THOUGH James II. strove to emulate to some extent the example set by his lighthearted predecessor on England's throne, he failed almost from the outset to achieve popularity in any marked degree. More partial to hunting than to racing, during his brief reign he nevertheless gave his support to the Turf and strove to encourage the breeding of blood stock. His interest in the chase, however, evaporated almost completely as he became more and more engrossed in the affairs of state.

Whether or no James II. was a finished horseman does not appear, but it may be there is a hidden significance in the statement to be found in several histories that he was “the only crowned head known to have had a surgeon to attend him in the hunting field.”

Nor is there evidence of his having ever attended a race meeting after his accession, with the exception of an important meeting held at Winchester in 1685.

The stakes run for at about this time were of small value. Fifty sovereigns were deemed to be a prize well worth winning, while a purse of 100 guineas attracted many spectators and large fields and gave rise to “heated and excited speculation as to the probable results of the contest.”

At some of the small meetings valuable horses would be entered to run for a paltry stake of thirty sovereigns, or even for five and twenty, and it was quite common for insignificant races of this kind to be “decided by vile persons.”

The weights carried in races run during the latter half of the seventeenth century were out of all proportion. Thus we read of horses carrying ten, twelve and thirteen stone in the final heats of short flat races—in those days almost all races were run in heats. James II. does not appear to have owned any exceptionally famous horses, nor does the horse come prominently to the front during his brief reign of four years.

Two events of national importance took place in 1689: William and Mary ascended the throne of England, and the famous Byerley Turk, from which so many of our thoroughbred horses are descended, was brought over by his owner, Captain Byerley, who later was to serve in King William's army and fight for him in the battle of the Boyne.

Some say that Captain Byerley had the Turk with him during that battle, but probably this was not so.

From the standpoint from which we are passing the history of this country in review, the arrival of the Byerley Turk was an event of almost as great importance as William and Mary's accession, for as the popularity of the Turf was still increasing year by year the importation of so valuable a stallion as the Byerley Turk in a sense served as a landmark.

And certainly this horse proved to be one of the greatest of all the sires that were brought over in the seventeenth century. The king, a good judge of a horse, was much attracted by “Byerley's Treasure,” as some soon came to call it, and it is known that the king himself owned at this time some of the finest thoroughbreds, probably, that had ever been foaled. That he ran horses of his own at Newmarket is beyond dispute, and the general impression amongst historical writers appears to be that he ran horses also at several other meetings.

It was while attending a race meeting at Newmarket that the king commanded the unjust Act to be put into force which rendered it penal for a Roman Catholic to own a horse worth more than five pounds. Trustworthy historians tell us that most likely the king would not have acted so, but for the influence brought to bear upon him by his queen, who apparently was anxious to vent her spite upon at least one high-born Catholic by whom she had been affronted.

The ultra-bigoted among the king's subjects rejoiced openly at the enforcement of the statute, but, whatever reason there may have been for so severe a measure, the storm of indignation aroused throughout the country caused the king considerable uneasiness.

As a natural result of the enforcement of the Act many Catholics presently substituted teams of oxen, and with these clumsy animals they would drive many miles to attend their church services on Sundays.

How rapidly the Turf must have continued to acquire popularity during this reign is proved by the fact that ten years after the king and queen had ascended the throne—namely, in 1699—more race meetings were held throughout the country than in any previous year in England's history. In this year, too, the King's Master of the Stud, Robert Marshall, brought over from Arabia fourteen valuable stallions at a cost of some £1100, and these were sent direct to Newmarket, where the king was staying at the time.

That the reports of the evil that is said necessarily to follow in the train of racing were in William's reign greatly exaggerated, as they are to-day, may be gathered from a description of the manners of the age to be found in the diary and state letters of Henry Hyde, Earl of Clarendon.

Hyde, who died at Cornbury, in Oxfordshire, in 1709, at the ripe age of seventy-one, tells us that towards the close of the seventeenth century “a man of the first quality made it his constant practice to go to church,” and that he could spend the day in society with his family and friends “without shaking his arm at the gaming-table, associating with jockeys at Newmarket, or murdering time by a constant round of giddy dissipation, if not criminal indulgence.”

Other writers make statements practically to the same effect, so it is safe to infer that the foregoing description forms a true account of the style of living in the age when the Turf reached probably its zenith. There are, however, historians who would have us believe that at no period did horse racing flourish in this country without bringing with it, as though by natural process, dissipation, debauchery and general degeneration.

Indeed, as one writer exclaims in an access of unchecked emotion, “from the period when the noble animal became debased and prostituted in this country from the purposes for which he was intended by his Maker—the purposes of war and agriculture—he has gradually sunk, and those who have helped to debase him have at great length followed his example.” Out of consideration for this writer's feelings—for it is to be hoped that by now he has recognised the error of his judgment—I refrain from mentioning his name.

William met his death through a riding accident. Mounted upon his favourite “pleasure horse,” described as “a steed of mean stature, named Sorrel, which had a blind eye,” the king, so it is said, for some reason lost his temper and struck his mount a violent blow upon the head with a heavy riding-stick.

Instantly the animal bounded forward, and William, thrown suddenly off his balance, was unhorsed and fell heavily on his side.

Personally I think the story more likely to be true is that Sorrel stumbled over a molehill, and, in trying to recover himself, fell on to his side. The king, thrown violently, received an internal injury from which he never recovered. Other stories of what took place have also been handed down to us.

No less liberal a supporter of the Turf than William of Orange was Queen Anne, his successor. A modern tautological historian quaintly tells us that “Good Queen Anne had many horses, and they were numerous and costly,” a phrase reminiscent of the newspaper reporter's description of a bride's wedding gifts.

That Anne should have loved horses and been an enthusiastic “turfite” is not to be wondered at when we bear in mind the sort of atmosphere in which she had been reared.

The Duke of Cumberland's breeding establishment at Cumberland Lodge in Windsor Great Park—where later on Eclipse and the almost equally famous Herod were to be foaled—probably was the best known in England.

According to Mr Theodore Andrea Cook, our modern authority upon the thoroughbred, its origin, and all that has to do with it, the finest breed of horse ever produced was the result of the cross between the pure Arab and the animal that was in England towards the end of the seventeenth century.

The Darley Arabian, foaled about the month of March, 1702, and his line of distinguished successors, in reality started the long and baffling process which eventually ended in the production of the beautifully shaped animal we see in the modern thoroughbred.

Probably less than fifteen hands, the Darley Arabian was a dark bay descended from the race the most esteemed among the Arabs. Captain Upton maintains that it was of the Ras-el-Fadawi breed, but the mass of the evidence obtainable points rather to its having been a pure Managni.

Certainly the Darley Arabian is one of the most historically interesting horses that has ever been imported into this country. The property of John Brewster Darley, Esq., of Aldby Park, near York, it was bought at Aleppo by Brewster Darley's brother for comparatively a small sum, and sent to England about the year 1705, where subsequently it became the sire of Flying Childers and consequently the great-great-grandsire of Eclipse—three names that stand out in the history of the horse and his connection with the history of this country perhaps more prominently than any other three it would be possible to mention.

Flying Childers, like his sire, was a bay, and Mr Leonard Childers, of Carr House, near Doncaster, who bred him in 1715, soon afterwards sold him to the Duke of Devonshire.

About fourteen and a half hands, Flying Childers is described as “a close-made horse, short-backed and compact, whose reach lay altogether in his limbs.”

Eclipse, as we shall see presently, was the reverse of this, for he had great length of waist and stood over much ground.

According to trustworthy statistics, Flying Childers was the fastest horse that ever ran at Newmarket, while it is stated, on what appears to be good authority, that no faster horse has ever lived.

With only Eastern blood in his veins—his dam, Betty Leedes, was a descendant of pure Eastern horses that had lived long in England—Flying Childers' career upon the Turf was truly phenomenal. He died in 1741.

Another historic sire of the early part of the eighteenth century was the Godolphin Arabian, called also the Godolphin Barb, foaled in 1724.

His height was about fifteen hands, and his colour a dark brown.

We are told that he was sent to Louis XIV. by the Emperor of Morocco, but it is known that when he died he belonged to the Earl of Godolphin.

Whether the pedigrees of all modern thoroughbreds can or cannot be traced back to the Byerley Turk, to the Darley Arabian, or to the Godolphin Arabian, is still a source of argument, and opinions upon the point probably are about equally divided.

A romantic story attaches to the Godolphin Barb—to the last he was pronounced by Lord Godolphin to be an Arabian—inasmuch as he was at one period of his life driven in a water cart in the streets of Paris. He died in 1753, and his remains lie under the stable gateway at Gog Magog, near Cambridge.

After the race meeting known as Royal Ascot had been inaugurated by Queen Anne, in 1712, the tone of the Turf in England greatly improved. The rules of racing were revised, and more attention was paid to their enforcement. Also steps were taken to prevent “undesirable and roguish persons” from “indulging in their wicked and thievish habits”—in short, a serious attempt was made to purify the Turf, as the process is termed now.

To what extent this alleged purification proved effectual we are not told, but a number of persons who probably were considered “undesirable and roguish,” were, about the year 1718, ordered to “abstain from attending the meetings,” a command that most likely was the equivalent for being warned off the Turf, and apparently is the first actual allusion to warning off the Turf that is to be found mentioned in history. It has even been maintained that the inauguration of the Jockey Club, believed to have taken place in 1750, was prompted by an urgent necessity for a body of responsible Turf administrators with power “to order thievish persons to keep away.”

I believe it is not generally known, except among persons versed in Turf history, that prior to the inauguration of the Derby and the Oaks it was quite exceptional for three-year-old horses to be raced at all. Before that time the three-year-old was looked upon more or less in the same way that to-day we look upon the yearling.

Indeed early in the eighteenth century but few horses were run when very young. In William and Mary's reign some of the most important races were won by six-year-olds, and we find allusion to a six-year-old plate that must have been run for at about this time. Nearly all the long races were still run in heats, and some of the horses entered were nine, ten, twelve and even more.

The practice of cropping manes and docking tails was expressly condemned by Queen Anne, also by one of the Georges, probably George III. Berenger, in his “History and Art of Horsemanship,” published in 1771, observes that “the cruelty and absurdity of our notions and customs in 'cropping,' as it is called, the ears of our horses, 'docking' and 'nicking' their tails, is such that we every day fly in the face of reason, nature and humanity.

“Nor is the existing race of men in this island alone to be charged with this folly, almost unbecoming the ignorance and cruelty of savages, but their forefathers several centuries ago were charged and reprehended by a public canon for this absurd and barbarous practice.

“However, we need but look into the streets and roads to be convinced that their descendants have not degenerated from them, although his present Majesty in his wisdom and humanity has endeavoured to reclaim them by issuing an order that the horses which serve in his troops shall remain as nature designed them.”

Only a few years after the publication of the “History and Art of Horsemanship” a determined attempt was made to suppress, once and for all time, the practices referred to. For a while public interest was greatly stirred, and it seemed as though the practices would at last be put an end to by direct legislation, but eventually undue influence was brought to bear, and nothing was done.

Indeed, as most of us must have noticed, the practice of docking the tails of nearly all horses except race horses is so prevalent at the present time that in many instances the tails are cut to within a few inches of the root, while some of our ultra “fashionable” horse dealers go so far as to pluck out most of the hairs left on the stump.

In the west of England the latter trick is indulged in more often than in the northern counties or the midlands.

Of all the famous sires whose names stand out as household words in the annals of the horse in history, but few bear comparison with the world-renowned Eclipse.

Bred, as already mentioned, by the Duke of Cumberland, he took his name from the coincidence that the great eclipse of 1764 was in progress at the very hour of his birth.

There does not seem to have been anything particularly striking about the foal's appearance, and certainly none imagined for a moment that he would be likely to grow into one of the most famous horses, if not the most famous horse, the Turf has ever known.

Until the age of five, Eclipse was not run in public, but from the time he won his first race, in May 1769, until his last appearance upon the Turf, in October 1770, he was never beaten, or near being beaten. The long list of his triumphs need not be given here, but Mr Theodore Cook reminds us in his exhaustive work upon this horse that it was Dennis O'Kelly's son of Eclipse that won the second Derby, and that out of 127 races, including the first, Eclipse's descendants had down to the year 1906 furnished no fewer than eighty-two winners.

Eclipse himself was sold as a yearling for less than 100 guineas. Of his direct descendants, a yearling filly was bought not very long ago for 10,000 guineas; a race horse in training has fetched £39,375 at public auction; two sires have each produced stock that has won over half-a-million sterling; and other horses tracing back to him in the direct male line have won the “Triple Crown” nine times out of ten and hold the record for the pace at which the Two-Thousand, the Derby and the Leger have been run.

Upon one point all trustworthy authorities on thoroughbreds and their performances, also the principal historians of the Turf, and in addition the leading “turfites” of our own period, are in agreement, and that is that since the time of Flying Childers the Turf, the world over, has not known a horse faster than Eclipse was.

This in itself is exceptional praise, but Eclipse was to add materially to his extraordinary reputation, for while at stud he became the sire of 335 winners who between the year 1774 and the year 1796 won close upon £160,000 in stakes alone, exclusive of cups and plates, and in addition his owner is known to have stated openly that he was paid for the horse's services as a stallion upwards of £25,000.

Referring again to the later descendants of Eclipse, we find that in the year 1894 they won between them over £421,400 in stakes, the number of winners being 827, and the total number of races won, 1469. Indeed there probably is not any other horse in the world, nor ever has been, that has been the prime cause of so much money changing hands.

Perhaps what most attracted attention to Eclipse in his racing days was the apparent ease with which he won. His stride is said to have been phenomenal. Did he, during the whole of his career upon the Turf, ever fully extend himself? The question has many times been discussed by experts, and the consensus of opinion seems to point to the conclusion that he never did.

For even after making his greatest efforts he did not seem to be distressed. The race-loving public seemed almost to worship him at about the period he reached his zenith, and in the end it was to all intents impossible to back him.

The interest the king was known to take in Eclipse was very great, yet probably George III. was at heart less interested in the sport of racing than any of his predecessors had been.

Thackeray insinuates this in his immortal satire of “The Four Georges,” and with truth it may be said that of all the great horses that have figured prominently either directly or indirectly in the history of this country, Flying Childers and Eclipse take precedence.

Much that has been written on the subject of Queen Anne's alleged fondness for horses would seem to be based on doubtful knowledge. The more discriminating among our historians appear to think that too much importance has been attached to many of the statements.

There are, I believe, letters extant from Queen Anne in which she talks at length upon the subject of the horses that belonged to her, but certain documents of the same sort are attributed to her which she probably did not write.

The King of Denmark, upon one occasion made her a present of twelve mares carefully chosen by himself, but for the rest the majority of the stories told of Queen Anne should be accepted with reservation.

Indeed from the middle of the eighteenth to the middle of the nineteenth century the horse again figured largely in romance, a fact that may in a measure account for the stories that have been put about of Queen Anne and her horses.

Smollett is but one of the writers whose works are prolific of narratives of the kind, and some of these stories from being repeated so frequently came at last to be believed by a mass of the people.

Thus the tales of Sir Launcelot Graves' adventures, and of the acts that were attributed to Sir Launcelot's grotesque “mettlesome sorrel,” Bronzomarte, were believed by some actually to be true.

In point of fact this Sir Launcelot must have been a sort of Don Quixote who in the reign of George II. deemed it his mission to roam about England “redressing wrongs, discouraging moral evils not recognisable by law, degrading immodesty, punishing ingratitude and reforming society generally.”

Fables were related too of Robert Burns' mare, Jenny Geddes, while the poets also took possession of the palfrey which belonged to Madame Chatelet of Circy—the lady with whom Voltaire lived for ten or more years—and wove around it, also round its mistress, many romantic but wholly fictitious narratives.

Its name was Rossignol, and, according to one poet at least, Madame Chatelet fed the creature “on newly picked apricots, gave it milk to drink, and rode with a silken rein.” Rossignol is mentioned also in the history of Voltaire's life.

The story of Dr Dove's steed that was called Nobbs has the seal of Southey upon it, which may account for the animal's having been dragged into so many romances. At best, however, it was a foolish beast. Dr Dove, it may be unnecessary to remind the reader, is the hero of Southey's “Doctor.” The extent to which some of the famous stories of romance came in course of time to be woven into other stories is rather remarkable.

Thus we find Dr Dove described in three different stories as three distinct and different individuals not one of whom is recognisable as the same person and the original, while the horse, Nobbs, is spoken of in one story as a bay, in another as a brown, in a third as a black.

Is it possible that the authors of those stories can have read the original Southey? And if history of such small importance, comparatively, is thus corrupted, can one place implicit belief in many of the serious historical narratives? Rather one is tempted to believe the assertion of Pitt, “the boy Prime Minister,” when he declared in all seriousness that “nothing is so uncertain as positive truth.”

Most historians make mention of the charger that carried Wellington so well at Waterloo; yet the only statement with the impress of truth in this connection is that the horse died in 1835, aged twenty-seven. It was Wellington's favourite steed, and its name was Copenhagen. Of his other horses we read but little.

Marengo, Napoleon's favourite mount, was, according to one historian, a pure white stallion; according to another a cream-coloured gelding. In Vernet's famous picture of Napoleon crossing the Alps we are shown a snow-white horse, and Meissonnier shows us a snow-white horse too, so most likely this animal actually was quite white. The resting-place of Marengo's remains is the Museum of the United Services, in London.

In an age when attempts are made to overthrow almost every established historical record, and when we are even informed quite gravely that Joan of Arc was not burnt at the stake at all, but that the victim was some other woman—a lady of rank, who out of compassion for the poor Pucelle was at the last moment prompted to sacrifice herself in her place!—it is not surprising that sceptics should exist who would have us believe that Napoleon's horse was not called Marengo.

What is it, precisely, that prompts this section of modern searchers after “positive truth” to cast doubts upon so many of the minor historical incidents? For, as a reviewer recently observed, it is hardly worth the while of any serious historian to waste time in refuting such misstatements.

Sir Charles Napier owned a mare that he prized greatly. Its name was Molly, but it does not appear to have performed any exceptional feats of prowess. Apparently the only point about it upon which our historians lay stress is that the animal lived to the age of five and thirty. As for Lord Nelson's connection with horses, so far as I have been able to ascertain it was limited to his superstitious belief that the possession of a horseshoe must bring him luck. At any rate he always kept at least one horseshoe nailed to the mast of his ship, the Victory.

The story of Siegfried's horse, Grane, is of course well known. In William Combe's quaint tale of the simple-minded, henpecked clergyman, Dr Syntax, we have a horse named Grizzle that was “all skin and bone.” Written in eight-syllable verse, the narrative explains in rather an amusing way how the eccentric old scholar left home in search of the picturesque, and Grizzle figures largely in it from beginning to end, in much the same way that the ill-starred pony, Fiddleback, figures in Goldsmith's narrative.