In scarlet and silk; or, Recollections of hunting and steeplechase riding;

Mn

Whi) ia

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f

N OCARLET & DILEK

BY
FOS RUSSELE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY

BENCH MASON

Presented to

The Library

of the

University of Toronto
by

Fort William Public Library

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: ee * io
ee oy sat Na

N SCARLET AND SILK

JUST PUBLISHED

NEW SPORTING STORIES

By G. G.

AUTHOR OF “SPORTING STORIES AND SKETCHES

3s. 6d. net.

BELLAIRS.& CO., 9 HART STREET

BLOOMSBURY, LONDON

IN SCARLET AND SILK

OR

RECOLLECTIONS OF HUNTING
AND STEEPLECHASE
RIDING

BY

FOX RUSSELL

AUTHOR OF ‘‘CROSS COUNTRY REMINISCENCES”

WITH TWO DRAWINGS IN COLOUR BY

FINCH MASON
SECOND EDITION ns 1"

LONDON
Bret LATRS’ & CoO.
1896

To His GRACE THE DUKE OF
BEAUFORT, K.G., ‘this Volume
zs, by permission, most respectfully
dedicated, with the heartfelt admiration
of his grateful servant

THE AUTHOR

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTORY : P . : ‘ ; I
Huntinc—
Fox-HuntTInG : : : EG
STAGHOUNDS . , ; : 5a 0.5
HARRIERS. ; ; : : 2 82
DRraAGHOUNDS : : : 93
STEEPLECHASING—
Earzy Days. : ; ; : 5 asa

CELEBRITIES OF THE Past Torrty YEARS. 136

STEEPLECHASE Ripine . 5 ‘ 3
Hurpie Racine . : : ; 5 = 220
Some Equine ErraATICS z : ‘ » H2An
On Conpitioninc HUNTERS . : : 2 25

In THE OFF Season. . 269

Ye
t =f on a
: s
‘ished :
~ i
yoo 7 5

INTRODUCTORY

INTRODUCTORY

THE desire to excel in one particular pursuit
has always been so prominent a feature with
sportsmen—each piously believing in his own
particular hobby, and in his inmost heart
believing not at all in the hobbies affected
by his brother-men—that all attempts at
cohesion on the part of the general body, and
of fighting shoulder to shoulder for the sake
of the common weal, have hitherto resulted in
failure. Now, however, we have a Sporting
League, and—we shall see what we shall see!
But despite rivalry and jealousy ; despite the
efforts made by the noble army of Anti-
gamblers, humbugs in general, and declaimers
against that crowning iniquity (no joke in-
tended here!) the Royal Buckhounds, Sport
lives, and will continue to live, because there

is deep down within the heart of every
3

4 In Scarlet and Silk

Englishman a real and strongly-rooted love of
it for its own sake. When, however, by
means of the Rack, thumbscrews, Acts of
Parliament, Police- court summonses, and
other deadly weapons, the kill-joys of the
world have finally succeeded in eliminating
all such feelings from our breasts, surely then
even the most sanguine and most patriotic
amongst us must begin to look anxiously for
the advent of the aboriginal gentleman from
New Zealand whom Macaulay has forewarned
us shall one day indulge in the cheap, though
draughty, entertainment of sitting on the
ruins of London Bridge.

But these nineteenth-century Aladdins will
have to rub their lamps for a long time before
they bring about the changes they are striv-
ing for, and cause themselves and their fel-
low-men to live the sort of Arcadia-and-water
existence which they think the only fitting
one; so taking advantage of the interval they
are kind enough to allow us, between now
and the time of our final annihilation in the
world of sport, let us leave the discussion

Introductory 5

of these ‘angels without wings,’ who are
obviously too ethereal for this earth, and turn
to the more congenial subject of good horses
and good men, and make our way, in spirit,
with them as they cross a country.

At that very moment I was just on the
point of falling into the error I made allusion
to in the first line of this chapter ; «.e., I was
about to let the sportsman-jealousy run away
with me, and launch into panegyrics upon my
own particular manias, hunting and steeple-
chasing, making comparisons—which we are
told are always “odious”—with other branches
of sport. But having now, metaphorically
speaking, written out a warning and pasted it
into my hat, I will endeavour, in these pages,
to “put up a strong jockey” on my hobby-
horse, and keep him from bolting into the
crowd, and treading on the corns of any of
my fellow-men whose sporting tastes take
another form to my own.

I think I must have caught the horrible
habit from Jorrocks. Do we not all remember

how, with the best intentions in the world,

6 In Scarlet and Silk

he never could avoid “running amuck” with
racing and coursing men, stag-hunters, and
what he contemptuously designated “ mug-
gers.” All I will say is this: Is there any-
thing on earth so good, so grand, so—well,
you know what I mean!—as riding across
country ?

If I live to the age of Methuselah, I shall
never forget my own first gallop over fences ;

?

and this was the “ how” of it, as the Yankees
say.

My grandfather—may the turf lie lightly
over one of the best and hardest cross-country
riders that ever lived—had just bought a very
handsome chestnut cob, a half-broken four-
year-old. One day he said to me—

“Come up into the meadow, and you can
have a ride on the new cob.”

My small heart glowed with delight. What
promotion from the broken-winded pony! As
Penley observes, “What glory!” Be it known
that I was then of the mature age of seven.

A groom led up the four-year-old, looking
as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. I

Introductory 7

was hoisted up, and the moment his head was
let go, away he went as if he had been fired
out of a gun!

My grandfather shouted some directions
to me, which I did not catch—whoever does
hear directions under such circumstances? A
small brush fence at the end of the meadow
did not stop him; he jumped high at it, but
I jumped a good deal higher even than he
did, and was embracing his neck when we
landed. The next field was bounded by a
high wall, so that he could go no farther.
With undiminished speed he raced round it,
and gradually bore away back again towards
the meadow we started the cruise in. Again
he charged and topped the low fence; this
time I seemed to be sitting on his ears. He
went about twenty yards farther, and then
stopped dead, and with great calmness and
methodical precision kicked me off, after
which he quietly commenced grazing.

I rose to my feet, and waited to receive
my grandfather’s sympathy as I screwed my
knuckles into one eye. I waited, however,

8 In Scarlet and Silk

in vain. Instead of sweet, die-away expres-
sions of the ‘‘ Never-mind - then -it- was -a-

naughty - pony” order, stern, austere tones

demanded to know

“Who told you to come tumbling off like
a flour-sack? Get up on to the pony im-
mediately. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself.”

His motto was “ Men, not mollycoddles.”

Nature, I think, intended me for a light-
weight jockey; fate willed otherwise, and
called me to the Bar. Between inclination
and duty I have, at times, got into some
curious and complex situations. For example,
I remember that at a time when I| was acting
as Deputy-Judge at a certain Criminal Court
of Record, I sat, on the Thursday, in all the
glory of wig and gown, sentencing my fellow-
men to various terms of imprisonment; the
next day I was sporting silk in some Hunt
Steeplechases. During that afternoon the
“open ditch” proved fatal to me ; and being
rather knocked out of time, several people
came up and assisted in jerking me on to my

Introductory 9

feet again. The following day I was waiting
for my train on the platform at Charing Cross,
when a nondescript kind of individual sidled
up to me, and with a sad sort of smile on his
face, exclaimed—

“‘ How de do, sir ?, Hope you're well. You
don’t seem to know me, but I know you well
enough.”

“The deuce you do,” thought I to myself.
And then I racked my brain to solve the pro-
blem of whether this was one of my rescuers at
the fatal ‘‘ ditch fence,” or a witness [’d insulted
in cross-examination, and who was now about
to punch my head. I dared not say much for
fear of “ giving myself away.” It would never
do for a ‘‘ Counsel learned in the law,” still
less for a Deputy-Judge, to confess to any-
thing so frivolous as riding in silk. So I
“Jaid low,” saying nothing, but indulging in
the safe investment of a smile.

“Last saw. you, sir, in a very different place
to this,’ he went on.

‘“‘He means a race-course,” | thought, and

then ventured to reply—

10 In Scarlet and Silk

“Yes; rather a bigger crowd there, eh?”

“Bit of a ‘turn-up’ for me, sir, wasn’t it?”

“Somebody for whom I’ve won a race;
good business. Now I can speak freely,” re-
flected I. Then aloud, I said—

“Very stupid of me that I can't quite
remember your face. Always had a bad
memory for faces. I think you said your

name was +”

“T didn’t exactly say, sir; but it’s Tupkins.”

Tupkins. I was as much in the dark as
before.

“Don’t you remember the day, sir?” he
went on in lugubrious tones.

‘“ Oh—ah—well—not quite,” I stammered.
‘Somebody for whom I’ve lest a race appa-
rently,” I added to myself, more mystified
than ever.

“Don’t you remember what you gave me
that day, sir?”

“*No—o. I—I can’t say Ido. What was
it 2”

“Three months—‘’ard.

,9)

I fled. It was aman I had tried and sen-

Introductory II

tenced at the Quarter-Sessions two years
before.

During the years I was in practice, I was
generally able to get away for the bi-weekly
gallop with the Royal Artillery Draghounds
at Woolwich. Handy to town, I could often
stay in the Temple until half-past one o'clock,
and then be in time for the run at three.
What glorious fun we used to have! It
has fallen to my lot to hunt with many
packs, and in many countries, but there will
be a soft spot in my heart for the memories
of the good old Drag until the end of my
life.

On several occasions I had to cut things
rather fine in order thus to combine business
with pleasure. Once, I remember that, led
by Mr. Lumley Smith, Q.C. (now a County
Court Judge), I was areuing a case before
Lord Chief-Justice Coleridge, until nearly
twelve o'clock, at the Royal Courts of Justice,
and by dint of cabbing to Cannon Street
Station, railing to Blackheath, there changing

and cantering the remaining two miles to

12 In Scarlet and Silk

Woolwich on a hack, I was enabled to be pre-
sent at the inaugural luncheon of the season,
by half-past one, at the Royal Artillery mess :
rather sharp work. On another occasion I
won a case at Bow County Court, attended
a summons before the Judge at Chambers,
and then arrived in time to get my gallop—
and also a rattling fall over a piece of stiff
timber—with the Drag. I also remember
that one ‘“‘Grand Military” day, when the
Woolwich Drag, for the convenience of such
of its followers as wished to go to Sandown,
met at 8 a.m., I was enabled to ride the line
with them, change horses, and jog on to
Farningham, hunt with the Mid-Kent Stag-
hounds, and then rail back to town in time
to change and attend a consultation of
counsel at 5.30 P.M. with the late Sir Henry
Jackson, Q.C., in Lincoln’s Inn.

Mention of Lincoln’s Inn reminds me of
the time I was a student there, in the
chambers of that eccentric genius, Thomas
Brett. A profound theoretical lawyer, and
author of three or four most erudite legal

Introductory 13

works, nothing pleased him so much as to
get away to a race-course. He did not
“throw much style” into his “get up.”
We started together once for a day at the
old Croydon Steeplechases. Tom Brett's
idea of a suitable costume for this and every
other occasion was a tall hat, with the nap
all brushed the wrong way, and stuck on
hind side before ; a thin black necktie, fastened
in a bow, and slewed round under one ear;
an overcoat left open and flying out to the
breeze, as he sped along at a pace that no
man on earth could keep up with, except
at a trot; trousers of equal parts, grey cloth
and ink spots; ink-spotted cuffs and collar ;
with pince-nez which never remained for
five consecutive seconds on his nose. He
was on these race days always armed with
a quart bottle, the black neck of which
protruded boldly from his side-pocket, and
three or four cigars wrapped up in a bit of
newspaper. He absolutely declined to go on
a Stand, or even into an enclosure, and the
way he raced from one fence to the other

14 In Scarlet and Silk

to see horses jump was a sight for the gods!
On every race he religiously punted half-a-
crown, never more or less; and in all the
years I knew him, I never remember his
backing a winner but once. Poor Tom Brett
had a heart of gold, but it was certainly
hidden beneath a strange, uncouth exterior.
Why lawyers should be generally considered
incapable of sympathy with sport, is passing
strange ; and how false the notion is, is easily
shown by mentioning such names in con-
nection with hunting and racing as those of
the Lord Chief-Justice (Lord Russell); the
late Mr. Granville Somerset, Q.C., one of the
best men who ever crossed Exmoor; Sir
Henry Hawkins; Lord Justice Lopes; Mr.
Justice Grantham ; Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C.,
M.P., the late Solicitor-General ; Mr. Butcher,
M.P.; and Mr. Darling, Q.C., M.P.—all of
whom, by the way, took great interest in
the first Bench and Bar Point to Point race,
run April 10, 1895. That so grave and
learned a profession could do anything of

such a decidedly “frisky” nature as indulge

Introductory 15

in a steeplechase, took all the old-fashioned
lawyers by surprise. Shades of Erskine,
Mansfield, and Brougham! suppose any one
had been rash enough to propose such a
thing in their day! Excommunication would
surely have been deemed too good for him.
But “autre temps, autre meurs,’ and an
assemblage which included England’s then
Prime Minister and Lord Chancellor, and Sir
R. Webster, the present Attorney-General,
were at Combe to give the event a good
‘send off,’ and witness the success of Mr.
Gee on Defiance in the Light Weight, and
of the Hon. Alfred Lyttleton’s Corunna (a
Retreat horse), ably handled by Mr. H.
Godsal, in the Heavy Weight contest. An
unfortunate accident, at a wretched little
fence with an awkward landing on a litter-
covered road, brought three horses to grief,
of which Mr. Smith - Bosanquet’s Ladybird
and Mr. Higgins’s Cymbeline were both
killed on the spot. At the same time
and place Mr. Terrell, on Gaylad, who

had made strong running during the early

16 In Scarlet and Silk

part of the contest, swerved and knocked
down Lord Justice Lopes, who was watching
the race; whilst Mr. Croxall, riding Pepper,
was also brought down in the mélée. A
splendid race home, between four, resulted,
as I have said, in the victory of Corunna—
bought by Mr. Lyttleton for sixty guineas,
and entirely made into a jumper by him—
Mr. Butcher, M.P., being second on Fingall,
whilst Messrs. Cope and Terrell made a dead
heat of it for third place.

Turn we now from law and the lawyers
to the greatest and best of all cross-country
work, the hunting of the fox.

vee

EU NT ENG:

FOXx-H UN TING

I

To speak of the early days of a comparatively
‘modern sport like steeplechasing is, it will
readily be seen, a very different matter from
embarking on a description, however slight,
of olden time hunting. ‘ Lost in the mists
of antiquity” is a phrase that would be no
more true to apply to the beginning of the
sport than ‘“ Lost in the mazes of perplexity,”
if applied to the seeker after such prehistoric
knowledge. And, indeed, if it were intended
to amplify the present small tome into a work
of as many volumes as “Harry Hieover,” of
immortal memory, produced, there would
still be insufficient space to give anything
more than a mere glossary of the doings in
a pastime of which Homer sang, and wherein

Xenophon took part.

19

20 In Scarlet and Silk

But, strangely enough, it would appear
that our ancestors living before the time of
Richard II. did not hunt the fox. Amongst
the earliest of quarry, we find allusions to
the bear, wolf, stag, boar, wild-cat, and hare,
but the ‘little red-rover” was either left
unmolested, or else, perhaps, regarded as
merely unworthy vermin, to be despatched
when

by trapping, or a knock on the head
caught! Perhaps it was the difficulty of
laying hands on him that first suggested the
idea of calling in the aid of hounds for his
destruction. Be that as it may, there is proof
that the fox was looked upon as a “ beaste of
venerie” in this reign, and by the vast majo-
rity of men who hunt to-day would surely be
accorded pride of place amongst them all.
Well may hunting be called a ‘ Royal”
sport, for from earliest ages a large propor-
tion of our monarchs have followed hounds;
and it is recorded of ‘‘ Good Queen Bess”
that she was still hunting when past her
seventy-sixth year: a truly wonderful per-

formance for any woman,

Fox-hunting 21

One of the Lords of Wilton has stated in
his “Sports and Pursuits of the English,”
that hounds were never entered solely to fox
until the year 1750; and the “ Badminton”
book on hunting tells us that the famous
pack of the Dukes of Beaufort was only in
1762 ‘steadied from deer and encouraged to

”

fox.” Charles II. seems to have had a some-
what catholic taste in hunting countries, for
there are records existing of his hunting in
the West country at various places, in Essex
and Middlesex; whilst my own grandfather
lived within the country of the Crawley and
Horsham Foxhounds in a little moated old
house which was said to have been used ex-
clusively as a hunting box by the Merry
Monarch, from which place of abode I have
sallied forth for many a good day’s sport.
Henry VIII. favoured Essex as well as the
Windsor district ; whilst ‘‘Good King George”
appears to have affected the last-named
locality chiefly, but also hunted on the South
Downs. And coming down to the present
day, it is pleasant indeed to reflect that

22 In Scarlet and Silk

nearly all the members of the reigning
house are well-known figures in the hunting
field.

When we look back at our past hunting
life, what difficulty we experience in deter-
mining which country we think is actually
the best we have ever ridden over. I have
never been fortunate enough to follow our
premier pack, the Quorn—which, by the way,
has in Lord Lonsdale, its present Master, one
of the hardest and best men I ever saw cross
a country—but in my own small experience
I hardly know which to give the preference
to. Sometimes I think the fine pastures and
flying fences of the Grafton, or the Pytchley,
or the eminently ‘‘ jumpable” tract hunted
by the Bicester; anon, that the Blackmoor
Vale’s big doubles, or Leighton or Ayles-
bury’s galloping country, afforded me the
most real pleasure. All were superlatively
good in their several ways; and, of course, |
it depends so much upon how one was
mounted as to the exact measure of en-
joyment one extracted from the different

Fox-hunting 23

countries. Unhesitatingly, I say that I
would rather hunt a donkey on the Thames
Embankment than not hunt at all; but at
the same time, I am equally sure that to
obtain a good country it is worth taking
any amount of extra trouble, rather than,
by pursuing the dolce far mente method, to
hunt in a bad one. And contrasting good
and bad countries brings me to the con-
sideration of a rather curious thing —the
facility with which a horse, taken out of
such countries as Kent and Surrey, for
example, will adapt himself to even Nor-
thamptonshire in its most strongly fenced
parts. A good horse simply loves hunting,
and, ridden freely, will do his best to see
where hounds are going, be the change in
ground never so great. I have seen more
than one instance of an animal which has
been hunting in the worst parts of Kent,
where, many a day, you never even see a
fence worth calling a jump, transferred to
the Grafton and the Pytchley country, facing
boldly the big fences there, and with the

24 In Scarlet and Silk

utmost success. Another queer transition
case was that of a horse belonging to Mr.
John White, of Taunton, which he sent up
to me from the Devon and Somerset to hunt
with the Blackmoor Vale. I never got on
a bigger, bolder fencer, and in the Cheriton
run of, | am afraid to say how many years
ago, she carried me to the finish in a way
I shall never forget, although she had not
before this been outside Devonshire in her
life. I had also a curious experience with
a Welsh-bred horse, brought straight out of
his native fastnesses into a flying country.
Nothing would induce him to jump or even
scramble through brush fences at first, but
over a line of gates, or stiff timber of any
sort, he could not be defeated. I hunted
him for five seasons, and in that time rode
over more gates than I have ever done before
or since, and, save once, he never gave me a
fall at any of them. As far as I could find
out of his previous history—and as he came
to me at a very early age he could not
have had a lengthy one—the horse had had

Fox-hunting 25

hardly any previous experience of timber-
jumping, but seemed to take to it quite
naturally.

What an extraordinary combination of
fortuitous circumstances is necessary for the
making of a really fine run! Fox-hunting is
so intrinsically good a sport that, year in,
year out, it is well calculated to satisfy us
all to the full; but how many—or rather,
how few—first-rate runs do we get in a
season? one might almost substitute the
words “in a lifetime.” Amongst the mani-
fold requirements are a good scent, a good
start, a good horse, and a good country. Let
one of these be absent, and probably no good
run will be recorded, as far as we, individu-
ally, are concerned. And can anything be
more maddening than to find that your
neighbour has had a good one, and that you
yourself “got left.” Yes, I know it sounds
horribly selfish to say this, but can any poor,
weak mortal deny that it is true? “Once
upon a time,” as the story-books say, I ven-
tured forth upon a gay and corky four-year-

26 In Scarlet and Sitk

old to hunt the “red-rover.” We were a
long time before we found, during which
period my mount persistently reared, and
“made a beast of himself.” At last a fox

was found

a genuine “traveller.” Away we
went across a big meadow, with a nice brush
fence at the far end, over which my young
‘un bounded like a stag. I secretly hugged
myself on being “in for a good thing.”

I was—but not quite in the way I had
anticipated.

We crossed a fallow field, bounded by a
post and rails, about three feet six high. My
haughty Pegasus, doubtless disdaining so un-
important an obstacle as this, tried to run
through them. Result: Chaos!

We picked ourselves up, and resumed.
Taught, doubtless, by this incident “not
to despise your enemy,” the four-year-old
jumped the next ditch as though it were a
navigable river; then sailed away at such a
pace that we rapidly overhauled the leading
brigade again. Just as I had (involuntarily,

Fox-hunting 27

for I could not hold the little brute !) attained
the proud position of leading the —— field
(it was over one of the best parts of North-
amptonshire), hounds ran down to, and crossed,
some jumping, some swimming, a_biggish
brook. Pulling and fighting for his head the
young ’un went to his fate, and the pace felt
like forty miles an hour! Up to within a
length we got, and then, too late, he tried to
“put on the brake” ; found it impracticable
to stop, and finally soused in, tail over head !

By the time we had finished our tug-of-
war, he in the water and I| on the opposite
bank, a few bobbing black coats and one red
one disappearing over the brow of the opposite
hill were all the traces left of the field.

Rochefoucauld says, ‘‘ Philosophy triumphs
over future and past ills; but present ills
triumph over philosophy,” and at that junc-
ture [ must confess that the thermometer of
my philosophy was below freezing-point.

We were nine miles from everywhere. The
erstwhile corky four-year-old had not only
had the steam taken out of him, but was

=

28 In Scarlet and Silk

also slightly lame behind. Nothing for it
but to walk back to B——. How I hate
walking! and walking in top-boots, which
surely, though unostentatiously, chafes away
all the skin from your heels, is doubly hor-
rible. I shall never forget that melancholy
tramp, driving the now thoroughly dejected
young ’un in front of me as I went. Then
it came on to rain! ‘There was only one
thing needed to complete my woe. I did not
have to wait long for it.

Two miles from B— I was overtaken by
a splashed and ridiculously happy looking
man in pink.

“ Halloa, old chap, you do look a picture.
Weve had the very best gallop of the whole
season!” he exclaimed.

I knew it. I was as certain that when my
chance was settled they would have the “ best
gallop of the season” as I was of death and
quarter day !

“Tt keeps one young!” said one of the
“Grand Old Men” of the chase to me a

short time since, and his words, verily, are |

Fox-hunting 29
borne out to the letter every day, What a

list we might make of those we have seen
“ocoing” at a time of life when, but for the
rejuvenating properties of hunting, men would
have preferred the comfort of their easy
chairs at home. It was but last year that I
was talking to the Rev. Mr. Fane, whilst
the Essex hounds were breaking up a fox
after a sharp hour’s gallop. Mr. Fane was
then eighty-three, and always managed, some-
how or other, to see most part of a run; and
Lord Macclesfield, who hunted the South
Oxfordshire for thirty years, was carrying his
eighty summers bravely at the Peterboro’
Foxhound Show this very year. Handsome
old Mr. Digby, too, in the Blackmoor Vale
country—what a delightful thing it was to
watch him make his way along, to such good
purpose that he got plenty of enjoyment out of
his day. Captain Philpott, R.N., also in that
country, I have seen following hounds at a
very advanced age. And, to my mind, far
more wonderful still, there is a lady now

hunting—as I give her age my readers will,

30 In Scarlet and Silk

I am sure, readily understand that unless I
were prepared to immediately emigrate I
dare not mention her name !—who is seventy-
five, and the year before last broke her thigh
riding over a fence. It must have required
pretty good nerve to have braved the perils
of the chase after that, at her age, and she
is hunting this season in one of the home
counties.

Mr. Robert Bird was another wonderful
example of “keeping young.” He used to go
right well, not merely potter along, in the Fitz-
william country—which takes some doing, by
the way—until he was past eighty ; and I see
that Custance, in his interesting ‘“ Riding
Recollections,” states that this good sports-
man offered to run any horse_in the Fitz-
william Hunt for £50, 12 st. 7 Ibs. each,
owners up, the challenger being then of the
age of seventy-eight! And is it not matter
of history, engraved in every fox-hunter’s
heart, how the immortal “Squire of Ted-
worth,’ Thomas Assheton Smith, ‘ the best
and hardest rider England ever saw,’ accord-

fox-hunting 31

ing to Nimrod, was not only hunting, but
going hard to hounds, and taking falls, until
he was eighty years of age. Until the very
last he rode up to his own gallant advice to
others, ‘‘Throw your heart over; your horse
will follow.” And I cannot refrain from
mentioning an incident wonderfully charac-
teristic of that ‘ not-to-be-denied” spirit in
which he always rode across country. It was
whilst he was hunting in Leicestershire, and
the line taken by the fox was so severe, and
the pace so hot, that, after going for about
twenty minutes, he found himself accompanied
by only one man, Mr. White. They came to
a fence so big that there only seemed one
practicable place in it. Mr. White was first
at it, and when the Squire came up he found
his friend stuck fast in it. ‘“‘Get on!” roared
Mr. Smith; “pray get out of the way!” “If
you're in such a hurry, why don’t you charge
me?” was the reply. No sooner said than
done, and Mr. Smith knocked horse and rider
clean into the next field, and away they both
went again in hot pursuit of the pack.

32 In Scarlet and Silk

Few men have taken more falls, and got
off more cheaply from them, than the hard
squire. ‘‘There’s no place you can’t get over
with a fall,” he used to say, and he never let
go of the reins when he was down; a most
excellent plan, but attended with a certain
amount of risk. In trying to follow this
great horseman’s advice, I nearly lost my
left eye some years ago, as the hand that
should have been guarding my face was
employed in holding my reins; the con-
sequence being that the four-year-old on top
of me struck out, and cut my cheek down
to the bone, exposing the eye in a most
unpleasant manner.

There are few more striking figures in the
hunting-field of to-day than that of Charles
Shepherd, huntsman to Lord Leconfield, in
the Sussex country. At the age of seventy-
six, and probably senior by several years to
any other of his craft in England, he still
goes right well across a country, and is
always with his hounds. He began hunting
at the age of thirteen with Mr, Hall, of

fox-hunting 33

Holbrook, Somerset, and was for six years
under the huntsman there, James Treadwell.
He early acquired such a reputation as a
whip that, in the words of a famous hunting
parson, the Rev. Mr. Blackbourne—now an
octogenarian—he was so good that he ‘could
whip hounds into your pocket.” From
there Shepherd went for two seasons to Lord
Yarborough as second whip, under Tom
Smith. Then Mr. Conyers, of Copthall, near
Epping, offered him the place of first whip,
and with him he remained for nearly seven
years. Yorkshire and Lord Middleton next
obtained his services as first whip, but a
record of twenty-one blank days drove so
keen a man as Shepherd from the country
after the one season.* This was probably
a lucky accident for him, as Mr. Scratton, of
the Essex Union, then offered him his first
place as huntsman, and it was in this country
that he enjoyed what he always considers was
the finest run of his life. On this particular
day Shepherd found his fox just by the

* This country now has an abundance of foxes.
C

34 In Scarlet and Silk

Chelmsford race-course, on Galleywood Com-
mon. ‘They ran him through Hunt’s Woods,
past Stock, and right away over a fine line
of country to the sea, killing him in a church-
yard. The time was an hour and fifty
minutes, and the distance covered must have
been considerably over twenty-five miles.
For over thirty years past Charles Shepherd
has been with Lord Leconfield’s pack, first
taking the post of huntsman there under
the Mastership of the present earl’s father.
He is never in bed after 5 a.M., winter or
summer, and in the warm weather is out
with his hounds in the park by half-past
four. He has always been facile princeps at
his profession ; and even at his present age
one might look a long time before finding
any one to beat him. Truly “it keeps one
young.”

Although it is said that huntsmen are
“born, not made,” the saying is only true
in a very limited sense. There is much to
learn even by the heaven-born genius, and

it is only reasonable to suppose that no one

Fox-hunting 35

has so good a chance of picking up the widely
diversified acquirements of a thoroughly good
huntsman as a whipper-in. This berth, of

‘

course, is the regulation ‘‘ school” for recruits
to the huntsmen ranks. But when the
aspiring amateur wishes to hunt a_ pack,
there is nothing like physicking himself, so to
speak, with a mixture consisting of three parts
watchful experience to one of written advice.

To a man who is naturally a lover of
hounds, few sights are prettier than a clever
“draw” up wind for a fox. Some men,
thoroughly efficient in other respects, are
apt to hurry this part of the business in
their anxiety to get away for a gallop.
But it is a bad fault. You may draw over
a fox, and very soon get yourself a name
as a bad finder of foxes. Besides which it
unsettles hounds, and they grow careless and
slack. As a rule, in open ground you will
draw up wind—or it may sometimes be found
advisable to draw with the wind slightly
“abeam” of you. A fox is often to be found

in withy osier beds, or curled up on a sunny

36 In Scarlet and Silk

bank, asleep, after his nocturnal perambula-
tions. Naturally, if you are drawing down
wind, instead of up, you serve him with too
long a notice to quit. This remark, however,
does not apply to the average small covert,
which should always be drawn down wind,
or hounds will have a great chance of
chopping him, a most undesirable thing. In
“Extracts from the Diary of a Huntsman,”
written by the celebrated “Tom” (not
Thomas Assheton) Smith, Master of the
Craven, and afterwards of the Pytchley, and
published fifty or sixty years ago, occurs
this passage: “It is no uncommon thing
for a good fox, on his being first found, to
go up wind for a mile or two, and then
head down wind, and never turn again;
probably instinct tells them that hounds
will go such a pace up wind that they will
be a little blown, and that the change of
scent, down wind, creates a slight check,
which gives him the advantage,” and this is
a thing we should all try to remember in
hunting hounds,

Fox-hunting 37

In big woodland countries plenty of voice
and horn are essential on the huntsman’s
part, especially the former, when drawing
the coverts, and no part of them that is at
all ‘“get-atable” should be passed over.
No creature in the world understands the art
of “lying low” better than a fox. Although
you may well “kick up a row” until your
fox is away and hounds after him, there is
nothing to be gained by noise when once
clear of covert and settled to the line.
Then you may afford to be happy until you
check—unless, mirabile dictu! you kill him
instead. But in most cases you do get a
check, or, to speak more correctly, a good
many checks. Again, the field depend upon
the huntsman’s patience, discretion, and skill.
His patience should restrain him from undue
interference ; hounds must always be allowed
to try and recover the scent for themselves
first. If they cannot do so, then the skill
of the huntsman is seen to the greater ad-
vantage. Perhaps the fox has been headed
and turned; perhaps chased by a cur; per-

38 In Scarlet and Silk

and this is one of the most curious

haps
things in hunting, as all practical men know
—the scent has lifted from the ground, and
is then floating in the air above hounds’
heads, only to rest again on the ground a
few minutes later. Having satisfied himself
that his assistance is essential in recovering
the scent, the huntsman must now get hold
of his hounds and make his cast. And here
he should remember that of the many things
which may have headed his fox, a flock of
sheep is not likely to have done the mischief.
I have many times found the tracks of foxes
in the snow going right through a lot of
sheep. Of course they can do an infinity
of mischief in the way of foiling a scent,
but I am perfectly confident that a fox,
hunted or otherwise, would never condescend
to go out of his way for the sake of a flock
of sheep. If your fox has been chased by a
cur it is a bad business, for scent ceases, as
from the scene of the incident. Shepherds’
dogs are a terrible nuisance in this respect, and
do nine-tenths of the work of spoiling sport.

Fox-hunting 39

It is obviously a most desirable thing that
the huntsman should be as much as possible
with his hounds during a run; one great
reason for it being that he will then be able
to see for himself, in the event of a check,
what it is that has turned them—they can’t
tell him when he comes up ten minutes after-
wards.

Probably no living creature thoroughly
understands that great mystery Scent, except
the fox himself; and this knowledge he shows
at every point of the game; never more so
than when dead beat and unable to trust
any longer to his speed and stamina for
safety. When, in addition to this, it is re-
membered that, in his own country, there is
probably not an inch of it unfamiliar to him,
that he can swim like an eel, is as fast as a
race-horse, and as cunning as a member of
the Anti-Gambling League; when, | say, we
consider all this, it will be readily conceded
that huntsman and hounds must “get up

y)

very early in the morning” to circumvent

him!

40 In Scarlet and Silk

A word as to over-riding; every year
seems to make things worse in this respect.
How can men tear right along when hounds
are at fault, and do, in thirty seconds, such
harm as means diminished or total lack of
sport for the rest of the day? It is simply
disgusting to see the extent to which this
is carried. And when the offenders are re-
proved, we are treated, forsooth! to a lot of
bunkum about their “coming out to please
themselves!” The fact that they spoil every
one else’s fun of course goes for nothing

¢

with this class of cock-tail ‘ sportsman.”
Unfortunately, many of the culprits are big
subscribers, and the Master dare not give
utterance to the thoughts that must neces-
sarily be uppermost in his mind. Apropos
of this, a well-known M. F. H., who had
been sorely tried in this respect, caught his
second whipper-in in a slight transgression
of the same nature, and roundly swore at
him before the whole field, winding up with,
“ At all events, I may d—n you!”

POx-HUNTING

II

TimE was when Essex, though always a
sporting country, was rather looked upon as
a hunting ground to be avoided, on account
of its wealth of “plough” and circumscribed
area of grass land. But during the last ten
or fifteen years there has been a general
move amongst Essex farmers to lay more
and more of their land for grass, whilst, as
draining is synonymous with high-class culti-
vation, the ground rides lighter and _ better
than it did in the days of yore. Steam
ploughing, the Powers be praised! is not
much in evidence, and in the Roothings
the “plough” is almost as good-going as the
grass. The Essex Foxhounds, having their

kennels at Harlow, run over an extremely
41

42 In Scarlet and Silk

fine sporting country, and the establishment
is one of which Mr. Bowlby and Mr. Loftus
Arkwright, the joint masters, may well feel
proud. No more efficient huntsman than
Baily, who has carried the horn for several
seasons here, could be found, and he and his
whips are always thoroughly well mounted.
Personally, I may say that I was under a
strangely false impression when fate first took
me into this country, for I thought that it was
a singularly easy one to ride over. Viewing
the matter in the light of actual experience,
I at once confess my mistake. I am not
saying that it admits of any comparison with
really “big” countries, such as, for instances,
the Blackmoor Vale, Grafton, or Pytchley,
but, nevertheless, to be carried across Essex
you must be on a performer: that admits of
“no possible doubt whatever.” The ditches
are both big and deep; many of them have
rotten banks into the bargain, but this last
remark does not apply to the Roothings.

The Essex Union country is rather a
smaller one to jump, and lies on the east

Fox-hunting 43

side of the main road from London to Col-
chester. Mr. Ashton, in his one season’s
Mastership (1894-5), deserves the thanks of
followers of the pack for the great improve-
ment he effected in it; but his constant pre-
ference of the fortiter in re to the suaviter
am modo in dealing with the conduct of affairs
in the field was hardly calculated to make
him popular, and he is now replaced by
Colonel Hornby, who gives up the Devon
and Somerset in order to take over this pack,
which obtains in him such a Master as it has
not known for some time past. Although,
at the time of writing, he has not yet been
seen in pink over the ditches, his conduct
of the famous west-country hounds puts it
beyond all doubt that he will be an unequi-
vocal success in his new position. Not only
the gallant Colonel himself, but five of his
children go, and go well, to hounds.

Talking of keeping a ‘“‘field” in order, I
always think that no man in the world ever
fathomed the great mystery better than Lord

Penrhyn. One never saw any unrulivess in

44 In Scarlet and Silk

the Grafton country, and, speaking for my-
self, | never heard the noble Master use even
a sharp expression. He was invariably cour-
teous to all—but no one ever thought of
disobeying him.

Mr. Sheftield Neave’s Staghounds go, about
three days a fortnight, over much the same
country as the Essex Foxhounds, and though
the pack is hardly an ornamental one, they
have shown good sport for many seasons past.
Mr. Brindle now whips in to them, vice Mr.
Edward Neave resigned, whilst the Master
most ably carries the horn in propria persona.

It was in the Essex country that Major
Foster met with his fatal accident several
seasons back. His horse refused, and then
fell with him, at a deep ditch. Some time
elapsed before the animal could be got off
his prostrate rider, and then it was found
that, unhappily, the pommel of the saddle
had pressed him down, and literally choked
him.

I commenced this chapter by saying that
Essex was always a sporting country. This

Fox-hunting 45

year the farmers are keeping up its character,
for when, in their interests, it was proposed
to devote the funds usually expended upon
Harlow Steeplechases to a big champagne
luncheon, no less than three hundred of the
sturdy agriculturists rose up in revolt, and
appended their signatures to a request which
signified that, although champagne might be
good, sport was better! and Harlow Steeple-
chases were duly held. I never saw so big
a gathering at a country race-meeting before.

During the past season foxes must have
had a comparatively good time in their im-
munity from hounds, though, amongst others,
Mr. Ashton, on four occasions, brought out
his pack for a day’s hunting on the snow.
But in spite of the severity of the winter
—one that will be remembered as stopping
hunting for a longer period than any ex-
perienced since the “Crimean” year, 1857—
cubs have been discovered in this country
—KEssex—very early. One litter that came
under my notice, in especial, seems to be
worthy of remark. ferreting a bank on

46 In Scarlet and Silk

the 29th of January, the ferret got into a
fox-earth, and paid the penalty with his
life. Then, seizing up one cub, the vixen
made a bolt with it, leaving another behind
her which, on examination, appeared to be
about three weeks old. One or two other
early litters have also been discovered, but
none, that I have heard of, quite so soon in
the year as this.

The ruthless builder is slowly, but none
the less surely, exterminating foxes and fox-
hunting in Kent and Surrey, and, alas! also
in many parts of Sussex where I have en-
joyed many a good gallop, notably with the
Crawley and Horsham Foxhounds. Here, as
a boy, I obtained (and deserved) the undying
hatred of everybody in the field by riding
a horse I could no more hold than I could
have stopped a steam-roller. But good old
George Loader—a better huntsman never
lived —always refrained from using “ cuss-
words” at me, and said he “liked to see
the young ’uns going.” With only about
seven stone on his back, the old steeplechase

Fox-hunting 47

horse I rode used to go as if the devil had
kicked him.

In connection with Sussex hunting, it is
sorrowful news that after keeping the Good-
wood hounds for twelve years, the Duke of
Richmond is now giving them up.

The best part of Kent, to my mind, is
the country over which the Mid-Kent Stag-
hounds travel. Round Maidstone and Water-
ingbury, indeed, there are some really fine
lines to be traversed, with plenty of grass
and good fencing. After manifold chops and
changes of Mastership, this pack has now
reverted to the Leney family, and in their
hands | trust it may long remain. It is
now several years since I had the pleasure
of a run with them, but, with luck, I shall
hope to renew their acquaintance ere long.

The West Kent Foxhounds hunt over a
very varied country, good, bad, and indif-
ferent. The Hon. Ralph Nevill, who presided
over the destinies of this pack for so many
years, has now resigned, to the great regret
of all, but Bollen still remains to hunt them.

48 In Scarlet and Silk

A fine horseman, with nerves of iron, he is
a thorough master of his craft. I shall
not readily forget his performance one day,
some ten years back, when hounds had just
streamed across the metals of the South-
Eastern Railway. Bollen trotted up to some
high and new post-and-rails, jumped them,
on to the line, and crossing it, faced and
overcame in like manner another obstacle of
the same sort, the other side; and not one
of us would follow him!

In the days when, by bringing any wretch
out of a training stable to see hounds half-
a-dozen times, you could qualify it to take
part in “Hunter's” (save the mark!) flat
races, the Old Surrey and other Surrey packs
were always favoured with a plentiful supply
of smooth-snaflled, martingaled, and bandaged
“rips,” ridden by big-headed and prematurely
old-looking boys, who artfully lay in wait for
the Master, and after rushing their mounts
over or through a gap or two, would ask
him for their “certificate.” And, only too
thankful to be rid of them, the much-worried

fox-hunting 49

Master would probably say, ‘“ Yes” — and
other things as well!

The resignation of Lord Chesham as Master
of the Bicester, was a matter for real sorrow
amongst hunting men. As a splendid type
of an Englishman, both in mind and body,
he would be (as he is in riding to hounds)
“hard to beat.” An extraordinary number of
“the right sort” may always be seen follow-
ing this pack and the Duke of Grafton’s, in-
cluded amongst them being such well-known
personages in the hunting world as Sir
Rainald (or is it “Lord” now?) Knightley
and Lady Knightley, Lord and Lady Law-
rence, Lord Capel, Lord Bentinck, Hon.
Douglas Pennant, Baron de Tuyll, Earl of
Ellesmere, Messrs. Lambton, George Drake,
Grazebrooke, Campbell, Harrison, Mr. Walter
and Lady D. Long, Hon. R. Grosvenor,
Messrs. Fuller, Peareth, and last, but by no
means least, Captain Edward Pennell Elm-
hirst (‘‘Brooksby” of The Field). Many
more there be, but, alas! treacherous memory

deserts me, and I must pass on.
D

50 In Scarlet and Silk

In these busy times, when the vast majority
of men are engaged in some occupation re-
quiring constant attendance in London, it
may not be out of place to indicate a few
of the countries which can be conveniently
reached from there on the hunting morning.
Between the pleasure of hunting from home
and hunting from London, I think there can
be hardly any comparison drawn. We should
all like to hunt from home; but, unfortu-
nately, we don’t all get what we like in
this bad world, and if we can’t hunt from
home, many can snatch a day’s enjoyment
here and there by using the iron horse as a
covert hack.

The Queen’s Staghounds, Lord Rothschild’s,
and the Mid-Kent are all the more easily
accessible on account of the later hour at
which they meet—11.30 and 12 o'clock re-
spectively—and may well be reached without
the awful ordeal of “‘ getting up in the middle
of the night.” The Essex Staghounds, which
go three days a fortnight, mostly over the
Roothings, and the Warnham, in the Crawley

Fox-hunting 51

and Horsham country, can also be met with-
out much trouble. Or if foxhounds are pre-
ferred, the Crawley and Horsham, the West
Kent, the Essex, the Essex Union, the Old
Surrey, and the Surrey Union all lie handy.
Of course, if soaring ambition takes you in
her toils, and nothing short of the “ crack”
packs will satisfy your yearnings, you can
reach the Grafton, the Bicester, or even get
to Rugby and Harboro’ by leaving London
at a somewhat “pallid and ghastly” hour.
If you do, all I hope is that you will be more
fortunate in your initial effort than was a
plucky friend of mine, some time back, who
danced all night at the Artillery ball at
Woolwich, got back to his quarters at 4 A.M.,
started an hour later for London, and caught
the 7.30 from Euston to Rugby. Here he
and a brother “gunner” got their hunters
and spent the whole of the day trotting up
and down lanes in a thick fog, and returned
that night to town without ever having seen
hounds at all!

The Old Berkely, Mr. Garth’s, the Burstow,

52 In Scarlet and Silk

and Hertfordshire, are good packs for the
Londoner in point of distance; but of all
those mentioned above, undoubtedly the best
country is that over which Lord Rothschild
holds sway. Leighton or Aylesbury will be
found most convenient for hunting with this
excellent pack, whilst the Mid-Kent trysts
are mostly within reach of Maidstone—the
kennels are at Wateringbury, close to that
town—or Tonbridge. Mr. Sheffield Neave’s
(the Essex Stag) kennels are at Ingatestone,
and his pack is equally well met from Chelms-
ford or Ongar. Billericay, Ingatestone, and
Chelmsford are handy stations for the Essex
Union, whilst the Essex (Fox) country lies
more adjacent to Harlow (kennels) and Ongar.
Horsham, Crawley, and Steyning, give facili-
ties both for the Warnham Stag- and Crawley
and Horsham Fox-hounds, and the West Kent
may be met from Farningham and Penshurst
—the latter is by far the better country, but
with a train service which does not always
accommodate the metropolitan Nimrod.

And now a word or two as to the class

Fox-hunting 53

of country met with whilst following these
packs. With Lord Rothschild’s, the glorious
Vale of Aylesbury lies stretched before you ;
all grass, practically ; fair fences, with not a
few brooks. You want a jumper here, and
a galloper as well; but it is by no means a
very big country. Compared with parts of
Northamptonshire, or with the average tract
galloped over by, say, the Blackmoor Vale or
Cattestock, it is an easy one to ride over;
and certainly I know none more pleasant.
The Queen’s varies very much indeed. Some
parts are first-rate, and others—well, are not !
The Mid-Kent get some beautiful pieces of
jumping and galloping ground in the vicinity
of Maidstone and Wateringbury, but on the
Farningham side it is not at all good. In the
former part plenty of grass and flying fences ;
in the latter, flint stones, cold clay, and sticky
fallow; while the immense woodlands make
things even worse for the West Kent Fox-
hounds than they are for the more artificial
sport of stag-hunting. With the Crawley and
Horsham Fox, and the Warnham Stag, a most

54 In Scarlet and Silk

excellent sporting country can be ridden over,
though there is lots of plough, and you must
take the rough with the smooth. Mr. Garth’s
and the Old Berkely I have never hunted
with. It must be confessed that the Surrey
packs, and also the West Kent, have a bad
country as a whole. Many is the day I have
spent with them, toiling over flint stones and
clay fallows, climbing hills like the side of
a house, and threading almost interminable
woodlands, in return for the very minimum
of sport. Fruit-growing and wire also seri-
ously militate against hunting here.

But as I said before, the West Kent
get their compensation when they meet in
the Penshurst country. The East Kent is
an awful tract, except just in a very few
parts. I have treated of the Essex district
in the early portion of this chapter, and the
two foxhound packs, the Essex and Essex
Union, are turned out and hunted in really
smart fashion. To those who lke a ditch
country—perhaps it is rather an acquired
taste—nothing better could be recommended

Fox-hunting 55

than to try your luck here. But I would
remind all “ birds of passage ” that the Essex
does not advertise, and expects the trifle of a
thirty guineas’ subscription from those out-
side its boundaries. In fact, of all the packs
we have just been dealing with as easily
accessible from the Metropolis, only two—

the Queen’s and Lord Rothschild’s—are non-

subscription ones.

I should never advise a man to keep his
hunters in London. The eternal bother and
ever-present risk of the boxing to and from
the scene of action on hunting days, and the
almost impossibility of properly exercising
horses in town, are drawbacks so great, as
to more than counterbalance the admitted
advantage of keeping them (and your groom)
under your own eye.

But if this plan is adopted, always see that
your man starts in plenty of time for the
departure platform, for a slip upon the
greasy paving may be the result of an extra
sharp trot to catch his train. And after
hunting is over, don’t ride straight off to the

56 In Scarlet and Sitk

railway station and put your horse in his
box; attend to his wants first. He should
always be put into some stable, if possible,
wisped over, and given either a pail of oat-
meal gruel, or a light feed, preceded by a
little chilled water. If oatmeal is not to be
- had, a double handful of common flour will
serve the purpose. Then, being warm and
comfortable, he will not be so likely to take
harm on the return journey as he would when
boxed home straight away.

As to the system of hiring hunters, I think
if a man is still young, blessed with good
nerves, and can “take a toss” with equa-
nimity, that he might do far worse than
adopt this plan. I have very pleasant
memories of the “jobbed” hunter, and I
don't know that the average “hireling” has
put me down oftener than my own horses
have done. Iam quite aware, however, that
this is not an universal experience. Out of
many hired ones I have ridden, and over all
sorts of countries, I can only remember get-

ting one serious fall, and badly injuring one

Fox-hunting 57

horse. That injury, however, was a fatal
one: he pitched on to the point of his
shoulder in landing over a drop fence, and
although I was able to walk him home, he
never came out again. In hiring, too, there
is one material advantage to a poor man; he
knows the extent of his loss when “ grief”
results.

If you can hunt from home, however, I am
quite sure that the poor man’s “best value”
is to buy something cheap. ‘There are as
many good cheap ones as good dear ones,”
an old farmer used to say to me; and speak-
ing as one who never had much more money
than he knew what to do with, I can add
that I have always been able, with, of course,
a certain amount of trouble, to get cheap
hunters—and they haven't all been bad ones
either !

Through the kindness of friends I have
had many a fine day on three and four
hundred guinea hunters, and am profoundly
thankful to say, never had any bad luck with
one of them. Once, however, when mounted

58 In Scarlet and Silk

by a dear old friend of mine, the horse fell
down dead with me. A post-mortem revealed
the fact that fatty degeneration of the heart
existed, and although, no doubt, the sharp
gallop we had just had, and the exertion of
jumping fences, did not improve matters, still
the horse might well have died even had he
been standing in his stable at the time.

Taken on the whole, I think I feel happier
when riding over fences on horses that don’t
cost any money! ‘There is such a glorious
feeling of irresponsibility about the thing
then.

Without exception, the very fastest hunter
I ever owned was a_half-worn-out steeple-
chase horse, which I bought for fifteen
sovereigns. He was fired all round and
‘“dicky” in front; but there seemed to be
nothing he would turn his head from, and it
never gave him any trouble to gallop down
every other horse in the field. He was a
very hard puller, and gave me one nasty fall,
simply because I could not hold him.

Every hunting man probably remembers,

fox-hunting 59

with fondness, his two or three best runs.
The two most enjoyable ones | ever had
were in no single respect alike, and yet |
must bracket them together. One was a
very fast twenty-five minutes with the Graf-
ton, over as fine a country as even Northamp-
tonshire can boast of. I was riding a five-
year-old, a recent purchase; and when one’s
“latest” carries you well, is not the enjoy-
ment always doubled? We simply raced all
the way, and finally saw the fox rolled over
in the open, under our horses’ noses. The
other run, which I love to look back upon,
was a grand gallop of nearly two hours in
the Blackmoor Vale. This, also, was very
fast for an hour and a half, or a little more,
perhaps: from then, our fox gradually ran
us out of scent, and we finally lost him. It
was quite a select few which got through
that gallop, and the way our beaten horses
“chanced” their last three or four fences, has
since given me food for reflection. One of
the “survivors” (I think it was Captain

Luttrell) came down a crumpler at the very

60 In Scarlet and Silk

last fence we jumped, but got off cheaply, as
luck would have it. Mr. Merthyr Guest, I
remember, was right in front during the
whole, or nearly the whole, of the run. A
truly wonderful man, the Master of the
Blackmoor Vale: surely he must share with
the Marquis of Worcester the distinction of
hunting more than any man in the kingdom.

Six days a week is, I believe, the Marquis
of Worcester’s ordinary allowance, and he is
undoubtedly one of the finest amateur hunts-
men in the world; and to hunt a big country
like the Duke of Beaufort’s is no small tax
upon a man’s physical powers, to say nothing
of his skill.

Hunting, and indeed all high-class English
sport, has had no better friend, no more
splendid patron, than the Duke of Beaufort,
and as a huntsman he is unsurpassed. In
every way he has set a grand example for
true sportsmen to follow, whilst among
his neighbours and tenantry he is simply
worshipped. No finer type of an English
nobleman—in every sense of the word—ever

Fox-hunting 61

lived than the present Lord of Badminton,
and the turf has sustained a great loss indeed
by his retirement. His Grace, however, still
takes a lively interest in racing, and is a
regular attendant at covert-side. For a man
who, this year (1895), has celebrated his
golden wedding, the way in which he slips
over his own stone-wall country is marvellous,
and would puzzle most men of half his age
to imitate. Although the blue and white
jacket will be sorely missed on the race-course,
the blue and buff livery will still be to the
fore at covert-side. May it be so for many
a year to come, and the best of good luck go
with it!

In the class of amateur huntsmen, Lord
Willoughby de Broke takes high rank, and to
his undoubted skill he, ike Lord Worcester,
adds the invaluable quality of being a grand
horseman. Mr. Fellowes, whom I have had
the pleasure of following with the Shotesham,
in Norfolk, always struck me as a beautiful
huntsman, and, at a very advanced age. got

over a by no means small country in a

62 In Scarlet and Silk

surprising manner. ‘What a quartette of
grand sportsmen!” must be the thought of all
hunting men when the names of the Duke of
Beaufort, Mr. George Lane Fox of the Bram-
ham Moor, the ever-to-be revered ‘‘ Parson”
Jack Russell, and Mr. Fellowes are mentioned.

I suppose it would be a safe thing to say
that a hound is at his best in his third season,
that is, when he is about four years old;
but it by no means follows that he will not
be as good, with ordinary luck, when he is
six. The first failing usually noticeable about
a hound that is ‘‘ getting on in years” is that
his turn of speed fails him. If he has been
a leading hound, he will now, perhaps, drop
back into the ruck in running, especially if
the pace be very good; soon after he will
begin to tail, and must be drafted. A
constant supply of puppies must be had
recourse to to supply the places of the
worn out; and it is always, of course,
necessary to breed many more than you
are likely to want, so that only the best
may be retained at the close of the cub-

Fox-hunting 63

hunting season. Probably not much more
than half the entry will be worth keeping ;
which is not to be wondered at when one
considers the manifold qualities required in
order to produce a first-rate hound — nose,
speed, stamina, good looks; all should be
there. Well might the breeding of fox-
hounds be regarded as a separate and distinct
profession, so great is the demand upon a
man’s knowledge, experience, and skill, so
onerous the task of producing a truly good
hound. ‘‘ Like produces like” in many cases,
as we know; but in hound-breeding, perhaps
more than in anything else, nature oft-times
seems to take a pleasure in defying and
setting at naught all the “ well-laid schemes
of men and mice.” It has been well said
that to get a perfect pack means fifty years
of work.

A somewhat curious custom, but one which
has been attended with success, is that of
cub-hunting in the evening instead of at
early dawn. ‘The present and the late Lords
Yarborough have, inter alia, practised this

64 In Scarlet and Silk

system, and I have often thought that instead
of meeting at 11 or 12 oclock at the end
of the regular hunting season, when the days
are drawing out and evenings are fairly light,
that a much later hour for the tryst would
produce far better sport. Towards Easter
time the ground is frequently as dry as a
turnpike road, and we often find that hounds
only begin to run just as we are leaving off
and going home.

SLAGHOUNDS

Ir would hardly be using the language of
exaggeration to say that for one man who
has crossed Exmoor in pursuit of the wild
red deer, at least a thousand are familiar with
the chase of the animal who is driven up to
the meet, and when the fun is over returns
to his home in his own carriage “like a
gentleman,’ as a well-known sporting writer
once put it. But if we wish for the poetry
of the chase, if we would conjure up visions
of Dian fair, of Hippolyta in Midsummer
Nights Dream when speaking of the “hounds
of Sparta,” these words :

‘** Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem’d all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder ”—

then we must hie us to the West—substituting,
65 E

66 In Scarlet and Silk

alack and alas, in these prosaic times, the
Great Western Railway for the winged heels
of Mercury —and, by the borders of the
Severn sea, pursue the timid hind or her
antlered lord across the heather and the moor.

That the beauty of the scene has much
to do with the charm of. the sport here,
goes without saying. The lovely Devonshire
coombes, the vales of Somerset, the magni-
ficent moorland, with its wealth of purple
heather, the wild beauty ,of the Quantocks,
and the picturesque “setting” of the Bristol
Channel, cannot fail to imspire the naturalist
side of us with joy, even at the moment that
the ‘‘sportsman half” is looking askance at
the terrible roughness of the country that
must be ridden over in order to see anything
of the chase itself. The rocky ground, the
uncompromising hills, the long distances to
be covered, and, withal, the pace that will
enable you to be ‘‘in front,’ must all be
borne in mind when selecting a horse for
this work. He must be thoroughly stout
and clever, have feet as hard as the nether

Staghounds 67

millstone ; he must be able to go a great pace,
be short coupled, and possess undeniable
shoulders. With such a nag under him, a
man may “harden his heart,” and prepare
for certainly a long, probably a good, day’s
sport.

When the fortunes of the Devon and Somer-
set Staghounds were at a very low ebb, Mr.
Fenwick Bisset stepped into the breach, and
in spite of difficulties which would have
deterred many another man, he held the
Mastership, with infinite credit to himself
and benefit to the country, for no less than
twenty-seven years. Old Jack Babbage, who
had been huntsman to Mr. Carew, was ap-
pointed to carry the horn when Mr. Bisset
assumed the command, and Arthur Heal was
whipper-in. Good as Babbage was, it seems
to be generally admitted that Arthur Heal
was better, when, in due course, he became
huntsman to the famous pack; and it takes
a clever man to do himself and his employers
justice in this position; a much more trying
one, I venture to think, than that of hunts-

68 In Scarlet and Sitk

man to an ordinary provincial pack of stag-
or fox-hounds. The natural difficulties of the
country could be successfully encountered
only by a huntsman thoroughly conversant
with his duties; and it is not awarding too
high praise to say that Arthur Heal was
always “the right man in the right place.”
In addition to his other undeniable qualifica-
tions, his ight weight must always have told
in the long and trying days which are the
rule rather than the exception here. Mr.
Fenwick Bisset himself laboured under the
disadvantage of riding over twenty stone,
but, in spite of this, he was always “ forward.”
Of course, the class of horse he rode was
very different to that capable of carrying
his huntsman ; and the prices he paid for his
weight-carriers were, as the famed “‘ Dominie ”
would have put it, “‘ prodigious.”

In December 1880, Mr. Bisset having re-
signed, Lord Ebrington became Master, and
Mr. Bisset generously presented the pack
to the hunt. About this time one of its

warmest supporters, Mr. Granville Somerset,

Staghounds 69

Q.C., with whom I was, for a time, in
chambers at Kine’s Bench Walk, died, and
two years later saw the death of another
revered old follower of the hunt, the im-
mortal “Parson” Jack Russell. Old Bab-
bage, too, was gone, and gaps such as these
are hard to fill. As after events proved, no
better substitute for Mr. Bisset could have
been found than Lord Ebrington, who con-
tinued to show the same good sport which
was always associated with his predecessor.
And now let us imagine ourselves, on a
bright morning in late August, jogging along
in the warm and genial sunshine to meet
the hounds at Hawkcombe Head, and here
the North Devonian “rank and fashion,” to
say nothing of the North Devonian “rank
and file,” are assembled in force. Without
delay a move is made for Larkbarrow, where
by the lonely shepherd’s cottage, right out
upon the moor, the pack is kennelled. In
due course the huntsman makes his selection
of those hounds he requires for ‘“ tufters,”

some five couple in all, and in company with

70 In Scarlet and Sitk

the ‘‘ harbourer” and the Master trots away
in one direction, whilst the whip gallops off
in another. After a long wait we hear that
a stag has crossed Badgworthy, and has
gone away over Brendon. ‘The pack is
hastily unkennelled, and laid on. Scent is
bad at first, and the great, solemn-looking
25-inch hounds can only puzzle out the line
slowly. Then, as they go over Badgworthy
Hill, the pace improves, and they run sharply
down over the heather to Farley Water.
Over Cheriton Ridge, they go by Hoar Oak
and the Chains, across Lynton Common. All
this time horses are on good, sound ground,
and can gallop on clean and hard “ going.”
As they cross the West Lynn, hounds are
travelling at best pace and heading for Wood-
barrow. ‘The aspect of the chase then quickly
undergoes an entire change, for whereas be-
forehand we could gallop freely, we are now
reduced to scrambling through mire and dirt,
almost hock deep, and have to follow one
another like a flock of sheep. Woe be, now,
to the budding hero who would try a short

Staghounds 71

cut, surely would he get ‘‘bogged.” Scent
continues to improve, and we must hustle
along somehow. Fortunately we are riding
to a leader who is at once bold and cautious,
and our friend ‘‘ Cinqfoil,” we know, will lead
us into no difficulties. Without any sign of
a check onwards they go over the Exe Plain,
and head for Brendon Two Gates. Our
quarry has gone down the Doone Valley, and
thence he turns, left-handed, into Badgworthy
Wood. Just by the deer park a momentary
respite enables us to give our steaming horses
a blow, and take one for ourselves. But
before we can slip off our horses hounds are
away again, and we get a rattling gallop over
Black Barrow to the Colley Water. Then
comes the long hill up to the Exford road,

ee

and, ‘“‘ grinning and hugging,’ we clamber up

foro) o>?

it at the best pace our steeds can command.
Faster than ever they run over Porlock Com-
mon, and along Hawkcombe, past Porlock
Vale, and down to the sea. There, in Por-
lock Bay, is the closing scene witnessed, and

the obsequies celebrated, of this good stag.

72 In Scarlet and Silk

He was a veteran, and in point of freshness
at the finish looked like “giving points” to
many of the dead-beat horses which had been
‘toiling along in his wake.

But having spoken of the poetry, let us
not forget the prose of stag-hunting, and I
cheerfully acknowledge the very real enjoy-
ment that has fallen to me whilst following
the carted animal, in various countries, good,
bad, and indifferent.

The four best-known packs of staghounds
—the Queen’s, Lord Rothschild’s, the Essex,
and the Mid-Kent—are all within easy rail
of London. Roughly speaking, much of the
Q@ueen’s and the Essex, all of Lord Roths-
child’s, and about half of the Kentish country,
is good. The Vale of Aylesbury is as near
perfection as possible: it is all grass, practi-
cally, with beautiful flying fences, over which
no first-rate hunter, until he tires, at least,
ought to come to grief. Speaking for myself,
I would sooner take an average run and two
average falls over the Vale, than the best of
runs, minus the tumbles, in an indifferent

Stazhounds Fie:

country. The “fields” are enormous, but,
generally speaking, there is plenty of room
at the fences. When I was last there, and
following this splendid pack, which, by the
way, was started in 1839, Fred Cox was
still hunting them, and despite the manifold
injuries he has sustained in falls innumerable,
which have made his seat on a horse cramped
and unnatural, was always with his hounds.
Mark Howcutt was then first whip, and a
bolder cross-country horseman I never want
to see. He was going then, and goes now,
as hard as we happy youths did at the age of
eighteen or twenty, when we “feared nothin’
cos we knowed nothin’,’ as old Jem Hills,
the huntsman of the Heythrop, used to put it.

Some fine runs fall to the lot of the con-
stant follower of the Essex Staghounds, espe-
cially when they fly across the open Roothings.
The plough is hght riding—almost as light as
grass—and it would take a very big “field”
indeed to cause any crowding at the big open
ditches. You can “have” them pretty much
where you like, and there is no need to follow

74 In Scarlet and Silk

even so good a pilot as Mr. Sheffield Neave,
the Master and Huntsman, would be. Asa
matter of fact, small fields are the almost
invariable rule in this country ; indeed, a few
additional followers (subscribers!) would be
an unquestionable advantage to the pack.
Every Tuesday—almost always in the Rooth-
ings—and each alternate Saturday, are their
hunting days. The Roothing ditches are
formidable—more, as a former whip to this
pack, Mr. Edward Neave, was saying to me,
a day or two since, from their depth than
their breadth; for a broad ditch may often
be negotiated by scrambling half-way down
before jumping. The Roothings is, probably,
the nearest approach to a flying country that
Essex can show. To the Londoner casting
about for a “‘ happy hunting ground,” I should

?

certainly say “hunt in Essex” rather than in
Kent or Surrey, and as I said before, there
is, with the Essex Staghounds, the great ad-
vantage of small fields and plenty of room.

I have had some fine runs with the Mid-

Kent Staghounds from time to time, and

Staghounds 75

parts of their country are very good to ride
over. They have not yet discovered a greater
traveller amongst their deer than the famous
“ Moonlight,” which after being enlarged about
mid-day, ran on, or at all events was not
taken, until eight o'clock that night! But it
is no unusual thing for a run of twenty to thirty
miles to take place over the Maidstone side of
the country, which is certainly their best.

The Surrey Staghounds, over whose destinies
Mr. Tom Nickalls, of Nutfield, has for very
many years presided, have always shown good
sport when the country has afforded them
opportunity. The demon builder, alas! is
always on their track, and on too many occa-
sions, each season, they have to contend with
serious difficulties. But for all that, I have
enjoyed some capital spins with them over
the steep Surrey hills, and live in hopes of
doing so again.

The Surrey Farmers’ staghounds, which
hunt the district around Epsom, Surbiton,
Ewell, and Leatherhead, and have their
kennels at Chessington, near the place of

76 In Scarlet and Silk

that good sportsman George Bird, have just
been deprived by death of their new Master,
Mr. D’Avigdor. By his death the hunt has
‘sustained a great loss. He had been Master
but a very short time, and had assumed the
reins of office at a time when such a man
was badly wanted.

To go on into the adjoining county of
Sussex, one may get some fine sporting runs
with the Warnham, and either Dorking (where
the kennels are) or Horsham are very acces-
sible places for these hounds. With the
Enfield Chase (Colonel Somerset’s) I never
had the pleasure of going, but should imagine
that they must be rather cramped for room.

A somewhat erroneous notion seems to
prevail with regard to a deer’s sagacity. Mr.
Jorrocks, we know, likens the hunting of the
deer to the “’unting of a hass,” but, as a
matter of fact, a deer is by no means a
fool. Witness the clever way, for instance,
in which a hunted stag will go and push
up another to take his place before hounds.
When faddists talk of the cruelty of stag-

Staghounds Gy)

hunting, and the terrible sufferings under-
gone by the quarry in his fear of the hounds,
they are either speaking in guileless igno-
rance, or else doing their best to belittle
the fame of the late Ananias. I cannot call
to mind a single instance of the ordinary
paddock-fed deer showing any fear of hounds ;
many an one calmly starts grazing when
first enlarged, and has to be actually driven
away. ven so, they usually start at a very
casual trot: it is well authenticated that in
a certain hunt the deer used to jog out to
the meet beside the huntsman’s horse, and
in the middle of the pack; run his line, and
then return to his paddock in the same way.
And if the “cruelty” criers, who are con-
stantly running a tilt against the Royal pack,
would only come out and ride to the finish
with staghounds, then get off their horses
and tackle the deer, probably some of their
sympathy would be reserved for themselves

)

instead of “slopping over” on the “ victim.”
A stag is often a nasty customer to collar,

and [| have seen hounds, and men, too, “ for-

78 In Scarlet and Silk

warded” in relentless fashion by a wicked
one at the end of a long and fatiguing
gallop. One particularly amusing scene I
witnessed some eight or nine seasons back.
Our stag had “soiled,” or taken to the water,
in a mill-dam. The water was shallow, and
the stag set his hind quarters against the
mill wall, and with lowering eye waited for
the coming struggle. Hounds, whose valour
exceeded their discretion, plunged in, and
half swam, half waded, towards the quarry.
One after the other they retired howling, as
they were struck and beaten off, the stag
seeming to enjoy the fun. Our second whip
—whom we will call Tommy—made a lasso
of the thong of his crop, and leaning as far
as he could over the wall, dropped his noose
securely over the animal's head. At that
moment another hound attacked the foe in
front, and the said foe suddenly lowered his
head to give him a warm reception. Poor
Tommy, who hadn’t allowed for this action,
was forcibly jerked off his precarious perch

on the wall, and fell neck and crop over

Staghounds 79

the stag’s back and souse into the water
beside him, amid the roars of merciless
laughter from “all and sundry” who stood
watching the performance. If he had only
let go of the crop he might have saved him-
self easily, but one never does manage to
think of those things at the right moment.
Wire is a terrible bugbear to a stag; he
never seems able to see it, and I have wit-
nessed several of the poor brutes get falls,
more or less severe, over this ever-to-be
execrated thing. I only hope that here-
after all our ‘“‘cuss-words account,” swelled
as if is to enormous dimensions through
making speeches on the subject of wire, will
be sent in to the people who invented and
the people who use such an abomination.
! I have wasted half-
an-hour trying to think of an adjective that

As to barbed wire

shall adequately express what I think upon
the subject. I have failed to do so, and,
therefore, pass on to another subject.

For the man who can only snatch a day
with hounds occasionally, the stag offers,

So Ln Scarlet and Silk

perhaps, more attractions than foxhounds.
To such an one, a blank day is a more serious
matter than it is to the votary of the chase
whose time is his own, and who gets his two
or three days a week. With the stag, you are
sure of your gallop; and in addition to this,
the meet is generally at a later hour—an
additional advantage not to be underrated by
the Londoner or business man. A_ bigger
hound and a bigger quarry, coupled with a
stronger scent, makes the pace, as a rule, .
much faster than it is with foxhounds; but
even the chase of the lordly stag gives way,
in point of speed, to that of the gay red
herring !—which, by the way, is not a herring
at all, but, in most cases, a rabbit skin well

”)

“scented” with aniseed, or other unholy
compound. If a man wants pace alone in
following hounds, undoubtedly he should
place the drag first, stag second, and fox
third. But, given a good fox-hunting country,
I much doubt whether many people would
be found following either drag or stag. “Ay,

there’s the rub!” Fate does not plant us all

Staghounds 81

in a first-rate fox-hunting country; and if
she did, the fickle jade would probably uproot
us just as we had got spoilt for any other!

As far as I have been able to see, a deer,
whilst still full of running, cares little or
nothing as to whether he runs up wind or
down. In fox-hunting you can always cal-
culate, with more or less certainty, on your
quarry following out certain vulpine rules
under given circumstances ; but, according to
my observation—and I merely, of course,
give it in the most humble manner for
what it is worth—there is no calculating
upon how a deer will run. They seem to
have no preference for hill over vale, for
open down over stiffly fenced country, or
vice versd. I have seen deer dodge about
on an open down, and run perfectly straight
over a cramped country thickly interspersed
with formidable obstacles. You don’t know
where to have them in this respect, so the
very best plan is to follow Assheton Smith’s
example, and ‘go into every field with the
hounds!”

HARRIERS

‘“UNcouPLE at the timorous flying hare,”
says Shakespeare, and in no parts of these
Islands has the injunction been more largely
obeyed than in the West country, where the
sport is, to-day, more popular than ever.
But harriers are to be found pretty well
distributed all over the country now, and
the chase of the hare is by no means a thing
to be looked down upon. It is often said
that “harriers should not be allowed to hunt
fox,’ and I think to that saying might be
added, “‘ fox- and stag-hunters should not be
allowed to hunt hare,’ because when they
do so comparisons, which, as we know, are
“odious,” will inevitably be made, and always
to the disadvantage of the slower, if more
scientific, sport.

As a school, no less for young horses than
82

Flarrwers 83

for budding sportsmen, nothing can be better
than to follow (not too closely, bien entendu !)
a pack of harriers. With regard to the former,
in my humble opinion, this plan is by far
the best one to inoculate your beginner with
a love for hunting. Harriers are slow enough
to enable a horse to look about him, and, if
he is sensible, he will soon begin to take an
interest in the sport. Again, he can “have”
his fences as slowly as he likes, and even if
he gets down, there is usually plenty of time
to pick himself up again and catch hounds
before they have got very far.

To those men who love hunting for hunt-
ing’s—as distinguished from riding’s—sake,
few things can be prettier than to watch
the work of these patient, clever, though
quarrelsome, little hounds. Of all the harrier
packs it has been my good fortune to follow,
I always thought the Shotesham, in Norfolk,
hunted by Mr. Fellowes, was the best. Once
a tremendously ‘‘hard” man in the Shires,
Mr. Fellowes afterwards made the perfection of
a harrier huntsman. It was whilst following

84 In Scarlet and Sitk

him on one occasion that I got a curious
fall, for galloping at a fence my girths flew,
and so did I! whilst almost at the same
moment my horse slipped up on his side
and measured his length on the ground.
Harriers ought to be encouraged to spread
themselves well when drawing a field, for
many a hare almost requires to be kicked
up; they are real adepts at lying low, and
“sitting tight.” The “field,” too, may be
of considerable service here, especially in
beating up hedgerows, for harriers are none
too keen on doing this for themselves. A
hare will rarely give much sport before
January, and in that month and February I
have occasionally seen them make a four or
five mile point, and go a great pace, too, in-
stead of constantly ringing, as is their wont.
Beckford says, in speaking of harriers,
that “‘ you should never exceed twenty couple
in the field”; but in most countries little
more than half that number will be found to
suffice; they run better together, and there
is less chance of their foiling the ground, As

Harriers 85

to the sort of hound best adapted to show
sport, it is rather dithcult to describe it, and
far harder still to breed it. The small fox-
beagle, the foxhound, and what the above-
named great authority describes as “ the large,
slow-hunting harrier,” must be judiciously
blended in order to produce the likeliest kind
of hound. About nineteen inches is the best
size. Of course an even keener sense of
smell, less pace and dash, and more patience
are required than suffice in the foxhound.
To over-match a hare is to at once spoil
your own sport.

When once a hare is found, huntsman and
field cannot be too quiet.

‘** Let all be hushed,
No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard,

Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain
Untractable, nor hear your chiding voice,”

sings Somerville, the poet of the Chase, and
I may add that for such an one as he describes,
an early ‘‘hanging day” might well be fixed !
A policy of ‘ masterly inactivity” is a useful
thing at a check, when hounds should be

86 In Scarlet and Silk

severely left alone. Speaking to them merely
distracts their attention from the business in
hand, and gets their heads up. Of course if
the “fault” is a long one, the huntsman’s
assistance will be needed. It is impossible
to lay down any rule for making a cast; the
circumstances of the moment will be the
best guide to a man in this. It is notorious
that a hare will always run at his best and
straightest when in a strange country, or in
a mist, and where hares are scarce. Up wind
or down seems to make no difference to
them; and in this respect they resemble a
deer, and are very unlike a fox, which, it is
well known, almost invariably goes away
down wind. As it is a common thing with
hares to either cross or run up roads, it is
most desirable that in every pack there
should be a few hounds who can hunt on
such ground—a peculiar and distinct gift.
Years ago I had many a good day with
Mr. Henry Lubbock’s harriers, in the West
Kent country, and with the redoubtable
“Jack” at the head of affairs we saw the

Harriers 87

end of many a stout Kentish hare after a
three or four mile point.

When following harriers we ought to be
especially careful, as farmers are much more
severely tried by a hare-hunting field than
by the following of either fox or stag. The
pursuit of both of the last-named usually
involves the crossing of a field but once,
whereas a hare will often double back, cross
and re-cross the same piece of ground over
and over again, and thus pave the way to
doing considerable damage, unless horsemen
exercise a certain amount of self-control.

I am sure | did the farmers a very good
turn when, years back, I frequently whipped-
in to a pack of harriers, and the huntsman
and I being old cronies, and fond of a gallop,
we used to often manage to slip the field, and
have a jolly good run all to ourselves; the
only thing was, that “the field” didn’t quite
see the fun of subscribing for our express
benefit, and the game was, consequently, put
down with a firm hand!

The establishment of the Peterborough

88 ln Scarlet and Silk

Harrier and Beagle Show is a step in the
right direction, and will do much to improve
the status of hare-hunting, and the method
of kennel management, in the near future.

“First catch your hare,” goes the old say-
ing, but having caught her, the moot point
of “what to do with her” arises. There is
certainly no need to give the quarry to the
pack, and it may do far more good in the
interests of hare-hunting to present it to the
farmer on whose land it was found — the
inside is quite sufficient to distribute to the
hounds. As to the argument that hounds
lose their keenness when deprived of the
spolia opima, I would ask, ‘‘How about
hounds hunting the carted deer, or a drag ?”
Depend upon it, hounds will be equally keen,
if they are worth their salt, with or without
the spoils of victory to crunch.

Some huntsmen are great sinners for the
sake of blood, and wink at their hounds
chopping hares. This should be prevented
at any cost, as nothing is more annoying to

the field—and the hare!

Harriers 89

A hare in running will generally describe
a circle, its size varying with circumstances,
such as the nature of the country, the state
of her own vigour, &c. Puss is by no manner
of means a fool, and the cunning and shifts
a hunted one will display are astonishing,
such as, for instance, doubling back on her
own footprints; and when this trick is
practised on a highroad or dry footpath, it
is very effective in bothering hounds. After
doubling they often make a most astound-
ing spring, and wait till hounds have passed,
then creep quietly back the same way they
came.

There are few things more extraordinary
to me than the fact that when drawing for a
hare there seems, as long as she lies quietly
in her form, to be no scent; for, have we
not all, at times, watched hounds sniffing
about within a yard of the terrified quarry,
or actually passing over her form without
winding her? Scent, as we know, is one of
the hidden mysteries of the chase, which not
even so great an authority as the Duke of

90 In Scarlet and Silk

Beaufort has fathomed ; for, in the Badminton
book on hunting, he writes: ‘Scent it un-
questionably is which enables the hounds to
follow the line of the fox, but from what
portion of the frame it emanates—whether
it sometimes lies on the ground, or rises a
few inches above it, and what are the
atmospheric conditions most favourable to
its development—seem to be vexed ques-
tions. ...” It has been suggested that the
solution to the case of the hare in her form,
is that the animal gives out no scent until
she begins to travel. Be this as it may, it
is well known that as a hare is sinking, when
before hounds, scent gets perceptibly less,
until it very nearly dies out altogether.

A friend of mine, a Master of harriers, told
me that he bought a useful hunter at the
hammer for fifty guineas, and rode him nine
seasons ; after which, thinking he would like
a souvenir of the old horse, he had him
painted. His groom was very pleased with
the likeness, and asked his master “‘ how much

Flarriers on

them artist chaps charged” for such a thing ?

p]

“T paid fifty guineas for this,’ was the reply,
whereat the groom was struck dumb with
astonishment. Later on in the day the
following was reported from the servants’
hall: ‘‘ Master's been tryin’ to deceive me.
Wanted to make me believe that picture of
Old Jack cost fifty guineas! Why, that’s all
he paid for the horse itself!”

Almost the same thing happened to Mr.
MacWhirter, the well-known painter, who
told me the story himself. After the artist
had sold his famous picture of “The Van-
guard,’ he naturally took considerable in-
terest in the splendid bull which he had
painted as the central figure, and meeting
the worthy Scotch farmer who had owned
it, inquired after the animal’s welfare.

‘“‘T did varra weel wi’ him. I sold him for
just —— guineas.” (I forget the amount
now.)

“What a curious thing!” exclaimed Mr.
MacWhirter ; “ that is the exact amount I got
for the picture of him.”

92 In Scarlet and Sitk

The artist told me he should never forget
the look the man gave him. He said nothing,
but there was no mistaking the language of
theeye. It plainly said that Mr. Mac Whirter
was telling a stately lie! The bare notion
of a picture of the bull making the same
money as the bull itself was altogether too
much for Highland credulity !

DRAGHOUNDS

Ir the saying of Montaigne, the wise French
philosopher, be true, that “ Nothing gives us
more satisfaction than to witness the mis-
fortunes of our friends,” surely the “ moving
accidents by flood and field” almost insepar-
able from the “pursuit of the red herring,”
must be pleasant to witness for those prudent
folk who keep “‘ out of the hurly-burly!” It
may be open to objections—what sport is
not ?—but of all the wholesome, inspiriting,
rough-and-tumble games for a horseman, I
think nothing beats drag-hunting, and I have
had as long an experience of it as most
people.

Now, a drag pack should be well done, or
not done at all; that is to say, if men bring
out a lot of hounds just fit for the halter,

and see them stringing all over the place—
93 ;

94 In Scarlet and Sitk

in fact, your pack being in several parishes
at one and the same time—if you turn out
dressed as though huntsman and whips were
going to kill rats in a barn; and above all,
if you seek to emulate the example of old
Bill Bean, the arch-trespasser, as the Druid
calls him, then the whole thing becomes a
farce, and you make enemies in the neigh-
bourhood, not only for dragging, but, much
more serious still, for hunting. If I were
asked what is the first and most important
thing in establishing and keeping up a
drag pack, I should answer unhesitatingly,
a tactful Master. Farmers, landowners, and
Masters of hounds all have to be propitiated
and kept friendly; a bad Master of drag-
hounds will wreck the whole concern in a
single season.

A model Master of draghounds is Colonel
Yorke, R.H.A., who has now ruled at Wool-
wich for several seasons past. The district
is very fortunate in retaining his services for
so long a time. In the following account—

which I originally wrote for Bailey's Maga-

Draghounds 95

zine, and which, by the kindness of the
Editor, I am permitted to reprint here—the
Royal Artillery draghounds will be found
fully dealt with.

It is nearly a quarter of a century since
Mr. Thacker, the senior veterinary surgeon
at Woolwich, and one of the finest horsemen
that ever rode “‘ between the flags,” conceived
the idea of starting a pack of draghounds.
Mr. Thacker, who was formerly in the 1oth
Hussars, was a small, spare man, his face
badly scarred from the contests he had had,
and the falls sustained when ridmg young
and vicious horses. Nearly every bone in
his body had been broken at one time or
another, but his nerve was of iron, and he
was “hard” to the backbone. After one
season, he handed over the Mastership to
Captain (now Colonel) Lynes, R.H.A., who
had then just returned from Canada, and a
better man could hardly have been chosen.
On being appealed to, the neighbouring
farmers and landowners met the newly-
formed hunt in a thoroughly sportsmanlike

96 In Scarlet and Silk

manner, and such names as those of the
three brothers Russell, true type of the fine
old English gentleman-farmer; Cook, who
then held the Government lands by the
side of the river at Plumstead, and in days
gone by used to ride with the drag; Christie,
May, Maxwell, and Colonel Forster will be
held in affectionate esteem as long as the
hunt has its being. Many of the lines then
available—and the drag extended its opera-
tions then, as now, as far as Sevenoaks—are
now partly or wholly built over, and what
used to be one of the best in the way of big
fencing, the Burnt Ash line, is now entirely
covered by bricks and mortar. The number
of hounds has never varied very materially ;
at the outset there were about 154 couples,
drafts from the Duke of Beaufort’s, Bramham
Moor, Belvoir, Lord Portsmouth’s, &¢., whilst
the present strength of the establishment is
14} couples, including contributions from Mr.
Lort-Phillips’s, Lord Portsmouth’s, the Good-
wood, and others. The kennels at first were
built against the Remount Establishment, and

Draghounds 97

were very good of their kind, including
benches, feeding-yard, playground, boiling-
house, and yard for isolating any hounds
when necessary. The present kennels con-
sist of a detached building standing in the
rear of the Remount Establishment, and con-
taining still better accommodation.

Colonel Lynes, following Mr. Thacker’s
good example, was always in the habit of
feeding the hounds himself at four o’clock
each day, and during the period of his
Mastership he only missed doing so on three
occasions. Despite his care, however, they
were nearly going without their Christmas
dinner on one occasion. The gallant Colonel
was to walk out with a friend to Southend,
about six miles from Woolwich, to dine on
Christmas Day, and as they had to pass
within two hundred yards of the kennels,
they just looked in to see that all was well.
On going there they found the hounds locked
up, but as they appeared restless, Colonel
Lynes tried to find the kennel-man, but

without avail. Thereupon they climbed over
G

98 In Scarlet and Silk

the palings, found no fire in the copper, and
no feed ready, so without more ado the
Master and his friend, ‘‘ handsome Jack For-
ster,” the sobriquet by which he was known
throughout the army, set to to prepare them
a meal, fed them, and then proceeded on
their journey just as darkness fell. Before
getting half a mile they came across a drunken
man lying in the middle of Shooters’ Hull
Road, and when they went like good Samari-
tans to pull him out of the way of being run
over, lo and behold! the missing kennel-man.
The first words he uttered were unfortunate
ones for himself. He said on recognising
Colonel Lynes, “I’ve fed the hounds!” As
Colonel Lynes, although the best-hearted man
in the world, doesn’t wear wings or travel
about with a portable halo, deponent sayeth
not what then took place, but the proceedings
did not commence with prayer.

At that period the Master had to find his
own Whip, and Colonel Lynes’s head groom
turned them to him during his tenure of
office. The only attempt at a hunt uniform

Draghounds 99

then was a black coat with black buttons, on
which were inscribed the letters, in white,
R.A. H.

That season they ran a drag in the vicinity
of Woolwich twice a week, and, in addition,
took the hounds by invitation into the
Windsor district once a week, where they
obtained some very brilliant gallops. In
order to do this it became necessary to make
some arrangements with the South-Western
Railway Company for the conveyance of
hounds and horses to Windsor, and the
General Manager met the gallant Master
in the most friendly spirit, and generously
offered the needful horse-boxes for nothing !
On sounding the South-Eastern Railway
people it was found that they would do
nothing, and would not abate their usual
charges a penny. At this Mr. Barth, a
large contractor at Woolwich, came forward
in the most sportsmanlike manner and offered
to van the hounds up to Waterloo and back,
which he did, throughout the season, at his
own expense.

100 In Scarlet and Silk

The first Windsor run was from Skindle’s
to Eton, by a zigzag line of about six miles,
and the field numbered no less than sixty,
including many officers of the Household
Brigade. It was a grand spin, and plenty of
erief resulted, the Master getting a fall at
the fence before the check. Lord Charles
Ker was the worst sufferer on the list of the
wounded, as Northern Light, the steeplechase
horse, gave him a very bad cropper indeed.

A notable run about this time was one in
the Woolwich district, upon an occasion when
the officers of the 9th Lancers (stationed at
Hounslow) were the guests of the R.A.
There was a lot of jealous riding that day,
and when one finds, in the list of those
following the pack, such well-known names
as, mter alia, “Sugar” Candy, Lord “ Bill”
Beresford, Grant, Dick Clayton (killed at
polo in India), M‘Calmont—all of the goth
Lancers — Lynes, Thacker, and ‘“ Daddy”
Annesley, of the Gunners, such a state of
things is hardly astonishing.

That season, during two gallops in the

Draghounds 101

Windsor country, the Hon. Greville Nugent,
better known to the race-going portion of the
public as “Mr. St. James,” a most brilliant
steeplechase rider, had the ill-luck to break
two horses’ legs, a very curious circumstance.
Two ladies—Lady Julia Follett and Mrs.
Richardson (afterwards Lady Parker), a sister
of Captam Harford—came out pretty fre-
quently with the pack.

Lieutenant Custance, R.A., assumed the
reins of office when Colonel Lynes resigned.
Each year, of course, the builder made fresh
inroads on the existing lines, but, nevertheless,
the hunt was carried on much as_ usual.
Other lines were found, or the old ones
slightly deviated from, in order to avoid
those parts no longer available; and good
spins have been had of recent years on the
Essex side of the river, besides two or three
(by permission) in the Old Surrey country.
The best—if that is synonymous with biggest
—lines now are Bromley, starting from the
house of that capital sportsman and good
friend of the hunt, Mr. Payne ; Farningham,

102 In Scarlet and Silk

which includes in its second half the land
of Mr. John Russell ; Mottingham, not quite
so good, alas! as it was when we galloped
over its big fences of eight or ten years ago ;
and the “home” line, commencing out of
the Shooters’ Hill Road, skirting Welhall and
Mr. George Russell’s land, and finishing, as
to the first half, in the Crown Wood, about
midway between Eltham and Black Fen. It
should be mentioned that the Mottingham
track is now extended by making the finish
on the famous Middle Park Stud Farm, where
the Messrs. Blenkiron have bred so many
good winners in times gone by. A soldier’s
pack must necessarily know a constant supply
of fresh Masters, and, during the writer's con-
nection with it, such “good men and true”
as Captain Allsopp, Major Hickman, Captain
“ Bill” Russell (killed by his horse falling
on him in India), Captain Jeffreys, Captain
Saunders, Mr. Mackenzie, and last, but by
no means least, Major, now Colonel Yorke,
the present Master, have all held office, the

latter resuming the reins for the second time

Draghounas 103

after an interval of seventeen years. It
would be impossible to find any better man
for the position than Colonel Yorke, a keen
sportsman, a lover of hounds, and, both in
and out of the Service, enjoying a personal
popularity that is as thoroughly well deserved
as it 1s useful to him as Master of the Drag.
In the summer of 1879 dumb madness
broke out, and the whole pack had to be
destroyed. The following season a new pack
was formed by drafts from Lord Tredegay’s,
the Cumberland, and one or two others, but
was again broken up on the death of the then
Master, Major Ward Ashton, in March 1880.
Then comes an interval of about four years,
during which the kennels stood empty; but
in 1883-4 another lot was got together,
and Major Hickman became Master. In the
following spring madness again destroyed
the pack. Captain Allsopp took over the
hounds from Major Hickman, and it was
during his term of office that, for the first
time, a regular uniform was adopted, and
the Master and whips now wear the colours

104 In Scarlet and Sitk

of the Gunners (red and blue) in the form
of a blue coat with red collar, than which
nothing could look neater against the ortho-
dox white breeches and black velvet cap.
They hunted then three days a fortnight,
but soon after changed it to twice a week,
as now. The present fixtures are made for
Tuesdays and Fridays.

Very few claims for damage are ever sent
in by the farmers and landowners. At the
annual dinner given at the Mess, two or
three of them have even declared their belief
that a fence looks more picturesque after a
charge of cavalry has swept over it !

During Major Yorke’s first period of Master-
ship, 1874-5, he was in the habit of sending
the kennel-man on, by train, with the
“worry” to the finish. One day he never
arrived, and on the Master getting back to
kennels, he rated the man for his remissness.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the culprit, “ but as we
wasn’t out last Toosday, J kept the worry, and
when I got to the station they wouldn’t let

me intothe train; they said a smalt too bad!”
>

Draghounds 105

Amongst the many good horses I have
seen following the pack may be mentioned
The Midshipmite, old Ballot-Box, who ran
third for the Liverpool with twelve stone up,
Southdown, and Ingle-go-Jang, Willoughby,
Chopette, Athlete, Confidence, and Surprise,
the last seven all Point to Point winners;
The Roman and Gold Dust, a wonderful
couple of heavyweight hunters belonging to
that good sportsman Colonel Hutchinson ;
and Shane O'Neil, a winner at Punchestown
and Aldershot.

An account of the falls and general mis-
haps I have witnessed, and at times most un-
willingly shared whilst enjoying these truly
cheery gallops, would fill a volume, but in all
the years [ have been with them there has never
been a life lost, except indirectly. The House-
hold Brigade pack has not been so fortunate,
and the sad death of Colonel Robinson, whilst
following them in March of this year (1895),
is fresh in the memory of all. On one occa-
sion, at Farningham—always a stiff line—my
horse fell at the third fence, and it was some

106 In Scarlet and Silk

time ere he consented to be mounted again.
I jogged on after hounds until a strange sight
met my gaze in a water meadow separated
from the field I was in by a big dyke. It
was a horse which was walking slowly along
with apparently something hanging down by
his side. Fearing I hardly knew what, I
scrambled into the field, and after going some
distance found that the apparition was a man
hanging head downwards from his saddle, his
feet being firmly wedged into the stirrup-
irons ; a very unpleasant position unless help
had come. Another curious accident happened
when running the Shooters’ Hill line. After
the check, and at the beginning of the second
line, four of us charged the first fence abreast,
and every one was: simultaneously grassed !
Once a ludicrous thing happened at Bexley,
in the boggy water meadows. My horse was
taking off at a brook when the rotten bank
let him in head first, just as I slipped over
his tail and took my seat upon “the flure”
behind him. That incident nearly robbed the

Service of a most promising young officer,

Draghounds 107

with whom I rode home afterwards, for he
laughed so immoderately at the recollection
of the scene that once or twice I seriously
feared an apoplectic attack for him. Either
on the Bromley or Farningham line—I forget
which now—one deplorably wet day, when
horses sank up to their hocks, the whole field
fell, and hounds finished alone!

It has never fallen to my lot to ride with
the Household Brigade pack at Windsor, but
they have, | know, a very pretty country to
go over, and I have seen some of their lines,
which are, unquestionably, stiff ones.

The Windsor drag will sometimes detrain
at Southall, on the Great Western Railway,
and ride a line by Hanwell Church to Green-
ford Green, where, by the way, Mr. Perkin’s
kennels testify to the existence in a flourish-
ing condition of the Greenford Drag Hunt.
I have seen this pack laid on within a stone’s
throw of Acton railway station, which is the
nearest point to London at which hounds are
ever seen nowadays. Tor a five-guinea sub-

scription a man may see a great deal of fun

108 In Scarlet and Silk

on Saturday afternoons if he possess a horse
that can jump, and is not afflicted with nerves
when the cry is “‘ War’ wire!”

Several years ago I had some good gallops
with the Epsom drag. The “field” was all
“quality” as a rule, and with the faces of
W. H. Moore, Harry Beasley, Jack Jones—
who then trained and rode H.R.H. the Prince
of Wales’ “ chasers”—Arthur Hall, C. Law-
rence, the Nightingalls, J. Adams, et hoc
genus omne around, it was difficult to believe
you were not riding in a steeplechase.

A drag pack is essentially useful in a bad
country. By means of the human runner—
and here | may mention that the best “two-
legged fox” I have ever followed is Gunner
Grainger, who has officiated in this capacity
for the Woolwich Drag for a great number
of years—even a country like West Kent
can be made into an “all grass and flying
fences” line.

Major Porteous—a real good man both
across country and on the polo eround—once

lent me a pony for the winter, a game little

Draghounds 109

chestnut, rejoicing in the name of Dinah, and
although it was rather a case for the 8.P.C.A.,
I rode her with the drag one day, really
meaning to pull up at the first big obstacle.
But the game little mare sailed along so gaily,
and jumped so well, that I went on until we
came to a five-barred gate, chained and locked.
I was about to pull up and go back when I
saw my diminutive mount cock her ears at
the obstacle. A ‘Come on, old girl,” and
she flew at the gate and topped it like a
sparrow hopping over a twig! She jumped
two or three more fences, and then came to
a big hairy one which stood up too high for
even her powers. But she never hung fire
fora moment. With an amount of “cheek ”
which was absolutely sublime for so tiny a
steed, she dived clean through it, like a circus
clown through a paper hoop! We were both
scratched all over, but no fall. Dinah would
jump a single hurdle standing alone.

This year the Royal Artillery Drag have,
on two or three occasions, been honoured

with the presence of TField-Marshal Lord

110 In Scarlet and Silk

Roberts, V.C., who, mounted either by Colonel
Yorke or Captain Ferrar, has gone right well
with them, and been “on hand” at the finish,
in spite of a fall in the early part of the run.
The man who was undeterred by a hugely
outnumbering host of Afghan warriors, was
not to be stopped by a drag-line, however
stify it might be fenced !

As far as I am aware, none of the drag
packs advertise their meets. These are kept
strictly private, and properly so, both in the
interests of the farmers, who would hardly
welcome a big field, and also in those of the
followers of the packs themselves. Assimi-
lating more nearly to a cross-country race
than merely riding to hounds, there is a cer-
tain amount of crowding and haste to “get
off” from the mark, usually followed by a
little jostling and jealousy at the first fence
or two, which makes a limited number of
starters a welcome thing. As it is, with
often less than thirty men out, the Record-
ing Angel has to be fairly “sat down on and
ridden” when the refusing and falling begin |

Draghounds Lit

What would it be if a hundred or two of
impatient sportsmen were waiting their turn
at the ‘‘jumpable” places in the first fence ?
But what glorious fun it is when once you
are off! You know hounds are not going to
stop ; there is none of that horrible quaking
one experiences during a run with foxhounds,
that scent will fail and the gallop abruptly
terminate. And if you exercise common care
to see that you ride in the track of hounds,
you know you can’t be turned over by that
now, alas! almost universal curse, wire. On
you go, speeding over the grass nicely, in
the wake of the flying pack, with perhaps
only a dozen men around you. A thorn
fence, which can be taken anywhere, permits
you all to spread, fan-like, each to the spot
he has been selecting ever since the obstacle
came into view. One after the other you all
get over, except that gentleman to the left
there, who didn’t jump when his horse did.
He now “sits on the floor,” whilst his rider-
less nag continues the wild fun of the chase

on its own account. Now you jump into and

112 In Scarlet and Silk

out of a lane, and then a fine stretching grass
meadow, with a ‘“ useful” looking brook right
‘down there, in the bottom, its edges fringed
with lopped pollards, catches your eye. You
take a slight pull at your nag to save his
wind, then, just as the last of the hounds
scrambles out of the water, making a momen-
tary pause on the farther bank to give his
dripping sides a shake, you take right hold of
your horse’s head, press your legs back and
send him at it. One hind leg drops in, but
with a flourish of the tail your horse is on
terra firma all right. Splash goes your
nearest follower, who has jumped short.
Over come the next half-dozen, in gallant
style; two more get in and out again; no
one damaged, and off you set again. Hounds
have got still farther ahead, but as you are
rising a gentle slope now, it would not be
judicious to push on just yet. At the top of
the long sloping meadow stands a post and
rails, to which you at once give your best
attention. Crack! goes the top rail, and the
rest of the field sing a little hymn of praise

Draghounds ch

to you for thus clearing the way. You turn
sharply right-handed, over a small piece of
fallow, jump a fence, and, not seeing the ditch
on the far side of it, your horse blunders on
to his knees and nose. Up again, and no
fall. Now you gallop along a footpath with
a hog-backed stile at its far end. Stiles, we
know, must not be played with, so we go at
this only after carefully pulling our horses
well back on to their hind legs. ‘‘ By Jove!
he hit that pretty hard!” exclaims a man, as
he narrowly misses getting a crumpler. Then
across a village green, almost before the resi-
dent yokels have time to open their mouths
to their full extent in astonishment. A low
gate, jumped in single file, and then we all
gallop “hell for leather” across a pretty park,
topping some beautiful brush-fences that are
positively made to be galloped over en route,
and finally pull up our smoking horses at the
spot where the drag has been lifted for the
check. We get off our steeds, which, with
heads down, tails quivering, and flanks heay-

ing, are glad enough of the time to “blow.”
H

114 In Scarlet and Silk

The owner of the park comes out and gives
us a jolly welcome, and then two or three of
things !

his servants arrive with soda and
The liquid goes down hissing, after that ex-
tremely warming gallop! Whilst we wait,
men cast up from here, there, and every-
where; some with dirty coats, some without
hats, others with a lost iron or broken stirrup-
leather to complain of. After a ten minutes’
halt on we go again, at a “ hound’s jog,” to
start the second line. This time there is a
diminished field, casualties in the shape of
falls, refusals, blown or injured horses, &c.,
preventing several from essaying the winding-
up gallop of the day.

‘Let them get over the first fence, gentle-
men,” says the Master, as he sits quietly on
his horse, in the gateway of a field, intently
watching the pack.

Hounds have just picked up the “smell,”
and with a “tow, yow!” from one, which is
quickly taken up by the rest, away they go
like lightning, charging and tumbling over
the fence at the far side of the field in

Draghounds 11S

merry style. ‘Now you can go,” exclaims
the Master, and the whole field is quickly in
motion once more. Three formidable black-
thorn fences have to be jumped or “ tunnelled.”
The leader, mounted on a weedy, undersized
thoroughbred, jumps ito the first of these,
and sticks fast. But the man immediately
behind him, not expecting this stoppage
in transitu, and unable to pull up his very
impetuous steed, charges right into him, and,
applying as it were a hammer to a nail,
knocks him clean through the fence on to
his nose in the field beyond. The rest get
over in another place, and wading across a
shallow stream, jump the next two fences,
and come to a water meadow, intersected
with more or less rotten- banked ditches.
They are not big, however, which is fortunate,
considering that our horses are now galloping
in peaty ground, well over their fetlocks.
This does not last long, and we soon emerge
on to a lovely tract of sound grass, with nice,
jumpable fences. Here and there a post and
rails varies the monotony of the scene, a

116 In Scarlet and Silk

couple of stiles are negotiated, and again
water looms in sight. Five men are pretty
close together as we come to this, and the
leading horse whips round and refuses, gallop-
ing right across the second man, and causing
him to pull up sharply to avoid a collision.
These two men are strangers, so they only
glare at each other, and say nothing. Then
the same thing exactly happens with the
third and fourth horses; but the respective
riders of this last pair being bosom friends,
they proceed, forthwith, to slang each other
like pickpockets! Hounds are now stream-
ing along a wood-side, packing closely, and
running as though they knew the finish was
near at hand. Indeed, a couple of the most
aged and artful—those two qualifications so
often go together, by the way !—well knowing
this particular line, have dodged across a
field to the left, thus cutting off a big corner,
to where they know a tasty paunch awaits
them. But the rest stick to the scent, and
we follow in their train. Along the head-
lands of a wheat-field we go carefully; for

Draghounds E07

farmer Joskins is a terror of a man, and
objects “on principle”—though he doesn’t
know what principle—to the drag coming
over his land, and has been persuaded to
allow it “for this occasion only,” because it
is simply an impossibility for any one to re-
sist our Master’s frank good-nature and _per-
suasive eloquence. We jump the hurdles at
the far end, and emerge on to a stretch of
fine old turf. And now as we near the
finish, those who have any steam left in
their horses at once proceed to turn it on.
A bit of racing takes place, one flight of
sheep hurdles and a slenderly constituted
railing being ‘knocked to blazes,” as our
irreverent second Whip calls it, on the way.
We pull up our blown and panting steeds,

‘

and watch the “worry,” as with a blast or
two on the horn our Huntsman (and Master)
fetches the paunch from the dragsman’s cart,
and rewards the eagerly expectant hounds
with the nastiest conceivable morsels. Then,
after a short interval for rest, we light up

our cigars, and having thoroughly enjoyed a

118 In Scarlet and Silk

gallop, which, had it taken place after a fox,
we should probably have alluded to as one of the
smartest of the season, jog leisurely homewards.

Drag-hunting is hardly a lady’s sport, as
may well be imagined. But amongst the
few I have seen go well with them may be
mentioned Lady Julia Follet, Lady Parker,
Mrs. Porteous, Mrs. Harrison, Miss Hoare,
and Mrs. C. G. Mackenzie.

I have ridden “all sorts and conditions of”
horses with draghounds at different times,
but I am persuaded that the ideal mount
for them is an old steeplechaser, temperate
enough for one to hold with ease. Such an
one may, perhaps, be too slow to win steeple-
chases, but plenty fast enough to hold his
own with the drag. My experience of them
is that they hardly ever refuse their fences,
their courage is undeniable, and you rarely
have to send them out of a canter in order to
keep pace with the average “hairy.” The great
drawback is, that after a horse has been any
time in a training stable he often gets into the

way of pulling hard and rushing his fences.

STEEPLECHASING

ney AS

“EVERYTHING must have a beginning,” and
steeplechasing was no exception to the rule.
Although in ‘Scott and Sebright” we read
of a contest taking place as early as 1792, in
Leicestershire—the course being from Barkby
Holt to the Coplow and back, about eight
miles—between Mr. Charles Meynell, Lord
Forester, and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who
finished in the order named, it was not much
before 1825 that steeplechasing began to be
a popular amusement amongst the hunting
fraternity. At that time, and for many years
afterwards, the sport was exclusively that of
hunting men. Would we might say the same
of it to-day! Alas! time has brought its
changes on steeplechasing, as it has, and will,
on everything, and a decree of divorce has
been pronounced between two grand pastimes

121

122 In Scarlet and Silk

which formerly walked so amiably hand in
- hand. Nowadays, many a man owns steeple-
chase horses who is not even in sympathy
with hunting, let alone a participator in “ the
sport of kings.” Unfortunately, the game
has got more and more into the hands of
the racing fraternity, and farther and farther
away from hunting and its votaries. The
era of the jovial dinner, the merry challenge
across the table, the laughing acceptance, the
stakes deposited then and there, time, con-
ditions, and place settled on over the last

cigar—all this has passed away, never to

return. There is too much of the “I’ve got
a good horse, but I don’t mean anybody to
know it” spirit abroad, and too little of the
fine old rough-and-ready “V1l match mine
against yours, and may the best horse win”
principle. There is too much planning and
“clearing the way,” too little of running for
the sport’s sake alone. We ought to be very
thankful for the great revival of Point to
Point races, which will go far to warm up
the chilly blood of steeplechasing, and which

Early Days nag

not unfrequently introduces us to a useful
horse or two whose merit was before un-
suspected. So popular have these events
become, that almost every well-known hunt
has its “‘ Point to Point” as regularly as the
season comes round.

But I am getting on too far ahead, and
dealing with our own times instead of with
those of our fathers and grandfathers before
us.

A match, or a sweepstake between three,
was the form usually taken by steeplechasing
in its infancy. And what a healthy, robust
sort of infant it was! With men like the
Marquis of Waterford, Mr. Osbaldeston,
Captain Ross, Captain Becher, Sir David
Baird, Lord Clanricarde, Sir Harry Good-
ricke, cum multis aliis, to ride, and horses
such as Moonraker, Gaylad, Peter Simple,
Grimaldi, Lottery, and Vivian running, how
could steeplechasing fail to become a success ?

Gaylad was bought as a three-year-old by
Mr. Davy, a tenant farmer in the Brocklesby
country, a rare old-fashioned sportsman. He

124 In Scarlet and Silk

broke the horse himself, and soon found out
-he had got a wonder. With his owner in
the saddle, Gaylad ran and won at Rugby,
Newport Pagnell, and two or three other
places, until Elmore, the hunter dealer, cast
loving eyes on him, and finally bought the
horse for a thousand, with another hundred
contingency in case he won the Liverpool.
In the Grand National of 1842 Elmore
started both Gaylad (ridden by Tom Olliver)
and Lottery (Jem Mason). Both horses got
the course safely, and Gaylad came out full
of running at the last fence, and won.
Moonraker, who won the great ’chase at
St. Albans in 1831 from eleven others, had
a very humble beginning. To speak quite
accurately, no one seems to know what his
actual “beginning” was. What is known
about him, however, is that before his trans-
moegrification into a steeplechaser he was
drawing a water-cart in, it is said, the streets
of Birmingham. ‘The purchase price was the
extremely modest one of eighteen sovereigns,
and the horse owned to almost as many years

Early Days 125

when he was victorious in a field of a dozen,
as before stated.

In 1832 the large concourse of twenty
came to the post for the St. Alban’s event,
including such good ones as the grey Grimaldi
—Squire Osbaldeston’s—and Corinthian Kate,
but old Moonraker, ridden by Dan Seffert,
was again successful. Grimaldi was a horse
with a great turn of speed, but he never
would face water if he could help it ; though
with Dick Christian’s assistance on foot, and
his owner’s in the saddle, he beat Colonel
Charritie’s Napoleon, one of the best jumpers
even of that day, although rather slow, in a
match at Dunchurch; albeit both he and his
opponent got into the Lem, and indulged in
a swimming contest en route,

The names of Jem Mason and Lottery
will always be inseparable in the minds
of the older generation of steeplechase
devotees ; and Captain Becher, on the great
Vivian, is another pleasant ‘‘ mind-picture”
for the memory to dwell upon. I am not
old enough to have even seen such celebrities,

126 In Scarlet and Sitk

but one of my forebears, who himself was
-fond of a gallop between the flags, has many
a time given me a description of their
prowess. We are much indebted to the
late Henry Hall Dixon (“The Druid”) for
chronicling many of their doings, which
would otherwise have been swept away into
the forgotten limbo of the past. Some of
those fine old-fashioned matches, such as
that between Vivian and Cock Robin, with
Becher and the Marquis of Waterford riding ;
Grimaldi and Moonraker, steered respectively
by Osbaldeston and Seffert; and the match
between Captain Horatio Ross’s Pole Cat
(owner up) and Mr. Gilmour’s Plunder, the
hard-riding farmer, Field Nicholson, steering
the latter, must have been events worth
travelling any distance to see.

The dull dead level of the modern galloping
course gives no such opportunity for the
exercise of a man’s sound judgment (or any,
indeed, of his knowledge of, or eye for, a
country) as these contests of a past age did.
But for all that, where will you find a prettier

Early Days 127

sight all the world over than a modern
steeplechase at, say either Liverpool, Man-
chester, Sandown, or Kempton Park ?

The great drawback of the early steeple-
chase, run over a natural country, was that
so little of the fun could be seen by the
spectators —unless, indeed, they were mounted
on clever hunters, and prepared to do a
and the same

plentiful supply of fencing
objection, unfortunately, applies to the Point
to Point race of to-day.

In the month of February 1836 was run
the first Liverpool steeplechase at Aintree.
Its conditions, however, varied very widely
from those obtaining in the Grand National
of to-day. “A sweepstake of ten sovereigns
each, with eighty added; 12 st. each; gentle-
men riders. The winner to be sold for
two hundred sovereigns, if demanded ;” and
Captain Becher won this event with The
Duke.

St. Albans, Aylesbury, Cheltenham, and
Newport Pagnell were all in a flourishing
condition just about this period, with their

128 In Scarlet and Silk

“Grand Annuals;” and in 1839 the Liver-
- pool executive substituted for the selling
race alluded to above “a sweepstake of
twenty sovereigns each, with one hundred
sovereions added; 12 st. each; gentlemen
riders; four miles across country; second
horse to save his stake; the winner to pay
ten sovereigns towards expenses; no rider to
open a gate, or ride through a gateway, or
more than 100 yards along any road, foot-
path, or driftway.”

In an old sporting paper I have found a
complete list of the starters and jockeys for
this, the first Grand National, and it may
not be inopportune to reproduce it here

in eatenso.

GRAND LIVERPOOL STEEPLECHASE,

Jockey
Captain Child’s Conrad. ; . Captain Becher,
Mr. Ferguson’s Rust. : : . W. M‘Donough.
ns * Daxon . : . Owner.
a “4 Barkston . : . Byrne,
Lord M‘Donald’s The Nun .. . Alan M‘Donough.
Sir D, Baird’s Pioneer. : . Mr, Walker,
Mr. Elmore’s Lottery ; ; . Jem Mason.

Sir G, Mostyn’s Seventy-four , . Tom Olliver,

Early Days 129

Jockey
Captain Lamb’s Jacky. ‘ . Wadlow.
Mr. Newcombe’s Cannon Ball . . Owner.
Mr. H. 8S. Bowen’s Rambler . . Morgan.
Captain Marshall’s Railroad. . Mr. Powell.
Mr. Stephenson’s True Blue. . Mr. Barker.
Mr. Theobald’s Paulina . ; . Mr. Martin.
Mr. Oswell’s Dictator. : . Carlin.
Mr. Robertson’s Cramp . : . Wilmot.
Mr. Vevers’ Charity . : F . Hardy.

This was the particular contest in which
the obstacle called to this day ‘ Becher’s
Brook” obtained its name. Captain Becher,
in order to steady Conrad, who was a very
headstrong horse, came along directly Lord
Sefton dropped his flag, and with Daxon,
made joint running to the first brook. Conrad
tried to run through the timber set in front
of it, shooting his rider clean over his head
into the ditch beyond. Becher was in a
“tioht place,” with the whole field streaming
after him. In a moment he had scrambled
close under the bank, and in this way the
rest of the oncoming field cleared him in
safety. Jem Mason on Lottery won in a
canter by three lengths that day, and it is

recorded that, so full of running was the
I

130 In Scarlet and Silk

horse, that he cleared thirty-three feet over
the last fence.

It must obviously be impossible within
the limited space here available to even
make mention of many of the celebrities,
human and equine, of these early days. I
must ask my readers’ pardon for thus merely
skimming over some, and even omitting men-
tion altogether of other, of the glories of that
‘“‘oood old time,” when steeplechasing was
in the “ palmiest” of its palmy days.

Gaylad, a rare stayer, and a most accom-
plished jumper; Peter Simple, a peculiarly
beautiful mover, and grand-looking horse,
the hero of two Liverpools ; the Nun, winner
of several chases, True Blue, Cigar, and
Cannon Ball were all running about then,
and the “hunter dealers,” the Elmores and
Mr. Tilbury, flourished. The latter owned
amongst others Prospero and Culverthorpe,
but neither of them was good enough for
Lottery and Vivian. “Jack” Elmore did
much for the sport, and in his day owned
many a good one, Lottery, of course, being

Early Days 131

the gem. But men of the stamp of Squire
Osbaldeston, Lord Clanricarde, and the Mar-
quis of Waterford were those most deserving
of honourable mention as supporters of steeple-
chasing about this time.

Although not coming under the heading of
cross-country sport, one can hardly refrain
from alluding to the Squire’s great match
against time at Newmarket. In an old sport-
ing magazine of December 1831, there is a
capital account of the way in which he
galloped his four mile heats, and won his
41000 bet with Colonel Charritie, having
an hour and twenty-one minutes to spare
from the stipulated ten hours’ time. In
doing the 200 miles, he used twenty-eight
different horses, and amongst them was a
good little mare, Dolly, by Figaro, owned
either then, or immediately afterwards, by
my grandfather, and which bred him two or
three very useful colts.

Lord Strathmore strongly supported steeple-
chasing, and was often seen in the saddle to
great advantage ; Captains Powell and Peel,

132 In Scarlet and Silk

Jem Mason, the wonderful brothers M‘Don-
ough (Alan and William), Tom Olliver, and
many more too numerous to mention here,
were amongst the “very best” of the cross-
country riding contingent of these early
days, and a whole history might be written
upon their splendid performances in the
saddle. It is not a little remarkable that
gallant old Alan M‘Donough actually donned
silk at the age of sixty-four to ride his last
steeplechase.

In the Liverpool of 1840 the almost in-
vincible Lottery came down at the wall * in’
front of the Stand. He sinned in good com-
pany, for no less than five fell at the same
place. Charity beat him the following year,
and Lottery’s penalties effectually stopped
him from ever adding a second ‘“ National”
to his score. Tom Olliver won on Gaylad in
1842 and on Vanguard in 1843, Lottery and
Jem Mason being behind him on each occasion. —
Poor Tom Olliver was always “up to his
hat” in debt, and often emerged from durance

* Done away with the following year.

Early Days 133

vile to ride in a steeplechase and then return
to his stone retreat. ~

How our forefathers read the conditions of
the race as affecting the status of the riders,
is one of those things that ‘‘no fellow can
understand.” ‘Gentlemen riders,’ say the
conditions. What about Jem Mason, Tom
Olliver, Byrne, and the two M‘Donoughs ?

The tape, I imagine, was seldom, if ever,
requisitioned in steeplechasing’s very early
days, and it was left until the year 1847
for a “record” feat to be established, which,
as far as we know, stands unrivalled to-day.
Chandler, owned at the time by the well-
known Ousely Higgins, and ridden by Captain
Broadley, was running at Warwick when parts
of the course were under water, and the
“Badminton” book on steeplechasing tells
us that ‘The brook was swollen to the
dimensions of a small river—it was impos-
sible, indeed, to tell how far on each side
the overflow extended ; but Chandler, coming
down to the brook at a great pace, cleared
the water at a bound. Onlookers were so

134 In Scarlet and Silk

struck, that the distance from the hoof-marks
on the taking-off to the hoof-marks on the
landing-side was measured, and it was found
that the horse had jumped thirty-nine feet.”
The Steeplechase Calendar gives the following
record :—“‘ Regalia led to the brook, into which
all fell except Chandler, who thus obtained a
great lead, nothing but King of the Valley
ever getting near him again.”

The followimmg year Captain Little, a dis-

)

ciple of ‘ Black Tom’s”—Tom Olliver—won
the Liverpool on this horse.

Mr. “Thomas” (Mr. Tom Pickernell)
seemed for some time to be a link between
the past and the present. He has ridden
three Grand National winners, and had a
mount in no less than eighteen Liverpools.
Anatis, The Lamb, and Pathfinder were all
steered most brilliantly by this gentleman
to victory; the latter exactly twenty years
ago, 1875. Pathfinder had been used as a
hack and a Whip’s horse before trying his
luck at Liverpool, and he was one of the
worst horses that ever won. A short time

Early Days 135

after this Mr. “Thomas” got a fall at San-
down, which seriously affected his eyesight,
and rendered his retirement from the saddle
imperative. His second winner, The Lamb,
was probably as good as, if not better than,
any previous winner of the event. As a
clever jumper, few have ever equalled him,
and he showed this, with a vengeance, when
he cleared four prostrate horses and their
riders without touching one of them whilst
running at Aintree. If memory serves me,
Mr. Arthur Yates was one of the “mighty
fallen” on that occasion.

But mention of Mr. “Thomas” and Mr.
Arthur Yates reminds me that I have now
emerged from the confines of the past, and
entered upon the regions of the present. In
the next chapter, | propose to run over the
names of several of the chasers and their
riders which have ‘‘ made history” for the
past thirty years.

CELEBRITIES OF THE PASS
THIRTY YEARS

I

Just as in the teeth of all “ten thousand
pounder” opposition the Derby is still the
Derby to the racing man, so is the great
event decided each March upon “ Aintree’s
bleak plain” the highest of all prizes to the
votary of steeplechasing. It matters not that
Manchester, in the north, puts forth such
subtle attractions as a shortened course and
a pile of added money, or that Sandown
and Kempton, in the south, strive to tempt
the best of our cross-country performers to
their charming courses—the National’s the
National “for a’ that,” and in the steeple-
chasing world Liverpool always has been,
and we sincerely trust always will be, “a

name to conjure with.”
136

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 137

In 1865 a remarkably good field came to
the post for the Grand National, including
that sterling performer L’Africaine, a fear-
fully hard puller, Emblem, Thomastown, Joe
Maly, who was made favourite, Alcibiade,
and Hall Court, a rare old-fashioned type of
hunter. Mr. “Thomas” cut out the work for
part of the journey on Thomastown, but this
time he had nothing to do with the finish,
which was left to Captains Coventry and
Tempest on “Cherry” Angell’s Alcibiade and
Hall Court respectively. The result of a
desperate race home was in favour of the
former by only a head. L’Africaine, beaten
by his weight and the pace combined, was
early out of the race.

A rare good judge of a horse, Mr. Studd,
was destined to own the next year’s winner,
Salamander. Mr. Studd was travelling in
Ireland on the look-out for some hunters
when he chanced upon a rough-coated colt
sheltering in a dirty hovel. Taken with his
make and shape he soon struck a bargain
with the owner for him, and brought him

138 In Scarlet and Sitk

across St. George's Channel. Here he was
put into training, and quickly developed into
a really great horse, winning the Liverpool,
in the experienced hands of Mr. Alec Good-
man, from twenty-nine opponents. The
following settling day Mr. Studd took a
sum out of the Ring which fairly “ knocked
the stuffing” out of two well-known book-
makers at the least.

On the occasion of his first victory The
Lamb — one of the very best of Liverpool
winners — was steered by Mr. George Ede,
perhaps as fine a horseman as ever lived,
who fairly outrode the jockey of Pearl Diver,
though it was a tight fit at the last for
supremacy.

Mr. Ede was, in many respects, a most
remarkable man, and from an old friend of
mine, in Northamptonshire (where Mr. Ede
was studying as a farm pupil in his early
days), for whom he rode and won many
steeplechases, I have learnt some interesting
details of his career. On the farm in ques-
tion the future gentleman rider first met

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 139

Ben Land, then in good fettle as trainer
and rider, and that worthy at once took a
great fancy to the fearless young fellow. He
never cared much about farming, but either
with hounds or in wearing a silk jacket he was
thoroughly at home. Land soon gave him
plenty of public practice, and within a very
short space of time the brilliant young amateur
was in great demand all round the country.
He was a man of most charming manners
and disposition, a gentleman from top to
toe. His kindness of heart endeared him to
everybody with whom he was brought in
contact, and his death, which he met whilst
riding Chippenham over a fence at Liver-
pool, seemed almost like a national calamity
in the world of sport.

For Lord Poulett, one of the keenest steeple-
chasing owners that ever lived, he won the
Liverpool, as before mentioned, on The Lamb,
probably the smallest horse in point of inches
ever successful for the big event. Nobody
rightly seemed to know just what height he
stood, but I believe I am stating George Ede’s

140 In Scarlet and Silk

own opinion of it when I say that he was a
shade under fifteen—though, as far as I know,
the great gentleman rider never actually put
him under the standard. Mr. Ede showed
great patience and skill upon Mr. William
Blencowe’s Acrobat, a horse with a most
extraordinary temper. I have a letter by
me now in which Mr. Blencowe tells me how
he became possessed of this singular animal.
“YT went,” he writes, “to Mr. Bennett of
Stone Castle to buy a charming hunter,
Othello, and seeing a big bay horse in the
stable, with fired hocks, I remarked, ‘ This is
the sort I want to win some hunt steeple-
chases with. What will you take for him ?’
Mr. Bennett laughed, and said that if I could
ride him out of the yard he would give him
to me. I had him saddled, and rode him
out without his giving any trouble, though
I dared not touch his mouth. After some
joking about my present of a horse, I[
eventually gave eighty guineas for him. He
won me seven steeplechases. In fact, he
always won when in good temper. He won

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 141

the Bedford Hunt Cup with poor George Ede
up by half a field, easily beating Captain
Machell’s Leonidas, who had won the National
Hunters’ a few weeks previously.” Soon
after this performance, Captain Machell
bought Acrobat from Mr. Blencowe for six
hundred guineas, and started him for the
Liverpool; that is, he meant to start him
for that race, but Acrobat himself entertained
other views on the subject, and declined to
budge an inch when the flag fell, although
a man with a hunting crop had been specially
detailed to assist in getting the craft under
way. No one knows exactly how good the
horse was, as when he meant going he was
never beaten; when he didn’t, he wouldn’t
try a yard! No mortal ever devised the
fence that would stop him, but he wanted
“a man” on his back, and George Ede was
just that man.

Lord Ronald, owned by that best of good
sportsmen the Duke of Beaufort, was also
. piloted in the many races he won by the
same accomplished rider. Lord Ronald will

142 In Scarlet and Silk

best be remembered by the present generation
as the sire of The Cob, who has done Bad-
minton good service in long distance races
within the past few years, and was one of
the pleasantest race-horses | ever got on.

Whilst writing of Mr. Ede, let me not
forget to record the sad death of the poor
little ‘“‘Lamb.” He was sold to go to
Germany, and whilst running in a steeple-
chase at, I think, Baden, he fell on ground
as hard as a turnpike road—be it remembered
that steeplechasing is a summer amusement
in the land of Hochs and Bocks—broke his
leg, and had to be destroyed.

That wonderful horse The Doctor, who,
despite his being a weaver, a noisy one, a
crib- biter, and having a club- foot, was
perhaps the very best hunter in Leicester-
shire during the nine seasons Custance the
jockey rode him there, and was only beaten
by half a length for the Liverpool by The
Colonel (a dual winner) in 1870, when
receiving 6 lbs. The Colonel was a great
leathering horse, and perhaps one of the very

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 143

best that ever won a National. The Doctor,
when bearing the weight of seventeen years,
was entered for the jumping competition at
Oakham, and won, with. Dick Shaw, the
steeplechase jockey, on his back; his owner
electing to ride his second string, a_hot-
headed brute that would only do his best
in Custance’s own hands, and this one took
second honours.

A great horseman was, and is, Captain
“Doggy” Smith, who won the National Hunt
Steeplechase at Melton on Game Chicken as
far back as 1864. He was also successful in
the same race, in 1871, with Daybreak, and
in 1874 on Lucellum, and his last win in
that contest was on New Glasgow in 1880.
During the whole of this period he was one
of the very best men across Leicestershire,
but has now left Melton and gone to live
and hunt in Sussex. Captain H. Coventry,
who won the Liverpool on Alcibiade, was
another of the same sort, and few, if any,
better amateurs, either on the flat or across
country, have ever been seen in silk.

144 In Scarlet and Silk

I hardly know which Liverpool winner can
lay claim to being the very worst that ever
took such honours, but I suppose it would
be a close race between Shifnal, who gave
Robert T’Anson his “blue,” and Casse Téte,
splendidly ridden by J. Page. Almost every-
thing else fell down in the latter’s year (1872)
and “lucky Teddy Brayley” (who, sad to
say, in spite of his luck died some years back
at Bath in abject poverty) saw the mean-
looking little chestnut mare, hopelessly beaten
by Scarrineton to the last hurdles, come in
alone, as the latter injured his leg so much
at them that he could hardly hobble past the
post; and once more Robert [’Anson, prince
of professionals, and my boyhood’s hero, was
baulked of the chief ambition of his life.
What a shadow I’Anson looked at the time
he could go to scale at less than ten stone ;
what an impossibility it seemed that he ever
could have done so when | last shook hands
with him at the Grand Military meeting,
this very year!

That luck is a strong element in the game

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 145

is undoubted. The names of Casse Téte,
Shifnal, Pathfinder, and Old Joe are handed
down throughout succeeding generations as
Grand National winners; whilst those of
Scarrington, Congress, Schiedam, and Rysh-
worth, infinitely better horses, as I think
most unprejudiced people would admit, are
thought much less of. Scarrington—who fell
dead whilst running in a ’chase at the old
Croydon course—must have beaten Casse
Téte, bar accident, in 1872; Congress, one
of the grandest-looking horses [ ever saw,
was only defeated a neck by Regal, giving
away plenty of weight to the winner; Schie-
dam (winner of the Grand National Hunters’
Steeplechase of 1870) was considered by Mr.
J. M. Richardson, who rode him, the best he
ever got on—as ill-luck would have it, a horse
fell just in front, and Schiedam was brought
down on top of him; whilst the last of the
quartette I have chosen (merely for purposes
of illustration), Mr. Chaplin’s Ryshworth,
looked all over a winner until close home,

but pecking as he landed over the last
K

146 [un Scarlet and Silk

fence before the race-course, Mr. Richardson,
on Disturbance, just managed to get up.
Ryshworth’s rider was not very experienced,
and in the last quarter of a mile the amateur
beat him “all ends up.” At the same
meeting Ryshworth won the Grand Sefton ;
Reugny, who was destined to win the great
event in the following year, being behind
him, in receipt of a stone.

On the last-named animal, the late
“member for Brigg” completed his highly
meritorious “double”; but the horse was
never anything like so good as Commotion’s
son, who ended his career unfortunately,
by ricking his back. It is said that Mr.
“Pussy” Richardson was of opinion that the
course at Liverpool was not half so stiff
as the line which had to be negotiated at
the famous “Grand National dinner” at
Brigg, given to celebrate his victory, where,
at Sir John Astley’s suggestion, the dinner
tickets bore the suitable inscription, ‘‘ Disturb-
ance, but no Row !”

Chandos never struck me as looking like

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 147

a safe conveyance over a big country. And
Liverpool is a very big country, despite all
that the “fogey” school can say about it.
The beautiful chestnut carried his head too
much tucked into his chest and galloped
too high for a chaser, but as a hurdle-jumper
he was absolutely invincible. What par-
ticularly struck me about him was that
he didn’t seem to look where he was going.
That does not so much matter “over the
sticks,” but I have taken too many falls
from this sort of horse, at thick fences, not
to be rather shy of them now. However,
far cleverer heads than mine made him
favourite for the big ‘chase, and as Jewitt,
a first-rate man over a country, and the
horse’s own trainer, elected to ride him
instead of the little black Regal, on whom
Joe Cannon had the mount, | dare say it
was only prejudice on my part. All the
same, it was a lucky prejudice for me person-
ally, for I followed “the Captain’s” example
which he set at Sandown, and had my
coppers on the five-year-old. Chandos

148 In Scarlet and Silk

jumped the country much better than I
had imagined he would, but he managed to
blunder badly at the water and smash one
of the rails in front of a fence; after which
he landed on his head and turned over,
leaving Cannon and Regal to go on and
tackle Congress, which they did to such
good purpose that the black won by a
neck.

Austerlitz, in 1877, was a veritable wonder,
and it is difficult to say what weight would
have stopped him that day. He must have
been a very pleasant horse to ride, and
galloped, like his sire, Rataplan, “ casually.”
As a fencer he was magnificent, and just
the horse to carry Mr. “ Freddy” Hobson
home triumphantly. But how he could
manage to spare a hand to catch hold of
the cantle of his saddle at every fence
I cannot, for the life of me, imagine. How-
ever, he won, and that is everything.

In 1879 The Liberator was steered to victory
by Mr.. “Garry” Moore, a very popular

win for the Irish brigade, who came over

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 149

in great force to back him. I remember
this gentleman effecting an extraordinary
reformation in “the manners and customs”
of Furley, a chestnut gelding by Honiton.
This horse I saw win the Great Metropolitan
Steeplechase at Croydon, Mr. J. M. Richardson
up, from a big and, in point of quality, ex-
cellent field, shortly after which he point-
blank refused to jump a stick, and turned
very savage into the bargain. For a long
time nothing could be done with him, but
somehow or other “Garry” got him to face
his fences again, and once more I witnessed
his victory in the same race at Croydon,
this time ridden by his trainer. Of the
latter | was once told a story, apocryphal
perhaps, but here it is.

A friend of his—an Englishman—crossed
the Irish Channel in the famous rider's
company, and whilst discussing the medita-
tive cigar together at their hotel in Dublin,
the Saxon observed—

“Garry, I’m a stranger to this country,
as you know. What should you advise me

150 In Scarlet and Silk

to do by way of getting a little fun and
excitement, eh ?”

“Do, isit? Well, go to the top of the hotel
steps there, and just shout ‘To h— wid
Parnell!’ an’ if ye don’t get enough fun and
excitement to last ye a fortnight, Ill be
mightily surprised !”

This was at the time that the “ uncrowned
King” was in the zenith of his power.

The year 1880 saw The Liberator—this time
with the steadier of 12 st. 7 lbs. on his back
carry Mr. Moore again into the front rank,

finishing third ; whilst another representative
of the Green Isle, Empress, ridden by Mr.
Tom Beasley, won. What a wonderful family
for turning out first-class steeplechase riders,
this! Unhappily, William has now met his
death at the game in Ireland.

Speaking of William Beasley’s death, it is
somewhat strange that, since beginning this
chapter, I should have, most unexpectedly,
chanced upon the very horse that killed him
when he was down at the fatal “double,”
All’s Well, now regularly ridden to hounds

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 151

by the Countess of Warwick. Being at
Easton, Lady Warwick’s place near Dun-
mow, | took the opportunity of going through
the stables and looking at the hunters.
Whilst discussing their merits later on, the
Countess told me that All’s Well was one of
the most perfect of hunters, and extraordi-
narily fast. To use Lady Warwick’s own
words, ‘‘he doesn’t know how to fall.”
Certes, he ought not, with such a precious
burden to bear as the most beautiful woman
in Christendom.

In 1881 the little black horse Regal was
second, beaten pretty easily by Woodbrook,
a “noisy” one; and the next year Lord
Manners got Seaman home by a short head,
after a desperate race with Tom Beasley on
Cyrus. I always think Seaman, fit and well,
was one of the horses of the century. The
year before he won the Grand National he
simply ‘‘made hay” of a good field of horses
in the Liverpool Hunt Steeplechase, and won
by the length of a street, after making the
whole of the running. Afterwards he went

rS2 In Scarlet and Silk

very queer behind, and Jewitt had to do all he
knew to bring him out sound for subsequent
engagements. After winning the National
he went hopelessly in one hind fetlock joint.
Zoedone, ridden by her owner, Count
Kinsky, a good man across country, won in
1883. She was a clever fencer, but could not
gallop fast enough to keep herself warm.
Then in 1884 and 1885 came “Teddy,”
Wilson’s brace of triumphs. In October 1883,
at a sale of Lord Rosebery’s “rubbish” at
Newmarket, Voluptuary, by Cremorne out
of Miss Evelyn, was knocked down at 150
guineas to the bid of Mr. E. P. Wilson, and
the horse never ran in public over a country
until he faced the starter for the Grand
National of the following spring. With the
Shipston-on-Stour horseman on his back, he
never put a foot wrong all the way, and
cantered in a very easy winner. The last
piece of work I saw the old horse perform

,

was “tittuping” across the stage at Drury
Lane Theatre. Rather an inglorious finish

for a National winner !

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 153

That year The Scot (belonging to the
Prince of Wales) started favourite, but had
bad luck, and galloped into a fence ; whilst old
Frigate—who did the trick at last in 1889
after many a meritorious failure—was second,
and that very shifty gentleman Roquefort
(Captain “‘ Brummy ” Fisher’s) finished third.
Soon afterwards Roquefort was sold by
auction for 1250 guineas, and left Mr. Arthur
Yates’s place at Alresford, to be put under
the charge of Mr. E. P. Wilson.

The weak spot about Roquefort’s temper
was a rooted aversion to going straight on a
right-handed course. Liverpool being a left-
handed one, his trainer hoped he would give
his true running, and not try to bolt out.
As a matter of fact, Roquefort, although he
nearly got knocked down at one fence, ran
his race gamely throughout and won, poor
old Frigate again being second. It was said
by good judges at the time, and after-events
proved to a great extent that they were
right, that “it was no good buying Roque-
fort unless you bought Teddy Wilson with

154 In Scarlet and Silk

him,” for nobody else seemed to understand
how to ride this good but eccentric horse.

Old Joe was essentially of the slow, stay-
ing “hunter” type, and had not a very good
field to tackle when he won in 1886. Game-
cock, an immense favourite with o2 pollot,
took the race the following year, and then
Tom Cannon sent out a winner, in Playfair,
from the famous stable at Danebury in 1888.

As I before said, Frigate’s turn to win came
at last. She was a wonderfully clever fencer,
never made mistakes, and could stay, at her
own pace, for a week. The mare was very
wiry, but a bit too light, apparently, to be
in the very first class. Ilex was a good
horse, but ‘‘no catch” to train, and never
(speaking from memory) did any good after
winning the Liverpool. Come Away again
put the Irish on good terms with themselves
in 1891, and, caught at his best, he was an
out-of-the-common good horse. Captain (now
Major) E. R. Owen rode his first Grand
National winner in the queer-tempered little
Father O'Flynn, which had not long before

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 155

been sold out of the Marquis of Cholmondeley’s
stable. He has changed hands pretty often
in the course of a somewhat chequered career,
and has the credit of having beaten this year’s
Grand National hero, Wild Man from Borneo,
in November 1893, in the Jolliffe Steeple-
chase, on which occasion he was ridden by
his present owner, Mr. Cecil Grenfell, a capital
man between the flags, as he is at cricket,
fencing, and racquets.

Why Not is a game little horse that
thoroughly deserved his victory in 1894. He
was jointly owned by Mr. Jardine and Mr.
Charley Cunningham—the latter a splendid
horseman, though full tall for a jockey—and,
ridden by him, ran a good second at Liver-
pool as far back as 18 . This year he again
ran extremely well, and finished in the first
half-dozen.

Beyond all cavil, Cloister has proved him-
self the champion cross-country performer of
the age—perhaps of any age—for on the day
that he simply squandered his field in the
Grand National of 1893, winning with 12 st.

156 In Scarlet and Silk

7 lbs. on his back, what weight would horses
of the Lottery and Gaylad type have been
likely to concede him successfully? Is it not
quite likely that, but for going amiss, he
might have made that solitary Grand National
victory into a triple crown, all the weight
notwithstanding? He was owned, in turn,
by Captain Orr-Ewing and Lord Dudley,
before passing into possession of his present
owner, Mr. C. Duff. I remember walking
down to the post at Sandown to witness the
start for the Grand Military, and looking
over the great son of Ascetic—whose mission
in life seems to be the getting of first-rate
steeplechase horses—and the magnificent
Bloodstone, and thinking that the country
might well be proud of such a couple. Two
grander horses it would be a puzzle to find
anywhere, and they were as good as they
were good-looking. Cloister has won the
Grand Sefton Steeplechase on two occasions,
and is always seen at his best on the Aintree
course. In November 1894, with the hunt-
ing weight of 13 st. 3 lbs. on his back, he

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Ye cars 157

won this race (the Grand Sefton) in a canter
by twenty lengths, beating such good-class
horses as Midshipmite, Ardearn, Fanatic, and
Leybourne. The extraordinary seizures —
which seem to be something akin to paralysis
—to which the horse is subject have doubtless
robbed him of victory on more than one
occasion, unfortunately.

Mention of Cloister reminds me—and, par
parenthése, | may say that when you are
writing on this subject one thing brings to
mind another in such a way that the dithiculty
is to know how to leave off!—of another
horse belonging to Mr. Duff; I believe the
first he ever owned, old Edward, by King
Alfred (who, it well be remembered, ran second
to Blue Gown in the Derby). The horse was
twelve years old when Mr. Duff bought him
from Mr. Arthur Yates, and after that he
won over twenty races, and was running up
to the age of fifteen—truly a “useful slave.”

Whilst riding one of this order some years
ago, which had certainly not been “eating
the bread of idleness,” he made a mistake

158 /n Scarlet and Silk

and came down half a mile from home, and,
thoroughly pumped out, lay without making
an effort to rise. I escaped without a scratch,
and was taking hold of the horse’s bridle to
try and get him on his feet again, when a
voice from the crowd exclaimed—

“Let ’im alone, guvnor. It ain't orfen as
’e gits a rest; let ‘im lie down while ’e can,
unless yowre a-goin’ to run ’um agen wm the
next race!”

From time to time I have ventured to
point out, in different publications, two or
three matters which I think are mainly
accountable for the present depression in the
steeplechasing world. I prefer to use the
word depression to decadence: I believe, and,
as an enthusiastic lover of the sport, fervently
hope, that this state of things is only tem-
porary. One of the stumbling-blocks to the
farmer who breeds and breaks, and to the
hunting-man who owns, horses smart enough
to try conclusions with others over a steeple-
chase course, is the artificial character of
the fences, and particularly of that wretched

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 159

travesty of a fair hunting jump, the guard-
railed ditch. Most of the people who have
opened the floodgates of their wrath upon me
for thus abusing the “open grave” have, I
honestly think, misunderstood my meaning.
It is altogether begging the question to ex-
claim, “Surely you don’t object to a ditch
on the take-off side of a fence?” Of course
nobody objects to such an obstacle. But the
“orave” is not a ditch; it is a long, sharply-
cut trench, with no natural growth to warn
a horse of what he has to do. At a Hunt
meeting in the Midlands some years ago I
assisted in marking out the course, and in
a fine line of stiff hunting country, we were
enabled to get in two big ditches, or, to be
quite accurate, one ditch and one small brook,
both on the take-off side of stout thorn fences.
No guard-rail was placed before either, and
with just upon fifty horses running—not one
from a training stable—we had not a single
fall, or even blunder, at either of them. No,
it just comes to this, that if natural ditches
can be obtained in the course no objection

160 Ln Scarlet and Sitk

could be raised to them; if they cannot be
found, for Heaven’s sake don’t attempt to
manufacture them. A fence you can “copy”
with fair success, but until a ditch has been
made for a number of years, it will look like
a sawpit.

Upon this subject the present editor of the
Sporting Infe—and no keener lover of cross-
country sport, nor finer judge of it, exists—
writes: “Surely it is not out of the way to
appeal to the members [of the National Hunt
Committee] to consider at the next meeting
this question of the regulation ditch. What
is it they are waiting for? If it is for signs
of the natural disinclination of horses to take
such an obstacle, evidence is supplied them
at every meeting in the land. If it is for
the dangerous nature of the fence, let them
set their clerks on a compilation of the
accidents that occur through its existence—
accidents too often fatal, both to horse and
man... . Farmers, breeders, hunting-men,
all have written in one strain of deadly

opposition to it.”

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 161

The other point I wish to call attention to
is not of such importance to the well-being
of the sport as the question of the regulation
ditch, but it certainly is of sufficient gravity
to demand attention. I refer to the present
rule as to the qualification of riders, and the
way it works out in practice. Officers of the
Army and Navy, and members of certain well-
known clubs, are most properly admitted to
ride as amateurs, without further qualifica-
tion. But why stop there? Surely a Barrister,
a Doctor of Medicine or of Civil Law, any
man who has taken a degree at a recognised
university, and many others whom one need
not more particularly specify here, should be
as eligible to ride as officers of the two Ser-
vices? And there must be “something rotten
in the State” when we are treated to the
daily sight of trainers, men, half-professional
jockey, half-groom, and others of the same
. kidney, riding as amateurs. I have personally
known several men debarred from riding,
because as members of “learned” professions

they dared not put themselves up for election
L

162 In Scarlet and Silk

as qualified riders for fear that some Maw-
worm or Stiggins should find it out, and do
them some injury in the business by which
they earn their daily bread.

II

Amongst that far too numerous class of “the
little birds that can sing and won't sing”
must be ranked Sir John Astley’s Scamp, who
won the big hurdle race at Croydon, and
seemed cut out for a high-class steeplechaser.
But beyond scrambling over—or more often
still, knocking down—the hurdles, he wouldn’t
have jumping at any price, but he did “Jolly
Sir John” a turn. here and there whilst
trained by Fothergill Rowlands, at Pitt Place,
Epsom. Even that past master of the jump-
ing art, Mr. Arthur Yates, could not make
Scamp take to cross-country work.

Talking of Mr. Yates, it may fairly be said
that probably no man living has had such a
varied experience, both of riding and training
jumpers, as the Master of Bishop’s Sutton.

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 163

Through sheer ill-luck he has never known
the joys of victory in Aintree’s big race, but
of all other coveted prizes in the steeplechase
world he has had his share and a bit over.
I never met a man who had a word to say
against him, and I don’t believe he has an
enemy in the wide world. One incident in
connection with his good-nature well illus-
trates ‘‘what manner of man” he is. Riding
down to the post for a steeplechase, he turned
to a man whom he hardly knew at all, and
asked him if he had remembered to weigh
out with a penalty the horse had recently
incurred? As a matter of fact, the cireum-
stance of the penalty had been clean forgotten,
and the startled rider was at his wits’ ends
to know what to do.

“Never mind,’ said Mr. Yates kindly,
“hurry back and get your weight right, and
I'll ride on and explain matters to the starter.”
It is almost sad to relate that having returned
to the post, with the penalty up, he won the
race, his kindly mentor being second.

Harvester ; Congress, a grand-looking horse

164 In Scarlet and Silk

that ought to have won the Liverpool;
Scarrington, of whom the same words might
be used; Scots Grey; Master Mowbray ;
Schiedam ; Phryne; the “bolter” Royalist ;
Messager, winner of the big ‘chase at Croy-
don, when owned by old Jack Percival, then
living at Marden Park, and ridden by
Gregory, a wonderfully hard bit of stuff;
Despatch, who always galloped “sky-scrap-
ing” fashion, and never seemed to look at
his fences; Ryshworth, second for the Liver-
pool in Disturbance’s year; Marin; Snow-
storm; and Footman—all these were very
useful ’chasers, which I remember running
about the country some twenty odd years
ago.

Early in the 80s H.R.H. the Prince of
Wales owned a good class ’chaser in The
Scot, by Blair Athol, a wonderfully handsome
chestnut horse with a lot of white markings
about him. He was not of much use on the
flat, but turned out a really fine cross-country
performer, securing amongst other events
the Great International Steeplechase at San-

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 165

down, and the Great Metropolitan on the
old Croydon course in 1881, steered by
Mr. Arthur Coventry. I do not think the
Prince bought him until after this (the horse
originally belonged to Mr. Mackenzie of
Kintail), but he was in the Royal stables
when started for the Grand National of 1884,
and was made favourite. He was trained
and ridden by John Jones of Epsom, but fell
when going strongly. A remarkably good
performance on the part of The Scot was his
safely getting the big course at Liverpool,
and finishing in the first five, when only
four years old. Fred Webb, the famous flat
race jockey, rode him, and showed that he
was as much at home across a stiff country
as he is over the Rowley mile.

Chimney Sweep, who lived and died in
Jones's charge, was a wonder at jumping,
and Jones told me that the old Sweep had
never made a mistake but once in his
patriarchal career; he was nineteen years
old when he died. He seemed to me in
dropping his forefeet over a fence exactly

166 In Scarlet and Silk

like a cat jumping off a high wall. What a
conveyance for Liverpool! He gave Jones
some nice easy rides in his time, and simply
loved jumping. Here was another that
deserved to win a Grand National, but
never got nearer than second.

For make and shape, coupled with extra-
ordinary weight-carrying power, few better
‘chasers than The Sinner (by Barabbas)
and Roman Oak (by Ascetic) have been seen
by the present generation of race goers. The
Sinner seemed equally good on the flat or
over a country, and was as easy to ride as
a pony. The horse had been ridden regularly
to hounds by a lady before being put to
steeplechasing. He has won an extraordinary
number of good races, mostly with Mr.
“Denny” Thirlwell, who was “one of the
best” in the saddle. ‘The last time I ever
saw The Sinner run was at Croydon in
March 1887, where he beat Count Kinsky’s
crack, St. Galmier, a real “nailer” at two
and three miles, with the greatest ease. The
Honourable George Lambton, a_ beautiful

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 167

horseman, who now has a useful string of
horses in training at Newmarket, rode St.
Galmier, and although unsuccessful on this
occasion, the famous amateur had all the
best of it at the meeting, riding his own
mare, Bellona, to victory in the Grand
International Hurdle, and winning the Great
Metropolitan Steeplechase, four miles, the
next day, on Sir W. Throckmorton’s Phan-
tom. In the first-named race particularly,
he rode a masterly finish.

Roman Oak was owned by Mr. W. Leetham
when, in 1890, he made his appearance at the
Grand Military meeting at Sandown, and
won the Hunt Cup, ridden by Mr. Leetham
himself. After this he crossed St. George’s
Channel, and won the Irish Grand Military
at Punchestown. He ran second for the big
Manchester event, giving a stone and a half
to the winner, Dominion, and was then
weighted at twelve stone for the Liverpool.
He was not successful there, and the distance,
four and a half miles, was avowedly too long
for him. ‘The following day, however, ridden

168 Ln Scarlet and Silk

by Mr. W. Beasley—whose sad death I have
already alluded to—he beat old Gamecock
easily enough. After one or two more
unsuccessful appearances, Roman Oak, who
had now become the property of Sir H.
de Trafford, ran in the Irish International
Steeplechase, and, well ridden by ‘“‘ Roddy”
Owen, won in a canter. From that time
he seemed to get on the down grade, but
at his best he was a really great horse,
and quite a notable figure amongst ‘chasers
of his time.

Amongst bygone celebrities mention ought
not to be omitted of old Medora, who won
some nice races in her time, and took three
steeplechases within a week when in her
fifteenth year. And it was only in 1894
that Parasang, then owned and ridden by
Mr. Percy Tippler, won a steeplechase at
the mature age of seventeen. It really is
wonderful how long some of them last. Old
Breach of Promise was another of the same
sort. Robert [Anson had always to hustle
him along to get the stiffness out of his limbs

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 169

when he emerged from the saddling paddock,
but the old chap could move to a fair tune
when he got warm, and won a lot of small
chases. And to come down to more recent
times, Gamecock, who won the Liverpool in
1887, and the old grey Champion, have done
yeoman’s service for their owners. Never
was a horse more aptly named than the
former, for courage and gameness were the
secret of many of his wins. Champion is now
nearly white, and is an immense favourite
with racegoers. The British public always
loves a good horse; and Mr. W. Hope-
Johnstone has had the gratification of sharing
the old fellows many successes, having been
on his back, I believe, every time he has
won.

Of ‘soldier riders,” some of the best were
Captain Harford, “Driver” Browne of the
Gunners (killed on the railway at Sandown),
Lord Charles Innes Kerr, Major Dalbiac,
who I am delighted to see has just got into
Parliament, Mr. Hope-Johnstone, Captain
Annesly, and ‘“ Curly” Knox, who rode King

170 In Scarlet and Silk

Arthur, the winner of the Grand Military
at Rugby seven and twenty years ago. The
army can also claim such ‘‘good men and
true” in the present day as Major E. R.
Owen; Sir Cuthbert Slade, who has steered
Captain Michael Hughes’s Alsop in most of
his successful races; Major Fisher; Captain
Bewicke (who, if the racing reports are to
be believed, is ‘“‘ Captain” one day and ‘ Mr.”
the next!); Mr. Beevor, R.A.; Captain Walter
Beevor, Scots Guards, who at one time trained
and rode for Mr. Harry MacCalmont, M.P., the
owner of Isinglass; Mr. I. B. Atkinson, late
5th Lancers; Major Crawley, who rode this
years Grand Military winner, Mr. Eustace
Loder’s Field Marshal, a rare good-looking
horse, with a crest like a stallion’s—Field
Marshal, by the way, came past the post
second, Athlumney galloping in ahead. Un-
fortunately, however, for Mr. Lawson the
horse forgot to bring his jockey home with
him. Captains Ricardo, Barry, Yardley, and
Paynter, Major Carter, Captain Ferrar, and
Mr. Murray-Threipland have all been seen

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 171

to advantage “ between the flags.” Amongst
prominent “soldier owners” are to be found
Captain Michael Hughes, of the 2nd Life
Guards: Mr, H. 4.. Powell, R.H.A:; Mr.G. C.
Wilson, R.H. Guards, who won the Grand
National with Father O'Flynn; Captaim Whi-
taker, late 5th Fusiliers, whose plucky pur-
chase of Ormerod for 3000 guineas was so
promptly rewarded by the horse winning the
Grand Military for him; Mr. Baird; Captain
Fenwick; Mr. Eustace Loder, 12th Lancers ;
Captain Orr-Ewing, 16th Lancers ; and Lord
Shaftesbury, roth Hussars.

Few men in recent years have been blessed
with two smarter steeplechase horses. in a
very small: stud than Mr. H. L. Powell, with
the magnificent Bloodstone and Midshipmite.
Horses, it is truly said, run in all shapes, and
whereas the last named is a plain horse,
although a well-made one, with rather “ up-
setting” action in front, Bloodstone was a
veritable picture, and when galloping a
realisation of the poetry of motion. Mr.
Powell bought him from the ill-fated ‘‘ Bay”

172 In Scarlet and Silk

Middleton —I think in 1889—and with
“Roddy” Owen up, he won for him, amongst
several other races, the Grand Military
Hunters’ Steeplechase at Sandown. After
being sold to Lord Dangan (now Earl
Cowley) he was pulled out for the Mammoth
Hunters’ Steeplechase at Sandown, and ridden
again by Captain Owen, won a desperate race
by a short head. An objection followed on
the ground of boring, which was overruled.
For my own part, I am bound to say—though
my sympathies and interests were all the
“other way ’—that I thought Bloodstone did
interfere very considerably with the second
horse. He was extraordinarily speedy, and a
very safe and quick fencer. But he had this
peculiarity, that he must be ridden amongst
his horses; neither in front nor behind. His
fancy was to always form one of the cluster
in the front rank. He won many races, and
seemed equally good over a country at hurdle
racing, or on the flat in hunters’ races. Gat-
land trained him at Alfriston, and both at

home and in public his jumping was bold’ and

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 173

clean, until he met with an unlucky fall ina
race by tumbling over a prostrate horse in
front of him. For many a day after that
he was so nervous that he could not be
depended on at his fences, but confidence
gradually returned, and he forgot the con-
tretemps. Bloodstone was one of the 124
horses competing for the twenty-nine Queen’s
Premiums at the Agricultural Show in March
1895, and deservedly obtained an award.
A more beautiful and bloodlike horse I never
saw, added to which he was, whilst on the
Turf, a performer of the highest class, and
almost invincible over three miles, which was
his favourite distance. Captain (as he was
then) Owen rode him every time he won, if
I may trust my memory ; and apropos of the
gallant Fusilier, I think he will be as much
amused if he sees this as I was in over-
hearing it. Two cross-country trainers were
praising his prowess in the saddle, and one
of them informed the other that he (Captain
Owen) had had fever, been in action and got

wounded, all since the day he came home

174 In Scarlet and Silk

triumphantly, at Aintree, on the queer-tem-
pered little Father O’F lynn.

“Has he, now? you don’t say so. And
they couldn’t kill the little devil, even with
all that, eh ?” answered the other.

It is rather a noteworthy circumstance
that the three judges officiating at the show
just named were all men who had ridden in
the Liverpool Grand National—NMr. “ Pussy ”
Richardson, who rode Disturbance and Reugny
to victory in successive years; Mr. Danby,
who was on Pluralist in 1847, when that
good horse fell early in the contest, but lost
so little time that he finished less than 150
yards behind Matthew, the winner; and Mr.
Charley Cunningham, who steered Why Not
into second place as far back as 1889. What
a wonderful little horse the last-named has
proved himself. He has run consistently
well at Liverpool, on which severe course
he always seems a stone better than else-
where; and not the least of his remarkable
performances was in the National of 1895,
where, with twelve stone up, he was always

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 175

in the front rank, and finally carried Mr.
Guy Fenwick into fifth place; this son of
Castlereagh and Twitter was then fourteen
years old.

If the ages of hunters could always be
ascertained, I suspect some of us would be
astonished to find what veterans we were
on. I suppose that few “antiquities” could
be found to beat Ingle-go-Jang, winner of
many hunters ‘chases and Point to Point
events in times past, and an admirable
“‘fox-” catcher, who is still hunted by Major
Carter, R.A., in Essex, although his years
number those of a quarter of a century.

To return to Mr. Powell’s two good ’chasers.
Bloodstone should now be as serviceable at
the stud as he has been on the Turf; and it
would be a difficult matter to find any horse
better calculated for getting hunters of the
highest type. Breeders should also bear in
mind that he is a grandson of Touchstone.

Midshipmite is a horse of quite another
colour, literally and metaphorically speaking.
My first introduction to him was rather a

176 In Scarlet and Sitk

strange one. I was riding in a gallop with
the Royal Artillery draghounds, and crossing
Lamerby Park I noticed a big, leathering,
young bay pegging along in front, until on
reaching the stiff flight of rails which guarded
a big ditch on the far side he charged them,
was caught by the top bar, and turned head
over heels into the ditch. There he lay,
feebly waving all four legs in the air, and
two or three of us, as we slipped off our
horses to lend a hand, thought that it was
a case of a broken back.

“And I gave £800 for him last week,”
said his owner (who was then Whip to the
drag) to me, in calm tones, as we assisted to
turn the animal over and get him “right side
up.” That horse was Midshipmite, then three
years old, and seeing hounds for the first time
in his life. What he has accomplished since
is now a matter of Turf history; Gatland
broke the horse in, and trained him for most
of his earlier engagements. He used to fall
sometimes two or three times a week on the

jumping ground at Alfriston, but before he

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Vears 177

ever won a race I remember Mr. Powell
saying, “This young horse will make me
another Bloodstone” — words of prophecy,
indeed.

One of his first efforts in public was on
the old Croydon course. For the honour and
glory of the Royal Artillery Drag we backed
him, and the bookmakers, I remember, laid
us nice healthy prices, for the young Torpedo
horse was doing a bold thing in tackling
Cameronian on the flat, the latter being
at that time almost invincible. Our joy
was correspondingly great when we saw the
young one sticking to the favourite all the
way up that tiring hill, and finally beating
him. Midshipmite is a very big jumper,
and of his many riders none handled him
so well as poor “ Billy” Sensier, though the
horse ran very well in the Liverpool under
Mr. Atkinson’s able guidance. On_ that
occasion he overjumped himself, after get-
ting four miles of the journey, some say
‘pumped out,” and others, including, I

believe, his jockey (who ought to know),
M

178 In Scarlet and Silk

P]

“full of running.” In 1893 he finished in
the first five at Aintree, with Sensier on his
back; and just previously to that he had
won the Grand Military in magnificent style,
Captain Burn-Murdoch riding, and riding
him very well, too, for he is not “every-
body’s money” to pull together at his fences.
At the water, the last time round, he made
a tremendous leap, which I much wish had
been measured. From that point he had
everything dead settled, and came in prac-
tically alone.

A week after Wild Man from Borneo had
proved his excellence by winning the Grand
National at Liverpool I found myself in
Eastbourne, and hacking over the breezy
South Downs, passed through Jevington,
and arrived in time for some excellent
roast beef at the quaint old ‘ Star,” situate
in the equally quaint village of Alfriston.
In the afternoon I was taken to see the
“Wild Man” in his box, “with all his
blushing honours thick upon him.” Hard
and wiry as he looked—his golden chestnut

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 179

coat laying as close, smooth, and silky, as
though the month had been July instead of
April, trained to perfection as he was, and,
indeed, must have been, in order to accom-
plish his stupendous task—I must confess
that he did not “fill the eye” as a victor
in the greatest steeplechasing struggle of
the world. In the stable he looks hardly
big enough for the work, and is certainly
no weight-carrier. But I have his trainer’s
authority for saying that the horse did a
preparation which, in point of severity,
would have broken down anything except
either the Wild Man himself or a traction
engine. Mr. Gatland is wise in his genera-
tion, and when he turns out a horse to run
in a big ’chase, that horse, depend upon it,
is not only fit, but can jump the course.
The Liverpool hero has a wonderfully lean,
clever-looking head, with that unerring sign
of brain power, great width between the eyes.
On his side was still visible the “one” which
Mr. Widger had to administer, left-handed.
just as the horse cleared Cathal in the final

180 In Scarlet and Silk

run home. From his box we proceeded to
that in which Waterford was unconcernedly
resting his stately frame. This great banging
bay, looking a Grand National horse all over,
would have taken his own part in the contest
had not the death of his owner, just a fort-
night before the race, prevented his starting.
Both these horses are magnificent fencers in
private, and, barring those mishaps to which
all horseflesh is liable, it might fairly be said
of them that they never fall.

Snaplock—a very corky-looking gentleman
in the stable—and two or three more, useful
ones, and that win in their turn, were briefly
visited, before | was conducted into as charm-
ing a little house as one could picture, faced
by a large wooden veranda, where Mr.
Gatland smokes his cigar, and dreams of
Liverpool winners, past, present, and to come.
Once inside the door, my eyes were quickly
glued to the numerous good pictures of equine
heroes who have brought fame and fortune to
their clever trainer. But a sea-mist began to
show itself, the afternoon waned; and as I

Celebrities of the Past Thirty Years 181

have a positive genius for losing myself in
any country, it struck me that to order my
hack and gallop back across the downs before
it got either darker or more misty would be
my wisest course, so with a farewell to my
host off I set, and after missing the track
twice, and riding plump into a straw-rick in
the sea-fog, reached Eastbourne in safety
again.

Cathal, who ran second to the “Wild Man”
this year for the Liverpool, commenced his
jumping career, in a very mild way, in Ireland.
He ran four times, and won thrice, in his
initial season, but these were only ‘“ twenty-
five pounder” stakes. Fanatic beat him
very easily, and the late Duke of Hamilton's
horse is hardly to be described as a flyer.
The following year he came to grief whilst
running in the Conyngham Cup, after win-
ning the Dunboyne Plate at the Ward Union
meeting. In November 1894 he made his
bow to an English public at Aintree, and won
the Valentine Steeplechase very easily from
Ballyohara, giving away 7 lbs., and was sold

182 In Scarlet and Silk

afterwards to Mr. F. B. Atkinson (in whose
colours he ran for the Grand National) for a
thousand pounds. LEscott trained and rode
him, and after jumping on to the race-course,
the two Sussex-schooled horses had the rest
of the fight to themselves, Alfriston just beat-
ing Lewes in the run home.

SUE EPEECHASE RIDING

Nimrop, writing of Mr. Meynell’s reign in
Leicestershire, tells us that it was in that
ereat sportsman’s day that “the hard riding,
or we should rather say, quick riding to
hounds which has ever since been practised
was first brought into vogue. The late Mr.
Childe, of Kinlet Hall, Shropshire—a sports-
man of the highest order, and a great personal
friend of Mr. Meynell—is said to have first
set the example ... and the art of riding
a chace may be said to have arrived at a state
of perfection quite unknown at any other
period of time.” Doubtless this increased
pace in “the art of riding a chace” it was
that first turned men’s thoughts in the
direction of steeplechasing. We all remember
that now historic mot: “ What fun we might

have if it wasn’t for these d d hounds!”

183

184 In Scarlet and Sitk

If some good fairy would come down to
earth, and appearing before a young man
about to embrace the delightful, if perilous,
pursuit of steeplechase riding ; if the fay were
to offer him the choice of many gifts for his
protection, unhesitatingly would I counsel
him to take the gift of coolness. Not that
coolness is, in itself, by any means “the
whole armour of light,” but that without it
all other qualities, such as pluck, good judg-
ment, seat, and hands, are rendered almost
nugatory. The plucky rider without dis-
cretion, the man whose seat and hands are
undeniable, but who is apt to get in a flurry
the moment he finds himself in difficulties,
had better ‘‘be wise in time,” and refrain
from trying his luck and perilling his neck
by riding between the flags. One can hardly
go through the hunting season without see-
ing Courage take a man into many a “tight
place,” and Coolness bring him out of it
with credit.

Another most important part of the equip-
ment of a steeplechase rider—one that is

Steeplechase Riding 185

very generally overlooked too—is strength.
A man who has never ridden in steeplechases
can have no idea of the immense expenditure
of muscular and nervous force by a jockey
riding a hard race. To be in hard condition
is a prime necessity for a steeplechase jockey,
and even then the wear and tear is such that
only a sound constitution will enable a man
to support these constant demands upon his
streneth. The power of calling up these
forces instantly and constantly is, perhaps,
the best definition I can give of being
“strong on a horse.”

Fred Archer was a very delicate man, and,
generally speaking, unable to stand even the
exertion of a long walk, but very few have
ever shown more power on a horse than he.
Of all his contemporaries, I should be inclined
to think that only Custance and Fred Webb
were as strong horsemen as the shadowy,
frail-looking jockey, whose mighty “finishes”
delighted the racing world for over a decade.
Custance and Webb, by the way, are both
splendid men across country.

186 In Scarlet and Silk

Memories of riding one’s first steeplechase
are, | should say, hardly satisfactory ones as
arule. Nor is this to be wondered at. The
whole of the surroundings are strange to us,
the noise of the race-course, the rush of the
horses at their fences, the increased pace
above that required for hunting, and the
anxiety to win—all these things and a dozen
others that do not occur to me at the moment
of writing tend to confuse and agitate one.
And, again, the novice is presumably very
young, perhaps only a boy, and in such case
the nerves are peculiarly susceptible and liable
to easy disarrangement. MHalf-a-dozen rides
in public will probably cure all this, but those
half-dozen are hardly pleasurable ones to the
generality of beginners. Such experiences
might be mostly set to the music of “’H
dunno where ’e are!”

One of the worst dangers, in my humble
opinion, is that of collision, and everybody
knows what a little thing in that line suffices
to “upset the apple cart.” It is always,
therefore, good policy to jump even the

Steeplechase Riding 187

highest place in a fence rather than follow
in the general scramble for the weak spot.
Even if actual collision is avoided, you may,
whilst in mid-air, find something down in
front of you, and in a crowded field it is often
best, 1f you are on a fairly safe fencer, to
push along in front, and so get out of the
way of the fallers and refusers. At the
same time, we can’t all expect to get Robert
Nightingall’s luck, when, on one occasion in
a field of twenty, he fell when leading,
and never got touched by any of the odd
nineteen !

We all know that, in the case of a steeple-
chase accident, there is one thing which is
even better than “presence of mind,” and
that is ‘absence of body”; but when, in most
of the ‘‘ tight places” a man gets into, neither
of these good things is available, the con-
sequences are apt to be disastrous ; and anent
the subject of absence of mind [| heard a story,
some years ago, of a north-country Curate,

a very absent-minded man, though a good

sportsman, who wanted badly to go to

188 In Scarlet and Silk
Races, but dared not for fear of his Bishop,

who was then staying in the town. In an
inspired moment he conceived the idea of
blacking his face and going as a nigger
minstrel. All went well with the scheme
until, just in front of the Stand, he came face
to face with a large benevolent-looking old
gentleman, the Bishop himself! In complete
forgetfulness of the aid which burnt cork had
lent to his toilet, the absent-minded Curate
raised his hat, disclosing his fair and curly
locks to the horrified Episcopal gaze! And
even this case of clerical absence of mind was
fairly capped by the following story, to the
truth of which I can absolutely pledge my-
self. The Curate in question had been invited
by some friends to dine, and meet his Bishop.
In due course he arrived, late in the winter
afternoon, and was shown up to his room to
dress. The dinner hour came, but the Curate
did not. The hour, but not the man! All the
suests, including the great ecclesiastic, were
assembled; the minutes slowly passed, but
still no sign. At length the host despatched

Steeplechase Riding 189

a servant up to the young man’s room to
announce that they were all waiting for him.
Then the murder was out. The absent-
minded one had undressed and gone to
bed !

A good story is told of a certain profes-
sional steeplechase jockey and a (?) gentleman
rider who must both (perforce, and the law
of the libel) be nameless here. There were
four or five starters only for a steeplechase
on the old Eltham course. Through falls
and refusals all of them were out of the race,
half a mile from home, except these two.
The “ Pro.” was leading, and kept anxiously
looking round for his solitary antagonist, who
made no sign of ‘‘ coming along.”

At last the horrible idea dawned upon
each, that the other was not ‘on the job.”

“Go on, sir, my horse is stone beat!” cried
out the “ Pro.”

In a flash, a bright inspiration came into
the amateur’s mind.

“By Jove! I’ve slipped off!” he exclaimed,

and “suiting the action to the word,’ as

190 In Scarlet and Silk

the story-books say, down he went, over his
horse’s shoulder, leaving the wretched man in

front to go on and win, nolens volens.

II

As instancing the calm and beautiful way in
which some owners expect you to risk your
life for the ‘honour and glory” of the thing
and their peculiar benefit, 1 may mention a
case that happened to me at a Hunt Steeple-
chase meeting some years back. I was just
getting “clothed and in my right mind”
after riding in the first race, when an excited
gentleman whom, to the best of my belief, I
had never even seen before in my life, came
up to me and said—

“My jockey has failed me, and I’ve got
two horses running here this afternoon. Will
you ride for me?”

I asked which they were, and he told
me. Then with the utmost sang-froid he
added—

“T don’t think, as a matter of fact, that

Steeplechase Riding 1g!

either will get over the course. I should
think both—I’m certain one—will fall !”

I *‘ passed.”

An old hand once said to me after I had
been knocked down by another horse refusing
in a steeplechase, ‘‘ Why did you go at it (the
fence) to the left hand of
the refuser’s name. ‘‘ You knew how un-

?” mentioning

certain he was at his fences.”

“Yes, but how could I tell which way he
was going to run out?” I replied.

‘Nine horses out of ten whip round to the
left, because you carry your flail in your right
hand. You should have been where | was,
on the right hand side of him,” was the
answer.

The loss of a stirrup-iron is a thing of fre-
quent occurrence in steeplechase riding, and
though we ought all to be able to get over
the fences comfortably without them, “ finish-
ing” is quite a different matter, and the loss
a severe one. Besides this, if the iron is a
biggish one, and we have “ weighed out fine,”
it may mean disqualification. But if it has

192 In Scarlet and Silk
merely slipped off the foot, a judicious kick

with the toe turned very much inwards will
often recover it.

I don't think much of either whip or spur
as a means of increasing speed in a horse,
either across country or on the flat. Many
a race has been lost by the injudicious use
of one, or both; and were it not for a whole-
some dread of the law of libel, I would give
an instance of this, which occurred in the
Cesarewitch, not very many years back, to a
horse I frequently rode myself. Archer, who
was close up with the leaders at the finish,
was my authority for saying that the horse
must have won by five or six lengths, instead
of being beaten, but for the jockey picking
up his whip “to win with a flourish.” The

(a4 ”

stable was nearly £9000 “out” over that
whip mark! On returning to scale, the jockey
immediately excused himself and blamed his
horse for being “‘ ungenerous” in stopping.
“And if he hadn’t stopped, J should

have blamed him for being a d——d fool!”

answered his trainer, looking straight at the

Steeplechase Riding 193

young man in question. It was the last
time he was troubled to ride for that stable.
Unless a horse is of sluggish disposition and
really will not gallop until made to do so,
whip and spur would be better left at home
in nine cases out of ten. What is the use
of flogging a horse who, in the pure spirit of
emulation, is trying his hardest to win? It
shortens his stride, and finally so disgusts
him, that he either “runs cunning,” or cuts
racing altogether. Far more can be done by
riding him with your hands and (unarmoured)
heels. Although I shall be accused of hetero-
doxy in so saying, I assert positively, that
whips and spurs should be carried and worn
rather as the exception than the rule. One
of such exceptions is where a little fellow
like Tommy Loates has to ride a great
leathering horse such as Isinglass. Big
horses are very hard for small jockeys to
“oet out” unless with the adventitious aid
of whip or spur. There was a good story
going the rounds about Mr. MacCalmont’s

pet jockey some time ago. He was being
N

194 In Scarlet and Sitk

weighed out for a race in a faded dirty-
looking “silk,” at which Mr. Manning was
gazing in some curiosity. Quoth the latter—

‘What colour do you call that, eh?”

“Claret, sir,” was the answer.

“Claret,eh? Well, there doesn’t seem much
colour left in it, anyhow.”

“Perhaps it’s a light dinner claret, sir,”
promptly responded the redoubtable Tommy.

Knowledge of pace is a thing we may talk
or write about for ever, but the school of
experience is the only place in which we
shall learn what it actually means.

“Don’t go away, it makes me feel lonely !”
said Sam Daniels to the rest of the field
one day when he was on that smart horse
Reform (by Gunboat out of Untrue). He
had got a ‘‘steadier” of between twelve and
thirteen stone up in a hurdle race, and dared
not come along with the others. The lightly
weighted ones knew, of course, that their
only chance was to “hurry,” but as Sam
came by, a hundred yards from the finish,
he said, “I knew you'd all come back to

Steeplechase Riding 195

me.” It was knowledge of pace that made
him confident, and told him he need not
hurry his horse.

Perhaps no greater example of this invalu-
able quality has ever been afforded than John
Osborne’s handling of Lord Clifden, in that
memorable St. Leger when the ‘big horse”
was like the “little boat,” all astern, until his
pilot—who had never bustled him a yard to
make up his lost ground—was enabled to
collar the leaders close home, and win.
Poor George Fordham, who had said he
“would eat Lord Clifden, hoofs and all,” if
he won, was frequently asked by his brother-
professionals when he intended to commence
the meal.

Robinson, who was on Kilwarlin for the
Leger of 1887, also showed great coolness and
patience under singularly trying circum-
stances, for the horse went straight up with
him when the flag fell, and at one time he
was over a hundred yards behind everything.
Loud were the offers to lay 25 to 1 against
him in running; but when once he took hold

196 In Scarlet and Silk

of his bit, he came along with giant strides,
and won by three-quarters of a length.

George Fordham was as near perfection as
a race-rider as it is possible to get in this
sublunary sphere, and I suppose the worst
race he ever rode in his life was the solitary
Derby he won on Sir Bevys, on which occa-
sion he came round Tattenham Corner so wide
that he lost lengths, and then after taking
the lead at the Bell, rode his horse right out
to the end, as though hotly pressed, nothing,
as a matter of fact, being near him. Contrast
that performance with those of the Fordham
of old days, the Fordham of the wonderful
finishes at Newmarket, when with Tom
Chaloner, Custance, Tom French, old John
Morris (as good as most of them if he had
not been so deaf), et hoc genus omne, “he
witched the world with noble horsemanship.”

Despite the fact that we have now many
really sterling jockeys, I almost feel inclined
to relapse into the cry of “ fogeydom ;” laud-
ator tempores acti.

Mention of Tom Chaloner reminds me of

Steeplechase Riding 197

that Derby day, now some three and twenty
years ago, when he, on Brother to Flurry *
—one of Alec Taylor's specially kept dark
ones—gave the backers of Cremorne such a
terrible fright. The colt had hardly been
mentioned in the betting—no one, other than
his own connections, seemed even to know of
his existence—until the week before the race,
when his owner got some money on at 100
to 1. On the morning of the race he gene-
rously offered Alec Taylor as much as he liked
to take of his own bets, and the trainer told
me how much he took over on his own ac-
count, but I am sorry to say I have forgotten
the amount. All went well in the race until
the finish, but Chaloner came too late.

“Poor old Tom; he didn’t often make
mistakes, but he left it too long that day,”
said Alec Taylor, when he was telling me the
story of the contest. The colt was going
great guns as they passed the post, and the
mighty Cremorne only beat him by the
shortest of heads. They had some good

* Afterwards named Pell Mell.

198 In Scarlet and Silk

horses behind them, too, that day— Prince
Charlie, the ‘“‘ King of the Rowley mile”;
Wenlock, who subsequently won the St.
Leger ; and Lord Falmouth’s Queen’s Mes-
senger, to wit.

Amongst the most interesting of latter-
day turf celebrities must be classed the late
Alec Taylor, of Manton. A greater master
of his art never lived than “grim old Alec,”
as he was called. ‘“ Grim” in a sense he
might be, but speaking for myself, I can
safely say that not only was his grimness
never shown to me, but that I always found
him one of the cleverest men—entirely apart
from his training skill—I ever met. It was
my good fortune to stay near Manton, regu-
larly riding the morning gallops each day, for
some weeks, in 1888, and every hour I found
some fresh amusement and pabulum for the
mind in Alec Taylor’s dry and caustic humour.
After the work had been got through one
morning, and whilst my arms were still
aching from the attentions of the hard-pulling
Stourhead, the great trainer invited me to

Steeplechase Riding 199

accompany him round the boxes wherein the
yearlings reposed, a large proportion of them
being the grey-ticked young Buchanan’s.
Whilst on the tour of inspection, one of the
lads in attendance came into the stable, ex-
hibiting a very fine specimen of what is
vulgarly called “a black eye.” Taylor’s keen
optic fixed him at once, and the proprietor
of the black eye obviously jibbed under the
inspection. He began in a somewhat lame
and halting manner to explain—

“‘[—I had a bit of an accident, sir, last
night, sir. I was just a-runnin’ into the
cottage, sir, and I runned against the door-
post, sir, and—and—and that’s how I got
this black eye, sir.”

Taylor waited patiently for the whole of
the explanation; then with an absolutely
immovable face, he replied—

“Quite right, Tommy. Always tell the
truth, my boy, whatever it costs you,” and
turning on his heel, he led the way out of the
stable, leaving the hero of the overnight “‘scrap-
ping match” a crushed and withered thing.

200 In Scarlet and Silk

On one occasion I was with him when a
person of the “sporting gent” order, bolder
than most (for it took a bold man to ask
Alec Taylor impudent questions!) accosted
him with “ Morning, Mr. Taylor. Which is
it to be for next week’s race, the horse or
the mare?” alluding to Eiridspord and Réve
d’Or, then being backed for the City and
Suburban at Epsom.

I “sat tight” for an explosion, but none
came. The master of Manton merely ob-
served—

“Well, should you back Eiridspord if he
could give So-and-So a stone over the dis-
tance?” and the clever gentleman on the “‘nod’s-
as-good-as-a-wink ” principle, exclaimed—

“T should, Mr. Taylor!” and walked off,
highly pleased with the result of his impudent
questioning.

“And so should I,” drily observed Taylor,
as we got out of earshot, “ but he can’t!”

The photograph of the man who succeeded
in getting “a rise” out of Alec Taylor would
be an unique possession.

Steeplechase Riding 201

Occasionally, too, he could be very severe
in his observations. In that phenomenal
year, 1887, when the Manton horses were
fairly sweeping the board, after having ex-
perienced a long spell of adverse fortune—
always borne by the Duke of Beaufort with-
out a murmur, a thing which could not be
truthfully said of the Duchess of Montrose—
the shrewd old trainer was watching the
unsaddling of a horse belonging to the
latter, which had just won a race at
Goodwood, when her Grace came down from
the Stand, and shaking hands with Taylor,
exclaimed—

“What a wonderful trainer you are!”

“Yes, your Grace—when I win!” was the
reply.

Whilst I was at Manton, we rode together
one morning across the Downs, and Taylor
pointed out to me the exact course over
which Teddington’s wonderful Derby trial
took place at dawn of day. Teddington
met Storyteller at level weights, gave two
stone to Gladiole, 21 lbs. to the Ban, and 6

202 In Scarlet and Silk

lbs. to Vatican. He won in a canter, and
Taylor naturally looked upon the Derby as
over. But there was trouble in store for ‘the
colt. A week before the race his off fore-
leo filled, and he had to be stopped in his
work. The leg fined down all right, but
when Teddington got to Epsom, the change
of stables and the journey combined upset
him, and he declined to feed. However,
despite these drawbacks, he made short work
of his opponents, and beat the large field of
thirty-one with a bit to spare.

To have an eye “all round about you,” is
an invaluable thing in riding a race. You
ought not only to know what your own horse
is doing, but be able to form a fairly accurate
opinion of how other people’s horses are
getting on. You may be beat, but that does
not so much matter if every other horse in
the race is in the same condition. Again, if
your most dangerous opponent is at all in-
clined to “turn thief,” you ought to be able
to see it, and then go up to him, and never

give him a moment’s peace. Many a race

Steeplechase Riding 203

has been won that way, when all seemed
smooth sailing for the rogue.

Horses are wonderfully quick to find out
how far they can take liberties with their
fences, and so are some of their riders! One
man, who rides almost as many winners
between the flags nowadays as anybody, said
to me a few weeks back, when we were dis-
cussing the relative merits of the Sandown
and Kempton obstacles, ‘Sandown looks the
worst of the two, but you can brush through
the tops of the fences there. You can’t do
that at Kempton.”

Now, although a horse can’t be too good
a jumper to win steeplechases, he may be
too big a jumper to do so. Young or inex-
perienced animals usually jump a great deal
bigger at their fences than they need, and
this is a fault—one on the right side, be it
always remembered—that practice alone will
cure. “It’s all mght when they rise high
enough ; never mind the rest,’ said Gatland
to me, speaking of the schooling of young

horses to jump, and no one can teach the

204 In Scarlet and Silk

Alfriston trainer much in his own line of
business, as we know. But if an animal
jumps much bigger than he need when
racing, it is perfectly clear that he will beat
himself. As a rule, however, a horse, be he
hunter or ‘chaser, measures his fence very
accurately, and whilst taking care not to hit
the top too hard for safety, rarely wastes
his strength by overjumping an_ obstacle.
Indeed, the close shave some of them will
make is calculated to cause the rider to “sit
up” a bit on occasions.

One thing that has always been a puzzle
to me, is that many a horse which is by no
means either a good or a safe hunter acquits
himself very much better when running over
a Point to Point steeplechase course than he
does in following hounds. The fences are,
as a general rule, larger, and the pace more
severe, and yet I have seen over and over
again the indifferent hunter running under
these conditions take his revenge on, and
fence better than, the horse which has invari-
ably proved his superior as a “ fox-catcher.”

Steeplechase Riding 205

If anybody has fathomed the mystery, I wish
he would publish the solution. And why is
it that we not infrequently find a bad hunter
make a good ’chaser ?

Roughly speaking, in riding a race, if your
horse is one of the slow, staying sort, you
must go in front and keep there as long as
you can; if of the speedy order and deficient
in stamina, then you must wait with him
and rely upon one effort—which must not
be made, on the one hand, too soon, or the
“yun” will not last him as far as the post;
or, on the other, too late, for there the
consequences are so obvious as not to need
mention. But we ought to make very sure
of our facts beforehand, for many a horse
that has been merely regarded as a sprinter
has shown himself later in life capable of
getting long courses; amongst others, Lord
Coventry’s famous sisters, Emblem and Em-
blematic, both Grand National winners, for
example.

If you could, indeed, have “eyes in the
back of your head,” you would not find them

206 In Scarlet and Silk

at all superfluous in steeplechase riding. A
chance to get the rails at the bend for home,

)

the sight of a “dangerous” opponent ‘ peck-
ing,” as he lands over a fence—in which case
it may be sound policy to push along a bit,
so as to give him all the more ground to
make up—the chance of getting on a sounder
piece of ground than the rest, all these and
many more like matters are things to watch
for throughout the whole contest. Apropos
of eyes, Mr. “Johnny” Dormer, who was
one of the boldest and best of cross-country
riders, sustained a terrible injury (whilst
riding Miss Chippendale for the late Duke
of Hamilton) which resulted in the loss of
an eye. A lady asked him, some time
afterwards, whether he intended to continue
steeplechase riding, to which he made the
smart reply —

“What! with only one eye? I always
wanted three eyes whilst I was riding.”

How sorry we all were when Cloister only
just failed to give him the prize he coveted
at Liverpool.

Steeplechase Riding 207

So quickly and unexpectedly may the
whole aspect of the race be changed, that
“instructions” to a competent rider have
often proved themselves a very doubtful
blessing. ‘It is more blessed to give than
to receive,” and this is especially true of
instructions. A few instances will best
illustrate what I mean.

“You are not to go in front on any
account whatever.” In this race a very
crafty gentleman made running, or, to speak
more correctly, he ‘‘ waited in front,” that is,
that wanting to stop the pace, he just kept
going, his horse travelling well within him-
self, all the time, whilst the rate of progres-
sion did not suit the jockey told to wait at
all. The latter very well knew that unless
he could go up and increase the pace he
would assuredly be beaten. Hampered with
“instructions,” however, he dared not set
them at defiance, and thus the race was
thrown away.

“Lay right off—never mind what you
think. about it. I don’t want to see you

208 In Scarlet and Silk

even attempt to come until the corner of
the enclosure rails.”

Result: At the point indicated the horse
comes with one run, and going twice as
fast as anything in the race, is beaten half

a length! There was not time for him to

get up.
‘Never mind how hot they try to make
it for you, come right through.” In strict

obedience to orders the rider came right
through: the pace was a tremendous one,
and his horse was beaten off a hundred yards,
when, by regulating his tactics according to
surrounding circumstances, things might have
been entirely different. At all events, a
week later the defeated animal beat his
conqueror, and the one that finished third
to him over the same distance, and at the
same weights, within a pound or two. One
more example, and I have finished.

“Don’t let me see you in front till you
are over the last fence.” The horse was a
hard puller, and very impetuous at his fences.
He was usually sent along in his races, and

Steeplechase Riding 209

always settled down as soon as he had gota
lead. After half a mile or so a child could
ride him. But the instructions were impera-
tive, and pulling his rider’s arms out, fighting
like a very demon for his head, he fairly beat
both himself and his jockey, and lobbed in
an ignominious last.

Do not let it be imagined for a moment
that I am saying anything against the broad
principle of a trainer or owner ordering how
his horse shall be ridden. I have far too
high an opinion of the average owner or
trainer to think that he is given to making
this sort of mistake. All I mean is to
point out the imexpediency or, at all events,
the risk of strictly tying down a competent
jockey with cast-iron instructions, and espe-
cially where the rider knows the horse and
his peculiarities well. As to instructing the
average mannikin in flat racing, I suppose
that as most of them can neither hold a horse
nor ride one, it doesn’t really much matter
whether you give them orders or not! To

see Nature’s most beautiful productions in
O

210 In Scarlet and Silk

the equine world butchered along, and their
tempers ruined by this class of jockey, always
“draws” me considerably! Of course, owners
cannot help themselves in the matter on
account of the weights, but, oh, the pity of it!
If by chance the mannikin does win, it
mostly means that his horse has at least
7 lbs. in hand.

Apropos of instructions, a most respected
trainer for whom I have now and then ridden
was an extremely nervous, fidgety man, and
rather given to tutoring his riders. Once he
had got hold of a very rough specimen of the
groom-jockey to ride for him in a steeple-
chase, and whilst we were walking down to
the post, a bitter March wind chilling one to
the marrow at the time, I overheard the
following colloquy :—

Trainer.—“ Now lay off, mind, till you get
to the foot of the hill, and——’

Jockey.— Yes, I know; all right.”

Trainer.— And ‘you're not to come with
him till i

Jockey.—* All right, all right!” (blow-

Steeplechase Riding 211

ing the tips of his blue fingers to warm
them).
Trainer.—“ And mind you keep cool—-——
Jockey (fairly roused).—‘Garn and_ stuff

’

yourself! ’ow could I keep anything else a
day like this!”

I am rejoiced to see that the “ powers that
be” have now come to allow a 9g st. 7 lbs.
minimum in steeplechasing. In a former
book, published some eight years ago, I wrote,
“,. 1 think-that at least 7 lbs. might-be
taken off steeplechasing weights, making the
minimum 9g st. 7 lbs. You may own a re-
markably smart horse, which is put up in
the handicap scale so much, that, although
he might stand a fair chance of giving the
weight away to the rest, is yet not big and
powerful enough to carry 13 st. or 13 st. 7 lbs,
three or four miles across country, and then,
as in many cases, race up a hill with it to
the finish. In my opinion, nothing is gained
by putting these crushing weights on a horse,
and surely, if it be right for an animal ever

to carry them racing, then it would be for a

212 In Scarlet and Silk

comparatively short distance on the flat, and
not when he has to lift them over big fences,
at a time of the year when the ground is
almost invariably in a heavy state, and under
conditions which make the course two miles
in length at the very least.” I believe that
most owners and trainers will agree that the
change has been a beneficial one.

The worst place to fall on the average steeple-
chase course is at the guard-railed ditch. I
have seen horses brought down in all manner
of ways at this ridiculous obstacle. I say
“ridiculous,” because it is not natural to make
a steep-sided cutting in smooth turf where no
growth gives evidence of what there is to be
jumped, erect a foot-high rail in front of it,
and then expect a horse to get over that and
the fence beyond, unless he has been specially
trained to it. No one objects to a ditch on
the take off side of a fence; it is begging
the question when men ask you this. The
nicest steeplechase fence I ever rode over was
the “ditch fence” on the Brackley course,
bnt then it was a ditch, and no guard-rail

Steeplechase Riding 213

was placed there. Many men, both now and
for years past, have declined to risk valuable
young horses over the “regulation ditch,”
and thus the sport has suffered, and will
continue to suffer, simply because the autho-
rities are so supine or so obstinate that they
will go on in their own way, regardless of the
best interests of steeplechasing. What was
the thing invented for? ‘To check the
pace,” is the reply. ‘‘Has it done so?”
Every one knows that ’chases are run to-day
faster than they ever were before.

John Jones, whilst taking me through
his stables one day some seven years ago,
said, “Oh, the open ditch is nothing very
dangerous, if you properly teach a horse to
do it.” That is just the poimt: “If you
teach a horse to do it.” But a steeplechase
is not a circus. You don't want a “trick
horse;” you want a hunter, and, in my
humble opinion, every steeplechase course
should contain only hunting jumps, such as
require no previous curriculum of the training
stable to enable the candidate to do in safety.

214 In Scarlet and Silk

Smashing the guard-rail; not seeing the
ditch properly, and galloping into it; fright
of it causing the horse to take off too soon,
and thereby jump into the fence beyond—
all these, and many more besides, are the
accidents one may look for at this unnatural
obstacle. ‘To wind up an argument upon its
merits and demerits, a friend of mine once
said to me—

“T believe you funk it!”

“T do,” was my answer, and I am not
at all ashamed to say so.

Beware then, oh neophyte! when coming
at this fence; but remember there must be
no “sniffing” at it! Come right along and
rouse your horse, without hustling him, at it.
The man who “rides his horse’s head off,” is
simply bound to come to grief here. Never
shall I forget seeing a gentleman rider, sitting
very high in his saddle, driving his horse as
if he were in the thick of a Derby finish, as
he hasted to the ditch. The horse put his
toes in the ground and stopped, but not so
the gallant gentleman on his back. Without

Steeplechase Riding 215

any effort, nay, without any volition of his
own, he sailed gaily through the blue em-
pyrean, absolutely clearing the ditch and
merely brushing the fence beyond, as he
alighted on terra firma once again! Noth-
ing, apparently, could have exceeded his own
astonishment at finding himself where he was!

And now for one of the most important
parts of the steeplechase rider's equipment,
nerve.

Before we reached the mature age of
twenty, of course we all scoftingly answered
the question of what was want of nerve, in
the one word “ Funk.”

But it is not funk, nevertheless. When
we are very young at such pursuits as steeple-
chase riding, we are, for the most part, so
gloriously ignorant of the danger, that we
rather rejoice at a roll over than otherwise.
Later on, when we become alive to the fact
that we are engaged in a somewhat risky
pastime, the consciousness of it may momen-
tarily unsteady us, and this we call ner-
vousness. One of the boldest and best of

216 [un Scarlet and Silk

steeplechase riders I ever contended against,
told me himself that oftentimes, and especially
before the start of a race, he “suffered the
tortures of the damned.” Now if ‘“ funk”
had been the true seat of the disease, surely
that feeling would have endured until he
had landed in safety over the last fence. But
it did not. Directly the field was despatched
upon its journey all nerve troubles vanished,
and he was not only bold, but one of the
coolest-headed men I ever saw ride. What
is the explanation ?

Again, where no question of personal risk
enters into one’s calculation, as, for example,
in riding a race on the flat, why, in the name
of all that is wonderful, do we sometimes feel
an increased action of the heart, and a sensa-
tion of profound wretchedness before mount-
ing? or more extraordinary still, why do we
feel it, say at Kempton to-day, and not at all
at Sandown to-morrow? Why do we say to
ourselves that it is ‘‘really time we gave up
race riding” this week, whilst in the next
we laugh to scorn the idea of resigning the

Steeplechase Riding o17

silk jacket, and swear we have taken a new
lesse of racing life? These things be hidden
mysteries that I think few, if any, have
really found the solution of. When analysed,
the feelings to which we allude as occasionally
the bane of the horseman, resemble those of
a swimmer. It is not a sense of danger in
either case; it is not a want of courage
obviously, for the proposed ordeal is a
voluntary one. There is distinct conscious-
ness that a shock has to be undergone, that
it will be undergone, and that afterwards all
will be well. But meantime the swimmer
stands shivering on the brink, and the horse-
mau trembles. ‘The spirit indeed is willing,
but the flesh is weak.” The moral will
triumph over the physical, real courage over
nervousness! The plunge once taken, the
start once made, brings one a sense of exalta-
tion, that I don’t think anything else in the
world can produce. One moment of time
seems amply sufficient for you to take in the
whole situation. You see how your own

horse is going; you tell, as though by in-

218 In Scarlet and Silk

stinct, which of your opponents you will
ultimately have to reckon with just before
the judge’s little white-painted box is reached.
There is no question of “nerves” now! All
your energies are concentrated into the one
desire to beat your opponents—no matter how,
no matter at what personal risk. You feel like
a gambler, only more reckless than he—you
play not with paltry sovereigns; your stake
is life and limb. There is an opening be-
tween the horses racing in front of you; a
very small one, ’tis true. But you hesitate
not a moment, and catching your horse by
the head, set your teeth, and ram him through.
All but one drop back beaten, and then you
set to, head, hands, and heels, to beat the
survivor. Amid the most intense excitement,
shouting, flying of dust, and cracking of
whips, the two of you shoot past the post
locked together. A dead heat? No, as you
turn, after pulling up your horse, you catch
sight of the numbers being hoisted, and your
heart gives a great leap when you see your

own—the mystic 7—at the top!

Steeplechase Riding 219

When riding a horse that you have reason-
able grounds for supposing will fall with you,
it is a good plan to leave your spurs behind.
They are apt to get crosswise in the stirrup-
irons, and hang you up in the event of an
upset. Always try to fall away from your
horse; that is, if he falls to the left, do you
try and fall to the right, and wice versd.
Although I have no affection for a whip, it
is not without its uses: as when a horse is
fencing carelessly ; and again, when he seems
doubtful in his mind whether to jump or
refuse. In Casse Téte’s Grand National, Page
had to use his whip heavily at the final
hurdles to keep the little mare on her legs
at all. And if a horse les too far out of

(44 ”)

his ground, a judicious ‘‘one” may be of
service in getting him to go up and join
his horses. Again, one or two strokes may
be invaluable just at the finish of a race.
But to keep on whipping a horse, merely
proclaims to everybody that his rider is
both a butcher and an ass. These remarks,

of course, do not apply to men who regularly

220 In Scarlet and Silk

ride their own horses, and know their char-
acter and peculiarities thoroughly: no rules
need be laid down in such cases.

One of the most important of all things
in race riding, whether on the flat or across
country, is to take a pull at your horse in
order to steady him and get him well back
on to his legs for the final struggle. The
greatest nicety is required in making your
effort, for horses rarely ‘‘come” a second
time, and if your “run” does not last to the
finish you may, generally speaking, drop your
hands and give it up as a bad job.

Finally, it is wise not to leave too much
ground to be made up at the finish. Dis-
tances, like many other things in this wicked
world, are deceptive. Above all things, never
put yourself in the truly awful position of
losing your race after you have got it well
won. Think of the Recording Angel’s efforts
to keep pace with the eloquence of your
luckless backers, and never get “caught
napping !”

I may just add a few words as to the

Steeplechase Riding 221

danger of steeplechase riding. No one dis-
putes the fact that a certain amount of risk
to life and limb is involved. I should be
the last to do so. But I do not think it is
either so bad as it is painted, or so dangerous
as it looks. I have had my fair share of
accidents, and have broken ribs, collar-bone,
and arm, some two or three times each, and
once sustained a slight concussion of the
brain, but have never been seriously, that is,
dangerously, injured in my life except once,
when a horse rolled on me. I suspect we are
all pretty tough, and really take a lot of kill-
ing. Ifa man goes in for the sport, he must
be prepared to take his falls good-humouredly.
They will come, even to the best, and the
sooner one gets used to the idea the better.
Anthony Trollope, one of our few literary
sportsmen, once declared that hunting men
did not incur so much damage to life and
health as they who played whist every after-
noon at their club, and ate a heavy dinner
afterwards. If we take the number of men

who, either hunting or steeplechase-riding,

222 In Scarlet and Silk

regularly go across country year after year,
and then compare that number with the cases
of fatal accident, we shall find the death-rate
a very low one. Beside the few cases I have
already mentioned, I may just recall that
within the last twenty years or so, the Hon.
Greville Nugent (“‘ Mr. St. James”), one of the
pluckiest little horsemen ever seen—he never
weighed eight stone in his life—and Mr,
Goodwin have been killed at Sandown; and
Lord Rossmore on the Windsor course, while
riding Harlequin. Lord Rossmore was too
tall for a jockey, though a bold, good horse-
man; he had been terribly unlucky in getting
dangerous falls for some time before his fatal
ride. Sandown was also the scene of fatal
accidents to Clay, the professional, and to
Captain Boyce. It was a remarkable cir-
cumstance that Captain Boyce rose from his
fall with apparently little injury. He re-
turned to the stand, dressed, and went up to
town by train, dined at his club, and a few
hours after going to his rooms was suddenly
taken ill and expired. A horse called Coercion

Steeplechase Riding Bee

fell at the regulation ditch when running
at Four Oaks Park (Birmingham), killing Sly
who rode him, one of the best conducted
young men in his profession. If my memory
serves me the horse belonged to Mr. H.
Barclay (the owner of the great Bendigo), and
it was on Woodhouse, another of the popular
brewer’s animals, that poor young George
Brown — barely twenty years of age — met
with his fatal accident this summer (1895)
at Brighton. Willy Macdonald, on the flat,
and Sensier, in a hurdle race, were both
killed through their horses falling and leay-
ing them defenceless on the ground for others
to gallop over. Mr. Lamport, of the Royal
Artillery, was killed whilst riding a gallop
over fences at Epsom four or five years ago,
and some time before that Sam Daniels lost
his life in schooling the hurdle-racer Thunder.

As to fatal accidents in the hunting-field,
there is nothing in the shape of a record,
however rough, to refer to. But if there
were, | venture to think that they are very
few, especially considering the vast number

224 In Scarlet and Silk

of people who hunt nowadays, and the —
not inconsiderable proportion of rash chil-
dren, inexperienced “City gents,” and un-
utterable “duffers” of every class amongst
them.

In concluding this chapter, I may just name
some of the prominent horsemen of my time,
who have either recently ceased riding, or
may still be seen in the saddle. Of course
the list does not pretend to be an exhaustive
one. Of the amateurs, I would mention
Mr. Arthur Yates, Messrs. G. 8. Thomp-
son, “Thomas,” Peter Crawshaw, Captain
“Doggy” Smith, Lord Marcus Beresford, E.
P. Wilson, Hon. George Lambton, the present
Karl of Minto (‘‘ Mr. Rolly”), Majors Fisher,
K. R. Owen, Crawley, and Dalbiac ; Captains
W. B. Morris (killed riding over a small fence
in the Cheshire country), “ Bay” Middleton
(killed in a steeplechase in the Midlands) ;
Messrs. Hope-Johnstone, C. J. Cunningham,
Arthur Coventry—now the official starter of
the Jockey Club—J. M. Richardson, D. Thirl-
well, the Beasleys, the Moores (Garrett and

Steeplechase Riding 22%

William), Mr. Brockton, Captains Lee Barber
and Beevor.

Of another school are those rare good
men the Cheneys; Sir C. Slade, Mr. G. B.
Milne, Mr. Cecil Grenfell, Mr. C. Thompson,
Mr. Lushington, Lord Molyneux, the Ripley
brothers, Mr. “Joe” Widger, Mr. Guy Fen-
wick, Mr. P. Tippler, Mr. J. Phillips—who
has been riding a rare lot of good races on
the flat this season, and winning in his
turn — Mr. Moncrieff, Mr. Beatty, and Mr.
Thursby.

Of the professionals, the following were,
or are, well-known and excellent horsemen:
Robert Anson, James Adams, James Jewitt,
J. Jones, Harry Barker, Joe Cannon, G.
Williamson, Arthur, William, and Robert
Nightingall, Harry Escott, G. Morris, Sam
and W. Daniels, Mawson, the Danebury
cross-country rider, poor Sensier, and Dollery,
both brought up with Mr. Arthur Yates at
Bishop’s Sutton, and attached to that gentle-
man’s stable.

May I be permitted to say a word or
P

226 In Scarlet and Silk

two in conclusion, which applies equally to
riding in silk or scarlet? It is this, that
for jumping on to a fallen rider there is
absolutely no excuse. Were I to quote five
hundred examples of the horrible mischief
done in this way, it would add nothing more
of weight to the warning than by just men-
tioning two typical cases, one in years gone
by, and another of modern times. A man
literally landed over a fence on the top of
Squire Osbaldeston, and broke his leg in two
or three places; the sufferer barely escaped
amputation of the limb as the consequence.
The other instance occurred in Northamp-
tonshire, where a lady was the sufferer
and another of the same sex the culprit.
As we know, this, most unhappily, ended
fatally. There is nothing gained by the
practice except “a lead.” Is it right to jeop-
ardise a human life in order to obtain it ?

i
}

HURDLE RACING

HURDLE “RACING

‘To get a flat-racehorse fit for the business

of “ timber-topping” is obviously a far easier
matter than to prepare him for crossing a
country in public. Some animals take to
the game so readily, that half-a-dozen visits
to the schooling ground will make them well
qualified to try their luck in a hurdle race.
In fact, on one occasion a friend of mine
bought a four-year old out of a selling race
—five furlongs—in which he had been third,
on the Tuesday, and I rode him in a hurdle
race on the Thursday following, and what is
more, he gave me a very comfortable ride
until the last flight of hurdles but one, where
he came down (vulgarly speaking) “a buster.”
A thoroughbred horse learns very quickly—
unless, indeed, he has made up his mind, like

several I could name, that jumping doesn’t

229

230 In Scarlet and Silk

agree with him; and then, of course, it is a
case of “pull devil, pull baker!” as to who
shall win the deal. But in the ordinary
course of things, your hurdle racer will not
take long to prepare if he is only even

moderately willing. There are degrees, too,

of willingness. Scamp—a horse I have

alluded to elsewhere

was quite agreeable
to do his best in a hurdle race, although
he would gallop hard against three hurdles
out of five and knock them down; Quits,
on the other hand, was not willing to do
even this. In fact he was so imbued with
Conservatism—he came from Shardeloes !—
that he resolutely set his face against the

b

“illegitimate” game altogether, and would
have none of it. To begin with —and
this, whether you are schooling a horse for

hurdle jumping, or getting over a country

a small obstacle, such as a pole laid on
uprights dressed up with fresh gorse, and not
exceeding three feet in height, should be set
up, and the novice “led” over it by a staid

and clever jumper. Let him have it as slowly

flurdle Racing 231

as he likes, at first; jumping it at full speed
will very soon follow when once the young-
ster’s natural nervousness shall have worn
off. If the beginner shows a disinclination
to jump, a good plan is to ride him by
himself over a farm, taking him over very
low places, gaps in hedges, small grips, &e.,
until something like confidence comes to him,
then bring him back to your gorse fence
again. When he has surmounted this two
or three times in safety (and be careful not
to make his lessons too long, for fear of dis-
custing him with the whole business), he
may be taken at a low hurdle, with the lead,
again, of a good reliable jumper. If his
progress is still satisfactory, imcrease the
pace a bit, and let him come fairly up to
his fence at galloping pace. But you cannot
be too patient with him; if he is nervous or
even perverse, you must be good-humoured
with him; it is not a bit of use meeting ill-
temper with ill-temper; you only make
things worse. As Charles Mathews said of

?

“Honesty” being “the best policy,” so can

232 In Scarlet and Silk

I say that “I have tried both ways, and
I know.” But always keep this “ pasted
into your hat.” However small the obstacle
is, and whether it be hurdles, or pole, or what
not, it has got to be ywmped, not run through
or in any way knocked down. Nothing is
more mischievous than for a beginner to find
that he can do this. Be you very sure that
he will take an early opportunity of trying
to run through something stiff, such as a stile
or post and rails, in which case the horse is
sure to finish a poor second to the timber!
After he has galloped satisfactorily over three
or four flights of low hurdles, you can increase
them to the ordinary height which he will
have to encounter on the race-course, and a
couple of good gallops over these, in the
company of two or three more horses to give
him confidence, will pretty well fit him for
his new business in life.

It should be borne in mind that in a
hurdle race a horse must not stop to jump;
neither, indeed, may he do so in a modern
steeplechase. He ought to gallop right up

Flurdle Racing 233

to his hurdles, be over and away again as
quick as a rabbit. If he “pitches” over,
and lands with a jerk, he must inevitably
lose ground, as he takes all the “way” off
himself, and has to be set going afresh. A
horse that jumps too big, again, is sure to
“oet left” at hurdle racing, as he takes too
much out of himself at his fences: this,
however, is a fault that most horses soon
cure themselves of. In fact, as soon as a
horse gets at all beat, whether racing or
otherwise, he will, in most cases, be more
inclined to run into the opposite extreme
and “chance” his. fences.

Although to ride in a hurdle race looks
at the first blush a less risky thing than
steering a horse over the fences, I am not
at all sure that it is not, in fact, more
dangerous; and I can eall to mind several
very bad accidents that have happened by
collision, horses jumping into their hurdles,
others jumping upon a fallen rider, &c.
Notably Robert TAnson’s fall on Lord Clive
(Sir George Chetwynd’s) at Brighton; J.

234 In Scarlet and Silk

Page’s at Sandown, when Lord Marcus
Beresford, who was then starter to the
Jockey Club, told me that he had been to
see him, and found his head literally split
open: how he ever recovered is a marvel;
but then Page himself 7s a marvel! Poor
Sensier, again, and Sam Daniels both lost
their lives over the “sticks.”

I remember seeing a comical hurdle race
run at Bromley, where a blundering old black
mare, named (I think) Queen Bee, made all
the running—it was in the old days of ‘“ mile
and a half over six flights,” for the abolition
of which our thanks are due to Lord Mareus

Beresford—and she knocked down a hurdle

at every flight. I don’t think .we had to
jump one! It was on this course, too, that
I saw a ridiculous incident, many years ago.
One horse kept breaking away at the start,
until “the man with the flag” got into a
fearful rage, and let out at the jockey of the
recalcitrant in no measured terms. I must
say I think the rider in question was trying

to ageravate him in order to make the rest

Flurdle Racing 235

laugh. We were about a hundred yards
behind the post as the starter kept fuming
at us to ‘Go back; turn round, all the lot
of you, and go back!” and all but one—I
fancy it was old Dick Shepherd—did go back.
That one, however, was standing stock still
up at the post, and the starter, being short-
sighted, never noticed him. We were “all
over the place,” and naturally thought the
wrathful official would call the ‘“ advance
ouard” back, but suddenly we were electrified
by hearing him scream out “Go!” and seeing
his flag drop. Away went the man in front
like lightning, and no one ever got near him
throughout the race!

One of the dangers of hurdle racing—
especially when there are a lot of runners,
and not too much room at the obstacles—
is that your horse’s view is obscured, and he
consequently takes off a bit late, or, perhaps,
too soon. Again, if a refuser suddenly comes
right across you, you will be lucky to escape
coming down. And here let me pause for a

moment to assure my readers that however

236 In Scarlet and Silk

rich their vocabulary may, and probably will,
be under such circumstances, the flow of
language is not half so effectual as a quick
snatch at the reins! Nowadays, we get such
wonderful ‘ class” horses running in hurdle
races, that the old saying of, ‘Oh, he’s use-
less; put him into a selling hurdle race,”
has pretty well died out. Chandos, Hesper,
Hampton, and Lowlander, a few years back,
didn’t read like being beaten by the ordinary
“leather flapper”; and Stourhead, winner of
the Goodwood Stakes ; Benburb; Cornbury,
winner of this years Metropolitan at
Epsom; Pitcher, and others of the same
sort, too numerous for mention here, that
have been at the timber-topping trade, would
all take some catching by the average

“rip,” which in times past was wont to find

< )

a last over the

‘refuge for the destitute’
sticks.

An incorrigible joker once said to me as
we watched the horses gallop on Newmarket
Heath—

“There goes one that ought to make a

Flurdle Racing 237

good hurdle racer,’ pointing at the time to
Charon, a son of Hermit and Barchettina.

In the unsuspicious blush of innocence I
asked him why.

“Well,” he said, ‘if Charon can’t go across
the Styx (sticks), it’s a pity!” and this puts
me in mind of a smart mot in connection with
Orme’s Derby. Sir John Blundell Maple’s
Saraband had been freely backed, and report
said that he was ro lbs. better than The
Bard. <A sporting paper had described him
as “‘a well-furnished colt,” and amongst his
many backers was a Mr. Shoolbred, who was
greatly mortified to find him scratched just a
day or two before the race.

“ Well furnished, eh?” said a man who had
just been talking to the latter; “if ever a
colt ought to be well furnished, I should think
it's this one, for he’s owned by Maple, and
d——d by Shoolbred!”

f

“SOME EQUINE ERRATICS -

SOME EQUINE ERRATICS

“THat’s a wonderful jumper I’ve put you on
this morning,” said a much valued friend of
mine, who had mounted me for a gallop
with Lord Rothschild’s splendid pack of stag-
hounds in the happy Vale of Aylesbury ;
“but he has got a trick of——” He never
finished his sentence, as just at that moment
away we went, a tremendous field, over a
small meadow to a fence with a drop into the
lane beyond. On “a wonderful jumper,” I
suppose, we are all inclined to sit a bit
“jolly,” and I dare say I was guilty of so
domg. To my great astonishment my horse
whipped round at the fence—not at all a
formidable one—and started for home. I
pulled him up, told him mildly, but firmly,
that his conduct was decidedly wrong, and

took him back to the exact place in the
241 Q

242 In Scarlet and Silk

hedge where he had refused. He jumped it
immediately. We had a splendid gallop
across the Vale, and he never offered to turn
his head from wood or water all the day; in
fact, he “jumped as if he loved jumping,”
as the dealers say. Riding back with my
excellent host, and chatting over the run
(is it not the most delightful chat in the
world?), he casually remarked, “I meant to
tell you that whenever your horse gets a
stranger on his back, he makes a point of
refusing the first fence, and trying to bolt
home. If he doesn’t succeed, he never tries it
again that day. Last week my cousin rode
him, and he refused the first fence, and then
took himself off to his stable again.”

It was merely an idiosyncrasy, such as
many of our best horses, both racers and
hunters, possess, and it is, for the most part,
the men who don’t, or won't, understand these
peculiarities that make perfectly harmless
horses into ferocious savages. One race-
horse likes his own particular cat always
with him, Blair Athol was never at rest

Some Equine Erratics 243

without the old grey pony that lived in his
box. One horse which I constantly rode
declined to be mounted unless I wore a coat
over my silk jacket. Another (Lord Walde-
erave, by Orlando out of Marionette by
Stockwell) would never gallop a yard until
the last half-mile of his journey on the
training ground, and with his trainer up
would not gallop at all! Mr. Bowes’s
Chivalry so hated Perrin, that he would have
savaged him at any moment he could have
got near him; and only since beginning
this chapter, I have seen old Covertside, the
steeplechase horse, led down the course at
Harlow, to be mounted at the starting-post,
with his hood turned right over his head to
blindfold him. Many a horse cannot, or will
not, race until he has “put himself outside”
a good dose of whiskey ; and I think it was
Sea Song, winner of many short races, who
always endeavoured to lay down on the man
saddling him for a race. ‘Truly, horses are
curious in their temperaments, and the man
to succeed with them must not only be

244 In Scarlet and Silk

interested in the work, but should possess
untiring patience and aptitude for studying
their peculiarities. Possessed of that patience,
there are very few equine puzzles to which
you cannot discover the key.

Entire horses are, of course, the most
“eranky” and self-willed; though out of a
fairish number I have ridden, I must say that
they have given me very little trouble. The
worst was a great, handsome horse, bought in
France, which had had matters all his own
way for three months or so before he came
into my hands. He was “purely cussed,”
and showed vice and temper for absolutely
nothing but the pleasure of getting his own
way. Naturally, the very first time I rode
him we had to fight it out. No compromise
was possible, and an exceedingly warm twenty
minutes ensued, but he was a very nice horse
afterwards. Mr. Chaplin’s Broomielaw was
an awful brute, and would come at any one
open-mouthed like a savage dog. He was
occasionally so bad that a cloth had to be
thrown over his head before his jockey could

Some Equine Erratics 245

mount, and he would buck, rear, and kick

like a mad horse with no provocation what-

ever. I once saw “Speedy” Payne—an
“erratic” himself—riding a wretch called
Cranberry, belonging to Tom Stevens of Chil-
ton, at Croydon. They ran the horse in his
quarter-sheet, in order to delude him into the
idea that he was only at exercise. He jumped
off with the rest of the field, and won in a
canter by half-a-dozen lengths. And who
amongst race-goers does not remember the
eccentric Peter—one of the best horses of the
century—stopping to kick in the middle of
a race at Ascot, and then winning! It has
often been truly said that we only make
horses subservient to man by deceiving them,
and keeping from them the knowledge of their
own strength. I think that Peter very nearly
discovered the secret !

Horses that are troublesome, either to ride
or in the stable, may be roughly divided
into two classes—the erratic and the wicked ;
and between these two there is a_ great
gulf fixed. It is generally true to say that

EE eeeeeeereeeeeeererrre en ae ee eS

246 In Scarlet and Silk

no horse is naturally bad-tempered ; but the
exception only goes, we know, to prove the
rule. I bought a three-year-old out of a
racing stable: she was as quiet in and out of
the stable as could be wished; but soon she
developed the most ferocious temper in the
stable, though perfectly quiet, still, when out
of it. Her final performance was half killing
me one Sunday morning in her box. After
that we parted company. Now, no one could
have teased her, as she was looked after by
an even-tempered man who had been with me
for many years ; and during the twelve months
I had her no one ever got on her back but
myself. The only way I can account for the
change in her is the fact that her sire, Rosi-
crucian, was a great savage, and | suppose the
family failing came out with increasing age.
“Squire” Drake of Shardeloes owned a
wonderful horse in Quits, who took a number
of Hunters’ races on the flat, but could never be
induced to jump atall. Time after time great
efforts were made to fit him for taking part in
steeplechase work, but no power on earth could

Some Equine Erratics 247

make him face a fence; surely a freak of
temper this, for no physical inability to jump
could ever be detected in him. Equally
curious is it to see, on the other hand, a horse
turned out in a meadow, disporting himself
backwards and forwards over the same fence,
apparently for the sake of amusement! Some
years back I had one that, to my knowledge,
had never done any jumping in his life until
he attained the age of sixteen, when | rode
him over one or two “made” fences. He
jumped at them, though he did not quite clear
them, as boldly as a lion, and I then rode him
a few times with hounds. He pulled fearfully,
and got so excited as to almost merit the
description of a mad horse, but would never
refuse anything. Sad to say, however, he one
day, going at a post and rails, took off yards
in front, and smashed the whole lot, leaving a
clean breach through which one might have
driven a good-sized cart, and this lamed him
badly.

A hunter belonging to a friend of mine
always declined to touch the gruel brought

248 In Scarlet and Sitk

him after a day with hounds; but if the pail
was left just outside the door of his box, he
would always come out and steal it/ Perhaps
it was fortunate this animal had hoofs instead
of hands, otherwise he might have given
trouble in a respectably-conducted stable!

One of the most eccentric horses and
cleverest hunters I ever owned—and it mat-
tered not what country you set him down in,
he was equally good in them all—was a weight-
carrying, flea- bitten grey, Grey Billy. For
some years he had been carrying George
Champion, then huntsman to the Southdown
Foxhounds, and afterwards for two seasons of
the Goodwood. He would holloa and almost
kick the place down if hounds came anywhere
within hearing of him in his stable. I have
never seen a horse so keen on hunting before
or since.

Of Billy it might be truly said that he
had forgotten as much as most horses knew.
During the two seasons I rode him, my
bodily weight was under eight stone, whilst
the horse could carry eighteen to twenty

Some Equine Erratics 249

stone with comfort. He was an Irishman,
and | never came across such a sporting bit
of stuff in my life. He would hunt, whether
his rider was a good man or no. On one
occasion, | remember that we ran into a
big wood, with the Crawley and Horsham
Foxhounds. I could hear George Loader give
a holloa every now and then; sometimes it
sounded to the right of me, sometimes to
the left. Billy was listening intently, and
just at the moment that I had made up my
mind to push through the dense underwood
right-handed, he had come to the conclusion
that the holloa was from the left. I tried
my utmost to get the old horse to go my
way, but he mildly, though firmly, refused.
Billy was an old hand at the game, and I,
at the time, a young one. The horse got
his own way, of course, crashed through
the wood left-handed, and soon proved how
correct his ear had been by bringing me into
the midst of the fun again.

The way the old fellow opened the latch
of a gate with his nose and lips was very

250 In Scarlet and Silk

funny. Every time he jumped a stile, or
post and rails, his feet seemed to hit the
timber all round with an unholy rattling,
but I never knew him make the least mistake.
He could fly or creep equally well, but—
there is always a “ but”—poor old Billy was
as slow as a top. His best pace was about
as fast as a man could kick his hat.

Later in life, when Billy had passed into
the hands of a man who hunted solely for the
sake of showing off his inimitable “ get-up” at
covert-side, and “gassing” about his exploits
to his lady friends afterwards, I met him in
the field, “owner up.” Hounds had just got
away, and over a terrific obstacle, nearly
two feet high, his gallant master had led
on the old grey. We ran fast down a lightly
ploughed field, through a gateway, into a
small coppice beyond. At the far side of
this ran a brook: it was not more than
ten or twelve feet wide, and both take-off
and landing were equally sound. Imme-
diately Billy’s pilot saw it, however, he was
for pulling up. He little knew William’s

Some Equine Erratics 251

sporting tastes. ‘Pull up!” thought the
veteran. ‘ What! with a start like this,
and hounds running? What do you think?”
and snatching hold of his bit, the game
old fellow went for the brook, like the lion
that he was. Over he flew with the greatest
ease. Up went his rider in the air; for one
moment the horse’s head was between the
man’s legs, and the next, this “arm-chair

,

and mahogany” sportsman cut a voluntary,
and landed, with a great “ kerchuuk!” on
the middle of his back.

After this Billy cleverly eluded his pur-
suers, and enjoyed—I am quite certain he
immensely enjoyed—the rest of the run on

his own account.

é

A +

ON CONDITIONING HUNTERS

ON CONDITIONING HUNTERS

THERE can be little doubt that however much
sportsmen may deplore the passing away of
“the good old days,’ for most reasons, that
the modern system of getting our hunters fit
to go is infinitely preferable to that adopted
by our forefathers. The “summer at grass”
system now finds hardly any followers; and
though I think that a short period of turning
out, say in April or the early part of May,
does a horse a great deal of good in cooling
his blood—and grass is far preferable to physic
when obtainable in this manner as an altera-
tive—yet if the run at grass be continued
until the weather waxes warm, horses get
worried to death with flies, stamp their feet
to pieces on adamantine turf, and probably
become weakened from want of corn; unless,
indeed, they are regularly fed each day, in
255

256 In Scarlet and Silk

addition to getting what they can forage for
themselves. Ina former book, published some
years ago, I wrote: “ A roomy loose-box, well
ventilated and clean, with perhaps a couple of
hours’ run in the day in a paddock, and about
two feeds of corn, is the way to summer
hunters.” I am, I hope, wiser now, and in-
stead of running them out by day, I say turn
them into the paddock each night during the
hot weather, for at night the midges cease
from troubling, and the horse-flies are at rest.
In addition to this, the heavy dews of morning
and evening are most beneficial to the feet,
especially if they are at all inclined to get
heated or feverish.

There seems to be a practice now growing up
of summering hunters in large loose-boxes,
laid with tan or peat-moss, and giving them
no exercise or chance of exercising themselves
for from three to four months; in fact, they
never come out of their boxes at all during
that period. I confess | fail to see the advan-
tage of this system. Surely it is an unnatural
life for a horse to lead; his muscles must all

On Conditioning Flunters 257

get slack for want of use, and be the box ever
so well ventilated, that circumstance cannot
compensate for the daily experience—if only
for an hour—of open-air exercise. The best
of all exercise is that obtainable when the
animal finds himself in a state of nature, free
and unfettered to roam about wherever he
pleases ; and this is provided for by the nightly
run out on the dewy grass. Should this be
found unattainable or inconvenient, then a
horse should at least be walked for an hour,
or perhaps a little less, each day.

Unless wanted early for the cubbing, Sep-
tember ist will be found quite soon enough to
commence with a horse which has been regu-
larly corn-fed throughout the summer. Pro-
bably it will be found best to discontinue all
green food about the middle of August—up
to that time they should have it, with carrots
or other suitable roots—given them with no
niggardly hand. A good beginning would be
to give a couple of hours a day walking
exercise only for the first week; after which

the work should be added to by some slow
R

258 In Scarlet and Silk

canters, not exceeding half a mile at first,
and then gradually lengthening. Long trot-
ting also, on some soft ground where obtain-
able, will be found beneficial. Even when a
horse is almost fit, he should never be allowed
to travel at his highest rate of speed: horses
are always at their best when running a bit
above themselves. I don’t believe in the
system which sends them out, either to hunt
or take part in a steeplechase, when, although
full of muscle, they have lost the bloom of
health, possess a lack-lustre eye, and want
to carry their heads between their forelegs
when led along. The ‘“hunted-to-death”
looking horse is never the horse at his best ;
at least, that has been my experience, both
on race-course and at covert side.

In furtherance of this idea, it is as well
not to have hunters quite ‘“cherry-ripe” at
the beginning of the season. Of course I
don’t mean that they should not be fit to
go. What I wish to convey is, that they
should not be “fine drawn” in November.
You can get plenty of condition on a horse

On Conditioning [lunters 259

without making him look like a greyhound.
The season, as it progresses, will do that for
you only too effectively; and if you make
him into a greyhound to start hunting with,
he will be fit to take a header through a
keyhole before Christmas! Speaking of this
reminds me of a little scene on Newmarket
Heath. Poor old George Fordham was gazing
at the weedy-looking Discord, just as he
had been saddled for a race—the Biennial, I
think it was. ‘ He’d make a beautiful grey-
hound if you could get him to swallow a
conger-eel, wouldn’t he?” said the jockey
contemplatively.

The time required for getting a hunter fit
to go is more or less an unknown quantity,
for the very simple reason that one never
finds two horses exactly alike in constitution.
Some get fit on so much less work than
others ; one usually notices also, that a free
sweater will come to hand much more readily
than one with a slow-acting skin. But speak-
ing broadly, most horses will “gallop on”
after a couple of months’ preparation.

260 In Scarlet and Silk

Hitherto I have only been dealing with made
hunters, those that have already learnt their
business, and require no jumping practice.
Now let us turn our attention for a few
minutes to the novice, or the horse which,
were he a human criminal, would be face-
tiously described upon the judge’s calendar as ©
Very much the same

”?

“Tmperfectly educated.
beginning as that previously recommended
in the case of training horses for hurdle-
jumping will be found efficacious: the low
pole, bushed up with good, strong prickly
stuff—gorse is the best—which will make
the learner rise well, and not allow him to
“slop” over his fences: half the battle is in
getting a young one to jump “up,” and jump
“clean.” Much may, and ought to, be done
at a very early stage of the young hunter’s
life—say when he is two and three years old
—by turning him into a field where he has
to jump a fair-sized ditch, and if possible a
low hedge or a bank, in order to get to his
water-trough, or to a certain spot where you

may be accustomed to place a few carrots, or

Ox Conditioning Hunters 261

some other equally well-appreciated delicacy.
At the present time I[ have a two-year-old and
a three-year-old, own sisters, turned out in
two of my fields, which have become such
accomplished jumpers through these means
that, “hoist with my own petard,” I can’t
keep them into any field on the place! I
don’t fancy they will take much instructing
in their business when the time comes for
first riding them over fences.

But assuming that a young horse—a four-
or five-year-old—which has not had the in-
estimable benefit of such early training, comes
into our hands, then in most cases it becomes
merely a question of time and patience with
him—and we cannot give too much of the
latter—in order to get him to jump kindly.
I say ‘“‘ jump kindly” advisedly, for assuredly
the horse that jumps unkindly is not, and pro-
bably never will be, a good hunter. When
teaching, we should carefully conceal the fact
that we are giving a lesson: there is nothing
a horse hates so much as the thought that he
is receiving one. Always let him think he is

262 Ln Scarlet and Silk

jumping because he wishes it, not we If
possible, take him over small grips, through
gaps, and over low places in a hedge. Never
keep on for long at the same obstacle ; never
jump out of a field at the same place where
you jumped into it, unless some considerable
time has elapsed between the two perform-
ances. Lunging over some low rails which will
not give is also a good plan, but open to the
objection that your learner will probably at
once suspect you of giving him a lesson.
Many an animal which has developed into
a magnificent fencer, has made a most un-
promising beginning—included in that cate-
gory being such celebrities as Congress, who
had to be dragged over small obstacles by men »
with cart ropes; Emblem and Emblematic,
both destined to take the highest honours at
Liverpool, and who, for a long time, refused
to jump even a grip; and Midshipmite, who
came to very frequent grief on the schooling
ground before becoming one of the finest
jumpers of the century. For the beginner in
cross-country work, the sight of a pack of

On Conditioning Funters 263

harriers in front of him is the best inducement
in the world to make him take an interest in
his business, Horses usually love to see where
hounds are going; and to quote Whyte-Mel-
ville, ‘this is why the hunting-field is such
a good school for leaping. Horses... are
prompted by some unaccountable impulse to
follow a pack of hounds, and the beginner
finds himself voluntarily performing feats of
activity and daring in accordance with the
will of his rider, which no coercion from the
latter would induce him to attempt. Flushed
with success, and, if fortunate enough to escape
a fall, confident in his lately discovered powers,
he finds a new pleasure in their exercise, and,
- most precious of qualities in a hunter, grows
‘fond of jumping.’” |

Jumping schools like those of Mr. Arthur
Yates, at Bishop’s Sutton, and Captain
Machell, at Kennett, are most useful for teach-
ing a horse to jump; but such places are, of
course, not attainable, nor are they, indeed,
at all necessary, to the average man who is
schooling a young hunter. Much depends

264 In Scarlet and Silk

upon the brain power possessed by the pupil.
I have been on some half-dozen or so young
ones, which ten minutes’ experience convinced
me were little better than congenital idiots ;
to persevere with such as these is sheer waste
of valuable time, for no class of horse (not
even excepting steeplechasers) require so
much natural cleverness as hunters. To watch
a smart hunter getting out of all sorts of the
unexpected difficulties which are pretty sure
to fall to his lot in the course of a season, is
one of the most interesting sights I know of.
Falls have the most curious and contradic-
tory effects on different horses. We often see .
the careless, slovenly jumper vastly improved,
and occasionally made into a really smart
performer, by getting “rapped over the
knuckles” with stiff timber that he has been
trying to take liberties with. On the other
hand, I can call to mind at least a dozen cases
where a fall has caused a horse to lose heart
and courage, and—for the time at least—hbe-
come a persistent refuser. Dick Christian
said, ‘‘ If a young horse gets a very bad fall, it

On Conditioning [unters 265

frightens him. A couple of falls with low
fences are well enough, but not if you hurt
him.” Perhaps the whole secret lies in creat-
ing, and afterwards developing, to the best of
our power, that confidence without which no
horse living will jump well or safely. When
a hunter is thoroughly confident of his own
powers, it is astonishing to see the way in
which he can discriminate, at a glance, the
obstacle which he must jump cleanly from the
one which will safely bear playing with. I
well remember old Kilballysmash (not a name
calculated to inspire a strange rider with con-
fidence !), a very safe steeplechase horse and
hunter, which was regularly ridden by Major
Porteous with the Royal Artillery Drag, was as
clever as a cartload of monkeys at this game,
and whilst cleanly jumping new and strong
timber, would casually gallop straight through
that which was old and rotten. I only saw the
old chap try that trick once too often, and that
was at Sandown, where he tried to gallop
through the fence down the hill, and it was

most ludicrous to witness his astonishment

266 © Ln Scarlet and Silk

when the obstacle “rose up and hit him.” I
think that to the genuine horse-lover few
things in the world (after hunting) can be of
more interest than the conditioning and

schooling of our equine friends.

Pech OF ESE ASON

THERE are some very real, if subsidiary,
pleasures always reserved for the average
hunting man at a time of year when the
exigencies of the season forbid his indulgence
in the pleasures of the chase, and amongst
them may certainly be reckoned the acquisi-
tion of hunters for the next campaign. An
amusing volume might be written of the
various ways in which we often become
possessed of horses—good, bad, and_ indif-
ferent—which we afterwards turn, or try to
turn, to good account in the huntine-field.
The man whose establishment is large enough
to permit of his buying several young animals,
and then, according to how they shape, either
hunting them or promptly relegating them to

the shafts, is always an individual to be envied,
269

270 In Scarlet and Silk

A friend of mine, an amateur farmer, always
buys from four to six young Irish horses,
mostly four-year-olds, each autumn, gets
them fit to go, and then it depends on them-
selves whether one sees them sailing along
in the wake of the hounds, or officiating in
a plough team. Perhaps, after a summer's
work on the farm, they are given a second
trial over a country; if again unsuccessful,
they either go back to the calm and retire-
ment of agricultural pursuits, or up to the
hammer. As my friend is never in a hurry to
sell, always having work.of some kind or other
for horses to do, he rarely loses much money
over his ‘‘ bad bargains.” It is the unfortunate
who only has three or four stalls who suffers
most when he has bought a “wrong un.” He
must have, say, three hunters; he has, there-
fore, no room for a bad horse, and must sell
at once, which means, ninety-nine times out
of a hundred, a material loss; therefore, it
becomes with him a matter of real importance
as to whether he has acquired a performer or
a fraud,

In the Off-Season 271

The long purse is, we know, the key to
most of the good things in this life, and,
provided a man can “stand the racket,” not
much difficulty need be experienced in getting
suitable horses; well-known performers are
sent up, for various reasons, to Tattersall’s
and Aldridge’s, and one can follow them
there; dealers there are in plenty who will
give a fair trial over fences, both in the
vicinity of London (“half-an-hour from the
Marble Arch,” if we are to put implicit faith
in the advertisement columns of the “dailies”)
and across a natural country, a little further
away from the great metropolis. But we
must not go there thinking of forty and
fifty pounders, you know! Assuming, how-
ever, that we have backed the winner of the
Cesarewitch, or that our great-aunt has just
bequeathed us a hundred or two, and in leav-
ing this ‘‘ vale” has thus enabled us to mount
ourselves in another, e.g., that of Aylesbury,
to wit; well, then, there is no pleasanter
way of spending a crisp, bright October after-
noon than chartering a smart hansom at the

272 In Scarlet and Silk

Marble Arch and traversing the Edgware Road
in the direction of Mr. Nemo’s neat little
establishment, where “over thirty horses
always fit to go” may be inspected, ridden,
and “ Jarked.”

Since the time of Soapy Sponge and Mr.
Benjamin Buckram these places have under-
gone vast changes, all, | am delighted to say,
for the better. There is, as a general rule,
no need for a secret code of signals *twixt
master and man relating to the removal of
bandages and swabs, the “stirring up” of
‘wrong ’uns,” and turning round in the stalls
of crib-biters, so as to hide their crimes com-
mitted on the mangers. Of course, there are
still plenty of places where these and other
little and big deceptions are daily practised;
but for the purposes of this chapter we will
treat only of the fairly “straight” establish-
ments.

We ring the small brass-handled bell at the
“ office,” and are at once admitted into a room
about the size of the interior of a brougham,
The walls record, not ‘in storied urn,” but in

L[n the Off-Season 27

sporting prints, the gallant deeds of many a
well-known pack :
** Not a square inch of the wall is bare,
Herrings and Alkens, all are there ;”

whilst facing us, as we enter, is a steeple-
chasing print, in which a horse is apparently
chasing his dismounted jockey, open-mouthed,
across ridge and furrow. There are also two
old coaching pictures, more gaudy than artis-
tic, flanking a realistic, if apocryphal, contest
between “bold Bendigo” and a certain gigantic
nig—beg pardon! coloured gentleman. “ Rouge
et Noir” might be selected as a suitable title
for this: it seems all blood and black man !

Mr. Nemo, the proprietor, takes off his hat
—an article of attire in which I firmly believe
he goes to bed every night—and we duly in-
form him of the fact that we shall be willing
to part with a certain, or uncertain, amount of
earthly dross if he can supply us with a horse
that can gallop and jump a bit, and is decently
temperate with hounds. And here I momen-
tarily pause, and in the words of the immortal

Jorrocks say, ‘‘Oh, my beloved ’earers,” where,
S

274 Ln Scarlet and Silk

oh where is the pleasure of riding one that is
not temperate ?

‘In the days of my youth, Father William then said,
On pullers I thrust and I rammed,
But now I’ve so frequently pitched on my head,
That I'll see the whole lot of them

sold off at Tattersall’s without reserve rather
than ride such brutes. ‘The wind bloweth
where it listeth,’ and the hard-pulling tear-
away goeth where /e listeth, and the only
“list” we get in the matter is probably one
“to starboard” as we vainly try to check his
mad career. And then again, think of the
brute that will rear at every hand-gate, and
also when you have to wait your turn at the
only possible place in a fence !

But [am losing sight of the main object of the
visit this afternoon to Mr. Nemo’s excellently
conducted stables, and will hark back again.
Pulling another bell as he leaves the “ office”
—this time one with a long iron handle, and
which gives out a somewhat dolorous sound
down at the far end of the building — you
walk across the freshly gravelled yard (Mem.

In the Off-Season 275

—T’o find out where horse-dealers get that
very bright red gravel that one always sees.
Wonder if it is specially grown for them ?)
and are met at the nearest stable door by a
neatly gaitered groom in a white linen jacket,
and duly introduced to a big-boned bay horse
standing in the first stall.

‘“‘ Now there, sir, is a horse that’s done a
bit of work: seasoned hunter” (Mem.—Too
many season’d hunter; got a tooth about a
foot long). ‘I could take a little money for

”)

him, too

But Mr. Nemo seeing you
shaking your head, whilst one eye rests on
a peculiarly doubtful-looking hock, he passes
on, with the remark that perhaps you wanted
something a bit better class than the bay ?

You say you think you do.

You pass in turn a weight-carrying grey,
a weedy chestnut with white heels and an
evil eye, a sleepy - looking black, which
was probably only debarred from the second-
hand funeral trade through lacking the
necessary turn of speed for the business,

and a piebald. Then the worthy dealer

276 In Scarlet and Silk

throws open the door of a loose-box, and
addressing his satellite, says—

“Tom, just strip this horse. Rufus, I call
him, sir. By Lord Gough, dam by Victor.
Irish horse, of course.”

‘ But,” you mildly object, “ didn’t Victor

die ever so many years

“Oh, that Victor, oh yes; this is by the
other Victor, you know.”

You didn’t know, but let it pass. After
all, you had come to buy a horse, not a
pedigree.

When divested of his clothing Rufus was
certainly a taking horse, and filled the eye as
a hunter all over.

‘Now that’s a horse you'd like,” says Mr.
Nemo, with just the least possible inflection
in his voice as he pronounces the word “ you.”
You take it as an implied compliment to your
horsemanship. No man resists that. I know
two men who refused Peerages, and one who
declined the Lord Chancellorship, but I never
yet met the human being that wouldn’t swal-
low a compliment paid to his horsemanship.

In the Off-Season 277

You begin to think that Mr. Nemo is a man
of considerable discernment.

*“‘ Let’s have a saddle on him, Mr. Nemo.”

“Certainly, sir. P’raps you’d just like to
step inside the office while we're waiting, for
the wind’s chilly, although it’s a pleasant day
in the sun.”

Adjourned to the brougham interior once
more, we find that “just one” of some
curious old brown sherry would be grateful
and comforting. An extra good Laranaga
also lends its fragrant and soothing influence
to the moment, and when, some five minutes
later, you issue forth from the tiny portal,
drawing on your dogskins, you almost feel
ashamed of the boyish eagerness that comes
stealing over you to get on the gay chest-
nuts back and have a few minutes amongst
the fences with him. However, you sternly
repress the puerile feeling, assume a more
or less uninterested demeanour, and _ stroll
casually up to the good horse as he stands,
a very model of strength without lumber,
clean of limb and shapely of top.

278 Ln Scarlet and Silk

Tom is already mounted (somewhat to your
disappointment, you confess, as it postpones
your own promised enjoyment for a brief
space of time), and turning to you, Mr.
Nemo says—

“ You'd like to see how he moves, sir?
We'll just walk through this gate. Tom,
take him into the lower paddock.”

And as the chestnut, who carries a beautiful
coat in spite of the time of year, moves lightly
off down the yard, you pass through a very
white painted gate, and find yourself in a
smooth-turfed enclosure of some three or
four acres, erected on which are obstacles of
almost every description under the sun—
swinging gates, gorsed hurdles, here a bank,
there a ditch, and a little further down a
somewhat sharply cut, shallow (you know it
is shallow because you put your stick. into
it whilst Mr. Nemo was looking the other
way !) brook, the water for which was supplied
by means of a big garden hose. In obedience
to a wave of the dealer’s hat Tom now puts

the horse into a slow canter, and you watch

L[n the Off-Season 279

him as with smooth, powerful action, and
with his hocks well under him, he tops the
hurdles, just brushing the gorse at the top
with his hind legs, then jumps the gate with-
out the semblance of hesitancy, and gallops
down to the so-called brook. As he nears it
his ears go a point more forward, and unless
your eyes deceive you he hangs fire momen-
tarily. A sharp job of Tom’s spur converts
doubt—if there was a doubt—into resolution,
and again the good chestnut acquits himself
well. Tom then pulls up, and, patting the
arched neck, brings his gallant steed up to
where you await him—not forgetting to stand
him with his legs well stretched out, in what
the ladies call ‘a becoming attitude.”

“Now, sir, praps you'd just like to lay a
leg over him yourself. I know you’re a
gentleman” (charming little emphasis on the
“you” again) “that can put ’em over a
country, and that being so, why, you natu-
rally like to see what they’re made of for
yourself.” This man is really charming.

Sees at a glance, you know, whether a fellow’s

280 In Scarlet and Silk

a horseman or not. Couldn’t wrangle with a
chap like this about a beastly tenner or so.

Once on top of Rufus, any doubt which you
might hitherto have felt as to his being a
hunter very quickly disappears; and as he
hoists you over the gate you feel the immense
hind leverage, and murmur delightedly to
yourself, ‘This horse ought to lift one smack
over a town.”

Just one turn over the water, you think,
as you set him going again, and after that I
must really buy—here, hi, halloa! what the
deuce is this? Rufus has most distinctly
“chucked it” the second time of asking, at
the brook, and then you remember the mo-
mentary hesitation and Tom’s spur when he
went over before. But this won’t do at any
price. Back you go, give him a fair run,
and this time, despite a slight inclination to
“oo in the breeching,” and a somewhat
awkward throwing up of the head in the air,
you are over the “ puddle,” and safely on the
far side. Your keenness for the horse has
been a little blunted, and you feel that he

In the Off-Season 281

must redeem his character before you resign
him, so after sweeping smoothly over the
gorsed hurdles again, you take him well by
the head, and put him at a slightly higher
gate than the one he has already negotiated.
Again he fails you not. Clearly this horse
is good at timber. One must pass over
that objection to cold water. After all, we
share the idiosyncrasy ourselves—unless it is
labelled ‘‘for outward application only.” He
moves like a workman, too; not quite such
a pleasant hack, perhaps, as he looked when
ridden by the crafty Tom. He shakes one
about rather, from the very fact of his great
hind leverage. Well, we can’t go to Bir-
mingham and get horses made for us, neither
can we be measured for the exact thing that
suits. We will just see what Nemo is asking
for him.

But Mr. Nemo is much too good a man of
business to let a customer stand and cool
down under the shivering influence of ‘ chill
October's” raw and nipping breezes. You
have only got as far as “ Well, Mr. Nemo,

282 In Scarlet and Silk

and what are you asking for ,’ when the
dealer says—

‘Let's step inside, sir. There’s a fire there,
and I’m sure you won't be wanting to catch
cold just as the season’s beginning.”

You again “step inside,” and it cannot
be denied that the warmth of the fire—
well, then, it must only be just half a glass
more, Mr. Nemo—and a fresh cigar, for your
last one was jerked out of your mouth when
Rufus declined the water, exercise a certain
genial influence over your mind, and causes
you, perhaps, to look upon the depleting of
your balance at the bank with rather more
indifference than would have been the case
had you been shivering out in the middle of
the paddock. Besides, there’s that legacy,
you know. Wouldn’t Aunt Tabitha turn in
her grave if she only knew how you were
going to spend it !

‘He's worth a hundred and eighty of any-
body’s money, sir, that horse is. A good
horse, a sound horse, and one that will carry
a bit of weight. Not that that’s of any use

In the Off-Season 283

to you, sir, I know,” he hastens to add,
and you feel that you are glad he did say
this. Not that you are at all tetchy on the
subject of your weight; but still, knowing
you have gone up a bit lately (merely tem-
porarily, you know), you don’t want people
to imagine you are really getting heavy ; it’s
too ridiculous.

ce

And so to you, sir, I would say one

hundred and seventy — guineas,’ he adds,
evidently judging from the expression of your
face that, like the Bard of Avon (not the
second in the Cesarewitch, by the way), you
might think “ parting such sweet sorrow.”

A little further conversation; another ad-
journment to Rufus’s box, where you find
him contentedly munching a lock of sweet
hay; Tom’s aid requisitioned to remove the
blue flannel bandages from his legs, and per-
mit you to run your hands down them; a
return to the office, and then the deal is
clinched by Mr. Nemo’s remark—

“T should like to see you with that horse,
sir, I should indeed, and [ll tell you for why.

284 In Scarlet and Silk

He’s a good horse, and a generous horse, but
he’s a horseman’s horse, and it ain’t everybody
who could ride that horse as he should be
ridden. That's why I want you to buy him,
sir. Now, do you see?”

See! how could any one help seeing? Ex-
traordinary thing it is how quick some of
these people are. This one always had a
very high order of intelligence, I am sure.
As I said before, one can’t higele with a man
like that. You pull out your cheque-book,
and after a feeble, “Think you ought to
say pounds, you know,” fill it up for one
hundred and seventy guineas, give direc-
tions for the transfer to your own stable of
the new purchase, and drive back to town
with the comforting reflection that you have
got “a hunter.”

On the following Monday you find yourself
at Tatt’s in consequence of an announcement
in the Field that the stud of eight hunters
—‘‘well known with the Quorn and Mr.
Fernie’s ”—belonging to Sir Outrun Constable,

will be sold without reserve, the owner having

In the Off-Season 285

met with an accident. Which thing is a—
well, euphemism, let us call it, for we know,
as a fact, that nothing ails the sporting
baronet except an impecuniosity which has
now become chronic, and the utter obtuse-
ness exhibited by Mr. Shadrach Mozeltoff
when spoken to on the somewhat ticklish
subject of “‘renewals.” Under these circum-
stances he has sent his horses up to Albert
Gate, and transported himself from our
inclement shores and a set of grasping
creditors, to the balmy air and orange
groves of the sunny Mediterranean. Out
of the stud in question there is one grand
hunter that we covet, a grey. Constable,
we know, paid (or owed) close upon three
hundred for it last season as a five-year-
old. We think we will have just one bid for
Shamrock. Confound it! here’s that idiot
Stubbins, who has always said how much he
should like to buy the horse. Wonder if
we could manage to put him off it?

“How are you, Stubbins. Come up to
buy anything?”

286 In Scarlet and Sitk

‘Well, there are one or two in Constable’s
lot that I shouldn’t mind getting—at a price,
you know. They've most of them been gal-
loped almost off their legs; especially the
erey, you know.”

That decides you. This fellow is trying
to put you off buying Shamrock. You vow
within your wicked heart that Shamrock
shall be yours. ‘‘ Once on board the lugger”
—or rather, to descend from metaphor, once
on the good grey’s back, you will show the per-
fidious Stubbins the way along, and revenge
yourself sweetly on him for playing you that
dirty trick—which, by the way, when you
come to think of it, you were just contem-
plating playing him!

Two hours later (how slowly they sell the
horses preceding the one you want to buy)
the crowd at the lower end of the yard
parts to admit the passage of a rare good-
looking, dark grey horse. What a “ made
‘un”! what grand shoulders; and watch
how he picks up his feet and “goes all
round” as he trots up to the rostrum, fully

Ln the Off-Season 287
conscious of the fact that he is the cynosure
at
as you look him

of all eyes. You feel your own sparkle

least, you think you do
over from the tips of his pricked ears to the
one white heel behind.

“Lot 74. Grey gelding, Shamrock, good
hunter and brilliant fencer. What may I
say for Shamrock? Will any one put him in
at a hundred just to start with? He’s worth
three or four times that money, gentlemen.
Well then, ninety? Thank you, sir; ninety
guineas is bid. Ninety —ninety guineas—
one, two, five, a hundred; a hundred in two
places—and five, thank you. One hundred
and five guineas is bid for Shamrock. A
horse like this must be worth a great deal
more than that money, &c.”

Now, all this time you could see that
villain Stubbims nodding with an air of
determination which quite shocked you after
his unblushing statement before the sale
anent the horse’s legs. You get nettled,
and seeing all other opposition has about
died out, you determine to “sit upon” your

288 In Scarlet and Silk

friend, so trying to appear cool, you say,
‘“‘a hundred and twenty.”

Stubbins evidently doesn’t like being
“raised” that way. He casts a glance of
envy at the horse, reserving the “ hatred

]

and malice” part of it for you. Then with
a defiant gulp he cries out—

‘A hundred and thirty.”

“Forty,” and you look your enemy coolly
in the face as you say it.

That settles him. He walks away, evidently
longing for your blood. After all, it is a cheap
horse ; true, you haven’t had the opportunity
of ‘laying a lee” across him, but if you had
bought him in any other way, perhaps you
would have had to pay an extra fifty for the
privilege. Besides which, you have enjoyed
the satisfaction of “scoring off” Stubbins,
and that’s really dirt cheap at a tenner or so!

Both of these ways are pleasant ones for
getting hold of the “ materials of war,” and
another is to buy well-known performers in
the field; but then, of course, you must be
prepared to go, on occasions, to four or

In the Off-Season 289

five hundred for something very good. I
rode one one day in Northamptonshire,
which made over five hundred at the hammer
a fortnight later, and he was an aged horse,
too; and another, which Lord Clarendon had
paid six hundred for, some time before; and
although I think the man to whom money is
but a small object does wisely to give these
big prices for horses that really suit him—
why shouldn’t he ?—yet there is no doubt that
one can be carried right well, if a light-
weight, by horses that make very little more
than the odd shillings on those costly pur-
chases just named. A friend of mine a short
time since bought for forty sovereigns a rare
made horse, up to weight, and a grand per-
former; he afterwards won a good steeple-
chase with him. I picked up a very useful
hunter at Aldridge’s not long ago for twenty-
seven pounds, which carried me two seasons
without a fall, and was wonderfully fast ;
another that I bought, a perfectly sound five-
year-old, without a character of any sort, for

twenty pounds, made me a capital light-
T

290 In Scarlet and Sitk

weight hunter for five years—though I own
to her having given me fourteen falls the first
season; the best timber-jumper I ever rode
I bought for thirty ; and I remember Captain
Simpson, R.A., picking up a mare (as a four-
year-old) at Tattersall’s for twenty guineas,
on which I have seen him successful in three
or four Point to Point races, and she was also
an extraordinarily good hunter. In this case,
however, she owed all her education to her
buyer’s bold and clever handling. One has
only to pause and think a bit to be able to
give a score or more of such cases occurring
within one’s own experience. One I bought
out of a London hansom; another that had
been running in a ’bus; both turned out
good hunters, though the ‘“cabman” was
awfully hot with hounds.

At a somewhat early period of my life I
was possessed by what I can only now call an
unaccountable craze for hunting thoroughbred
weeds. In fact, I never felt so happy as when
I had acquired some shadowy-looking wretch
out of a selling race or training stable, with a

In the Off-Season 291

pedigree as long as its own tail. It never
seemed to dawn upon my benighted under-
standing that a little elementary jumping prac-
tice might not be entirely thrown away on the
brutes. No, I would buy one of these three-
or four-year-old “spectres” one day and hunt
it the next. The number of falls they gave
me was simply extraordinary; but then at
twenty one never gets hurt, somehow, and
most assuredly I never seemed to learn wisdom
from my frequent acquaintance with Mother
Earth. No sooner had one of the “ rips” got
some idea of jumping a country into its head
than it would probably be sold to make room
for “another of the same,’ which had caught
my fancy, perhaps, at some race-meeting, and
then the tumbling-about process would all
begin again de novo. Most of the brutes
whose prices came within my modest means
had ewe-necks and no shoulders; they were
almost without exception hard pullers, and
yet wouldn’t face a curb-bridle. All this made
the business fairly exciting when galloping
down hill, as may well be imagined.

292 Ln Scarlet and Sitk

To buy of the farmer over whose land we
hunt is a thing we should all do, where
feasible; but in many countries it is next
door to impossible, however much we may
wish it. In such deals I have always been lucky
enough to get very good value for my money,
and notably so on one occasion, when a curious-
looking, wizened-up old fellow, riding a niceish
young bay, addressed me at covert-side thus—

“Morning, sir. Want to buy a good young
hunter, now 2”

“ Well, I don’t know. How old is he?”

‘Comin’ four. Bred ’un myself. I live
over at yon farm there,” nodding his head in
the direction of a small homestead at the end
of the field we were then in.

“How much do you want ?”

“Sha’n’t say till you’ve seen ’un, and got
on un,” was the somewhat unexpected reply.

I glanced over the young one, and certainly
he looked a hunter in embryo.

“‘ T’]] come to-morrow at eleven,” I said.

The old chap merely nodded, and then
moved off.

In the Off-Season 203

Next day I got to the tryst punctually,
met my eccentric friend, and we walked to-
gether into a somewhat ill-kept stable to
inspect the horse. Here, he did not show to
advantage.

“Garge!” roared the old man, “saddle ’un
and bring ’un aout.”

When the colt stepped jauntily across the
threshold, my liking for him revived; but if
I liked him then, what were my feelings when
I got on his back? He was a perfect mover,
and as I took him round the field at the back
of the farm, I felt I was on a real good one.
I brought him back to where his owner and
““Garge” stood, deep in conference.

“Take and put ’un over they hurdles there.”

We cantered up to a flight of hurdles, and
the young ’un popped over them like a spar-
row. I could not conceal my delight. He
was a performer.

“How much ?” [ said.

“Now look ’ere, young man,” began the
farmer, in severe tones, one hand rattling the
coppers in his breeches pocket, whilst the

204 Ln Scarlet and Sitk

other, with forefinger upraised, appeared to
menace me; “that’s a good ’un, that is, and
if you doan’t like my price, it’s not a bit o
use for you to try to higgle wi me. I
wants thirty-five sovereigns for he, and I
doan’t take not a penny less; so now take it,
or leave it.”

“You want what?” I gasped, for this was
an animal well worth seventy or eighty.

“Thirty - five pounds, and not a penny
less.”

I said nothing. All I did was to climb off
that horse, take the excellent agriculturist by
the arm and lead him into his own house.
Instinct told me where he kept the pens and
ink, and I never wrote out a cheque in such a
hurry in my life! The young ’un turned out
one of the best hunters kind Fate has ever
thrown in my way.

Only a short time since, a friend was re-
minding me of my early penchant for the
non-jumping, weedy thoroughbred.

“Ah,” I said, “I’m a bit older now, and

have got over acting like a fool.”

=

In the Off-Season 295

“Oh, I really don’t see much change in
you, old fellow,” he answered.
And to this moment I can’t quite make

out in what light he meant that remark to
be taken.

THE END

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