Chapter XIII.Other Great Horses.
There have been numerous other great horses in our country, some of them standing on a high pedestal, but none of them on quite such a lofty one as that supporting Carbine or The Barb. Some may worship the memory of one, some that of another. It is a case of “laudabunt alii” (each man to his own choice). But we should like to recall a few of those celebrities, some of them dead and gone, a few still in the land of the living. Chester and First King were good, possibly even great horses. As two-year-olds they never met, but both were champions, First King winning all his three engagements, and Chester four out of five. The latter was beaten a head in his initiatory effort by Sir Hercules Robinson’s Viscount—an evident fluke. As three-year-olds there was a battle royal between the two. The Derby, Chester won easily by half a length. In the Mares’ Produce, a mile and a quarter Mr. White’s colt repeated the dose. But in the Championship, over three miles, First King won by four lengths, and he beat the New South Welshman, but only by a short head, in the Leger. Chester had no engagement in the Australian Cup, which First King won, and in the Town Plate, two miles, Chester had no difficulty in putting the King down by two lengths. It is possible that Mr. Wilson’s colt was a little stale after the Australian Cup. They never crossed swords again, and although Chester won seven out of his eleven engagements as a four-year-old, I question if he was ever so good again as he was at three. Horses like Warlock, Melita and Cap-a-pie beat him at weight-for-age, which, had he been at his best, could never have occurred. First King did not appear as a four-year-old, but at five years he was only beaten once, and that was by the Derby winner, the beautiful, shapely, grey, Snowden colt, Suwarrow, in the Canterbury Plate, two miles and a quarter. But in his winning efforts he had no really great horses to conquer, although one or two of his opponents were good, Richmond—past his zenith—Wellington and Swiveller being the best of them. On paper, the honours are pretty evenly divided between Chester and First King, and I daresay old-time racing men could argue with some gusto after dinner in favour of their particular fancy, and might finally have to rise from the table unconvinced, or, if convinced against their will—well, holding the same opinion still.
Grand Flaneur was the next public idol. He was never beaten, and how good he was it is difficult to say. This great colt only ran once in his first season, when he won the Normanby Stakes at the Flemington New Year Day Meeting. Palmyra and Cinnamon were in the field, the former being favourite at even money. At three years Grand Flaneur commenced with the A.J.C. Derby, and then went through an unbroken sequence of victories in the Mares’ Produce, the Victoria Derby, the Melbourne Cup, the V.R.C. Mares’ Produce, the Champion, the Leger and the Town Plate.
Grand Flaneur may have been lucky in racing during a rather lean year, but over and over again he cantered home from the Angler colt Progress, who, when the big fellow was not present, invariably smothered the opposition in the most convincing manner possible, and there is no doubt whatsoever that Mr. W. A. Long’s colt was really and truly “great.” He ran no more after his three-year-old career terminated.
Malua was better than simply a “good horse.” One that could win, in his four-year-old season, a Newmarket Handicap, six furlongs, the Oakleigh Plate, five and a half furlongs, and the Adelaide Cup, a mile and five, was something of a genius. And as a five-year-old he graduated in the weight-for-ageclass, taking the Spring Stakes, a mile and a half, the Melbourne Stakes, a mile and a quarter, and the Melbourne Cup, two miles, carrying nine stone nine, his rival, Commotion, being half a length off second, with his nine twelve up. As a six-year-old, with nine nine, the Australian Cup, two and a quarter miles, fell to Malua, and then, as an eight-year-old stallion, he won the Grand National Hurdle Race easily, carrying his owner, Mr. J. O. Inglis, who was a very fine horseman. It must be confessed that Malua was wonderfully favourably handicapped for a winner of his great class, as his weight was only eleven stone seven. Twelve seven would have been a more reasonable impost. Malua may not have been quite up to the pitch of a “great” horse, but he was terribly near it, and his brilliant and determined run over the last two furlongs may have been electrifying enough to have defeated even the best. And in estimating his merit, we must take into account his unusual versatility. Of course, Abercorn was a “great” horse. His was that great light which caused the greater light of Carbine to burn with such dazzling brilliancy. The great, slapping, lengthy chestnut won for Mr. White twenty races, all of them against the highest class of horse, out of a total of thirty-four starts. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek when Abercorn, Australian Peer, Carbine and Melos threw down their gauntlets.
Australian Peer scored many points, but undoubtedly Abercorn won the rubber. A great racehorse, he was promising at the stud, and gave us a stayer in Cobbity, another lovely mover and good winner in Coil, and a Derby horse in Cocos. All the three, by the way, were out of the one mare, Copra. Abercorn was bought to go to Ireland, and there he did very little good. Had he remained behind in Australia, and continued to produce horses of like merit with the three mentioned, there might have been a different tale to tell. As it was, with him the blood of Whisker seemed to peter out.
Wallace was in the “great” class, and was certainly a very great sire. His two-year-old career was not so promising in public as it was in private, for, although backed well upon many occasions, he only secured a single bracket out of eight attempts. As a three-year-old he commenced with a second in the Spring Stakes to Hova, and then went from strength to strength, taking the Guineas, the Derby, and the C. B. Fisher Plate. In the Leger something happened which fairly made me groan with anguish, as I sat there watching a good horse being beaten by a comparative commoner. Mr. H. Oxenham had two representatives, Cabin Boy and Waterfall, in the race. The latter was a pretty good horse, and Gough, on Wallace, galloped along beside him, the only competitor whom he thought was likely to offer any dangerous opposition whatever. Delaney, Cabin Boy’s rider, meanwhile, in the guise of making the running for his companion, shot away, secured a tremendous lead, and Wallace could never quite get up. Next day Idolator, a six-year-old, with seven three on his back, just got home from Wallace, in the Australian Cup, carrying eight ten. It seemed to me that Wallace winced in the last few strides as though he had been struck with the whip on a painful spot, but I never heard until lately whether this was the case or not. Mr. Phillip Russell, the owner of Idolater, says “No.” The verdict was half a head. Next day Mr. James Wilson, Junr.’s beautiful Trenton mare, Quiver, ran a dead heat with Wallace in the three-mile championship, and they completed the distance in the then record time of 5 min. 23¼ sec. It has only once been beaten since, by three-quarters of a second, when Radnor won, and it will never be equalled again, as the race has since been abolished. In the autumn, at Randwick, Wallace won the Leger, the Sydney Cup, with eight twelve, the Cumberland Stakes, but, probably stale, lost the three-mile A.J.C. Plate to a couple of moderateslike The Harvester and Fort. This practically closed the son of Carbine’s racing career, as he only once more faced the barrier, in the following spring. At the stud he has earned imperishable renown. There is, unfortunately, just a shadow of doubt as to whether or not he is going to be a proven sire of sires. So far we have seen no son of his who appears to be destined to carry on the line in tail male. But with Wallace Isinglass, Patrobas, Wolowa and Trafalgar, there is certainly a distinct hope. As the sire of great brood mares there is not the slightest anxiety as to his future fame, for that is established already.
Newhaven followed fast on Wallace’s footsteps, for he won the V.R.C. Derby the very year after the Carbine colt. As a two-year-old he took, amongst other races, the Maribyrnong Plate and the Ascot Vale Stakes, carrying the full penalty. His three-year-old performances quite entitled him to take his place among the “greats,” and although, perhaps, a horse of moods, or more likely an animal easily affected by what might have been a trifle to some of his peers built in a coarser mould, he was really awfully good. One can never forget how, after having won the Derby in smashing style, he came out in the Cup, and with the substantial burden of seven thirteen on his three-year-old back, seven pounds over weight-for-age, he took the lead before passing the judge’s box the first time round, never relinquished his advantage, and finally strode home half a dozen lengths to the good. Some of us, whilst taking a walk round the course on the evening before the great race, were talking “Cup” all the time. Mr. W. E. Dakin, a keen judge of racing and of a horse, pulled up at the five furlong post from home, and with a wave of his stick, oracularly decided that “here Newhaven will begin to come back to them.” I had the privilege of sitting beside Mr. Dakin during the race, and, just at the point which he had indicated, the chestnut colt seemed to take a fresh lease of life and shot out with an even more substantial lead than before. I could not refrain from nudging my friend’s knee and saying: “How about Newhaven coming back to them now?”
After a very successful three-year-old career, his victories including the Championship, the Loch Plate, the A.J.C. St. Leger and the A.J.C. Plate, Mr.—afterwards Sir William—Cooper took him to England. He was a very free, loose galloper, with a curious amount of knee action, a style which caused one to be rather doubtful of his staying powers until he had unmistakably refuted all suspicions by his deeds. Newhaven was by Newminster from Oceana, by St. Albans (son of Blair Athol), her dam, Idalia, by Tim Whiffler (imp.) from Musidora, by The Premier—Dinah, by Gratis from an unknown mare. Hers is one of those pedigrees which one would give worlds to fathom to the very depths.
Maltster, great as his success afterwards was at the stud, can scarcely be catalogued amongst the great. He was good, and had he had the opportunity, might possibly have been promoted to this, the seventh heaven, but, as it was, his working days were over by the autumn of his three-year-old career, and he had the fortune to come in a rather lean year, when no giants as of old were stalking upon the earth.
Poseidon, a failure at the stud, was, on the racecourse, great. He commenced his career so modestly that no one would have suspected that a bright sun had arisen in the morning skies. He won a Nursery at the A.J.C. January Meeting, and was allotted six stone eight in the Melbourne Cup.
Early in the following spring he was still, apparently, without any ambition towards higher things. He commenced by winning a welter at the Sydney Tatt.’s Club gathering in September, and followed it up with a victory in the Spring Handicap at Hawkesbury. Then, with odds of seven to one againsthim, he was proclaimed the A.J.C. Derby winner, beating Collarit, Antonious, Iolaire and a couple more. With his penalty he was beaten next day by Solution in the Metropolitan. Then came triumphs in the Eclipse Stakes at Caulfield, the Caulfield Cup, with a fourteen-pound penalty, the Victoria Derby, the Melbourne Cup, the St. Helier Stakes at Caulfield in February, the St. Leger at Flemington, and the Loch Plate, two miles, beating Dividend. Then he was checked in this triumphal progress. Dividend took down his number in the Champion, and again in the Cumberland Stakes at Randwick. Meanwhile, however, Poseidon had won what was practically a bloodless victory in the A.J.C. St. Leger.
At four years Poseidon still retained his form, and was successful seven times, the Spring Stakes, the Eclipse, the Caulfield Cup, with nine stone three up, the Melbourne Stakes, the Rawson Stakes, the Cumberland Stakes, and the A.J.C. Plate falling to his lot. Mountain King, however, who might have been a great horse but for wind troubles, beat him in the Rawson Stakes in spring, the Craven and the C. B. Fisher Plate. Poseidon was unplaced (eighth) in the Melbourne Cup that year, carrying ten stone three, including a penalty, and he did but little more. Had Alawa depended upon his three-year-old record, he might have been included in the Roll of Honour, but his star had reached its zenith by his three-year-old autumn, and those greater suns, Comedy King and Trafalgar, obscured his lesser light until it finally sank beneath the horizon. There was a rich vintage just at this period of our history: Trafalgar, Alawa, Comedy King, Prince Foote. It was when Comedy King was a four-year-old and Trafalgar a five-year-old that the real fun began. The latter was a chestnut horse by Wallace from Grand Canary, by Splendor from a Lapidist mare, and to see him walking out for his afternoon exercise, or lagging along in the saddling paddock, you would never, as a casual spectator, have taken him for anything but a rather lazy, spiritless, washy old gelding. He was sleepy, indifferent to his surroundings, careless of the calls of love, or of what the next hour might bring in the shape of a tussle with some worthy foe.
Comedy King, a rich brown, with fire in his eye, and in his every movement, with a skin like satin, showing every vein as he paced along, was the very antithesis of his great rival. He had been imported by Mr. Sol. Green, at his mother’s side, and he was by King Edward’s horse Persimmon, out of Tragedy Queen, a Gallinule mare.
Prince Foote was a great three-year-old. But his nine victories at that age left their effects upon him, and he only started three times as a four-year-old, winning the Chelmsford and running second in the A.J.C. Spring Stakes to Comedy King, beating Trafalgar, Pendil, etc. The Chelmsford came early in the spring, and here, with the exception of Maltine, he had not much to beat. As a three-year-old, however, he won the Chelmsford again, against a large field, including that great miler, Malt King; the A.J.C. Derby, from Patronatus and Danilo; the V.R.C. Derby, the Melbourne Cup, carrying two pounds over weight-for-age; the V.R.C. Leger; the Champion Stakes from Pendil; the A.J.C. Leger; the A.J.C. Plate, from Pendil and Trafalgar; and the Cumberland Stakes, two miles, from the same couple. Yes, he was a “great” three-year-old.
Between Trafalgar and Comedy King it was a case of “pull devil, pull baker,” so long as they were running at a distance not beyond a mile and a half. After that Trafalgar was the master. For, although Comedy King beat the chestnut in the Cup, the latter was giving weight, and I do not think that many people, with the exception of Comedy King’s backers, were altogether satisfied that Trafalgar had had a clear run. The black horse, atthree years, won the Futurity at Caulfield, with a twenty-one pound allowance; as a four-year-old he took the Cup, the St. George’s Stakes, the Essendon Stakes, the All-Aged Stakes, and the Autumn Stakes. And at five years the Eclipse again fell to him, after which he retired. But Trafalgar, his arch enemy, secured twenty-four high-class races, and raced on until he was seven years old. He won at distances varying between nine furlongs and three miles, but the farther he went the better he liked it, and, strangely enough, he appeared to be gaining in speed as he grew older. And he never left an oat in his manger, and would clean up everything that was offered him, even when undergoing a course of physic, while his legs were of iron. I would not have liked to go into his box by myself, nor without his boy at his head. He was a sour old dog, and did not like to be disturbed in his castle. I have seen him “round” on his trainer and eject him without much ceremony from his box when in an ill humour. But I have no doubt that after he went out of training, and had liberty, and not too much strapping, he became the mildest mannered horse that ever won a race or cut a rival’s throat. I fear, however, that he is not a success at the stud, although a sure foal-getter. Comedy King, on the other hand, sires innumerable gallopers, from hurdle jumpers up to the winners of the greatest prizes to be gained on the turf to-day. And I think you would have anticipated the destiny of the pair had you seen them often in their daily lives.
Of the horses of the last lustrum it is difficult to speak, and, indeed, before history has had time to give her verdict, it might be injudicious to open one’s mouth. But I can safely say this: I never saw a performance in my life which equalled that of Artilleryman in the Melbourne Cup of 1919. He had been a somewhat uncertain performer in his two-year-old days. As a three-year-old he had run Richmond Main, a very good colt, a dead heat in the A.J.C. Derby, and had been well beaten by the same horse in the V.R.C. classic event, a few weeks after. But there were extenuating circumstances, I admit, in the latter race. In the Cup, three days later, running next the rails, and in a fair, but not a too flattering position as the field streamed to the bend, Lewis, his rider, perceiving a clear space ahead of him, shot his colt through, and in a very few seconds the contest was all over. Artilleryman, with his weight-for-age on his back, simply squandered the field. The official verdict was six lengths. The photographers made it at least a dozen. The eyesight of the excited spectators pronounced the gap between the winner and Richmond Main, the second horse, at anything varying between a hundred yards and a quarter of a mile. From a coign of vantage, unhampered by the crowd, and in a semi-official capacity, I judged the brown horse to be over ten lengths to the good as he passed the winning post. This great colt won his autumn engagements at Flemington, although to the professional eye there was something not quite all right about his physical state at that time. Nevertheless, he travelled on to Sydney, where he was badly beaten in all his engagements. It then transpired that all was not well with him. A swelling had made its appearance both on the outside and on the inside of his near thigh, and his near hock was enlarged. Unfortunately, the trouble went on from bad to worse, and in a few months this great son of Comedy King succumbed, dying, strange to say, within a few hours of Mr. Alec Murphy, who was a partner in the horse with his friend Sir Samuel Hordern.
The verdict, as I write, has not yet been pronounced upon the risen sun of to-day, Eurythmic. That he is a very good horse indeed, there can be little doubt. That he is a really great one is not yet quite certain. The best of judges point out that Eurythmic has been tremendously lucky; that he has never metanything which can be called great, with the exception of Poitrel, who undoubtedly was a very excellent stayer indeed. At a mile, and, perhaps, at a mile and a half, Eurythmic was superior to game little Poitrel, but we only once saw them meet over a distance of ground, and that was in the Melbourne Cup. Here, giving ten pounds, Poitrel won cleverly, with Eurythmic a good fourth. At weight-for-age, Poitrel would have been giving his rival only six pounds. So that it certainly looks as though the Poitrels “had it on the voices.” But there is just a lingering feeling in the mind that Eurythmic had not yet quite come to his own on that fine spring day when the Cup was decided, and his subsequent form showed very distinct improvement. We shall see. But the name of Poitrel is assuredly one of those “that glow from yonder brass.”
Of course, there have been infinitely fewer great mares on the turf than there have been famous and great horses. And this is peculiarly noticeable in Australia, for what reason I am unable to say. Thus, since the St. Leger was first instituted in this country until to-day, a mare has only won the race six times. In England, on the other hand, during the same span, a mare has been hailed the winner on fourteen occasions. Perhaps it is for this reason that, when a mare does stamp herself as the best of the year, and perhaps of her generation, she catches the affection of the public even more firmly than does some great horse hero of the course. It may be, too, that there is more sympathy felt by everyone for the weaker vessel, and that naturally, for the crowd, who are composed more of men than of women, it is easier to love anything female as opposed to male. Whatever may be the cause, there it is, anyhow. If you let your mind run back during the last sixty years or so to the racing in the Old Country, the love manifested by the mob for Regalia, Achievement, Caller Ou, Formosa, Hannah, Apology, La Fleche, Sceptre and Pretty Polly was far more firm and enthusiastic than for all the Ormondes, Isonomys, Donovans, Robert the Devils and Persimmons, no matter what their achievements have been. And when it has come to a contest between a colt and a filly in a classic race, the hearts of the people have always seemed to go out to the mare. One can never forget that year, perhaps the most sensational in the history of the turf, when Hermit won the Derby. Whilst this great colt was making romance and story, there was a beautiful mare, Achievement, who was gripping the hearts of everyone interested in the sport of horse racing. She had not had a career of uninterrupted success. And this fact, in a mare, in no way alienates the affection of the people. On the contrary, sympathy flows out to the defeated filly. During the autumn, in the Doncaster St. Leger, she and the Derby winner were destined to meet. I cannot recall a year in which such universal interest was taken in a race. My own household were on tip-toe, and we awaited the result with bated breaths. We were all for “the mare.” There was no rapid dissemination of news in those days such as we “suffer under” to-day. Indeed, we were lucky, or thought ourselves lucky, if we happened to hear a result before the delivery of the morning papers at about ten o’clock next day. We were all at tea on the evening of the great event. It was one of those quiet, warm, brooding days of early autumn, when sounds travel to a great distance. Suddenly we heard thecrunching of feet far off, marching up the carriage drive and, we all—“just a wheen callants,” you know—cocked our ears. Was it the news? The footsteps halted at the open front door, and the voice of a neighbour called out loudly, “The mare won by three lengths.” And then, what a cheer burst from us! I should like to hear the same again, in some modern household to-day. But this is but “an old song that sung itself to me, sweet in a boy’s day dream,” and we will pass to a consideration of the few Queens of the Turf in Australia since the beginning of things. We need not revert to the Bessy Bedlams of the early ’forties of the last century, nor the Alice Hawthorns of before the flood. Worthy mares, no doubt, and reverenced by their worshippers, but probably slow gallopers compared to the fliers of to-day.
Only six mares have won the Championship, and one of these took the race twice. This was Ladybird, who was a New Zealander, and who was victorious when that race was contested over in the Dominion. She was successful in 1863, as a five-year-old, and in 1865. She was not a “Queen.” Not another mare left her name on the champion roll until Quiver, in 1896, when that fine four-year-old dead heated with Wallace. Quiver was a very lengthy bay mare by Trenton from Tremulous, by Maribyrnong out of Agitation (imp.) by Orest. As a two-year-old she did not greatly distinguish herself, winning, out of three attempts, a Nursery at Flemington. At three years she also earned but one bracket, but, starting a hot odds-on favourite for the Oaks, she turned round when the barrier flew up, and took no part in the race. That was the first year of the starting gate, and the Derby, won by The Harvester, was the earliest classic race in which the invention was made use of. Horses were unused to the ropes in those days, and I can see now the look of rather sulky surprise upon the mare’s countenance at what she, no doubt, took for an abominable thing, dangled in the air beside her nose. The field, without her, went off at a slow canter, and had Moore, the jockey, set Quiver going, and followed the others, he would have had no difficulty in catching them in the first half-mile, and it is certain that Quiver would have won. As it was, the whole thing was a novelty, and Moore seemed to lose his head, and to fall into a dream. But there was a great outcry, and the “flatites” reckoned that they had been taken down. Of course, there was nothing in it.
It was as a four-year-old, however, that Quiver earned her title. She commenced with the Spring Stakes at Randwick, and she followed this up with the Randwick Plate over those three long, tiring miles, beating Portsea, amongst others. Tattersall’s Club Cup, two miles, with nine stone two up, came next, and then the Essendon Stakes at Flemington, when she put down Hova, Havoc, Preston and Auraria. And the crown was finally put upon her head when the famous dead heat took place for the Championship with Wallace. The mare was sold and went to India, shortly afterwards, and there she gained further laurels.
I am not just absolutely clear in my mind that Quiver ought to be included in the list of great Queens, but she was the first actually to win an open Championship, for Ladybird only met New Zealanders and does not count, and the finish with Wallace proclaimed the Trenton mare to be a stayer, and a game one to boot. This was a period in our story when good mares flourished. For Lady Trenton, the winner of the Sydney Cup, was a contemporary of Quiver, although she cannot be included amongst the Queens. She was a graceful, beautiful mover, a thorough Trenton, but a handicap mare only. Her pedigree is interesting, in that her dam was the famous Black Swan, by Yattendon from Maid of the Lake, “whose pedigree,” says the Stud Book,“cannot be ascertained.” As Lady Trenton was foaled as lately as 1889, it is a little curious that her grand dam’s pedigree should be wrapped in mystery.
Sir Rupert Clarke’s La Carabine was the Champion winner in 1901 and 1902. She is pronounced unhesitatingly “a Queen.” Her first season did not appear to hold out much hope of mighty deeds in the future; at least, to those who were not acquainted with her domestic history. She was a chestnut, foaled in 1894, by Carbine out of imported Oratava, by Barcaldine, from Tullia, by Petrarch, her dam Chevisaunce, by Stockwell out of Paradigm, by Paragone from Ellen Horne, the maternal ancestress of Bend Or. Her breeder was Mr. O’Shanassy, but it was in the nomination of Mr. Herbert Power that she was launched upon her career as a two-year-old. She was an exceedingly mean-looking creature during her first season.
Being much enamoured of her pedigree, I undertook the long journey to Melbourne from the Murray in order that I might see her perform. I was standing in the saddling enclosure looking out for the filly, when there passed me a mean, ragged-looking, little thing, with a mournful cast of countenance, and she knuckled over on both her hind fetlocks at each step. “What on earth is that miserable little brute?” I inquired from a knowledgeable friend at my side. “Oh! that’s a two-year-old in Jimmy Wilson’s stable. La Carabine they call her.” This was a great shock, and her running that season did not bewray the great possibilities that lay beneath her rather washy chestnut hide. She was successful in a Nursery at Randwick in the autumn, carrying seven stone seven, but beating nothing of any great account, and she was absolutely unsuccessful as a three-year-old. At four years she managed to dead heat at Flemington with Dreamland, who, however, beat her in the run off, at a mile and a half. But for this faint silver lining to her cloud, everything was still in darkness. But I knew that she could beat Key, one of the greyhounds of the turf, at anything beyond half a mile, and that she could stay. Therefore, Hope was not yet altogether dead.
Ere the next season had dawned, however, La Carabine had passed into the hands of Mr. W. R. Wilson, of St. Albans, whose manager, Mr. Leslie McDonald, was certainly second to none as a trainer and stud master, if, indeed, he was not facile princeps of all his contemporaries, or of all those who had gone before him. And it may be that he will retain his invincibility in his own line for all time. The only man whom I can ever think of as being his “marrow” is Mr. J. E. Brewer. Under Mr. McDonald’s fostering care the little mare won the Stand Handicap at the Flemington October Meeting, and, after an interval of non-success, she was returned as winner of the Australian Cup, run over two miles and a quarter. She had now discovered her metier, for in Sydney, during April, the Cup fell to her at two miles, she carrying eight stone two. Two days after she beat Merriwee, weight-for-age, at three miles in the A.J.C. Plate, and travelling on to Adelaide, she smashed the opposition in the Alderman Cup, a mile and three-quarters, carrying the substantial impost of nine seven. Now a six-year-old, and in the ownership of Sir Rupert Clarke, after failing in the Melbourne Cup with nine seven, she gained a bracket in the V.R.C. Handicap, carrying the same weight as in the Cup, and in the autumn, the Essendon Stakes, and the Champion Stakes fell to her. In Sydney the Cumberland Stakes (2 miles), and the A.J.C. Plate (3 miles) were hers, and she completed her triumphs with a couple of victories in Adelaide, the last of which was the S.A.J.C. Handicap, carrying ten stone six. She ran but four times as a seven-year-old, and her one achievement was once more winning the Championship, on this occasion beating another reigning Queen, the peerless Wakeful. She was retired to the stud inthe following spring. It is seldom indeed that one sees a great race mare vindicate herself in the paddock as well as upon the racecourse, and La Carabine has been no exception to the rule. It is true that her mates were chosen somewhat unfortunately, but it is doubtful whether a mare who was what may be termed “trained to rags” could ever have produced anything approaching herself in racing merit. Her quality may yet be kept alive by one of her daughters, for her pedigree is unsurpassable. And now we have arrived at the undoubted, undisputed Queen of the Turf. You can call her the Empress of mares, a worthy consort to occupy the throne alongside of Carbine himself. This is Wakeful.
A bay filly, she was dropped in 1896 at St. Albans, and her breeder was Mr. W. R. Wilson, whose racing career was then at its zenith. She was by Trenton, the sire of Quiver, from Insomnia, by Robinson Crusoe, her dam Nightmare, by Panic from Evening Star (imp.), the dam also of that fine stayer Commotion. The nomenclature, you will observe, is distinctly good, being suggestive of at least one of the parents all through, and yet each name is simple, and there is no straining after effect.
As a two-year-old, Wakeful, who was a great thriver, and who laid on condition very rapidly, was given a “rough up” across the common at St. Albans, with several others of the same age as herself. Revenue, a subsequent winner of the Melbourne Cup, was one of them, but the little mare ran right away from them all. It was noticeable, and was the cause of some mirth in the stable, that Wakeful’s rider on that occasion had never been guilty before of winning a race either in public or in private, and I believe he has never since equalled his performance of that morning. This is manifest proof of the tremendous superiority of the mare. Unfortunately, or fortunately, whichever way you like to take it, Wakeful went lame after the gallop, somewhere in her quarters, and it was deemed advisable to turn her out. A great difficulty, however presented itself to her owner, in that she was such a contented, good-constitutioned little thing that she would grow as fat as butter upon the “smell of an oiled rag.” And meanwhile Mr. W. R. Wilson passed out Westwards, and the stud being disposed of, the bay fell into the possession of Mr. Leslie McDonald. Mr. McDonald made no attempt to get her fit until she had passed her fourth birthday, and then she made her debut in the Doona Trial Stakes at Caulfield, in September. Quite unexpectedly, and with no money invested upon her, she ran second, and a week or two later, she was unplaced in the Paddock Handicap at Flemington. She was now most judiciously laid by until the Autumn, when, in a field of twenty-one sprinters, and first favourite, at fours to one, she finished four lengths ahead of anything in the Oakleigh Plate, five furlongs and a half. At Flemington, three weeks subsequent to this triumph, and carrying a ten-pound penalty, with only five to two betted against her, she won the Newmarket from a field of eighteen—six furlongs. From this time onwards her light burned with a steady luminosity to the very end. In all, she took part in thirty-five races, of which she actually won twenty-two, was second in nine, third in three, and was unplaced on but two occasions. She was not placed, as we have noticed, on her second appearance in public, in the Paddock Handicap, and she was fifth in the Melbourne Cup, which was won by her stable companion, Revenue, a good five-year-old gelding who was unsound, and had been resuscitated, and carried but seven stone ten. Wakeful, a five-year-old mare at the time, had eight stone ten. We need not tabulate the wins of this truly marvellous mare, but here is a list of her principal victories:—The Oakleigh Plate (5½ furs.), The Newmarket Handicap (6furs.), The Doncaster Handicap (1 mile), The Caulfield Stakes (9 furs.), The Melbourne Stakes (1¼ miles), The St. George’s Stakes (1 mile), The Essendon Stakes (1½ miles), The All-Aged Stakes (1 mile), The Autumn Stakes, Randwick (1½ miles), The Sydney Cup—carrying 9 st. 7 lbs.—(2 miles), The All-Aged Stakes (1 mile), The A.J.C. Plate (3 miles), The Spring Stakes, Randwick (1½ miles), The Craven Plate (1¼ miles), The Randwick Plate (2 miles), The Caulfield Stakes (9 furs.), The Eclipse Stakes (1 mile 3 furs.), The Melbourne Stakes (1¼ miles), The C. B. Fisher Plate (1½ miles), The St. Helier Stakes (1 mile), The Essendon Stakes (1½ miles), The Champion (3 miles). The merit of any victory depends, of course, not upon the race won, but on the quality of the field in opposition, but you cannot find Wakeful wanting in this respect. She beat, and habitually beat, all the best performers of her day, and over their own distances, were they five furlongs and a half or three miles, Hymettus, La Carabine—who, however, did once put her down at three miles—Ibex, a mighty sprinter, Bonnie Chiel, Great Scot, Brakpan, Abundance, Air Motor, The Victory, Footbolt, Sojourner, Lord Cardigan, and all the crowd of handicap horses which she so often met at enormous disadvantages in weight. And some of her defeats were scarcely less full of merit than her wins. The Melbourne Cup is a good example of this. Here Lord Cardigan, a really high-class three-year-old, and the winner of the Sydney Cup with eight stone seven up in the following autumn, only just got home from Wakeful. The three-year-old was handicapped at six stone eight, the mare at ten stone. In the spring, the colt’s weight-for-age would have been seven six, and the mare’s weight-for-age and sex, nine one. She was actually giving him twenty-five pounds more than her weight-for-age demanded, and she was horribly ridden. All through her racing Wakeful suffered from this extra handicap. Dunn, who usually rode her, was an indifferent horseman, but Mr. McDonald preferred to trust to his unimpeachable honesty rather than risk a more brilliant rider of whose integrity he was not absolutely sure. Owners who have been in a like dilemma will sympathise with him. Wakeful has not been a bright success at the stud, but she cannot be set down as a failure altogether. She is the dam of Night Watch, a Melbourne Cup winner—under a light impost, it is true, but you must be good to win a Cup even with the minimum to carry. Another son, Baverstock, has sired a good colt in David, and was a winner himself. She also threw a very speedy horse in Blairgour, and this year, after missing for some three or four seasons, she is due to foal as I write. As her years now number twenty-six, it is unlikely that the produce will be a champion, but in a good season, and with the care which will be lavished upon her and her offspring, we can, at least hope.
Auraria, yet another Trenton mare, from Aura, by Richmond out of Instep, by Lord Clifden from Sandal; Carlita, by Charlemagne II. from Couronne, by Gipsy Grand—a New Zealand family—and Briseis, by Tim Whiffler out of Musidora, winner of Derby, Oaks and Cup, might almost claim Queenship. But none can come near Wakeful, and leaving her in undisturbed possession of her throne, we will pass on to other things.
Chapter XV.The Influence of Australian Racing.
Racing is a conservative pastime. Necessarily this is so, for, as everyone knows, it is the “Sport of Kings.” But when this huge continent, this “giant Ocean Isle,” was first thrown open for colonisation, the most independent, the most adventurous, the most audacious, and those most full of initiative, left their homes for the yet unknown lands across the seas, and their characters came with them. And the colonists’ manner of life tended to foster the proclivities which Nature had implanted in their hearts. The wide, open spaces; the long distances between town and town, neighbour and neighbour; the free, healthy, open air, stimulating to body and soul; necessity, and the desire to help oneself—all these factors moulded our Australian character, and forced us not to be satisfied with the things which were good enough for our forefathers, but to develop, improve, and sometimes to strike out on new lines altogether. Therefore in all our work, and perhaps more so in our play, when something obviously required change, we did it without hesitation, and we are continuing to do so to this day.
And that is how we have introduced some reforms into our horse racing which, after having been tested here, and found good, have penetrated into the older countries, and have ultimately been adopted there. “The Gate” is one of these changes which has revolutionised the whole art of starting. It used to be a pretty, yea, verily, a wonderful sight, to watch old Mr. George Watson despatching a big Cup field. Mr. Watson was a genius, and he was possibly the most efficient starter that ever held a flag. But, in spite of him, delays occurred nearly every day, horses went mad with the fret and turmoil of it all, and false starts were horribly frequent. It was neither good for man nor beast. Then someone thought of a barrier, behind which the field had to stand. Previous to this, there had sometimes been an imaginary obstacle in the shape of a white chalk line painted across the course, but if horses did not ignore this, they often jumped it as they galloped past the different starting places during the course of a race, and that was no good. The Romans, however, had started their chariot races during the Empire from behind barriers, and the knowledge of this may have given the hint to Mr. Poulain, who, I think, first brought into notice a workable machine which would fly out of the way on the official starter pulling a lever. After numerous private trials, Poulain’s machine was adopted for the first time, I believe, on The Harvester’s Derby day. It was a magnificent success, and I remember being so impressed with the idea that I at once dashed off home to the country, and induced the Racing Club, of which I had the honour to be the Honorary Secretary, to adopt the affair. There had been a few fiascos on the Metropolitan courses, and one or two races had to be run twice over in consequence. Sternchaser’s Winter Handicap at Caulfield was one of the cases which comes back to the mind most vividly. The “Register” remarks that “This race was run twice. On the first occasion the barrier went up of its own accord, and all the horses, with the exception of Sternchaser, ran the full course (a mile). The stewards declared the event no race, and the horses returned at once to the starting post.” Sternchaser, a New Zealand colt, the property of Mr. Spencer Gollan, by Nordenfeldt out of Crinoline, had no difficulty in winning the run off.
We had several misadventures in the country when we first took up the notion, and of course there was an outcry from the public, and from owners,jockeys, and trainers. In the Old Country the barrier met with strenuous opposition for a long time, and literally, gallons of printer’s ink must have been used in condemning or upholding the “machine.”
But it all came right in the end, and anyone advocating a return to the days of the flag would now be “locked up” right away. Long delays at the post, and false starts, are no longer seen, and every field of horses is sent on its momentous journey within a minute, or at the outside, a couple of minutes of the advertised time of starting. Of course a great deal of this punctuality and good starting is due to the splendid officials whom our leading clubs employ. For a starter must have a particular temperament in order that he may be perfectly fitted for the job. The present V.R.C. official, Mr. Rupert Green, is very nearly an ideal starter. He knows the game thoroughly, he is almost uncannily quick at seizing the first opportunity, and in that lies the mainspring of his splendid efficiency. If you fail to take your first opportunity, you are lost, at this business. He has the complete confidence of the boys, and these, as a general rule, are masters of their mounts. Everyone, of course, must have a bad start occasionally, but the majority of these are due to the horses themselves. Some are naturally slower than others in finding their feet, and do what you please, a certain number of them, out of hundreds, will misbehave themselves in some way or another after the ropes have flown up. But in the course of several years, during which I have witnessed many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of starts, I cannot recall more than, at the outside, half a dozen where there has been anything to complain of so far as the human element of the transaction was concerned. The late Mr. Godfrey Watson was regarded as the Prince of Starters, in the same way as his father, Mr. George Watson, was acknowledged to be the King. But I have not seen anything in these two which is not at least emulated by our official of the present day. Nor indeed is Mr. Norman Wood, who officiates at most of the down-the-line meetings, and at innumerable country gatherings in Victoria, out of the running. And I have no doubt that there are other admirable officers over on the other side, whom it has not been my fortune to witness handling the big fields that assemble behind the barriers at the many suburban and outside meetings near Sydney. At any rate, “The Gate” has completely altered the whole aspect of the racing, and especially of the sprint racing of to-day.
The numbered saddle-cloth is another strictly Australian innovation. It is such an obvious improvement on the old state of affairs that one wonders how the Jockey Club in England has never adopted the idea. The use of the cloths is meant only for the convenience of the general public, be it understood, and not for the use of the judge or other official. To these, of course, the different colours are so familiar, that I do not suppose they ever notice that the numbers are there. But I confess that, for myself, I occasionally find them extremely handy. Where there is a large field, and two or three, perhaps, of the jackets are new to me, I often refer to the numbered cloth, which, with powerful glasses you can read from almost any point on our largest course, and I acknowledge the convenience.
When I was last at Newmarket, in England, I saw a device which we might do well to copy. At the July Meeting at Newmarket, the horses, instead of being in stalls or in boxes awaiting their race, parade round paths cut through the Plantation. It is very delightful, on a hot summer’s day, to sit on a comfortable garden seat, and take stock of the high-bred animals strolling round through the chequered light and shade, whilst the spectators, many of them also highly bred, from His Majesty the King downwards, watch themin luxury and ease. Each boy in charge of a horse has, bound on his right arm, a brass badge showing the number of the race on the card in which his horse is entered, and his number on the card. It is an ingenious and simple “dodge,” and not one of a costly nature, which we might well make use of in Australia. Of course, whilst standing in their stalls, the names of the competitors in this country are blazoned on one of the posts, but whilst parading round the enclosure it would be a very useful adjunct to our arrangements, which we so earnestly desire to see made perfect.
Another Australian innovation is the “Bruce Lowe Figure System.” This, too, has been the motive force of endless ink slinging. But, like the starting gate, it has come to stay. It is extremely simple. For a great number of years in the history of the Turf, breeders, with the exception of a few genuine enthusiasts, paid little attention to the family lines of their mares. They were aware that their stallion was an Eclipse horse, and was by so and so from so and so, but the dam, although a good one, did not trouble them much, on her dam’s side, so long as she was clean bred. I remember a discussion which took place long ago, instigated, I think, by the “Sportsman,” on “How to Breed a Good Racehorse.” I believe, but am not quite sure whether I am right, that it was the late General Peel who promulgated the appallingly simple doctrine to “put a winner of the Oaks to the winner of the Leger, and there you are, don’t you know.” But of later years, and before Mr. Bruce Lowe had published his “system,” men were beginning to waken up to the supreme importance of the dam, and her family, and the revised edition of the first volume of the “General Stud Book” was an incentive to the seekers after truth to persevere in their studies. Bruce Lowe was struck with the fact that descendants of certain of the old “Royal” and other mares—the “tap-roots,” as he called them—in tail female, of our “Stud Book,” were infinitely more successful than the descendants of other tap-root mares. Mr. Bruce Lowe, and his friend, Mr. Frank Reynolds, had noticed the same peculiarity in their Shorthorn herds of cattle, namely, that the produce of certain cows from some particular old original matron of the herd, continued to be superior to the produce of others. And this animal they called No. 1. Mr. Lowe then went into an exhaustive analysis of the winning families of the British thoroughbred racer, and he took, as a standard of excellence, the winning of the great classic three-year-old events which have been in existence for so many years, and a record of which is easily found and referred to. After tabulating these, and running them all out to the original tap-root mare, he discovered that more Derbies, Legers, and Oaks had been won by the descendants, in tail female, of Tregonwell’s Natural Barb mare, than by the offspring, in direct female line, of any other original mare in the “General Stud Book.” The same standard placed Burton’s Barb mare second, and Dam of the Two True Blues third. There are some fifty of these mares contained in the sacred pages of Volume I., and Bruce Lowe identified them by the figure denoting the place they held in his standard of Derby, Leger, and Oaks wins. Thirty-eight of them are responsible for classic winners, and after No. 38, the remainder have been given a figure in an arbitrary manner purely, until Miss Euston is reached, who is No. 50. It is a little peculiar that the last of these mares to figure as the ancestress of a classic winner is Thwaite’s Dun mare, No. 38, to whom traces Pot–8–Os (a son of Eclipse), whose own son was Waxy, sire of Whalebone, to whom, in tail male, run all the famous horses of to-day, which come from the Birdcatcher and Touchstone tribes, and they are legion. These are two of the great pillars of the temple of Eclipse, the third and, perhaps, central support, being Blacklock.
That then, is the main object of Bruce Lowe’s “Figure System”—to identify each of the fifty original mares in a simple and handy manner. And this has been done. Mr. Lowe claimed that his system would “revolutionise our methods of mating the thoroughbred horse.” I think that it has done so. Few people care to publish, or peruse, a tabulated pedigree nowadays without the figures being appended to each horse in the table. And I can scarcely think it possible that every racing man of to-day does not see, in his mind’s eye, the name of each horse of whose pedigree he is thinking, without also visualising its appended number. When you mention St. Simon, for instance, you immediately know that his family number is 11, and that therefore, on the dam’s side, he runs to the Sedbury Royal mare. Stockwell’s name at once calls up No. 3, and you understand in a moment that his tap-root is Dam of the Two True Blues. And so on, throughout all the names in any given pedigree. At a glance you know to what family you are in-breeding, and, therefore, how to outcross, if you so desire. Mr. Lowe had numerous side issues to his system, and with these you may, or you may not, agree. He propounded the theory that horses received certain qualities direct from the female side of their house, as, for instance, that prepotency which goes far to ensure that a horse will develop into a sire. That may or may not be true. Personally, I am sure, so far as one can be certain of anything, that it is. He put a hall-mark upon such horses by printing their family figure in thick type. Thus, in a tabulated pedigree, you will always notice the numbers 3, 8, 11, 12, and 14 printed after that particular style, and then in a moment you understand that these, according to Lowe, possessed “sire characteristics.” He believed in the theory of “Saturation,” at least to some extent, and wrote about it in his book. But that is beyond our scope in this volume, and we shall not discuss it here. He also wrote, instructively, upon how to breed “Great Stake Horses,” and “How Great Fillies are mostly Bred,” the “Breeding of Sprinters,” and an excellent chapter on “Phenomenal Racehorses,” and you will find much to make you think if you peruse these. Mr. Bruce Lowe’s influence has been very great in the Thoroughbred Turf world, and he has been much assisted by the erudition and enthusiasm of his Editor, Mr. William Allison, of the English “Sportsman,” and the owner and manager of the Cobham Stud. For, unfortunately, Mr. Lowe was in very bad health when his book was approaching completion, and he travelled to London in order to supervise its publication. Here, all too soon, and before the proofs had reached his hands, he died. From his literary style you would scarcely call up to your imagination a picture of what the man actually was like. For Mr. Lowe certainly wrote somewhat dogmatically, as indeed anyone with pronounced views upon a subject next his heart must perforce do. It may be, too, that his editor has assisted in strengthening such an impression. For Mr. Allison has a happy knack of raising discussion on some equine subject, and then, after controversy, he proceeds to “make his enemies his footstool.” But here, from the hand of Mr. R. H. Dangar, Lowe’s close friend, is a little picture on the converse side of that which we draw for ourselves from his writings. Mr. Dangar, of Neotsfield, writes:—
“I do not know much of Bruce Lowe’s earlier history, but understand he commenced making out his figures in his spare time when inspector of Government lands out back in Queensland. Later, he and Frank Reynolds worked together, or perhaps it would be more correct to say compared notes, as I think they worked independently, and discussed the question together afterwards.
“In appearance he was very tall and thin, with brownish grey hair, a very gentle nature, with a quiet voice, and altogether, as I knew him, a most lovable man. He had indifferent health for some years latterly in his life, and eventually died in London, whither he had gone to finish his book and get it published. He had a small connection as a stud stock agent in Sydney, and we, amongst others, used to send him our yearlings, and it was a treat to hear him reel off yards of stuff for T. S. Clibborn to repeat from the box. Lowe had no voice for selling, and he told me once he did not think he could get up and harangue the crowd—so he got Mr. Clibborn to sell for him, and used to prompt him as if he were reading out of a book, with never a note to help him—and catalogues in those days were not the elaborate productions of to-day. As to his character—well, I cannot believe he knew how to do a dirty action, and I would simply not believe anyone who might say anything against him.”
So you have here an authentic sketch of this quiet, upright, gentle man, whom you may have misjudged somewhat from his writings, and from the acrimonious discussions which his antagonists and his disciples have raised over his grave, from time to time. For myself, I somehow have always looked upon him as an example of that “Justum et tenacem propositi virum” whom nothing could turn aside from the goal which he saw before him, and which he desired to reach. One who, no matter what occurred, you were quite certain that—to once more quote the lines of the long dead Roman poet—