A Hundred Years Ago.

Red Quill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Farewell to a Hunter.

To no misfortune in the fieldHe bows, fit ending of the game;No weight of years bids him to yield,But swift disease that warps his frame.So Mercy stepping in must breakThe bonds that Love would fain hold fast,And hand-in-hand we come to takeA look we know must be the last.For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,His keen bold spirit will have foundThat refuge on the other side,Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.Farewell, old friend, farewell! and whenThe last great leap is left behind,And passing from the haunts of men,By earthly limits unconfined,You roam that strange mysterious land,That vast beyond where travellers wait,Where mortal foot may never stand,Nor mortal vision penetrate,Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwellOn joys by memory roused from rest,When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,And Fortune gave us of her best.Recall the pageant of the meet,The snug gorse covert on the hill,The good sound turf beneath your feet,The glorious run, the glorious kill.Nor think as year by year decaysIn robes of russet, red, and gold,That wanting you, November daysCan be to us as days of old.

To no misfortune in the fieldHe bows, fit ending of the game;No weight of years bids him to yield,But swift disease that warps his frame.

To no misfortune in the field

He bows, fit ending of the game;

No weight of years bids him to yield,

But swift disease that warps his frame.

So Mercy stepping in must breakThe bonds that Love would fain hold fast,And hand-in-hand we come to takeA look we know must be the last.

So Mercy stepping in must break

The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,

And hand-in-hand we come to take

A look we know must be the last.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,His keen bold spirit will have foundThat refuge on the other side,Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,

His keen bold spirit will have found

That refuge on the other side,

Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and whenThe last great leap is left behind,And passing from the haunts of men,By earthly limits unconfined,

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when

The last great leap is left behind,

And passing from the haunts of men,

By earthly limits unconfined,

You roam that strange mysterious land,That vast beyond where travellers wait,Where mortal foot may never stand,Nor mortal vision penetrate,

You roam that strange mysterious land,

That vast beyond where travellers wait,

Where mortal foot may never stand,

Nor mortal vision penetrate,

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwellOn joys by memory roused from rest,When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,And Fortune gave us of her best.

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell

On joys by memory roused from rest,

When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,

And Fortune gave us of her best.

Recall the pageant of the meet,The snug gorse covert on the hill,The good sound turf beneath your feet,The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Recall the pageant of the meet,

The snug gorse covert on the hill,

The good sound turf beneath your feet,

The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Nor think as year by year decaysIn robes of russet, red, and gold,That wanting you, November daysCan be to us as days of old.

Nor think as year by year decays

In robes of russet, red, and gold,

That wanting you, November days

Can be to us as days of old.

The New Year at the Theatres.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quid.

Racing at Gibraltar, in 1905.

BY AN OWNER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Half a Century’s Hunting Recollections.V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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