The University Boat Race.

Simultaneously with the appearance ofBailyfor March, both the 1906 crews go into strict training for their race of April 7th. This date is certainly late, but not unduly so. April has been the month selected on numerous occasions of recent years, and Saturday, of course, especially appeals to Londoners. From the first, the Oxford President, Mr. E. P. Evans (Radley and University) has been in a position to view the outlook with a good deal of equanimity. For one thing, he has been blessed with a plethora of talent this year. Quite an exceptional lot of matured oarsmen are in residence and available. For another, he has had the valuable assistance of Mr. W. A. L. Fletcher, D.S.O., as coach, from the very beginning. This famous old Blue has been dubbed the “Kitchener” of coaches, and with a good deal of reason. His co-operation has ever been a potent factor towards victory both ways. As last year, he has given every aspiring Dark Blue oarsman his chance, and, thanks to his powers of discrimination, fewer changes have been made than usual. How rich in aquatic material Oxford is this season can best be gauged by the fact that many notable oarsmen have failed to find seats.

After his 1905 prowess, Mr. H. C. Bucknall (Eton and Merton) is very properly setting the work again. He was the hero of last year’s race, and is undoubtedly a stroke of thenascitur non fitorder. If anything, he is rowing longer and stronger this season. No. 7 thwart has been occupied respectively by Mr. E. A. Bailey (Marlborough and Merton) and Mr. A. C. Gladstone (Eton and Christ Church), stroke of the winning eight at Henley in 1905. Mr. Bailey is the stronger oarsman, but hardly so good a waterman as the Etonian. Any sacrifice of avoirdupois, therefore, will be amply compensated for giving the last-named’s permanent inclusion. When once the machinery is seen in motion any prejudice on this score vanishes. The president himself is at No. 6, backed at Nos. 5 and 4 by A. G. Kirby (Eton and Magdalen) and L. E. Jones (Eton and Balliol). Mr. Kirby is a freshman, who also rowed in the Eton winning eight at Henley last year, and Mr. Jones an old Blue, who got his colours in 1905.

All these heavy-weights are rowing well and long thus early. They not only possess great strength, but know how to apply it. Mr. J. Dewar (Rugby and New College) has been rowing at No. 3 thwart, and already in capital style, but if Mr. Gladstone remains at No. 7, Mr. Bailey may supersede the old Rugbeian. Mr. C. H. Illingworth (Radley and Pembroke) makes a very fine No. 2. He is an old Radleian captain of boats, who has figured at Henley on many occasions. The old Blue, R. W. Somers-Smith (Eton and Merton), and G. M. Graham (Eton and New College), have both been tried at bow by turns. Mr. Somers-Smith is the more polished oarsman, but his rival is much more powerful and effective. And, since his permanent inclusion, he has come on very appreciably.

Mainly composed of old Etonians and old Radleians, this year’s crew is exceptionally weighty, three of the men scale over 13st., and Mr. Jones over 14st. Avoirdupois is decidedly a feature, but, even thus early, they make good use of their weight. Mr. Fletcher has certainly succeeded in inculcating the theory of the right mode of applying force. Individually there is not a bad oarsman among them; and there are no ugly bodies. The blade-work is good, the catch fairly so, while, on the whole, the stroke is rowed right home with excellent leg-work. “As a crew,” they are just the one for Putney, if not for Henley. Perhaps their gravest fault at this stage is a lack of combination in swing and drive. The slides are used up too soon—before the hands are fairly into the chest; this makes them rather short back, and affects the finish. Altogether, however, they are rapidly developing into “a crew,” and a good one at that. They go to Henley for a fortnight’s practice within the next day or so, and will be fully ripe for the change. As the outcome, better uniformity in swing, sliding, and blade-work—so essential to a fast crew—should speedily obtain. Given such improvement, they will migrate to Putney about the middle of the month, distinctly one of the most promising Oxford eights sent out for many a long year.

In lesser degree, the Cambridge President, Mr. R. V. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity) has also been confronted with anembarras de richessesthis year; or, rather, he has had to discriminate between a large number of experienced oarsmen much-of-a-muchness in calibre. This, of course, has made his task much more difficult. For it is not enough that the men selected should separately be good, each must fit into his proper place, or the whole plan may be ruined. Mr. F. J. Escombe, the famous old Blue and coach, has assisted him from the first, which has meant a very great deal. Like Mr. Fletcher, he is nothing if not “observant,” while he is a past-master in the art (for an art it is) of gauging an oarsman’s real abilities. A lot of changing about has necessarily been imperative this year, and, as at Oxford, many notable oarsmen have failed to find places. For some weeks President Powell himself set the work, but his right place is at No. 6, by common consent. He is now rowing with remarkable power and polish at that thwart, and Mr. D. C. R. Stuart (Cheltenham and Trinity Hall) is at stroke.

This gentleman will be remembered as the famous London Rowing Club oarsman and sculler, who has figured prominently at Henley and Putney of recent years. He is not only a strong man physically, but applies his strength scientifically and keeps a good length. Even at full racing pace he appears easy to follow. He is admirably backed up at No. 7 by Mr. E. W. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity), brother to the president and a freshman this year. While the younger Powell is a stylist above all things, he puts a lot of power into his work and is very effective. So also is Mr. B. C. Johnstone (Eton and Third Trinity), the old Blue and C.U.B.C. Secretary, at No. 5. He and Mr. M. Donaldson (Charterhouse and First Trinity) at No. 4, are the heavy-weights of the crew, and splendid specimens of manhood. Both have improved hand over hand during the last three weeks, and, with President Powell, are the backbone of the crew. Mr. M. M. Goldsmith (Sherborne and Jesus) and Mr. J. H. F. Benham (Fauconberge and Jesus) are rowing at Nos. 3 and 2, respectively, up to date. They showed promising form in this year’s trial eights, and have gone on improving subsequently. As generally expected, Mr. G. D. Cochrane (Eton and Third Trinity), the reserve man last year, is seated at bow. He has recovered much of his best school form, and works as hard as any man in the boat. His colours are assured and deserved.

As will be seen, individually, the crew is somewhat heterogeneously composed. “As a crew,” however, the men have long since settled down to a very pleasing, effective, and uniform style. Taken individually, they are as good a set of men in a boat as the Oxonians. It is collectively that they fail to hit it off so well as their rivals at present. There is a smart recovery, a fair catch, and a fairly clean feather in evidence so far. But (by comparison) the less ostentatious but firmer and more vertical entry of the Oxford oars in the water produces more lift on the boat and more pace in the long run. A much improved leg-drive is now observable, but even yet the Cantabs do not make the best use of their weight. These and other irregularities will doubtless be rectified “bit by bit”—as Mr. Ashton Dilke puts it in another direction—as both Mr. Escombe and his charges are in deadly earnest. They also will migrate to upper Thames waters within the next day or so. A fortnight’s work on the livelier Bourne-End reach will do them all the good in the world, and prepare them gradually for their later Putney experiences. Oxford’s chances of success appear the rosier at this stage, but there is plenty of time for Cambridge to equalise matters. Oftener than not the last few weeks’ practice has sufficed to dash the cup of certainty from the lips of assurance. Will it this year? Under this heading I may have something to say to the readers ofBailynext month.

W. C. P. F.

Goose Shooting in Manitoba.

Perhaps there are some of your readers, especially those devoted to the sport of wildfowling, who may like to have an account of rather a good day’s sport I enjoyed amongst these birds in a country where they are very plentiful.

It was a lovely day, early in the fall of the year, that I and a friend started out from the little town of Boissevain in our four-wheeled Canadian buggy, bound for Lake Whitewater, some fifteen miles across the prairie, where we had heard the most wonderful reports of the countless number of wild geese that frequented it. We were both armed with 10-bores, as a 12-bore is not very effective against these birds, owing to the great thickness of the down with which they are covered. As we drove along through the vast fields of stubble (the grain having been all cut, threshed, and safely stowed in the vast elevators by this time) we encountered numerous flocks of prairie chicken (a bird not unlike a greyhen, and of the grouse tribe), and managed to secure two or three brace of these birds from the buggy, the horses not minding the report of the guns at all.

In the distance we could see the shimmer of a large piece of water surrounded by tall rushes, which we rightly took to be our destination. It seemed to be only two or three miles away, but as a matter of fact we still had ten more miles before us. The air was so wonderfully clear and transparent that we could see the people walking in the main street of the little town of Whitewater, which stands at the north shore of the lake from which it takes its name. As we drew nearer the lake we could hear a noise something like a vast crowd cheering at a football match, and we both looked at each other and exclaimed, “Can those really be geese?”

It was now 10 a.m., about the time that the geese return to the lake after feeding on the stubble since daylight. As far as the eye could reach (and the country being perfectly flat for miles we could see a tremendous distance) there were countless flocks of these birds, all bound for the same destination, each flock in the shape of a triangle, with a leader. Some flocks must have had from three to five thousand in them, others only a few hundred, some less. They looked like a vast army in battle array, some quite white (the Wavey), others of a darker colour (the Honker), and some were cross-bred, with an occasional flock of Brants. But they were all too high and out of range of our guns, so all we could do was to sit there and gaze in open-eyed amazement at that vast throng, wondering if it could be real, as we are only accustomed to seeing these birds in singles and pairs in our native Wales, and then but very seldom. We were now fast approaching a farmhouse close to the shores of the lake, where we intended to make our headquarters for the day, and, if necessary, stay the night, so as to be on the spot for the early morning flight out on to the feeding ground (generally the best flight of the day). The owner of the farm, an Englishman, needless to say, received us hospitably, the more so when he heard we had not forgotten the demijohn of rye whisky, so much appreciated by the Englishman in Canada; this is really much better than the average Scotch whisky, after being kept seven years in bond by the Canadian Government before it is allowed to be sold.

After lunch we decided that the day was too still to get near the geese, as they only fly low when there is a wind; so we hid ourselves in the rushes, the water being up to our middles, and there to wait for any duck, &c., that should come our way. This belt of rushes, which is about half a mile broad and surrounds the lake, is noted for all kinds of duck and teal. In half-an-hour I counted six different kinds, including Mallard, Pintail, Canvass Back, Grey Duck, Blue- and Green-winged Teal, and I managed to secure five of the latter; but they are very hard to find when dropped in the thick rushes. By six we had each shot a score of ducks and my friend had also a snipe to his credit, so we trekked back to the farm to supper, and after turning to with the milking, &c. (or “chores,” as they are pleased to call all small jobs round the house, and I believe the word is derived from the French wordchoses) we had a pipe and a glass of grog and turned in, as we had to be up by 4 a.m. the next morning. For a long time I lay awake listening to the “honk, honk” of the geese returning to the lake, till at last they settled down for the night, and all was still except for the croaking of the frogs.

By 4.30 next morning we were lying in the long grass on the shore of the lake, opposite a large sand-bank, on which we could dimly see dusky forms stalking about. There was a stiff breeze from the north, and everything augured well for our day’s sport, if only they would come low enough and in our direction. Gradually the sun rose like a golden ball in the east and the birds seemed to be getting uneasy. All at once there were shrill cries, and we knew the morning flight had begun. My heart was beating like a sledgehammer, as I had never yet shot a goose.

We had both taken the precaution to bring cartridges loaded with No. 1 shot, and I had also a few loaded with B.B. shot, as they were said to be more effective.

I raised myself gently on my elbows, and peeping over the top of the grass, I saw thousands upon thousands of grey and white forms circling in the air above the sand-bank. The noise by this time was deafening, and although we were only lying twenty yards apart we could not hear each other speak. The noise suddenly seemed to grow louder, and looking up I saw a large flock making straight for the spot where we were lying, and only about forty yards high. We crouched lower and lower and waited breathlessly. The leader was a large white Wavey, and I made up my mind to have him somehow. Just as he got directly over my head I turned on my back, and let drive both barrels at him. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, the whole flock being thrown into confusion, and then he gradually fluttered down almost on my head. I rushed upon him for fear he should escape, and after wringing his neck madly, I danced apas de seulround him for some minutes, quite forgetful of the hundreds of geese streaming over my head. But my friend recalled me to my senses quickly, and in language not quite parliamentary told me to lie down again and not be a fool. So I got down in the grass again on my back just as another flock came over, and out of which we got four apiece: it being a large flock we had time to reload and get in two barrels at the tail end. The great object is to shoot the leader, and that throws the whole flock into confusion, and you secure more time to reload, as they never go on till they have chosen another leader. An American told me a yarn of a countryman of his that used to ride along on horseback under the flock killing off the leader time after time, until he had exterminated the whole flock, but I give you this for what it is worth.

It was now about 5.30 a.m., and they were coming over us in one long stream all the time, evidently following the same flight which the first flock had taken, which I believe is their general custom.

By the time the last flock had disappeared on the horizon there were fourteen dead geese lying on the grass around us, and five wounded birds had flown back to the lake to die. A farmer living on the north shore of the lake told me he always went out directly the lake froze up and gathered in all the wounded geese that had been unable to fly and got frozen in with the ice. He said he often got from forty to fifty in this way.

By this time we were getting very stiff with the long wait, and were very glad to get up to stretch our legs, and congratulate each other on our excellent luck that the flight should just have come in our direction and within range.

We heard afterwards that more than a dozen sportsmen (amongst whom were two well-known Wall Street brokers who had travelled 2,000 miles for a week’s sport at this well-known Eldorado for wildfowlers) had that day lined the west shore with the hope of their taking that course, and they never saw a goose all day.

We now began to wonder how we were going to get our bag back to the farm, about a mile and a half distant, as fourteen geese are no light weight, and they were all fine fat birds (the stubble holding lots of feed for them that year, the crop having been a good one). Eventually we tied them all round our shoulders and waists and thus managed to stagger back to the farm, quite ready for our breakfast.

After breakfast we hitched up the horses, and bidding our host farewell, leaving him a few geese for his trouble, we started on our fifteen miles back to the little town of Boissevain. It was one of those glorious mornings with a lovely deep blue sky overhead that one only sees in North America at this time of year. We saw numerous flocks of prairie chicken, and added three brace of these birds to our bag.

At 12.30 we pulled up before the hotel from which we had started two days before, and were received with eager enquiries as to what luck we had had, or whether we had returned because the whisky had run out. Thus ended my first experience of goose shooting, and I have often wondered since why people use the expression “a silly goose,” for nobody could ever accuse a wild goose of being at all stupid.

In case any of your readers should ever find themselves in the neighbourhood of this lake I will try to give them some particulars of its situation and the best time of year to go there.

The wild goose is the only bird in Manitoba that is not protected by the Game Laws, and you can shoot him all the year round if you can get him. About the second week in April they come north from Mexico and Florida, and remain on Lake Whitewater till the first week in May, when they go north to the shores of the Hudson Bay to breed, coming south again in the fall of the year, remaining till the lake freezes up, when they go south as far as Mexico for the winter. I have known keen sportsmen, to whom time and money are no object, follow them thus through North America. Lake Whitewater is about fifteen miles long and six miles across, and not more than 5 ft. deep in the deepest part, with about 1 ft. of mud on the bottom. The water is alkali, and no fish are able to live in it. Its bottom is covered with small shells and this is the only reason I can think why the geese are so partial to it. They can feed on the bottom of the lake with ease, and being in the centre of a splendid wheat country they can quickly get out on to the stubble, and they feel they can sleep safely on the lake at night. The latest reports I had from this neighbourhood were very bad.

It appears that there is an American syndicate armed with a swivel-gun that comes over the line (the lake being close to the American border), and shoots the geese down in hundreds as they lie peacefully on the surface of the water at night, and, of course, they have hitched up and driven over the border with their spoil before daylight.

The local Game Guardian is evidently afraid to tackle them by himself, and the Western Canadian farmer is not sufficiently a sportsman to lend a hand. But it is a standing disgrace to the district that they should allow such a resort for geese to be ruined by a handful of Yankees, who have no legal right to shoot there whatever. Besides, the lake is quite a source of income to the little town which adjoins it, where the sportsmen who frequent this spot year after year buy all their provisions, ammunition, &c. If the citizens would only band together and make up their minds to catch the marauders red-handed, it could easily be done at a small cost, and this splendid resort for the wildfowler preserved for the future, whereas under the present conditions the birds will soon either be exterminated or driven to choose some other spot for their abode.

Borderer, Junior.

“Hunting Ladies.”

So much has it become an accepted fact that ladies in the hunting field, like motor cars, are there to stay, that it is perhaps unnecessary to trace the evolution of the modern sportswoman, or note her gradual development from the timid heroine of former days to the Diana of the present time, who is capable of holding her own with some of our best men across the stiffest country, of selecting her own hunters, and who possesses a thorough knowledge of all the details of stable management.

“Hunting ladies,” says a well-known contemporary, “drop into two classes, the industrious apprentice and the lotus eater,” and, without entirely endorsing such a sweeping assertion, there is much truth in the statement.

“The industrious apprentice” knows all about stable management and the price of forage, can identify a vixen with the tail of her eye, and may be followed with confidence in a big wood. She rides to the meet, knows all the bridle-roads, and three or four times during the season spends a Sunday afternoon on the flags.

Have we not all met her prototype?

The “lotus eater” will ride nothing but the best, has a preference for long-tailed horses with plaited manes, drives to the meet in a brougham, rides home at an inspiriting canter, and devotes the evening to the care of her complexion, the repose of her person, a Paquin tea-gown, and the infatuation of her latest admirer!

Possibly some may think this an exaggerated picture; still, many women in hunting countries go out because they are bored at home, because they see their friends and can talk scandal, because the hunt uniform is becoming; in short, for every conceivable reason, save and except a true love of sport.

It is, however, with the different types of the genuine sportswoman that we are now principally concerned, and though comparisons are always odious, yet we must acknowledge that it is only by comparing our own talents and performances with those of others that we can obtain a true estimate of their merit.

There is perhaps no more wholesome or profitable lesson for either man or woman than to be transplanted from the small provincial pack, where they have been considered a “bright and particular star,” to a fashionable hunt in the Shires, there to find themselves pitted against other stars whose light is considerably stronger than their own.

No doubt the good man or woman in an indifferent country will soon come to the front in any hunt, but competition is very severe, and whereas it is comparatively easy to make your mark in a field of forty, it is undoubtedly difficult to obtain a like distinction amongst the flower of a Leicestershire field.

Hunting is almost the only national sport in which men and women meet on really equal terms, and of late years women’s horsemanship, and perhaps we may say capacity for self-help, has increased so enormously that it must be a selfish man indeed who could truthfully declare that the presence of the average hunting woman in the field is now any real detriment to sport.

Also beauty in distress is a rarer object than in former days. Some few years ago, taking a lady out hunting practically meant an entire sacrifice of the day’s sport; now we seldom see Mr. B. off his horse, in a muddy lane, doing his frenzied best to improvise a breast-plate from a piece of string and the thong of his hunting crop for Mrs. G.’s horse, who possesses that intolerable fault in a lady’s hunter, a lack of “middle.” Self-girthing attachments have also obviated the irritating and incessant demand, “Would you be so kind as to pull up the girths of my saddle?” And ladies are undoubtedly much more helpful about mounting themselves.

We often hear it stated by the last generation that, since women invaded the masculine domain and took to cultivating field sports so enthusiastically, men have become less chivalrous and considerate in their manner and behaviour to the weaker sex.

Of course, now all intercourse between men and women is on a completely different footing to what it was fifty years ago, nevertheless there is no reason to suppose that a man respects a woman less because he does not address her in the language of Sir Charles Grandison, and there is still ample opportunity for the ordinary attentions and courtesies which women have a right to expect, and which we must own, in strict justice, it is usually their own fault if they fail to receive.

As far as horsemanship is concerned, we think men and women may be considered to divide the honours of the hunting field fairly evenly.

Even Surtees, who was by no means an advocate of hunting women, pronounced that when women did ride “they generally rode like the very devil,” they know no medium course, and are undeniably good or seldom go at all.

Every one will allow that with the long reins entailed by their position in the saddle, their firm seat and light hands, women are singularly successful in controlling a fidgety or fretful horse, and, in fact, are capable of riding any good hunter, provided he is not a determined refuser and puller; but if we analyse those qualities in which even good horsewomen fail, an eye for country and an ability to go their own line are unquestionably absent.

We once heard an enthusiastic sportsman declare that, in his opinion, no one who could not go their own line should be allowed to wear the Hunt button, but if all M.F.H.’s agreed with him upon this point, the greater percentage of their field would go buttonless.

Whyte Melville used to entreat lady riders “not to try to cut out the work, but rather to wait and see one rider at least over a leap before attempting it themselves”; still, with all deference to such a well-known authority, we cannot agree upon this point, as riding one’s own line entails that combination of valour and judgment which is the test of a really first-rate man or woman to hounds.

It is wonderful in a large field of horsewomen how remarkably few can live even three fields with hounds without a pilot; the path of glory may be said to lead, if not to the grave, at least to loss of hounds and frequent falls, yet, perhaps, there is no such intense rapture experienced as the bit of the run which we can truthfully assert we rode entirely “on our own.”

She had kept her own place with a feeling of pride,When her ear caught the voice of a youth alongside,“There’s a fence on ahead that no lady should face;Turn aside to the left—I will show you the place.”* * * * *To the field on the left they diverted their flight;At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

She had kept her own place with a feeling of pride,

When her ear caught the voice of a youth alongside,

“There’s a fence on ahead that no lady should face;

Turn aside to the left—I will show you the place.”

* * * * *

To the field on the left they diverted their flight;At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

To the field on the left they diverted their flight;

At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

If a lady is unable to go her own line and selects a pilot, she should remember that she is conferring no honour or pleasure upon her chosen victim, rather the reverse, as in most cases her company is “neither asked nor wanted.”

In return for his good offices, therefore, she should at least refrain from reproaches, if his judgment is not always infallible, neither should she weary him with unnecessary and tiresome questions, such as, “Can Tally-ho jump a really big place?” or, as we once heard while a whole field were waiting, strung up at the only available place, in the fence, “Bertie, Bertie,oughtI to jump on the beans?”

Many women ruin their nerve and limit their amusement by persistently riding only one or two especial horses; whereas, if they made an occasional change in their stud and rode as many fresh mounts as they could possibly obtain, it would be an incalculable advantage to both their courage and their horsemanship.

If there is one point more than another in which the modern horsewoman triumphs over her prototype of the last generation, it is in the matter of economy. Up to a few years ago, in addition to the chaperonage of a male relative, it would have been considered quite impossible for any lady to hunt unless she had a groom especially told off to dance attendance upon her, a necessity which added very considerably to the expenses of hunting.

Now that both this custom and the also old-fashioned idea that a horse required special training to render him fit to carry a lady have died away, women can mount themselves both better and cheaper than formerly, and, thanks to their good hands and light weights, are able to make use of the many good little horses which fetch such comparatively small prices at Tattersalls’ and elsewhere.

Those who regard hunting as a luxury to be reserved exclusively for the wealthy would possibly be surprised to find upon how very small a sum many keen sportswomen obtain their season’s amusement; and certainly in this department, at all events, the “industrious apprentice” triumphs over her “lotus-eating” sister. We have read in sporting novels, and even come across an isolated case in real life, of a lady who professed to act as her own groom. Yet here we must draw the line, for it must be an exceptional woman indeed who can turn to and strap a horse after the exertion a day’s hunting entails. The majority of ladies in such circumstances, we feel sure, would agree with the ethics of an old “teakettle” groom, who was wont to observe that he did not “’old with all that they cleaning and worriting ’oss, after ’unting; guv ’im a good an bid o’ straw and let ’im roll and clean hisself!”

Still, without actual manual labour, the eye of a mistress who knows how things ought to be done is a valuable adjunct to the efficacy of stable management; and when this is the case, old Jorrock’s precept may be laid down as correct, namely, “Hunting is an expensive amusement or not, jest as folks choose to make it.”

Finally, do men admire ladies in the field, or do they prefer to find their womenkind daintily attired by the fireside awaiting their return from the chase?

We all have our fancies and ideas as to what is most pleasant and agreeable, and like many things in this world, the key of the situation probably lies in the identity of the lady who hunts.

If she is pretty everyone welcomes her; if the reverse, they wonder “What bringsherout?” As Surtees, again, justly remarks, “dishevelled hair, muddy clothes and a ruddy and perspiring face, are more likely to be forgiven to the bloom of youth than to the rugged charms of maturer years.”

Some men think mounting themselves quite as much as they can manage in these hard times, and would rather have a wife looking after the house than tearing across country in hot pursuit of hounds; also (but let us whisper such a terrible suggestion), the lady might have the temerity to ride in front of her lord; and then, indeed, would come the end of all domestic peace and concord.

Most close observers, however, will have noticed that the real good sportswoman is a success in almost every relation of life, for she brings to bear upon the situation both courage, pluck and endurance, learnt amongst a host of other useful and valuable qualities in that best of all schools, “The Hunting Field.”

M. V. WynterandC. M. Creswell.

M. V. Wynterand

C. M. Creswell.

Some Theories on Acquiring a Seat.

He is a bold man, indeed, who presumes to write on the art of horsemanship. The very attempt is, as it were, a challenge to a host of critics—some competent, many otherwise, but all blessed with a keen eye to detect the incompetencies of the writer. And though the latter, in warming to his subject, may write with an air of final authority on what he thinks are incontravenable truths, still he is always open to a very different conviction, if only these said critics can contradict him to his own satisfaction. But in the art of horsemanship there is always one great drawback, that only those can thoroughly understand a comprehensive treatise thereon who are, and save the expression, expert themselves. For this reason the writer confines himself to one or two aspects of the art, only at the same time he must confess that if what follows is understood and successfully practised—well, then, the foundations are laid, the walls are built, and the sod before long tumbles naturally into its place.

Now riding is essentially a sleight of hand, and though we may all be clowns to a limited extent, yet no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown without hard work. And so the suggestion is thrown out here that no one ever became a perfect horseman without assiduous practice. On the other hand, no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown—or shall we say acrobat—who is not naturally endowed with certain india-rubber characteristics. And here, again, no one ever became a perfect horseman who was not naturally the possessor of an active and elastic, though not necessarily india-rubber, body. From this we may infer that practise can make a good rider, but that natural bodily activity as well is essential to the making of a first-class rider. It is a misfortune that there is no tyro more jealous of instruction than the tyro in horsemanship.

I have seen so many young riders, and it is they alone who concern me, who have really had latent possibilities, but who, from an original faulty position in the saddle, and, alas, a deaf ear, have not made the progress they should. Still, if they do not listen to the counsels of wisdom, and yet aspire to go straight, they will find sitting astride on their saddle that hard-bitten dame, Experience. She rides with us all. She likes hunting—is seen to play polo, and is known to go racing. Those, therefore, who like to find out all for themselves, can listen indefinitely to this good lady, and so take it first hand.

And now to get to the point, I would say to every tyro, watch carefully all good riders and compare them with yourself, and remember that in your present state of inefficiency you cannot judge for yourself. You must take them on trust.

And here let us marshal what might well be axioms of a textbook on horsemanship, namely:—

(1) That riders are made, not born.

(2) That an active, pliable body is the foundation of horsemanship.

(3) That in as far as the pliable body is born so is the horseman born.

(4) That pliability can be largely developed.

(5) That a really good seat is never seen without really good hands.

(6) That, therefore, hands and seat are an indivisible term.

(7) That a merely stick-fast seat, without ease, is not a good seat, and is always minus hands.

(8) That a really easy seat is a firm seat and goes with hands.

(9) That the really easy seat is due to balance, and balance is due to a correct position and great flexibility.

(10) That a proper grip,i.e., a non-fatiguing grip, is founded on balance and not balance on grip.

(11) That a true balance not dependent on grip alone gives a free, quick, strong leg—the mark of a “strong” rider.

(12) That a true balance is founded on a proper length of stirrup, which alone can ensure the rider sitting really on his saddle.

(13) That the true balance, founded on a proper length of stirrup and pliability of body alone, gives the long free reins which is half the problem of hands.

(14) That to ride with too long a stirrup is a very common fault. It means too forward a seat, hence too short a rein, and consequently bad hands.

(15) That to ride with too short a stirrup is an uncommon fault, and only interferes with the hands in as far as it affects security of seat.

(16) That there is little variation between the seats of six first-class horsemen, a great deal between the seats of six secondary horsemen.

And so on with postulatesad infinitum, but to tabulate thus may make for lucidity.

Take No. 1. Many hunting men must constantly have seen a useless hand ride himself into a higher sphere of horsemanship, must have seen him by constant practice change from a stiff automaton at variance with his horse into a quick, pliable, strong rider; and Experience has been the mistress. But real experience means riding, firstly, many different horses; secondly, horses nice-tempered, but beyond him; thirdly, unbroken, hot and bad-tempered horses, and last, but not least, a “slug.” No man will learn to really ride if he always rides what he can manage; for that is not experience.

But to make a rider into a first-class man, to make him acquainted with the power of the leg, to teach him how absolutely essential it is, and how the automatic and non-fatiguing use of it alone makes the “strong” rider, and is half the battle in keeping to hounds, check-mating refusers, ensuring a perfect bridling of the horse and getting the uttermost jump out of him at a fence, then let him finish his education, which, by the way, never is finished, by riding a well-bred slug for a whole season on the top of hounds.

The remaining postulates more or less speak for themselves. They are all part of a whole, for it is hard to believe, if a man is to go in unison with his horse, that he can divide his equestrian body into parts. Hands and seats, as the writer understands hands and seats, are one, if horse and rider are to be one.

Take, however, No. 14. What is the chief mechanical fault that lies at the bottom of bad and second-rate horsemanship, the mechanical foundation upon which all the subtleties of horsemanship rear their intricate selves? Unquestionably too long a stirrup. This is the common fault, every potentiality is nullified by it. It is a fatal bar to riding, but, alas, its cure does not necessarily mean horsemanship. It is easy to shorten the stirrup. It is far harder to acquire flexibility; but with too long a stirrup real riding pliability and the hands that accompany it are unattainable. Every good rider must remember the time when he rode with too long a stirrup. He must remember, too, how the gradual shortening was followed by an immediate improvement in his riding, and the greater enjoyment thereof.

Probably he went to the other extreme and used too short a stirrup, and nearly, or perhaps quite, lost his seat.

Now, how is the rider to find a proper length of stirrup? Not, it is quite certain, by an absurd comparative measuring of legs and arms; individual proportions differ. No, it is a matter of experience. It is certain at first to be overdone, or underdone, but there comes a time when a rider can attune his stirrups, according to the difference in the width of horse or size of saddle he bestrides, with automatic readiness.

Now the first sensation of a rider who has been riding too long is that he is now riding too short, and it requires a great deal of firm persuasion on the teacher’s part, and docility on the pupil’s part, to keep him at the proper length.

Now, why does he feel too short and insecure when his double may be rejoicing in the security of the same seat? In the first place, with too long a stirrup he has been relying unduly on their support for his balance. He has also, to negative the action of the horse, been rising far too strongly on them. Now let him watch first-class riders. He will notice that they rise but little in their stirrups, the motion of the horse is mainly taken in an easy motion of the loins and shoulders; and, owing to the fact that they aresitting onthe horse and notstandingin too long a stirrup, they show but little daylight, and their feet are not dangling toe downwards for a support a good seat does not require.

Let the young rider, then, shorten his stirrups and sit down on his horse. He will gain the rudiments of balance without as yet much grip. For some time he may feel bumpy, insecure—in short, like a man who is trying to float on his back for the first time.

Still it is the only way to acquire the flexible body, and lose the yearning for excessive stirrups. The mere fact that he will at first still sit too much over his shortened stirrups and will try to rise on them as of old, will tend to raise him out of the saddle and give a great sense of insecurity. To lessen this unpleasant feeling, he must for self-protection sit further back, when he will shortly find a balance, this time founded on a real seat. The knees will find themselves where they grip the best. The new position is also in that spot which is best calculated to set up that rhythmic ease of body which not only means hands, but by taking up the motion of the horse reduces rising in the stirrups to a minimum. This will leave the actual seat undisturbed—free to grip, to sit easy, what it will.

It stands to reason the motion of the horse must be transmitted to its rider, but it must not be transmitted to the gripping machinery nor the seat. It must be transmitted to that part of the body best built to bear it, namely, the loins and sliding shoulder blades, which act as springs, buffers, or cushions. It is possible, of course, and in bare-back riding essential, for the loins and shoulder blades to take all the motion and the stirrups none. But the stirrups are there for reasonable assistance only; they are aids, not necessities.

We know if a loose marble was placed against the end of a fixed iron rod, and the other end of the rod was smartly tapped, that the marble would move. In the same way, if we substitute the action of the horse for the tap and the immovable iron bar for the rider’s grip, we shall find in the lively marble the pliable loins and shoulders of a good rider, which are far more seat than that part of the rider which is in actual contact with the horse.

The foregoing, then, is the secret of a firm seat and an easy one. From such a seat spring fine hands, long reins, and the whole bag of subtle tricks, which are otherwise, to mix one’s metaphors, a closed book. In the above it should have been said that it is taken for granted the rider rides “home” in the stirrup. Few real horsemen ride otherwise, except in hacking. Using the stirrup in a limited degree, they prefer to have it where it requires no attention, and is not liable to be lost. It would mean a hole longer in the leathers, and of course a rider can ride that way. But where a rider says he rides thus for the sake of the spring it is a confession at once of too long a stirrup and inferior riding. He is dependent on his stirrup a great deal too much. His stirrup is taking far too much of that motion which should be finding expression in the motion of the body. The leg, that is to say, is doing a duty which has very little to do with it. It cannot, therefore, properly discharge its own, which, as a free member, independent of seat, is to squeeze and encourage the horse at will.

A toe in the stirrup, then, is often, but not always, an indication of too long a stirrup, resulting in bad hands and all its host of attendant evils.

X. Y. Z.

“Our Van.”

Quite a fillip, which was very welcome, was given to racing under National Hunt Rules during the week which included the last days of January and the first days of February. Gatwick began it, and, with two stakes of £500 each, and the minimum of £100 only once not reached, success was well deserved. One doubts whether much profit can accrue from a meeting run on these liberal lines in winter. The meeting had been brought forward from March with the view of steering clear of the whirlpool which, later on, draws everything that can jump into the Grand National. The experiment must be deemed successful, for horses were numerous on each of the two days, whilst the public turned up in good numbers in anticipation of sport that was not denied them. One felt almost as though attending at a revival, so mediocre and tame had been much of the racing earlier in the jumping season. On the first day the chief item was the Tantivy Steeplechase, and in this the five-year-old Sachem, who had shown ability over hurdles, winning two hurdle races at the Sandown Park December Meeting, one of them the Grand Annual Hurdle Handicap, came out as a steeplechaser for the first time in public. He did so with conspicuous success, for he was carrying 11st. 10lb. and won in excellent style. By far too many people knew that he had been fencing in good form at home for the price about him to be long, and only the presence of Rathvale prevented him from starting favourite. On the second day came the International Hurdle Handicap, and in this Isinglass’ son, Leviathan, did well by carrying home 11st. 12lb. to victory.

Kempton Park followed on in the same liberal style, and met the same degree of success. The £500 race on the first day was the Middlesex Hurdle race, in which that expensive purchase, Sandboy, who had won a couple of hurdle races, was running, weighted the same as The Chair. The last-named always had the foot of Sandboy, being sent on a pace-making mission which he carried out with such effect as to lead to within twenty strides of the post. A sudden dash by Therapia, however, gave her the race by a neck; and whether the rider of The Chair was caught napping is a question upon which no agreement is likely to come about. On the second day, John M.P. created a great impression by the way he won the Coventry Handicap Steeplechase, named after the Earl of Coventry, carrying 12st. 2lb. The way he strode along and jumped made one think of Aintree, but two miles over ordinary fences is a very different story to four and a half miles of the Grand National staggerers. If John M.P. proves to be a genuine stayer, then he must have a great chance. The only previous outing this season of John M.P. was a hurdle-race under 12st. 7lb.

Sandown came in for some icy weather for its February Meeting. Over the three miles of the Burwood Steeplechase Ranunculus did a very smooth performance, but had nothing to push him, much less beat him. In winning the Sandown Grand Prize, a Handicap Hurdle Race, under 12st. 7lb., Rassendyl showed himself improved out of all knowledge, and scored his fourth consecutive win out of four times out. Mr. Stedall is persevering enough to deserve a good one now and then.

At Hurst Park the next week a splendid entry was obtained for the Open Steeplechase, but the race fizzled out to a field of three, and of these Kirkland was as fat as the proverbial pig, though looking extremely well. John M.P. gained a very easy win from Desert Chief, who, besides chancing his fences in a way that spells grief at Aintree, altogether failed to get three miles.

It is not unlikely that some clerks of courses will, in the future, make a slight alteration in the distance of some of their handicap steeplechases, so as to escape the action of the new conditions for the Grand National, one of which penalises a winner of a handicap steeplechase over a distance exceeding three miles 6 lb. extra. Winners of any two steeplechases of three miles or over are penalised 4lb.

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