Volume 85 — BAILY’S MAGAZINE OF SPORTS AND PASTIMES No. 552. FEBRUARY, 1906. Vol. LXXXV. (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Date. No. of trout. lb. oz.

May 19th 3 5 2

June 3rd 2 2 1

June 13th 2 2 15

June 22nd 6 9 11

July 1st 3 4 2

July 3rd 2 2 3

July 14th 1 1 14

July 18th 1 1 2

July 21st 5 5 0

July 29th 1 1 14

July 31st 8 7 12

Aug. 5th 1 1 9

Aug. 8th 1 1 5

Aug. 17th 2 2 6

Aug. 24th 2 5 2

Sept. 1st 3 4 0

Sept. 4th 2 3 6

Sept. 11th 5 6 6

Sept. 16th 1 1 14

Sept. 19th 5 7 15

Sept. 27th 5 7 5

Sept. 29th 2 3 4

Sept. 30th 3 5 8

Total 65 93 12

Red Quill.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(FROM THE SPORTING MAGAZINE OF 1806.)

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

Thornville Royal.

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

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

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

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

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

A Farewell to a Hunter.

To no misfortune in the field

He bows, fit ending of the game;

No weight of years bids him to yield,

But swift disease that warps his frame.

So Mercy stepping in must break

The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,

And hand-in-hand we come to take

A look we know must be the last.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,

His keen bold spirit will have found

That refuge on the other side,

Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when

The last great leap is left behind,

And passing from the haunts of men,

By earthly limits unconfined,

You roam that strange mysterious land,

That vast beyond where travellers wait,

Where mortal foot may never stand,

Nor mortal vision penetrate,

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell

On joys by memory roused from rest,

When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,

And Fortune gave us of her best.

Recall the pageant of the meet,

The snug gorse covert on the hill,

The good sound turf beneath your feet,

The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Nor think as year by year decays

In robes of russet, red, and gold,

That wanting you, November days

Can be to us as days of old.

B.

The New Year at the Theatres.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quid.

Racing at Gibraltar, in 1905.

BY AN OWNER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 years 8 st. 7 lb.

3 years 9 st. 7 lb.

4 years 10 st. 7 lb.

5 years 11 st. 2 lb.

6 years and aged 11 st. 9 lb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Half a Century’s Hunting Recollections. V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F. J. King King.

Rugby Football.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C. E. L. H.

The Thoroughbred.

DO WE MAKE THE BEST OF HIM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W. S. D.

Mr. Vyell Edward Walker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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