland Wood to ourselves.

The Leicestershire farmers were rare good sportsmen. Once during a gallop with Mr. Tailby’s across the oxers near Market Harborough my horse, a young one, fell and broke the curb bit. While I was putting matters to rights a yeoman came up, slipped off his horse, and seizing mine by the head put his own double bridle on it, saying, “Look at my horse, he don’t want a bridle!” Certainly the horse had had enough for one day, but the fact does nothing to qualify the kindly thought that prompted his owner. The man was a tenant of Lord Willoughby de Broke’s; few but a Leicestershire yeoman would have done such a thing. Another anecdote to illustrate the same spirit:—

Riding along the Leicester and Uppingham road to draw the Billesdon Coplow one morning, “Cap.” Tomlin, the rough rider, pulled up and exclaimed, “Look here, gentlemen, you talk about riding; this fence (an ox fence) has been jumped into the road.” “Yes,” said Sir Walter Carew, “it has; and the man who jumped it is close to you.” The yeoman who owned the land, a good friend enough to hunting, made his fences very strong. On hearing who had jumped his ox fence he sent me a message, saying he hoped I would never come within the parish without coming to lunch with him. Most of the Leicestershire farmers gloried in the chase in those days. The enthusiasm of the people for a good horse was shown in a rather unusual way on one occasion. In a gallop up to Gumley Gorse the fox was headed by the foot people. I happened to arrive alone, and they seized my horse and kissed his face!

It is many years ago that our King, then Prince of Wales, while staying at Althorp, came to the meet of the Pytchley at Holmby House. Lord Spencer, thinking the horse His Royal Highness rode was rather too small for the big fences, offered him a nice one of his own, which was graciously accepted. In the course of the run the horse, to Lord Spencer’s horror, came down. The Prince, however, was up in a twinkling, and regaining his saddle was going again well in front, to the great delight of the Northamptonshire farmers.

Lord Cardigan was a very bold rider, and got some heavy falls. In a gallop with Sir Richard Sutton from Walton Holt, I jumped the white locked gate on Gumley Hill, and had the run to myself. Lord Cardigan and Colonel Steel, of the Guards, had very bad falls. Lord Cardigan told me afterwards that the whole front of his body was as black as coal. On another day, near the same place, he had a nasty fall in a ditch, his horse lying on him. Lord William Beresford, seeing his plight, stopped, and called on the Hon. and Rev. Robert Wilson to come and help, shouting, “He is not half a bad fellow, and it would be a pity if he died in a ditch.” They got to work, but Beresford found he could not get hold of Cardigan, and said so. “Pull me out by the nose if you like,” said the victim. The water was trickling over him, and without help it is very probable that he would have been drowned in the ditch.

Apropos of falls, there was a little man with a very wry neck who used to bring some nice horses to hunt in Leicestershire. One day he had a fall, and was stunned. There were plenty of people at hand to help, and one man, who did not know him, took him by the head and began to pull at it in the kindly but mistaken endeavour to straighten his neck. This usage brought the poor man to his senses just in time. “Born so! Born so!” he exclaimed, feebly. Another pull would have broken his neck.

Among the good runs I call to mind are two in which, thanks to my horse, I had the fun all to myself. One was a splendid gallop across the Vale of Dunchurch without a check to ground on Barley Hill in the Pytchley country. I was entirely alone with the pack; and the field were so long coming up that I went home before any one arrived. It was several days before they discovered who it was had been with the hounds.

Another fine run was with the Cottesmore, when the hounds ran their fox without a check to mark him to ground in Horninghold Lordship, quite out of sight of the field. The earth being in the Quorn country, the fox had to be left.

When I lived in the Atherstone country I had a small stick covert at Bitteswell, a very sure find. Anstruther Thomson said I had made it too strong, but I told him it was my business to have a fox and his to get him out. As a matter of fact, foxes never hung there, though they seldom afforded good runs; the old foxes used to lie out in the hedgerows.

I told Jack that he would have better sport if he hunted the country thoroughly. He enquired what I considered would be “hunting it thoroughly,” and on my saying, “Drawing it blank,” he replied that he would draw me blank next season. I said I should be ready for him.

He came once a fortnight—no blanks.

The truth was, I had three earths, one natural and two artificial, and Jack never found out the latter. I always stopped the one most used, and put the others to in the morning. The last day of that season I stopped all three, which rather confused him and his hounds. This covert was very full of rabbits, which were caught in a pitfall, one side of it being wired in. I have known a fox to be caught in it.

One day, when hounds drew my stick covert, I lost my usual good start, as I was looking after the foot people. There was a good scent over the grass, and hounds ran hard, but being on a very fast horse I soon got up to them. Just in front of me a youth was going well till he came to a rough fence with daylight in only one place, where an ash tree had been cut down. His horse slipped on the roots and turned over into the ditch on the other side, heels uppermost. “For goodness sake,” he cried, when I asked him to let me come, “don’t ride over my horse.” There was no help for it; my horse cleared the inverted animal nicely, and I went on with hounds.

The young gentleman, however, thought he had a grievance, and, when the fox was killed, reported me to his uncle.

The uncle was a near neighbour of mine, and a good sportsman. He told me that his nephew over night had been “crabbing” the Atherstone men as the slowest set in all England, and thanked me for what I had done. “He will have a different tale to tell to-night,” he concluded.

In a run with the Pytchley a lady following me had a fall; hounds were running hard, but as she did not get out of the ditch I felt bound to go and help her. As I got near she jumped on to her horse, and I asked what she had been about. She said, “I don’t mind telling you, my hair came off.” She had beautiful hair of her own, and added the plaits which were commonly worn in those days.

In the Northampton race week there was a very early meet with the Pytchley at Cottesbrooke. The same lady came up to me and said, “I reckon you will get a good start this morning.” I said, “Yes, certainly,” and that with the wind where it was we should have to cross the stream, which was unjumpable. There was a bridle-gate in the middle of the ford, and I told her I meant to be in first, and if she was close up would hold the gate open for her. When we reached the gate I looked round; she was there, but without her hat. “Dear me, Mrs. A.,” I said, “What have you done with your hat?” “Lost it following you under that tree; and if this sort of thing goes on I shall soon lose my head,” she responded. The acting master, the Hon. C. Cust, made a turban for her out of his neck wrapper, and she hunted in it the rest of the day. The gate in the ford became blocked, and we had an enjoyable gallop.

If there was nice hunting weather at Assize time there was often difficulty in collecting a grand jury, and the judges threatened to fine us. Going to the meet one morning I fell in with a pompous old neighbour who was on his way to Assizes, and asked him, if my name should be called, to respectfully address the judge, and say that I regretted my non-attendance. “Some domestic affliction, no doubt,” said his lordship, and he passed me over, and fined several others.

One London season I took up a pretty young horse; he was always full of vitality and a pleasant mount in the country, but not suited to Rotten Row, as he used to strike with his fore-feet at other horses cantering towards him and frightened several young ladies. He seemed just the horse for a charger. I offered him to a vet, who had a commission to buy a chestnut horse for an officer, telling him he was more suited to a younger man than myself. He went on nicely for a while, and became the crack horse of the regiment. The day of inspection arrived. As he was passing the general at the head of his troop, with the view of making a proper display on the solemn occasion his rider touched him with the spur. He plunged violently, and hoisting his heels exuberantly, cast his rider at the feet of the general, amid the applause of the assembled multitude.

It was in 1831 that I bought the small pack of pure harriers kept at Shotesham. I hunted them for about twenty-five years at my own expense, and then sold them to the Earl of Albemarle and Colonel Unthank. The latter crossed the lot he purchased with the foxhound, and in my opinion spoilt them. I kept as clear of foxhound blood as I could, having only one or two old bitches from Sir Thomas Boughey all the time I hunted them. They were fast, but close hunters; mine was the silent system, rarely going to halloas, and the hounds were not too closely whipped in; extra work was the cure for unruly ones instead of whipcord. They were a capital working lot, and a good hare had not much chance if I wanted to kill her. The country is flat, consequently the hares made better points than they do where there are hills. They were scarce but stout, as only those that outstripped the greyhounds and lurchers were left alive in the greater part of my country.

At Sexton Wood, a fine covert hired by some farmers for shooting, a fox was constantly seen. One February, when the shooting season was over, I went to look for him. A large field was out, some in scarlet from Suffolk. I was a little chaffed, the men asking what I was going to do with the fox. I said I would make him ask for mercy before sunset, or, if the wind had anything to do with it, perhaps hunt him on to the top of one of their houses. As the wood was full of hares I had the fox driven out by men. He went away directly, but was headed back into the wood. I trotted to the other end at about the pace I thought he would travel, and he broke again near me. I got a good start with him up wind, and ran hard for a mile and a half, when he turned down wind; first check, thirty-five minutes. He ran down the middle ride of Earsham Wood with hares constantly crossing, but not a hound left the line. He crossed the river Waveney into Suffolk, was headed in Flixton Park, and turned back up wind over grass to the Waveney, fox and hounds all swimming the river together, and got into a boathouse. I waited till the field arrived, and they asked me if I had done with their fox. I told them to look in the boathouse, where the fox was hiding in the boat. They wanted me to kill him, but I refused, and had him turned into a coppice close by. After releasing the fox I asked the field to come and see hounds run a hare, as I must kill one to steady them for another day. They told me there was a splendid hare close by, often hunted by Mr. Chaston. As I was some miles out of my own country, I felt a difficulty about hunting her; but as they promised no harm should come of it, I gave way. As we entered the field she ran out at the far end; the hounds settled at once, and killed and ate her in twenty-one minutes. The field were well satisfied. They wanted me to keep some foxhounds, and I said I would if they would promise me foxes, which they failed to do.

I had several first-class gallops after outlying stags, almost always running up to them, but not trying to take them.

You ask about my shooting recollections. I have repeatedly killed 40, 50, and once over 60 couples of snipe on the Langley Marshes, by the side of the River Yare. In August, 1846, with Mr. Everard, of Gosberton, I killed 164 brace of grouse, and on the 27th of that month 103 brace by myself. As regards the match between Mr. Stirling Crawfurd and Mr. Osbaldeston, I “managed” for the former, Sir Richard Sutton performed the same office for the “Squire,” as he was called.

The match came off at Rufford Abbey, between the two Newmarket October meetings. Stirling Crawfurd gave him ten brace of partridges each day, on account of his being somewhat older. They shot two days, changing beats the second day. They tossed for choice of beats, both of which were good, but one not so good as the other. I won the toss and took the worst beat for the first day. Shooting began at eight o’clock, and the men shot till dark. We were beaten by a few brace on the first day, but on the second Crawfurd won the match by several brace to spare. Osbaldeston wanted to shoot it over again for a larger sum, on the condition they changed managers. Crawfurd was to walk all day, and Osbaldeston, if he liked, to ride; no driving. Sir Richard had some of the Duke of Rutland’s keepers, from Derbyshire, and some of his own keepers from Lynford, and his whippers-in from Quorn. He overdid it. I had only the head keeper’s son and walkers off the Rufford estate. Mr. Crawfurd gave the value of the stakes among them.

My pointers were bred from two animals given me when I was at college, by the then Lord Lonsdale, from his and another kennel, crossed with Mr. Moore’s, of Appleby. When I gave them up I sold every dog I had to the late Lord Wilton for £25 apiece.

Harking back to my athletic days when at college, I once jumped Mr. Rhodes, of Trinity, a match over water by the side of Trumpington Road and beat him. I believe, but am not quite sure, that my opponent was the father of the famous Cecil Rhodes.

When at Melton, years ago, Count Hugo Nostitz asked me to jump a match. Six jumps, each to choose three, and go first. If he did not clear it the other not to follow on. First jump both got over. I cleared all of Nostitz’s choosing. My second was the Melton Brook, with mud thrown out on the far side; I cleared brook and mud. Nostitz cleared the brook, but, to save falling back, had to put his arms up to his elbows in the black mud. My third pick was the brook again with a rail in front of it. The late Lord Lonsdale, mischievously inclined, told Nostitz to jump high enough (the worst advice he could give). He cleared the rail well, but alighted up to his armpits in the water.

Once he had rather a bad fall with hounds. We went to help him, as he did not get up, and asked him if he was much hurt. He said, “No, only a little more than usual.” He tried to get up, but could not for a while. He was as charming a young fellow as ever entered the town.

A sportsman has been taken from amongst us last month in the person of Captain J. T. R. Lane Fox, the Master of the Bramham Moor Hounds, who could ill be spared; and in whose memory it is fitting that a few words should be said in your pages.

Captain Lane Fox was the second son of the late Mr. George Lane Fox, for many years master of the Bramham Moor pack, whose strong personality gave him a foremost place in Yorkshire and throughout the world of sport, as well as among English country gentlemen. Captain Lane Fox had therefore handed down to him a heritage of no mean character, when he succeeded his father ten years ago.

Having acted as his father’s deputy in the hunting field for the last few seasons of the old Squire’s life, his transition to the mastership came almost as a matter of course, and was universally welcomed by the most loyal set of sportsmen that we are acquainted with. Few such elegant yet determined horsemen are to be found nowadays as was the late Dick Lane Fox (as his familiars delighted to call him). From the day he left Eton and joined the Grenadier Guards, serving in Canada and riding many races and steeplechases there, until, on his retirement from the army, he settled down, on his marriage, in the confines of Bramham Park as his father’s right-hand man, he was the idol of all his friends and neighbours.

Unfortunately, he had experienced a bad fall whilst in Canada, which told upon his health and constitution ever afterwards. Indeed, this would have been the cause of banishing many less ardent sportsmen altogether from the hunting field, yet with the subject of our memoir it was not so. There were times when I have witnessed with admiration the pluck with which he seemed to triumph over his constitutional weakness. It was then a treat to see him go to hounds; such a superb seat, hands, and judgment as his made him conspicuous even in a large hard-riding field like the Bramham, and demonstrated his superb talents as a sportsman. It may well be said of Dick Lane Fox that from old Eton days, when I first enjoyed his friendship, down to the sad event of last month, that he never made an enemy but cemented many a friendship. He had above all a natural aversion to obtrusiveness, which prevented him often from doing himself justice; yet the shrewd, true-hearted Yorkshiremen knew him too well not to appreciate him as a country gentleman as well as a sportsman. He lived to see his eldest son George take his place in the hunting field in a way that he could not fail to be proud of; the veritable likeness of his grandfather; and beyond this, in spite of one defeat, he rejoiced to see him elected as M.P. for the Barkston Division of Yorkshire, after as big a fight as ever aroused the political feelings of that district.

Mrs. Lane Fox was a Milmay, of excellent sporting blood, and a devoted wife, who survives him, so that on both sides of the family the present inheritor of Bramham (one of the finest estates in broad Yorkshire) combines the makings of all that is best in the life of a country gentleman and a sportsman.

Personally I mourn, in conjunction with innumerable others, over the loss of a life-long friend, yet our sadness is tempered by the glad reflection that such an unsullied name, such a bright example, and such an ennobling compeer, should have gone to his rest so peaceably, and have left behind him a splendid well cared-for estate, and a descendant in every way worthy of upholding the fame of Bramham and its famous “25 couple,” and likely to fill yet another niche in the temple of fame amongst Yorkshire worthies.

Surely the spring trout-fisher is the most hopeful of all the sanguine and long-suffering brotherhood! How many bitter disappointments and how much bitter weather is required to convince one spring fly-fisher that he had better defer his attempts at sport till the blizzards are over?

Last spring was no worse than usual, but the feel of that cutting east wind still haunts my dreams, and, worse than all, the trout taken were both fewer and smaller than in the previous July on the same water.

Two days only out of six were really good, and even then the trout, though numerous and lively, averaged but little over the quarter of a pound. Certainly they took the blue upright with a will, and did not require much stalking, and now and then a nice half-pounder gave a really satisfactory bit of sport.

I see by my diary that the “coch y bondu” was almost as successful as the “blue upright,” and that dry-fly fishing was nearly useless so early in the season, though fish could often be seen rising on the smooth glides. Sometimes not a fin could be stirred for hours, so that one had plenty of leisure to note the exceptional beauty of the budding woods, and to listen to all the love-notes of the birds. When sport is lively all these things are only dimly felt, as heightening enjoyment. When trout are sulky, then we feel the difference between the silence and comparative gloom of late summer woods, and the joyous choruses of early spring; and nowhere is this more marked than among the lovely sylvan scenes on the banks of Somerset streams.

Among other advantages, water is generally plentiful and not too clear. In the wild uplands on the borders of the moor the bushes and brambles which line the streams are not yet developed into the impenetrable thickets that bar one’s progress in the summer, and many a spot then unfishable, even with the aid of waders, can now be reached at small cost of scratches.

I must confess that these inner sanctuaries did not yield me many victims, my basket on the day I went up the hills being the lightest of the week, and the fish the smallest.

Nevertheless, I think the Horner Woods stream, near Porlock, a charming spot, and worth another trial; for adverse winds may have been responsible for the poor sport. It is easy, I believe, for the fly-fisher to get leave on this water, and it is within a mile or two of Porlock. I cycled from Washford, the other side of Minehead, and found it a delightful ride. I think all anglers will find a cycle convenient in this district, as roads are fairly good, and distances from stream to stream often considerable. It is rather monotonous to fish one stream continually, and the change of scene and novel exercise heighten one’s pleasure. It also enables the angler to choose more comfortable quarters than might always be obtainable close to the fishing; for a run of a mile or two is of hardly any consequence, and it is not always that such rooms as were secured for us (within the precincts of Cleve Abbey) can be had.

This old ruin is close to the stream, and can be examined by the wandering angler at very little cost either of time or money. It is well worth a visit. Washford is the station, but it is within an easy ride of Minehead, where comfortable rooms and good attendance can always be had, and from whence excursions, by coach and boat, are continually going on to many of the loveliest parts of Somerset and Devon.

One disappointment experienced during this spring visit was perhaps not due to the time of year. A large and deep pool, formed by the stream right down on the seashore, had sometimes yielded capital sport in July, fish being large and plentiful, though very shy. Some shifting of the sands had now greatly reduced its depth, and the trout had almost deserted it, only two half-pounders falling to my flies. Last year several of the fish taken here were ¾ lb. or more, and the novelty of landing good trout (and not sea-trout) on the sands added to the charm. I have only done so once before, and that was hundreds of miles away, at the mouth of Crocket’s celebrated “Skyreburn,” in the north.

As it is possible that this sea-pool may have improved again this spring, I advise any angler who finds himself near to give it a careful trial, especially if there is a strong wind blowing; for this greatly increases one’s chances. Curiously enough, a little black gnat is the best fly here, but it is worth while to try larger flies if weather is rough. I think that many of the mouths of trout-streams might be fished carefully with good effect, the trout being often larger and better fed than those in the stream itself. Probably they often go a little way out to sea, and get shrimps, &c., in certain states of the tide. At the worst it is a pleasant change to cast a long line over broad water, after being somewhat cramped and hampered in a narrow and much bushed stream. It must be remembered that permission is required from the local landowners for these parts of the streams, as well as for the upper waters.

For upwards of twenty years it has been asserted that no towered bird has been hit only in the head. It has become quite an article of faith with some people that every towered bird is stifled by wounds or blood in the organs of respiration. Quite lately it has been stated that it has often been said that towering has been caused by a shot on the head, but that this is never the case.

The writer has often fallen into this supposed error himself, and has gone very fully into the subject. It is not only a very interesting question in itself, but one that sportsmen should not be misled about. At the last retriever trials there was reported to be a “towered bird,” and upon the dog being sent for it a field away he found it quickly, but the towered bird rose again and flew away, followed by the keeper’s remark, that it was “a very lively dead bird.”

This shows that not all keepers are aware that towerers are not always dead birds when they fall; for this keeper was surprised when the towerer rose again; but I noticed that the judges were quite satisfied that the escaped partridge was identical with “the towerer.” They did not set the dog to hunt again, but turned their backs on the scene of action, and credited the dog (which happened to win the stake) with the find.

That bird had been hit in the head, not in the lungs, and he towered in consequence. If he had been also wounded in the lungs he would have died at the apex of his flight—they always do. It may be asked how I know this, and my reply must be that I know it from the examination of many towered birds of different kinds. Of course, I make no claim to be telling experienced sportsmen anything they do not know already. I am well aware that very many do know it, because I have gone out of my way to ask them; but I think there is occasion for dealing fully with a subject that has been misunderstood for twenty years.

This being so, I propose to glance, briefly, at the varying behaviour of game when struck in different parts of the body; and this seems to be all the more necessary, as wrong information is sure to cause many a fruitless search, much loss of time, and perhaps some muttered thunder directed against the supposed Ananias who saw the bird tower.

Young shooters are often confident that a towered bird is dead, and can be picked up if looked for long enough. Probably they have read it, and have confirmed the statement with a few observations of their own. The partridge that is struck in the head usually falls at once, whether the shot has actually pierced the brain or not, but this is by no means invariable, as I have suggested above.

The several kinds of towerers behave as follows: A rap on the head from a glancing shot may or may not damage the sight, but if it does not completely stun the bird he will rise up and tower from the place where the shot struck him; his is usually a very strong flight, and he is likely to fly a good way, towering all the time, until the loss of strength forces him to come down; he will not collapse at the apex of his flight, but as he falls continue to beat his wings, more or less slowly, nearly or quite to the ground. When he reaches the earth he may die, or he may sit muffled up in a dazed condition. Generally he can be approached and killed with a stick, but sometimes he will have a blind side and a wideawake one; and it is not difficult to approach him by selecting his dark side. In no case is such a bird likely to fly until his enemy is within a yard or two of him. Often he makes no attempt to save his own life, and many times I have allowed a retriever to pick up such a bird, having the gun ready in case of his blunder. On several occasions, probably not more than three, the towered bird on being disturbed has towered again; but generally if he is able to fly at all he is able to see where he is going to and to get away. Many birds of this kind have no shot in them whatever, as I have proved by post-mortem examination; others have proved the same thing by being as lively as ever upon being approached. Once, a few years ago, when a controversy on this subject raged, X-ray photographs of three towerers were published, but shot pellets could only be traced in two of them, and consequently both sides claimed the victory. It is very likely that laboratory examination never will find a shot pellet in the head of a towerer, but that only proves that when a shot enters the head it is generally enough to bring the bird down at once. It is quite another matter when a shot pellet strikes the head and does not enter. Then the state of towering is frequently instantly produced.

This kind of wound, then, may be recognised by the towering of the bird from the instant it was struck, also by some movement in its wings in descent, and lastly, by its attitude of squatting when found upon the ground.

A bird struck in the lungs or stifled by blood in the windpipe behaves very differently. On receiving the shot it generally, but not always, drops its legs as if they were broken; that will generally prove not to have been the case. Then it flies on, from fifty to five hundred yards, with nothing apparently the matter, except the dropped legs, then it suddenly begins to rise or tower. This towering appears from the shooter’s position in the rear, and far behind, to be straight up, but that is optical deception, caused by the position of the shooter directly in the rear. The angle of elevation is really about the same as that of the head-struck bird, although, as the latter rises from only forty or fifty yards away, his angle of elevation looks more oblique than that of the bird a quarter of a mile away.

The stifled bird rises in spite of the fact that his head does not point upwards like that of a pheasant rising to top the trees. The partridge rises without any appearance of change of angle in his body, and when he reaches the apex he does not turn over backwards, as has been said of him, but starts to fall from the position of ordinary horizontal flight. You will generally find him dead upon his back, but the reason of this is that the resistance of his outstretched wings in falling turns him over, and they cease to resist the air when he is on his back. It is a case of movement in the direction of least resistance.

A bird which is brought down instantly by a shot in the head generally jumps about or flaps his wings when on the ground; one would think that he could not do this if he was entirely unconscious, but if he has any degree of consciousness the head-struck towerer must have very much more, just as the stifling bird has, so there must be many degrees of semiconsciousness in wounded partridges.

It very often happens that the most experienced will mistake the dead bird’s fall for that of a runner, and a runner’s for that of a dead bird, but the latter is less frequent. The runner generally flaps a wing as he falls, shows the white of the other one and holds his head up; but all these signs taken together do not prove him to be a runner, because he may have had a lung shot as well, and then he will die upon the ground. Again, a runner may deceive in the other way, he will sometimes fall as if unconscious and then recover and run away. The runner which is just wing-tipped and can fly a long way, sinking slightly until he touches the ground, will not fly again, but generally proves to be a very strong pedestrian indeed.

Several different kinds of hits cause birds to drop their legs instantly, and I fancy that when this happens they are always found where they fall, near or far. The most common of these is the lung-shot bird, then there is the back-broken bird, which does the same, and may also be known by the wobble of his flight—an up-and-down movement, like a boat in a heavy sea. Then there is the leg-broken bird which is likely enough to fly again, but not to run, that day at least. A broken-legged bird generally only has one leg down, whereas a dead bird generally drops both, no matter how far he is to fly before he dies. I think a bird very seldom bleeds to death from a shot wound in the neck vein, but probably this must happen sometimes. I am inclined to think that when the only wound is in the blood-vessels of the neck the bird would fly so far, losing blood all the way; that when he was picked up the cause of death would not be recognised, and I think this is the reason why this kind of wound is so seldom seen. It does not follow that it infrequently occurs.

A shot which breaks the spinal cord is as instantaneous in effect as one which enters the brain, and brings the bird down at once, but not with what is called a broken neck, for I never saw a broken neck in grouse, partridge, or pheasant, unless the keepers had wilfully done it in order to kill a wounded bird. It is a very bad plan to kill any game this way, and especially grouse, for without the bone of the neck to suspend them on the stick the weight often causes the body to drop and be lost in the heather. The skin alone is not strong enough to carry, at any rate, the young birds, especially when boys drag their feet and bodies through the tall heather.

It has been said that the reason partridges “tower” is that they are obliged to lift their heads upwards in order to get their breath, and that their bodies follow where their heads point. This can hardly be the reason, because we have two kinds of “towerers” to deal with, and besides, many a blackcock on taking wing and going away horizontally, nevertheless holds up his head and looks at his disturber over his back, but he does not go upwards in consequence. I do not believe that the upward flight is caused either by any rudder-like action of the tail, although that is, perhaps, possible.

Probably the wings are so set by Nature that their beats not only counteract gravity, but something more than this, and it possibly requires the will of the bird in steering to make him keep a horizontal course. The concave undersurface offers more resistance to the air than the upper convex surface. Hitherto I have considered that this arrangement was meant to negative gravity when the bird was urging its forward course, but when one remembers that young birds with half the power of flight of the old ones nevertheless can rise quite easily, and seem to maintain a horizontal course quite comfortably—that is, their inferior wings in ordinary up-and-down beats are equal to the resistance of gravity—consequently, it appears almost certain that the ordinary beats of better wings are much more than equal to the resisting of gravity. Or, in other words, if partridges in a state of health did not wilfully hug the ground they would rise up like “towered” birds.

I wonder whether this is the reason that day birds (which appear to migrate in their sleep, and certainly cannot travel by night at any other time than when the instinct is upon them) migrate at great altitudes. That is to say, whether they go up because they cannot help it. If so, there would be a certain altitude for each kind of bird where the wing beats influence, on the more rarified air, in sending the bird up, and the lessened power of gravity, would become equal, and at that altitude the bird would travel forward without the will being called into request to keep a horizontal course. Balloonists tell us that at great heights birds thrown out fall like stones, so that there must be an altitude where ordinary wing action ceases to overcome gravity. In any case the partridge goes upward, whether either head or lungs deprive him of part of his senses, probably of all the sense of direction except that one of keel downwards, that no bird ever seems to lose as long as he is alive.

Another reason for believing that the natural up-and-down wing beats would take any healthy bird upwards as well as forwards is to be found in the necessity of the moult. If the full wing beats only kept the horizontal course then it would probably happen that the loss of a single flight feather would have the effect that gravity would gradually overcome the horizontal tendency and pull the bird downwards; but that does not appear to be true, and this is additional reason for believing that the up-and-down wing beats with a horizontal keel much more than overcome gravity, and that consequently when a bird cannot direct its own course it goes upwards, because it is built to do so, and to overcome the downward drag of gravity by the mere up-and-down wing action and a level “keel.”

There are few more picturesque hunting scenes than the country around the Cotswold Hills in the fair county of Worcestershire, which is hunted by Mr. Charles McNeill and his famous pack of Belvoir-bred bitches. This Eden of foxhunting is a much sought after possession, wild and rugged with variety of scene on hill and dale, pasture and woodland. It has often been said that farmers are the backbone of foxhunting, and these Worcestershire sportsmen, bred and born to it, are a community whose fame for staunchness to sport is known far and wide. The majority of them, or their sons, ride to hounds, and wire is practically unknown in their country, whilst foxes are preserved as they ought to be, the best of good feeling prevailing between sport and agriculture. All the same, we did not expect to find a farmer in the capacity of runner to the hunt.

Many countries are going begging for a master, but not so the North Cotswold, which has been so successfully presided over by Mr. Charles McNeill for the past five seasons, the announcement of whose retirement was received with universal regret. When it became known there was a vacancy for next season, twenty-two applicants for the mastership came before the Hunt Committee; showing how hunting men appreciated a community of farmers who plump solid for sport. Sir John Hume Campbell is to be congratulated that he has been chosen to succeed Mr. McNeill.

Butler, the runner to the Hunt, wearing the cap and scarlet coat of office, is a typical Worcestershire dairy farmer. Born in the Heythrop country close by, he has followed the hounds on foot for the past twenty years, which occupies the reign of three masterships—Mr. Algernon Rushout, Captain Cyril Stacey and Mr. Charles McNeill. Before that time he had five years in the saddle making young horses, “hunting oftener than his master did,” as he put it, and a coachman’s place for six months in the heart of Birmingham was the last straw that compelled him to give up domestic service, and take to the wild, free life of a runner, with farming as a mainstay. On a hunting morning Butler is up before daybreak to get his cows milked, pigs and poultry attended to, so that the institution of a bicycle to ride the long distances to and from covert has been a great saving of time and exertion.

Our first sight of the North Cotswold Hunt in the field was at a picturesque fixture, Cheevering Green, in the hill district, and there we made Butler’s acquaintance when he stood holding open the gate as horsemen drew up from far and near. A middle-aged man, with a dash of grey in his side whiskers, and keen, penetrating brown eyes, foxhunting is written in every line of a face evidently intended by Nature for a hunting cap. Sporting the primrose collar of the Hunt, and the coronet on his button dating back to Lord Coventry’s mastership, Butler, with his sturdy black and white terrier, makes a pleasing adjunct to a Hunt which is appointed in Leicestershire style. There is no gainsaying the fact that the countryside appreciates a Hunt that is well found in all departments, and a scarlet coat is still a passport which will admit its wearer where others would be less welcome. It was the late Duke of Beaufort who used to say that every man who goes hunting ought to pay the chase the compliment by putting on his best clothes, even if it be his Sunday suit. Though the North Cotswold is a Hunt far distant from Leicestershire, yet Mr. McNeill has aimed at perfection in every department, and by doing so won everybody’s gratitude; for, after all, the pomp and pageantry of the chase tends to its popularity in a marked degree, which more sterling qualities can hardly boast. When the Master-huntsman rode up in the middle of his pack of seventeen and a half couple of bitches there was a cheery word all round, and expectancy which preludes a good day’s sport. As usual, the Hunt runner had a quiet word for the ear of the Master, news of an outlying fox which a neighbouring farmer had viewed every morning for the last week. These North Cotswold bitches, for Mr. McNeill has no doghounds in his pack, have done well this season, killing seventy-two foxes up to the middle of January, in a country that is fourteen miles long and eight miles wide in the middle, being a good deal less top and bottom. All Belvoir in colour and type, they are triumphs of breeding, proving their worth by winning prizes on the flags at Peterborough, and golden opinions in the field, where they are remarkable for tongue and drive, a pack that mean catching their fox at the end of a gallop. Mr. McNeill is a Leicestershire man, who acquired the greater part of his skill as a huntsman studying the methods of Tom Firr, and he is as quick as lightning, inspiring hounds and followers with confidence.

For the first draw we commenced hill-climbing to the larch plantations up above, an experience that made one appreciate the sagacity of a well-trained hunter.

These hill districts must require a considerable amount of stopping before a day’s hunting, but it is not a duty now performed by the runner. Butler’s mission is to bolt the foxes when they get to ground, and for this he receives half-a-crown on every successful occasion. Years ago he carried a big, white buck-ferret, and worked him on a line when foxes sought the shelter of stone drains. Unfortunately, the ferret came to an untimely end; making a hole in the bag in which he was being conveyed home one wet night, he escaped and, perishing of cold, was found dead next morning.

From the hill-top we were rewarded with a beautiful view of a far-stretching panorama of country in the vale beneath, and quickly the sonorous music of the big-framed bitches lent enchantment to the scene. A second or two later the whipper-in’s silver whistle was ringing out the glad “Gone away,” and Butler, with a smile of satisfaction on his face, was holding up his cap; there were no confusing halloas. Though the North Cotswold country is anything but a good scenting one, except when there is a bite of east in the wind, the bitches rattled their fox out of covert, and keeping his head up wind as they slipped down into the vale, spread-eagled their field in a hunt of thirty minutes to the Croome country on the opposite hillside. It was a ride full of new experiences, giving us, alas, but a distant view of the Master and hounds as they skimmed over the stone walls that divide the seventy-acre pastures. A rain-cloud blotted us out at the finish, enveloping the hillside in a dense wall of fog, robbing the pack at a critical moment of well-earned blood.

WITH THE NORTH COTSWOLD.

Stone-wall jumping is a characteristic of the North Cotswold country, and it is surprising how well hounds’ legs and feet stand the trial, proving the worth of good bone and breeding, which, like first-class machinery, can go at the highest pressure and last. In the vale there is a beautiful line of grass with upstanding fences, equal to anything to be found in Leicestershire, so that a hunt is seen under all sorts of conditions, and a pack that can do well here is fit for any country.

Talking of runs brings up a wealth of reminiscences, for it is a district in which the keenest interest is taken in the doings of hounds by the non-hunting fraternity, who are sportsmen to the very core. To set the runner and his friends talking hunting is like putting a match to gunpowder, and two brilliant bursts we noted down would make the fortune of a season’s sport. Finding a fox near Hyatt’s Spinney, the bitches, with tuneful chorus, drove him along into the open country of large acred fields surrounded by stone walls. There was a burning scent, and so good was the pace that hounds could keep their fox travelling up wind, whilst Mr. McNeill was viewing nearly the whole of the journey in a hunt of twenty minutes.

It was a regular Belvoir burst, and the pilot had to go straight in the race for his life, losing no time over the walls, he ran up the middle of each field in a desperate effort to gain on his pursuers. Such a high state of tension could not last for long, and the huntsman at last saw the fox miss his footing at a stone wall and fall back from distress. Though the mistake only made a matter of a few seconds, it cost a gallant fox his life, for before he could clear in a second attempt, a bitch called Housemaid dashed up, and seizing hold of his brush, pulled him back, but herself went over the wall, where she lay, knocked out. An electrifying cheer from the master put a finish to the fastest burst of this season, under the wall near Springhill.

Another good gallop this season, both from a thruster’s point of view as well as the huntsman’s, was from Gallipot Gorse in the Vale. An old customer, who had on several occasions led the pack a dance, always to save his brush by getting to ground, was not so fortunate on this day.

Getting away close at him, they drove along to Toddington without touching a cover, and running by Worrington Village they crossed the new railway below Laverton. It was evident to those with hounds that the pilot meant the earths on the hillside in Burrill Wood, but two fields from that point the pack suddenly viewed their fox. Up went their hackles, and giving utterance to that cry of delight which proclaims the death-knell, their language seemed to convey its meaning to the hunted one. A curious incident occurred at the finish, which was witnessed by several members of the Hunt. In the last field, a grass one, when this gallant fox knew the end had come, he turned round and met the pack with his hackles up, and made the best fight he could, a game old warrior, indeed. With gleaming ivories shining defiantly, he died facing the foe, his teeth meeting in a death-grip directly the leading hound seized him. So good a fox was honoured with full funeral rites, all wanting a bit of him, and the Master would not have been half sorry if he had just managed to beat them at the finish.

When it comes to dislodging a fox, Butler is not the first man with the spade, for the staff has one better in Padison, the first whip, who is determined, in the saddle or out of it. Where there is any chance of handling a fox he goes to work with the fire and dash of a fox terrier, stripping to his shirt in the effort to get under ground. The kennel huntsman is old Dan Reid, who looks quite classic in appearance, riding a long-tailed black thoroughbred; and being of Irish extraction, he has the dry humour of that race. On one occasion when they were out a badger, some one remarked that Mr. Brock was scratching in faster than they were digging him out. Dan replied: “No, but he’s not, for I’ve put a tarrier dog in to keep him amused.”

One story more about the runner and we have done, for there is always chaff flying about with the wheat, and this belongs to the lighter quality. After a mark to ground in a drain, the runner was left with instructions to get the fox out, whilst hounds went on to draw elsewhere. Unfortunately, it occurred to him to give the neighbouring villagers a little entertainment on his own, and soon tremendous holloaing was heard in the distance. To the master’s horror he saw a crowd of village women round a red-coated figure who was wheeling a barrow, in which was a cider barrel containing the unfortunate fox in a bag. All the party were halloaing, delighted at the prospect of making a Roman holiday of the arch enemy. It was a moment when the Master showed his royal displeasure, and the fox was at once enlarged, such a mistake never happening again.

Yes, taken all round, he was, without doubt, the best horse I ever owned. Good at every kind of fence; bold, yet clever as a cat; never sick or sorry after the hardest day; and nothing too big for him. Oh, yes, I had a few falls off him. For myself, I have always thought the horses that never fall rather mythical animals. It has always seemed to me that the hunter of whom the fond owner proudly says: “He doesn’t know how to fall,” can scarcely know how to jump. For a horse that can cross a difficult country without sometimes making a mistake must really be somewhat uninteresting, like the good people who always do and say the absolutely correct thing.

That is his picture just above the mantel-piece. Made all over like a hunter; blood, bone—and look at his girth. Ewe-necked? Just a trifle; but he put on a lot of muscle there after the picture was done, and I have noticed that a horse with that formation, or fault, is often a real stayer.

Perhaps so; those good bits of the past always look a good deal brighter than when they made our present; but still, I will insist that the old horse—he will always be “the old horse” to me—was the very best I ever rode. He had a little temper; but, then, the best horses and men have that—and women? rather!—and when they are, all through, the right sort, and generous, it improves them. And the old horse was generous! Why, if he had been a man, I always thought he would have made an ideal one. It is just ten years ago to-night since I lost him. Bless me! how time does go. I had returned, well pleased, after a good day’s hunting. We had had one of those real old-fashioned sporting runs in which hounds hunt steadily on, though nothing very brilliant in the way of pace occurs. I had dined, my coffee had been slowly sipped, my cigar had been under way some fifteen minutes, and was being enjoyed with that feeling of extraordinary contentment which a long day in the open air gives to the sportsman. I had tried several favourite books, and found all impossible, as usual after a hard day’s hunting; Baily’s had just dropped from my hand, and I had given way to a reverie on the performances of my friends and myself during the day. The wind had been rising gradually, and now blew in strong and fitful gusts, and again, with faint moaning “sough” through the trees. I must have been dozing; but a tap at the door suddenly roused me, and Stablem entered the room and said: “Please sir, the old ’oss ain’t nearly so well to-night.” I was alert then. The old horse! He had not been well for some time; indeed, latterly, he had been failing fast. I had bought him as a four-year-old, and had ridden him for twelve seasons, but only two or three days at the beginning of this. He had suddenly seemed to lose all his form, and got listless, and then he became, all at once—old. He had since been given only gentle exercise, and passed his time in his box; and the “vet.” said he could not do very much for him. So, very sadly, I rose and followed my man to the stables. The old horse was lying curled up in a corner, more in the way one sees a dog lie. He was moaning, in a low, crooning key, which to me seemed terribly human. When I spoke to him he raised his head and tried to prick his ears. I stroked his muzzle and looked into his eye, once so prominent and bright, now so sunk and dull. Yet I felt he was glad to see me. Ah, he and I had ever been on the best of terms. Other friends had sometimes been far from true. We had found them—those whom we had trusted—mean, and not running straight; but the old horse, he had ever been the same—brave, generous, and cheery. He stretched himself out, and lay stiff and flat. Poor fellow! He looked so small and “gone”; his once rich coat, a mahogany chestnut, was dry and colourless. He was the mere shadow of his former self—the slashing, sixteen-hand hunter had shrunk to this.

A hundred memories rushed through my brain of the halcyon days he and I had spent together. The best runs I had ever ridden had been on his back. The longest day had never been too long for him. Of course, you know he was thoroughbred, and up to fourteen stone, and I ride only a little over twelve, and how game he was! He only refused once, and we found there was a great quarry hole behind that fence! He was always so flippant and free, and now—and the thought struck me like a knife—he would never hunt again.

In perfect health the thought seldom occurs to us that we may never do this or that thing again; never again see some loved face, nor hear our friends’ cheery chaff, nor again gaze on some familiar scene. If we could know, how miserable we should be long before our misery comes. So it was with the old horse and me, I had ridden him so long that I somehow seemed to think I should go on riding him. Nothing much had ever happened him; a few slight cuts, but nothing serious, in all the years we had been together. A fine feeder, he had gone on like clockwork; but, at last, the wheels had run down; and I realised, with a grief that some may consider out of place when only a horse is the object, that our friendship was being severed. It seemed so strange that we should part; we who had only parted in our falls; we who had galloped through so many brilliant bursts and struggled on to the end of so many long runs. It was hard indeed; but the very strangeness of it seemed greater than my grief. I had never known how fond I was of the old horse.

To watch a dumb animal die is, in one sense at least, more pathetic than in the case of a human being. In a way it seemed harder, more cruel, than if a man lay dying, for then there would be some consciousness of the coming change or end of things; and, if not, humanity has all along been educated for this inevitable termination. This is the looked-for goal, which lies—always far off, of course, but still ever there—at the further side of life; a something to be seldom thought or spoken of. But the old horse did not know these things. He did not know that life was slipping from him. The future, at any rate, had no terrors for him, and the past brought no remorse. He was even hardly unhappy in the present; and of pain he had little or none. With him it was almost an euthanasia. If he thought at all, it was probably of finer and happier hunting grounds than any he had ever seen; fields that he would cross without tiring, and where “the going” was all grass and no plough. Perhaps he dreamt of this as he feebly neighed. I hoped he did. I hoped that, in some vague, mysterious fashion, the old horse felt that he was going to be at rest. For surely one who had been so dear to me could never be allowed to die—to go out—unaware like that he was going to something better? And, as I watched him, I thought that he was one of the few hunters who never seemed to have “bad days.” Poor fellow! What pleasure I owed him! For what pleasure in life is there to be compared to that which we owe to our hunters? And this union, wherein lay so many exquisite memories, was to be dissolved. I would still have the memories, but the old horse was going. He even now seemed suddenly to get further away from me. A stupor had fallen on him, and, once or twice, I fancied that he thought he was galloping hard in the same field as the flying pack. I hoped he did, for it seemed good and right that he should be there in spirit, as he passed away from me. A few minutes more and I was alone, for the old horse had gone.

The Committee of the Croquet Association metaphorically, at any rate, do not let the grass grow under their feet, and the new edition of the “Laws of Croquet,” recently issued by the governing body of the game, will be studied with interest by the ever-increasing army of croquet players.

It was certainly a good move on the part of the members of the Croquet Association in January, 1905, when the Associates vested the authority to alter and add to the laws of the game in the hands of the Committee of the Association, instead of leaving reform, as before, to the hurry and disorder of a general meeting of the Association.

On January 26th and February 8th last, the Committee for the first time exercised their legislative authority, and in accordance with Rule xxi. several alterations in and additions to the laws of croquet were passed by a two-thirds majority of those present and voting, the necessary quorum of sixteen being present.

Perhaps one of the most important matters is the alteration to Law 8, which now reads: “In commencing, each ball shall in turn be placed on the central line of the ground within three feet of the spot marked A in the diagram of the setting.”

The central line of the ground is, of course, an imaginary straight line passing through both pegs and extending to the boundary, and the spot marked A is on the boundary immediately behind the winning peg.

Now this appears to be a great improvement, for the old method of starting the game with the balls a foot in front of the first hoop was not satisfactory. It required a great effort of clumsiness for a player not to run his first hoop to start with, although many a good player has been “had” once at least over the tricky opening credited to the fertile mind of Mr. Eveleigh, which consisted in playing one’s ball back into the first hoop, so that the following player was compelled to take croquet before running the hoop.

A great merit of the new starting point is that it will do away with the wear and tear of the ground in front of the first hoop, and the holes and “rabbit-scrapes” which have disfigured the ground in front of the first hoop should be things of the past. Moreover, the hoop itself used to suffer damage from the attacks made upon it at the point-blank range of a foot (and frequently less) not only by the ball, but too often by the mallet of an impetuous player.

It will be very interesting to see what openings will be adopted by the experts under the altered conditions, and at all events the start of the game is likely to be more interesting than before, and for the makers of breaks there is the likelihood of occasionally including another point. But obviously in the case of very moderate players, the game might be considerably prolonged by this method of beginning the game.

According to the laws for 1906, however, there is no need for moderate players to play the full and most arduous setting, for Law 6 authorises two shorter settings, which may be used at discretion; and these should be most welcome to mediocre players, and in fact to all who would like to shorten the game. With the standard setting, the game of course consists of fourteen points for each ball.

DIAGRAM No. 3.

DIAGRAM No. 4.

(From the “Laws of Croquet.”)

A modification which has now been made optional is to play with this same setting, but after the fourth hoop has been made, instead of going down “the ladies’ mile,” through the two hoops in the middle, the new plan is to take the turning peg next, and then take the penultimate and rover hoops up to the winning peg as usual. Now here is a pretty little game of just eight points per ball, every hoop once and each peg once. The rough diagram, No. 3, will explain itself.

But the most interesting short setting is, to our mind, the one with no turning peg, and the winning peg in the middle of the ground.

As will be seen from diagram No. 4, on the opposite page, this setting entails the shifting of the penultimate and rover hoops farther apart from one another, each of them being about three and a half yards distant from the spots which under the standard setting would be occupied by the two pegs. The game here is as usual until after the fourth hoop has been run, and then the player has to come up through the penultimate and rover hoops, and afterwards back to the winning peg in the middle of the ground. Here there are only seven points to be made by each ball, and the presence of the winning peg in the middle of the ground seems to us an excellent idea, because not only will it require some skill on the part of the players to avoid embarrassment from this in the course of a break, since the peg will be exactly where the middle ball should be found in the academic four-ball break, but also the finish of the game has to take place in the middle of the ground. Now this is likely to make a great difference to the game.

To the ordinary player the end of the game is about the most difficult part of it. Obviously no one has had so much practice in finishing a game of croquet as he has in beginning it, for although two people begin a game, only one finishes it, and it is by no means easy to win the game even when you have got both balls at the rover stage or hoop, with the winning peg at the end of the ground. With the winning peg in the middle of the ground, it will be more important than ever that a player should win the game as soon as ever he can, without any delay in the centre of the ground in the middle of his adversary’s game.

The Croquet Association Gazette draws attention to three great advantages offered by these short settings:—

(1) They will enable managers of tournaments to arrange for the “best of three” games to be played in cases where, with a longer setting, there would be time for single games only. The final could be either the best of five (short setting) or best of three (long setting.)

(2) The monotony of long breaks will be abolished.

(3) The shorter the game the larger the proportion of start to finish—the two most interesting periods of the game.

One of the worst features of the game of croquet as practised at tournaments of late years has been the practice of close wiring, by leaving the next player stuck in the middle of a hoop or up against the wire. A usual finish up to a break was to leave the next player tight in the blue hoop after the player had himself run it, and many a first-rate player has been beaten by 26 points without ever getting an open shot throughout the game. Last season some of the leading players, notably Mr. Arthur Gilbey, at Swakeleys, adopted a system which should defeat the methods of the close wirer, and this system has now been incorporated in the laws of the game. The new law reads as follows:—

“If at the commencement of a turn the striker’s ball is “wired” from all the other balls, either through the interposition or interference of any hoop or peg, such ball being distant less than one yard from that hoop or peg and having been placed there by the stroke of an adversary, the striker may at his option lift his ball and play it from any spot within a yard of where it lies. A ball is “wired” when (1) any part of it cannot be driven in a straight line towards every part of the ball aimed at; or (2) a wire or peg so interferes with the backward swing of the mallet that the striker cannot freely aim at every part of the ball.”

The Croquet Association Gazette points out four drawbacks to this law, viz., two measurements, lifting the ball, and the problem of deciding whether a ball be wired or not.

Also the definition of wiring demands careful attention. The whole target presented by the ball must be open; if the left-hand edge of the striker’s ball cannot be driven in a straight line so as to hit the right-hand edge of the object ball then the balls are wired. So this law gives the open shot to everyone who is not wired by his own mallet or that of his partner, should his ball be placed within three feet of a hoop or peg by an adversary. There still remains the chance of safely “masking” the balls from the shot of an opponent who is left in the open, and the leading players were quite equal to doing this last season. But “masking” the balls requires considerable ability, whilst any fool could jam an adversary’s ball in a hoop.

The law with regard to “taking off” without moving both balls has now been remodelled, and now that part of Law 17 reads: “In so doing (i.e., taking off) he must move or shake each ball perceptibly, should he fail to do so the balls are to remain where they lie or be replaced at the option of the striker, and the turn ceases. The striker, if challenged, must be prepared to assert definitely that he saw both balls move or shake, and in default of such assertion the balls shall not be considered to have been perceptibly moved or shaken. If the two balls do not touch before and in the act of taking croquet the adversary may require the stroke to be played again. In taking croquet the striker’s ball shall not be in contact with more than one ball.”

The result of this law is that this offence is no longer regarded as a foul stroke, but is treated much the same as the offence of driving one of the balls over the boundary in a croquet stroke; except that in the case of not moving the balls the offender can elect whether he will replace the balls as they were before the stroke was made, or whether he will leave them where they are at the end of the stroke.

It is quite right to make the penalty for non-moving or shaking less severe than formerly, for since it must generally be a matter of rather close observation to determine whether a ball has moved or no, and since the striker is obviously in the best position to observe this, it was difficult enough for some strikers to confess that they had not moved the ball, and it is to be hoped that the lightening of the punishment may lead to more pleas of guilty.

Of a verity there seems to be no end to the laws of croquet, and it requires quite a gifted head to carry them all, with their various alterations and additions; and the edition of the “Laws of Croquet” for 1906 is likely to revive the industry of the painstaking man who learns up the laws by heart as well as he can, and always carries a copy of the book in his pocket with a view to winning an occasional bet over some well-engineered discussion about the laws of croquet.

An interesting feature of the plans of the Croquet Association for next season is that the Committee have decided to use composition balls in all Association tournaments instead of wood, which up to this year has been the standard ball for tournaments.

Certainly the composition balls are in every way more satisfactory than wood: they are absolutely accurate as to shape, weight and size, the colour does not come off, and they are impervious to wet, whilst they are more durable and cleaner in all weathers than the wooden balls. Composition balls are, moreover, easier for running hoops than are those made of wood, they have greater resiliency and more drive about them; on the other hand, their resiliency is so great that it is very difficult to “roll up” two balls together across the ground. But since this rolling-up is nine times out of ten a foul stroke, to the extent that the mallet has more than one contact with the ball during the stroke, the more the roll-up is discouraged the better for the game. It is a counsel of perfection, but we know some players who go so far as to say that under favourable conditions the composition balls make the game of croquet too easy.

Some years ago an acquaintance of mine solemnly assured me that he had once, when fly-fishing for trout, hooked a rabbit on the bank behind him, and with his forward stroke brought it over his head and dumped it down among the trout he was seeking to capture. Possibly he was using a “hare’s lug,” and let his imagination do the rest. Of course, I was too polite to question the performance. It is surprising what a good fly-rod will stand in this way. Fishing in wooded streams you now and then get very fast in a branch behind, and you do not find it out till the full force of your cast comes into action, and then the tree seems to be almost coming up by the roots, while rod and tackle do not give way, and are not a bit the worse. This reminds me that one day a few years ago I lent my rod for the afternoon to a man, a more or less distant cousin, who had come without one. He was a fisherman of long experience, so I had no misgivings about it. When I came in towards evening I found that he had been unfortunate enough to catch up in a tree and break the top just at the ferrule, and had had it mended by the village joiner. Accidents will happen in the best regulated families, but I did wish he had let the joiner alone. He then proceeded to add insult to injury by telling me that it was my fault for having such a “rotten” rod, and a good deal more in the same strain. I have had worse rods and I have had better ones in my possession, but I had caught a great many trout with it at one time or another, and it was the only one I had with me. No doubt it is a good thing we are not all turned out of the same mould, but had the positions been reversed I am certain that I should have absolutely grovelled abjectly in my desire to avert his wrath and obtain his forgiveness.

But to go back to the rabbit. The nearest approach I ever made to this feat was when on a certain occasion I was fishing just above the town bridge at Marlborough, and my pal was standing on the bridge looking on. I suddenly heard a yell from him, and—well I did not throw him over my head impaled on the hook of a “red quill,” but only a piece of his nose! It was at this very same place, possibly the same day, that I was drawing in a fish of quite a respectable size, when a small boy in the gallery sung out “Whoi don’t cher chuck down the rod and ketch ’old o’ the string?” I daresay the method might have been quite as successful. I know it is not, or was not then, a very attractive spot to be fishing. It is an unsavoury place, but I was there all the same, and some one ate the trout: I did not. Then here is another incident bearing on the subject. When I was at Winchester, alas! many years ago, I was down “Water meads,” and saw a cow tearing along at full tilt, pursued at a distance of about thirty yards by a youth with outstretched arm, and a rod presented horizontally in the direction of the animal, also going for all he was worth, and he looked as if he soon would be worth very little. He had hooked “the coo,” which not unnaturally took to its heels, and he was no doubt anxious to save some of his cast, or haply his fly, or even land the coo. I do not remember how it ended, but possibly in after years he may have related to his sons, who I hope are also Wykehamists, how he once threw a coo over his head with a “Hammond’s guinea rod” into the Itchen!

Many of your readers have probably occasionally hooked a swallow or martin; on the two or three occasions on which this has happened to me the bird has not been hooked in the mouth, but round the neck, the fly forming a running noose on the gut. But I do not think many will have bagged a duck with a fly. It was a large bushy fly, and the wind caught it as I cast, and instead of its falling under the opposite bank, about two yards of gut stood straight up out of the water, and then fell over up stream just in time to meet an old Aylesbury duck with a brood of ducklings paddling down stream. It fell by the side of her, and though 1 tried to pick it up before she got it, she was too quick for me and snapped it up. There was “such a row as never was.” She quacked and splashed, and beat with her wings, and dived and did all she knew. This time I did “chuck down the rod and ketch ’old o’ the string” for fear of breaking my top joint. I hand-played her and landed her, and she was no worse for her adventure, being only just held by the skin of the mouth.

I lately saw a note in the Field about a trout which had been hooked twice in the same day, having got the fly the first time, both flies being found in its mouth. I once came across a good trout rising in a still mill-tail; the wheel was at rest and all the water going round the other way; I rose him and left my fly in his mouth. As I observed that he did not seem to have taken much interest in the proceeding I put another fly on as quickly as I could, cast over him, hooked and landed him, and took both flies out of his mouth. His size, so far as I can remember, would have been somewhere about 1½ lb. Evidently he could have suffered no pain, and there can be little doubt that when the hook gets hold of just the skin of the mouth, which happens the most frequently in fly-fishing, though sometimes painful places are pierced, the fish feels only the resistance and the pull which tells him he has to fight for his life. One would think that a trout of about ¾ lb. could hardly swallow a pebble 2 inches across without, if not pain, at least some inconvenience. Yet it took my fly and appeared fairly healthy. One wonders why or how it came to get such a thing inside it. Last spring I twice caught in a north country river, in the same pool but not on the same day, a trout weighing 6 oz. or 7 oz., with a big stone loach jammed tight down its throat, and the tail sticking out of its mouth. It was quite a question whether the loach could be pulled out without breaking. Yet both of these trout took the fly with a dash, and made a gallant fight in the rather swollen stream, considering their inches. Those who know the Broad Water at Wansford in the East Riding are aware that the field on the west side slopes abruptly down considerably below the level of the water. I was once casting over a rising fish some distance out, and in drawing in for a fresh cast my line had to travel back over the edge of the bank itself, so that the fly might very easily get hung up tight on a snag or plant: this was what I supposed had happened, so I began pulling to see if it would come away without my having to go and release it and so scare the fish, when to my astonishment the line flew off in the direction of the opposite bank. I had actually hooked in the belly a fish lying under the bank, which was played and duly brought into the net.

I one day hooked a fish in Foston Beck, which dived straight into a bed of weeds from which no persuasion could move it. I tried hand-lining, but could do nothing; then an idea occurred to me: I spiked the rod in the ground, reeling up the line till it was just taut without any strain on, and strolled a couple of hundred yards down the bank to where my friend was fishing. I told him what had happened and stayed with him a bit, and then by-and-by returned to my place. Nothing was changed; the line stretched straight from the top ring to the weed as if purposely fastened there. I picked the rod up very carefully, and putting on a sudden strain hauled down stream, when out came the trout before he knew what was up, to be towed over the weeds into the net, and finally the basket.

Foston Beck reminds me of an incident which I would have gone a long way to see, but which I had the good fortune to witness while I was sitting on the bank under a thorn-bush eating sandwiches. I suppose I must have been very quiet, for a kingfisher came and pitched on a twig of the thorn, and remaining there a short time presently quitted it, hovered a moment over the water, pounced down, and came up with a little fish in his bill, just steadied himself on the twig, and then flew off. It was a pretty sight, and one that it is not often given to an angler to see, although he sees many pleasing things which no one else does. And now I must bring my rambling paper to an end; but just one more story first.

Every one knows what a bore it is to have to seem amused at sallies of wit which do not appeal to one, but a bit of unconscious humour from one who would be astonished to be thought funny makes one sometimes want to shout with laughter. On a certain day I was counting the spoil preparatory to going home. I do not think the bag was anything very striking, but there was a long, black, unwholesome fish among the others, which I suggested to the keeper had better be thrown away. “Oh,” said he, “there’s a gentleman there who has come a long way and has not got anything; I think he would be rather glad to have it to take home.” So he took it off and entered into negotiations with the said angler who was taking down his rod close by. I did not hear what went on, but just caught one sentence, viz., “H’m, the gentleman must be an ‘eepi-kewer,’” and he put it in the bag.

P.S.—Since writing the foregoing notes there has recurred to my mind another amusing fish story. A friend of mine, he, forsooth, whose nasal organ I hooked on Marlborough Town Bridge, having had a day given him on a very fine stretch of preserved water, killed with dry fly a nice basket of trout from about 1¼ lb. up to 2 lb., which I saw and much admired. The best of these fish he sent to his old father by the hands of a man who had just come home from India, and who, to distinguish him from his brother, was spoken of as Mr. —— from India. They were duly delivered, but with the message that a gentleman had brought some fish from India! Whereupon my friend’s father, who would have greatly appreciated such trout, promptly ordered them to be thrown away. And thrown away they were, to the sore vexation of the successful and dutiful fisherman when he heard thereof.

(FROM THE SPORTING MAGAZINE OF 1806.)
BOXING.
D. Mendoza and H. Lee.

Friday, March 21st, 1806, being appointed for the above pugilists to exhibit themselves in a pitched battle for 50 guineas, the same took place at Grinstead Green, three miles and a half through the town of Bromley in Kent. The combatants met in a 25-feet roped ring, formed on the Green soon after one o’clock, attended by their seconds, Bill Ward and Bill Gibbons for Mendoza, and the Game Chicken and Gulley for Lee.... Current betting in the ring was 3 to 1 on Mendoza....

The battle was continued until the fifty-second round, very much to the disadvantage of Lee, who, however, showed himself game by the very severe beating he had received. In the fifty-third round, which ended the fight, he fell without a blow, and Mendoza’s seconds did not choose to give away a chance as they had done several times in the course of the battle; and the matter being referred to two gentlemen who acted as umpires, they declared Mendoza the winner, after a sharp contest of one hour and ten minutes.

Observations.—In this contest, which it was supposed would be the most hollow thing ever attempted, the spectators were very agreeably surprised. Lee, although he did not act the part of a game man in the strict sense of the word in falling without a blow, yet he was not deficient in skill and resolution so as to disenable him to rouse the admiration of the amateurs. He never had a chance of winning, although he made a very good fight; for the odds, to nearly the end of the contest, were treble against him to what they were at the commencement, and at the end, when Mendoza became weak, they were never less than four to one. He got himself miserably beaten in the former part of the fight by making play, but his seconds did not suffer him so to act at the latter part. He had the advantage in stature and length of arm, and he fought with his left hand extended, constantly sawing. Mendoza had a decided advantage over his opponent in the knowledge of bruising, which the beating Lee received will most fully demonstrate. Dan stopped most admirably, and he seldom hit with his right hand without the desired effect. With his left he sometimes led himself into an error, for he generally hit over his man and left his right side exposed. He showed himself a pleasing fighter, as he always has done, and his fatigue at the end of the fight was no more than momentary, for he was quite fresh after the contest was over, and his only suffering was a blow he had on the left eye and another on the nose, which was broken in a fight many years since.

Another account says the contest between Mendoza and Harry Lee was much more serious to the former than has been generally described. About the thirtieth round the odds changed from five to even betting; and though Lee declared himself compelled at last to give in, on which his seconds advised him to drop without receiving a blow, which decided the battle, Mendoza was so severely beaten that he was immediately put to bed with both eyes closed and his face mangled in a shocking manner.

BORZOI SANDRINGHAM MOSCOW.
Winner of First Prize. Property of Her Majesty Queen Alexandra.

Photo by Dexter & Son.]

It is almost incredible the number of spectators that were present.... The following were the leading amateurs: Lord Albemarle, Lord Sefton, Count Beaujolaise, Sir Watkin W. Wynn, Sir John Shelley, Sir Edm Nagle, Captain Halliday, Mr. Thornhill, General Keppel, Mr. Buxton, Mr. Fletcher Reid.

Of the several breeds of foreign dogs that have been introduced into England, the Borzoi has obtained a considerable amount of popularity. It is, however, not more than fifteen years ago that the breed was first seen in any numbers, and was accorded a separate classification in the Stud Book. He is the most aristocratic in appearance of all the canine race, but, although so gracefully and slenderly built, has a most powerful jaw, and is very muscular, as he needs to be, when he is required on occasions to tackle a wolf single-handed.

The Borzoi is the favourite of Royalty. He is to be found in the Imperial kennels of Russia, and also in those of the Grand Dukes and others of high degree, and among the first seen in this country were a brace that were presented, upwards of thirty years ago, to the Prince of Wales (now King Edward VII.), which hounds were occasionally exhibited on the show bench, and were bred from; but as there is no record of their names appearing in the pedigrees of the present generation of Borzois, they and their produce seem to have been lost sight of. Still, now and again in the years which intervened between that period and the time when the breed became firmly established here, a specimen or two then known as the Siberian or Russian wolfhound appeared in the classes confined to foreign dogs, but these were very indifferent representatives of the breed when compared with the beautiful animals that were afterwards imported by her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, who at the present time owns the largest and most successful kennel that has probably ever been seen out of Russia, or with Alex, who was presented in 1895 to the Princess of Wales (now Queen Alexandra). A more magnificent animal than the Borzoi Alex has scarcely ever been seen.

With the advent of Alex the breed, which has already been recognised by the Kennel Club, and for which a specialist club had been formed to look after its interests some three years before, quickly took a prominent position amongst our show dogs, and now large classes of Borzois are to be seen at all the principal shows; and Her Majesty was successful in winning a first prize in a group of thirty-two at the Crystal Palace, and also at Birmingham, with a young dog bred at the Royal kennels at Sandringham. That the Borzoi has now become thoroughly nationalised in England is proved by the fact that the whole of the animals shown on these occasions were home-bred. In addition to Her Majesty and her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, Mrs. Borman, of Billericay, has a large kennel of these dogs, and other prominent breeders of them are Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, Mrs. Kilvert, Mrs. E. A. Huth, of Wadhurst, and Miss Robinson, of Tewkesbury. Mr. H. Murphy, of Padiham, also has a few valuable specimens, and so has Mrs. Aitchison, whose kennels are at Wallsend-on-Tyne.

BORZOI PUILAI.
Winner of First and Champion Prizes. The Property of Mrs. Ebsworth.

Photo by Bowden Brothers.]

Although largely used for coursing the wolf in his native land, the Borzoi is only kept as a companion in England. He is useless for coursing the hare, as he is not so fast, nor can he turn so quickly as the greyhound. At work with the wolf, however, the Borzoi has no equal, as he holds on much more tenaciously when he has seized his prey than either greyhound or Scottish deerhound, both of which have been tried in Russia. When wolves are to be coursed, the dogs (generally two or three) are held in slips by a keeper on horseback at the corner of a covert whilst the latter is being drawn by foxhounds. On the wolf breaking covert he is given a start of two hundred yards, when the hounds are slipped, who before they have gone a mile, and sometimes considerably less, are up with their quarry, which they seize on either side by the neck. The wolf is then powerless, and the rider, after dismounting, either muzzles the animal, if it is a large one, or dispatches it with a knife, if it is small and not of any use to be kept for the purpose of practising the young dogs. During the muzzling operation the seasoned dogs keep fast hold of the wolf, but young hounds, when first entered, will sometimes seize the wolf by the back or leg, when they run the chance of being terribly mauled. They, however, soon learn the fact that the only safe place to get hold of is the neck, and that they must not let go their grip till the wolf is muzzled.

An occasional hound can take a wolf single-handed, but it is only the most practised hunters that are allowed to do so. When one dog only is sent in pursuit of the foe, on the latter being caught the two roll over together, but the dog always comes up at the top, and it is quite the exception for the latter to receive any injury. Sometimes, in places where difficulty is expected in finding, bagged wolves are brought into requisition, but the quarry that is disturbed from his native haunts generally shows the best sport. Under any circumstances the pastime is most exhilarating, travelling to the scene of action on the snow at break-neck speed, over hill and dale, and sliding down the sides of miniature mountains on the sledges, the atmosphere so cold that unless the sportsmen are well wrapped up in furs there is a considerable chance of their getting frostbitten.

There are two varieties of the Borzoi, one with flat, the other with rougher coat; but the latter is the favourite, and is certainly the more handsome. Those in the Imperial kennels being chiefly of the rough-coated variety, they are exactly the same in general contour, the only difference being in the texture of coat. A representative of the greyhound tribe, the formation of the Borzoi is characteristic of great speed, endurance, and strength. As already stated, associated with the snake-like head is a most powerful jaw; a perfect specimen has immense depth of chest, but perhaps the most noticeable feature is the power that is to be observed in his loins and quarters. He is a much bigger dog than the greyhound or deerhound. In height he will sometimes measure as much as 31 inches, and Korotai, a well-known winner in the last decade, drew the scale at 110 lbs. The largest dogs are not, however, always the best workers, as those that are an inch or two less in stature are generally more sturdily built.

Colour in the Borzoi is an important item, as it naturally would be in an animal that is made on such graceful lines. On the body white predominates, with patches of orange, fawn, or blue, sparsely distributed, and the hair is soft and silky to the touch. Black-and-tan is an objectionable colour. Others that are self-coloured are also equally objectionable, as also are black markings of any sort. Patches of brindle with white ground, on the other hand, are admissable. The winner at the show of the Imperial Gun Club at Moscow was so marked.

As regards the foot of the Borzoi, opinions appear to differ. We in England prefer the cat foot, the same as that of the greyhound and other sporting dogs, but in Russia many of the chief winners have the hare foot, which is considered in that country to be better adapted for galloping on the snow. The following are some of the other points that are characteristic of the breed: In general appearance he should show a combination of nobility and elegance, and his every movement should be graceful. The head should be very long and snake-like, the skull narrow and flat, but not receding; the muzzle tapering from the eye to the nose, and slightly arched when viewed in profile; the eyes dark hazel in colour, and almond shaped; the ears thin and small, and carried like those of the greyhound; the teeth level (an overshot mouth is a great defect). The neck is somewhat short for a dog of his size, and the chest narrow; but there should be plenty of heart room, as seen by his great depth of brisket; the forelegs straight and rather fine in bone; the back arched, with flanks cut up; the loins muscular, with broad quarters and strong hind-legs; the hocks not quite so much bent nor close to the ground as those of the greyhound; and he has the peculiarity of appearing to be rather higher behind than in front, but this is probably caused by his arched loins.

Before proceeding to describe the pleasant little trip which will furnish the principal subject of the narrative that follows, it may be as well to explain, briefly, the conditions under which I had found my way into the Transvaal and what I was doing there. During 1876 and 1877 the Transvaal Republic had been at war with Sekukuni, and by the close of the former year had become hopelessly bankrupt. The operations against Sekukuni had been the reverse of successful; the Zulus were said to be restless, and a large proportion of the Transvaal Boers declared themselves in favour of annexation by Great Britain. Sir Theophilus Shepstone—“Somsteu” as the Kaffirs named him—went up to Pretoria, as Special Commissioner, in January, 1877; and in March my regiment (the 1st Battalion 13th Light Infantry), with two guns and a small detachment of Royal Engineers, marched up country. A halt was made at Newcastle, pending the result of the negotiations at Pretoria; but eventually we reached the latter place, where the British flag was hoisted on the Queen’s birthday. The march, as a military movement, was uneventful, and the opportunities for sport as a rule scanty. We had some excellent duck shooting near Newcastle, and just beyond Standerton we saw what can no longer be seen, but what those who have seen it can never forget, the annual migration of all kinds of game from the “High Veldt” to the “Bush Veldt.” From as far westward as the eye could reach the great procession kept coming, whilst its head was beyond the horizon in the east. All kinds of antelopes, quaggas, &c., were to be measured not by hundreds or thousands, but by miles. It may here be mentioned that the animal which the Boers call a “quagga”—pronounced “quaaha”—is really Burchell’s zebra. To me it has always seemed a shame to shoot these beautiful creatures, except when scarcity of meat demands the sacrifice.

At first, after our arrival at Pretoria everything was quiet, but very soon it became necessary to send four companies to Utrecht, on the Zulu border, and in the absence of this detachment a party of some 1,500 Boer malcontents assembled, armed, at Pretoria, where they held an indignation meeting under our noses. Our strength was limited to about 350 men, lusty old soldiers indeed, yet a mere handful. Luckily, however, the local military authorities were neither clever enough to understand the danger nor foolish enough to provoke a contest. We had no entrenchments of any sort; our camp was within 300 yards of the town, and probably about ten minutes’ fighting would have sufficed for our extinction. Perhaps the Boers assumed from our attitude of calm indifference that a trap had been set? At all events no trouble ensued, and the assembly dispersed.

Round Pretoria there was very little shooting to be had, but by trekking northwards, to Warm Baths and Nylstroom, in the Waterberg district, some fair sport was met with; and there a party of four of us spent a most enjoyable month.

Meanwhile the 80th Regiment arrived in Natal, and a detachment having been sent up to Utrecht relieved our four companies, which rejoined headquarters at Pretoria, March 28th, 1877. On April 16th, three companies, of which my own was one, marched off to Middelberg and Lydenberg. Sekukuni had broken out once more, and it had been decided to send up an expedition to suppress him. Our three companies were not to go at once to the front, but to afford some protection until an expeditionary force could be assembled. Thus it was that on July 16th, T., W. and myself had the good fortune to start on a trip to the district about the Sabie River, some sixty miles distant from Lydenberg. Operations against Sekukuni were already imminent, and we were lucky in obtaining even a fortnight’s leave under the circumstances. Indeed, it was only three weeks after our return, namely, on August 22nd, that we actually entered upon the campaign.

During our stay at Lydenberg we had been lucky enough to make friends with a Mr. G., of Krugerspost, a British settler, a great sportsman, and a right good fellow. Mr. G. had been in the habit of shooting on the Sabie every season for many years, and upon this occasion very kindly permitted us to join him, he providing everything—waggons, Kaffirs, &c., whilst we merely paid our share of the expenses. Our party consisted of T. and myself, who were already at Lydenberg, and W., who arrived by post-cart from Pretoria the day before we started. In order to economise time the waggons had been sent on three days in advance, but in consequence of a breakdown they had failed to reach their destination, with the result that we caught them up about five miles east of the Spitzkop Goldfields, and about thirty-five from Lydenberg. The waggons were still trekking when we reached them and we continued with them to the outspan about six miles further on. During this last part of the day’s trek W. achieved a reputation as a shot by killing a paauw as it flew overhead about one hundred yards up. W. fired from his horse’s back with an ordinary service Martini-Henry rifle, and the feat was therefore a notable one.

During the next two days we found ourselves rather unprofitably employed in crossing a wide belt of country that had been burned by a party of Boers just before our arrival. We met with lots of spoor of rhino, giraffe, buffalo, &c., but saw nothing except small buck and quaggas, and one troop of hartebeeste. Of these we shot a few, as we wanted meat. During the time we were out on Friday 19th, an old Boer who had attached himself to our party, whilst walking along about a mile from camp, suddenly came upon the fresh spoor of a buffalo, which he proceeded to follow in hopes of a shot. All at once, however, he heard “pooph, pooph” behind him, and in a moment the buffalo had tossed him clean over a small mimosa bush on to another beyond. In the confusion the old man’s rifle went off, and the buffalo, tail on end, sailed away without taking any further notice. The Boer got off without any broken bones; but, as may easily be imagined, not with a whole skin. Mimosa thorns are somewhat retentive, and the descent from that tree, which took some considerable time, was a painful process. Next morning, whilst searching for buffalo, we passed over some of the ground that had been visited the day before in pursuit of the quagga, and found that two carcases had been appropriated by lions, but of the lions themselves we saw nothing, nor did we meet any buffaloes; later, to our great satisfaction, we came upon the fresh spoor of a considerable troop—too late in the day, however, to follow it up.

Starting from camp at daybreak on Sunday, with niggers and dogs, we took up the spoor, and after about two hours reached the spot where a lion had killed a cow buffalo during the night. Jackals or hyenas had had the leavings, and the horns, bones and skin were all that remained. At last, about 10 a.m., the herd was sighted on the other side of a big donga, into which any number of smaller ones ran from both sides. It was a very bad bit of country from every point of view, and the bush in parts was inconveniently thick. However, after a good deal of riding about we got the herd on the move towards the more open veldt—not, indeed until after they had given us a good deal of excitement, sometimes running in view, but more often lost in the bush. Once they had their opportunity, and had they taken advantage of it they might have bagged the whole lot of us, as we crossed a donga in single file not more than a dozen yards from where they were all standing. Having allowed us to cross in safety, the buffalo made off in the opposite direction.

During this time some three or four of the buffalo had fallen before our rifles, and at last out they came across a fine stretch of decently good ground, beyond which was a wet donga with thick bush on the other side. Midway was a small “pan.” I happened to be on the left, and in the best place, with the result that I arrived first over a swell of the ground and saw below me the buffalo in the act of lying down in the pan to cool themselves. My appearance caused a wild commotion, during which, however, I fired one shot off my horse into the back of a big bull just as he was rising, and down he went to my great delight. But I had been very foolish not to dismount: my horse was excited and so was I, with the result that I missed my second barrel. The bull I had hit was struggling below, and just as I was about to get off my horse and give him the coup de grace G. came galloping up. He cried, “don’t finish him, he is quite safe, his back is broken, come on after the others.” I complied, but looking round after I had gone about half a mile I saw my bull on his legs and commencing to make tracks. The donga was only a couple of hundred yards from him, and slowly as he went he was right on the top of it before I came up with him, when he promptly turned to bay. Thirty yards from a wounded buffalo I was discreet enough to take my chance of a shot from the horse’s back. Just as I raised my rifle the bull gave a “pooph, pooph,” and came at me. My horse shook his head and I missed clean. The reins were on the animal’s neck, and before I could gather them he had gone a couple of hundred yards. The bull charged only a very short distance, turned and made for the donga. I returned quickly and jumped off on the bank. I could just see the bull going through the reeds and bush, and whether I hit him or not I cannot say. At all events, I never saw him again. I got another soon afterwards, but this did not comfort me for the loss of a far finer pair of horns. We bagged nine bulls altogether, but none of them so good as the one I had failed to secure. The Kaffirs afterwards tracked that bull for a long way, but eventually lost his spoor in that of the rest of the herd.

Probably the poor brute died later on. My shot must have been close to the spine, since it crippled him for the moment, and may or may not have penetrated his body. Possibly it glanced off his ribs, but at a distance of only about twenty yards this does not seem likely. At all events, he was not brought to bag, and except to the poor bull himself the nature of his wound was therefore of very little consequence.

Meanwhile we had killed a lot of meat, and it took us some time to go round and make all the carcases safe against jackals, vultures, &c. Mr. G. wanted to make biltong, for which purpose he left the Kaffirs on the ground whilst we all rode slowly home to camp.

Next morning we found that both of Mr. G.’s horses had got loose during the night, so that in addition to sending a waggon for the meat, the recovery of the horses—assuming neither to have been eaten by lions—had to be attended to. Mr. G. borrowed one of our horses, and with all remaining Kaffirs, except one, started off; we three staying to guard the camp. It was well that we had not persisted in setting forth ourselves; for had we done so the whole camp would have been burned by a veldt fire. Working frantically, it was all that we could do, after burning the grass behind us, to carry or drag the whole of our belongings to a place of safety. Scarcely had we finished, when the fire came up and went past like an express train. Fortunately the grass in the donga close at hand was green, and therefore escaped, but we had much difficulty in keeping the horses and oxen in it; had they broken away they would of course have galloped for miles before the fire, and some not impossibly have been caught by it.

In the evening Mr. G. returned with his horses, and the waggon also came in laden with meat; the greater part of the latter, however, was useless, owing to the intense heat of the sun and the distance that had been covered in bringing it to camp. Mr. G. regretted much that instead of sending for the meat we had not shifted camp to where the buffalo had been killed.

The following day we had some excellent sport with a troop of wildebeeste which gave us a rare gallop. One of my horses was a grey half-bred Arab and rather fast; the ground was fairly good going, and I made up my mind to try whether I could get alongside for a shot off the horse’s back. To my great delight, after about three miles as hard as we could go, I raced up alongside the bull I had selected, and, firing from the hip, bowled him over like a rabbit, shot through the heart. All things considered, I am certain that next after a fast forty minutes with hounds at home there is nothing to touch a gallop after antelopes in South Africa. With a reasonably good horse it is fairly easy to get within fifty yards, and then jump off and shoot, but only a very smart horse can actually bring you alongside anything except a fat bull eland. The last I believe is easy to catch up with, but I cannot speak of this from personal experience. Riding homewards on the evening of the day I have just mentioned I met T. As a rule, from the moment we started galloping after the first troop of buck we met with, we seldom saw anything more of each other until we had reached the camp. Every man rode his own line towards any point of the compass, and it was long odds against any two of the party afterwards falling in with each other. Well, as we were riding slowly along, T. suddenly exclaimed, “Lions!” and scrambled off his horse. In a moment I was off too, but being a second behind was just late. What I saw as I was about to dismount was a magnificent great lion, accompanied by two lionesses, on the edge of a donga about 120 yards to our left. As I hastily put up my rifle they had turned round and were just disappearing. I pulled the trigger at the lion, and I always think that I was dead on him and must have got him. But, horrible to relate, the rifle was on half-cock! The chance was gone! T. meanwhile had missed. We jumped on to our horses and galloped hard to the donga, but not a sign was to be seen. The lions were no doubt lying down. T. had but one cartridge left, and I had only three; otherwise by shooting at random here and there amongst the tall reeds we might have moved the game. We were only about a mile from camp, and the wind was blowing in that direction, so we were afraid to set fire to the grass. There was, therefore, only one thing to be done, and this we promptly did. We galloped home as fast as we could to fetch Kaffirs and dogs, and get more cartridges. The dogs picked up the line at once, but after following it for about a couple of miles we were obliged to whip off, as it was nearly dark. These were the only lions we saw during the trip. Spoor of them was plentiful and their voices could be heard in the night, but that was all. Lions are very shy and very clever. To get a lion one must, as a rule, trust to the chapter of accidents; looking for them, as we often did upon this and other occasions, a chance seldom comes. Upon the other hand, when game is not plentiful, it is well known that lions make themselves a great nuisance prowling round the camp at night looking for a chance to bag man, horse, or ox, and to keep them off a good fire is very necessary.

A few days afterwards we made an excursion to the border of the “fly” country. Several specimens of the murderous insect settled on various horses, but as we took care to sheer off whenever a fly was seen, no harm was done. A few bites are of no consequence. Here we stumbled upon the camp of a Mr. S. whom we had seen at Pretoria months before, but not since. He had been trekking all over the place, and it was rather remarkable our meeting with him. He had had good sport in the “fly” country, into which he had gone with a light kit and a few Kaffirs to carry it. Finally, after a number of quite enjoyable days’ sport, during which, however, nothing really remarkable took place, the time came for us to return to Lydenburg. We had for the last three days been working towards home, and in the end had only some sixty miles to ride. Leaving the waggons to follow, we started at daybreak, and reached Lydenburg in good time for dinner.

There is one matter to which it is worth while to call attention, in reference to life on the veldt. It is wonderful how quickly and accurately the “homing instinct” becomes developed. Every morning Mr. G. would explain to us that the waggons would trek during the course of the day to the banks of a certain river, or to a pool of water, say twenty miles distant, in a direction that he pointed out. There might or might not be some guiding landmark. Within a couple of hours it would certainly have happened that no two of the party were together. All would have ridden in various directions, wherever the game led them. Yet throughout the trip not one of us ever failed to find the waggon in the evening! The nearest approach to any one being lost was when W., actually heading straight for camp, was overtaken by the darkness when still about a mile distant. He was just about to light a fire when, becoming anxious about him, we began to fire shots to attract his attention; he replied, and twenty minutes later walked in. Of course, I must admit that this was not our first trip, and that we had all of us ridden about the veldt a good deal during the previous two years. Yet this power of finding the way from a place that one had necessarily but slight knowledge of to another, fifteen or twenty miles distant, that one had never seen at all, and there find, in the bush, a waggon, is sufficiently remarkable. Clearly the result was not dependent upon reasoning, not upon ordinary “lump of locality,” but simply upon instinct. It should be remembered that this was not a case of riding straight for a point; upon the contrary, one had been galloping hither and thither, and not until the afternoon was the horse’s head directed homewards, where, as a rule, all arrived before dark.

At the risk of being tedious I will quote an example of “homing instinct” that in my opinion is rather curious. A year before the trip which I have been writing about, I was one of a party of four shooting in the Waterberg district. The ponies belonging to F. and myself were both in need of a day’s rest, and F. and I walked with the others to a place where some game had been killed the day before, in order to get the horns and send them to camp, carried by Kaffirs. This done, F. and I took a line through the bush with the idea of looking for guinea-fowls, and after shooting a few to walk home. We had been about two hours on our way when I was seized with a conviction that we had arrived close home, and I said so. F. instantly replied that he had been just about to make the same remark. The bush was very thick, and it was impossible to see more than fifty yards. We agreed that F. should stand where he was whilst I made a cast to the right. Two hundred yards brought me to the open ground, and there by the waterhole, a hundred and fifty yards away, was the waggon! This find was clearly due to instinct and nothing else; we were neither of us prompted in the very least by any familiar feature. All around us was bush of precisely the same character.

Perhaps even more remarkable was the power of finding next day the carcase of a buck killed during the course of the previous day, perhaps ten miles from camp, and covered where it lay with a few branches to keep off the vultures and jackals. We ourselves, I admit, sometimes failed in this, but G. never; nor did a Boer called B. who guided our party to the Waterberg. Yet how strange it is that men who have been on the veldt more years than we spent months, and who year after year have been doing as I have described, have yet been lost hopelessly and died miserably of thirst! In a word, however practised the instinct, it must not be trusted always. The golden rule, I have been told, to follow when lost is to sit down, light a fire, discharge your rifle from time to time, if you can spare the cartridges, and there wait until some of your party find you. To advance, once you have ceased to feel certain that you are going the right way, is fatal. To attempt walking in the dark when not absolutely sure of the direction almost always ends in wandering in a circle.

South Africa in the seventies was not a bad place for sport, but what must it have been in the fifties! A certain Colonel B., late of the 45th Regiment, told us, in Maritzburg in 1876, that twenty years before he had shot elephants within a day’s ride of Durban. In our day there was just one elephant south of the Zambesi; it was in Zululand, and poor Guy Dawnay, one of the best fellows and one of the best sportsmen that ever lived, killed it in 1875 or 1876—I cannot remember which. Ten years later poor Dawnay was himself killed by a wounded buffalo. This rather disjointed yarn has now reached the useful limit, and must therefore end.

During the last few years there has been a great deal written on this subject. It has been put forward that the necessity exists in England for the resuscitation of the male line of Herod; that this blood is gradually declining in prominence not only in England but in all other countries where thoroughbreds exist; and that, if breeders do not tackle the question seriously, the probability will be that Herod in the male line will become extinct.

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the male line of Herod is gradually being pushed on one side by the descendants of Eclipse, it does not seem that that fact alone is a sufficient argument in favour of an attempt to reinstate the blood in the position which it once held. It is a curious fact that although the male line of Herod is slowly dying out, while the male line of Eclipse is becoming so prominent, yet that if the pedigree of any horse of the present day be carefully examined it will be found that the blood of Herod predominates in the most marked degree. For instance, the pedigree of St. Simon contains ninety-one crosses of Eclipse, and no less than one hundred and forty-six of Herod, and there is not a single thoroughbred horse living to-day which does not possess a greater number of Herod crosses than of Eclipse. And this is true not only of the horses of to-day but of the horses of one hundred years ago.

Yet, in spite of this, the male line of Eclipse since the year 1800 has been successful in seventy Derbies as compared with twenty-five won by representatives of the Herod male line. In the Oaks sixty-two winners are sired by direct male descendants of Eclipse, while only twenty-eight can be claimed by Herod during the same period. Nor is the superiority confined to the winners of these races themselves. If we take the pedigree of the dams of Derby winners we find that the dams in fifty-five instances are got by Eclipse horses, and in only thirty-six cases by Herod horses. Putting the same test to Oaks winners, we find fifty-nine of them got by Eclipse horses and thirty-five by Herod horses.

The above table shows a list of the horses that have sired three or more classic winners, i.e., Derby, Oaks, and St. Leger. The letters E, H, and M after a horse’s name denotes whether it is of (E) Eclipse, (H) Herod, or (M) Matchem descent in the male line.

This list, which covers a period from the birth of Herod to the present day, contains forty-six names, of which thirty-one are male descendants of Eclipse, and only twelve of Herod.

The following horses have headed the list of winning stallions since 1850:—

Epirus (H), Orlando (E), Birdcatcher (E), Melbourne (M), Touchstone (E), Newminster (E), Stockwell (E), Buccaneer (H), Thormanby (H), King Tom (E), Blair Athol (E), Adventurer (E), Lord Clifden (E), Speculum (E), Flageolet (E), Hermit (E), Hampton (E), Galopin (E), St. Simon (E), Kendal (E), Orme (E), Persimmon (E), St. Frusquin (E), Gallinule (E).

From this it will be gathered that Herod horses have headed the list in three years, Matchem one year, while Eclipse horses monopolise all the other years.

So we now have the following facts, that although Eclipse horses have won the Derby, Leger, and Oaks nearly twice as often as Herod horses, and have sired the dams of the winners of these races in about the same proportion, and have further headed the list of winning sires almost without break for the last fifty years, yet in the pedigree of every one of these Eclipse horses mentioned above the name of Herod occurs oftener than that of Eclipse.

Now, surely it is very significant that although all our thoroughbred horses of the present day possess more crosses of Herod blood than Eclipse blood, yet the Herod male line is being slowly and surely pushed out by the Eclipse male line. One might almost regard it as a logical consequence that the extra crosses of Herod should give the Herod male line an increased strength and prepotency, but, as a fact, we find the exact opposite to this is the case.

A few illustrations taken from contemporaneous sires will best explain the force of this. For instance, let us take Whalebone and Phantom, winners of the Derby in consecutive years, 1807 and 1808. Whalebone, a direct descendant of Eclipse in tail male, contained one cross only of Eclipse and two crosses of Herod. Phantom, a descendant of Herod in the male line, contained four crosses of Herod and two of Eclipse. Phantom to-day has very few tail male representatives at the stud, while Whalebone is represented by the whole of the Newminster and Stockwell line, backed up by the Isonomy line in later days. A comparison between Birdcatcher and his nearest Herod contemporary, Bay Middleton, works out with much the same result. Birdcatcher’s pedigree contains four crosses of Eclipse and nine crosses of Herod; Bay Middleton six of Eclipse and thirteen of Herod. Yet we have to go to France to find any prominent representatives of the Bay Middleton male line; while two Birdcatcher horses (Isinglass and Gallinule) are top of the list of winning sires to-day.

All these facts would seem to go to prove that in spite of the preponderance of Herod blood in our horses, in spite of the occasional prominence of individual members of the Herod male line, there is some natural force which is always working to place the Eclipse male line on top. It is quite evident that the male line of Eclipse cannot be “swamped,” and that the blood gets stronger and stronger the older it grows.

Many contemporary writers on the history of thoroughbred horses have commented on this ascendancy of the Eclipse male line, and some have attempted to account for it by ascribing it to chance and fashion. Mr. W. Allison, in his interesting book, “The British Thoroughbred,” devotes a whole chapter to the subject, and is quite satisfied that the “great success of Eclipse is due to Sir Hercules, Camel, and fashion.” He also points out the necessity which seems to exist of reviving the blood. But just how this revival is to be effected is what is puzzling, and always will puzzle, breeders.

Perhaps the most feasible explanation of why the Herod blood in the male line is dying out, and why the Eclipse male line is so preponderant, can be found in a close analysis of the pedigrees of the two horses, and by comparing the results with the conditions which prevail among horses in their natural state. It will then be found that the dying-out of the Herod line is more a working out of the laws of Nature than anything else, and is probably beyond human control.

Let us first take the pedigree of a wild horse, and see how he is made up. It may seem an anomaly to talk of the pedigree of a wild horse, but every animal has a pedigree if we could but trace it. The horse in a state of Nature is a gregarious animal, living in herds or groups, each group having its premier stallion, who is literally “lord of the harem.” A stallion remains at the head of his group until he gets too old to be effective, and he is then driven away by one of the younger stallions, probably one of his own sons. In a wild state the mare breeds young, dropping her foal when about three years old. A wild stallion will probably remain vigorous and capable of holding his own until ten or twelve years old. He will then probably be breeding with his own daughters and possibly granddaughters. When he is ousted and his son reigns in his stead, he in his turn will be cohabiting with his sisters, aunts, and cousins, until eventually you have the whole herd very much in-bred. In fact, the wild horse is a very much more in-bred animal than the tame horse, and Nature evidently intends the horse to be an in-bred animal.

Now let us take the pedigrees of Herod and Eclipse, and analyse them. Without going too deeply into detail, which might be bewildering to those unskilled in pedigree lore, it will be sufficient to state broadly that Herod is a cross-bred or out-bred horse; while Eclipse is an in-bred one. We have to go back six generations in Herod’s pedigree before we get the same name occurring twice, as that of Spanker, and the same name occurs in the seventh and eighth generations. Herod, therefore, has four crosses of Spanker, and no other instances of in-breeding. Eclipse, on the other hand, has crosses of Hautboy at his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth removes—nine of them in all—while he also possesses seven crosses of Spanker.

A curious point about the pedigrees of both Herod and Eclipse is that this same Spanker blood has been handed down to us through only one channel, and that by the incestuous mating of Spanker and his dam. The produce of this mare was the grand-dam of Betty Leedes, who in her turn was the dam of the two Childers. This piece of incestuous breeding seems to have been the rock on which the British thoroughbred was built, for it will be found, on examining all the old pedigrees, that their strength lies in their in-breeding to the two Childers (the No. 6 family).

We have already seen that the wild horse is incestuously in-bred, and we know that, of Herod and Eclipse, the latter was the more incestuously in-bred of the two. Does it not seem, then, a simple working out of the laws of Nature that the Eclipse male line should be more prepotent than the Herod male line, bearing as it does, though artificially produced, a closer resemblance to the breeding of the horse in a state of Nature?

The fact that Herod’s name occurs more often than that of Eclipse in modern pedigrees would seem to go to strengthen this theory, for the Herod blood is more diluted, so to speak, than that of Eclipse, and seems unable to resist the concentrated force of the more incestuously in-bred Eclipse line.

Although the hawthorn in the valley was opening its leaves and disclosing the rosy-tipped buds of May, there were but few signs of returning spring on the marshlands of the mountain slope. The scanty grass was withered with the searching winds of winter, and the wild thyme had scarcely yet begun to creep over the lichened stones; but through the entanglement of beaten-down reeds and rushes by the waterside fresh green spikes were pushing their way up to the light. Here and there some flecks of gold enlivened the whin bushes, and, far away in the distant valley, a thrush was singing. The song floated up the still air of the valley as the blue mists of the late afternoon paled into the evening grey; the last flush of sunset faded over the rugged mountains of the west, and the melancholy marshland sank into the shadows of the coming night. Then the thrush’s song died in the gathering darkness, and all was still, save for the bark of some shepherd’s dog in the distance and the faint murmur of a trout stream—sounds that only seemed to intensify the quietude.

Suddenly the desolate marsh was awakened by a ringing, booming voice that pierced the misty darkness and vibrated in the still air. No echo followed that weird, mysterious call, that deep metallic ring, “as when a bell no longer swings,” but the desolation of the moors seemed the more desolate as I listened and wondered what the sound might be. The night hugged the silence, Nature held her breath, until again that lonely booming voice broke the stillness and died in a tone of despairing lament. Passion was in the voice, and love; a challenge was there, yet a sublimity and a loneliness that haunted the very breath of spring. Once more the vibrating tones were swallowed up by the darkness, but once again they pierced the night air and rang in a cadence of passionate, deep-toned booms that shook “the sounding marsh” and awakened the desolate places of the sleeping earth. Even as the lightning smites the heavy laden cloud and disperses it in drops of rain, so that penetrating voice struck the brooding darkness of the moor, and the abiding peace, in little fragments, was shattered and forgotten in a multitude of thoughts.

Those who are acquainted with the bird-life of our islands need not be told that the deep-toned, booming cry of the last of the bitterns was heard a very long while ago. Marshes have been drained and rough lands cleared, cornfields and rich pastures cover the earth which once swayed and rustled with bulrushes and tasselled reeds, and the birds and flowers—the aborigines of the marshlands—have been driven away from their old haunts. Yet one would not stay the cultivator’s hand that the secluded retreat of the bittern might be left undisturbed. Time brings many changes, and the well-cleared dyke, the uprooted reeds and willows, the burning of scrubby wastes, were inevitable, and once the nesting place—the home of a species—is taken away extinction becomes a matter of years. So the noble bittern that stalked heron-like in the shallow pools and streams of the fens and marshes, whose pencilled plumage of rich browns of varying shades blended so beautifully with the surroundings, and whose weird notes resounded in the spring nights of long ago, year after year, became a less frequent visitor. It is probably twenty-five years or more since the last love-song of the bittern was answered, and some eggs were laid, in the land that it had inhabited for so long. Now some few stragglers drift into our shores, but the booming note—the love-song only uttered at nesting time—is no longer heard, and those lonely migrants that casually seek refuge here only too quickly fall a prey to the loafer’s gun.

But there is no reason to suppose why, if suitable places—

but secluded tracts of land, such as still exist in many counties of Wales particularly, were protected, many of our partially extinct birds would avail themselves of the opportunity of breeding again in the old home of their ancestors. In these days of cheap cartridges, few birds that are not catalogued as common, are suffered to exist, and the rarer the species so much the less chance has it of surviving. Speaking generally, the sportsman—I mean the man who is fond of a gun and who protects rather than exterminates those birds and animals not really destructive—is the friend rather than the foe of our wild life, but the class of gamekeeper who, often against his employer’s instructions, kills anything that his imagination can conceive to be harmful or uncommon is responsible for much of the extinction now going on. The loafer who “pots” seals and swallows on Sundays, and earns his beer by selling skins of kingfishers (for the kingfisher is yet another that must now be considered rare) and other rarities to local “naturalists” is a tyrant of the meanest order, a parasite upon his own kind and a terror to all things beautiful and rare. In speaking upon this subject one wishes to refrain from any sickly sentiment, of which there has already been a super-abundance. The effect of much that has been written and spoken on the extinction of our wild birds has been neutralised on account of the rabid and ultra-sentimental way in which enthusiasts have expressed their views and feelings, and, as in the case of “vivisection,” many people who might have been workers for good have been reluctant to join forces with those who have clamoured and preached so extravagantly. Owing to the efforts of private individuals and the various societies, a great deal has been done to protect the wild life that is annually becoming scarcer; but much remains to be done, and most particularly in the case of those few straggling remnants of our avifauna, viz., the bitterns and bustards, hen-harriers and marsh-harriers, eagles and kites, hoopoes and ravens, and others of that sad, long list of birds, the most beautiful and noblest that ever gave lustre to our avian population.

It is strange, too, that all, or nearly all, these declining races were denizens of the marshlands or the mountain where the voice of a bird is ever such a welcome sound, and to-day when the chilly winds of a March evening drive through the lank, dry grass with a whistling sound, or surge and whisper in the heather, to which still cling last year’s faded flowers, when the curlew and the plover break the solitude with their wild, yet plaintive cries, when the last dipper has shot like a black dart round the bend of the stream, and the skylarks, that have been joyously singing far up in the sky the day long, have sank silently into the beds of rushes, then, when the wind sinks away into the still dark valley below, one feels that Nature is still waiting and listening for the ringing boom of the bittern to herald the birth of the marshland spring. But only the shepherd’s dog barks intermittently in the darkness, and a voice like that of some belated sheep falls dreamily upon the air of night. Up there, where the club moss stands sturdily in the crisp snow, the grim old rocks that have witnessed man’s coming, and will, perchance, witness his passing, look down upon these “haunts of ancient peace,” and we ponder over the changes that time has wrought in the solitary spot.

At no other times, perhaps, have there been such opportunities to obtain lessons in almost everything that concerns horses than at the three shows, for the Shires, the Hackneys, and the hunters. For the last quarter of a century the right roads have been taken to develop and improve the English breeds, and in that comparatively short space of time the effects of sensible and scientific breeding have been quite wonderful on materials existing years, almost centuries, ago, but neglected by past generations, and often enough nearly lost. Now it happens again that everything is in its pristine excellence, but even better, and presenting really a great British industry in which no rivals can be feared, and one that might help the ever difficult problem of what to do with young England, the over-population that want new lands for farming, and more especially for breeding and rearing horses. Englishmen can do it better than others, as has been seen at these shows, but they want lands that are not over-rented, rated and taxed, and under such conditions thousands might leave these shores with altogether unsurpassed stock to breed horses for the mart of the world. Will South Africa, Canada, or other territories at present belonging to the Empire, be made available? But that is a political question; governments must see to it. All the public has to think about is that the English breeds are now perfection; and, to begin with, there is nothing greater than those known far and wide as

MESSRS. FORSHAW’S PRESENT KING II. 19948.
Champion Stallion at the London Shire Horse Show.

Photo by F. Babbage.]

It was not so much in regard to the numbers as the quality that made the show of these farmers’ friends so great, and it may be that the development of this element is so noticeable in the Shire as to make it a very satisfactory occupation to breed him; it has specially fascinated many great personages and sportsmen, from His Majesty the King downwards, the exhibitors now including the Duke of Westminster, the Duke of Marlborough, Marquis Campden, Earls Ellesmere, Egerton of Tatton, Bathurst, M.F.H., Spencer, M.F.H., Beauchamp, Lords Middleton, M.F.H., Southampton, M.F.H., Rothschild, M.S.H., Iveagh, Winterstoke, Hothfield, Sir Berkeley Sheffield, Bart., Sir Walter Gilbey, Bart., Sir William Cooke, Bart., M.F.H., Sir Edward Stern, Sir Albert Muntz, Bart., the great welter of the Midlands, the Hon. R. P. Nevill, M.F.H., and others of rank and wealth. The extension of the movement in regard to improvement is indeed very marked. That the patrons of foxhunting should ally themselves so closely with the Shire interest is possibly owing to the desire to see the noble pastime identified with agriculture. It is doing good to promote such a breed, both for the cause of the landlord and the tenant.

From the yearling colts to the oldest of the stallions it was all quality, and although the examples are bigger to-day than they have ever been, they have more agility in their movements, are cleaner cut about their heads and jowls, and more majestic in carriage. For the enormous class of sixty yearling colts it was an honour indeed to take the first, which fell to Mr. Frank Farnsworth from a great hunting district for the promising young son of Lockinge Forest King hailed from Tooley Park, Hinckley, within easy access of the Quorn and Atherstone. Leicestershire appears to be the land for Shires, as besides Mr. Farnsworth’s stud, which must be of great fame to include such colts as Ratcliffe Conquering King and Ratcliffe Forest King (the latter very nearly the winner of the two-year-olds, as he was second in a class of seventy), there were several others from the hunting county. In Warwickshire also they seem to thrive, as few more beautiful exhibits were seen at the show than those of Sir Albert Muntz from Dunsmore, his three-year-old mare winner, Dunsmore Fuchsia, being quite a model of her sort; all Sir Albert’s ten exhibits were in the money or amongst the commendations.

Lord Egerton of Tatton sent up some very notable entries from the old Cheshire cheese country; the defeat of the grand six-year-old stallion, Tatton Friar, was much regretted by many onlookers: but it followed a very notable victory in the two-year-old class of 70, in which Tatton Dray King was the winner: it is something for one stud to take the two-year-old colt and the two-year-old filly class, for the latter fell to Lord Egerton with Tatton May Queen, a great beauty.

MR. RAMSAY’S DIPLOMATIST, 7043.
Champion at London Hackney Show.

Photo by F. Babbage.]

His Majesty, who goes in for everything useful on his Sandringham estate, was an exhibitor of five, and a popular success was that of Ravenspur, the thickest of horses on the shortest of legs; and here again it was Leicestershire soil that claims credit for this success, as the winner was bred by Sir Humphrey de Trafford at Hill Crest, Market Harborough, making good the saying that where bullocks can fatten and hounds can run, is the ground for the Shire. Lincolnshire, though, is always a likely quarter, and the champion of the show hailed from this county in the shape of Present King II., a very remarkable horse; although eight years old this grass, he has been unknown to the general public until now, and it says something for Mr. James Forshaw’s judgment to have found him. He was bred by Mr. Joseph Phillipson, of Hainton, Lincoln, and as he is a coal-black horse, with very little white about him, and his dam is by Black Prince, he is living evidence of the old Black horse reported to have been almost lost in its purity. Anyway, he is a very bold, fine horse of quite the biggest size.

Lord Rothschild was not in the same lucky vein as he was last year, in that the defeat of his champion, Girton Charmer, by an unknown quantity like Present King II., was irritating; that the hitherto unbeaten Childwick Champion should be beaten for the Special Cup by the two-year-old winner, Tatton Dray King, was hardly expected. The great Tring Park stud, though, won in other classes amongst the mares. It was, in all, a very great show, though not without its disappointments, as horses previously undefeated went down before new-comers. Among the mares, as among the others, Mr. James Forshaw had found another in the grey, Sussex Blue Gown, to win in her class, and she beat Lord Rothschild’s Princess Beryl for the Champion Cup, the famous Nottinghamshire stallion owner thus taking both cups for the horses and the mares. The sales were good but not sensational, the only exception being when Lord Beauchamp gave 510 guineas for the champion mare alluded to.

MR. W. SCOTT’S MENELLA 16799.
First and Champion in Harness at the London Hackney Show.

Photo by F. Babbage.]

The Hackney Show.

The same view must be taken in regard to success of the Hackneys. The progress made with this breed is perhaps more noteworthy than that made with the Shires, as in the absence of so much patronage from the greatest people in the country, the breed has been brought to a wonderful state of perfection, and evidence of the same sensible and scientific breeding can be easily traced. Moreover, signs were not wanting to show that the foreigners are keener in their endeavours to get possession of our Hackneys than they are at present to purchase our Shires. Two large Government commissions were noticeable, at any rate, namely from France and Germany, for the purchase of a goodly number of stallions, and Holland took the champion of the Show for 1,000 guineas. This desire to get the best of English sorts is not due entirely to the demands for cavalry breeding, but the wise councils of other European countries consider that an industry to give the means of prosperity to thousands of subjects is well worth cultivating. This, too, on circumscribed lands with little or no colonial extension; but England, with her millions of acres in all parts of the globe, possessing better animal stocks than all the rest of the world put together, is neglectful of her opportunities. Why cannot her sons be set up in far-off lands to breed horses for the world? But to these magnificent Hackneys: It cannot be denied that the Dutch have got possession of a very grand specimen in Diplomatist, whose lot it must have been to do good in a variety of countries. He was first of all shown at the Hackney Society’s Show as a yearling; then, after doing some service in England, he was sold to America, where he got some stock of note before Mr. Heaton brought him back to England and sold him to Mr. Ramsey, of Kildalton, Port Ellen, Islay, N.B. And here let it be said that Scotch breeders have done uncommonly well at this Show. Mr. Ramsey, a prominent breeder in the northern country, won the Champion Cup last year at the London Show with Diplomatist, and now repeated the victory before selling the dual champion to Holland. Diplomatist is a very beautiful horse of about 15.2, with extraordinary action; his pedigree contains some of the best blood in the Hackney Stud Book, for he is by His Majesty out of Garton Birthday, by Garton Duke of Connaught. There were several fights in the Show between the North and the South. Sir Walter Gilbey equalised the pretensions of Yorkshire and Norfolk, when he brought Danegelt down South, at a cost of 5,000 guineas. Since then the champions of Essex and Norfolk have held their own with those of the many-acred county. Sir Walter has won the championship twice with Royal Danegelt, a son of Danegelt, and it looked as if the Essex baronet might score again in another generation, as Bonny Danegelt stood in a long time with Langton, a grand twelve-year-old horse by Garton Duke of Connaught, and many thought should have won. It was not to be though, and this particular prize went to the north, Langton being the property of Mr. E. C. McKibbin, of the Heaning, Windermere, though bred by Mr. Thomas Hall, of Copmanthorpe, the owner of the great Garton Duke of Connaught, who was summed up to me last year at the Yorkshire show as the greatest hackney sire in the world. He was certainly in the full order of success now, as the Messrs. Hall, father and sons, showed some beautiful stock by the veteran, including the two-year-old colt winner, Copmanthorpe Performer, a truly symmetrical animal with singularly beautiful action. There was also Administrator, owned and exhibited by Mr. Walter Burnell Tubbs, another son of this Duke of Connaught, a wonderfully handsome horse who showed grandly in harness. Last year and the year before he won the Champion Cup for his then owner, Mr. Galbraith. He is nearly, if not quite, as good as Diplomatist.

MR. T. SMITH’S PINDERFIELDS HORACE.
Champion Hackney Pony Stallion at the London Show.

Photo by F. Babbage.]

The points that struck one throughout the whole show was, that breeders have got to a type that comes down quite as regularly as in the thoroughbred horses of the General Stud Book. Royal Danegelt was the copy of his sire, Danegelt, and the former at this Show had a number in precisely the same form in shape and action. They are getting a bit bigger, as in Class 8, for horses over 15.2, there were sixteen in the ring, and several must have been very close on 16 hands. It is notable that the foreign buyers were very interested in this class, and made two important purchases from it in Forest Star, who was placed third, and the above-named Diplomatist. A suggestion is given here that the size attained in the Hackney is a useful element in regard to success. It was generally thought that the horses made a better show than the mares; and, in truth, there were fewer mares than usual, but whether from the fact that a great many were sold last year, or that breeders are chary about sending their valuable breeding stock to shows in the spring, it is difficult to say. Many of those that were seen though, were beautiful animals. Sir Gilbert Greenall’s Colleen Rose, by Garton Duke of Connaught, could scarcely be excelled as a fine carriage mare of quality, and Menella, the champion harness mare, was a great beauty with action of a most superb order. An extraordinary horse must be her sire, Mathias, as, to judge him from a photograph he gets all his stock exactly like himself, and with the same wonderful movement. Another as remarkable in this respect is Sir Gilbert Greenall’s Sir Horace, under 14 hands, as he had nine winners at the Show all looking the exact types of perfection—bloodlike heads, beautifully laid shoulders, round barrels, moulded quarters, and limbs set under them in the same stamp. What has the breed come to from the shapely Diplomatist and Bonny Danegelt, to the ponies, Pinderfields Horace and Little Woman, for all these and many more the word beautiful cannot be misapplied—and the Show might well have been watched for the full four days to see by the pedigrees, the make and shape and the action more real now than artificial, and to wonder whether the present conditions of the so-called Hackney can ever be surpassed.

The Royal Commissions—Thoroughbred Stallions.

The progress so noticeable in regard to the thoroughbred stallions forms an important feature of the great spring shows. There was first of all a better entry than those of the past three years, and it would appear that the owners of horses have been educated into the exact ideas in respect to the requirement. It was a movement in the right direction certainly to give some evidence in the catalogue as to what horses had done on the turf, and still more to empower the judges to act upon the information provided. The net result of all being, that there was hardly a stallion exhibited that was not perfectly suitable for the purposes of the Commission. With but the fewest exceptions the horses had all been winners; some that had been known on the racecourse for over seven years, and others that had won very important events. There were 107 in all, and as this did not include any from Ireland, we have the satisfaction of knowing that we are very well off for useful sires at the present time.

LORD MIDDLETON’S STALLION WALES.
Winner of a King’s Premium in District Class E (Yorkshire).

Photo by F. Babbage.

There were some splendid classes brought into competition on March 13th, the one scheduled D perhaps being the best, as here was the beautiful horse Battlement by Enterprise, out of Ivy Mantle by Mask. He is the winner now of four premiums, and has done a great deal of good. When the property of Mr. A. O. Haslewood, of Buxton, he travelled in Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and since his owner has been Colonel Jago Trelawny he has done service in Cornwall and the South of Devon. The farmers of these western counties swear by him already, and there will be great rejoicing round Plymouth, as, besides Battlement, there was a very good four-year-old called Rockaway, by the good Australian Trenton, son of Musket, belonging to Mr. Bickell, of Tavistock. So clever did the judges think Rockaway that they gave him one of the four premiums. Mr. Bickell also showed the well-bred Mon-Roy, by Orme, out of Mon Droit by Isonomy. And another Devonshire candidate was Flaxby, quite a hunter-getting sort by Barcaldine, out of a Palmer mare. So Devonshire is evidently well off in hunting stallions. Then, still in this D class, too much cannot be said of Rightful, improved into quite a charming horse. Rightful comes from such a handsome family by Rightaway, out of Repletion by Satiety. He is one, too, for whom racing merit can be claimed. Kano, another Trenton, and a good winner, had also much to admire about him, and as one of the reserved, he became available for one of the classes not so overstocked with merit. It is always well to see Yorkshire to the front, and really there was little to surpass the magnificence of Wales in the whole show. Big and powerful, with plenty of timber, and blood-like withal, besides the knowledge that he was a right-down good horse on the flat and over a country. To show what he can get, too, Lord Middleton made a great hit in the group of young hunters by Wales; they were quite away from the stock of other stallions, albeit very good ones by Red Prince II. and Pantomine were shown. But to the Yorkshire class: There was also Frobisher, a very nice horse by Mr. H. Waring’s Buccaneer, made a premium winner: and although he did not quite get into honours, save a reserve, I thought there were few better than the Manchester Cup dead-heater, Roe O’Neil, by Sweetheart, who used to get almost as many jumpers as Victor, out of a Ben Battle mare. The Yorkshiremen are sure to take to Roe O’Neil. Garb d’Or was also unlucky to get a reserve only, as he is a very handsome son of Bend Or, and quite in the family type, Birdcatcher spots and all. In the Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Warwickshire, Worcestershire, &c., Class it was a treat to see the long, low level Curio win again, after knowing full well the good he has done in Warwickshire; and a charming young horse was shown here by Mr. Haslewood, of Buxton, and that gentleman invariably picks up the best, as Red Eagle once belonged to him, then Battlement, and now Landsman, a son of Ladas, and a Gallinule mare; and so what blood for a hunter! Another that kept haunting me with his blood-like outline and quick, sharp action, was Mr. C. M. Prior’s Rathburne, a winner of the Brighton Stakes in his time, and the judges rightly took to him. The executive was very wise to get Sir Charles Nugent and Mr. J. M. Richardson on their bench of enquiry, as they were not likely to make any mistakes.

MR. DRAGE’S KING EDWARD.
First and Champion at the Hunters’ Improvement Society’s Show.

Photo by F. Babbage.]

After much had been seen in regard to the hunting sires themselves, it was all the more interesting to follow in the steps of the Hunters’ Improvement Society, and at no show has the results, in the shape of produce, come out so satisfactorily. The four-year-old winner, Splasher, bred and shown by a tenant farmer, was by Burnock-Water, four times a King’s Premium taker, and the three-year-old filly, and champion of all the young hunters, namely, Watercress, belonged to the same owner, and was by the same sire. This was precisely what the Royal Commission has aimed at, to enrich the tenant farmer. There were many other results to observe in the same direction, notably in the case of Battlement, presented with two Premiums in the past career for Staffordshire, Shropshire, Warwickshire, South Wales, &c., and from Shropshire came the beautiful Bandetta, by Battlement, who was unlucky not to have won in her class. Then there was Havoc, well known at the Royal Commission Shows, and the sire of Destruction, a winner in this; and the second to the champion filly, Watercress, was Paleface, by Ringoal, who was introduced into Huntingdonshire by the Royal Commission. Added to this also, there was stock of great value seen by Wales, including four in the group, and the second and third in the three-year-old class, won by Destruction. The champion of the show, Mr. Drage’s (now Mr. Cory Wright’s) King Edward, had unfortunately no pedigree given, though doubtless extremely well bred, and the question arises as to whether all the societies now are not strong enough to insist on pedigrees at entry pro bono publico.

One might go on writing in Baily for ever about these shows, as they have taught us a great deal in the last few weeks; and something might be said to the Government about the horse-breeding industry, and of its vast importance to the British empire.

Mr. Rawdon Lee’s work established its claim to place as the best and most comprehensive book published on dogs when it first appeared. The third edition of “Modern Dogs (Sporting Division)”^[8] is now before us, and the contents bear evidence of exercise of all those qualities which stamped the earlier issues: wide and intimate knowledge, patient and exhaustive enquiry.

The title may be said to fall short of the scope of the work; for the author’s pages contain much relating to the history of the older breeds which lends additional interest to his remarks on their modern descendants, and additional value to the work as one of record.

KERRY BEAGLES.

From the drawing in “Modern Dogs (Sporting Division).” (Reproduced by permission of the Publisher, Mr. Horace Cox.)

Certain new features are noticeable in the third edition. The portraits of those famous greyhounds Master M’Grath and Fullerton were well worth inclusion, the more so as given on one plate which, as Mr. Lee observes, affords opportunity to compare the remarkable dissimilarity in build and conformation between the two most celebrated dogs of their respective periods, the seventies and the nineties. Admirers of the Welsh foxhound will appreciate the inclusion of Mr. Wardle’s clever drawing of two couples of representatives of this breed, famed as far back as the tenth century, if the hounds appraised in the Laws of Howel Dha were the ancestors of the modern animal. The author believes that the Ynysfor pack, owned by Mr. Jones, of Penrhyn Deudraeth, is the one which boasts the greatest purity of Welsh blood, but he does not think there exists in Wales or elsewhere “an entire pack of the pure Welsh hound, either of harrier or of foxhound stamp (for there are two varieties) with the wire-haired crisp coat.” The hounds which furnished Mr. Wardle for his portraits were from the otterhunting establishments of Mr. Wynn, of Rug, now given up, and from that of Mr. E. Buckley. The value of the Welsh hound for otterhunting has long been appreciated in the Principality. Mr. Buckley considers those he possesses better than the otterhound, as they feel the cold less, and their shorter coats dry more quickly. Summing up all the evidence for and against the Welsh hound, Mr. Lee holds that a capital case in his favour has been made out. Another new illustration is that of examples of the Kerry beagle; this breed survives, so far as is known, only in the kennels of Mr. Clement Ryan (the Scarteen). In that of Mr. Aubrey Wallis, Master of the recently established Millstreet Harriers, the blood of the Scarteen black and tans has been used. The Kerry beagle’s origin has been traced to the south of France, whence Mr. John Ryan brought them some time during the latter half of the eighteenth century. Among the new matters which has been added to the gun-dog section we must notice the Welsh springer, which in 1902 was accepted as a distinct variety, and allotted separate classes by the Kennel Club.

The author reviews the evidence advanced by the advocates for this step, and the Welsh spaniel takes his place among modern dogs; deservedly, for this is a hardy, courageous, docile dog, and possesses excellent nose. The Welsh variety stands out much higher on the leg than other spaniels, and Mr. Wardle’s picture gives the idea of a dog at once sporting and handsome. The third edition of Modern (Sporting) Dogs is in every way a worthy successor to its forerunners. Higher praise could not be given.

The building of cottages in the country is a matter that has attracted much attention latterly, and this little work,^[9] though it embraces the erection of buildings other than the labourer’s cottage, will be found of practical assistance to all who may contemplate building as a business. The authors display practical knowledge of their subject, from foundation to roof, if we may use the expression, and they show up in a lurid light the wanton absurdity of the building laws now in force in some localities. This is a subject to which public attention was drawn by the public-spirited action of Sir William Grantham not very long ago; and in the interests of the poorer classes it is much to be hoped that the more unreasonable clauses of these bye-laws will be revised to make cottage building possible. All classes of small dwellings, from that which costs £1,000 downwards to erect, are considered; and most of the materials in general use are dealt with. An exception occurs in the clay blocks, which, protected by weather boarding, Sir Walter Gilbey has so successfully employed on his Essex property. This method of construction, cheap, efficient, and picturesque as it has proved, deserves to be more widely known. The pictures, drawings, and photographs are admirable, and the plans are clearly and well drawn.

Bridge is said to be losing some of its vogue, but the appearance of a fifth edition of the work^[10] by “Cut Cavendish” seems to contradict the assertion. As the author observes, “unfortunately, with many people it has developed into a form of disease.” This is true, but the regrettable fact that bridge takes the shape of monomania with some enthusiasts does not affect the merit of the game, which, pursued in moderation, deserves all the praise bestowed upon it. The author has, as in previous editions, made a point of giving counsel and explanation in the most lucid form, and his book may be cordially recommended to all who wish to improve their play. We had been about to say “who are learning the game,” but hesitate to use a phrase which should imply the existence of any one who has failed to master it! A welcome addition to the work is an exposition of “Misery bridge.”

Not only is this form of the game an excellent one for two players, infinitely superior, in our judgment, to double dummy bridge, it is a capital education for the four-handed game. It may safely be said that any player who has attained to proficiency in misery bridge may take a hand in the parent game without fear of incurring those silent anathemas which befall the incompetent player who ventures into skilled company.

Half-a-dozen short stories are included in this little book,^[11] the title of which promises a Turf atmosphere. Two of the collection, however, deal with racing, the others having scarcely a bowing acquaintance with the course. All are readable, nevertheless, and may be recommended as suitable to while away the tedium of a railway journey.

RACING.

It was with a certain zest that we turned to the Sandown Park meeting that occupied the first three days of March, for the racing of the preceding fortnight or more had been sadly lacking in interest. The first of the three days was denominated the Sandown Park March Meeting, the Grand Military occupying the next two days, and the sport, on the whole, was of an interesting character. On the Club day the appearance of John M.P. in the Liverpool Trial Steeplechase was an event in itself sufficient to account for the distinctly large attendance. It was a weight-for-age race, and the winning of it did not entail any penalty for the Grand National, save in the case of a horse that had already won a steeplechase of three miles or over since the date of closing. John M.P. had already won such a race when he beat pointless Desert Chief and the untrained Kirkland, at Hurst Park; but the penalty entailed would not signify very much, the weight assigned to John M.P. in the Grand National entitling him to a deduction of half the penalty, in his case 4 lb., so that only 2 lb. extra would have to be carried. A strong impression was also abroad that John M.P would not start for the Liverpool race, but be reserved for the valuable steeplechase at Auteuil in June. That he would win this race seemed to be taken for granted, since 3 to 1 had to be laid on, which was holding the other Grand National horses in the race somewhat cheap; but of course the weight-for-age conditions made all the difference. The three and a half miles did not worry John M.P. in the least. Nothing else could go fast enough to make him really gallop, and a loud exclamation of admiration from the stands burst forth spontaneously when at the water the second time he gained a matter of three lengths from the then leader, Wolfs Folly, in front of whom he cantered home. What he had in hand it was impossible to say.

That any one of the old-time functions is a patch upon what it was formerly is naturally not admitted by the old brigade, whose opinions are, of course, expressed in the usual manner upon the Grand Military. That gentlemen riders of forefront ability are scarce is not to be disputed, and possibly the winner of the Grand Military Gold Cup of the day could not compare in class with many of his predecessors; but the old sporting spirit is still there, and the Gold Cup is coveted as much as ever. Two or three months previous to the meeting a vigorous quest was in progress with a view to securing a potential winner of this race, and in this way Royal Blaze was purchased for, it is said, £500. The purchase proved to be a happy one, for Royal Blaze won the cup for Mr. R. F. Eyre. It was a lucky win, perhaps, but one that was well deserved, Royal Blaze being sent to make the best of his way home from the mile post, whereas Prizeman, whose rider lacked experience between the flags, left matters so late that, although he was going two yards to the one of Royal Blaze and Prince Tallyrand in the last hundred and fifty yards, he had to put up with third place, two heads behind the winner. It was a desperately exciting finish, and when the post was passed the race was not over, for Mr. R. C. de Crespigny, the owner of Prince Tallyrand, laid an objection to the winner on the technical ground that a contingency had not been properly registered. Such an objection had been forestalled by an application at Weatherby’s, where everything was declared to be in order. The stewards, on the second day, over-ruled the objection, but Mr. de Crespigny did not let the matter drop, pressing for an appeal. The laying of technical objections in such races was formerly not thought of, and possibly the breaking of this chivalrous custom gives the old brigade a genuine opportunity for pointing their moral.

On the second day we saw a remarkable performance over hurdles on the part of Rassendyl, the hurdle-racer who has so rapidly made a name for himself this season. He was carrying the nice little steadier of 13 st. 3 lb. and, what was so astonishing, all but carried it home. Such was the confidence in him that his jockey did not hesitate to make running. When half the distance of two and a half miles had been covered, Rassendyl was dispossessed of the lead, but lay by handy, and took command again at the first of the two flights in the straight, in spite of having been carried out wide at the bend. He led to the run-in, where, however, Bellivor Tor challenged and won by a neck. We English are hoping that Rassendyl will be sent to Auteuil and further the entente by winning the big hurdle-race there. The success of an English horse in France is by no means necessarily unpopular with the French betting public, which means a few tens of thousands, for, if he be a good one, national pride goes into the pocket, and they are on him to a man, to say nothing of the women. The numbers of frugal Frenchwomen who slave all the week, but have five or ten francs on every race on Sundays, is astonishing to the stranger from this side of the Channel. But on the Continent there is less fear of Mrs. Grundy than here.

The racegoer, as manufactured by the modern “park” meeting, is unable to understand the interest that is taken in the annual National Hunt Steeplechase. Here we have £1,000 given for a race for five-year-olds and over, the primary condition of which is that no runner shall have previously won a steeplechase or hurdle-race, or a flat race of any description; point-to-point races not counting as steeplechases. This, at one fell swoop, abolishes all notions of “class,” a feature which we find emphasised by last year’s winner, Miss Clifton II., who for years had tried to win this race and several others, without, of course, succeeding. When, during a dark period of mistaken policy, the National Hunt Committee apportioned the race to Metropolitan enclosed courses, bearing no sort of resemblance to the real thing, the Londoner had perforce tried to grasp the inwardness of the race, but failed. Such form as there was puzzled him, which means that the betting was not to his liking; and that is the only side of racing which interests him. How so many people could take the interest they did—and as just as many still do—in the doings of such mediocre public performers was always beyond him, as it always will be. To enjoy the National Hunt Steeplechase in the way it has been presented in more recent times at Warwick and Cheltenham, one must have been educated amongst hunting surroundings. To such this class of racing talks a language utterly incomprehensible to the others referred to, who, understanding nothing of the niceties of cross-country riding and unable to appreciate the qualities of a cross-country horse, have no interest whatever in a race beyond the position occupied at the finish by the animals they have backed.

If one were called upon to decide between the Cheltenham and Warwick courses, one might be inclined to vote for Warwick, although there is not so much in it so far as the actual course is concerned, each presenting a neat assortment of grass-land and plough. But at Warwick we possess the not insignificant advantage of being able to see nearly every yard of the four miles, the hill, from which outsiders obtain such an excellent view, being all there is in the way of those in the stands, where the accommodation, although not precisely up to date, is much better than that at Cheltenham. The meeting at which the race takes place is one concerning the success of which no doubt has to be entertained. The county people could not be made to stay away by any sort of weather, so, although rain was threatening on Thursday, the 8th ult., the county stand, from the condition of which I should judge of the success of this particular meeting, was crowded with the right sort. So far as owners were concerned there was every evidence of the popularity of the race in the large field of twenty-eight that ran. This number has rarely been exceeded, a notable occasion being the race of 1860, in which year, I fancy, the event was inaugurated, and when thirty-one ran. One can have but little sympathy with those who suggest that two-thirds of the number might as well have stayed at home, for all the chance they had of winning. If sport were always looked at thus there would soon be very little of any kind to look at all, and what was left would scarcely be deserving of the name of sport. Of the twenty-eight, Glenrex and Portlight II. had filled places in previous contests, Glenrex having run second last year, and, being also mentioned in the Grand National betting, started favourite. Glenrex came down in the plough a mile or more from the finish, the running having been made from about half-way by Count Rufus, by Wise Count out of an Arraby dam. The same plough which proved fatal to Glenrex seemed likely to also settle the chance of Count Rufus, for he was passed by Portlight II., but on the good going on the racecourse Count Rufus quickly asserted himself and won very easily in the end. In finishing second Portlight II. is possibly merely following the lead of Miss Clifton II., to eventually win outright. Count Rufus had cost £300, and had won some point-to-point races, which made his starting price of 25 to 1 so surprising.

Comfort, who won the National Hunt Steeplechase in 1903, the year the race was last run at Warwick previous to Cheltenham getting it for two years, did something towards bettering the none too good reputation of winners, who seldom do much afterwards, by winning the Warwick Handicap Steeplechase, after a good tussle with Royal Drake, who broke down rather badly, although finishing second. On another occasion something should be done to prevent the landing side of the water from becoming a quagmire. More than one horse failed to keep its footing in consequence of this, the fault being, apparently, an overflow from the water.

John M.P. made another taking appearance at Hurst Park on the Saturday in this week in the Open Steeplechase, which proved in practice to be the gift it seemed on paper. The odds on were of course practically prohibitive.

It is by no means certain that foxhunting has any more enemies now than in earlier times. The great danger seems to be from the lukewarmness or injudicious action of its friends. Probably Mr. Charles Brook, of the Holderness, pointed to the real danger when he complained of the want of knowledge of hunting in those who follow the sport. For this there is a real reason, in that hunting people nowadays have so many other occupations and amusements. Hunting is only one of them. People hunt in greater numbers, but they do not see so much of the sport itself as we did in the days when we lived more in the country, hunted from home, and took the good and the bad days as they came. In very popular hunts there are fewer good days, for the simple reason that unless hounds can go fast enough to keep out of the way of the field, it is not easy to see a hunt when there is a crowd.

Second horses, though, a great addition to one’s pleasure, have this disadvantage, that if we have to make one horse go through the day we shall be more likely to succeed if we know what hounds are doing, so as to gain all we can by the turns in our favour. Thus it is obvious that a knowledge of hunting keeps us out of mischief and enables us to do less damage. But every now and then we read attacks on hunting which are obviously based on sentimental ignorance.

The latest subject is the treatment of hounds by the hunt servants. Now I have had, and have still, a great many friends among a class of men who are notable for their good qualities, their ability, and their integrity. Of course, young men are sometimes a little too rough with hounds, but the most successful huntsmen, and whippers-in, too, are those who have the gift of attaching hounds to them. I think we may take it as an established fact that hounds never do their best for a man who cannot win their affections. It is too funny to read of hounds escaping from kennel and dying miserably in a ditch because they were afraid to return. 1 wonder if people have any idea of the value of a well-bred foxhound. Perhaps they think because they are numerous, therefore they are cheap, and, like Beckford’s auctioneer, think a pack would be dear at a shilling a head. Some kind friend has been sending me curiosities of literature in the way of hunting correspondence; two I think are worthy of being remembered. One of the writers, wishing to say that at a particular juncture of a hunt the field refreshed themselves, wrote that a considerable number took St. Paul’s advice to Timothy, evidently not holding with the temperance lecturer who accounted for this by saying he supposed it was meant for outward application only. The other reported that a well-known pack ran a stag to earth.

When sport has been so good and the weather so bad, if we say that a particular pack has had sport, we do not mean to suggest that others have not, but only that it has come under our notice. Yet, when the weather is such that frosts make hunting uncertain, I do think the Belvoir have a little the best of it, so few are the days in the season when they cannot hunt in some part or other of their wide territory.

On a cold morning they met at Landyke Lane, on Friday, February 23rd. Scent was at first only moderate, but as the hours went on matters improved, and the day ended with a brilliant Belvoir burst from Hose Thorns. Hounds seemed to be catching their fox all the way to Clawson Thorns, the pace and drive growing greater as the field bustled along on the track of the flying hounds. It was almost twenty minutes from the start to the time when the fox escaped, owing to the number of fresh lines in the covert. Mrs. Clayton Swan’s horse slipped on the greasy turf and she had a nasty fall. Ash Wednesday is no longer a hunting day with the Belvoir, but in any case the ground was impossible for riding in the Midlands. Thursday was possible enough, but a most unpleasant day, and the pack I hunted with did little, and I confess to coming home early, fairly driven off by weather. In the Belvoir country things improved as the day wore on. The smallest field of the season, and a riding one, found themselves with a stout fox and a racing pack in front of them. It is a hilly country, and the fences held the field in check so that hounds could run without interference. The fox went straight into Freeby Wood. Ben Capell, taking a leaf out of the late Sir Charles Slingsby’s book, held the pack right round the wood. Then an advantage was gained and the pace became hotter than ever as the end drew near.

Not so fast, but even better as a hunt, was the run of Wednesday, March 7th! The Belvoir met at Sproxton, and went on to draw Lord Dysart’s coverts at Buckminster. These proved to be blank, but—Coston covert is only just outside—a fine clean fox, springing up, was driven across to Buckminster. With their fox running up wind, hounds drove right on to Gunby Gorse, which, it is needless to say, is in the Cottesmore.

When they came away it was clear that they had changed, for whereas the original fox had a full brush, the new quarry was a bobtailed one, but in time this one was changed for a well-known out-lier that has hitherto defied Thatcher, and which, by accident or design, choosing a line over some plough, defeated Capell also.

A curious day was March 3rd, when the Cottesmore met at Somerby Hall. The events threw some light on the habits of foxes in a much-hunted country. The hounds spoke in the first covert, but it was clear the fox had taken the hint and left some time before. A second fox from another covert slipped away unseen as hounds were thrown in, and his line, too, failed; lastly, a third fox was discovered in the tree in Stapleford Park; which has become quite a sure find. This causes one’s interest in the curious limitations of a fox’s mind. The two mentioned first were perhaps scared by the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and, it may be, the hoots of a motor-car, which must, one would suppose, in the Shires be quite a familiar sign of a coming meet. At all events, they were sharp enough to take a hint and make themselves scarce, but the tree-haunting fox or foxes of Stapleford have not yet found out that their enemies know of their hiding-place, and come straight for it.

What some people say was the fastest gallop of the season took place with the Quorn on March 5th, from Grimstone Gorse to Sleaford. The pace, the country covered, and the going were all good, yet there were, in fact, only four or five men really in it. The rest of the large field were practically out of it. It seems as if John Isaac, who is to have a well-deserved testimonial, was having good fortune in his last season. The Pytchley Wednesdays since Christmas have been unusually good, although, when one casts one’s mind back on them, it does not seem that any day rises above the level of good sport. Two points, however, we notice, that the bitch pack was worked well, and that, in conjunction with their huntsman, they made the best of whatever scent there is. So, Wednesday after Wednesday, the Pytchley followers have had a glorious day of sport to look back to, in the cream of their country. Another huntsman who retires at the end of the season, George Shepherd, has shown very good sport lately, his best run probably being from Sleaford, on Thursday, March 8th. Lord Charles Bentinck has been out to study the country, the run of the foxes, and to make acquaintance with the members of the Blankney Hunt. To return to Sleaford, the fox was lying out, but, once afoot, returned to Sleaford Wood. For an hour and a half, always at a fair pace, this gallant fox held on, and, with hounds close to his brush, found an impregnable refuge at last. Fortunately the line was not straight; had it been so, few indeed would have seen it.

Imagine Lincolnshire riding deep in this part of the country, where hairy fences and such ditches as they know how to dig hereabouts, abound. As it was, with the aid of a little luck and a great deal of perseverance, a fair number reached the end. It was a very enjoyable sort of hunt, an interesting bit of hound-work, and the huntsman intervened just at the critical moment with a most timely and well-judged cast.

If we are to search for a characteristic of this season it might almost be found in the readiness of foxes to take to the water. I should be afraid to say how many times foxes have swum across flooded rivers during the late hunting season. The River Nene, in the Northamptonshire country of the Fitzwilliam, has been crossed several times. The last fox that braved its swollen waters was one of three found at Lilford on March 10th. After running the fox right round the park, scent on the grass proved too good, and he boldly swam the River Nene at Wadenhoe. The object of this manœuvre was successful, since, as once before, he gained so much that eventually he ran his pursuers out of the scent. The Fitzwilliam country is just now the best hunted country in England. It is probably the only country in England that could or would supply foxes and sport to four packs of hounds. First, there is the historic Milton pack, then Mr. Fernies’ is given some woodland days; Lord Exeter, with the help of occasional days in the Belvoir country, finds work for his pack there; and for a fortnight Lord Fitzwilliam took his hounds (bitch pack) to Milton, and hunted on alternate days with his cousin’s pack.

Lord Fitzwilliam’s have also had a good month, in spite of rough weather.

On March 1st they manifested their remarkable power of holding to their hunted fox in a strong woodland country. The fixture was at Blatherwycke, Mr. Stafford O’Brien’s place on the borders of the Woodland Pytchley and the Fitzwilliam countries. Finding in Hostage Wood, they hunted partly over the open, and a rough country it is hereabouts, and partly in the big coverts. There has been no such woodland hunting as this anywhere, hounds stuck resolutely to their fox with a most inspiring chorus—the Fitzwilliam are famous for their music—for an hour and a quarter, and rolled the fox over at last. Nor was this all. A second fox was roused. He slipped away some distance ahead of hounds, but they drove along to such purpose for twenty minutes, making the best of the scent, that by the time the fox had reached the wide woodlands known as the Bedford Purlieus they were close to his brush. A half-beaten fox in a most carefully preserved wood—these coverts belong to Lord Fitzwilliam—has several chances in his favour, and at least one other fox was afoot, but once more hounds held to the hunted one and proved themselves, as indeed they have done all this season, a most killing pack.

On Ash Wednesday the Old Berkeley West had rather a remarkable day’s hunting. They met at Hartwell. The bag for the day was one fox killed from Kimblewick after an hour’s good hunting; one badger hunted to ground in the open, and another one killed.

I think, however, that the run of the Warwickshire on February 22nd, from Shuckburgh, will remain as the best gallop of the month, and perhaps, all things considered, the greatest foxhunt of the season. The run was divided in three portions. The first an eager scurry of three miles or so over grass pastures and flying fences. Then came a period of hunting with a check of some length. Horses had to gallop for part of the time, but it was possible to choose one’s places in the fences. Lastly, there was a very stiff bit of country, with hounds running into their fox all the way.

We expect to hear of hunt changes in April, and there are plenty in prospect, but it shows the vitality of foxhunting that the countries which are vacant fill up so readily. On the courteous principle of ladies first, we may note that Mrs. Burrell has arranged to hunt the part of Northumberland held by the late Sir J. Miller two days a week at her own expense. This has been heartily accepted by the hunting folk of that section of the old N.B.H. country. The Cambridgeshire, an old county pack with a long record of sport, have a new master in Mr. Crossman. Colonel Sprot takes Captain Gilmour’s place with the Fife. He has promised so far as the circumstances of the country permit, to hunt three days a week. That charming bit of Irish-like hunting ground in the far west, known as the Four Burrow, though it makes no change—Mr. J. Williams has been Master for twenty-eight years—is to increase its hunting days from two to three a week. This is the direct consequence of the way foxes are preserved, and is worth noting, because in Cornwall the trapping which has formed so formidable a difficulty in some west country hunts has not here done any material damage.

A gloom was cast over Yorkshire hunting last month by the death of Captain J. R. Lane Fox, the much respected Master of the Bramham Moor. Captain Fox had been in failing health for some months, but no immediate danger was anticipated. On Sunday, February 25th, he had a seizure and he died the next morning, a couple of days before completing his sixty-fifth year.

It is just ten years since he succeeded his father as Master of the Bramham Moor Hounds, and it is unnecessary to say that during his tenure of office the old traditions of the Hunt were well maintained. Captain Lane Fox’s amiable temper and unfailing courtesy gained him a host of friends in all classes of society, and he will long be a missed man in the country with which the name of Lane Fox is so closely and honourably associated.

A biographical notice of the late Captain J. R. Lane Fox appears in another column.

The Bramham Moor had a nice hunt on Monday, February 12th, from Beckwithshaw Bar. After rather an unusually long draw for the country, they found in the Boar Holes and pointed for Swarcliffe, but a blinding storm came on, caused the fox to swing round at Penny Pot lane, and they hunted back slowly by Birk Crag and Ruddocks Wood, and finally marked the fox to ground in the quarry at Thirkell’s Whin. They found again in the Lake Plantation at Farnley, and at a good pace hounds rattled along over the Washburn, pointing for Leathley. Then they ran on by Riffa Wood, but bore left-handed for Stainburn Gile. Before reaching this stronghold the fox was headed, and, turning short back, hounds left Riffa Wood on the right and ran on by Bailey’s Whin and across the Stainburn road, where they got on good terms with their fox. He was viewed here and headed, and hounds checked and did no more good. Up to the check it was a sporting run over a sporting country.

The Holderness had a good gallop on Monday, February 19th, when they met at Brandesburton Moor. Nunkeeling Whin provided a stout fox, and hounds were scarcely in covert before they were away close at his brush. They streamed away to Billings Hill and thence by Dunnington to Dringhoe. Here they checked momentarily, but they righted themselves and ran on at a fine pace to Nunkeeling Whin, finishing the ring in a little under the hour. The fox was only just in front of them and had no time to dwell in covert, and they rattled along cheerily by Frodingham Grange, North Frodingham and Trickett’s Whin to Beeford Grange, where they rolled their fox over in the open.

The Sinnington commenced the month of March well. They met at Bowforth on the 1st, and, after a run from Muscoate’s Whin and round by Mr. Martin’s Farm, which ended in the fox giving them the slip, they went on to Jack Slater’s Plantation, where they found a straight-necked hill-fox, such as the Sinnington country is famous for. They ran first over a charming low country over the Ness road, and nearly to Nunnington, and then, twisting to the right, they ran on over the Riccal Beck and across the end of Riccal Dale. Then, at a famous pace, they ran by Con Howe, nearly to Carlton Village, where they swung to the left into Ashdale. They ran close past the main earths and over Birk Dale to the Griff Farm, where they checked at the road, but, recovering the line in an instant, they ran right up to the railings at Rievaulx Terrace. Here, unfortunately, the field halloaed them on to another fox, and the run came to an end, after a famous gallop of an hour and three minutes.

The York and Ainsty had quite an useful day’s sport on Tuesday, March 6th, when they met at Rufforth Village. According to arrangement, they went to draw the Bramham Moor Friday’s country, and found a brace of foxes in White Skye Whin. Unluckily, hounds divided, and seven couple went away with a fox in the direction of Bickerton Spring, and were soon stopped. The body of the pack ran on cheerily for a little short of a mile, pointing for Marston Station. Then the fox was headed, and they hunted him slowly back to White Skye Whin, where he beat them. They drew Wilstrop Wood blank, but found in the Rash hard by a brace of foxes, which they took across into Wilstrop Wood, and with one of which they went away slowly to Hutton Thorns, where scent failed. Then came rather a cheery run from the Crow Wood, by Rufforth Village into Rufforth Whin, whence they hunted back by the Crow Wood into Collier Stagg, and through it to Fairy Carrs, where they marked their fox to ground. They went to draw Collier Hagg, but, before hounds were in covert, a fox was halloaed away at the other side, and they ran at a good pace by Rufforth Village into Rufforth Whin. After a turn or two round the covert they went away again and hunted slowly back to Collier Hagg. Thence they took a line out on the Marston side, and, with a left-hand turn, pointed for Healaugh, and worked up to the fox and rolled him over on the Askham and Healaugh road, so making a satisfactory finish to a day in which there was a lot of hard work for hounds.

It appears that some errors crept into the account of this event, published in Baily’s for February, The Grafton Hunt has American-bred hounds and the Middlesex imported hounds. Each pack hunted on six days, and the strength of either was: American hounds, 6 couple; English, 18½ couple. Mr. Harry Smith, Master of the Grafton, has been kind enough to put us right on these points: he adds that the English hounds are drafts, principally from Mr. Fernie’s, and that the American pack, as the “Van Driver” conjectured, are pure-bred foxhounds, descended from imported English hounds. The American-bred hounds stand about twenty-two inches high, and are lighter in build than their imported relatives. Mr. Smith observes that “in America, where the scent is bad and the sun is hot, it is absolutely necessary to have a pack able to take up a cold trail from the night before, work it to the kennel and start the fox themselves. If they lose it on a dusty road or wall the same faculty for cold trailing is necessary.” The American method, in fact, is that in vogue on the fells, where hounds unkennel their fox in much the same way. Mr. Smith tells us that though his pack did not kill during the match, they killed three red and two grey foxes in the open during the two following weeks, hunting the same country.

BREEDING OF THOROUGHBREDS.

Captain W. Tower Townshend, Derry, Roscarberry, co. Cork, writes as follows: I have just read with much interest your article on “The Thoroughbred,” in Baily’s for February, which any man who has endeavoured to breed a good all-round thoroughbred must agree with, save that your correspondent does not include change of soil and air—to my mind a powerful factor in improving the race of pure-bred horses. We see during the last racing year what Irish-bred horses have done on the English Turf, and I need not tell you we have not a tithe of the fashionable blood over here that you have in England. While the late Duke of Westminster’s celebrated Bend Or was alive, the “Special Commissioner” of the Sportsman was constantly advocating that he should be sent to Ireland, when he predicted he would probably have sired another Ormond. I have no doubt, judging from my own experience, had the Duke done as the Sportsman advised, he would have done so. Some years ago I imported Town Moor, by Doncaster—Euxine, who, you will remember, ran third in Iroquois’ Derby, and then stood in the Queen’s stud at Hampton Court, where he got every chance with the very best mares, but never got any horse of exceptional merit. But during his first season in this country, when an old horse of 18 years, with the slenderest of chances, he bred Gogo to Endocia,^[12] a mare belonging to Lord Fermoy, that was generally acknowledged to be the best two-year-old in Ireland. Town Moor unfortunately died two years after reaching these shores, or no doubt after Gogo’s fame there would have been a great run on his services. I wish more of the big English breeders could be persuaded to send brood mares over here, and try the experiment of a complete change. I am convinced it would tell most advantageously on the vigour and stoutness of the coming young stock, as both the climate and soil of Ireland seem fitted by Nature for horse-breeding; the winters being so mild the mares can be left out all day and night till they foal, and the best of grass can be hired far cheaper than it can in England.

“Transatlantic” writes from New York as follows: Although there were not sufficient entries in 1905 to give a contest for the championship of polo, that game is advancing in the United States, not only in the number of players and of clubs, but in the excellence of methods. The repeal of the law against, and thus allowing of, crooking of mallets has proved popular. In this association there are now 542 players rated as active, and 54 players penalised as much as 4 goals, what might be the “Recent Form” list. Dr. Milburn, of Boston, has been advanced from 5 to 6 goals, and Dr. Chauncey, of New York, from 4 to 6 goals. The three highest handicaps at 9 goals are R. L. Agassiz, Foxhall Keene, and Larry Waterbury. In the class at 8 goals are only John Cowdin, Monty Waterbury, and Harry Whitney. The only one at 7 goals is Thos. Hitchcox. There are 35 clubs listed. Regular play has been going on during the winter at Burlinghame, California, and at Camden, South Carolina; and tournaments in the north will begin at the Lakewood New Jersey Club in March.

THE M.C.C. CRICKETERS IN SOUTH AFRICA.

Despatches from the front have not been very reassuring, and the second so-called Test Match was lost by Mr. Warner’s team by the large margin of nine wickets.

The Englishmen lost because they did not score a sufficient number of runs; and their chief trouble throughout this unfortunate tour appears to come from the fact that their batting is extremely unreliable, and they are without the help of steady batsmen of the stamp of Tom Hayward or Quaife, who would go in first and stay there. Certainly Mr. Warner can go in first, but in South Africa he cannot always stay there, and on more than one occasion his side has had two wickets down with but a small score on the board, and this is always a demoralising state of affairs for a moderate batting side.

We understand that in their minor matches at home against clubs and schools it has been the policy of the M.C.C. to send a team which shall, more or less, and often enough less, be of relative strength or weakness to the other side, in order that the game may not be too one-sided. So that an error of judgment in estimating the strength of the opponents may cost the match.

It appears to us that in organising this team for South Africa, the M.C.C. authorities greatly underrated the strength of their opponents, and so from the point of view of the South Africans the tour has rather failed, since they have proved themselves a better lot of cricketers than the visiting team.

On the other hand, an English team touring in Africa has, for mercenary considerations, to play several games against odds in up-country places where the standard of cricket is very low indeed, and where, probably, the first-class African cricketers would never be seen. And for these purposes the more powerful the visiting team the more futile becomes the burlesque of cricket.

As proof of this we need only refer to a week’s work of Mr. Warner’s by no means powerful team. They beat fifteen of King William’s Town by an innings and 296 runs, the Englishmen scoring 415 runs for eight wickets against 75 and 44 by the fifteen. In the next match eighteen of Queenstown were beaten by an innings and 176 runs; the scores being 400 for eight wickets, as against 111 and 113 by the eighteen. For such a performance as this it would obviously not be worth the while of a first-rate cricketer to travel from England to King William’s Town, and yet for the games against All South Africa it is equally not worth while for a moderate cricketer to travel from England to Johannesburg.

Until recently the same difficulty beset the path of English teams touring in Australia, that they were sent to play ridiculous matches against battalions of bad players, and probably the M.C.C. in organising this tour found it difficult to persuade the best amateurs to devote so much time to a campaign which, roughly speaking, includes so few first-class matches. And so Mr. Warner apparently finds himself in the uncomfortable position of taking round a team too good for the country players and not good enough for the town players.

In the second Test Match the scoring was singularly low for a good matting wicket at Johannesburg. The Africans won with scores of 277 and 34 for one wicket, as against 148 and 160 by the M.C.C. team; and in the M.C.C. second innings eight men made only 16 runs between them, which reads like disappointing batting. On the other hand, eight of the Africans scored double figures.

The third Test Match found Africa starting well enough with 385, every one scoring double figures except Mr. Hathorn, who made 102. Thanks to a fine innings by Mr. F. L. Fane, who made 143, the Englishmen got to within 90 runs of their formidable opponents at the end of the second day’s play, but in this innings six men only scored 17 runs between them.

The third day of the third Test Match was good business for the Africans, who hit up 349 runs for the loss of only five wickets, and then dismissed Messrs. Warner and Hartley before the call of time, leaving the Englishmen 425 run to the bad with only eight wickets in hand. The English bowling was clearly to the liking of their opponents, for again, with the exception of the not-out men, all scored double figures. White 147, Tancred 73, Nourse 55, and Sinclair 48, doing most of the damage. Mr. Crawford could not get a wicket, and Hayes was not put on to bowl in the whole course of the match, and Lees with nine out of the fifteen wickets that fell was the most successful of our bowlers.

The last day’s play brought the match to its logical conclusion, and the M.C.C. team were easily beaten by 243 runs. Denton 61 and Crawford 34 being the only two men to score more than 20 runs.

An odd feature of the game was the success of the cricketers whose names begin with S. It is needless to say there were none on the English side, but the five who played for South Africa got all the wickets between them, and caught all the catches, bar two; for Shalders, Sinclair, Schwartz, Snooke, and Sherwell are the only African names which appear in the score of M.C.C. except Vogler and White, who made three catches between them. Snooke took twelve wickets in the match, and Sherwell caught five men at the wicket.

So the first three of the so-called Test Matches were all lost, each one by a bigger margin than its predecessors.

There can be but little interest left now in the tour of this M.C.C. team, which went to Africa practically asking for defeat, and has certainly suffered it. Probably the next time the South Africans desire to entertain a good cricket team they will invite an Australian team to come over and give them a good game, for the Australians can be trusted to bring their best men upon such an occasion, and that is the way to set about International cricket.

The recent headings in the newspapers, “England v. South Africa. Crushing Defeat of England,” are not very pleasant reading, and are not calculated to advance the prestige of English cricket, and it is our sincere hope that in future, should the Marylebone Club be ever again invited to organise a team to visit our cricket-playing Colonies, those who are entrusted with the selection of the players will send either the best or none at all.

It is unfair to the men themselves and to their Colonial hosts, and especially to English cricket, that a team such as the one at present touring in Africa should by any misnomer be regarded as representative of England.

It was a melancholy end which closed the career of Richard Humphrey, the famous Surrey batsman of the seventies. He was found drowned in the River Thames near Waterloo Bridge on February 24th, having been missing from his home for nearly a month.

“Dick” Humphrey was in his fifty-seventh year, and from the time that he first gained a place in the Surrey eleven he was always closely associated with cricket, at first as a very good batsman and afterwards as a coach and umpire. Tom Humphrey, the elder brother, made the family name famous in the cricket world, and the many long partnerships for the first wicket between Tom Humphrey and Harry Jupp made the fame of “the two Surrey boys.”

Unlike many of the mainstays of Surrey cricket, Dick Humphrey was a bona fide product of the county, and learned his cricket in common with many another great player at Mitcham. In 1870 he gained his first trial for Surrey, but, with the exception of a score of 82 against Cambridge University, his performances scarcely justified his promise. Next year he was much more successful, as his scores of 70 against Gloucestershire, 80 against Yorkshire, and 116 not out against Kent, bear ample evidence.

The year 1872 found Dick Humphrey at the top of his game, and in the very front rank of professional batsmen. He did well both at Lord’s and the Oval for the Players against the Gentlemen, and at the Oval, going in first, he was ninth man out for a score of 96. Towards the end of that season he scored 70 in each innings against the formidable bowling of Yorkshire when Tom Emmett and Allen Hill were at their best. Considering the difficulty of making runs in those days as compared to present day first-class cricket, we may well regard these two seventies as a much bigger performance than some of the double centuries which have been not infrequent in recent years. Unless we are mistaken, he scored over 1,000 runs in that season, with an average of something like 24 runs for forty-five innings.

Richard Humphrey never gained such a high measure of success again, although he continued to be a useful member of the Surrey team, for whom he played his last match in 1881.

He also visited Australia with the team taken out by Mr. W. G. Grace. He was a batsman of the academic and steady school, and, like most of that school, paid chief attention to careful defence, combined with some strokes on the off side. After his retirement from the active pursuit of the game he did a good deal of coaching, and amongst others some generations of boys passed under his notice at Clifton College. He also umpired very regularly, and for years was in the list of umpires for the county championship, and, but for his untimely death, he was to have acted as umpire in the second-class counties’ competition for next season.

Dick Humphrey was an amiable and pleasant companion, and his melancholy death comes as a shock to his many old friends.

On February 10th last Mr. Edward Hastings Buckland died at his residence, Southgate House, Winchester, after a long and most trying illness, which he had faced throughout with the most cheerful and patient courage.

He was born on June 20th, 1864, the youngest son of the Rev. Matthew Buckland, of Laleham; one of his brothers being Mr. F. M. Buckland, who scored a century for Oxford against Cambridge in the late seventies.

“Teddy” Buckland, as he was known to a wide circle of friends, was educated at Marlborough and New College, Oxford. His all-round cricket was of great service to his school, and in 1883 for Marlborough against Cheltenham he discarded his usual style of slow round-arm bowling for fast under-hand deliveries, by which he wrought great havoc and won the match.

His first year at Oxford found him a member of the very strong team, which, under Mr. M. C. Kemp, beat both the Australians and Cambridge. For four years Mr. Buckland did good work both with bat and ball for his University, his best seasons being 1886–87.

The ’Varsity match of 1886 is memorable for the large score made by Messrs. Key and Rashleigh for the first wicket in Oxford’s second innings, the former scoring 143 and the latter 107. The rest of the Oxford eleven were advised to get out as soon as possible, and so the score-sheet does not record any double-figure score in that innings, the third highest score being 9.

Cambridge, with 340 to make, were sent in for a quarter of an hour on the second evening, and played out that time for the loss of no wicket, and the gain of no run except an extra.

On the last day of the match the Light Blues offered a dogged defence, and late in the afternoon of the third day it looked as if Cambridge would save the game, as they had 196 on the board for the loss of but four wickets.

Then it was that Mr. Buckland carried all before him, for, going on with the score at 170 and a drawn game imminent, he took the last five wickets for only 14 runs, and Cambridge were out for 206 or so. This must rank as one of the most useful bowling performances ever done at Lord’s.

In 1887 Mr. Buckland had a great match for Oxford at the Oval, when he scored 148 and took seven wickets against Surrey at their best; and as a fitting crown to his good ’Varsity career he was selected to represent the Gentlemen against the Players at Lord’s.

It is sad to think that of the Oxford eleven of 1887, Mr. E. A. Nepean predeceased his colleague by only a few weeks.

Mr. Buckland played some matches for Middlesex after coming to London, where for a time he followed up his degree in the honour school of jurisprudence by the study of law. But fortunately for Winchester College and Wykehamists it was not long before he found himself appointed assistant master at that ancient foundation, with charge of the school cricket, and in this sphere his genius for the game and his irrepressible enthusiasm soon had a marked effect upon the fortunes of Winchester cricket. All his spare time was spent upon the cricket ground, and when he was not bowling at the nets he would be umpiring or taking part in a game, and the boys knew that his critical but encouraging eye was always upon them.

In the early nineties the fruit of his teaching was seen in some very fine teams that represented Winchester, and such distinguished cricketers as J. R. Mason, H. D. G. Leveson-Gower, Vernon Hill, the Cases, C. Wigram, and H. C. McDonell are only examples of the players he turned out.

Mr. Buckland was also a very good racquet player, one of the best public school players of his day, and at racquets he was able to assist considerably the Wykehamists.

He was one of the first young cricketers to turn his attention to the royal and ancient game of golf, and at this he speedily attained great proficiency, being quite in the front rank of cricket-golfers, with a low handicap at the best meetings.

Who will win the Boat Race? This is the all-engrossing topic in sporting circles just now, for the furore for the great “Water Derby” of the year appears more pronounced than ever in 1906. From the beginning of practice it has been obvious that Oxford would be quite as strong as their winning 1905 crew, at least, while the Cambridge crew would be faster than their last year’s combination. Exigencies of the press only enable comment to be made during their intermediate stage of work on the Upper Thames, and, so far, the Dark Blues are deservedly favourites. They are better together than their rivals, and therein lies their merit. Their greater uniformity consists not only in the rise and fall of the blades, but also, even more, in the action of the slides. It may sound heresy to say so, but the fact remains that of two crews—one with blades entering the water in unison, but slides worked at irregular times, and another crew with oars visibly irregular in some places, but slides all driven with one simultaneous kick—the latter will be faster in these days (ceteris paribus, as to physique and as to boats). The irregular time of the Cantab oars, or some of them, is a handicap; but a still greater drawback, so far as prolonged speed is concerned, is their want of uniform action in sliding. When paddling they work better together, and even when at full speed do not get ragged at once.

It is after some eight or ten minutes the uneven sliding tells most. Their reach shortens, the swing fails, and pace falls off. Taken individually, they are as good a set of men in a boat as the Oxonians. It is “as a crew,” that is to say, collectively, that they fail to hit it off so well. Were their throw back of the bodies for the first catch backed by a more timely leg-drive, and by a more vertical drop of the blades into the water, it would be much more effective. As it is, the less ostentatious, but firmer and more vertical entry of the Oxford oars in the water produces more lift on the boat, and more pace in the long run. For these reasons Oxford ought to outstay Cambridge, and repeat their 1905 victory. The complaint that the Dark Blues have nearly three stone more weight on bow side than on stroke is futile. This does not affect the trim of a racing ship if all catch together. Otherwise, such crack pair-oars as Messrs. Warre and Arkell and Messrs. Edwards-Moss and Ellison, &c., would not have immortalised themselves for pace and style at Henley. Oftener than not, however, the last fortnight’s practice has sufficed to upset the “voice of the prophets.” And it must be remembered that up to the time of writing neither crew has yet done any tidal-water work. Cambridge are just the crew to fall into shape at the right moment after looking rough for a long while, and their stroke, a well-known London R.C. man, is highly experienced over the historic reach. But the Oxonians will also attain a good deal more polish at Putney, hence their success appears the more probable. The crews will face the starter (Mr. F. I. Pitman) thus:—

Oxford: (Bow), G. M. Graham (Eton and New College), C. H. Illingworth (Radley and Pembroke), J. Dewar (Rugby and New College), L. E. Jones (Eton and Balliol), A. G. Kirby (Eton and Magdalen), E. P. Evans (Radley and University), A. C. Gladstone (Eton and Christ Church), H. C. Bucknall (Eton and Merton) (Stroke); L. P. Stedall (Harrow and Merton), (Cox).

Cambridge: (Bow), G. D. Cochrane (Eton and Third Trinity), J. H. F. Benham (Fauconberge and Jesus), H. M. Goldsmith (Sherborne and Jesus), M. Donaldson (Charterhouse and First Trinity), B. C. Johnstone (Eton and Third Trinity), R. V. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity), E. W. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity), D. C. R. Stuart (Cheltenham and Trinity Hall) (Stroke); R. Allcard (Eton and Third Trinity), (Cox).

As Mr. Allcard is rapidly putting on flesh, however, another coxswain may be necessitated for Cambridge this year.

With the close of March the cross-country running season came to an end. It has been a highly successful one, and it is now more than ever evident that the pastime is highly popular with young athletes, more particularly as a means of training for outdoor summer pastimes. Unfortunately, several of the old courses have had to be abandoned or altered owing to the spread of population and the consequent overgrowth of our larger cities. Yet we have still left to us a greater part of the old national course at Roehampton, and it was over a portion of this that the inter-university race, the first important contest of the season, was decided. With their traditional courtesy, the Thames Hare and Hounds, the pioneers of cross-country running, placed their headquarters at the disposal of the competitors, and their members also superintended the arrangements. The Light Blues were in great form and won very easily, A. H. Pearson, of Westminster and Queen’s, being first man home, and establishing a record of 41 mins. 11 secs. for the course. To the credit of A. R. Churchill, of Cambridge, stood the previous best, he having won last season in 42 mins. 17 secs. Churchill was not in residence, and did not run this season, but the Light Blues were strongly represented.

Marked improvement was shown by the Thames Hare and Hounds, whose running against the Universities was very meritorious, and whose membership has considerably increased. The old club stands aloof from all cross-country competitions, and now only takes part in friendly inter-club runs. It strives to maintain the true amateur spirit, and in doing so sets a worthy example to the younger clubs. Close by its headquarters are those of the Ranelagh Harriers who, like many of the older clubs, does not now hold open competitions, but yet always sends a team to take part in the Southern Counties Cross-country Championship. That of this season was held on new ground. Lingfield and Wembley Park have been favourite spots for the contest, but Imber Court, Thames Ditton, was this year selected. It is admirably suited for the purpose, for there is plenty of open country all round, and inside is a spacious half-mile track. As none of the competitors had run over the course before, it served as an admirable test of comparative ability. The entry was a best on record, no fewer than twenty-four clubs having been entered. A. Aldridge, of the Highgate Harriers, who was first man home in 1905, did not take part, while Alfred Shrubb was, of course, disqualified by his removal outside the pale of amateurism. Highgate Harriers again proved successful, and also had the honour of getting first man home, this being G. Pearce, whose fine running made him somewhat of a favourite for the National Championship at Haydock Park a few weeks later. In the North, the district championship was again won by the Crewe Harriers, but the Sutton Harriers, who finished second, had first man home. The Birchfield Harriers secured the Midland District Championship, and the Northampton Alpine Harriers supplied first man in G. W. Dunkley, who also won the previous year.

The meeting of Straw and Pearce in the National Championship proved most exciting, and Straw only won by five seconds, after a great race. In the last few yards Straw was almost done up, and had Pearce made his spurt a little earlier, the London runner might have won. Straw, however, struggled on to the finish, and by his victory, and the close placing of his fellow-members, scored a win for the Sutton Harriers. Highgate Harriers, who had held this important championship since 1902, were without the services of A. Aldridge, and were placed second. In this race 163 competitors, representing seventeen clubs, took part. The record number is 164 in 1895, when S. Cottrell, of the Thames Valley Harriers, was first man home, and the Birchfield Harriers proved the winning club. After the race a team was selected to represent England in the annual international cross-country race at Newport, the following Saturday. Straw and Pearce were naturally among the chosen team, and they again made a magnificent struggle for victory. On this occasion, however, Straw won more easily, the difference in time being thirteen seconds. England won the championship, which she has held since its institution in 1903, when, at Hamilton Park, Glasgow, she beat Ireland, the second team, by 53 points. This year she defeated Ireland by 62 points, the last-mentioned country being 20 points in front of Scotland, and 42 ahead of Wales. Among the individual runners who distinguished themselves, beside Pearce and Straw, were J. J. Daly, of the Galway Harriers, who came in fourth to Straw, and S. Stevenson, of the Clydesdale, who was tenth. T. Hughes, of the Newport Harriers, was first home for Wales.

The players who go to Muirfield in East Lothian to take part in the Open Champion Meeting are to be provided with competitions in other parts of Scotland. There is to be a tournament at Musselburgh, which used to be a championship green before the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers changed its quarters to Muirfield. In addition, a professional tournament is being arranged for the course on the Braid Hills, Edinburgh.

The foursome tournament among London clubs obtained an entry of thirty-two clubs, and is already in a forward state. Most of the clubs play their professional, but several are content with two amateurs, and it is quite on the cards that the tournament may be won by a club of the latter class. Neutral greens are used until the final round, in which the play must take place on the links of the Walton Heath Club.

In the preliminary matches the Oxford University team is giving a good account of itself. At Oxford it beat by 26 to 17 holes a strong team got together by Mr. W. M. Grundy, while it was successful also against a combination of Huntercombe players, which included Mr. Cecil K. Hutchison and Mr. R. E. Foster, the place of play being Huntercombe. The Cambridge University team, which includes Mr. A. G. Barry, the amateur champion, played a match over the Royal Worlington and Newmarket Club course with the Oxford and Cambridge Golfing Society, and were defeated in the singles by seven matches to three, and in the foursomes by three matches to two.

The golfing season in the South of France attracted several of the best players in this country. The annual match play tournament under handicap at Pau was won by Mr. Charles Hutchings, of the Royal Liverpool Club, who carried the heavy handicap of plus four strokes. At Cannes the Gordon-Bennett Challenge Cup was won by Mr. A. J. Stanley, of the Littlestone Club. The Biarritz Club has elected the Earl of Dudley captain for the ensuing year.

The Vedrenne-Barker management at the Court Theatre has become one of the most interesting institutions in the dramatic world of London, and a very interesting feature of their enterprise is the production of “The Voysey Inheritance,” a play in five acts by Mr. Granville Barker.

Mr. Granville Barker has made a big reputation as an actor, and he seems in a fair way to gaining, it may be, still greater honours as a writer of plays. Certainly “The Voysey Inheritance” is full of merit and promise of greatness for the author. The story deals with the affairs of Mr. Voysey, a fraudulent solicitor, who has for years been living in luxury upon the funds which his confiding clients have entrusted to his hands for investment. His method is simple enough, and consists of paying the annual interest out of the capital and financing himself with the funds so long as they last. His son and partner, Edward Voysey, discovers this, and, being a conscientious solicitor, remonstrates with his father. The speculative and peculative parent, however, explains that this is the traditional method of business in the office of Voysey and Son, and is really the best in the interests of the clients, since it is more comforting for them to draw their interest as regularly as can be managed than to learn the sad news that their capital is gone.

In the second act we see the Voysey family chez eux at Bramleyfield, Chislehurst, ten of them altogether; and in their varied personalities Mr. Barker has given us a remarkably clever study of the later Victorian upper-middle class. The Voyseys may be distantly connected with the Ridgeleys, whom Mr. Pinero has recently introduced to London; but we think they are a very much more interesting family, for whereas one Ridgeley is very like another, each member of the Voysey family is full of individuality.

The third act shows the Voysey family in solemn conclave after the funeral of their father, who has been sent to his last resting-place by a sudden chill. Edward explains the unfortunate financial position of the house of Voysey, and indeed he is in a position deserving of the greatest sympathy as sole surviving partner malgré lui in an old-established and fraudulently flourishing solicitor’s office.

To please his people and to do the best he can for his clients, Edward accepts the Voysey inheritance, and devotes his life to an attempt to put things right.

This is difficult enough, and when some creditors become anxious and ask for their capital to be paid off the Voysey business is in a worse way than ever. However, the greatly harassed Edward is consoled by an avowal of love from the young lady to whom for a long time he had been accustomed to offer his hand without success, and the end of the play leaves him engaged to be married, although still weighed down by the inheritance. The play is like all productions under the Vedrenne-Barker management, admirably acted throughout. Mr. Fred Kerr gives an excellent study of Voysey père, so plausible in his defence of his grave irregularities, and so benevolent when we see him in the bosom of his family. Mr. Charles Fulton is at his best as Major Booth Voysey, a very flamboyant and truculent warrior who commands attention whenever he speaks. The author himself plays Edward Voysey, and his interpretation of the part must be correct, although for ourselves we would have felt more sympathy for a hero who seemed a little less like a model boy from the Y.M.C.A. With all his nobility of nature we must not forget that Edward Voysey is a solicitor of some years’ standing.

The ladies of the company are all admirable, and the performance of Miss Florence Haydon, the dear deaf old mother of the Voyseys, is simply charming. And a proof of the merit of “The Voysey Inheritance” is that people generally seem to want to see it again.

At a largely attended meeting held at the Royal Agricultural Hall on February 13th, Mr. J. Sidney Turner, the Chairman of the Kennel Club, presented Mr. E. W. Jaquet, who has been the Secretary since 1901, with a cheque for 400 guineas, an address on vellum, and a silver tea and coffee service, together with a tray, which had been subscribed for by over 400 members of dog clubs and ladies and gentlemen who are interested in the exhibition and the breeding of dogs.

According to the Reading Mercury and Berks County Paper, the South Berks on February 15th had an exciting and unpleasant experience. Hounds met at Woodley, and hunted a fox on to Bulmershe Lake, then covered with ice of very unequal thickness. The fox apparently ran across in safety, but two of the pursuing pack, going over thin ice, went through and were at once in imminent danger. The couple, however, managed to get their fore-feet on the ice, and the Hon. Secretary, Mr. W. J. Henman, with some assistance, launched an old boat and proceeded to smash through with the aid of crowbars. Proceedings were, naturally, somewhat slow, but, happily, the hounds were reached in time and taken ashore.

We have to record the death of the Right Hon. A. F. Jeffreys, M.P., which occurred on February 14th at his residence, Burkham House, Alton, Hants. Mr. Arthur Frederick Jeffreys was born in 1848. At one time Vice-President of the Central Chamber of Agriculture, and President of various agricultural societies, Mr. Jeffreys was recognised in the House as an authority on topics connected with the land. The deceased gentleman was a good all-round sportsman; at Oxford he played in his college eleven (Christ Church), and later for the M.C.C., and also for the Hampshire team in the seventies. He gained his blue at Oxford for athletics, and won the quarter-mile against Cambridge in 1869; he was a good shot, fond of hunting, and a keen preserver of foxes.

At the Leicester repository on February 17th, twelve hunters, formerly the property of the late Sir James Miller, were sold; Cave 450 gs., Nipper 430 gs., Nobbie 340 gs., The General 260 gs., Sans Loi 125 gs., and Merry Boy 100 gs., were the principal prices, the average for the twelve being £175. On the same day Mr. Hugh Owen sold Bentinck, 350 gs.; Toffy, 250 gs.; and Caliban, 200 gs. There was a large gathering at the same establishment on February 24th, when Lord Hamilton of Dalzell sent up a number of hunters. The chief prices were: Stokes, 430 gs.; Phillip, 380 gs.; Pickpocket, 200 gs.; Governor, 180 gs.; Hamos, 120 gs.; and Warwick, 100 gs. Captain E. York (Royal Dragoons) sold the following: Warwick, 135 gs.; Cheesecake, 105 gs.; The Professor and Diana, 100 gs. each.

Fulmen, by Galopin, bred by the late Prince Batthany in 1880, died at the Gorlsdorf Stud on February 18th. Sold to Count Redern in 1889, Fulmen was taken to Germany, and proved a very successful sire, his stock having won over £150,000 between 1893 and the end of last season.

A well-known sportsman in the Shires passed away on February 26th, when Mr. Hutchinson Dalby Hunt died at Caldecott at the advanced age of 91 years. A keen hunting man, Mr. Hunt attended the meets of hounds until within four years ago; he was a good all-round supporter of sports and pastimes, and in his time had bred and trained some successful horses; Playfair, winner of the Grand National in 1888, being bred by him.

We have to record with regret the death of Captain James Thomas Richard Lane Fox, which occurred at Bramham on February 26th, after a brief illness. The deceased, who was born in 1841, was Master of the Bramham Moor Foxhounds and a Deputy Lieutenant for the West Riding of Yorkshire. A portrait with biographical sketch appeared in Baily for February, 1906.

A correspondent, writing to the Field of March 3rd, says: “An interesting incident happened on Monday, when the Garth Hounds ran a fox into the ice-house in Mr. Garth’s park. The house is thatched with straw, and a bitch called Gaylass sprang on to the thatch, tore it open, seized the fox, and brought him with her down to the ground into the middle of the pack.” Gaylass is by Cheshire Partner out of Mr. Mackenzie’s Gratitude, and was bought by Mr. Gosling at Mr. Pennefeather’s sale.

For the nineteenth successive year the forage arrangements at the London Spring Horse Shows at the Royal Agricultural Hall have been carried out in the most expeditious and satisfactory manner by Messrs. Nickolls and Baker, 18, Mortimer Street, London, W. The work was performed with all the regularity and efficiency that come from long experience and personal attention to the details.

During the Council meeting of the Football Association, held on March 12th, Mr. C. W. Alcock, who was for many years Hon. Sec. and subsequently elected a Vice-President, was presented by his colleagues with a handsome gold watch as a small token of esteem on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of his unbroken service to Association football. The presentation was made by Lord Kinnaird in an admirable speech, and was supported by Messrs. J. C. Clegg (Chairman) and C. Crump. Mr. Alcock, in his reply, referred to the good football had done to millions of people, inducing them to spend their time in the open air and away from possibly squalid surroundings.

Captain W. G. Smyth, J.P., of South Elkington Hall, Louth, Lincolnshire, had, says the Sportsman, his 150th ride to hounds this season on March 10th. He has hunted with five different packs.

Writing to the Field from the Frensham Pond Hotel, Mr. G. A. W. Griffiths gives the following: An extraordinary find here last Saturday (March 10th) may perhaps interest many of your angling readers. My son, seeing, as he thought, a dead duck floating on the water took boat and went for it, but found, to his great surprise, two pike locked together by the jaws—of course dead. Naturally the incident has caused much local interest, and several persons came along yesterday to see for themselves the strange partnership. The fish weigh about 2 lb. and 4 lb. respectively, and the very curious part is that the head of the larger is crammed into the mouth of the smaller to its utmost holding capacity, rendering a further extension of the latter’s jaws impossible. The general theory is that a desperate fight (certainly to a finish) was the cause of so singular an incident.

We regret to record the death of the veteran huntsman, Frank Goodall, which occurred at the residence of his son, at Acton, on March 16th. Goodall was seventy-five years of age.

The Duchess of Sutherland had an alarming experience at the meet of the Quorn Hounds on March 16th, at Frisby-on-the-Wreake. Just as hounds were moving off to draw Cream Gorse, her grace’s horse slipped up, and fell on its side, and the duchess was thrown right into the midst of a crowd of motor-cars, carriages and horses. She sustained some injury to one leg, and could take no part in the day’s sport, being conveyed in her motor-car to her hunting quarters, Pickwell Manor.

In the unavoidable absence of the Duke of Westminster, the Earl of Shrewsbury made a presentation to Mr. W. Brown, of Nantwich, in recognition of an act of gallantry displayed during a recent run of the South Cheshire Foxhounds. Mr. Reginald Corbet, the Master, had endangered his life in attempting to save three hounds from a deep and flooded stream in the neighbourhood of Nantwich, when Mr. Brown plunged in and rescued the exhausted Master. The presentation consisted of a handsome silver tray with tea and coffee service.

Major Deacon, the Master of the East Essex Foxhounds, sustained a nasty accident. While taking a high hedge, his horse fell back upon him. The muscles of his leg were strained and bruised, and he was otherwise injured. It is feared he will be unable to hunt again this season.

The inhabitants of Goosnargh (Lancashire) organised a hunt after a fox, which they assumed was responsible for the disappearance of many prize poultry lately. The thief, however, says the Sportsman, was found to be a fine dog badger, weighing nearly 28-lb., which was trapped in his hole, together with his family, at Blake Hall.

Among the stands at the Horse Shows at the Royal Agricultural Hall we notice, as usual, that of the Molassine Co., Ltd., of 36, Mark Lane, London, E.C. This firm has the pleasure of counting the owners of many of the prize-winning horses among its customers, a good testimony to the value of the food. The champion mare at the Shire Horse Show, Sussex Bluegown, we understand has been fed on Molassine Meal.

TURF.

RACQUETS.

March 9th.—At Prince’s Club, the Military Championship Doubles; 2nd Batt. Highland Light Infantry (Lieut. H. Balfour-Bryant, M.V.O., and Lieut. P. Bramwell-Davies, the holders) beat 4th. Batt. King’s Royal Rifles (Major S. F. Mott and Lieut. G. T. Lee) by four games to one.

March 17th.—At Prince’s Club, the Military Championship Singles: Major S. H. Sheppard, D.S.O. (Royal Engineers), beat Lieut. H. Balfour-Bryant, M.V.O. (2nd Batt. Highland Light Infantry), the holder, by three games to two.

COURSING.

February 23rd.—The Waterloo Cup, Mr. H. Hardy’s f. d. Hoprend, by Forgotten Fashion—Heirloom, beat Mr. S. S. Death’s w. bk. d. Dividend Deferred, by Grampus—Dark Dame.

February 23rd.—The Waterloo Purse, Mr. R. J. Hannam nom. (Mr. A. Forster’s) f. b. Formula, by Pateley Bridge—Forest Fairy, and Mr. W. Ward nom. (Mr. T. Graham’s) Game ’Un, by Tara—Glenvera, divided.

February 23rd.—The Waterloo Plate, Mr. H. Birkbeck’s bd. b. Neolithic, by Father Flint—Filagree, and Mr. R. H. Whitworth nom. (Mr. H. Hardy’s) bd. d. p. Howtown, by Father Flint—Heirloom, divided.

FOOTBALL.

February 17th.—At Queen’s Club, Oxford v. Cambridge, latter won by 3 goals to 1.†

February 17th.—At Belfast, Ireland v. England, latter won by 5 goals to 0.†

February 24th.—At Dublin, Ireland v. Scotland, latter won by 13 points to 6.*

March 3rd.—At Edinburgh, Scotland v. Wales, latter won by 2 goals to 0.†

March 3rd.—At Aldershot, Corinthians v. Army, drawn, 1 goal each.†

March 7th.—At Oxford, the University v. United Services, former won by 5 goals 3 points to 1 goal 1 try.*

March 10th.—At Queen’s Club, Royal Navy v. The Army, Army won by 5 goals to 2.†

March 10th.—At Belfast, Ireland v. Wales, former won by 8 points to 3.*

March 10th.—At Exeter, Devon v. Durham (County Championship final), former won by 11 points to 0.*

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CONTENTS.

Mr. Assheton Biddulph, Master of the King’s County Hounds, whose portrait we give in this number, was born in the year 1850. He is the second surviving son of the late Francis M. W. Biddulph, of Rathrobin, in the King’s County, now the residence of the Master’s elder brother, Lieutenant-Colonel M. W. Biddulph, late 5th Fusiliers.

Mr. Francis Biddulph, from whom his son inherits his love of hunting, was a well-known sportsman in his day. The late Mr. O’Connor Morris, in his book “Memini,” remarks that he was “one who knew as much as most men about horses of all sorts, hounds, hunting, racing, &c.; in fact, he was an encyclopædia of sport, and could ride to perfection.”

There are not now living many who remember the sad period, sixty years ago, when Ireland was devastated by famine. Speaking of this time, an old hunting man, long since gone to his rest, said to the writer, “I never made such preparation for hunting as I did that year, but before a third of the season was over there was scarcely a pack of hounds in Ireland.” Hunting was only kept going in the King’s County by some energetic gentlemen, as the country began to recover, keeping small private packs and hunting in their own neighbourhood. Of these Mr. Biddulph was one. He was at the same time a staunch patron of the Turf, and owned many good racehorses. It was thus with his father’s pack the present Master was entered to hounds.

In 1869 Mr. Assheton Biddulph was gazetted to the 57th Regiment, the old “Diehards” (now 1st Battalion Middlesex), with which he was stationed for some time in Devonport, where, whenever free from duty, he devoted his spare time to the chase of fox, deer, and otter. Here, too, he made the acquaintance of Squire Trelawney and Mr. Jack Russell, the sporting parson. The regiment afterwards moved to Ireland, and thus gave him the opportunity of again hunting in his native country. In 1873, the battalion being about to proceed to Ceylon, and the outlook seeming to offer but little opportunity of active service, Mr. Biddulph sent in his papers, and began devoting his energies to his favourite sport. For two or three seasons he hunted principally in Galway as the guest of the famous Burton Persse, of whom he always speaks as his principal tutor in the art. At the same time he confesses to dipping stealthily into authorship; as “Vagrant” he used regularly to write hunting sketches in the Irish Sportsman for his old pedagogue, W. J. Dunbar.

Previous to this the late Earl of Huntingdon, then Lord Hastings, had undertaken the task of reviving sport in the district, and hunted both the original King’s County and also the country now occupied by the Ormond Hunt, in Tipperary, till the year 1876. The countries were then separated, the latter being taken over by Mr. W. T. Trench. They were, however, again united in 1879 under Lord Huntingdon, an arrangement which lasted till 1882; and during this period Lord Huntingdon received the greatest assistance from Mr. Biddulph, who acted as both hunt secretary and first whipper-in.

In the beginning of the season 1881–82 political troubles stopped hunting in the district; the hounds were sold, the country was broken up and left derelict for two seasons. In 1884 Mr. Assheton Biddulph faced all obstacles, and, with hardly a fox left in the country, finding hounds, horses, and everything for himself, started to resuscitate the fortunes of the Ormond and King’s County Hunt.

Those who know Ireland understand how difficult it is to keep clear of politics in that country. Mr. Biddulph, however, determined from the first to avoid contentions, and the wisdom of this resolution, though not wholly approved by those with whom he was most strongly in sympathy, has been fully proved by his success. Thus for thirteen years he hunted the great district occupied by both hunts, until in 1897 the countries were again separated, the Ormond being taken over by the present Earl of Huntingdon. Mr. Assheton Biddulph’s success during this period is best testified by the following resolution, passed at the annual meeting of the Hunt on May 5th, 1895:—

“That his many friends and the members of the Hunt accord a cordial vote of thanks to Mr. Assheton Biddulph for his unceasing zeal and untiring energy during his past eleven seasons of mastership, and that they take this public opportunity to express a deep sense of their appreciation of the grand pack of hounds he has bred in the country, the able manner he has managed and hunted them, the fine sport he has shown, the tact with which he has in troublous times overcome many and various difficulties, thus raising to a high position amongst the Hunts of Ireland the standard of the Ormond and King’s County Hunt, over which they sincerely hope he may be spared to preside for many years to come.”

In 1898, on the division of the country and on the occasion of the Annual Puppy Show at Monyguyneen, Mr. and Mrs. Biddulph were the recipients of a very valuable presentation of plate, accompanied by the following address in an illuminated album, which also contains the signatures of about three hundred subscribers, members of every class in the country:

“Your numerous friends in the King’s and adjoining counties in recognition of the lengthened period during which you have hunted the country at very considerable expense, and kept up sport in trying and difficult times when it was abandoned in so many other places, beg your acceptance of the accompanying pieces of plate, and trust that the inscription which they bear (embracing Mrs. Biddulph’s name as well as your own) will show how thoroughly we appreciate the admirable manner in which she has always seconded your efforts to popularise sport by her constant presence and prowess in the field. It will also, we feel assured, gratify you to know that this testimonial has been subscribed to over a very large area, and we all most heartily and warmly unite in hoping that you and Mrs. Biddulph will be spared for many years to maintain the best traditions of the hunt over which you so well preside.”

Since that time Mr. Biddulph has added to the King’s County a large portion of the Queen’s County, which was unoccupied, hunting three days a week with a splendid pack of hounds bred by himself from the best blood in the kingdom. Many of his fine stud of hunters are also home-bred. Among the latter must be mentioned Billy Boy, a gallant grey who carried his master for thirteen seasons. Never was a horse so well known over so large a district. Latterly Mr. Biddulph had given him to his children to ride, and he often carried the Master’s eldest daughter, Miss Kathleen Biddulph.

During all the years he carried Mr. Biddulph any place Billy Boy and his master did not get over or force a passage through no one else attempted. In the dining-room at Monyguyneen hangs a fine oil painting, by Lynwood Palmer, of the Master on Billy Boy, while Mrs. Biddulph, in the same picture, is portrayed on her own favourite of so many years, “Noirine,” now a pensioner, and half sister to Billy Boy.

Outside his own district Mr. Biddulph takes great interest in all hunting matters; he was the originator of puppy shows in Ireland, the first having been held at Monyguyneen in 1887. He was also one of the originators of the Irish Hound Show, at first intended to be held in Mullingar, but the scene of which, in consequence of difficulties, was changed to Clonmel, where it is still held. In his spare time he is a keen angler. He is fond of shooting over dogs, which he always trains himself, but does not care for the modern systems of shooting. A noted walker, no day is too long nor hillside too difficult.

Besides personally looking after all details of his kennel and management of his pack, which he, of course, hunts himself, Mr. Biddulph manages a large farm, from the produce of which the stable is principally supplied.

The family descends from the ancient one of the same name in Staffordshire, which is derived from one Ormus le Guidon, Lord of Darlaveston, Buckinghall, Biddulph, &c., who lived in the time of “Doomsday,” as mentioned by Erdeswick in his history of Staffordshire.

Mr. Biddulph married in 1880 Florence Caroline, younger daughter of the late Rev. Cunningham Boothby, of Holwell Rectory, Burford, Oxon. Mrs. Biddulph is as well known in the hunting-field as the Master himself. The family sporting traditions are carried on by their son, now a boy at Harrow, who must inherit the sporting instinct, descended as he is on his mother’s side from Thomas Boothby, who, as history records, was in the eighteenth century the first man to keep hounds for the purpose of hunting foxes only. Thomas Boothby’s horn is at present preserved as a treasured heirloom in the Corbet family, of Cheshire, into whose possession it passed through intermarriage. We should add that Mr. Biddulph is the second oldest Master in Ireland, having carried the horn for twenty-two seasons.

It is an almost universally acknowledged fact that the passion for sport in its wildest and least artificial forms, which is inherent in the Anglo-Saxon race, has contributed not a little towards putting that race in the position which it now occupies in the world. It is the love of sport which makes it possible for Englishmen of good birth to endure long years of exile in the wilderness while doing the empire’s work, without suffering that mental, moral and physical deterioration which is so painfully apparent in men of Latin race in tropical Africa and America. It is the influence of sport, to which he is bound not only by individual taste but by the ties of heredity and tradition, which brings the English gentleman to the fore in any enterprise requiring nerve, independence, resolution and stamina, a cool head and a strong hand. It is the sportsman’s training which has made British officers the best officers in the world.

The question occurs to one, what will future generations do for their sport? If the British empire is to maintain her place and fulfil her destiny, it is absolutely necessary that the young men of the upper and upper-middle classes should have that sportsman’s training which is now happily within reach of most of them. The sports which are probably the most useful in the mental, moral and physical training which they give are hunting, the pursuit of large game, and in a lesser degree game shooting in the British Isles. And these three sports are all in danger, if not of extinction, at any rate of eventual restriction to the few and the rich.

It is obvious that other sports and games have their uses in the training of the youth of the nation, and most of them are likely to flourish as long as Britons remain Britons. Racing, for instance, was probably never more prosperous than now in England and Australia, and the sport has taken a good hold in South Africa; the class of horses run was never better, and the standard of turf morality, low as it undoubtedly is, shows signs of eventual improvement under the stern hand of the Jockey Club. And while it may be doubted whether “following the meetings” does a young man much good, except in so far as it teaches him which is the most foolish way of spending his money, yet, if he goes racing regularly and be not quite an idiot, he must pick up some little knowledge of horse-flesh and of mankind.

Polo is altogether admirable so far as it goes. It calls for nearly all the qualities which we are wont to approve of in our fellow countrymen. But it is too expensive an amusement and too limited as to the number of men who can join in it to be really useful as a training school. Cricket, football and rowing are very well in their way, but they are games as opposed to sports, and do not from their nature appeal to the wild pagan instincts which we have inherited from our Saxon, Norse, and Briton forefathers.

Foxhunting and the chase of the wild red deer undoubtedly head the list of British sports. But how long will they continue in their present state? The growth of London and other large towns is pushing hunting further and further away. The increase of population and the growing wealth of the middle class is dotting the countryside with villas, “week-end residences” (odious phrase), and fruit and flower farms. Much of the South of England which a generation ago was good wild hunting country is now completely spoilt, from that point of view, by bricks and mortar. Foreign competition and the lack of agricultural labour are forcing the farmer to practise the strictest economy and to fence his land with barbed wire. The leasing of shootings to rich men from the towns tends to make fox-hunting a less natural and more artificial sport every year, and to limit its scope. Every year more men and women want to hunt, and ought to hunt, and every year there is less room for them. A melancholy sign of the times is apparent in the number of masters of hounds who find “the game not worth the candle,” and resign. It appears that fox-hunting in a generation or two will be an amusement for the rich only, and for comparatively few of them, and it can never again be the glorious, wild, unartificial sport which our forefathers enjoyed.

Numbers of men find healthy and wholesome amusement in shooting; but shooting under the influence of the plutocrat has become terribly artificial, and its conditions are too carefully “cut and dried.”

To find true wild pagan sport, such sport as stirs the blood and brings to the top the hardiest and manliest instincts in human nature, one must go to the hills of Northern India or the wildernesses of tropical Africa. And even in these areas, vast as they are, the wild game is quickly disappearing. Much of the best shooting ground in Kashmire is “shot out,” and nothing short of very drastic remedies can enable the game to live in its original haunts. In South Africa the vast herds of antelope, the elephants and rhinoceros, which roamed at will in the highlands of the Transvaal and the valleys and forests of Zululand not so many years ago, have disappeared before the rifle of the Dutchman, or, more destructive still, the rifle of the nigger, supplied to him for some paltry gain by Dutch or Portuguese trader.

In Mashonaland and Matabeleland much of the game has been cleared off by rifle and rinderpest. The British South Africa Company’s Authorities (all honour to them for it) have established game preserves and a stringent game law, but still the game decreases every year. The reserves are not large enough and the precautions against infringement of the law not strict enough. Not so long ago a Dutchman in Matabeleland killed five kudu bulls in one day, and left them lying where they fell. It is true that he was detected and punished, but for every law-breaker who meets with his just reward quite twenty go free. It is a mistake to suppose that English sportsmen are responsible for the extermination of the game, for the amount which they kill is as dust in the balance compared with the wholesale slaughter committed by Dutch and Colonial settlers and traders and by natives.

The British East Africa Authorities (who, by the way, have reserved a strip of country alongside the Uganda Railway which is full of game) have decreed that a “sportsman’s license” shall be issued to a visitor to the country for £50, whereas a “settler’s license” may be had for £10. A law on the same lines, though the amounts are smaller, has just come into force in North-west Rhodesia. This seems to me manifestly unjust. A man goes out from England to shoot for the sake of the sport alone. So that he obtains good specimens for his collection and kills enough meat to keep his boys he is content, and wanton slaughter is probably repugnant to him. It would be useless for him to shoot more than his allowance of each kind of game, for an attempt to take the heads out of the country would lead to instant detection. Dutchmen, on the other hand, and, alas, many “English” colonials, are, like natives, hampered by no sportsmanlike considerations whatever. They kill game so that they may sell the hides for a few miserable shillings, and they kill it in season and out of season, bulls, cows and calves alike, careless of whether they can use or keep the meat or not. Moreover, they are not likely to run any risk of punishment for this wanton and indiscriminate slaughter, for the tell-tale heads are left upon the veldt. This kind of thing has been going on for years in Southern Rhodesia, and with the advance of “civilisation” it will proceed merrily in the territories to the north of the Zambesi, until all South and Central African big game has been either killed off or driven away to the fastnesses of the Bechuanaland deserts and the equatorial swamps. More ominous than anything else for the future of the great game is the fact (which the British South African officials may deny if they like) that the natives in their Northern territories have many rifles and plenty of ammunition.

I have attempted to show that, to my way of thinking, there will arise during the next few years two very pressing needs:—

(1) To find a new sporting training-ground for Englishmen.

(2) To save the great game of Africa and India from final extinction. And I think if the British, Colonial and Indian Governments be sufficiently enterprising and large-minded, these two objects might be effected conjointly, without much real difficulty and without great outlay.

My scheme is:—In the mountains of Northern India, in the Northern Transvaal, in Zululand, Mashonaland, Matabeleland, Bechuanaland, Northern Rhodesia, Uganda, British East Africa and Somaliland, there exist thousands of square miles of country, either mountain ranges, poor veldt, sandy desert, forest, bush, or swamp, which can never be used for either agricultural or pastoral purposes, but which are the natural homes of the great game.

Let enormous reserves be formed in these places, the larger the better, in which no game at all may be shot for market purposes. Rangers may be appointed, these being Government officials, and these rangers would have power to grant licenses to kill game to any approved British subject. The applicant would have to produce proofs that he was a respectable individual, and would have to make a statement upon oath that he wished to kill game merely for sport—for the sake of the trophies—or for scientific purposes, and not with any idea of making money out of it. He would have to pay for his license, the amount varying according to where he wished to go and what he wished to shoot. These licenses could be granted by the home or Colonial Governments for particular districts, subject to the approval of the local rangers, which of course would not be withheld except for good reason.

The money paid for the licenses would go towards the necessary expenses of maintaining the reserves.

The duties of a ranger would be:—

(1) To prevent unauthorised persons from shooting in the reserve; this should not be difficult, for news travels with amazing rapidity in savage countries, and a ranger would be sure to hear of any white man shooting within fifty miles of his camp.

(2) To prevent as far as possible the killing of game by natives, either with firearms, pits or deadfalls. This would be far more difficult.

(3) To check the sale of guns and ammunition to the natives by Dutch, Portuguese, or Arab traders.

(4) To see that no one is allowed to trade for ivory or skins within the reserves, and as far as possible to see that the natives are not in possession of these commodities.

(5) To keep himself acquainted as far as possible with the amount of different kinds of game in his reserve.

Sportsmen would be licensed to kill only a certain number of certain animals, at the discretion of the ranger. The latter would then be able to make sure that no particular kind of game was being unduly persecuted. For instance, if he thought the stock of kudu, let us say, on his reserve was getting too low, he would issue no licenses to kill kudu until he thought fit.

No white settlements would be allowed within the reserve, except the camps of the ranger and his assistants, and no trading would be allowed except by special permit from the ranger.

I am afraid my scheme will seem Utopian to most people. At the same time, I am convinced that only by some such drastic measures as I have outlined can the destruction of great game by traders and market hunters be checked, and the wild places of the empire be maintained for the enjoyment of British sportsmen.

I never see a hare when out for a country walk or ride—it is different, I fear, when I have a gun in my hand or am following beagles—without thinking to myself, “Poor devil!” For here is an animal, one of the few mammals remaining to us in England, which is the essential to one branch of sport, and which plays a leading part in two others, absolutely unprotected by law even at the breeding season of the year, when all but the vilest vermin should enjoy immunity from persecution. “Unprotected by law,” however, is too mild a term, for the iniquitous Ground Game Act even goes so far as to actually sanction the destruction of hares the whole year round. I do not propose herein to deal with the manifold objections to this Act beyond what I may call this “all-the-year round” principle and the fact that it is framed without any knowledge of the natural history of the animal it professes to deal with. For though in some parts of Norfolk and elsewhere the enormous number of hares may possibly offer some defence for its perpetration, other localities in England are naturally so denuded of hares that the creatures demand almost as much protection as would a pair of golden eagles in Hyde Park. There is, in fact, just about as much common-sense in allowing this Act to have indiscriminate power all over our country as there would be in allowing the indiscriminate persecution of partridges all over Europe just because they happen to be especially numerous in Hungary!

To quote a case in point. I spent the first twenty years of my life in a part of Surrey which, if not very prolific in game, certainly produced a fair quantity. I never saw a hare in that district except on occasions when I was following the harriers, whereas in Norfolk I have over and over again counted ten or a dozen in one field; and yet the same law of extermination reigns supreme in either county. But if we feel aggrieved with those legislators who gave us the Ground Game Act, and whom no one in their wildest flights of imagination would accuse of being sportsmen, how much more indignant ought we to be with those who claim this title, and in that guise continue to persecute the hare long after the legitimate period of winter well into the months of spring? Opinions may differ as to the usual time for the appearance of the first litter of leverets; or perhaps I should leave out the word “litters,” as does often produce only a single youngster at a birth. I do not think, however, that I shall be unjust if I claim that naturalists will hold to the theory that young hares have in mild winters been found in January and February, and very commonly in March, while only those who wish to continue hunting or coursing through the mad month will advance the somewhat convenient idea that it is unusual to see leverets much before the end of April.

This very winter, on January 19th, I watched several groups of hares busily occupied in the pursuit of love-making. Assuming that their courtship lasted a full week, which is extremely unlikely, and that the period of gestation is anything between four and five weeks, it is fair to expect that several of the hares which I saw produced young ones early in March, and for at least the last ten days of February were in a totally unfit state to run before greyhounds, harriers, or beagles. And although the month in which I write is March, and in less than a week April will have arrived, I find in my copy of the Field the fixtures of no less than ten packs of harriers and beagles announced for the next seven days, and some of these without the welcome words, “to finish the season.” I hope the omission is accidental. From the same source I gather an account of a coursing meeting held as late as March 22nd, and it is quite safe to infer that many other less reputable clubs are still gaily continuing their season, and that there are a few packs of hounds still hunting puss who do not advertise their meets. And all through this time, which should be held sacred to the rites of love, in addition to coursing and hunting, the farmer continues to pump lead into the hind quarters of this unfortunate bundle of timidity.

I have mentioned as briefly as I could what we have done for the hare, let us now consider what she has done for us, and will continue to do, if we will only permit her. Out shooting we all know her charm. She may not be a very satisfactory animal to shoot at or even to kill, but the bag is not complete when we cannot add her to the total we gather round the covert-side or behind the hedges. Chiefly when partridge-driving we could least spare her cheery and monotony-breaking presence, that confiding way she has of sitting in the hedge opposite us and almost entering into conversation with us, and then her maddening habit of preferring the society of the beaters to our own. And, too, what a test of skill and quickness she affords in covert to the walking guns; and let us not forget how once—an all unconscious humourist—she beguiled an unfortunate M.F.H. into shooting a fox in mistake for her russet self! But it is not in the shooting-field that her chief business—her raison d’être, so to speak—lies; she plays a bigger part in the world of sport than that. There are, I believe, in England no less than one hundred and nineteen packs of harriers and forty-eight packs of beagles, making in all a total of a hundred and sixty-seven packs of hounds kept simply and solely to hunt the hare. Some of these, it is true, contain a considerable quantity of foxhound blood, but many are free from any taint of it whatsoever, and are as separate and distinct from foxhounds both in themselves and in their ancestors for all times as chalk is from cheese. These hounds exist chiefly in Lancashire, and also in Wales and Devonshire. But whether a hound is a true harrier, a diminutive foxhound, or a cross-bred, is of little importance in illustrating my point, so long as he is kept only for the purpose of pursuing the hare.

If we will consider the number of servants that each hunt has to employ, the quantity of food and fodder consumed by hounds and horses, where these latter are necessary, and multiply that result by a hundred and sixty-seven, we shall gain a rough estimate of the hare as an employer of labour and as a virtual principal in necessary purchases from farmers and various dealers.

I have not been able to accurately ascertain the number of coursing clubs existant in this country, but though they have diminished somewhat from the “good old days,” there are quite sufficient remaining to admit the claim that the cult of the greyhound resembles in a less degree the cult of the racehorse. The hare and the greyhound are quite inseparable; it is safe to say that without the former the latter would never have existed, nor would, even at this late stage of his evolution, continue to exist. If then, again, we will make a mental note of the quantity of kennels throughout the country, the work entailed by the Waterloo Cup and other less important meetings, the various employees of the Barbican Repository and Aldridge’s—though these places, of course, have other functions—we shall be bound to admit that in this branch of sport, again, the hare indirectly gives scope for a vast amount of labour. And she makes the money change hands, too, as witness the large prices now paid for greyhounds and the railway fares of spectators to various coursing meetings.

It is possible to gather from these rough facts something of the economic importance of this sandy mistress of the woods and fields; it is quite impossible to estimate how much health-giving pleasure she gives to the devotees of sport or to what enormous numbers she gives it. This point I can safely leave to the imagination of the reader. I have explained that the hare is entirely responsible for the existence of greyhound, harrier, and beagle, and to these three species I would add the Norfolk lurcher, an animal of unenviable reputation, but sometimes of extraordinary beauty, and an incalculable and perfectly legitimate assistance to the warrener. It remains only for me to touch lightly on her culinary value, to call to mind how she may be jugged, roasted, braised, hidden away in soups and game-pies, served as an entrée in a dozen different forms, and I have finished an extraordinary catalogue of virtues for one little animal. The sporting kings that came before us, the Richards, the Williams, and the Georges, knew her worth, and with divers pains and penalties forbade her indiscriminate destruction. Their actions gave us a goodly heritage of hares; and for what? That we should treat her with as little consideration as we show to a stoat or a rat, although she is less defenceless in her habits than these; that we should ruthlessly proceed to exterminate the goose that lays so many golden eggs.

Hunted and coursed till far too late in the season, shot and snared all the year round, without a hole or burrow wherein to hide her inconveniently large body, how long will she survive these methods save in the sacred precincts of the large game preserves whose owners—good luck to them!—drive a motor-car through the Ground Game Act? The Hare Preservation Act, the only legislation in her favour at present existant, is not worth the parchment the precious document is written on; for it only prohibits the sale of English hares during March, April, May, June and July. Of foreign hares it says nothing, and many foreign hares differ so little from the English ones that no one can tell the difference! And poor puss does not ask for much, she would like, as would all her friends, the abolition of the Ground Game Act; but, failing this, she only wants one little Act to give her immunity from death or danger from February 28th—or a little earlier if possible—to September 1st; and does she not deserve it?

To the ball-playing English, the introduction to their notice of the ball-game of some other nation appears but in the light of a fulfilment of its natural destiny. Sooner or later all games come to England, on approval, as it were. In this way the vigorous Italian game of pallone was many years since exhibited in London, without any expectation of its being adopted by the English; whilst in 1875 lacrosse, the rough-and-tumble game of the Red Indian, put into playable shape by the Canadian, made its appearance to take up a permanent residence. It was inevitable that Pelota, the game of the Basques, should some day be brought to England, and the event duly took place in January last. I should have regarded it as little short of a calamity had I been deprived of a sight of the spectacle, but, although at the very time that the imported players were exhibiting their skill at Olympia I was travelling out of England, I was, strange to say, on my way to the Basque country and Northern Spain, where the game is assiduously played, though not more so than in those countries of the American continent which have been peopled by the Spaniards.

The derivation of the name of the game is the simplest. “Pelota” merely means “ball,” and the ball game of the Basques became “pelota,” just as the Canadian Indians, in the language of one of their tribes, designated what we now call lacrosse, “bagattaway,” i.e., the ball-game. The French Basques call the ball pelote, and the game pelota. Goya, in one of his many delightful pictures to be seen in Madrid, depicts a game of pelota in which the players, in the open, are using battledores. Goya (1746–1828) depicted the scenes of his own day. If he lived at the present time he would have to be satisfied with a couple of errand boys snatching a furtive game at hand-ball against a back wall or gateway. That is called “pelota” nowadays, just as was Goya’s picnic game, and on the walls of public buildings in Spain we read that the playing of pelota against them is forbidden. It is as well to insist upon the universality of the meaning of the word “pelota,” for quite recent visitors to Spain have recorded it as evidence of the avidity with which the game, meaning the scientific one of the courts, is played throughout Spain, that even the walls of churches would not be sacred to players but for these prohibitory notices. The error reminds one of the man who, seeing on the front at Hove, Brighton, a notice prohibiting hawking, took it to refer to some bygone practice of illegal falconry. If he was a foreigner, then he would be in precisely the same position as the flitting Englishman taking “pelota” to mean the court game, not being aware of its wide application.

The statement has been made more than once that pelota is the national game of Spain, numbers of Spaniards themselves being of this opinion. Pelota is the national game of the Basques, and it appears in Castilian and Catalonian towns, through their paid agency, as a spectacle, much after the manner of bull-fighting, although, in places where courts are established, the amateur is to be met with. Better informed Spaniards call the game the “Sport Vasco,”^[13] giving a Spanish rendering of the word “Basque,” but “El juego de pelota” (the game of pelota) is of universal application. The game is played in three ways—with the bare hand, with the pala (battledore) and with the chistera, the long, curved, wicker implement, strapped to the hand, wherein the ball is caught, and wherewith it is propelled against the wall. The tactics bear the usual family likeness belonging to all ball games that include the use of a wall or walls. With certain restrictions, the wall struck, the ball must be taken and returned on or before the first bound; failure to do so, or to keep it within the limits of the court, losing a stroke. The scoring at present adopted is the simple one of points, so many up, and everything that goes wrong scores against the wrong-doer. It was not always played thus, for a quarter of a century since tennis scoring was in vogue in places, the game itself being also more intricate than that at present adopted. The pace at which the game is played is sufficient to preclude all else beyond mere service and return. The extreme resilience of the ball, whose solid rubber core supplies about three-fourths of the weight of the whole, is probably largely responsible for the pace, without which the game would not count for much. No definite dimensions are laid down for the court, and it is tolerably safe to say that no two will be found exactly alike. The Basque game of the Pyrenees is played in the open air against a single wall, and this was the original game, bearing much the same resemblance to the indoor game with three walls that the old-fashioned single wall racket-court, common enough around London a generation since, does to the indoor court with four walls. The Basques are fond of declaring that the old single wall game is the best, but in this I venture to join issue. Physically, outdoor play at any game is superior to indoor, but the addition of a side-wall, or walls, entirely changes a game by reason of the variety introduced. The front wall, called frontis, has, or should have, a face of smooth stone, cement being sometimes substituted. The height will vary, from the Pyrenean village court with seven or eight metres, to the indoor court with eleven metres or more. The floor will vary also, some open-air courts sufficing with cement in front for a few metres, the rest being gravel. But whatever the characteristic of the court may be, one feature belongs to all, and that is the pace at which the ball travels. In the case of the open court it will be understood that the ball is kept going until one player fails to secure it in his chistera on its return, or returns it out of court, which may be below the line, in pelota taking the form of a metal strip that rings on being struck.

The large enclosed courts, such as one sees at Madrid and Barcelona, are commercial affairs and admirably arranged for spectators. The best is probably at Barcelona. The length of the cement floor there is sixty-eight metres, with a width of eleven metres. The front wall is the same width as the court and eleven and a half metres high. On the left, extending the whole length of the court, is a wall of the same height, and there is an end wall the full width of the court, nine metres high. Statements to the effect that the front wall should be sixty feet high, must be made on a misconception. The wall of the building may approach that height, but the playing wall is as stated; and surely about thirty-six feet is high enough for anything. Let any one look at a wall sixty feet high and wonder what a ball could be doing at the top of it. The end wall is called the rebote (hence jeu de rebote), and it is probably this feature to which the Basques refer as being inferior, since it does away with fine length strokes played to keep an opponent on the back line; with the end wall he can take his time, waiting for the ball to come back. Such is the power put into the stroke that the ball frequently bounds from front to back wall, without touching the floor, and rebounds half way back again, although the end wall is not a quick one like the frontis. The ball for the game with the chistera must weigh between 118 and 122 grammes, and of this the rubber core must weigh between 90 and 94 grammes. The pace at which this missile can be propelled out of the chistera is terrific, it being greater than the hardest “force” ever seen at tennis, which is only reasonable, the one being the result of percussion, the other of a centrifugal motion, so to speak. The side wall introduces difficulties into the catching and also some very attractive corner play, necessarily absent from the single wall game. Appreciation of this fact is shown in the case of some open air courts to the front wall of which a short side wall has been added. Balls secured at short range, and fired into the corner just over the line (at Barcelona one metre twenty centimetres from the floor) are nearly always fatal, so sharp is the angle at which they come off, but if the ball be gathered—and to see this done on the rise at the pace the ball is travelling is a fine thing—then the boot is on the other leg. It is by the corner shot that most “won” points are secured, many more points being “lost” by failure to catch, or by returning out of court. In this direction rackets makes a far superior game; and although not cheap in the matter of balls, pelota would not have any advantage here. A split ball is useless, and a considerable number are required in each match. Balls are divided into “extra fina,” “fina,” and “renovado,” i.e., renovated, and a player must name which he is using and also the maker before commencing. The ball is bounced behind the service line decided upon and the server, dashing forward, “swishes” it, with one movement, against the frontis. It must rebound so as to touch the floor, if it is allowed to do so by the striker-out, between the fourth and sixth chase lines, called cuadros, of which there are seventeen at Barcelona, each four metres apart from the other. The indoor game is nearly always four-handed—a game at singles being a poor affair—two playing back and two forward. The back play is really very fine, for the ball has to be kept out of the reach of the forwards ready to pounce upon a short one.

JACK SHEPHERD ON WHITETHORN.

From the painting by A. F. Lucas Lucas.]

In the extreme unlikelihood of pelota being introduced into England, seeing that the much more economical open air rackets has been allowed to die, it may hardly be worth while to consider its suitability. But the suggestion has been put forward, so it may be mentioned that all with whom I came into contact who had knowledge of the game spoke of its extreme severity. A game of fifty or sixty points can last along while, and a ball is commonly returned twenty or thirty times in deciding a single point. The keynote to the game is severity, and from this there is no rest from start to finish, the opportunity for finessing with a slow one coming perhaps only once in a game, or not even once. The effect of the stroke with the chistera is very different from that effected with the racket, and exceedingly trying to the player.

As a spectacular game pelota is a great success, one side of the huge building being available for spectators, and the galleries at Barcelona will hold some thousands. The ground floors are occupied by the bettors, who are catered for by regular bookmakers and the pari-mutuel. Such an arrangement would no doubt answer well in England, but we need not think about that.

The accompanying portrait of Jack Shepherd, who for fifty-three years was so familiar a figure with the Fife Hounds, is reproduced from a photograph of a picture recently painted by Mr. A. F. Lucas Lucas as a companion to that of old Tom Carr, a former huntsman of the Bentley Harriers, also the work of Mr. Lucas Lucas. Jack Shepherd has a great record as a hunt servant. Born in 1835, he was very early entered to the work of the kennel, for at the age of 8 years he went to assist his father, who for thirty-five years held the office of feeder to the Fife Hounds. During the fifty-three years that Jack Shepherd was with the Fife there were naturally many changes in the Mastership of the pack; and as kennel huntsman he served under the late Colonel Anstruther Thompson and Colonel Cheape, Colonel Babington, Sir Arthur Halkett, Mr. R. Wemyss, and Major Middleton. In commemoration of his fifty years’ service with the Fife Hounds, Jack Shepherd was presented with a silver horn and a purse of gold subscribed by nearly two hundred of his admirers in Fifeshire. Last year he went as kennel huntsman to the Bentley Harriers, of which Mrs. Cheape is “Master.” It will be remembered that Mrs. Cheape, well known as “The Squire,” hunted the Bentley herself for many years; in fact, until she met with an accident last season. The picture, which was painted for Mrs. Cheape, represents Jack on his favourite mare, Whitethorn, with three and a half couple of the Bentley Harriers—Willing, Racket, Wanderer, Butterfly, Demon, Druid, and Lancelot by name.

The last half century has seen a very great increase in the number of preparatory schools. As demand and supply always depend on each other, it is not difficult to see from this that the practice of sending boys to preparatory schools is becoming yearly more customary, and it must be admitted that this is of the greatest value in laying the foundations of a sound education and healthy constitution.

It is impossible to overrate the important effect which the preparatory school may have upon a boy’s life. It is the gradual substitution of school discipline for the unfettered liberty of home-life, and a gradual hardening process whereby the weakling gathers strength. At the age of eight and a half or nine the bitterness of leaving home is very great, and those who have the misfortune to be sent to a big school at that tender age find the plunge very cold indeed. The preparatory is a sort of half-way house between home and the public school, and not only in the matter of work but in every department of school life it has the greatest influence. The intellect of the average boy, when first he goes to school, is frequently quite frozen, and it sometimes requires several weeks of untold patience and individual attention before the thaw sets in. But not only is the mind of the small boy often in the most primary stages of development, but his physical strength is sadly deficient: and to plunge him suddenly into the midst of a number of boys far bigger and stronger than himself may very likely cause him to overtax his forces and to do himself real physical injury. Further, neither in the class-room nor in the playing field can he hope to have the same individual care and attention which is part and parcel of the preparatory curriculum. It is obvious, for instance, that the ordinary day at a public school is too long for most boys under fourteen years of age, and it is interesting to note that the headmaster of Eton is advocating more sleep for growing boys. Neither is the average boy under fourteen physically strong enough to rough it in the same way as older boys; he has no idea of taking care of himself, and would no more think of voluntarily changing his stockings because they were wet than of voluntarily going to bed because he was tired. When first a boy goes to school he cannot, as a rule, think for himself, and the first service which a preparatory school does for him is to teach him how to think, and the necessity of so doing. It may be argued that a boy will learn to think and act for himself far quicker if he is sent at once to a big school, but this is akin to the argument that throwing a man overboard is the best way to teach him to swim. It must be admitted, however, that there is a tendency nowadays to do too much for the boy, and that feeling of responsibility—which always has such a steadying and beneficial effect upon a boy’s character—is not sufficiently stimulated, owing to the overanxiety of parents and masters.

Perhaps the most charming and fascinating of God’s creations is the manly little boy of three or four years of age, and when first a boy goes to a preparatory school he retains much of this innocent charm. He is, as a rule, simplicity itself, and credulous to a degree, whilst probably at no time in his career is he so impressionable. It is, therefore, not difficult to see that, at no time in his life, is the influence which is brought to bear on him of more vital importance. After four or five years at a preparatory a boy has, or should have, a certain feeling of self-reliance, and a strong feeling of self-respect—two very essential attributes to his character when he enters the larger field of the public school. An excellent feature in the education of the modern boy is that he is continually rising to the top, and having to begin at the bottom again; when he is just beginning to feel a bit big for his boots at the preparatory, he goes on to the public school, where he is nobody, and has to start climbing up again. Arrived at the top he goes, or may go, to the ’Varsity, where again—for a time, at any rate,—he is nobody. Many a man’s character has been spoilt through the rise and fall not being sufficiently pronounced, and it is no uncommon thing to hear it said of a man that he was not kicked enough at school. Whilst a boy’s self-reliance is trained and stimulated, he learns continually that he is not the only person in the world, and that self-assertion is not the golden road to success. It is, however, in the nature of things that the home estimate of a boy should be somewhat different to that which is formed of him at school, and thus a boy frequently fails to realise the expectation of his fond parents. The state of mental ignorance in which some boys come to school is quite phenomenal, and it is no uncommon thing to find a new boy who actually cannot spell his own name or add three and four together. His very ignorance has led him to make droll remarks at home, which have, of course, been regarded as the soul of wit, and by mistaking instinct for intelligence, an entirely false estimate of his capabilities is frequently arrived at. So many small boys dislike reading, but are quite content to be read to—one of the primary causes of backwardness—the result being that when they come to school they have the greatest difficulty in keeping up with the others. It is most unfair, both to the master and to the boy, to send a child to school in this lamentable state of ignorance, and a great deal of valuable time has to be devoted to teaching a boy the most elementary things which are so easily learnt at home. A boy of this description could have little or no chance at a big school with forms of twenty or thirty boys in them, as it would be quite impossible for the master to give him the necessary amount of individual attention, whilst even at the preparatory, his progress is sadly hampered. The effect of this is that he fails to reach the higher forms of the preparatory school, and some of that essential grounding has to be hurried over or skipped altogether.

If, on the other hand, he has learnt to read and write well, and knows his arithmetic tables thoroughly—quite an unusual accomplishment—and has also a slight idea of what is meant by a substantive or an adjective, he has a fair chance of being in the swim, and at the end of his four or five years at the preparatory he will have passed through the different forms, each with their fixed standards, and will have received a thorough grounding which is of the most vital importance to his subsequent work. The usual number of boys in a form being nine or ten, it is easy to see that a master will be able to give each boy a considerable amount of individual attention, and will insist upon his work being very thorough. It is a mistake for boys to be kept at home too long, nine years of age being quite the limit, for unless a boy is exceptionally quick he will not get through the work necessary to enable him to take a good form at his public school, the advantage of which cannot be overrated, as he may otherwise vegetate in the lower forms, and lose all chance of getting to the top of the school.

Next in importance to his mental training, comes the physical development of the boy. That more attention is being paid nowadays to the health and strength of small boys is generally admitted. To quote from a paragraph in the Field of February 10th: “The modern preparatory schoolmaster has for more than a generation introduced greater comforts and more liberal diet for small boys, and the physical effect of it is visible to the eye that can recall and compare the average size of the twelve-year-old school-boy half a century ago with his modern representative.”

The old Spartan idea of hardening boys by a system of roughing it can be carried too far and may have the most detrimental effects. Montesquieu was not far from the mark when he advocated a liberal diet and moderate exercise till the age of twenty-one, by which time a man is fully formed and more fitted to undergo a stricter diet and more violent physical exertion. Till recent years, however, the reverse has been the case; school fare was synonymous with the bare necessities of life, plus the unwholesome concoctions which were eaten at all times of the day at the tuck-shop, whilst most violent exercise was taken immediately after dinner, the one square meal of the day. It is a popular fallacy that a boy has a digestion like an ostrich, but there are many men whose health has been permanently impaired by the trials to which their digestions were subjected when they were boys at school. One has memories of what, in school-boy parlance, were called “stodgers” (being square slabs of warm dough made palatable by a covering of burnt sugar), to say nothing of ices and sweetmeats and such like unwholesome things. Needless to say, the tuck-shop is a thing unknown at the preparatory school.

The ordinary day at the preparatory generally begins at about 7.30 a.m. At some schools the boys are taken for a short walk of about twenty minutes’ duration, with a sprint of a hundred yards about half way to warm them up and fill their lungs with fresh air, but this has the disadvantage of being somewhat dependent on the weather, and therefore liable to be irregular, when it ceases to be beneficial. At other schools it is the custom to do half-an-hour or an hour’s work before breakfast, which, in summer, at any rate, is no hardship, and this has the advantage of lengthening the play hours later in the day. If, however, small boys are to do much work before breakfast, they should have a cup of cocoa or milk before they begin. Breakfast, which should be a liberal meal, is generally at eight or half-past, and in winter this should always begin with a plate of well-cooked porridge. A doctor in the north was once heard to complain that he got nothing to do because “all the inhabitants began the day by putting themselves outside a big poultice of porridge.” If this is followed by either fish, eggs, bacon, or sausages, with plenty of marmalade, there is little danger of colds or chills. Weather permitting, the boys go out for half-an-hour after breakfast in the grounds, or there are classes with easy exercises in the gymnasium—a very necessary adjunct to every preparatory, especially in wet weather. From two and a half to three hours is the usual amount of work done in the morning, leaving an interval of three-quarters of an hour or an hour before lunch. At some schools an interval is taken in the middle of the morning, and work then goes on till dinner time; but the hour or three-quarters of an hour before dinner is very useful, especially in the summer, when the senior boys have cricket practice in the nets and are individually coached by the masters; whilst some of the boys have boxing, fencing, carpentry, or music lessons. Most preparatory schools possess swimming baths, and those boys who are not otherwise employed are generally permitted to bathe before dinner, under the supervision of a master, and nearly every boy learns to swim before he leaves school. The bathe seldom is allowed to exceed five or six minutes. Dinner is always a liberal meal, with plenty of vegetables, milk puddings, and so forth.

In the summer it is sometimes found advisable to work for an hour or an hour and a-half after dinner, leaving the cooler part of the day for cricket, which is continued till tea time. In the winter, on the other hand, the boys change fairly soon after dinner, and play football for an hour (generally Association, which is more suitable for small boys), after which they are free to carpenter, play racquets, or, at some schools, play golf. If the grounds are fairly large, a small nine-hole golf course is very easily laid out, and affords a vast amount of amusement and gentle exercise, and teaches a boy to keep his eye on the ball. Several schools are making little rifle ranges, which should serve a most useful purpose. The training of the eye cannot be begun too young, and every boy should be taught to handle a rifle. Work in the gymnasium should be as light as possible, heavy exercises having a tendency to develop the larger muscles at the expense of the smaller ones, and boys should never be in the gymnasium without someone in attendance. In winter, afternoon school generally begins at 4.30 and continues till 6 p.m., the usual hour for tea all the year round. At some schools the boys do an hour’s preparation after tea, but it is generally found that at this early age they are, for the most part, unable to concentrate their attention on one thing without assistance for any great length of time, and very frequently school continues from 6.30 or 7 till 8 p.m. After evening prayers or chapel they have a light supper of milk and buns, going off to bed about half-past eight. As most boys “live every minute of the day,” they are generally ready for bed and sleep without rocking. To quote from the Field again: “Nine hours between the sheets is not a moment too much for growing boys who have been taxing mind or muscle, or both, from réveille to tattoo, barring interludes of meal times. Among luxuries for the young few are greater than sleep, and none does less harm even when bountifully conceded.”

Every attempt is made at the preparatory to discover and foster any hobby which a boy may have, and the school library will probably contain many books on natural history, engineering, locomotion, electricity, shooting, fishing, sailing, and so forth, in addition to the usual novels. Perhaps no books are in greater demand than those of William J. Long, “Beasts of the Field,” “Fowls of the Air,” “School of the Woods,” and of Seton Thompson; though Rider Haggard, Conan Doyle, Stanley Weyman, and Max Pemberton are great favourites. Kingsley, Merriman, and R. L. Stevenson are mostly read by the bigger boys. Some schools have a small natural history museum, with collections of birds’ eggs, fossils, moths and butterflies; but the small boy has not, as a rule, sufficient patience and perseverance to make him a good collector. Stamp-collecting has many devotees, but by far the commonest hobby is photography, though good results are seldom obtained by the majority. It is also a common idea for boys to have little plots of garden, over which they spend no end of time and trouble; although their industry has frequently little to show for it, a love for flowers and an interest in gardening is often engendered. Anything, in fact, which serves to occupy boys’ minds, and which makes them think, is of the utmost value. The boy who can amuse himself is quite the exception, and it is one of the objects of the preparatory school to teach him how to do so.

In conclusion, it may be said that the chief functions of the preparatory school are the gradual substitution of school discipline for the liberty of home, the gradual training of a mind, generally quite unaccustomed to think, till it is able to understand and think for itself; the gradual development of the body, the encouragement in every form of manly pastimes and interesting hobbies; last, but not least, the engendering of that spirit of self-reliance and self-respect which are the safest armour a boy can have in the battle of life.

At no time can we afford to lose a good sportsman, least of all at present, when the old type, once common, is now scarce.

That the late Mr. John Gubbins was a sportsman of the truest old Irish type, no one who ever came in contact with him can for a moment deny, and one more generous or open-hearted was seldom met.

The youngest of a large family, son of Mr. Joseph Gubbins and his wife Maria, daughter of Mr. Thomas Wise, of Cork, he was born at the old family seat, Kilfrush, in the county Limerick, in 1839. On Tuesday, March 20th, Mr. Gubbins died suddenly of bronchitis at Bruree House, in the same neighbourhood, having for a long time suffered from general ill-health. He was J.P. and D.L. for his county for many years, was High Sheriff in 1886, and Master of the Limerick Foxhounds for five years previously. In 1899 he married Miss Edith Legh, of the well-known Cheshire family. Mrs. Gubbins died some years ago and left no family.

Settling at Bruree, hunting, coursing and salmon fishing were the sports which “Jack Gubbins,” for so he was always called, first enjoyed, and though always a heavy man, no one in Ireland went better to hounds. He was also a prime judge of the weight-carrying hunter. Some of the best horses the late Marquis of Waterford ever rode came to Curraghmore from the Bruree stable. In the early seventies he was owner of some useful steeplechasers, which were trained by Mr. Harry Lindé at Eyrefield Lodge; and it was pleasing to see how with the best of good feeling these horses were sent to meet in friendly rivalry those of his elder brother, Captain Stamer Gubbins, of Crimean fame. Captain Gubbins at that time had the strongest stable in Ireland and trained at Mountjoy Lodge, with old Dan Broderick as head lad.

Captain Gubbins, who died soon after from the effects of a broken leg sustained in a fall taken while schooling a horse, left most of his property to “Jack.” This included not only the racehorses, but the brood mares and youngsters which he had at his own place, Knockany, a few miles from Bruree, on the best managed and most extensive stud farm then in Ireland.

Reserving a few, John Gubbins sold most of the stud by auction; but there was a small, mean-looking chestnut yearling by Zenophon from Lina Rivers which he kept back, not caring that so miserable a little animal should appear in the sale room. This colt was eventually known as Seaman, who, after winning the Conyngham at Punchestown, the Grand Hurdle Race at Paris, and other great races for Mr. Gubbins, won the Grand National in 1882 for Lord Manners, who paid 2,000 guineas for this quondam cast-off yearling!

Beginning at once, Mr. John Gubbins improved both Bruree and Knockany out of recognition, setting up at the former a second stud farm superior even to the one he inherited from his brother; and it was not long before kennels to accommodate fifty couple of hounds were built on the best possible plan, and therein he started a pack of staghounds. After showing extraordinarily good sport for some seasons, he gave these up in 1881 to take the mastership of the County Limerick Foxhounds, which office he held for five years, giving the greatest satisfaction all round. But Land League troubles being imported into that previously peaceful county, the hunting had to be given up in 1886; the big establishment at Bruree was broken up, all but the stud farm, and Mr. Gubbins in disgust came to England.

THE LATE MR. JOHN R. GUBBINS.

Photo by Walery, 164, Regent Street.]

Leaving with Lindé an increased stud of steeplechasers, including Spahi, Ashplant, Seaman and Usna (the two latter being the best Harry Beasley ever rode), he began hunting in the Shires. To show how he acquitted himself it may be mentioned that after a brilliant forty-five minutes with the Belvoir and a kill in the open, Frank Gillard, on the part of the Duke of Rutland and members of the Hunt, welcomed the Irishman to the country, and presented him with the brush, which from find to finish he had truly earned. This brush, with inscription under, now hangs at Bruree.

Inheriting another large fortune from an uncle in Cork, the subject of this notice soon after started to race on the flat in England, giving up hunting through increasing weight and continued attacks of gout. It is impossible here to enter upon the achievements of John Gubbins on the Turf—besides, are they not matters of general knowledge? Suffice to say, they were brought about at first from the stable of Jousiffe at Lambourne by such horses as Stars and Stripes, John Morgan, Bruree, Marietta, Toffey, Kinsale, Improver, Holycross, Palace Gate and others, all bred at the home farms. But it was not till the horses were sent to Sam Darling, at Beckenham, that the summit of this sportsman’s ambition was reached. From that stable were sent, amongst other good ones, Blairfinde (own brother to Galtee More), Kendal Boy, St. Jacques, St. Valentine II., Revenue, and Port Blair. While there also were prepared the great Galtee More and the still greater Ard Patrick, whose names, by the way, are taken from those of the highest peaks of the Galtee Mountains, which overlook their paddocks.

It may be recorded that the race for the Eclipse Stakes at Sandown in July, 1903, when Ard Patrick, ridden by Otto Madden, beat at sex allowance the mighty Sceptre, both of them leaving that year’s Derby winner, Rock Sand, lengths in the rear, ranks amongst the finest contests ever witnessed on a racecourse.

These horses, one the “triple-crown” winner of 1897, the other the Derby of 1902, after winning in stakes £27,019 and £26,616 respectively, were sold, the former to the Russian Government, the latter to the German, for £21,000 apiece. And it may be stated that when in May, 1898, representatives of the Russian Government came to this country purposely to buy a really high-class thoroughbred stallion, after looking over every one that was for sale (and others which were not, such as St. Simon, Carbine, Cyllene, and Galtee More), they came to the conclusion that not one could compare with the Irish horse. It was with the utmost difficulty Mr. Gubbins was persuaded to sell the celebrity.

Knowing that Kendal had on two occasions beaten Ormonde in trials, Mr. John Gubbins bought him at a good price from the Duke of Westminster in the early nineties, and sending him to his stud at Bruree, the son of Bend Or and Windermere got winners with quite phenomenal success. After a few years he was sold to Mr. Platt for £18,000, with free service of mares, which brought the amount to nearly £20,000. So with the income he earned as a sire in Ireland at a fee of £200, Kendal must have done as well for Mr. Gubbins as did either his son Galtee More or Ard Patrick, who was from Galtee More’s dam, Morganette, but by St. Florian, the horse bought to take the place of Kendal. In fact, besides being one of the most successful owners ever known on the Turf with regard to stakes won, he was one of the most successful breeders, for almost all his horses were bred at home, except the stallions, Morganette herself coming from his mare, Lady Morgan. With the sum of £22,739 he headed the winning owners in 1897, and as he always backed his horses he had reason to be grateful to the Parnellites for driving him out of Ireland!

The good nature of this fine old Irish gentleman was such that never would he refuse information to any one as to his horses, the absolute stranger being as welcome to ask it as the dearest friend. It is not surprising, therefore, that no more popular colours were than the never-to-be-forgotten “violet with crimson buttons and crimson cap.” And when Ard Patrick won for him his second Derby, the generous owner not only made suitable presents to those directly concerned with the horse, but gave double wages for a month to all the employees he had at home, while he remitted a half-year’s rent to all his tenants.

In his young days he was himself a good man between the flags, winning the Downshire at Punchestown, on Fairyland, in 1870, carrying 13 st. 8 lbs., as he did the Welters at both Cork and Downpatrick, on a horse of his own, D. P. S. But it was with one of the brothers Beasley as jockey (generally poor Tom) he won nearly all the big steeplechases in Ireland and several in England; while if Usna, with Harry Beasley, had not met with the accident at the canal turn, through over-jumping, the Grand National of 1888 might have been won by Jack Gubbins’ horse. Seamen, also with Harry Beasley, won the Grand Hurdle Race at Paris in 1881; and when Whisper Low won the Grand Steeplechase there the year after, steered by Tom Beasley, Gubbins was half owner.

Strange to say he did not care much for racing in itself unless he had a horse engaged, and had been known to go salmon fishing in preference to visiting Punchestown; while in July, 1903, rather than go and see Ard Patrick win the Princess of Wales’ Stakes of £10,000 at Newmarket he went to the Gordon-Bennett Motor Race in Kildare. He was a good, practical yachtsman, and fond of coursing, but did not care for shooting.

Owing to failing health and more frequent attacks of gout Mr. Gubbins retired from racing after the sale of Ard Patrick; and at the Newmarket Second July Meeting of 1904, his horses in training were sold, the twenty-seven lots fetching 14,920 guineas. Last autumn, however, finding himself better, he sent a batch of yearlings to his friend, Sir Charles Nugent, at Cranbourne, and so promising were some that nominations were freely taken; but now, alas, their sportsman-owner is no more, and these become, through a curious rule, null and void.

At Punchestown, at the end of April, four Irish sportsmen will be missed, than whom four better never visited there—the late Baron de Robeck, John Hubert Moore, Tom Beasley, and Jack Gubbins.

P.S.—Just as the foregoing was sent to the printer news came of the death, on April 4th, of the greatest friend and life-long comrade of Mr. Gubbins, his brother-in-law, Wray Bury Palliser, of Annestown, County Waterford, J.P., D.L. He was the same type of old-time sportsman, and a genial, jovial companion; loved racing, but never owned racehorses, and in his day was a first-rate man to hounds, well-known in the halcyon days of Curraghmore.

Cocking may be (I do not say it is) a thing of the past, but what possibly may not be generally known is the keen interest fly-fishermen still have in the preservation and continuation of certain varieties of the old fighting breeds of English game. Many find it adds pleasure to the delights of catching fish to capture them with flies of their own making, and several of these (all amateurs) can and do turn out at the present day better work than has ever before been seen. But to achieve this the right material must be to hand, and from the start difficulty will be experienced in procuring hackles of the right colour, texture, and—most important in the case of chalk-stream fishermen—size. For frequently the July and August trout is not to be beguiled in the mid-day heat by anything bigger than a 000 hook, and the barnyard fowl wears no feathers that will hackle this; its fibres are much too long. Dyeing is largely resorted to to obtain with less trouble the exact hues required, but this does not entirely get over the difficulty, as the commoner red and ginger hackles will not serve as the groundwork for, say, a pale olive, and the blue, the honey and other light-coloured duns are just the ones that are most difficult to lay hands on. So it comes about that to mention blue dun game in the presence of a fly-tier produces much the same effect as the word “rats” does on any well-brought-up terrier.

At the present time, if the dun game varieties are wanted the best localities to search are the West of England, from Cornwall and Devon, through Wales to Cumberland, a circumstance which it is somewhat tempting to endeavour to connect with the driving into these parts of the British, amongst whom, as we know, the Romans introduced cocking, but this must be left to the antiquarians; probably it is only a coincidence due either to the presence of many fishing waters in those districts, or to the fact that in out-of-the-way England old customs died hard, and the law against cock-fighting was not so stringently carried out as in the counties more immediately under the eyes of the lawgivers, whereby the breeds have lasted longer there.

Gervase Markham, who wrote in the early part of the seventeenth century, had a poor opinion of the duns, but his strictures on their merits as fighting birds are not upheld by Robert Howlet, himself an author of an angling book, who writes, in 1807, that as to colour of cocks “there is nothing in it, for the world affords no better birds for the game than many of your duns and whites prove.” However, in most lists made out in order of merit this colour comes at the bottom, which perhaps accounts for the little space devoted to it in the literature so far consulted. I quote Mr. Harrison Weir’s description of the breed as far as regards plumage: “The truest and most rare” (of the duns) “is the blue dun, and these are sub-divided into light and dark. The hackle of the cock bird should be of an intense indigo-blue, and very bright, also the back and the tail-coverts; the wing having a distinct bar; the breast and thighs, as well as the tail, of a beautiful blue dun colour; the face red, with a dark rim round the eye, or dark eyelid; comb and wattles a brilliant vermilion.”

By diligent search specimens of these birds may still be found and procured, though in most instances only at the expenditure of much diplomatic skill and suasion, including that which is not allowed at election times, for if the owner supplies the trade he naturally is interested in limiting the supply and keeping intact a little “corner” of his own; if, on the other hand, he is a breeder by family tradition, money is little likely to induce him to part with his best. Still, perseverance does wonders, and either by getting sittings of eggs, or by picking up individual cockerels and pullets at prices such as are asked from hunt secretaries and treasurers of poultry funds, several enthusiastic fishermen are just now making a beginning at breeding on their own account.

It must not be thought that this is a new departure, for within the last thirty years two poultry shows, one at the Crystal Palace in 1871, and another at the Westminster Aquarium in 1892, have been held, at which prizes were offered both for hackles suitable for fly-dressing and for the birds which yielded them; but at this moment fresh interest seems to be aroused, more and more men are learning to tie, and thereby induced to breed, so that it should not be long ere such prizes shall be again competed for at the big poultry shows, which will by this means attract a visit from many to whom otherwise a fowl presents no points of interest except at meal-times.

Many of those engaged in poultry breeding know nothing—have never heard—of the blue dun game or of the demand for it and the kindred varieties, though they might do worse than run a pen or two of them, only bearing in mind that, though at present the demand is not met by the supply, at no time will it ever be very large or of a size to make game fowl breeding by itself a profitable commercial undertaking.

Besides shortness of fibre the other peculiar merits of the game hackles are their brilliancy, hardness, and ability to shoot the water. They are best obtained from a mature cock in the pink of condition (in cocking days this would have been the eve of a match), during the last two months of the year, except in the case of dun hackles, which are blue at Christmas, but before the autumn moult have golden tints. Of course, now that paraffin is used by the waterside, hen hackles are by no means to be despised, indeed, some tiers care little which they use provided they come off a game bird.

One and not the least advantage of being able to tie his own flies himself is that it enables the fishermen to judge of the work put into those he buys, and to put his finger on the exact material that is wrong when patterns are not copied accurately. This is not infrequently the case, and a good fly gets a bad name, most undeservedly, in consequence.

There is no disease which so seriously affects the feet of our horses as “navicular disease.” Its commencement is subtle and its progress so insidious that it is only when the malady has reached a dangerous condition that it becomes known to the ordinary horseman. At this stage veterinary aid is usually sought, with the result that the owner has to be told that nothing can be done in the way of cure and very little towards stemming its onward progress. Why, it may be asked, do we occupy the pages of this Magazine with a subject so absolutely devoid of matter to which attention can be profitably directed. Our reply is that if little can be done in these directions we are not without hope of ministering to its prevention, and for this we claim some justification for so far imposing on our readers.

Before the days of Moorcroft and Turner navicular disease, although much in existence, was not recognised by the profession, and the lameness arising out of it was referred to the shoulder, with no other reason, save that indications of disease were not detected or detectable in other parts of the limbs. Then, as now, the feet of horses were noticed to contract, and when this condition was found to exist the lameness was attributed to it, and it alone. No one seems to have thought to look for the cause of contraction, and thus to trace the fons et origo mali, but all remained satisfied that the lameness arose from the pinching of the sensitive structures of the foot by the contracting hoof.

No doubt in some measure this was true, for it is impossible to think of a normal state of the sensitive parts of a structure like the foot being enclosed within a small and contracted hoof. As a secondary cause, therefore, contraction would be sure to make itself felt sooner or later by diminishing the size of the foot and interfering with the play of the parts within.

The peculiar stilty action which this disease induces brought into use the term “chest founder.” This term was meant to convey the idea of pain in the muscles of the chest, where the disease giving rise to it was supposed to exist, and it was not until Moorcroft and Turner traced the disease to the navicular bone that these meaningless terms ceased of employment, and the much more rational one, “navicularthritis,” came to be used in their stead. Whether this term is an appropriate one or not may be open to question, but it locates the disease, and in this respect it is distinctly useful.

Causes.—We cannot speak of the cause of navicular disease without referring to the influence of heredity. There can be no doubt that the property of transferring to the offspring the weakness inherited by the parent is just as marked in this as in any other affection, and the writer, in a long experience, has seen numerous instances of the disease handed down from the latter to the former. It must be understood that the transmission of hereditary taint or predisposition is what is understood here by hereditary disease. It is not that the disease in an active state is born with the animal, but that the parts are in that condition in which the disease may be easily excited in them by causes which would not affect an animal who was not the subject of hereditary weakness. It must not however, be stated that because a horse inherits a predisposition to navicular or any other disease that he should necessarily contract it. A good deal will depend upon the degree of intensity of the inheritance on the one hand, and the severity of the cause which acts upon it on the other. If it exists in such form as to be easily excited into action, it is not unlikely to appear, but where the hereditary predisposition is only possessed in a mild measure the animal may not meet with a cause sufficiently severe by which the predisposition can be made to assume an active state.

Exciting Causes.—They are numerous and varied. Conformation, action, shoeing, weight of body and general management, all play their respective parts in causing the disease.

Side View of Healthy Foot.

Side View of Diseased Foot.

Back View of Healthy Foot.

Back View of Diseased Foot.