Baily's Magazine of Sports and Pastimes, Volume 85 January to June, 1906 (part 2 of 3)

Baily's Magazine of Sports and Pastimes, Volume 85 January to June, 1906 (part 2 of 3)

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.

Recollections of Seventy-five Years’ Sport. I.

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.

ROBERT FELLOWES.

(To be continued.)

The Education of the Puppy.

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.

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.

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.

F.

A few Cocks and some Rabbits.

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.

A. H. B.

Breeds of British Salmon.

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.

W. MURDOCH.

[Illustration:

VANGUARD RUNNING A FOX TO GROUND.

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

The Foxhounds of Great Britain.[5]

A REVIEW.

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.

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.

BORDERER.

Hind-hunting.

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.

FAMOUS LIVERPOOL RIDERS.

Famous Grand National Riders.

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.

Won 2nd. 3rd. Unplaced Total of Mounts G. Stevens 5 0 1 9 15 T. Olliver 3 3 1 12 19 Mr. Thomas 3 0 2 12 17 A. Nightingall 3 1 4 7 15 Mr. T. Beasley 3 2 1 6 12 Mr. Richardson 2 — — 2 4 Mr. E. P. Wilson 2 1 0 13 16 Mr. A. Goodman 2 1 1 7 11 J. Page 2 1 1 7 11

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

DISTURBANCE AND NO ROW,

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.

ARTHUR F. MEYRICK.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(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 Sportsman’s Library.

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.

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:—

THE HEAD AS A UNIT OF MEASUREMENT.

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:—

The length of the head almost exactly equals the distance—

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).

Two and one-half times the head gives—

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).

Two Noted Hunting Sires, Van Galen and Victor.

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.

The University Boat Race.

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.

W. C. P. F.

Goose Shooting in Manitoba.

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.

BORDERER, JUNIOR.

“Hunting Ladies.”

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.”

She had kept her own place with a feeling of pride, When her ear caught the voice of a youth alongside, “There’s a fence on ahead that no lady should face; Turn aside to the left—I will show you the place.”

* * * * *

To the field on the left they diverted their flight; At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

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.”

M. V. WYNTER and C. M. CRESWELL.

Some Theories on Acquiring a Seat.

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.

X. Y. Z.

“Our Van.”

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.

HUNTING.

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.

HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.

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.

DEATH OF MR. E. A. NEPEAN.

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.

THE GRAND PRIX AT MONTE CARLO.

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.

GOLF.

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.

“HIS HOUSE IN ORDER,” AT THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE.

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.

Sporting Intelligence. [During January—February, 1906.]

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.

MANCHESTER SECOND JANUARY.

January 17th.—The Manchester Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; two miles. Mr. C. Bower Ismay’s b. h. Theodocion, by Marcion—Minthe, aged, 12st. 3lb. A. Newey 1 Mr. C. R. Hodgson’s b. m. Do be Quick, 6 yrs., 11st. 13lb. Mr. Payne 2 Mr. A. Coats’ b. m. Felspar, 6 yrs., 11st. 6lb. R. Cowe 3 3 to 1 agst. Theodocion.

January 18th.—The Cheshire Hurdle Race of 200 sovs.; two miles. Sir Peter Walker’s b. g. St. Evremonde, by St. Frusquin—Ejector, 6 yrs., 11st. 11lb. E. Sullivan 1 Mr. J. Tait’s br. m. Adelia, 5 yrs., 10st, 11lb. E. Driscoll 2 Mr. F. Straker’s ch. m. Consequence, 6 yrs., 11st. 8lb. M. Phelan 3 9 to 2 agst. St. Evremonde.

HURST PARK.

January 19th.—The New Year Handicap Hurdle Race of 150 sovs.; two miles. Mr. A. Stedall’s b. g. Rassendyl, by Loved One—Princess, aged, 11st. 9lb. J. Dillon 1 Mr. H. Rich’s ch. g. Hopeless II., 6 yrs., 10st. G. 11lb. Williamson 2 Mr. E. Christie Miller’s br. h. St. John’s Wood, 6 Mr. W. yrs., 11st. Bulteel 3 5 to 1 agst. Rassendyl.

January 20th.—The Middlesex Handicap Steeplechase of 150 sovs.; two miles. Mr. P. Gleeson’s b. h. Lord of the Level, by Macheath—Mome d’Amour, 6 yrs., 11st. 8lb. F. Mason 1 Col. R. L. Birkin’s b. g. Springbok, 5yrs., 11st. Mr. R. 5lb. Payne 2 Mr. T. W. Blenkiron’s b. f. Queen’s Scholar, 5 yrs., 10st. 9lb. J. Dillon 3 2 to 1 agst. Lord of the Level.

NOTTINGHAM JANUARY MEETING.

January 30th.—The Nottinghamshire Handicap Steeplechase of 400 sovs.; two miles. Mr. J. Gordon Houghton’s b. g. Desert Chief, by Spahi—Genista, by Exminster, aged, 12st. 12lb. R. Chadwick 1 Mr. F. Bibby’s ch. h. Wild Boer, 6 yrs., 10st. 8lb. F. Mason 2 Mr. P. Cullinan’s b. m. Little May II., aged, 10st. 3lb. Mr. Walker 3 13 to 8 on Desert Chief.

GATWICK SECOND JANUARY.

January 31st.—The Tantivy Steeplechase of 500 sovs.; two miles. Mr. T. Clyde’s br. g. Sachem, by Noble Chieftain—Talavera, 5 yrs., 11st. 10lb. J. O’Brien 1 Sir Henry Randall’s b. c. Frisky Bill, 4 yrs., 10st. 10lb. J. Dillon 2 Prince Hatzfeldt’s ch. g. Rathvale, 5 yrs., 12st. 1lb. W. Morgan 3 9 to 4 agst. Sachem.

The Surrey Steeplechase (Handicap) of 209 sovs.; two miles. Mr. C. Hibbert’s b. h. Royal Rouge, by Florizel J. II—Red Enamel, aged, 11st. Nightingall 1 Prince Hatzfeldt’s b. g. Cossack Post, aged, 12st. Hon. A. 1lb. Hastings 2 C. T. Garland’s b. or br. m. Sudden Rise, 6yrs., 11st. 12lb. W. Morgan 3 8 to 1 agst. Royal Rouge.

February 1st.—The Stewards’ Steeplechase Handicap of 200 sovs.; three miles and a half. Mr. C. R. Hodgson’s b. m. Do be Quick, by Mr. R. Speed—Danska, 6 yrs., 12st. 1lb. Payne 1 Major M. H. Tristram’s Shaun Aboo, aged, 11st. 6lb. Mr. W. Bulteel 2 Prince Hatzfeldt’s Deerslayer, aged, 11st. 5lb. Hon. A. Hastings 3 2 to 1 agst. Do be Quick.

The International Hurdle Race (Handicap) of 500 sovs.; two miles. Mr. Thompson’s ch. h. Leviathan, by Isinglass—Galiana, aged, 11st. 12lb. G. Wilson 1 Mr. Robert Campbell’s ch. g. St. Enogat, aged, 10st. 9lb. F. Mason 2 Sir S. Scott’s b. g. Series, 6 yrs., 10st. 11lb. H. Aylin 3 8 to 1 agst. Leviathan.

The Brook Hurdle Race of 200 sovs.; two miles. Lord Londonderry’s b. g. St. Florentin, by St. Simon—Wise Flower, 4 yrs., 10st. T. Fitton 1 Mr. Edmund Lamb’s b. g. Ancaster, 6 yrs., 11st. M. J. Harty 2 Capt. F. Bald’s b. g. Rosebury, 5 yrs., 10st. 10lb. F. Mason 3 9 to 4 agst. St. Florentin.

KEMPTON PARK.

February 2nd.—The Middlesex Hurdle Race of 500 sovs.; two miles. Sir Peter Walker’s b. f. Therapia, by Tarporley—Rosemount, 4 yrs. 10st. 4lb. E. Sullivan 1 Mr. F. W. Phillips’ ch. h. The Chair, 6 yrs., 11st. W. T. 11lb. Morgan 2 Mr. Imber’s b. h. Sandboy, 6 yrs., 11st. 11lb. J. Hare 3 100 to 12 agst. Therapia.

February 3rd.—The Coventry Handicap Steeplechase of 500 sovs.; two miles. Mr. J. S. Morrison’s b. g. John M.P., by Britannic—Guiding Star, aged, 12st. 2lb. W. Taylor 1 Mr. F. Bibby’s b. g. Comfit, aged, 11st. F. Mason 2 Capt. Michael Hughes’ b. g. Vaerdalen, 5 yrs., 11st. 8lb. M. Harty 3 3 to 1 agst. John M.P.

SANDOWN PARK.

February 9th.—The Sandown Grand Prize of 300 sovs.; two miles. Mr. A. Stedall’s b. g. Rassendyl, by Loved One—Princess, aged, 12st. 7lb. J. Dillon 1 Mr. W. J. Crook’s b. g. Henley, 5 yrs., 11st. 1lb. L. Sherwood 2 Mr. C. Bower Ismay’s Theodocion, aged, 11st. 4lb. A. Newey 3 4 to 1 agst. Rassendyl.

The February Four-year-old Hurdle Race of 200 sovs.; two miles. Sir H. Randall’s ch. g. Magic Lad, by J. Common—Grammarge, 10st. 10lb. Nightingall 1 Mr. R. Combe’s b. g. Cadwal, 10st, 10lb. H. Aylin 2 Major E. Loder’s b. c. Maggio, 10st. 2lb. A. Anthony 3 100 to 12 agst. Magic Lad.

February 10th.—The Prince of Wales’s Steeplechase of 172 sovs.; three miles and a half. Lord Sefton’s b. g. Canter Home, by Retreat—Canterbury, aged, 10st. 12lb. E. Driscoll 1 Mr. Hamilton Langley’s bl. g. Brian Born, aged, 11st. Mr. P. 1lb. Whitaker 2 7 to 4 agst. Canter Home.

MANCHESTER FEBRUARY.

February 12th.—The February Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; three miles. Mr. John Widger’s b. m. Northern Light IV., by Blairfinde—False Dawn, aged, 10st. 11lb. (car. Mr. J. 11st.) Widger 1 Sir Peter Walker’s bl. g. Royal Drake, aged, 12st. 41b. E. Sullivan 2 Mr. S. Pickering’s b. m. Johnstown Lass, aged, 10st. 10lb. H. Aylin 3 7 to 4 agst. Northern Light IV.

The Broughton Hurdle Race (Handicap) of 200 sovs.; two miles. Mr. R. B. Henry’s ch. g. Moonstruck, by Massacre—Diana, 6 yrs., 11st. 10lb. F. Mason 1 Sir Peter Walker’s b. g. St. Evremonde, 6 yrs., 11st. 12lb. E. Sullivan 2 Mr. J. Croxton’s b. g. Rapt, 5 yrs., 10st. 9lb. G. Knowles 3 9 to 4 agst. Moonstruck.

ROYAL WINDSOR FEBRUARY.

February 14th.—The Bracknell Handicap Hurdle Race of 200 sovs.; two miles. Mr. E. J. Percy’s bl. f. Black Mingo, by Cherry Tree—Calista, 5 yrs., 10st. 2lb. F. Mason 1 Mr. A. Hamblin’s ch. c. Orison, 4 yrs., 10st. 5lb A. Birch 2 Major Joicey’s ch. h. Plum Pecker, 6 yrs., 10st. 1lb E. Driscoll 3 6 to 1 agst. Black Mingo.

February 15th.—The Royal Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; three miles. Mr. G. Auckland’s b. h. Drumkerrin, by Speed, dam by Mr. W. Castlereagh—Sister to Rufus, 6 yrs., 11st. Bulteel 1 Mr. F. White’s br. g. Shaun Dhuv, aged, 11st. 4lb. E. Driscoll 2 Mr. J. W. King’s ch. m. Countenance, aged, 10st. 3lb. J. Simms 3 4 to 1 agst. Drumkerrin.

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.*

* Under Rugby Rules.

† Under Association Rules.

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.

-----

Footnote 4:

The normal temperature of the dog is 101·4°.—EDITOR.

Footnote 5:

“The Foxhounds of Great Britain.” Edited by Sir Humphrey de Trafford, Bart., and published by Walter Southwood and Co., 30, Craven Street, Strand, London. Price, £5 5s.

Footnote 6:

John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanack for 1906. Edited by Sydney H. Pardon. Forty-third edition. London: Published and sold by John Wisden and Co., 21, Cranbourn Street, W.C. Price 1s.

Footnote 7:

“The Horse: Its Treatment in Health and Disease.” Edited by Professor J. Wortley Axe, M.R.C.V.S. Divisional Volume II. The Gresham Publishing Company.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BAILY’S MAGAZINE

OF

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ DIARY FOR APRIL, 1906. │ ├──────┬─────┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │Day of│ Day │ OCCURRENCES. │ │Month.│ of │ │ │ │Week.│ │ ├──────┼─────┼────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ │ │ │ │ 1│ =S= │=Fifth Sunday in Lent.= │ │ 2│ M │Warwick, Usk and Retford Hunt Races. │ │ 3│ TU │Warwick Races. │ │ 4│ W │Newbury, Monmouth, Ipswich, North Warwickshire Races. │ │ │ │ and Melton Hunt Races. │ │ 5│ TH │Newbury, Monmouth, Croxton Park and Eglinton Hunt Races.│ │ 6│ F │Derby Spring, Hooton Park, Banbury and Eglinton Hunt │ │ │ │ Races. │ │ 7│ S │Derby Spring, Hooton Park and Eglinton Hunt Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 8│ =S= │=Palm Sunday.= │ │ 9│ M │Nottingham, Hawthorn Hill and Folkestone Races. │ │ 10│ TU │Nottingham and Hawthorn Hill Races. │ │ 11│ W │Leicester Spring, Maiden Erlegh and Grindon Hunt Races. │ │ 12│ TH │Leicester Spring Races. │ │ 13│ =F= │=Good Friday.= │ │ 14│ S │Plumpton Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 15│ =S= │=Easter Sunday.= │ │ 16│ M │Manchester, Cardiff, Torquay, Newcastle Spring, │ │ │ │ Portsmouth Park, Kempton Park, Hamilton Pk., │ │ │ │ Birmingham, Market Rasen and Herefordshire Hunt Races.│ │ 17│ TU │Manchester, Cardiff, Torquay and Wolverhampton Races. │ │ │ │ Royal Dublin Society’s Spring Show, Balls Bridge (4 │ │ │ │ days). │ │ 18│ W │Newmarket Craven and Brocklesby Hunt Races. │ │ 19│ TH │Newmarket Craven, Catterick Bridge, Cowbridge and │ │ │ │ Hambledon Hunt Races. │ │ 20│ F │Newmarket Craven, Catterick Bridge and Royal Artillery │ │ │ │ (Aldershot) Races. │ │ 21│ S │Alexandra Park Races. Football Association Cup (final). │ │ │ │ │ │ 22│ =S= │=First Sunday after Easter (Low Sunday).= │ │ 23│ M │Southdown Hunt and Quorn Hunt Races. │ │ 24│ TU │Epsom Spring, Bungay, Bridgnorth and United Border Hunt │ │ │ │ Races. │ │ 25│ W │Epsom Spring, Bungay, Pontefract and Northumberland Hunt│ │ │ │ Races. │ │ 26│ TH │Sandown Park, Pontefract and Ludlow Park Races. │ │ 27│ F │Sandown Park, Ludlow Park and Stockton Races. │ │ 28│ S │Sandown Park and Stockton Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 29│ =S= │=Second Sunday after Easter.= │ │ 30│ M │Lingfield, Hawthorn Hill and Midland Hunt (Nottingham) │ │ │ │ Races. │ └──────┴─────┴────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

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BAILY’S MAGAZINE OF SPORTS AND PASTIMES NO. 554. APRIL, 1906. VOL. LXXXV.

CONTENTS.

PAGE Sporting Diary for the Month v. Mr. Henry Hawkins 259 Recollections of Seventy-five Years’ Sport—II 260 In Memoriam—The late Captain J. T. R. Lane Fox 265 Spring Trout and Spring Weather 266 The Towered Bird 268 Hunt “Runners”—IV. (Illustrated) 272 “The Old Horse” 276 Some Novelties in the Laws of Croquet 279 True Fishing Stories 283 A Hundred Years Ago 287 The Borzoi (Illustrated) 289 Some Sport in the Transvaal in 1878 292 A Song of Homage (Verses) 299 Herod Blood 300 The Last of the Bitterns 303 The Spring Horse Shows (Illustrated) 305 The Sportsman’s Library (Illustrated) 317 “Our Van”:— Racing 320 Hunting 323 Hunting in Yorkshire 327 American v. English Foxhound Match 329 Breeding of Thoroughbreds 329 Polo in the United States 330 The M.C.C. Cricketers in South Africa 330 Death of Richard Humphrey 332 Death of Mr. E. H. Buckland 333 Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race 334 Cross-country Racing 336 Golf 337 “The Voysey Inheritance” at the Court Theatre 338 Sporting Intelligence 339

WITH ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF MR. HENRY HAWKINS.

Mr. Henry Hawkins.

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.

Recollections of Seventy-five Years’ Sport. II.

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.

ROBERT FELLOWES.

In Memoriam. THE LATE CAPTAIN J. T. R. LANE FOX.

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.

BORDERER.

Spring Trout and Spring Weather.

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.

J. PAUL TAYLOR.

The Towered Bird.

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.”

G. T. TEASDALE BUCKELL.

Hunt “Runners.” IV. BUTLER OF THE NORTH COTSWOLD.

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.

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.

“The Old Horse.”

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.

HUGH HENRY.

Some Novelties in the Laws of Croquet.

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.

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.

QUID.

True Fishing Stories.

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.

GAMMEL MAN.

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.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(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.

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.

The Borzoi.

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.

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.

FREDK. GRESHAM.

Some Sport in the Transvaal in 1878.

BY LIEUT.-COLONEL ALSAGER POLLOCK.

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.

A Song of Homage.

Along the country lanes I bear her gaily, Between deep hedgerows where the wild flowers spring, Where hawthorn blooms, where trees grow greener daily, And mounting skylarks sing.

Nature thus decked in glorious robes, forgetting The sombre weeds of winter laid aside, Makes for my mistress but a proper setting When she goes forth to ride.

For she so young and fair, yet never thinking How fair, gives promise of more wondrous grace, With kind grey eyes from wells of sunshine drinking, Set in a perfect face.

I, Blacky, am her slave, well-groomed and sightly, Who loves—nay life without it were a blank— The feeling of her habit flapping lightly Against my shining flank.

I am her willing slave; in doing blindly Her smallest pleasure lies my pleasure too, Content because she ever treats me kindly As friend and comrade true.

How could I be a rogue with her or idle? Nay, how could horse do aught except rejoice To feel a hand so gentle on the bridle, To hear so sweet a voice?

And often when I stand at leisure feeding, Shut in my box, from all excitement barred, I catch the sound of welcome footsteps speeding Across the stable-yard.

“Blacky,” she calls; I whinny as she presses Her face to mine with words I understand, While, mingling with the sweets of her caresses, Comes sugar from her hand.

BLACKY.

Herod Blood.

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.

Derbies Oaks St. Legers Total St. Simon (E) 2 5 4 11 Sir Peter (H), 1784 4 2 4 10 Stockwell (E), 1849 3 1 6 10 Highflyer (H), 1774 3 1 4 8 Melbourne (M), 1834 2 3 2 7 Waxy (E), 1790 4 3 – 7 Touchstone (E), 1831 3 1 3 7 Isonomy (E), 1875 2 1 3 6 Pot-8-os (E), 1773 3 1 1 5 Sorcerer (M), 1796 1 3 1 5 Birdcatcher (E), 1836 1 1 3 5 King Tom (E), 1851 1 3 1 5 Lord Clifden (E), 1860 – 1 4 5 Eclipse, 1764 3 1 – 4 Herod, 1758 – 3 1 4 Florizel (H) 2 – 2 4 Whalebone (E), 1807 3 1 – 4 Adventurer (E), 1869 1 2 1 4 Buccaneer (H), 1859 1 2 1 4 Emilius (E), 1820 2 1 1 4 Hermit (E), 1864 2 2 – 4 Hampton (E), 1872 3 1 – 4 Scud (E), 1804 2 1 – 3 Bay Middleton (H), 1833 2 – 1 3 Justice (H), 1774 2 1 – 3 Tramp (E), 1810 2 – 1 3 Phantom (H), 1808 2 1 1 3 Orville (E), 1799 2 – 1 3 Newminster (E), 1848 2 1 – 3 Whiskey (E), 1789 1 2 – 3 Selim (H), 1802 1 2 – 3 Velocipede (E), 1825 1 1 1 3 Muley (E), 1810 1 1 1 3 Sultan (H), 1816 1 2 – 3 Volunteer (E), 1780 1 2 – 3 Blair Athol (E), 1861 1 – 2 3 Voltaire (E), 1826 1 – 2 3 Sweetmeat (H), 1842 1 2 – 3 Barcaldine (M), 1878 1 1 1 3 Woful (E), 1809 – 2 1 3 King Fergus (E), 1775 – – 3 3 Priam (E), 1827 – 3 – 3 Beninghough (E), 1791 – 2 1 3 Petrarch (E), 1873 – 2 1 3 Macaroni (H), 1860 – 3 – 3 Gallinule (E), 1884 – 1 2 3

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.

S. C. BURKE.

The Last of the Bitterns.

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—

Not where along unlovely ways The roaring tide of trouble flows—

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.

A. T. JOHNSON.

The Spring Horse Shows.

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

THE SHIRES.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

G. S. LOWE.

The Sportsman’s Library.

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.

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.

“Our Van.”

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.

HUNTING.

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.

HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.

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.

AMERICAN v. ENGLISH FOXHOUND MATCH.

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.

POLO IN THE UNITED STATES.

“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.

DEATH OF RICHARD HUMPHREY.

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.

DEATH OF MR. E. H. BUCKLAND.

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.

THE OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE BOAT RACE.

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.

CROSS-COUNTRY RUNNING.

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.

GOLF.

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 VOYSEY INHERITANCE” AT THE COURT THEATRE.

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.

Sporting Intelligence. [During February-March, 1906.]

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.

HURST PARK.

February 16th.—The Molesey Handicap of 250 sovs.; two miles. Mr. C. Hibbert’s b. h. Royal Rouge, by Florizel J. II.—Red Enamel, aged, 11st. 5lb. Nightingall 1 Mr. A. Stedall’s Gavel, 5 yrs., 10st. J. Dillon 2 Prince Hatzfeldt’s Cossack Post, aged, 12st. Mr. Hastings 3 10 to 1 agst. Royal Rouge.

February 17th.—The February Maiden Hurdle Race of 250 sovs.; two miles. Mr. Imber’s b. h. Sandboy, by Ravensbury—Sandblast, 6 yrs., 12st. 3lb. J. Hare 1 Mr. George Edwardes’ ch. c. Knight of the Garter, 4 yrs., 10st. 7lb. F. Mason 2 Mr. A. Stedall’s bl. c. Leopold, 4 yrs., 10st. 7lb. J. Dillon 3 5 to 4 on Sandboy.

WARWICK CLUB MEETING.

February 22nd.—The Leamington Grand Annual Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; three miles. Lord G. Grosvenor’s br. h. Noble Lad, by Noble Chieftain—The Lady, aged, 10st. 12lb. J. Conway 1 Mr. H. Hardy’s b. g. Tom West, aged, 10st. 10lb. H. Murphy 2 Mr. Cotton’s ch. g. Phil May, aged, 12st. 7lb. J. Owens 3 2 to 1 agst. Noble Lad.

HAYDOCK PARK MEETING.

February 24th.—The Great Central Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; three miles. Mr. John Widger’s b. m. Northern Light IV., by Blairfinde—False Dawn, aged, 11st. 11lb. Owner 1 Sir Peter Walker’s br. g. Royal Drake, aged, 12st. 4lb. J. O’Brien 2 Mr. P. E. Speakman’s bl. g. Buckaway II., aged, 11st. 9lb. A. Newey 3 6 to 4 on Northern Light IV.

SANDOWN PARK MEETING.

March 1st.—The Liverpool Trial Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; about three miles and a half. Mr. J. S. Morrison’s br. g. John M.P., by Britannic—Guiding Star, aged, 11st. W. Taylor 1 Mr. A. Gorham’s ch. g. Wolf’s Folly, aged, 10st. 9lb. T. Fitton 2 Mr. J. W. Philipps’ br. g. Crautacaun, aged, 10st. 9lb. I. Anthony 3 3 to 1 on John M.P.

March 2nd.—The Grand Military Gold Cup of 445 sovs.; three miles. Mr. R. F. Eyre’s ch. g. Royal Blaze, by Royal Capt. L. Exchange—Searchlight, 6 yrs., 12st. Denny 1 Mr. R. C. de Crespigny’s b. g. Prince Tallyrand, Capt. de aged, 12st. Crespigny 2 Capt. C. Cradock’s b. h. Prizeman, 6 yrs., 11st. 9lb. Owner 3 100 to 8 agst. Royal Blaze.

March 3rd.—The Grand Military Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; two miles and a half. Mr. C. Bewicke’s b. c. Ticket o’ Leave, by Mr. A. Prisoner—Primula, 5 yrs., 10st. 12lb. Fitzgerald 1 Gen. Hamilton’s b. m. Olive, aged, 10st. 11lb. Capt. Stacpoole 2 Capt. L. S. Denny’s b. g. Matchboard, 6 yrs., 11st. 7lb. Owner 3 100 to 8 agst. Ticket o’ Leave.

The United Service Steeplechase of 150 sovs.; two miles. Mr. C. Bewicke’s b. g. Glamore, by Eglamour, dam’s ped. unknown, aged, 12st. 7lb. Owner 1 Mr. C. Bewicke’s br. c. John Shark, 4 yrs., 10st. Capt. 7lb. Stacpoole 2 Mr. Hugh Ashton’s ch. g. Sanctimonious, 5 yrs., 12st. Mr. Forsythe 3 7 to 4 agst. Glamore.

NATIONAL HUNT AND WARWICK.

March 8th.—The National Hunt Steeplechase of 1,000 sovs.; four miles and about 150 yards. Mr. W. Charter’s ch. g. Count Rufus, by Wise Count, Mr. A. dam by Arraby, aged, 12st. 3lb. Gordon 1 Mr. C. W. Wadsworth’s b. h. Port Light II., aged, Hon. A. 12st. 3lb. Hastings 2 Capt. James Foster’s ch. h. Lara, 5yrs., 11st. 8lb. Capt. R. H. Collis 3 25 to 1 agst. Count Rufus.

The National Hunt Juvenile Steeplechase of 500 sovs.; for maiden four-year-olds; 11st. 7lb. each; two miles and a quarter. Mr. B. W. Parr’s ch. f. Nanoya, by Winkfield—Elissa Mr. H. Persse 1 Mr. J. Chamberlin’s br. c. English Oak Mr. Watson 2 Mr. Owen J. Williams’ ch. f. Irish Poplin Mr. Fergusson 3 7 to 1 agst. Nanoya.

The Warwick Handicap Steeplechase of 200 sovs.; two miles and three-quarters. Mr. F. Bibby’s b. g. Comfit, by Butterscotch, dam by Clanronald—K.T., aged, 12st. F. Mason 1 Sir Peter Walker’s br. g. Royal Drake, aged, 11st. 11lb. E. Sullivan 2 Lord Howard de Walden’s b. g. Centre Board, 6 yrs., 11st. 11lb. J. Cain 3 6 to 4 agst. Comfit.

HURST PARK.

March 10th.—The New Century Steeplechase of 437 sovs,; two miles. Mr. C. T. Garland’s br. g. Oatlands, by Waterford—Blanche Nef, 6 yrs., 12st. H. Aylin 1 Mr. T. Clyde’s br. g. Sachem, 5 yrs., 12st. J. O’Brien 2 Sir Henry Randall’s b. or br. c. Frisky Bill, 4yrs., Mr. 10st. Rollason 3 100 to 7 agst. Oatlands.

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.*

* Under Rugby Rules.

† Under Association Rules.

-----

Footnote 8:

“Modern Dogs (Sporting Division).” Two Volumes. Third Edition. By Rawdon B. Lee. (Horace Cox.)

Footnote 9:

“The Country Cottage.” By Geo. H. Morris and Esther Wood. 3s. (John Lane.)

Footnote 10:

“The Complete Bridge Player.” By “Cut Cavendish.” Fifth Edition. (T. Werner Laurie, Clifford’s Inn, Fleet Street, E.C.)

Footnote 11:

“Through Race Glasses.” By F. E. Vincent, 1s. (T. Werner Laurie.)

Footnote 12:

Endocia by Philammon—Lady Superior by Thunderbolt.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BAILY’S MAGAZINE

OF

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ DIARY FOR MAY, 1906. │ ├──────┬─────┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │Day of│ Day │ OCCURRENCES. │ │Month.│ of │ │ │ │Week.│ │ ├──────┼─────┼────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ 1│ TU │Newmarket First Spring, Worcester and United Hunt │ │ │ │ (Lingfield) Races. │ │ 2│ W │Two Thousand Guineas, Worcester and Hexham Races. │ │ 3│ TH │Newmarket, Hexham, Thirsk, Isle of Wight, and Newport │ │ │ │ (Mon.) Races. │ │ 4│ F │One Thousand Guineas, Thirsk, Isle of Wight and Newport │ │ │ │ (Mon.) Races. │ │ 5│ S │Windsor Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 6│ =S= │=Third Sunday after Easter.= │ │ 7│ M │Folkestone, Shirley Hunt and Pershore Races. │ │ 8│ TU │Chester, Aldershot and Pershore Races. │ │ 9│ W │Chester Cup, Aldershot, Newton Abbot and Shincliffe │ │ │ │ Races. │ │ 10│ TH │Chester and Newton Abbot Races. │ │ 11│ F │Kempton Park, Ripon and Keele Park Races. │ │ 12│ S │Kempton Park (Great Jubilee Stakes), Ripon and Keele │ │ │ │ Park Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 13│ =S= │=Fourth Sunday after Easter.= │ │ 14│ M │Southwell and Wye Races. │ │ 15│ TU │Newmarket Second Spring and Southwell Races. │ │ 16│ W │Newmarket Stakes and West Somerset (Crewkerne) Races. │ │ 17│ TH │Newmarket and West Somerset Races. │ │ 18│ F │Gatwick, Haydock Park and Hamilton Park Races. │ │ 19│ S │Gatwick, Haydock Park and Hamilton Park Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 20│ =S= │=Rogation Sunday.= │ │ 21│ M │Nottingham Hunt Races. │ │ 22│ TU │York and Bath Races. │ │ 23│ W │York and Bath Races. │ │ 24│ TH │Doncaster, Salisbury and Hamilton Park Races. │ │ 25│ F │Doncaster and Salisbury Races. │ │ 26│ S │Harpenden Races. │ │ │ │ │ │ 27│ =S= │=Sunday after Ascension.= │ │ 28│ M │Southwell Races. │ │ 29│ TU │Epsom Races. │ │ 30│ W │The Derby. │ │ 31│ TH │Epsom Races. │ └──────┴─────┴────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

WORKS BY SIR WALTER GILBEY, BART.

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BAILY’S MAGAZINE OF SPORTS AND PASTIMES NO. 555. MAY, 1906. VOL. LXXXV.

CONTENTS.

PAGE Sporting Diary for the Month v. Mr. Assheton Biddulph, M.F.H. 343 Englishmen’s Sport in Future Years 346 A Plea for the Hare 350 Pelota 353 Jack Shepherd (Illustrated) 357 The Preparatory School 358 The Late Mr. John R. Gubbins (Illustrated) 362 Dressing Flies 367 Navicular Disease (Illustrated) 369 The Beech as a Commercial Tree (Illustrated) 375 The Hermit Family 377 Sport at the Universities 381 Foxhunting in France (Illustrated) 385 South African Policy of the Marylebone Cricket Ministry 387 Some Fables on Horses 391 The Advent of the Otter-hunting Season (Illustrated) 397 A Hundred Years Ago 398 The Sportsman’s Library (Illustrated) 399 Polo in 1906 402 “Our Van”:— Racing (Illustrated) 405 French Racing 410 Hunting 412 Some Spring Productions at the Theatres 415 Golf 419 Sporting Intelligence 420

WITH ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF MR. ASSHETON BIDDULPH, M.F.H.

Mr. Assheton Biddulph, M.F.H.

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.

Englishmen’s Sport in Future Years.

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.

BLACKTHORN.

A Plea for the Hare.

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?

ALAN R. HAIG BROWN.

Pelota.

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.

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.

E. T. SACHS.

Jack Shepherd.

AN OLD HUNT SERVANT.

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 Preparatory School.

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.

MAGISTER.

The Late Mr. John R. Gubbins.

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.

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.

H. S.

Dressing Flies.

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.

H. L. T. P.

Navicular Disease.

BY PROFESSOR J. WORTLEY AXE.

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.

As to conformation, it would seem that the more upright the parts below the fetlock joint, the less elasticity they present, and the more do they assume a mere column of support. In this case the weight of the body falls more directly upon the navicular bone, and the absence of that elastic recoil afforded by the oblique pastern tends to excite disease in it.

Action.—This will commend itself as an exciting cause to anyone who will watch the movement of different horses. The animal who lifts his limbs high in the air and brings them down again almost in the place from which he took them is much more likely to contract the disease than the horse whose movements are less exalted and more progressive. Especially is this the case if the body is loaded with flesh and the horse is in soft condition.

Shoeing.—Notwithstanding the very great benefits which have resulted to shoeing smiths from recent efforts in their behalf by Agricultural Societies and County Councils, there still remains much to be done ere we can claim to have placed the shoeing of horses outside the causes of navicular disease.

It is perfectly true that the impression left on the mind of a visitor to agricultural shows where shoeing competitions are in evidence is usually assuring, but it gives no idea of the general unfitness of the great bulk of the craft to follow the chosen calling of their lives. This is said in no want of respect for the shoeing smith, but rather with the object of drawing attention to him as a much-neglected individual, and one who is always thankful for anything that may be done for him in the way of education.

Paring the sole, the frog and the bars are all still in evidence both in town and country, but it is not always the wish of the shoeing smith that it should be so; too often it is the wish—nay, the will—of the owner or the coachman that the feet shall look smart, and in order to do this the smith abandons his better knowledge to “oblige.”

Nothing tends so much to lay the foundation for navicular disease as the repeated mutilation of these parts in shoeing. The sole, the frog and the bars are together designed among other things to keep the heels apart and protect the sensitive structures within, and notwithstanding this there are still those who for reasons of their own continue to disregard this very obvious truth and to insist on their horses’ feet being cut out of shape and weakened to the last degree. It is never given a thought that thickness of sole and frog is a defensive quality, and to cut them is to weaken them and to expose the parts within to pressure from without. Apart from bearing their share of the weight of the body, the bars are specially intended to keep the heels open and to maintain a healthy state of the foot, which cannot possibly exist where they are repeatedly cut away in the act of shoeing.

Calks, and such means as are adopted to remove the frog from the ground, operate unfavourably on the feet, and especially where mutilation is part of the operation of shoeing.

Contraction of the foot not infrequently results where the hoof is allowed to grow unduly long and the frog is removed from the ground, or where, as the result of injury to some part of the limb, the foot is rested for a long period. Whether the result of the one cause or the other, it is a condition which, if not carefully rectified by shoeing, may excite navicular disease.

It is comparatively seldom that navicular disease is found to exist in the hind feet, and the preference which it shows for the fore ones may possibly be found in the difference which exists in the conformation of the limbs. The straight fore-leg allows the weight to fall directly on to the feet, while in the hind one it is first broken and diffused in passing through the angle forming the hock, so that by the time it reaches the foot the sharp edge of concussion is removed and the foot escapes the injury which is inflicted through the straighter column in front.

Prevalence of the Disease.—As to the horses which suffer from this affection, it may be somewhat difficult to say in which particular variety it is most prevalent. Between the light and heavy horses there is a great difference in favour of the latter, although since they have been called upon to do so much trotting work the malady has increased in the same proportion. There is a much greater number of cases among harness horses than any other description, but it must not be forgotten that they are the more numerous. And on this account we should look for more cases than are to be found in the other varieties.

Hunters are frequently found to be affected by navicular disease, although their work is for the most part over soft, yielding ground. These animals suffer most when made to jump from high banks into roads, especially when the muscles are tired and have lost much of their power. In these circumstances the full weight of the body falls upon the feet, with the result that the navicular bone may suffer by impact with the ground and become the seat of disease. But apart from these special accidents, hunters become subjects of the malady as the result of constant wear.

The racehorse, as such, is comparatively seldom the victim of this affection. So long as he is in training he is constantly on the turf, and at an early period is relegated to the stud, and ceases to be exposed to the causes by which the disease is excited. If, however, he does not himself contract the malady, his peculiar habits of life have a tendency to weaken the feet and to predispose his stock to contract the disease. In this way he becomes a factor in its propagation. His constant absence from the hard road does little to encourage the secretion of a thick, strong horn, and to impart to the feet that flinty hardness so much to be admired in a sire. “No foot, no horse,” is an axiom as true to-day as it was when first formulated by Lafosse. This is not said to prejudice the thoroughbred, for which the writer has a very high regard as a sire both of hunters and harness horses, but rather to hold out the caution to those who use him.

Symptoms.—There are few diseases in which the symptoms are so obscure and ill-defined in the earlier stages as they are in navicular disease.

The situation of the injured part forbids that inspection and manipulation which we may readily apply to other diseases, and there is too frequently no visible effects of the injury to guide the expert, but only an insidious and slowly progressive lameness.

It is more than probable that for some time the owner will be in doubt as to whether there is any defect at all. The only change observable to him is an uneasy sensation experienced when the horse is ridden in his fast paces. Soon, however, the defect becomes obvious in one leg or the other, and later in both.

At this time careful search may or may not discover visible contraction of the diseased foot. This condition, however, soon follows on by resting the foot in the stable or relieving it when at work. In the former case it is partially flexed and advanced more or less so as to take it away from the bearing, and in the latter the heel is kept as far as possible from the ground, and the weight is thrown on to the front part of the foot. All the changes which follow upon this are in the direction of contraction of the heels, and as this takes place the foot narrows behind. With the progress of the disease and the constant use of the sound foot it also begins to show signs of trouble, and the lameness which had hitherto been confined to the one now appears in the other. Knee action becomes defective, the step is short and “proppy,” or, as it is commonly expressed, “groggy.” On leaving the stable the horse is very lame, but as he continues to move the lameness in great measure passes away. The fore limbs are now upright, or he stands over at the knees, a fulness appears in the hollow of the heel, the foot becomes blocky, and the crust thick and dense, the sole is unusually concave, the frog wasted, and may be affected with thrush.

Treatment.—It may be accepted as true that once the disease is started its progress continues, and sooner or later brings its victim to the knacker’s.

In some horses the malady makes slow progress, but in others it is rapid and destructive. If the disease cannot be cured by the adoption of palliative treatment, much useful work may be obtained from an animal affected by it. When navicular disease is known to exist, special attention will, of course, be given to the shoeing. Here much may be done to keep the disease in check.

We see by the concavity of the sole and the contraction of the heels that the latter have not been allowed to come to the ground in the ordinary way. This is the keynote to which attention must be directed in regard to treatment. The heels must be defended by slightly thickening the shoe at this point, and the introduction of a leather or india-rubber band to break the jar on concussion.

The crust must not be allowed to grow unduly, but must be kept down by occasional rasping. By doing this, contraction of the foot is to some extent prevented, and the conditions of its elasticity preserved.

When in the stable a cold wet swab should be worn; it softens the hoof, prevents contraction, and enables the animal to work with comparative ease. Horses with navicular disease, especially those advanced in years, should be kept at work. Of all occupations none suit these animals like working on the land, where the feet meet with the least resistance. Mild counter-irritants to the coronets while still working may be applied, but on no account should the animal be allowed a “long rest,” during which he loses condition, and with it all the courage by which he has been enabled to “suffer and to work.”

The last and final act in the treatment of navicular disease is division of the plantar nerves.

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