The Earl of Huntingdon, M.F.H.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shooting will commence at 10.30 each day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick Baker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Extraordinary Steeple-Race.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RACING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Athletes proper have been equally busy. The Oxford Freshmen’s Sports unearthed some promising talent in Messrs. Lloyd (Ramsgate), Stevens (an American Rhodes Scholar), Hallowes (a distance runner above the average), Doorly (another Rhodes Scholar, high jumper), and Darling (the Old Winchester quarter-miler). On the whole the performances were fully average, as proved later by the L.A.C. v. O.U.A.C. meeting result. The Dark Blues won by the odd event, despite the fact that they were mainly represented by junior men. As President Cornwallis will be assisted by numerous Old Blues in the spring, he ought to put a strong team against Cambridge on March 30th or April 6th. The Cambridge Freshmens’ performances in toto were hardly so good, but Messrs. Halliday (Harrow), K. G. Macleod (Fettes), Horfield (Harrow), and Just (St. Paul’s), all shone out individually. Some of the Old Blues have already been giving a foretaste of later quality. R. P. Crabbe (Corpus) created a new half-mile record for Fenner’s ground by running that distance in the splendid time of 1 min. 56½ sec. on November 15th. Other fine performances have been done with the hammer, at long-jumping and distance running. On November 29th, F. M. Edwards (Queen’s) won the Sidney College Strangers’ Three Miles Race in 14 min. 42? sec., or only four seconds outside H. W. Gregson’s record. The Trinity College v. Racing Club de France International meeting at Fenner’s was won by the Light Blues by 6 events to 3. For the Collegians, Messrs. Welsh, Just, Ryle, and the Hon. G. W. Lyttelton did best. The latter’s “put” of 38 ft. 5½ in. was exceptional for this early stage of the season. Messrs. Soalhat, Molinie, and De Fleurac showed fine form for the Frenchmen, who, by the way, were not at full strength.

Two Inter-’Varsity contests have been decided before Christmas, as usual, i.e., the cross-country race at Roehampton on December 9th, and the Rugby football match at Queen’s Club three days later. As generally expected, the Cantabs excelled at hare and hounds work, winning by 23 points to 32. A. H. Pearson (Westminster and Cambridge) finished first, and in the grand time of 41 min. 11 sec., which creates another record. The previous best was A. R. Churchill’s 42 min. 17? sec. last year. Although beaten, the Oxonians made a big fight of it, and F. O. Huyshe, their captain, gets his full Blue for finishing in the first three, an honour also attained by Pearson (Cambridge). The cross-country records now read: Cambridge, 16 wins; Oxford, 10 wins. Cambridge were very strong favourites for the Rugby football match, many critics anticipating a record score for them. In the result, however, Oxford put their detractors to the blush by holding their own splendidly from start to finish. The Light Blues won by 15 points (3 goals) to 13 points (2 goals and 1 try)—merely a matter of place-kicking as will be seen. It was a most interesting game, full of incident, surprise, and fluctuating fortune, in which the Oxford forwards were always in evidence. They beat their heavier Cambridge rivals fairly and squarely, and at half-back, too, the Oxonians were the smarter. The Cantab “threes” line was vastly superior, but rarely did they get the upper hand, thanks to excellent generalship by “Captain” Munro (Oxford) who, personally, was a class by himself. So far, Oxford claim 13 wins in these matches, Cambridge 12, and there have been 8 drawn games. The records of the two clubs after the match read:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“THE MOUNTAIN CLIMBER” AT THE COMEDY THEATRE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TURF.

FOOTBALL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Early Carriages and Roads

In this Publication, attention has been given to the early history of wheeled conveyances in England and their development up to recent times. With Seventeen Illustrations. Octavo, cloth gilt, price 2s. net; post free, 2s. 4d.

Thoroughbred and other Ponies

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Hunter Sires

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Riding and Driving Horses, Their Breeding and Rearing

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Horse-Breeding in England and India, and Army Horses Abroad

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The Great Horse or War Horse

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The Harness Horse

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Modern Carriages: Passenger Vehicles in the Victorian Era

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Young Race Horses—suggestions

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Small Horses in Warfare

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Horses for the Army: a suggestion

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Horses Past and Present

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Poultry Keeping on Farms and Small Holdings

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Animal Painters of England

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Life of George Stubbs, R.A.

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