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Webster Family Library of Veterinary Medicine 
 
 Cummings School of Veterinary Medicina tX 
 
 T'jfts University 
 
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SPORTING SKETCHES 
 
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 THE OLD I^USIIMAN. 
 
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 WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. BOWERS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., 
 
 liLDFORD STREET, STRAND. 
 

 lON'DOX: 
 BR^DBr-RY, AGNVAV, & X»., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARA. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following Sketches have already for the most part appeared 
 in the columns of The Field newspaper 3 the one entitled " Lost in 
 the Bush/' in the Intellectual Observer. Bv the kindness of the 
 editors of that newspaper and journal, the author has now gathered 
 them together into a volume, and presents tliem to his friends 
 as old acquaintances. He thinks it right to observe, that every 
 chapter in this book is strictly matter of fact, except the sketches 
 entitled '' My First Steeple Chaser," " The Trotter," " The Jibber," 
 "The Best Fourteen Hander in England," and "The Poacher j" 
 in which — (although events took place much as read, and in 
 which every character is drawn from life) — the author has, for 
 obvious reasons, deemed himself justified in mystifying names and 
 localities, and colouring plain facts. 
 
PUBLISHER'S PREFACE, 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE ^^ OLD BUSHMAN." 
 
 We sincerely regret to inform our readers that during the time 
 arrangements were being made for the publication of " Sporting 
 Sketches/' an accident fatal in its results deprived the Author of his 
 life, and so prevented his anticipated pleasure of revising this work 
 through the press. It fell, however, into sympathetic hands, and it 
 is hoped that the public will kindly excuse under the circumstances 
 any shortcomings. By the kind permission of the proprietors of 
 the "Field" Newspaper, we insert a Memoir of the "Old Bush- 
 man." 
 
 Horace William Wheelwright, known as a constant con- 
 tributor to the columns of this journal under the nom deplume of 
 the "Old Bushman," was the second son of the Rev. C. A. 
 Wheelwright, rector of Tansor, Northamptonshire, and of Castle 
 and Little Bytham, in Lincolnshire, and prebend of Lincoln Cathe- 
 dral. He was born at Tansor on January 5th, 18 15, and died on 
 November i6th, 1865, in the fiftieth year of his age. He was 
 educated at the Reading Grammar School, under Dr. Valpy. He 
 was brought up to the profession of the law, and practised as a 
 solicitor at Thrapston, Northamptonshire, between 1843 and 1847. 
 From a boy, however, he expressed a strong disinclination to "settle" 
 
vi Tuhlishefs Preface^ and 
 
 in the quiet work of a profession. He was fond of all kinds of 
 field sports, and had a yearning for a life of wild adventure -, we 
 therefore find him, in 1847, ^^ ^^i^^ from his native land and a 
 wanderer among the wild mountains, woods, and lakes of Sweden 
 and Norway. The details of this part of his life are entirely 
 wanting. In 1851 he went to Australia, and lived some years on 
 the banks of the Murray, as a wandering sportsman in the bush. 
 After his return to Europe he wrote and published his first work — ■ 
 a small book entitled "Bush Wanderings of a Naturalist 3 or. 
 Notes on the Field Sports and Fauna of Australia Felix, by an Old 
 Bushman," a new edition of which is now issued.* 
 
 From the introduction of this interestmg little book we copy the 
 following : — 
 
 '' Six years' rambling over the forests and fells of Northern 
 Europe had totally unfitted me for any settled life. I had no luck 
 in the diggings. The town was out of the question ; and to keep 
 the wolf from the door there were but two alternatives — to seek 
 work in a situation, or face the bush on my own account. I chose 
 the latter, and never regretted that choice. I luckily fell in with a 
 mate in the same circumstances as myself. The gun had often 
 brought both of us * to grief in the Old World, so we agreed that 
 for once it should help us out in the New. Our tastes were 
 similar. The sphere of life in which we had both moved at home 
 had been the same, and therefore all those little disagreements and 
 collisions which are the inevitable consequences when men of dif- 
 ferent education, training, and tastes are shut up together in the 
 close companionship of a bush tent, were avoided. For nearly 
 four years did we rough it under the same canvas, with scarcely a 
 single dispute, and very rarely even 'a growl.' We had, it is true, 
 hardships to contend with, but we never met troubles half way. 
 * London : Frederick W^irne and Co. 
 
Memoir of the ^' Old Bushman.'" vii 
 
 We took the rough with the smooth, and whether game was plen- 
 tiful or scarce, generally had a fair share of it. Many a happy day 
 did we pass together in the forest. Many a good bag of game we 
 brought home j and often, though thousands of miles now separate 
 us, do my thoughts fly back to the old bush tent and the old com- 
 rades left behind me ; and the chequered scenes of a wild forest 
 life crowd upon my mind like the vision of yesterday." 
 
 This yearning after the wild bush life of Australia is characteristic 
 of that love of adventure which formed a strong feature in the 
 *' Old Bushman's " character. Oftentimes during the last four 
 years, in his letters to the writer of this notice, has he expressed a 
 strong desire to go back again and " leave his bones " in the 
 Australian bush. 
 
 To the details of his Australian life there are several references in 
 one of his other works 3 but the ''Bush Wanderings" is an 
 interesting w^ork, w^hich all naturalists should possess. 
 
 In 1856 the " Old Bushman " returned to Sweden, and took up 
 his residence at Gardsjo, near Carlstadt, w^here he devoted himself 
 to the life of a working naturalist, and there is no doubt that by his 
 perseverance and enterprise he has added some valuable facts to 
 natural history. 
 
 In i860 he commenced his connexion w^th The Field, and con- 
 tinued one of its most w^elcome contributors to the day of his death. 
 
 In 1S62 he passed a spring and summer in Lapland for the pur- 
 poses of natural history. Of the nature of this journey he writes ? 
 " Lulea, Lap., April 14, 1862. — We have safely reached this place 
 ^fter a cold, tedious, troublesome, and expensive journey of nearly 
 three weeks, being about 1000 English miles, in open sledges. It 
 certainly has been the most laborious trip I ever took in my life, 
 but I hope it will lead to some good results, although I cannot 
 expect it will pay me after poor Wolley. I am just otF to Quickiock. 
 
viii Publisher's Preface^ and 
 
 The country looks gloomy enough to make one shudder — gloomy 
 pine woods and snow-covered plains j but I saw two swans yester- 
 day, and as the reindeer are getting very restless, and the Laps are 
 moving up to the fells, spring will soon break upon us." 
 
 The result of this visit was, on the whole, very satisfactory. " I 
 have collected," he writes (Quickiock, Aug. 4, 1862), ''550 bird- 
 skins, 800 eggs, 1000 lemmings, and above 1000 insects, and a I0I 
 of other odds and ends — not bad work for two of us in less than 
 four months." 
 
 Among the scientific facts worked out during the journey, the 
 same letter above quoted contains the following : " Contrary to all 
 our naturalists' dicta, the lesser European sparrow owl (Strix 
 passerina, Linn.) does breed here, and I have got the eggs. More- 
 over, I shot three flyers the other day, one of which I have saved 
 for you." 
 
 The life of a working naturalist within the Arctic circle, is not, 
 however, all pleasure — for a little further on he remarks : " I long 
 to be back once more among my books, for my life now is that of 
 a savage. I have never seen a book for four months — nothing but 
 the slavery of, day after day, first shooting and then skinning." We 
 in England do not sufBciently value specimens obtained by such 
 personal sacrifice as this. 
 
 In 1864 the '•' Old Bushman" brought out his largest and most im- 
 portant work, entitled "TenYearsin Sweden," a thick octavo volume,* 
 llie first half of the work consists of a description of the habits and 
 customs of the Swedes, their agriculture, universities, nobles, clergy, 
 &:c. J and also contains the fullest instructions to those who wish to 
 enjoy the sports of the field, loch, and river in that country. The re- 
 mainder of the work is a valuable compilation of the vertebrate fauna 
 of Scandinavia, interspersed here and there with original remarks. 
 * London : Groombrid^e and Sons. 
 
Memoir of the " Old Bushman.'' Ix 
 
 It is a very valuable list to those who do not read the Swedish 
 language. 
 
 The letters received from Mr. Wheelwright during the past 
 summer, express the pleasure he anticipated from an intended visit 
 to England in the autumn. With the exception of one or two 
 short and flying trips, he had not seen the land of his birth for 
 nearly twenty years ; and his heart, in his wild northern solitude, 
 warmed with affection towards the good old country where his 
 boyish and happiest days had been passed. How that visit termi- 
 nated we all know too well. It is hardly necessary to dwell upon 
 particulars. A little circumstance occurred, however, prior to his 
 fatal accident, which illustrates forcibly the apparently trifling 
 grounds upon which our life or death depends. Mr. Wheelwright 
 was at The Field office on the afternoon of the 7th of November, 
 and seemed anxious to get down that evening to his brother's at 
 Crowhurst. One of the gentlemen connected with the office 
 pointed out to him that he had three-quarters of an hour to spare, 
 that he might jump into a cab, get round for his luggage, and still 
 be in time for the train. The poor '' Old Bushman " hesitated, 
 and, thinking he should not be able to accomplish it, decided to pass 
 the night in London. Next morning, hearing of the arrival of his 
 natural history specimens from Sweden, he resolved to stay until 
 they were unpacked. When on his way to see about this, he slipped 
 down in the street, and a hernia, from which he had suffered for 
 years, thereby became strangulated. In this condition he went to 
 his brother's house, was obliged to submit to the operation for its 
 relief, and sank three days afterwards. 
 
 It is needless to dwell upon the character and literary qualifica- 
 tions of our deceased friend 3 all who are familiar with his writings 
 possess the same means of judging. He was less a scientific 
 naturalist than one of those pioneers who, by their adventure and 
 
X Publisher's Prefacey and Memoir, 
 
 daring, clear up points which would otherwise remain doubtful. 
 He was not an accomplished scholar, but he was an apt observer, 
 and had powers of description possessed by very few. The sunrise 
 in Lapland, the details of his being lost in the snow, and the lifelike 
 descriptions contained in his " Sporting Sketches," can hardly, we 
 ^vill venture to say, be surpassed. Readers, we think, will be most 
 iiDiused by his "Bush Wanderings '" and " Summer in Lapland," 
 ju-.t as they will be most instructed by the perusal of his " Ten 
 Years in Sweden j" but in none of his works will they find more 
 cr>ginality — more, in fact, of those qualities which mark the man 
 of genius — than in his "Sporting Sketches." 
 
 But the "Old Bushman" was more than we have described him. 
 He was a kind-hearted, highly principled, honourable, manly fellow, 
 beloved by all who knew him, and long to be held in cherished 
 remembrance. Peace to his ashes ! He is buried in Crowhurst 
 Churchyard, beneath an ancient yew, one of the few that have 
 become historical by their antiquity. Decandolle and others have 
 reckoned it to be fourteen hundred years oldj and under its 
 venerable shadows we must feel that our departed friend, who loved 
 nature so well, has found a worthy resting-place. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A BEAR HUNT IN NORDLAND. WITH A DESCRIPTION OF BEAR 
 
 HUNTING { 
 
 SWEDEN. A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF THE LANDSCAPE, FAUNA, 
 AGRICULTURE, AND FIELD SPORTS OF THAT COUNTRY. 
 WITH A FEW NOTES ON THE ICHTHYOLOGY OF THE GREAT 
 LAKE WENERN, AND SOME REMARKS ON THE NORTHERN 
 
 SALMON RIVEhs 6 
 
 DUCK-SHOOTING IN WERMLAND, SWEDEN ^6 
 
 MY FIRST STEEPLE-CHASER Jl 
 
 THE TROTTER II5 
 
 THE FISHING DAY I76 
 
 THE BEST FOURTEEN-HANDER IN ENGLAND 185 
 
 THE keeper's TREE , 2I9 
 
 THE RABBIT BATTUE ,, 23O 
 
 MY LAST DAY IN THE FEN 243 
 
 DID YOU EVER DRIVE A JIBBER DOWN TO A FIGHT ? . , , 2^7 
 
 THE LEATHER PLATER * 275 
 
 THE POACHER 334 
 
xii Contents. 
 
 Pa^e 
 
 GUN ACCIDENTS 363 
 
 ON THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF MANLY AND ATHLETIC EXER- 
 CISES, SUCH AS SPARRING ; AND A lEW WORDS IN 
 DEFENCE OF THE MUCH-ABUSED CUSTOM OF BRITISH 
 
 BOXING 377 
 
 THE WRECK ... 392 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH • • . . 4II 
 
SPORTING SKETCHES. 
 
 A BEAR HUNT IN NORDLAND. 
 
 WITH A DESCRIPTION OF BEAR HUNTING. 
 
 The following description of a bear hunt in Nordland, in the 
 winter of 1864, extracted from the Hernosand Post, will show that 
 the chase of the Swedish bear is not altogether unattended with 
 danger. The writer says : Time after time has the Hernosaiid Post 
 alluded to the damage which has been suffered by the cattle in the 
 Shelleftea and the neighbouring parishes through the attacks of 
 bears, and of the various bear hunts which have taken place in this 
 district ; and the following little history will prove what adventures 
 the bear-hunter will occasionally suffer, especially when he goes 
 out to attack the bear single-handed, or accompanied only by one 
 or two comrades. The narrator, a good old bear-hunter himself, 
 was wont to call this " a bear-dance," and a lively dance it must 
 have been. 
 
 On the 17th Dec, 1863, six hunters, peasants in the neighbour- 
 hood (more daring than prudent, although tolerably well armed 
 with guns and spears, and accompanied by two hounds coupled up), 
 set off to attack a she-bear, which, after having been hunted from 
 one fell to another, had eight days previously been "ringed in"'^ on 
 Graininge Fell, not far from Shelleftea. 
 
 They seemed to have apprehended little danger, and having 
 
 * "Ringing" a bear is making a large circle round the place where the animal 
 was last seen, and proving that it must be somewhere within theciicle. — Ed. 
 
 B 
 
2, A Bear Hunt in Nordland, 
 
 separated, they wandered carelessly within the circle of the ring to 
 endeavour to find out the bear's winter-quarters ; but one of the 
 peasants, who had unconsciously come within a gunshot of her 
 "ide," woke the bear up, and she suddenly rushed out upon him, 
 seized him, and inflicted three deep wounds on his body — one on 
 the thigh, another on the arm, just above the wrist, and a third on 
 tlie face, which completely scalped his forehead, the skin hanging 
 down over his eyes. During the struggle one of the hunters ran 
 up and shot at the bear 5 but his gun missed fire, which was 
 probably lucky, for in the melee he was just as likely to have shot 
 his comrade as the bear. She immediately left the wounded man, 
 rushed upon the other hunter like lightning, gave him a deep gash 
 on one thigh, and mangled his head so that the hair and skin were 
 torn off for a width of four inches. This man was so injured, that 
 he was obliged to be carried home on a sledge, before they got his 
 wounds dressed. A third hunter, who had by this time come up, 
 attacked the bear with his spear ; but in the hurry and confusion of 
 the moment he planted it so badly that the steel point glanced off 
 the thick hide of the bear. Suddenly the head of the hunter 
 dashed against that of the bear, and he immediately shoved one 
 hand down her throat and seized fast hold of the roots of her 
 tongue, and with the other belaboured her lustily about the nose 
 and head. The bear, now more than ever irritated by the punish- 
 ment she was receiving at this man's hands, rose upon her hind legs 
 and challenged him to a wrestling bout. The peasant, who, like 
 many others of these peasants, was a good and strong wrestler, 
 closed in with the bear and gave her a very clean back fall. 
 Astonished more than ever at such unlooked-for treatment, the 
 bear became nearly mad with rage, and uttering a tremendous 
 growl, she at once sprung up and rushed upon the fourth hunter. 
 He was, however, an old hand, and planting the butt of his 
 spear firmly on the ground, with the head slanting out towards the 
 bear, he waited quietly for her attack. Blind with rage she came 
 carelessly on, the sharp blade of the spear went right through lier 
 heart, and she fell dead without a groin. The two hounds, of 
 
A Bear Hunt in Nordland. 3 
 
 whom the hunters thought a great deal, kept at a respectful distance 
 till the bear fell dead. 
 
 The old bear was followed by three young cubs about a year 
 old, which of course shared the fate of the mother, but without 
 giving the hunters so much trouble. The old she-bear was a very 
 large specimen, yielding not less than loolb. of fat, and a skin 
 about eight feet long. 
 
 It is not, however, that we often hear of an accident happening 
 in a bear hunt, especially unless the bear is wounded. It is a 
 common idea here that in attacking a man the bear never uses his 
 paw to strike with like a lion or tiger, which, however, is always 
 the case when it falls upon horses or cattle. Moreover, it is not 
 always the bear's custom when rushing on a man to raise himself 
 on his hind legs, as is generally supposed j but he more often comes 
 in end on end like a fierce dog. There is not much danger incurred 
 from the bear itself in the '' skalls," as they are carried on in the mid- 
 land districts, when a couple of hundred or more men assemble and 
 drive the forests up to the beaters 5 but much more to be appre- 
 hended from the shooters themselves. In the northern forests and 
 fells, however, where men are scarce, the hunters often attack the 
 bear single-handed, or with, at most, one comrade, and the chase of 
 the bear then becomes a hazardous and exciting sport. It is princi- 
 pally in the autumn when the bears lay up in their '^ ide," or winter 
 quarters, or in the spring, when they wake up from their winter's 
 sleep, that they are killed. Two of these northern peasants, on 
 skiddor (or snow skates), will sally out in pursuit of a bear, whose 
 footsteps have been tracked in the snow, armed, perhaps, with a 
 small pea rifle of the most primitive make, and which carries a ball 
 of about forty to the pound (and yet a bear has often been known 
 to fall dead from one shot, if hit in the right place), but also with 
 a spear, upon which the hunter places his chief reliance, and which 
 to my idea is a far more formidable weapon. This spear consists of 
 a tough pole about ten feet long, armed at the top with a four- 
 cornered steel spike, nearly a foot long, the point and edges as keen 
 as a razor (which is always, when not in use, kept in a sheath), and 
 
 p. 2 
 
4 A Bear Hunt in Nordland. 
 
 a strong cross-bar of iron, about eighteen inches long, across the 
 shaft, just under the steel spear. They follow the bear till they 
 bring it to bav, and then attack it. They always try to force the 
 spear into its breast or under the shoulder, right through the heart. 
 As soon as the spear is well in, the hunter plants the end of the 
 shaft firmly into the ground, and holds the spear strongly in an 
 upright slanting position, the bear all the while pressing more 
 and more on to the spear, endeavouring to grapple with the man, 
 but prevented by the cross-bar. As long as the spear stands there 
 is little danger, but the life of the hunter now entirely depends upon 
 his good spear. His comrade, if he has one, now attacks the bear 
 also with his rifle or spear, but if the hunter is alone — and they will 
 always, if possible, be alone, because then there is no other to share 
 the spoil — he finishes the bear as well as he can. I have generally 
 seen the shafts in Lapland made of mountain ash. It must, how- 
 ever, be rather a nervous time for a man, face to face with an en- 
 raged monster, and only a slight shaft, and then a steel bar, between 
 himself and eternity^ and a man must be possessed of a pretty good 
 share of personal courage who dares to attack a bear single-handed 
 with such a weapon ; and yet these northern settlers and little Lap- 
 landers often do so. 
 
 I used to be much amused at seeing the old parish clerk up at 
 Quickiock, a noted bear-hunter, rehearse the pantomime of a bear 
 hunt, with myself as bear. He was a very little, active old fellow, 
 of about sixty, and he used to hop round me brandishing his spear, 
 the shaft of which was covered with scratches and bites, till he 
 would at times become so excited that I used to beg him to con- 
 clude the performance, lest by chance he might forget that he was 
 only rehearsing a play, and had a man instead of a living bear 
 before him. 
 
 These rehearsals used to remind me much of some other re- 
 hearsals of a rather different sort, when I used to have to stand up 
 in quite another character, the reader will be puzzled to guess — 
 Molyneux, the black prizefighter, and before poor old Tom Cribb. 
 I first knew this veteran when he kept a public-house in Panton- 
 street, but things went wrong with the old boy , and missing him 
 
A Bear Hunt in Nordland. 5 
 
 froni his parlour in Panton-street, I traced him to obscure lodgings 
 somewhere in Soho, where I used often to pay him a visit. He 
 was confined to his room with rheumatic gout, or something of the 
 sort, but still could hobble about. It seemed as if he was deserted 
 by all his friends, and very hard-up 3 but his room was filled with 
 trophies of the past, and among them I recollect a silver cup which 
 the old man would fill with ginger-wine, of which he was very 
 fond j and I u>ed to drink this wine out of the champion's cup, and 
 listen to his description of past scenes in which he had been so 
 stirring an actor. Till his great battle with Molyneux came upon 
 the carpet, old Tom would sit quietly enough in his easy chair, only 
 now and then flourishing, and making occasional passes into empty 
 space at some unseen and imaginary opponent. His defeat by one 
 Nicholls he dismissed very summarily, by the trite but energetic 
 observation, that if he had only been in condition, " he could have 
 pumped thunder on fifty NichoUs'sj" but when he came to Moly- 
 neux, nothing but a tableau vivant would suffice. I had to repre- 
 sent the black, and after I had been placed in approved position by 
 old Tom (with my head thrown forward, my left arm straight out, 
 my left fist almost level with my chin), the old man would throw 
 himself into attitude before me, and, despite his bandaged legs and 
 rheumatics, would show me how he dashed the black's left arm 
 aside, and inflicted that tremendous jaw-breaker which won the 
 fight. " Gently, Tom, play light," I used to sing out as the old 
 man became excited 5 and his fist used to come in dangerous 
 proximity with my head, as he showed me how he finished oflf his 
 formidable opponent with his favourite one, two. It was a rich 
 play, but one which I was always prudent enough to rehearse upon 
 ginger-wine. "When I go into that question, sir," observed a 
 pompous old stump orator once to me in Australia, who was for 
 closing all the ports, and leaving the colonists to depend solely on 
 their own resources, " I become excited, but I could argue it for 
 hours, sir, upon coftee." And so it was with me. I hardly know 
 which might have been most dangerous, the old Lapland bear- 
 hunter's spear, or old Tom Cribb's fist, if either play had been re- 
 nearsed upon anything stronger than ginger-wine or coffee. 
 
SWEDEN. 
 
 A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF THE LANDSCAPE, FAUNA, 
 
 AGPx-ICULTURE, AND FIELD SPORTS OF THAT 
 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 With a few Notes on the Ichthyology of the Great Lake Wenern^ 
 and some Remarks on the Northern Salmon Rivers. 
 
 It is no easy task to endeavour to give a good general description 
 of the climate, scenery, or fauna of a country like Scandinavia, 
 which extends from r^^ to 71° N. lat., and occupies an area of 
 nearly 300,000 square English miles, diversified with every descrip- 
 tion of landscape, from the low flat sandy plains and open turf 
 mosses of the south, and the dense pine forests of the midland dis- 
 tricts, to the barren fells of the north, whose snow-capped summits 
 afford a scanty sustenance to nothing but the wild reindeer and the 
 ptarmigan. Over so wide a surface we must expect to find soil of 
 every description 3 and it is the diversity of landscape that adds the 
 great charm to travelling through these northern climes. Still, rich 
 as it is in natural productions, rich as it is in every branch of its 
 fauna, it is a land comparatively little known to the English 
 traveller, while almost every other part of the Continent, whose 
 natural beauties can scarcely surpass this country in the summer, 
 are as well known to the British tourist as the woods and glades of 
 merry England. 
 
 Before proceeding into more minute details respecting the agri- 
 culture and natural productions of the land, it will be as we/ 1 to 
 cast a slight glance at tlie fauna of this interesting country , and the 
 
Sweden, 7 
 
 general reader can then be enabled to form an idea of the character 
 of this wide-stretched land of "flood and fell." 
 
 Scarcely another country in Europe possesses so many attractions 
 to the naturahst as this 5 for tlie varied nature of the landscape, 
 with so few inhabitants scattered over its surface, mark it as a fitting 
 home for such of the rarer species of quadruped and bird as delight 
 in solitude and retirement 3 whilst its vast extent of coast, its mag- 
 nificent rivers, and innumerable inland lakes, must render it one of 
 the greatest interest to the ichthyologist. Most of tlie larger and 
 wilder species of the European mammalia are to be met with in one 
 part or another of this immense continent. The elk finds shelter 
 in the midland forests, the reindeer on the northern fells j the bear, 
 the lynx, the glutton, and the wolf are no strangers in the northern 
 and midland districts 5 and the marten-cat, the fox, and the squirrel 
 abound in every part of the country. Unfortunately the beaver is 
 now nearly extinct, and the only memento we have of this interest- 
 ing animal consists in an occasional deserted beaver-dam in some of 
 the wildest of the northern forests. Strange to say, the wild cat 
 is unknown here. 
 
 It is on account of the country having so wide and varied a sur- 
 face that we find so manifest a difi^erence in its fauna j and this is 
 still furtlier supported when we consider the nature of the land — 
 open downs, deep forests, sandy flats, ironbound rocks, and, in the 
 very north, snow-covered fells. These last must exercise a great in- 
 fluence on the fauna of the north, for every species of animal must 
 have its limit from the region of perpetual snow. Nilsson, with his 
 usual acumen, divides Scandinavia into separate regions for different 
 animals and plants. Beginning from the very top of the fells, and 
 following by degrees in a southerly direction the tracts which lie 
 below them, we shall find that certain species of animal as well as 
 plant are only to be met with on the highest fells, among perpetua 
 snow-drifts j and also that other species are met with only in those 
 tracts far removed from the fells themselves 3 and this will hold 
 good whether we divide these regions in a vertical or horizontal 
 direction — with this difterence, that the regions in the latter are 
 
3 Sweden, 
 
 much broader than in the former. After these remarks, we wiD 
 divide the land into the following regions for plants and animals : — 
 
 1. The perpetual snow region, which extends from the tops ol 
 the highest snow-fells down to the first bushes. In this region the 
 only vegetation are a few ice-plants, lichens, and mosses j and the 
 animals ^\'hich belong to them are the glutton, the white fox, 
 the northern hare {Lepus horcalis), the reindeer, and the common 
 weasel. 
 
 2. In the willow and birch region, the lemming, two or three 
 lield-mice, the fox, the wolf, the bear, the stoat, the common field- 
 mouse, the little shrew {Sorex pygmo'us), and one bat {Vespertilio 
 iorealis). 
 
 3. Pine and fir region : long-eared bat, parti-coloured bat, the 
 water-shrew, the lynx, the martin, the otter, the long-tailed field- 
 mouse, the common mouse, three or four species of lemming, the 
 squirrel, the elk, and the red deer. 
 
 4. The oak region, reckoning from that tract where the oak first 
 grows : the great bat, the hedgehog, the common rat, the grey 
 hare {Lepus canescens), the polecat, and the badger. 
 
 5. The beech region: Barbastell bat, mole, dormouse, and roe-deer. 
 
 6. In such tracts where the black mulberry can ripen (Skania) : 
 Here they find fossil remains of the wild boar {Ursus spelceus)^ 
 beaver, the southern species of reindeer. Bos Urus, B.frojitosus, B. 
 lonfr'ifroiis, and B. bison. 
 
 And, as regards the ornithology of the country, we shall see the 
 haunts of the several species of birds just as clearly defined : 
 
 1. In the snow region we find the snow bunting, Bufibn's skua, 
 the wheatear, the raven, the rough-legged buzzard, the snowy owl, 
 the short-eared owl, the ptarmigan, the white-fronted goose, the 
 golden plover, the redshank, the dunliri, the purple sandpiper, the 
 common gull, and the herring gull (by the fell lakes), and four or 
 five species of diving duck. Nilsson takes his fell tract in West 
 Norway, 60° N. lat. 
 
 2. In the willow and birch region, the meadow pipit, the blue- 
 throated warbler, the brambling, the mealy redpole, the black- 
 
Suae den, 9 
 
 headed bunting, yellow wagtail, willow wren, redwing, ring ouzel, 
 redstart, marsh titmouse, Siberian titmouse, water ouzel, willow 
 grouse, common sandpiper, common snipe, hooper, bean goose, wild 
 duck, and teal. 
 
 3. In the pine and fir region, the fieldfare, the Siberian jay, the 
 greenfinch, siskin, chafhnch, crested tit, coletit, great black wood- 
 pecker, three-toed woodpecker, gold-crest, wren, the crossbills, the 
 redbreast, garden warbler, song thrush, tree pipit, capercailzie, black 
 grouse and hazel hen. 
 
 4. In the cultivated districts, the hooded crow, ortolan bunting, 
 yellow bunting, white wagtail, common sparrow, magpie, and 
 swallow. 
 
 Thus we shall see that the vegetation as well as the fauna of this 
 country has its defined limits 3 for, beginning with the cultivated 
 districts in the bottom of the fells, where many of the trees and 
 bushes peculiar to Britain are met with, we come (ascending the 
 fell sides) first to the fir district and then to the pine. Above these 
 we find tlie birch, and, higher up, the willow and fell birch. Above 
 this we come to the district where nothing but lichen and moss can 
 grow • and, above all, lies the region of perpetual snow. 
 
 The botanist can judge for himself what a field is here open to 
 him ; and it is no \^onder that Sweden is able to boast of many 
 well versed in this science, and the study of the entomologist goes 
 hand-in-hand with it. But, to the geologist and lover of antiquarian 
 lore, Scandinavia possesses still richer attractions. Judging from the 
 fossil remains preserved in the museums of the country, many 
 animals, now extinct, in former days inhabited the south of Sweden ; 
 and the bones of antediluvian monsters, which are yearly dug up in 
 the turf mosses of Skania, are evidences of bygone ages. It is easy 
 to carry the reflecting mind back to the period before man appeared 
 on the face of the globe, when probably the waves rolled over the 
 greater part of this land, and we can figure to ourselves monstrous 
 fishes then peopling the waters, and reptiles of misshapen and hideous 
 growth, drawing their slow length along the slimy oozes of the fens. 
 Pass we on to a later date, when the vvhole lace of the countrv 
 
10 Sweden. 
 
 gradually changed; the wild bull tossed his mane in these then 
 secluded forests, the wild sow farrowed in security in regions un- 
 trodden by the foot of man, and thousands of gigantic elk and red 
 deer roamed at will over the oak forests and wide prairies of 
 southern Sweden. 
 
 ''Whatever," obser\^es Dr. Johnson — ''whatever withdraws 
 us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the 
 distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances 
 us in the dignity of thinking beings;" and whoever takes an 
 interest in the history of the early ages of mankind, \\\\\ here 
 find much to occupy his attention and his thoughts. The 
 rude implements of the chase, and the barbarous weapons 
 of war, carry the mind back to ages when the battle and the 
 chase formed man's constant and only employments. Huge 
 barrows and cairns, and rude but stupendous monuments of stone, 
 mark the site of many an ancient battle-field, or the last resting- 
 place of the old Scandinavian warrior and king; and the rude 
 hieroglyphics cut in the rocks on many parts of the coast, are 
 rnementoes at the present day of those savage barbarians who, in 
 the early days of Christianity, spread fire and desolation over so 
 great a portion of Europe; when the "viking's" bark spread her 
 sails before the wind, and bore the dreaded sea-pirate to the 
 opposite shores of Britain. 
 
 Our task, however, is with the present, and not with the past ; 
 and it only remains for us to add that, let his taste be what it may, 
 whetlier he be a sportsman, naturalist, or merely a traveller in 
 search of the beauties of nature, the wanderer here will find full 
 employment; and perhaps there is scarcely another country in 
 Europe where a stranger, during the summer months, can travel 
 with so much cheapness, security, and freedom, as in this. 
 
 But to return to our more immediate subject. As regards the 
 mammalia of Sweden, two hypotheses will hold good as to their 
 introduction into this land. It is supposed, and with good grounds, 
 that this continent at an early period was landlocked with the rest 
 of Europe, before the Baltic and the Bothnia formed a dividing line 
 
Sweden, 
 
 II 
 
 of sea. Most of the southern species came over the dry land where 
 the Baltic now flows, and the more northern species, such as the 
 glutton, arctic fox, reindeer, fiying squirrel, and some others, came 
 from the tracts lying on the north-east of the Bothnia. Be this as 
 it may, each species seems to be pretty well confined to the limii 
 assigned to it, and only makes occasional migrations to other 
 districts, guided by an instinct which it baffles man's ingenuity to 
 account for. 
 
 Not so, however, with the ornithology of the north. The migra- 
 tions of the feathered race are much more regular and certain j but 
 it may be remarked that many individuals of the different famihes 
 which, as a general rule, are only summer migrants to the north of 
 the country, remain stationary in the south of Sweden during the 
 winter, especially if the weather is open 3 and many ducks (although 
 the majority leave the country) are to be seen off the southern 
 coast, and even on the midland open waters during that season. 
 Some other species are only partial migrants in the winter from the 
 northern and midland districts to the south of the country, where 
 they remain during the coldest season, and return to their more 
 northerly breeding haunts in the spring. Among these we may 
 mention the hooded crow, an occasional hawk, the jackdaw, 
 nuthatch, mealy redpole, greenfinch, siskin, goldfinch, mountain 
 linnet, chaffinch, purple sandpiper, spotted crake, dabchick, and one 
 or other of the diving ducks and gulls. 
 
 The few that are to be met with in the north and middle of the 
 country throughout the whole winter are the eagles, Iceland 
 falcons, goshawk, all the owls peculiar to the country (with the 
 exception of the short-eared owl), the raven, magpie, all the wood- 
 peckers except the P'lcus medius, which is confined at all seasons 
 to the south of the country 3 the crossbills, pine grosbeak, jay, 
 Siberian jay, the waxwing, titmice, yellow bunting, sparrow, bull- 
 finch, occasional flocks of redwing and fieldfare, and a diving duck 
 or two, if there is any open water ; and we may notice three others, 
 whose slender frames appear but ill-fitted to withstand the rigours 
 of a northern winter, but which I have seen in the Wermland 
 
li Sweden, 
 
 forests during the severest weather — the tree-creeper, the wren, and 
 the gold-crest. Why these Uttle stragglers should remain behind 
 after all their glad companions of summer have flitted to warmer 
 climes has always been a mystery to me. 
 
 Some few species, such as the hen harrier, the grey plover, the 
 pigmy curlew, knot, sanderling, and bernicle goose, have not as yet, 
 to my knowledge, been detected breeding in Sweden, but are only 
 seen during their migrations to and from their breeding haunts, as 
 is supposed, in more north-easterly latitudes. With the exception 
 of an occasional rare seafowl, whose peculiar home is in the polar 
 seas, there are no regular winter migrants to Scandinavia. 
 
 Some birds are yearly becoming more scarce in the north, for 
 instance, the shieldrake, bittern, ruff, lapwing, blacktern, black- 
 headed gull, and golden plover j and, on the contrar}% one or two 
 other species are gradually spreading themselves more widely over 
 the face of the country, such as the shore lark, Siberian titmouse, 
 &c. Many of the summer migrants do not appear in the same 
 numbers on each succeeding year. The nutcracker is a striking 
 instance of this fact 5 and I could never account for this — it cer 
 tainly is not altogether owing to a scanty supply of food. 
 
 That the British fauna is far richer in accidental varieties than 
 that of Scandinavia may be easily accounted for by the fact of the 
 former country being so densely populated and so closely examined, 
 that it is next to impossible for a strange bird to show itself on 
 the British shores without being at once noticed 5 whereas, such is 
 the wild nature of the Scandinavian landscape, and so thinly are 
 the habitations of man scattered over its surface, that a rare bird 
 may come and go year after year without being observ^ed by any 
 one. But that Scandinavia is much richer than Britain both in 
 species and individuals duriy.g the breeding season may be easily 
 supposed when we consider the vast extent of wild uninhabited 
 country abounding in suitable localities for the wilder, and to the 
 British fauna, rarer species of birds, whose shy and retired habits 
 lead them to seek more secluded and secure breeding haunts tlian 
 any part of Great Britain can atibrd. We find, therefore, that out 
 
Sweden. i'^ 
 
 of nearly 360 species known in Britain, scarce 170 breed in tht^ 
 country, whereas, out of 300 Scandinavian species, above 230 breed 
 in the north. 
 
 AVith regard to the Danish fauna, it may be regarded as inter- 
 mediate between that of Great Britain and the nortli of Europe ; 
 but fewer birds breed there in proportion than in either Sweden or 
 Norway or Great Britain. The climate and general appearance of 
 the country, both in landscape and vegetation, much resemble the 
 British Isles ; and I thought I never gazed upon a quieter, richer, 
 or lovelier landscape than when passing through tlie Belts one 
 summer a few years ago. The country is well adapted to the 
 habits of the southern warblers and many of the waders, and, 
 lying in a direct line, as it were, between Sweden and England, it 
 is more frequently visited by the rarer northern birds than the 
 latter country. The south of Denmark is highly cultivated, and 
 the whole country has a far more pastoral appearance than the 
 opposite shores of Sx^^eden. In the north of Zealand, however, 
 are miles of barren moorland, which, \\ithout possessing the rich 
 appearance of the bonnie purple heather of Scotland, are well 
 adapted to the habits of the curlew, golden plover, and many other 
 birds which frequent tlie British moors. The country, however, is 
 level, and we never, therefore, meet with either species of a 
 ptarmigan peculiar to the northern fells 3 and the absence of tlie 
 Swedish pine-forests renders it an unfitting residence for the larger 
 owls and such other species of birds as are peculiar to the forest 
 tracks of Sweden and Norway. That noblest of all game birds, 
 the capercailzie, is unknown in Denmark, and the blackcock is 
 rare 3 otherwise the Danish fauna much resembles that of the south 
 of Sweden, from which it is only separated by the Sound, a channel 
 some few English miles broad. There are no rivers to speak of in 
 Denmark, but large ponds, well stocked with the common fresh-water 
 lish. However much the agriculturist may long to linger among 
 the neat pastures of the Danish farmers, it is no country for the 
 naturalist or sportman, who will eagerly hasten on to wilder and 
 jess-inhabited districts. 
 
14 Sweden. 
 
 I consider the British coasts, generally speaking, to be much 
 richer in the common sea birds than the southern coasts of Sweden j 
 but the wild " skargord," or rocky clusters of isles which skirt the 
 northern coasts, are the peculiar home of the seafowl, and the 
 immense swamps and morasses, and the countless inland lakes with 
 which the interior of Sweden is studded, afford secure shelter and 
 breeding places for every species of inland aquatic fowl. In the 
 very south of Sweden, where the oak, the beech, and the hazel, 
 usurp the place of the pine and fir kings of the northern forest, the 
 different species of warblers find a home as congenial to their 
 habits as the groves and plantations of England 5 and as regards the 
 general fauna of this part of the country, it differs but little from 
 that of Britain. The severity of the northern winter is here little 
 felt, and the spring migrants make their appearance nearly as early 
 as in England, and generally a fortnight before they are to be seen 
 farther up the country, where the snow frequently covers the 
 ground in the end of April. 
 
 In the midland districts, wiiere pine and fir forests of boundless 
 extent rise on high stony ranges (intersected with plains and valleys 
 of meadow and cultivated land, and dells where the birch, the 
 juniper, and the alder vegetate in rank luxuriance), nearly every 
 species of land bird finds a congenial home ; whilst vast morasses, 
 many of which can never be traversed by the human foot, rivers, 
 and inland lagoons of every size, fringed with the reed, the bulrush, 
 and the candock, abound in every species of wader and aquatic 
 bird, which resort to the north in thousands at the breeding season. 
 It is now that the British naturalist begins to meet with rare and 
 new specimens, and it is now that the eye of the traveller first 
 gazes on the true scenery of the north — and more beautiful scenery 
 than Sweden displays during the summer months it would be hard 
 to find. I have wandered over many lands, and have scarcely ever 
 seen a European landscape to vie with this. 
 
 In the very north the appearance of the whole country becomes 
 gradually wilder and more rugged, and high mountains and barren 
 fells, covered with perennial snow, rising above the limits of vegeta- 
 
Sweden, j 5 
 
 tion, and towering over the pine forests which skirt their sides, are 
 tAe home of some few of the very rarer and wilder species, whose 
 habits are but httle known to us. 
 
 Having now given a short description of the landscape and 
 general features of the country, we will say a few words on the 
 climate, natural products, agriculture, and field-sports of Scandinavia. 
 It is easy to guess that, from the causes above-named, the tempera- 
 ture of this country is subject to great variations — so much so, in 
 fact, that a man may here reside in three climates. It will not be 
 within our present limits to enter upon any description of Lapland ; 
 suffice it to say, that in the far north, where the Laplander leads a 
 wandering life, the reindeer are his only riches, and the culture of 
 the soil is not heeded. 
 
 We may perhaps take the province of Norbotten, lying in 65° N. 
 latitude, as our northern agricultural limit, and here the farmer has 
 just three months to prepare his ground, sow his corn, let it grow, 
 and gather it into his barn. The summer here is of short duration y 
 but there is no night, and everything springs up by magic, as if to 
 make up for the long winter sleep. The best barley, however, 
 grows up at Calix, in 66° N., and the celebrated alsike clover comes 
 from a parish of that name near Upsala. The real Swedish turnip, 
 or, as it is called here, *^ Rotabaga," from a place in Dalecarlia, is 
 principally grown here in gardens for culinary purposes. Turnip- 
 growing for agriculture is as yet in its infancy here, and the prin- 
 cipal sorts which are grown for the cattle are the old-fashioned 
 white globe and yellow bullock ; but they are neither by any 
 means extensively cultivated. Of course in a country of such 
 extent and diversity of landscape we may expect as much change in 
 the climate as in the scenery 3 and the south, the middle, and the 
 north of Sweden have each a climate peculiar to itself. In the very 
 south it diifers little from that of the north of Scotland 3 the cold is 
 rarely very severe in winter ; the spring comes on at least a month 
 earlier than in the midland districts, and by the beginning of April 
 all the spring sowing is finished. The country is generally open, 
 and the woods have a true English character. The soil is often 
 
1 6 Sweden, 
 
 rich and good, but there are many sandy plains and deep turf 
 mosses. Along the coasts of the Baltic and Cattegat are some of 
 the best farming tracts in Sweden. The farming here is not amiss j 
 but no attention is ever paid to cleansing the land, and much 
 ground is lost by the wide stone and mud banks and broad ditches 
 that separate the fields. Land is perhaps taken at, throughout the 
 country, ten shillings per acre, and this, I consider, as too dear. The 
 winters in the south are, however, always colder than in England, 
 and the cattle are all kept up in byres throughout that season ; but 
 the southern farmer can work his land nearly a month earlier and 
 later than we can in Wermland, and as a proof of the variability of 
 the clime I may mention that in the Christmas week, i860, our 
 thermometer, up at Carlstad, was as low as 25° cold Celsius, while 
 at Gothenburg, perhaps 200 miles south, it hardly exceeded 9°. 
 
 As to the farming in the very north, the reader may be able to 
 form his own idea if he reads what I have written above as to the 
 length of the season j and, merely remarking that Wermland is 
 certainly not one of the best districts for farming in the middle of 
 the country, and very much inferior to the south, I shall neverthe- 
 less give a description of the farming in that province, because I 
 know more of it than any other ; and, moreover, my short notices 
 being as it were general ones, will pretty well apply to the Swedish 
 farming throughout the country, allowing for heavier crops in the 
 most favoured districts. 
 
 In the middle of Sweden the winter is long and severe, the 
 spring delightful, and the summer generally hot and dry. When 
 the thermometer falls as law as 20° Celsius it is considered cold, 
 but is not unfrequently as low as 25° to 30^3 farther north 40° is 
 not rare 3 and the heat in summer is occasionally, but not often, as 
 high as 25° Celsius. The snow generally covers the ground deeply 
 from the beginning of November till April, and this is a long, dull, 
 monotonous season 3 about six hours' daylight to eighteen of dark. 
 Beautiful as is a winter's landscape, it loses half its charms when we 
 have to gaze upon it for five months 3 and at this season a man can 
 reckon upon getting little outdoor exercise on foot, and often for 
 
Sweden, .17 
 
 tv/o months you can hardly even get into the fores>.w, lor the snow 
 is generally too deep 3 but the sledging is then first-rate. Bleak a» 
 the prospect, however, is without, there is m/thing cold within ; 
 every country house is thrown open — glad reunions of families a:id 
 social meetings of friends celebrate this festive season. The tinkling 
 of the sledge-bells ring cheerily through the frosty ai • ; and nowhere 
 are the hospitable rights of old Father Christmas more strictly 
 observed than in these northern climes. 
 
 Now is the time for getting the timber out of trie forests and the 
 iron down from the mines. Driving out dung and peat-earth on to 
 the fallows, thrashing and delivering corn, keep the farmer in full 
 occupation during this season. The cattle are all >jnug in the byres, 
 gates thrown off the hinges, the tops of the fences scarcely apparent 
 above the snow 3 high roads are now little heeded, and short cuts 
 across the country are made for sledging over the snow and frozen 
 lakes as straight as the crow can fly. 
 
 Nearly all the birds have left for more genial climes, and all 
 nature seems wrapped in a still deep sleep. But sudden as was the 
 change when the cold north wind, drifting over the dreary deserts 
 of tlie North Cape, buried the landscape beneatli its icy mantle, it 
 is no less sudden when the mild west wind of April comes with 
 "healing on its wings," and the first summer migrant appears as 
 the glad harbinger of spring. A few dull misty days, witli rain and 
 warm wind, and tlie whole face of the country changes as if by 
 magic. The trees suddenly burst into leaf, the green rye appears 
 from under the snow, and no one who had looked upon the country 
 a few days back could believe that so much beauty lay hidden 
 beneath the waste of snow. Now all is bustle out of doors — animal 
 as well as vegetable life seems suddenly to wake up, and the farmer 
 has not a day to spare in making preparation against anotlier winter, 
 which he knows will surely come again in due season. 
 
 Although the principal riches of the north are the forests and tlie 
 iron mines, the country is much dependent upon agriculture 3 and 
 to prove that great improvements are yearly taking place, we may 
 judge from the fact that twelve or fifteen years since 36,000 tunna 
 
 c 
 
i8 Sweden. 
 
 of corn were yearly imported into the province of Wermland, 
 whereas now the export exceeds the import by 6000 tunna. 
 
 Every Swedish country gentleman is something of a farmer, 
 living upon and cultivating his own estate. The principal part of 
 his produce goes to the support of his household, and the sale of his 
 surplus corn and timber from his forests covers incidental expenses. 
 Thus he passes his time quietly and happily in the bosom of his 
 family — a country gentleman or squire in every sense of tlie word, 
 with just enough employment to keep his time occupied ; and 
 if he is not rich compared to the British landowner, his expenses 
 are much lessj and his estate supplies him and his family 
 with all the real necessaries of life. But do not let the reader 
 suppose that the gentleman farmer works here as in England. 
 An inspector or bailiff is kept on every estate 5 and, as to the 
 farmer himself, his knowledge is principally theoretical, as no one 
 above the class of a peasant understands much about the practical 
 jjart of the affair. It is not to be wondered at that we see true 
 pictures of domestic happiness in the Swedish homes, where the 
 members are so much more closely thrown together than in 
 England. Hospitable and kind-hearted, a stranger is treated as 
 " a friend and a brother" wherever he comes. 
 
 It is much to be regretted that the youth of this country take 
 little or no interest in athletic games, such as cricket, rowing, &:c., 
 and the many other outdoor manly exercises in which young 
 England delights (and which, whatever your soft-hearted carpet- 
 knights may say, have tended more than anything else to bring 
 England to the high position she now holds), for a finer, hand- 
 somer race of men than the upper classes in Sweden, take them 
 altogether, it would be hard to find — generally large grown, and 
 the average standard certainly above that of the English. And, as 
 Xo the females, it is without the slightest flattery when I say that I 
 have certainly seen more fine women, in proportion to their 
 numbers, in this country than in any other j and the proud beauties 
 ■of En2:land would find it hard to " hold their own " when brous^ht 
 side by side with the fresh, healthy beauty of the north. And, 
 
Sweden, i^ 
 
 rough and uncouth as the Swedish peasants may be, they are as 
 "hard as nails j" and the thought struck me, as I saw about loo of 
 these hardy foresters marshalled together at an elk " skall," that it 
 must be a bold enemy wdio w^ould attack such men in their native 
 woods. 
 
 The Swedish peasant is an original. It has been observed that "3. 
 Yorkshireman was the hardest study of man, not even barring a 
 Scotchman J but a Yorkshire yar777er out-Heroded even Herod." 
 For the Yorkshire farmer substitute 2. " Swedish peasanty You 
 need never try to drive him out of his way. If you want anything 
 done for you, you must let him do it after his own fashion ; but on 
 one thing you may depend, it luill he done. There is something, 
 to my fancy, very sterling and good in the character of the true 
 *'bondes" of the north j always civil and friendly, hard-working, 
 cheerful, and honest, he generally farms his own little estate, and 
 nearly always contrives to lay by a little money. He is proverbially 
 inquisitive, and covetous after money ; and it is wonderful, for a 
 trifle, how far he will go to serve you. But the real key to his 
 heart is a glass of corn-brandy. 
 
 And I may here remark that the principal drink of the country 
 is a fiery kind of spirit distilled from potatoes or rye, about half the 
 strength of our gin. This is called linkel or branvin, and can be 
 bought for about is. 6d. the Swedish kanna or gallon, which 
 contains four English bottlee. This is the nectar of the Swedish 
 peasant 5 and it has one grt-at advantage in his eye, that he can 
 manage to get comfortably drunk on it for yl. The Sv\ti!i^h 
 peasant is often a heavy drinker and a heavy swearer. 
 
 It is singular that, although a drunken peasant is no uncommon 
 sight, it is a very unusual circumstance to see any one of the better 
 class in Sweden intoxicated : they like their social glass, but they 
 do not drink in the business-like manner of the English j and, 
 moreover, somehow or other, they all seem to have found out the 
 secret which an old friend of mine used to say he had been sixty 
 years trying to discover, which was, 'Svhen he had had just 
 enough." 
 
 c 2 
 
•20 Sweden, 
 
 For hard work commend me to a Swedish female servant. Her 
 wages will probably not exceed 30^. per year and a few clothes, 
 and yet on this she contrives to dress well, often to look very smart 
 and pretty ; and it is a pleasure to see the cheerful way she goes 
 about her work. 
 
 Besides the peasant who farms his own land, and who represents 
 the British yeoman, we have still another class, the '' torpare," who 
 is, as it were, attached to the estate, and does the principal work of 
 the farm. Every large estate has so many of these "torpare" on 
 it. They have a house and a bit of land on the estate ; and, in 
 consideration, are bound to work so many days in the year for their 
 landlord. This I consider a most objectionable system, for these 
 *' torpare" never have a shilling to enter upon their little 
 holding, which is too often in wretched condition. It is generally 
 let far too high, and their day's wages are proportionably low 3 they 
 have little time to work their own farm, and as they must buy 
 everything from their landlord, because they scarcely ever are able to 
 go elsewhere, they live completely on the tally system. They are 
 almost alv^^ays in debt. A poor ''torpare" once in debt is never able 
 ro work himself out again. The system is certainly good for the 
 landlord, for he gets a hard-working man in return for a wretched 
 house and a poor little patch of land ; but I am certain the day 
 labourer would be far more independent and better off here if he 
 received his wages weekly, and hired a small cottage to live in. But 
 labour every year in Sweden is becoming of a higher value. That t\\& 
 Swedish labourer is just now in a better condition than the English 
 labourer, is proved by the fact that in the winter of 1864 and 1865, the 
 labourers round us, who were free and not tied down by this 
 " torpare" system, were earning from S-?. to 95. per week. Rye was 
 not above i/. 105. per quarter, and pork not 55. for 2olb. 
 
 The religion of Sweden is strictly Lutheran ; and the Swedish 
 priests exemplary, hard-working, and too often ill-paid men. There 
 are no religious schisms or dissensions in this country, and the 
 priests are far more respected among the peasants than at home. The 
 education of the poor is much better looked after, and no one can 
 
Sweden. 
 
 21 
 
 take the sacrament without having first read with the priest. The 
 consequence is, that nearly every peasant can read and write — all 
 can read ; and this, I think, is rather a clincher against the argu- 
 ment that it is not prudent to teach the working classes too much. 
 Nowhere do we see a more honest, Lard-working, quiet race of 
 men, taking them in general, than the peasants here. Even " in 
 his cups " he is pleasant and good-natured ; and there certainly is 
 not in this country one-third of the crime in proportion to tlie 
 number of inhabitants, which we hear of in England. 
 
 It is very difficult to give any idea of the value of property here. 
 Very little is rented ; almost every Swedish proprietor farms his 
 own land. Estates are, however, always in the market ; and a man 
 with capital has no trouble to suit himself, and often at his own 
 price. I have seen a 2000 acre farm, in Wermland, sold for 2000/., 
 and many others, not half the size, for double the sum. I should 
 say, however, that 5/. per acre would buy most of the estates in 
 Wermland J and ^s. to los. per acre (when lands are let) is, 
 perhaps, the standard rent 3 and, in my opinion, this is their full 
 value, considering the present state of the land. 
 
 There is a perfect mania in S\^^eden for buying estates, and I do 
 not believe there is a landed proprietor heie who would not part 
 with his estate, if the price tempted him. Not one estate in tooo 
 is entailed ; and, as most of the estates are fully mortgaged, and 
 half of them bought on speculation, to be parted with again 
 directly land rises in the market, the landed proprietor in the north 
 does not feel an interest in his land equal to that of the British 
 landowner, whose estate has been in his family for centuries. This 
 is the true secret why the farms are made so little of in the north. 
 Scarcely any gentleman thinks of renting a farm — his great object 
 is to become a landed proprietory therefore, if he possesses 1000/. 
 or 2000/., instead of renting just as much land as he can well 
 manage, and throwing his capital into his farm, where he would be 
 sure to get a safe return, he at once buys an estate for from 2000/. 
 to 4000/., puts what money he has into the purchase, and borrows 
 the remainder at 6 per cent. He has therefore nothing left to 
 
22 Sweden, 
 
 come in with and improve his farm when he has once entered; 
 and hampered \\'ith a debt which keeps him poor, he is unable to 
 make any improvements on his farm which would increase his 
 yearly returns. Of course this is not always the case ; many clear- 
 sighted men will make a good thing of it j but it is the general 
 rule. If every man (unless, indeed, he saw it was a safe specula- 
 tion) would limit his purchase to half his capital, or rent his land 
 upon a long lease, we should then see agriculture flourish in this 
 land, and not till then. When a man can help his farm, and stick 
 1o it, it is sure to give a good return ; and this is proved by the 
 peasants, who, notwithstanding their generally slovenly state of 
 cultivation, by careful living and industry always contrive to lay by 
 something. Do not, however, misunderstand me. I do not in the 
 least blame a man for buying a farm, if he sees he can make more 
 out of it as interest for his capital than he can get elsewhere. But 
 this speculation is carried on almost to gambhng ; and many a man 
 who buys an estate knows very little how to cultivate it to the best 
 advantage. There is a loan society here which will always advance 
 one-half of the purchase-money, but they have the first claim on 
 the estate, and the mortgagees who lend the other half (for very 
 often land is mortgaged up to the whole of the sum that it costs) 
 have, I should fancy, a very poor security for tlie remainder. There 
 are more ways of entering a farm here than one. Very often the 
 cattle and implements go with the estate, and, in the case of 
 renting, the whole stock is taken at an inventory, to be replaced at 
 tlie expiration of the term, by which means it is possible for a man 
 to come into his farm witli scarcely a shilling. But I think that a 
 tenant who really means to start right, and stock his farm properly, 
 should enter it with about il. or iL los. capital per acre, and in 
 this case, if he understood his business, he would be sure of a good 
 and certain return. One great advantage a good working farmer 
 would have in taking a farm here is this — he would pay only for 
 the cultivated landj and as' there is generally nearly as much waste 
 land on each estate as that which is under the plough, but equally 
 ^ood (wanting only working), he could if he got a long lease 
 
Sweden, 23 
 
 (which eveiy British farmer would of course insist upon) in a few 
 years double the area of his cultivated land. 
 
 Of course, throughout this wide land, there is as much variety in 
 the soil as in the climate, and there are few estates of any size upon 
 which you will not find nearly every variety of soil which the farmer 
 requires ; but of course, like England, Sweden has its rich and its 
 poor districts. Taking the land in general, I should say it was a 
 stiff, useful, but poor and hungry, soil, with much deep good land 
 by the sides of the river and lakes everywhere capable of great 
 improvement by ground drainage and care. The standard crops of 
 the country — rye, oats, clover, and artificial grasses — appear to grow 
 well on every farm. 
 
 Rye is the principal corn grown in Sweden. In Wermland it 
 should, if possible, be in the ground by the beginning of August, 
 and the harvest will generally fall in that month. The measure in 
 use here is the tunna, and on a rough calculation we may reckon this 
 as equal to four English bushels, or half a quarter. The land is 
 measured by the tunreland, which is rather more than an English 
 acre. It is next to impossible to give a general average of the 
 crops in the midland districts, for so much depends upon the 
 weather and the seasons -, and most of the land is in such bad 
 heart, that, unlike the farmer in England, who can generally 
 calculate upon his return with some certainty, the Swedish farmer 
 can hardly ever reckon, when he sows his corn, how much he hiay 
 get back. I know no country which wants it more, or which could 
 be more improved by ground-draining than this, and the expense of 
 ground-draining here is not dear — about 2/. to 2/. los. per acre. 
 Artificial manures are coming much into fashion, although the 
 peasants stick to "muck," and muck only. Guano answers well 
 for an autumn dressing, but the summers are generaiTy too dry to use 
 it in the spring. I wonder, considering how muc^i they are wanted 
 at home, at the quantity of bones that are annually exported from 
 Sweden. 
 
 A tuiina of good rye will weigh from 26olb. to 3oolb.3 and its 
 market price is always i^s., and sometimes as high as iL 
 
24 Sweden. 
 
 When properly done by, I have seen some rattlhig crops of 
 wheat in many places, which proves that, with care, the land might 
 soon be adapted to its culture 3 and I wonder it is not more 
 attended to. An average crop will probably be about eight tunna, 
 or four quarters, to the acre ; it should weigh 3oolb. per tunna, and 
 average 25^. in the market. Red wheat is generally sown three- 
 quarters of a tunna seed to the tunneland ; and spring wheat, if 
 they can get it in early enough, generally does well. 
 
 Wermland is not a barley province, but by good draining it 
 might be made to carry good crops. It is impossible to give an 
 average of this crop, which varies from six to twelve tunna per 
 tunneland, and will average about 12?. per tunna, weight 26olb. 
 
 Oats, however, appear to be peculiarly adapted to this soil and 
 climate. They are generally sown three years in succession on the 
 same land, in many places six, and sometimes ten — just cast into 
 the land, without any manure ; and, notwithstanding this lazy-bed 
 culture, the return will sometimes be six tunna to the acre ; but we 
 see often wretched crops, and it is not to be wondered at, con- 
 sidering what state the land must be in after such close cropping. 
 The principal oats grown here are both white and black, and 
 potato oats. They will weigh from i6clb. to 20olb. the tunna, and 
 the price varies from 85. to 1 2s. 
 
 Potatoes will average 3^. to 6s., and turnips (Swedish) 4^. per 
 tunna. The land seems well adapted to potatoes. On Gardsjo 
 they generally plant fifteen tunna on three tunneland, and get back 
 seldom less than 150 tunna. On good ground, carrots grow w^ell 
 up here, and occasionally the crop will yield 200 tunna to the 
 tunneland. 
 
 Beans are but little grow^n, nor do I think the country adapted to 
 them — certainly not at present. Peas, however, grow well in 
 many places. 
 
 The clover crops are excellent ; and as there is in this country no 
 rich old natural meadow-grass, hke the English meadow^s. it is the 
 standard hay crop here, and very heavy crops they get. The seed 
 is white clover, alsike clover, and timothy grass, mixed, 3olb. to 
 
Sweden, 25 
 
 the tunneland, sown always on rye or wheat early hi the sprhif]^, 
 often on the top of the snow, seldom on oats. A good crop will 
 often yield as much as fifteen loads to the tunneland, and the price 
 of a load of such hay weighing 40olb., will be 8^. to lo^., some- 
 times more. The general price of oat-straw is 5,9., of rye-straw 3.9. 
 per 4oolb. 
 
 The natural meadow-grass is coarse and rough, growing by the 
 sides of the lakes and swamps, and there is no old swarth for 
 pasture such as we see in England. 
 
 As I said before, the growth of turnips is but yet in its infancy; 
 and, till the land is in a better state by drainage and manure, I do 
 not expect they will make much head. 
 
 The general rotation of crops here is : ist, A dead summer- 
 fallow, followed by rye or wheat sown in August ; 2nd, Grass and 
 clover seeds in the spring, and this will stand two to four years ; 
 3rd, Oats; 4th, Oats or barley; 5th, Oats or tares 3 and then a 
 fallow and rye again. 
 
 I will now proceed to make a few remarks on the live stock of 
 the farm, and wind up with some observations on the subject 
 generally. 
 
 The beef is but poor, and little wonder, seeing that the principal' 
 cattle which are slaughtered are either worn-out oxen or cows past 
 milking. Such beef costs about 2\d. per pound. The calves are killed 
 when a few hours old, and such veal is worth 2d. per pound. It is a 
 nasty sight to any one who has been accustomed to the neat, clean ap- 
 pearance of the meat in the London butchers' shops, to see the carcases 
 brought into the market here in the peasants' carts. The pork and 
 mutton are, however, excellent. They seem to have a curious 
 idea, however, here, that " pigs will not pay for fatting." A good 
 pig will generally weigh, when slaughtered, 40olb. ; and the 
 sheep often yolb., when of English race. Mutton is worth 
 yl per pound, and pork about 6s. for the 2olb. In the country 
 every family kill their own meat, and October and November are 
 the slaughtering months. 
 
 It is strange, considering butter and milk are the two staple com- 
 
26 Sweden, 
 
 moditles here, that the co^v3 are not better looked sifter. The cow- 
 byres are in general low, dark, and dirty, and the cows scarcely 
 ever well done by. In the middle of Sweden they come in about 
 the beginning of October, and hardly ever leave the byre again 
 till May. During the summer they pasture in the forest and grass 
 lands ; and during winter their food is often little more than rye- 
 straw, A^ith a small proportion of hay. The race of cows pecuhar 
 to the country are small, hardy little animals, and the general yield 
 of milk is 300 kanna (one kanna is equal to two-thirds of an 
 English gallon) per year 5 but when taken care of they will often 
 double that. About 3/. to 4/. is tlie price of an in-calver here. 
 Milk with the cream in the country may be averaged at 3^. per 
 kanna ; butter 6d. to c^d. per pound, and cheese at all prices from 
 2d. to gd. They say the annual yield of every cow is 5/. I 
 confess I can hardly see it. And in general they seem to think 
 nmch more of the produce of their cows than of their crops. 
 Many shorthorns are imported from England to improve the breed, 
 and I have no doubt, with care, the desired end will be effected. 
 But these fine-bred English cattle will require a little different 
 treatment from the rough Swedish cows, or, to use a horsedealer's 
 phrase, they will soon "fly all to pieces j" and were I going to 
 stock a farm here to-morrow, I should stick to the native breed, 
 feed and tend them better, and I am very doubtful in the long run 
 whether they would not be found to answer best. As long as milk 
 is the principal desideratum, I am convinced, with the keep they 
 now get, the little Swedish cows are the best ; but when they get 
 the land to carry better crops, and commence stall-feeding, tlie 
 large English breed will, of course, improve the meat. 
 
 The sheep, however, have been much improved by crosses with 
 our Cheviots and Leicesters ; and considering the price of wool, 
 and the immense quantity that is annually required for warm winter 
 clothing, I wonder that sheep-farming is not more attended to. I 
 don't suppose that in the very north they could live ; and in the 
 midland districts they will sometimes be under cover for six months 
 out of the twelve. Their principal food at this time is hay and 
 
O'Wecieu. 27 
 
 birch branches gathered and stacked in the autumn j and in the 
 summer they find excellent picking in the woods and plantations, 
 and on the heather. 
 
 The Swedish horses are compact, docile, hardy little fellowS; 
 showing no great breeding, but well adapted for this climate and 
 these roads, and, like the cows, can rough it upon any pasture and 
 in any quarters. They average about 14 to 15 hands. The carts 
 they draw are small, and doubtless, if tlie larger English cart-horses 
 and our common carts could be introduced into tlie country, tlie 
 farmers would get through their work quicker and easier. But I 
 don't believe they would stand either the climate or roads, except, 
 perhaps, in tlie very south ; and instead of trusting too much to 
 foreign aid to improve their breed of cattle, or system of farming, 
 I should recommend the Swedish farmer to do more justice to his 
 own breed, and modify his own style of farming, which is best 
 suited to the country, without introducing fashions and cattle from 
 other countries, which probably would be very unsuited to this. 
 Much as we must applaud the spirit of enterprise and im- 
 provement, we should ah^'ays bear in mind that there are cer- 
 tain laws of nature which man cannot overstep witliout paying tlie 
 penalty. 
 
 Horses are dear here ; about ij/. is the price of a useful country 
 nag, such as we should see in a butcher's or grocer's light cart in 
 England, but without the style. Riding on horseback is not 
 fashionable here, and, except the military, you rarely see a Swedish 
 gentleman '^ outside a horse." The military seat is in vogue here, 
 and, as there is no racing or cross-country work, when you do see a 
 man riding he seems as if he was trying to take as much out of his 
 horse as he can. Our English cross-country seat, and our style of 
 riding, where the rider tries to ease his horse as much as he can, not 
 being understood, is laughed at here. There is not much work 
 for the veterinary surgeon in the country-stables, for the horses 
 being more naturally treated are much healtliier than in England. 
 I believe the Norwesrian horses are considered the best, and though 
 they boast of some rattling trotters in that country, I don't believe 
 
aS Sweden, 
 
 they could find many to do the English mile within the three 
 minutes. 
 
 Domestic poultry is but little attended to, although eggs will 
 occasionally fetch is. 6d. per score. In my opinion, both poultry 
 and tame rabbits would pay well in the south and midland districts. 
 
 They have very much improved lately in the fashion of their 
 agricultural implements, as they get all their models from Eng- 
 land. Wood and work are cheaper here j and a Scotch plough, 
 in every respect equal to one made at home, can be bought for 40^., 
 and other implements in proportion. Timber is cheap, and houses 
 and outhouses cost but little putting up in comparison to England. 
 
 The taxes are moderate 3 all the relief of the poor in our district 
 was out-door, and the poor-rates are levied in grain, after this fashion. 
 Early in spring an auction was held, to which all aged and helpless 
 paupers are brought in order to be let for the year. Each pauper 
 is put up to bidding, to see who will take and keep him or her for 
 one year at the lowest price, and a good deal of speculation goes ou 
 among the assembled farmers. A helpless old pauper out of whom 
 they can get no work \^^ill perhaps be rented out for the year at ten 
 tunna of oats j while one who appears to have a little work left in 
 him will be taken perhaps for tliree. This annual quota of grain is 
 levied among the farmers of the district. I have heard this practice 
 much condemned, and it certainly does appear to be a kind of 
 traffic in human flesh. But I cannot see what other plan could be 
 adopted in this thinly-populated country, where the houses lie so 
 wide apart j and I really believe that the Swedish peasant is always 
 kindly disposed towards the unfortunate, and these poor old bodies 
 are perhaps as well treated as the paupers in any of our parish 
 unions, and are certainly much freer. But there is something 
 melancholy in the reflection that one can live long enough to be 
 of no use to any one, and to be hawked about at the end of one's 
 "journey," and let out to the man who will undertake to keep you 
 for the lowest price. I recollect two or three old gentlemen who 
 were rented out in our neighbourhood, and they appeared cheerful 
 enough ; all they seemed to want was tobacco, and the poor old 
 
Kiweaen, 
 
 29 
 
 boys used regularly to waylay me in the woods when [ was out, tm 
 beg for a little bit. They at length became regular pensioners, and 
 many a time in after years, when I have been out of tobacco in the 
 Australian bush, have I thought of these old men, and become a 
 beggar in my turn of any stock-rider who might casually 
 canter by. 
 
 It is a pity, in most places, to see how badly the forests are 
 looked after, and how much waste yearly takes place. In many of 
 the more populous districts even firewood is becoming scarce, and 
 most of the forests in the midland districts are becoming sadly 
 tliinned by the woodman's axe, especially where water-carriage is 
 near. Timber is consequently rising yearly in value. The fences 
 in the midland districts are a kind of light snake-fence, composed 
 of split palings stuck obliquely in the ground one above another. 
 It is one of the ugliest fences imaginable, and has notliing to recom-- 
 mend it 3 and, to form a mile of such fencing, many hundreds of 
 valuable young trees are sacrificed. Hov/ever, in many places tliey 
 are substituting neat single posts and rails. 
 
 That agriculture is every year making head in Sweden, is certain. 
 Farming associations are held in every town, and a farming school 
 is established by Government in every district, where a dozen or so- 
 young men are sent every year to work on the farm, and go through 
 a course of agricultural study. But at present theory is more ia 
 fashion than practice. As the Swedes, however, are peculiarly 
 gifted with that most inestimable quahty, common sense, things wilt 
 be sure to come right in tlie end. Few countries in Europe have 
 greater natural capabilities than Sweden as an agricultural land, and 
 although the two great drawbacks are want of capital, and the 
 severity and uncertainty of the climate, that farming must pay is 
 proved by the fact that more than two-thirds of the gentlemen's 
 families are brought up by it. But a stranger settling on a farm in 
 this country would at first have much to contend with. A total 
 ignorance of the language and habits of the people, the severity of 
 the climate, and the very different manner in which the farms arft 
 managed here to what he has been accustomed, would sorely try a 
 
30 ' Sweden, 
 
 British farmer. A young working farmer, however, coming over here 
 with a small capital, and really setting his mind to acquire a know- 
 ledge of the language and the habits of the people, which he could do 
 in a twelvemonth by living for that time on a farm where the ov/ner 
 spoke English (and there are many such places m here he could live 
 very cheaply), would soon find an opening. 
 
 Happily, however, no men are more averse to leaving England 
 than the farmers, and no wonder at it. I spent my early days much 
 among them, and since then I have mixed much with farmers 
 of other nations ; but in no other country under the sun have I 
 Jbund a class of men who lead such truly happy lives as the farmers 
 of England. No matter whatever new country he may seek, the 
 British farmer is sure to leave behind him home comforts which he can 
 never replace abroad. Whatever faults he may find with Old England, 
 and however much he may grumble at her taxes, her institutions, 
 and the imaginary ruin which too often stares him in the face, he loves 
 her at heart perhaps better than any other of her sons. He is as it 
 were peculiarly a part and parcel of her soil, and transplanting him 
 to a foreign land is like lopping a branch off the old British oak. 
 His native village church, in which so many quiet Sabbath morn- 
 ings have been spent — the innocent occupations of his early rural 
 life — the neat homestead, the well-tilled fields, the cattle which it 
 was his just pride to gaze upon, the social meetings at the market 
 or the covert side — will haunt his memory to the last, and every one 
 of these must be relinquished the moment he turns his back upon 
 Old England. The adventurer or man of business leaves his native 
 home with scarce a sigh of regret, and, in the thrill of adventure 
 or the all-engrossing pursuit of money-making, v/ill soon forget the 
 land of his birth, and, like a true citizen of the world, accommodate 
 himself at once to the manners and customs of the strangers among 
 whom he is thrown j but not so the farmer. 
 
 Still, there must be many young farmers in our overstocked 
 country who, through necessity (not, we will trust, through choice), 
 yearly leave the British shores to seek their fortune in foreign climes, 
 and to such men I will fairly say, that of all countries in Europe, 
 
Sweden, 31 
 
 I know of none that presents a fairer opening to a farmer pos- 
 sessed of a small capital, but with a good knowledge of his business 
 and a hearty will, than Sweden. There exists, over all, a good feel- 
 ing between the Swedes and English. There is scarcely a farm in 
 the country which could not be improved doubly with a little 
 capital and a few years' proper management j and when he once 
 acquired a knowledge of the language and manners of the people, 
 the emigrant would have no trouble to get on. 
 
 I have endeavoured above, as far as I am able (for I must fairly 
 confess to the reader, that, like old Jorrocks's boy Benjamin, " I 
 don't profess to be a farmer,") to give a general insight into the 
 agriculture of the country, and I have been careful rather to be 
 under the mark than over it in my farming statistics. All I can say 
 is, if this should meet the eye of anyone who is about to emigrate 
 to more distant climes, I think it might be worth his while to turn 
 his attention nearer home j and I can only add, that Sweden just 
 now offers a good opening for a practical, hard-working farmer, with 
 small capital 3 but I should never recommend a man to invest one 
 shilling in land here in any way until he had spent a year in one 
 of the numerous farming schools which exist in the country, for it 
 would not be the slightest use a man commencing farming opera- 
 tions in Sweden till he understood somethino;' of the lano^uas^e and 
 habits of the people among whom he intended to settle — that is, if 
 he means to conduct his l^rm like an English farmer, and manage 
 it himself. 
 
 We will now turn to another subject, and say a few words on the 
 ichthyology of this land, which is as rich in "flood" as it is in 
 ** fell j" and as I resided for some time in its neighbourhood, I will 
 commence with a short description of the Lake Wenern. 
 
 The Wenern is, next to Ladoga, the second largest inland lake 
 in Europe, lying between 58"" and 60° north latitude, and about 
 sixty English miles from the North Sea, into which it empties 
 itself through the Gotha river, running into the Cattegat at Gothen- 
 burg. The length of this magnificent lake is about seventy 
 English miles, its breadth in places about forty, and it is computed 
 
4 2 Sweden, 
 
 So cover a surface of 360 English square miles. It lies about i<0 
 feet higher than the sea, is fed by twenty-four tributary streams, 
 although its only outlet is through the Gotha, a river not so wide 
 .IS the Thames at Kingston. Its greatest depth is 360 feet, and 
 slups of a fair tonnage ply on its surface in the summer, bringing 
 down from the northern districts of Wermland and the Dalecar- 
 ran forests iron, timber, and corn to Gothenburg for export. The 
 Wenern lies also on the summer high road from Gothenburg to 
 Stockholm, and at this season a line of communication is open 
 through the middle of Sweden by means of lakes and canals, and 
 travelters may run from one town to the other in about four days, 
 passing through a picturesque and beautiful country in small 
 steamers, which, for appointments, cleanliness, and cheapness are 
 second to none in the world 3 their captains, being all " old salts," 
 speak and understand English well, so that on such an excursion 
 the tourist may dispense with the nuisance and charge of a courier. 
 The small but remarkably neat town of Wenersborg lies at the 
 southern extremity of the Wenern, and the clean, well-built little 
 town of Carlstad at the north 3 and here die Clar, one of the 
 largest rivers in the middle of Sweden, empties itself into the 
 Wenern. The Clar rises far up in the Norwegian fells, and runs 
 through the wild forest districts of Dalecarlia and North Wermland. 
 A little distance to the north-east of Carlstad is another smaller 
 town— Christineham J Marit^stad and Lidkoping stand on its 
 eastern shores, and Amal on its western. At any one of these 
 towns cheap and good accommodation may be had 5 but, as a 
 fishing station, I should recommend Christineham or Amal. In 
 addition to these towns, the margin of the lake is studded with 
 small villages and farms, while gentlemen's seats, peeping out of 
 avenues of lime and birch extending down to the very margin of 
 the lake, form pretty objects for the traveller's eye as he glide* 
 over the glassy waters of the Wenern on a fine summer's morning. 
 As is always the case in the north, the land just round the lake is 
 of a far better quality than elsewhere 3 and if it was only made the 
 rcost of. the farmers round the Wenern might soon be rich men j 
 
Sweden, 
 
 .33 
 
 but the land of course lies low, and as the farmers are as slovenly 
 with their dyking and banking as they are with their other farm 
 operations, thousands of acres of land are wasted, and thousands of 
 bushels of corn lost by sudden rises of the Wenern, though they 
 might be all saved by a little management and judicious applica- 
 tion of capital. The edges of the lake are bounded with large 
 flats of coarse meadow land, beyond which rocky forests, rising all 
 around, form a grand natural panorama. Just out of Wenersborg, 
 to the right, are two singular mountains, Halle and Huimebcrg, 
 rich in old Scandinavian lore, while half way up the Wenern the 
 beautiful mountain of Kinnekulle, rising about 800 feet above the 
 surface of the lake, forms an imposing object in the distant land- 
 scape. In many places the Wenern is studded with little rocky 
 isles, some of them well timbered, which, as well as the extensive 
 reed-beds on the sides of the lake, afford safe and undisturbed 
 haunts for the numerous waerfowl that visit these regions in the 
 spring for the purpose of breeding. We have said that the Wenern 
 is considerably higher than the sea, and at Trolhattan, about six 
 English miles below Wenersborg, the Goiha dashes over a pre- 
 cipice about 120 feet high, divided into five falls, through a narrow 
 channel between the massy rocks which beetle over the foaming 
 waters of the falls themselves, and the dark pools that lie at the 
 bottom of each. Of course these falls proved a stopper to the 
 navigation of the Wenern ; but the difficulty was at length sur- 
 mounted, and a canal was hewed out of the solid rock parallel 
 with the river, and fitted with sluices, up which the ships gradually 
 " walk " from the bottom to the top, and vice versa. The scenery 
 around the falls is picturesque in the extreme, but I have no doubt 
 we have much grander falls in the north than these. The canal 
 is, however, a stupendous undertaking, and t\ great triumph of art 
 over nature. Of course not even the gamest salmon can come up 
 tJie Trolhattan falls, consequently we never take a real sea-salmon 
 {Sal/no salar) in the Wenern, although the sea-salmon, as well as 
 the bull-trout (5. Eriox) and the salmon trout (5. Trulla), all 
 come up from the sea to the very bottom of the falls. A few 
 
34 Sweden, 
 
 miles farther down the river are some smaller falls, and the same 
 "dodge" of the sluices on a smaller scale is again called into 
 requisition. 
 
 Parallel to the Wenern lies another lake, the Vettern, at a dis- 
 tance of about thirty miles, through which a canal runs between 
 the two lakes. The Vettern is nearly as long as the Venern, but 
 not half so broad, and its area is little more than 120 square 
 English miles. The water of the Wettern (for it is immaterial 
 whether we spell these lakes with a V or a W) is clearer and 
 deeper than that of the Wenern — in many places above 400 feet — 
 and I should fancy the bottom must be ditferent, for no charr are 
 taken in the Wenern, whereas the largest charr in Sweden are met 
 with in the Wettern j otherwise I should fancy the fish fauna of 
 the two lakes ditFers but little. 
 
 Having now slightly sketched the locality, let us proceed to its 
 fauna j and, first, I will notice such species of birds as to my own 
 knowledge breed on and around the Wenern. 
 
 Of the gulls, they have the common gull {Larus canus, Lin.) 
 in all parts J the lesser black-backed gull (L.fuscus, Lin.) commonj 
 and the greater black-backed (L. viarinus, Lin.) by no means rare 
 in some places. 
 
 Of the terns, I never could identify more than two species 
 breeding here — the common tern {Sterna hirundo, L.), and the 
 large Caspian tern {S. Caspia, Pall.), although in the fall of the 
 year I have met with the black tern {S. nigra, Briss.) evidently 
 bred in the neighbourhood, and Richardson's skua (Lestris Richard- 
 sonii, Sw.) shot on the Wenern. 
 
 Of the divers, we had both the black-throated {Colymlus arct'icus, 
 L.) and the red-throated {C. septentrionalis, L.) ; and, as far as my 
 observation goes, the black-throated diver is the most common in 
 the north of the Wenern. 
 
 I never heard of a wild swan or any of the wild geese breeding 
 here, although we had plenty of both during the seasons of 
 migration. 
 
 Indented as the shores of the Wenern are with small shallow 
 
Sweden. 35 
 
 bays or inlets, choked with bulrashes and reeds, edged with low, 
 swampy, undrained, sedgy meadow flats, the wildfowl shooter in 
 Uie autumn, if he only understood his business, could reap a good 
 harvest here, even at the price that wild ducks fetch (under one 
 shilling per couple) ; and as for snipe-shooting, I do not believe the 
 far-famed bogs of Ireland can beat (in a good season) some of these 
 marshy meadows in September. No one here cares a pin for killing 
 a snipe 3 but, unfortunately, every duck-shooter goes for the "pot" not 
 for the sport 3 and as the duck season commences in July, the young- 
 birds are cleared off by "family shots" before they are more than 
 half-grown — in fact, as soon as they can rise above the rushes, most 
 of the sportsmen here shut up duck-shooting. But then for a few 
 weeks a man who can shoot may get some rattling sport, if he has 
 only a good fellow to sprit his punt quietly through the reeds. I 
 have more than once known twelve couple of full-grown ducks 
 killed in one morning's shooting as they rose snugly from a patch of 
 reeds of no great extent ; and although about fifteen couple of snipe 
 is the most I have ever myself bagged in a day, I am certain I have 
 been out some days here when two good men might have picked 
 up their fifty couple and been home to an early dinner. And the 
 reader will bear in mind that this is on unpreser\''ed ground, where 
 a stranger who has not the character of a pot-hunter, has only to ask 
 leave, and obtain permission to shoot. But by November all the 
 sport with a shoulder-gun is over. The snipes have left, the 
 ducks are packed and as wild as hawks ; they leave the rushes, and 
 congregate in the open waters by hundreds — wild-duck, widgeon, 
 teal, golden-eye, all mixed ; sailing about in perfect security, well 
 out of gun-shot. Now would be the time for a punt-gun — a thing 
 that never was seen on these waters. 
 
 The only ducks that commonly bred round the Wenern, to my 
 knowledge, were the common wild duck {Anas boschas, L., as they 
 are called here, the grass-duck), the widgeon (A. Penelope, L.), 
 and the teal {A. crecca, L.) The golden eye {A. cLangula, L.) breeds 
 in holes of trees in the forests on the north-east of the Wenern, and 
 the goosander {Mergus merganser^ L.), and the merganser {M. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 Sweden, 
 
 serrator, L.) sparingly over all. Of course in the spring and autumn 
 we had the scoters, pintail, and some others, on their way to their 
 northern breeding haunts. 
 
 Of the grebes I could never identify more than one species on the 
 Wenern, namely, the great-crested grebe {Podiceps cristatus, Lath.), 
 and this was by no means rare. It is a curious fact that, in such a 
 locality, so admirably suited to the habits of these birds, the coot 
 Fulica atra, L.) is only very rarely killed on the Wenern j and as 
 to the water-hen {GaUinula chloropus, Lath.), it is unknown here. 
 I never myself (nor can I hear of anyone else who has) killed the 
 water-rail {Rallus aqimticus, L.) here 3 but the spotted crake {Gal- 
 I'lnula porzani, Lath.) was common in all the rushy meadows 
 throughout the summer. I once shot a red-necked phalarope 
 (Phalaropus hyperloreus, Lath.) on the banks of the Wenern in 
 (uU summer plumage, but they don't breed here. I have shot 
 Temminck's stint {Tringa Temmmchii, Leisl.), and the greenshank 
 {Totanus glottis, Bechst.) more than once in the summertime, 
 although I never obtained the eggs of either from these parts. The 
 peewit {Vanellus cristatus, Mey.), the golden plover {Charadrius 
 pluvialis, L.), the curlew {Nuvienius arqiiata, L.), and the common 
 snipe {Scolopax gallinago, L.) are all common breeders here 3 but I 
 never yet took the nest of the dunlin {Tringa alpina, L.) As to 
 the great snipe (5. major, Gm.) and the jack snipe {S. gaUimda, 
 L.), although I never took the eggs of either here, I feel pretty con- 
 fident that they both bred somewhere in the neighbourhood, for I 
 have shot the young of both far too small to have travelled down 
 any distance. 
 
 The little ring dotterel {C/iaradrius minor, Mey.) was, in 
 my opinion, more common on the northern banks of the 
 Wenern than its congener the ring dotterel {C. Iiiaticida, L.), 
 although both bred here j but I never detected the Kentish plover 
 {C. Cantianus, Lath.) breeding anywhere in Sweden on the margin 
 of the freshwater lakes, although common on the southern coasts. 
 The common sandpiper {Totanus Jiypoleucus, Tem.), the redshank 
 {1\ calidris, Bechst.), the green sandpiper (7^ ochropus, Tem.), the 
 
Sweden. 37 
 
 wood sandpiper {T. glareola, Tern.), all bred commonly with us ; 
 and I think this completes my hst of the waders — at least, if I have 
 omitted any, they must be looked upon as accidental and notregulai 
 visitors. 
 
 The crane (Grus cinerea, Bechst.) occasionally bred in the neigh- 
 bourhood, but this is not a favourite district, for the mosses are 
 hardly large enough here. I never heard of a bittern being killed 
 in the middle of Sweden ; and although a few specimens of both 
 the stork {Ciconia alba, Briss,), the black stork (C. 7/ /'orcr, Briss.), and 
 the heron {Ardea cinerea. Lath.) have been shot here, none of them 
 can be considered as indigenous to these districts. 
 
 I once saw the common guillemot on the south of the lake close 
 to my boat while lake trout-fishing, and one specimen of the black 
 guillemot was once picked up on the banks of the Wenern in a 
 state of decomposition. It fell into the hands of a friend of mine, 
 a keen collector, who immediately added it to his list as new to th t 
 fauna of the Wenern. I had my doubts about such a bird having 
 been ever brought up here by wings ; and with that characteristic 
 jealousy which prompts every collector to sift out all particulars 
 respecting a rare species which falls into any other hands but his 
 own, I felt it my duty to make inquiries as to how such a bird ever 
 could get up here. The consequence was, I discovered that the speci- 
 men in question had been brought up from the southern coast of 
 the Baltic in a schooner along with a lot of gulls and such like rub- 
 bish, as sea-stores, but having been kept too long, the cook cast it 
 overboard, and it was picked up on the beach by the peasant who 
 carried it in triumph to my friend. Oh, the jealousy of collectors ! 
 I do not consider myself particularly maliciously or evil-disposed 
 towards any man, but I cannot help owning that I felt much grati- 
 fication in undeceiving my friend respecting this black guillemot j 
 however, this circumstance, trifling as it is, might bear with it good 
 results, for there was certainly very good ground for his supposing 
 that the bird in question had by some means or other found its way 
 up to the Wenern while living ; and it is not improbable that other 
 rare birds which are added <-o local faunas from specimens being 
 
38 Sweden, 
 
 picked up on beaches, &c., may have been transpoited there by other 
 means than through tlie air. 
 
 However, two specimens of the little auk {Mergulus alle, Nob.) 
 a bird which I should have as little dreamt of seeing up here as the 
 black guillemot, were killed during one winter (and both I believe 
 on the ice) on the Clar, a little north of Carlstad. How these 
 birds came here, and which way they were steering, is a mystery 
 to me ; one thing is certain, however, they came without the aid of 
 man. 
 
 Of land birds we had every species inhabiting the middle of 
 Sweden, and one bird peculiar to the south, whose northern limits 
 end here, the melodious willow warbler {Sylvia hippola'is, Lath.). It 
 is superfluous, therefore, to go through the list. I will only add 
 that the rarest nests which I have obtained in this neighbourhood 
 have been those of the osprey {Pandion haiiaetus, Sw.) ; honey 
 buzzard {Pernis apivorus, Cu.) ; goshawk {Astur palumlarius, 
 Bechst.)j peregrine falcon {Falco peregrinus, L.) 5 kite (Falcomil- 
 vus, L.) J eagle owl {Strix luho, L.) ; Tengmalm's owl {Strix Teng- 
 walmi, Gm.) ; great black woodpecker {Pkus vmrtius, L.) -, nut- 
 cracker {Caryocatactes graculus, Nills.) ; crested tit {Parus cristatus, 
 L.) ; parrot crossbill (Loxia pytiopsittacus, Bechst.) ; common 
 crossbill {Loxia curvirostra, L.) I never took an eagle's nest by 
 the side of the Wenern, although I know that the white-tailed 
 eagle {A. alticiUa, Cuv.) breeds there. 
 
 Till the last three severe winters and heavy snowstorms swept oif 
 all the partridges in Wermland, excellent partridge as well as black- 
 game shooting might have been obtained in many places on the 
 shores of the Wenern. The capercailie and hazel grouse are also 
 pretty common in many parts, and lots of foxes and hares, both on 
 the fast land and the little islands in the lake. 
 
 Now let us proceed to the Ichthyology of this magnificent lake j 
 but, as a preface, let me say that the same pot-hunting spirit pre- 
 vails among the fishermen as among the shooters out here, and the 
 fish are so persecuted, swept off when they come up from the deeps 
 of the lake on to the spawning-grounds — taken ^\•holesa]e in nets 
 
Sweden. 39 
 
 the meshes of which are so fine that fry of three inches long cannot 
 escape — in fact, exterminated by every possible device that the in- 
 genuity of man can invent, that, as a natural sequence, the fish are 
 every year becoming scarcer in the Wenern, and more diflScidt to 
 catch J and miles of valuable water are, as it were, lying fallow, 
 only for want of a little common prudence in keeping up a breed- 
 ing stock of fish. How sad it is that man is ever too eager to kill 
 the goose that lays the golden e<gg ! Pisciculture is in every man's 
 moutli up here j but no one will give himself the slightest trouble 
 to keep up the breeding stock which we already have, and which, 
 if only well looked after at the proper seasons, would afford a 
 sufficient supply without calling in any artificial aid. 
 
 Without restricting ourselves to strict scientific classification, I 
 will slightly notice the different species of fish peculiar to the waters 
 of the Wenern, beginning with the trout. 
 
 Much confusion still exists about the classification of the Wenern 
 trout, or, as tliey are erroneously called here, the ^'salmon 3" and, 
 without entering further into the subject, I will only obser\^e that, 
 in my opinion, we have two distinct species, and only two, of the 
 great lake-trout in these waters — the common lake or grey trout 
 {Salmo ferox, Jard.) identical with the British lake-trout j and 
 another species, which \^'e call here "the silfver-lax," or silver 
 salmon (from its bright silvery appearance), at present not identified 
 in tlie British waters. The real Salmo ferox is taken in these 
 waters up to tliirty-two pounds j the silfver-lax (I can give no Latin 
 synonym, seeing tliat none of our ichthyologists can decide what 
 species this really is) from seven pounds to twenty pounds, and even 
 larger, but generally, especially in the south of the Wenern, under 
 twelve pounds. The real lake-trout are caught, I may say (whenever 
 they are taken on a hook), invariably by spinning-bait, a blei^k, or 
 small roach j whereas the other species rise freely to the fly. In 
 many parts of the Wenern very good salmon or trout fishing is to 
 be had at the close of the summer, and many heavy fish are caught 
 just when the ice breaks up in the spring. The wholesale salmon* 
 fishery, however, is in the end of June or July, when the fish 
 
40 Szveden, 
 
 ascend the streams to the north of tlie Wenern for the purpose of 
 spawnhig. The common trout {S. Fario, L.) also runs to a fair 
 size in the Wenern and many of its tributary streams. The average 
 price of the Wenern trout is three-pence per pound, when the 
 season is well on. 
 
 I never saw or heard of a charr (5. alpinus, L.) being taken in 
 the Wenern 5 but the Wettern's charr {S. Salveliniis, Bloch) — at 
 least both Mr. Lloyd and Nils:5on consider this fish to be identical 
 with the Sabno Salveliftiis figured and described by Bloch — run to 
 a large size. I have myself seen them five pounds weight 5 but, 
 according to Nilsson, they are taken in the Wettern up to ten or 
 twelve pounds weight. I used to fancy that this was nothing more 
 than a large variety of the common charr which we took up in 
 some of the forest lakes in Wermerland, to my knowledge as heavy 
 as five pounds ; but now I think that is a true species. It is con- 
 sidered so by the S\^Tdish ichthyologists, and also by Dr. Giinther in 
 his notes on the '' charr," who, in alluding to a large specimen from 
 this very Lake Wettern, says, " This species is not represented by 
 any of the British charrs that I have examined." One thing I 
 can, however, say, that if Bloch's diagnosis — ''the first ray of the 
 anal and ventral fins white" — is to be considered as a characteristic 
 and specific mark of distinction of the S. Salreli?ius, we have both 
 species in the same lake, for on JVLarch 3rd, 1862, I made a charr. 
 fishing trip to this very lake. We fished in holes cut in the ice. 
 Baits, a white grub taken out of the dead fir bark. We had some 
 capital sport, although on this occasion two pounds was our heaviest 
 fish. But we caught several specimens with the front ray, or some- 
 times rays of both anal and ventral fins, white, and these I took foi 
 diseased fish. 
 
 The smelt (5. Epeiianus, L.) remain in the Wenern throughout 
 the year, but are never seen except just when the ice breaks up in 
 the spring 3 and tlien immense shoals come up from the deeps of 
 the lake to spawn on the shallows. Directly, however, tlie spawn- 
 ing is over, they return again to deep water, and we see them no 
 more till the next spring. We have two varieties : the smaller one. 
 
Sweden, 41 
 
 called here the *' nors," which rarely exceeds four inches in length j 
 and a larger one, the "slom," about eight inches. The slom ii 
 precisely the British smelt, and although many consider the nors a 
 distinct species, in my opinion it is clearly nothing more than the 
 young of the slom. I certainly once did hear of a smelt being 
 caught out in deep Wenern in summer, but this was quoted as a 
 very rare occurrence. 
 
 I have known the grayling (5. Tin/ w alius, L.) to be caught in 
 the Clar close to Carktad, but I do not believe they ever come 
 into the lake itself. 
 
 Respecting the ditferent species of gwynniad {Coregoni), or, as 
 they are called here the sik, nearly as much confusion exists as in 
 the genus Salmo. This is not, however, the place to enter into a 
 piscatorial controversy. Suffice it to say, that the gwynniad, be 
 there three or only one species, is one of the commonest fishes, and 
 they are taken by thousands in many of the bays round the Wenern 
 during tlieir spawning season in the autumn. It is the opinion of 
 our best ichthyologists that there are three distinct species of 
 gwynniad in this lake, and strange to say it does not appear to be 
 at all clear tliat any of them is identical with any one of the 
 British species. The gwynniad is in my opinion a capital eating 
 fishj especially a fat smoked gwynniad ; but they afford (here at 
 least) little sport to the angler, being altogether taken in nets. I 
 never but once heard of a gwynniad taking a bait, and this was a 
 small fish on a night line in the We-nern. They run to a large size 
 in the Wenern, six to ten pounds being not uncommon. 
 
 The vendace {C. Albula, L.) or, as they are called here, the sik 
 loya, is also very common in the Wenern. They, however, run to 
 no large size, the largest I have seen rarely exceeding seven inche-i 
 in length. Like the rest of the family, they spawn in autumn, and 
 are justly considered with us to be capital eating. I have seen them 
 exposed for sale in Carlstad market from the beginning of October 
 to the end of January. Like the smelt, the Wenern fishermen con- 
 sider that there are two distinct species of vendace. The smaller fish, 
 tvhich rarely exceeds three inches, they call the " dattor." These 
 
4'i Sweden. 
 
 come in fresh, and I never by any chance saw either spawn or milt 
 in any of these small fish. I have carefully examined many speci- 
 mens of both, and I can come to no other conclusion than that 
 these smaller fish are only the young of the vendace. 
 
 The burbot {Lota vulgaris, Cuv.) is common in all parts of the 
 Wenern, and runs often to a very large size, although fourteen 
 pounds is the largest I e\'er saw, and this was taken on a night line 
 in the middle of summtr. They are usually taken in stake-nets 
 under the ice in winter, when they come up on to the shallows to 
 spawn. In a good season, the burbot can be bought in Carlstad 
 market for i^. 6d. the Swedish pound (about twenty pounds 
 English). The burbot is only in season when it is spawning, and 
 then the liver and caviare are indeed delicacies. 
 
 The pike (Esox Lucius, Cuv.), notwithstanding the persecution he 
 receives at all hands, still battles his way bravely, and holds his own 
 in every water where food is to be obtained. The Wenern pike 
 run to a large size, and in the months of June and July a score 
 might be caught in a day by a man seated in the stern of a punt, a 
 bait and swivel dragging after him. No rod is required for this 
 sport, and a spoon bait, I fancy, answers as well as any other. This 
 may certainly be termed ''fishing made easy." The rower pulh 
 slowly and gently round all the reed beds where the pike lie in 
 summer. When the fisherman is single-handed he rows, and holds 
 the line in his mouth. 
 
 The perch {Perca Jiuviatilis, L.) also run to a large size in the 
 Wenern, and there are certain grounds where almost any quantity 
 may be caught in a summer afternoon's fishing, A perch of three 
 pounds is not at all uncommon, but I once caught one nearly five 
 pounds. 
 
 The rufie {P. Cernua, Cuv.) is common in the Wenern, but, as 
 in Britain, runs to no great size. 
 
 The pike-perch {Perca Lucioperca, Cuv.) is another famous fish 
 in these waters, afibrding excellent sport to the angler, and capital 
 eating when caught. In fact, in my opinion, a pike-perch caught 
 in the summer, when they are best in season for firmness and white- 
 
Sweden. 43 
 
 ness of flesh, beats all the Wenern fish. They are principally 
 taken on the long chain lines. These chain lines are in great use 
 here. They are rigged up with 300 to 1000 hooks, about six feet 
 apart, baited with worms or pieces of fish, floated here and there 
 '.vith bits of wood to mark the whereabouts, and sunk with stones 
 at every 200 to 300 yards. I may mention here that all the fishing 
 on the Wenern is wholesale, and hardly any man goes out for the 
 sake of the sport. Even when a few do go out together in a boat, 
 the principal attractions are the company and the "prog," and, as 
 may be supposed, these fishing parties are anything but " the con- 
 templative man's recreation." 
 
 That the tench {Tinea vulgaris, Cuv.) is taken in the bays on the 
 north-east of the Wenern in considerable numbers, and of a good 
 size, I know for a fact. I am told that the common carp {C. 
 Carpio, L.) is also common there, but of this I have no positive 
 proof. 
 
 It is said that before the construction of the canals and sluices at 
 Trolhattan, the eel was unknown in the Wenern ; whether or not 
 such was the case, of course I cannot positively say, but it is certain 
 that in many parts of the lake they are now common enough, and 
 of a large size, and appear to be gradually spreading over the whole 
 of North Wermland. 
 
 We have a species of bream here unknown in the British waters, 
 common enough in many parts of the Wenern, the Cyprinus IPlmla, 
 Linn. Its shape, howev^er, is much more elongated than the com- 
 mon bream ; and, as Mr. Lloyd properly obser\^es, " it much resem- 
 bles in appearance the young of the Coregoni, but is readily distin- 
 guished from them by the absence of the adipose fin." Whether 
 or not there are two fish of this name I cannot say, but, on referring 
 to a small treatise of the fish found in the Lake Malare, near Stock- 
 holm, the author describes the Cyprinus JVimha or ivimlan, and (I 
 quote his own words) says, " But it must not be confounded with 
 the wimma (5. IVimha) which is taken in the Wenern." Now, 
 many naturalists here suppose that we have a second species of 
 vendace peculiar to the Lake Anini, which lake is connected with 
 
44 Sweden, 
 
 the Wenern. This fish is the S. JVimla, Linn., or Anim's wimma. 
 By some the existence of this fish is looked upon as a myth, but J 
 consider it a good species. It is, however, a matter of conjectur'' 
 with me whether these Anim's v/imma, of whose existence Nilsson 
 seems to entertain no doubt, may not be identical with tJie Irish 
 poJlan, for Yarrell's description and figure of that fi^h seem to tally 
 wtU with Nilsson's description of tlie Anim's wimma. 
 
 The common bream {Alraviis Brama, Cuv.) in the Wenern run 
 to a very large size, and are taken in many places in astonishing 
 quantities 5 six pounds is a common weight, and I once saw a 
 monster as large as a large pair of bellows, which pulled down 
 eleven pounds. Cold bream, steeped in vinegar, with fennel, like 
 pickled salmon, is a capital summer dish here, and bream tongues 
 are another Swedish delicacy. 
 
 It is a disputed point whether or not the Pomeranian bream 
 {Cyprinus Buggcnhagii, Bl.) inhabits the Wenern 3 but I am in- 
 clined to think that it does. 
 
 The bream-flat (C. Blicca, Bl.) is also very common in the 
 Wenern, but always small. This bream-flat is often, doubtless, 
 confounded with the young of the common bream, but the red 
 colour of the ventral and pectoral fins at once distinguishes it. On 
 this account it is called here the " red fin." 
 
 Another species, unknown to Britain, is very common in some 
 parts of the Wenern, but very local. This is the C. BaUenn, Liu., 
 which appears to be confined to our northern waters. It runs to na 
 large size here, being rarely taken above one pound in weight. This 
 species may at once be distinguished from the common bream by 
 the deeply-cloven tail, and by the long anal fin with forty-one rays. 
 
 The roach, rudd, and bleak are common over the whole Wenern, 
 jind I tliink the rudd here are the largest and handsomest I .ver 
 saw. 
 
 The dobule roach {C. Dolula, Lin.) appears (on the authoi'ty 
 of Mr. Lloyd and Yarrell, who identified specimens taken in the 
 Wenern) to be by no means uncommon in this lake, as well as the 
 chub {C. Ceplialus, Lin.) ; but, strange to say, much confusion has 
 
Sweden, 45 
 
 existed hitherto in the identification of all these fish, some naturahsts 
 here appearing to confound the dob ale roach with the chub, and 
 others the real dace with the dobule roach. According to Mr. 
 Couch, the Swedish Cyprinus Gristagine (Stamm) is nothing more 
 or less than the true dobule roach, and this is very common both in 
 the Wenern and the Clar. The British dace has not yet been iden- 
 tified in Sweden. I think it would avoid confusion if it were to 
 retain the old synonym of C. Cephalus, for the common chub. 
 Nilsson's Swedish name for the chub ('"''Bred-pannad Id," broad- 
 forehead ide) is not bad. The fishermen in the north-east of the 
 Wenern describe to me a fish which they call the stam, and for the 
 life of me I can't make out what it is, unless it be the asp (C. Aspiiis, 
 Lin.). They say that this stam comes up from the Wenern every 
 May to spawn in a small stream near Christineham. They remain 
 only a few days on the spawning-ground, and are never again seen 
 or taken by them out in the Wenern. They describe them as large 
 fish, from ten pounds to eleven pounds, so it is clear they can't be 
 the dace which we call the **^stamj" and unless it is the asp, which 
 they assure me it is not, I cannot make out what it is. 
 
 There is, however, no mistake about the ide {C. Idus, Lin.), 
 which certainly is commoner in these waters than the chub, call 
 this latter fish by what synonym we may. The ide runs to a large size 
 here : five to six pounds is a fine, bold fish, gives excellent sport 
 both with the bait and fly, and, in my opinion, is no bad fish for 
 the table. The chub may be easily distinguished from the ide, 
 which it much resembles in shape, by the round anal fin and the 
 large scales. According to Kroyer, Yarrell's ide is not the same as 
 the ide which he figures in his Danish fish, which species, although 
 he says it is identical with our Swedish fish, he also says does not 
 belong to Britain. 
 
 The asp {C. Aspius, Lin.), another fish unknown in Britain, is 
 common in some parts of the Wenern, but local. It is a fine fish 
 in shape, rather resembling the chub, but more elongated, of a 
 more silvery colour, and its distinguishing peculiarity is the long 
 under-jaw, which protrudes far beyond the upper one. Thev run 
 
4^ Sweden, 
 
 to a large size, from ten to eighteen pounds, are tolerably good for 
 the table, and appear, unlike the rest of this genus, to prefer animal 
 to vegetable food. 
 
 The miller's thumb {Cottus Gollo, L.) is common in the Wenern, 
 and I have seen specimens of the horned bull-head (C. quadricornis , 
 L.), taken in the Lake Wettern. 
 
 I believe the lampern (Petromyzon JiuviatiUs , L.) is to be met 
 with in the Wenern, although I never saw a specimen ; but at 
 Fryksdalen, a few Swedish miles north, I found Planer's lampern 
 (P. Planeri, Bl.) as well as the pride (P. hro.nchialis, L.), common 
 in every small stream. 
 
 Of the sticklebacks {Gasterostei) we had the common three- 
 spined in all its varieties, as well as theten-spined (G. pungitius, L.). 
 I have still my doubt whether our common stickleback is exactly 
 identical with the common British stickleback j but, for fear of 
 seeking a mare's nest, I shall give no opinion. 
 
 I never, to my knowledge, met with the common loach {CoUt'is 
 larlatula, L.) anywhere in the Swedish waters j but the spined 
 loach (C. tcenia, L.) is very common in many parts of the Wenern. 
 
 The little minnow {Cyprimis Phoxinus, L.) completes my list. 
 Strange to say, I never myself took this fish in the Wenern itself, 
 although I am told that it is met with there ; but a few miles north, 
 in every water where tlie common trout is taken, I have met with 
 them in shoals, and certainly the largest I ever saw in my life. 
 
 The above list, which, from rhy own experience, I believe to be 
 strictly correct as far as regards the Lake Wenern, will also give a 
 very fair idea of the ichthyology of the middle of Sweden. It will, 
 I trust, prove as interesting to the an^^ler as to the naturalist j giving 
 him some idea as to what sport he is likely to obtain in these waters. 
 For salmon-fishing, doubtless the Norwegian streams beat any waters 
 we have in Sweden by long chalks -, but salmon-fishing in Norway 
 nas lately become such a fashion, that if, as we are told, all the good 
 waters are rented by rich Englishmen, a poor wanderer like myself 
 would have r o more chance of wetting a line in the Namsen than 
 of fishing the best salmon streams of Scotland. But of this, more 
 
Sweden, 47 
 
 hereafter. If a man has only a full purse, he can always obtain 
 sport go where he will, and requires but little information or 
 advice from anyone as to where he had best pitch his tent ; but 
 there are many other men quite as enthusiastic, and probably equally 
 good with the rod, whose means are limited ; and to such men I 
 would say, try our Swedish waters before going up to Norway. 
 
 The expense of a Norwegian trip is no trifle, what with guides, 
 &c. ', and of course living in that country rises in proportion to the 
 number of rich Englishmen that visl. it. I suppose on some 
 of these Norwegian streams, if a man goes for notliing but 
 salmon-fishing, he may kill any quantity of fish, but the 
 expense of the trip will be commensurate with the sport obtained. 
 On referring to Mr. Lloyd's " Scandinavian Adventures," we shall 
 read that a friend of his, in 1842, from the i5tli of June to the 8th 
 of August, killed on the Namsen 323 salmon, weighing in tlie 
 aggregate 3840 lb., and was obhged to leave off for want of tackle. 
 And in the same book we find an account of one season's fishing at 
 Ronnum — Mr. Lloyd's fishing-station on the south of the Wenern 
 — where that gentleman killed with his own rod, in one particular 
 season (although, as he himself remarks, he had others nearly 
 equally good) — 
 
 120 trout, heavy 1^96 lb. 
 
 75 do., smaller 201 lb, 
 
 15 perch 15 lb. 
 
 364 pike 827 lb. 
 
 I pike-perch 4 lb. 
 
 5 ide 21 lb. 
 
 580 fish. 2864 lb. 
 
 It must, however, be borne in mind that few better fishermen 
 have ever come into Sweden than Mr. Lloyd, and also tliat tht> 
 Ronnum water is not now what it was in his day. But, to mv 
 fancy, there are stiU many places on the north-east of the Wenern 
 quite as good as Ronnum ever was. And as I do not in the least 
 doubt that every pound of the Namsen salmon cost at least six tines 
 
48 Sweden. 
 
 the money to kill that Mr. Lloyd's fish did, I will leave the reader 
 to judge for himself, looking at both sides of the question, which 
 water he would prefer to visit. 
 
 I will conclude this chapter with a few remarks on the northern 
 salmon-rivers, which may not be uninteresting to the British angler. 
 One of the most curious facts connected with the ichthyology of the 
 north (if it is proved to be a fact) is this : that whereas all the Nor- 
 wegian rivers flowing into tlie North and Polar Seas, on the north 
 and west coasts of Scandinavia, from Christiana Fjord to the North 
 Cape, are full of salmon, which will rise readily at the fly, I can 
 never hear of any salmon-fisher who has had sport with the rod in 
 any of the hundred magnificent streams on the east coast of Sweden, 
 which empty themselves into the Bothnia, between Stockholm and 
 Tornea. Now, no one denies that there are plenty of salmon in 
 the Bothnia, and precisely of the same habits as the North Sea 
 salmon, yet we seem to have an extent of nearly a thousand miles 
 of coast, through which, perhaps, a hundred salmon rivers flow into 
 the sea, lying, as it were, waste and dormant to the salmon-fisher. 
 And as we are told that nearly every mile of water on the Norwegian 
 coast is taken up by some rich Englishman or another, it will be 
 seen that it is apparently of very little use for any stranger to visit 
 either Sweden or Norway now for tlie purpose of salmon-fishing. 
 
 I believe it is quite true that, although many good salmon-fishers 
 have tried these Bothnian streams, all declare that they could 
 get no sport in them, either with the fly or the bait 5 and 
 yet all say that the Bothnian salmon run quite as large, although 
 inferior in taste, to those taken in either the Cattegat or North Sea. 
 This may probably be owing to the water of the Bothnia having so 
 much less salt in it than that of the North Sea. But the difference 
 of the water would, we should imagine, make no other difference 
 in the feeding habits of the fish than that there might be diflferenl 
 Crustacea and insects on these coasts, and the fish might require a 
 different bait. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd obser\'es that the only solution of the mystery which 
 he has heard is — that the fish in the rivers in question may not bu' 
 
Sweden. ^c^ 
 
 the genuine salmo salar, " but a huge trout, exactly resembhng it 
 in appearance." Even if this were tlie case, why should not these 
 large trout take a bait as freely here as in other parts of Sweden: 
 But it is not the case ; because, although I believe that far up in 
 most of these Bothnian rivers they have both species of large lake 
 trout ]>eculiar to the Wenern, I also know, from my own observa- 
 tion, that both in the Tornea and Lulea rivers, the true sea-salmon, 
 as w^ell as the salmon-trout, are taken every year in very great 
 quantities when they come up to spawn, so we must seek for some 
 other cause for the solution of a mystery which, I must confess, has 
 puzzled me more than anything else in the ichthyology of Scandi- 
 navia. When in Lulea Lapland, I made many inquiries into the 
 habits of the salmon in the great Lulea river, and doubtless they 
 are the same in the other rivers along the coast, as well on the 
 Swedish as on the Finnish sides. Both the salmon and the salmon- 
 trout begin to ascend the large Lulea river soon after the middle of 
 June, and the spawning season in this river is about the middle of 
 October. They ascend the river as far as Lockmock, perhaps 120 
 Enghsh miles from Lulea, and between Lockmock and the sea there 
 are eight falls, but none prettier or more fitting for the habits of 
 the salmon than the Leclel fail close to Lockmock, which, however, 
 apparently they cannot ascend, for the true sea-salmon never comes 
 up as far as Quickiock, above eighty miles farther up, although I 
 believe there is water communication so far, but broken probably 
 with lakes and tracks. I never myself wetted my line here, but I 
 was told at Lockmock that salmon are taken by a rod and line 
 under this fall during the summer. As far as I could learn, the 
 salmon fishing in this magnificent river is much spoilt by the large 
 salmon traps set across the stream at Ederforss, a little distance from 
 Lulea, and the salmon taken here belong to the town of Lulea. At 
 six of the other salmon traps on this river, tlie yearly catch of 
 salmon, I was told, would average as follows : — At Sands, 40 tunna, 
 Dr about 160 bushels 3 Luarts, 50 tunnaj Gaddock, 705 Balinge, 
 50 5 Lunnerley, 303 Annan, 40. The value of the salmon fishing 
 '.n ti'*' Lower Tornea river is averaged at about 3500/., reckoning 
 
5© Sweden. 
 
 the average value of the sahiion at 4/. for the four bushels. I do 
 not exactly know how far the sea salmon run up the great Tornea 
 river, but I think as far at least as Munro. According to Widigren, 
 the bed of the Lulea river consists of sandstone and clay, without 
 any vegetation — only in two places are to be found one species of 
 pond weed {Potomogeton gramineus), and the banks are lined with 
 dilTerent species of willow and hedge, which are of very little 
 advantage for the spawning of any of the members of the carp 
 genus, because it is only at very high tides that they are under 
 water, and on this account but few of our commoner species of white 
 lish are met with in the Lap rivers, especially far up. The medium 
 temperature of Lake Saggat, near Quick iock, mostly may betaken 
 at about 50° Fahr. in an ordinary season. The stream is filled with 
 falls and still water ; the depth is considerable, and but very few 
 different species of Crustacea, except Entomostraca, Porcellcuiidcs and 
 Lernece are met with 5 but these, however, abound in such quanti- 
 ties, that these streams are peculiarly rich in all the species of 
 salmon and gwynniad. In the great Tornea river tlie inferior 
 water animals are met with in prodigious quantities, affording even 
 a readier supply of food for the fish. The temperature of the 
 water in the Tornea river is considerably higher than in the Lulea 
 river, and this may probably be accounted for by the fact of the 
 springs in the Tornea river being lower than in the Lulea river, and 
 that the Lulea is much the deepest. The consequence of this is 
 that the supply of fish in the Tornea river is double that in the 
 Lulea river. 
 
 Although the individuals of each may be numerous, not a very 
 great many species of fish are met with in the Lap rivers running 
 into the Bothnia, and at their outlets. Widigren's list includes the 
 perch, the ruffe, the pike-perch, four species of bullhead, two species 
 of stickleback (G. aculeatus, Lin., and G. Pungitius, L.), the vivi- 
 parous blenny, the dobule roach {C. Erislagine, L.), stamher, which 
 goes up the Tornea river as far as Munco, but not far up the Lulea 
 river J the ide, the roach, the minnow, the winnow {Cvinelio, L.), 
 tlie bream, the bleak, the pike, the salmon^ the bull-trout, the 
 
Sweden, 51 
 
 salmon-trout, the great lake trout, the common trout, the charr (5. 
 alpinus, L.), only in the fell lakes, the smelt, the grayling, the gwyn- 
 iiiad {C. oxyrrliinchus, L.), the vendace, the herring (striJmjnirig), 
 he burbot, the flounder, the sturgeon, the eel, and the lamprey. 
 
 Thus we see that thirty-two normal species of fish are met with in 
 the waters of Norhotten and Lapmark, of which three (the pike-perch, 
 the ruffe, and the smelt) belong exclusivelyto fresh water. Twenty- 
 four are fresh-water species, but are met with also in the brackish 
 waters on the coasts. Two species (the salmon and tlie ell) are met 
 with both in fresh and salt water. Of the true salt-water fish only two 
 species are met with in tlie very north of the Baltic — namely, the 
 herring and the viviparous blennyj while on the Stockholm coasts 
 fourteen species of salt-water fish are normal,by which we may judge 
 that the Bothnia has more the character of a large Arctic lake than 
 a true sea. It may be very probable that the food of the 
 salmon in these Bothnian rivers is different to that in the Norwe- 
 gian streams. Yet it seems singular that they will not in both 
 rivers rise to the salmon fly, which certainly in general is a resem- 
 blance of no insect that ever crawled or flew -, and even if the fly 
 failed, it does seem strange that these Bothnian salmon, which 
 certainly are precisely the same species as those taken in the rivers 
 running into the Cattegat and the North Sea, should not be tempted 
 to take a small herring-bleak or vendace (the most killing of all 
 baits for large lake trout), if neatly spun. 
 
 Now, from a perusal of the above, it will be seen that as far as 
 regards the true sea-salmon, the Swedish waters, except just three 
 or four rivers running into the Cattegat in the south of Sweden 
 (and which I believe are all taken up by some of the rich " timber 
 lords" in Gothenburg) offer not the slightest attraction to the 
 salmon fisher ; and as we are told that all the Norwegian waters 
 are rented (but of this more by-and-by), the whole of the Scan- 
 dinavian continent, whose waters the salmon fisher at home is 
 foolishly led to believe offer the finest and freest sport in Europe, 
 and, as it were, a complete dead letter, save to a very few ; for 
 there seems to be an opinion that all along the Eastern coast tliere 
 
53 Sweden. 
 
 are no means of taking the fish, which are to be met wiiii in 
 abundance, while the whole of the fishing for hundreds and hun- 
 dreds of miles along tlie Western coast are monopolized by a few 
 rich Englishmen, wlio perhaps never see the country except during 
 a month or two in the summer, who never spend a shilling among 
 the poor inhabitants, except just at the fishing season ; who have 
 not the slightest interest in the land further than as a means of 
 gratifying their love for sport, and yet have assumed a power to 
 warn otlier older residents in the country off water (a good deal of 
 vhich, if the matter was looked into, has really no private owner), 
 which surely in their wild tracts, at least, we should have imagined, 
 would have been as free at least to one stranger as another. Is 
 it possible that such can really be the case ? 
 
 And now for a word or two on the practice of monopohzing 
 fishing in this wild land. I obser\^ed in 1864 some letters in the 
 Field, in which we were told that the River Alten up near the 
 North Cape from the Lea to tlie Fors, is leased by the Duke of 
 Roxburgh, the Hansen by Sir Charles Taylor and his friends, and 
 that there is not a river of note in Norway that is not now protected 
 by English lessees. This is a wide statement j and without for one 
 moment denying the full right of any man in any country to let 
 his fishings or his shootings to whoever he chooses, or for any other 
 man to rent them j but when we are told that not a river of note 
 n Norway but what is protected, it naturally leads us to ask, " What 
 is meant by this protection ?" 
 
 I do not exactly know how the law stands in Norway as regards 
 fishing ; I fancy, however, much the same as in Sweden. Now in 
 Sweden no man has the least right to interfere with the middle of the 
 stream. Every proprietor has the sole right of fishing in one- 
 third of tlie water — that which abuts upon his own land. Thus 
 two-thirds of the river can be preserved — one-third on each side ; but 
 Jhe middle-third, which is here called tiie king's highway, is open to 
 /ll. It must, moreover, always be kept open not solely for the 
 purposes of navigation, but for the sake of the fish passing up 
 and down. Not a stake, net, or ***"" obstacle, may be placed 
 
Sweden, 53 
 
 across it, under a heavy penalty j moreover, many of these Lapland 
 and Norrland nvers (and I should not \\'onder if this is the case 
 with the greater part of the Alten) are altogether crown property, 
 and no one, save a crown bailiff, has a right to interfere with any 
 man fishing there, and this no crown bailiff would do, if he met a 
 foreigner fishing with a rod and line. In fact, I am pretty certain 
 that half of their northern rentings are a mere myth, and other 
 fishermen are only kept off because they are told by the London 
 fishing-tackle makers, or others that know nothing about it, that 
 Lord So-and-So has hired the water, and has the exclusive right to 
 fish. Fancy the whole of the water in such a land as Norway 
 being all taken up by about half a score of men. Why, the statement 
 is too absurd on the very face of it to be believed for a moment. 
 
 I am not a salmon-fisher myself. I have neither the time or the 
 money to throw away upon it ; but I well know if I was, tliat I 
 would soon see how many of their rentings would stand good ; and 
 even if I wished to fish on so-called preserved water (unless it was 
 strictly preserved by a native for his own fishing, and then I could 
 always obtain leave by paying) I would do so without asking any 
 one's leave. It is perfectly absurd to talk about preserving either 
 shooting or fishing through the agency of a nortliern peasant. All 
 I should require to fish the best water in Norway would be a good 
 interpreter to parley with the i)easants — and there are plenty such 
 to be found in Christiania who \\'ould like the job — a good guide or 
 ( uo who knew the river and the peasants well, a nine-gallon cask 
 of Bianvie (on which I should place by far the greatest reliance), 
 and just an "inkling," as the Scotch say, of the sun. The lessee, 
 whoever he was, paid in rent for his water. Moreover, if a trespasser 
 is caught, the peasant or owner of the land will always accept the fine 
 at the time (the owner or guardian of field or water has a right to seize 
 a man's gun or fishing-tackle, and hold it till the fine is paid) ; but 
 I should trust entirely to my nine-gallon cask and the "soft sawder" 
 of my guide, and I never yet knew a Northern peasant able to 
 U'ilhstand these. ^Moreover, the middle of the stream is always open 
 ta me, and it would be very odd if, with a couple of good rowers^ 
 
54 Sweden. 
 
 I could not dodge in and out when I liked on to any preserved 
 water on the sides of the stream. 
 
 I never, however, set foot on any gentleman's or peasant's grouna 
 in Sweden without first asking leave, and the proprietor was always 
 welcome to a liberal share of the game or fish which I might kill ; 
 and I recommend every foreigner in a strange country to do the 
 same as regards the real oivner of the soil. But somehow or other 
 I regard a proprietor who preserves his own land on which he is 
 residing, in a very different light from a rich Englishman, who 
 probably owns hundreds of acres of good sporting at home, but not 
 content with this, comes over to a land of which he know^s nothing 
 and cares less, when I, a poorer man, but quite as good a sportsman 
 as himself, have settled among the people, have become, as it were, 
 one of them, and am hoping to enjoy a little sport in freedom 
 which, on account of my means, is denied me at home. If such is 
 to be the case, a dozen or two rich lords will have it in their power 
 to monopolize the whole sporting in Northern Europe. 
 
 This nuisance is now becoming rather too much of a good thing, 
 and I would seriously advise any sportsman before he leaves England, 
 never mind for what out-of-the-way country he may be bound, 
 first to advertise in the columns of the Field, and beg to know, not 
 whether the inhabitants of the country he is about to visit have any 
 objection to his doing so, but whether any countryman of his own 
 objects. 
 
 Now, I therefore advise every man who has the dream or inclina- 
 tion to try a little salmon-fishing in Norway, not to be the least 
 deterred or frightened by the interested reports he may hear in 
 England of all these northern waters being taken up. I am certain 
 that there are lots of places where he will find open water, if he only 
 has a good guide ; and even on the preserved waters he will, I fancy, 
 always get fishing, if he is willing to pay for it. These peasants 
 have not the least conscience or sense of honour in a bargain like 
 this. Moreover, most of this fishing and shooting is paid for by a 
 very nominal rent, and so badly looked after that — althougli it may 
 sound all very grand when a man tells you in England that he rents 
 
S'^joeden. 
 
 53 
 
 so many thousand acres, or so many miles of water in Norway — yet 
 ■t would not appear such a great renting if he told you the rent he 
 paid, and how many keepers were employed to look after it. 
 Moreover, I cannot yet believe that the Bothnia salmon altogether 
 refuse to look at a fly or a bait ; and I feel certain that if a good 
 salmon-fisher were to come to Stockholm properly equipped, hire a 
 good guide in that town, and fish his way up to Tornea, he would not 
 be altogether disappointed. Anyhow, he would probably gather 
 some interesting facts and information relative to the habit of the 
 salmon on that coast, and throw some light upon an enigma which 
 has hitherto puzzled our best ichthyologists and fishermen. 
 
 There seems, however, to be a very erroneous opinion in England 
 respecting the cheapness of travelling in these Northern countries. 
 I think I can safely say that there is no country in Europe w^here a 
 man can enjoy a little sport so cheaply and freely as in Sweden, 
 when he once gets used to the country. To the casual traveller, I 
 believe, Norway will be found quite, and Sweden pretty nearly, as 
 dear now as any other European country ; and wherever the English 
 have found their way, prices have risen loo per cent., and are every 
 year rising, and good fishing and shooting are both hard to obtain 
 by the stranger, for the simple reason that he does not know the 
 right locality to pitch upon. No man can be more covetous after 
 money than the Northern peasant, and, as he has now begun to find 
 out that the English are always willing to pay for their sport, in 
 Norway he is every year becoming more and more extortionate. 
 It seems a great question to me now whether the English salmon- 
 fisher would not be able to obtain nearly as good sport in many 
 parts of Great Britain as in Norway; for although, doubtless, some 
 men who know and are used to the waters do occasionally kill a 
 great ma r.y fish here, I hardly believe a stranger would find tlie 
 sport compensate him for his trouble and expense — certainly not 
 without a good guide and interpreter, and such a man will be foiiiid 
 a very expensive companion. 
 
DUCK-SHOOTING IN WERMLAND, 
 SWEDEN. 
 
 I HAVE, I think, already observed, that in the part of Sweden where 
 I reside w^e have none of what the English game-shooter would call 
 open shooting. Our partridges were all destroyed by two severe 
 winters a few years since, and the breed has never been got up 
 again. The capercailly and hazel grouse, as in all other parts of 
 Sweden, are confined exclusively to the forests, and here, at least, I 
 only occasionally find the blackgame lying out in the open, although 
 we have some tolerable ground, and the hares are always in woods 
 or plantations. The forests are so much thicker than in England, 
 that one rarely gets a fair flying shot. It ;s_, therefore, impossible to 
 make a heavy bag in any of the woods round us, and the English 
 sportsman would find but little amusement in a day's covert-shoot- 
 ing in S^^den, except, perhaps, just in the very south, at woodcocks. 
 
 But although, as I have said, we have no open shooting at game, 
 we have round us some of the finest duck and snipe grounds that 
 any man would wish to shoot over, and I will describe two localities 
 in my own neighbourhood over which I have full right to shoot, 
 and these will give the English sportsman a pretty good idea of 
 hundreds — I may say thousands — of places in Sweden of the same 
 description. 
 
 As a word of preface, I may as well say at starting that, except 
 just for duck and snipe, my game-book would show a very poor 
 return when compared with that of most English sportsmen ; but 
 then we must remember that I do not pay one shilling rent for 
 either my fishing or shooting, and exactly that sum per day is the 
 cost of my man, who rows and attends me in all my little trips. 
 
Duck-shocting in IFermland, Sweden, 57 
 
 The two places to which I have alluded lie at equal distances 
 from where 1 live, about live English miles j and as this is almost 
 too far to shoot the grounds properly in one day, I have a boat a 
 each place. We drive over in the morning (the horse and cart 
 cost me ninepence), take our things with us, shoot all day, camp 
 out at night, shoot next day, and home in the evening. I enjoy 
 these little outings greatly — not so much for the sake of the shooting 
 we get, but because they are the nearest approach to the dear old 
 bush life that we can make in these civilized countries. The ground 
 to the right (excuse the bull) is a bight of the Lake Wenern, 
 studded with islands, and there are several small inlets fringed with 
 reed-beds, in every one of which we are sure to pick up a pair 
 or two of ducks j but the best bit of all is a large plain of bulrush 
 flags, and the great water horse-tail grass (in which the ducks 
 are sure to be in the early season), of about a couple of hundred 
 acres in extent. It is impossible to wade this, although the 
 water is not deep, for the bottom is spongy — in fact, a kind 
 of shaking bog ; and in many places the reeds are so thick 
 and high that it is next to impossible to get the boat through 
 them. Of course, this place being almost tabooed ground, 
 is the resort of all the ducks in the neighbourhood. There 
 is much luck in shooting this reed-bed ; but it does so happen 
 fhat if we find the ducks out in the horse-tail grass (and this often 
 happens if we are on the ground a little after daylight) we do gel 
 some rattling shooting. There is a capital snipe country round 
 here, and six couple of snipe and four to five couple of ducks is 
 my average day's work on this ground. I have done more, and I 
 have done less. I have got a capital camping-place here on a little 
 island ; plenty of wood and good water at hand 5 no rent or taxes 
 to pay, and no questions asked j and I have often wondered — as I 
 have lain out on a warm night on a bed of dry grass under the lee 
 of an old stack of dry bulrushes (wherefore it was put here I never 
 can tell, because I have known it here as long as I have known 
 the place), with my face turned up to the heavens, watching one 
 little star after another twinkling in the clear blue sk) — why the 
 
58 T)uck~shooting in Wermlandy Six: e den. 
 
 whole tenor of our lives should not flow on as smoothly as the 
 hours we spend in these lonely, out-of-the-way spots. 
 
 When we shoot this ground we have a goodish deal of water to 
 row over j so, as we ah^-ays hang a swivel out behind f he boat, we 
 are certain of a dish of fried pike or perch, or, it may happen, even 
 a pike-perch (the sander) — respecting which there was a discussion 
 some short time back — to our suppers. However, as this is uncer- 
 tain ground, and very heavy work both to get to if, as well as shoot 
 it, I do not go here half so often as to my other more favourite place, 
 which I will now try and describe. 
 
 Imagine a river about 200 yards across, backed by magnificent 
 forest scenery on either hand, on one side of which the ground is 
 partly cultivated, but on the other one unbroken swampy meadow, 
 an English mile broad, stretches for about four English miles, 
 bounded towards the river by a bed of flags and bulrushes, along 
 its whole extent, in many places three-quarters of an English mile 
 across, and some idea will be formed of a Swedish duck and snipe 
 ground. I can fancy an old fen-man standing on the deck of one 
 of the litde steamers which ply up and down this river, catching 
 sight of this swamp, and if his first exclamation was not, " What a 
 magnificent place for a decoy !" I'll never again place faith in early 
 association. And he would not be far wrong either, for if you can 
 only get a windy day and highish water, so that you can sprit your 
 punt quietly through the reeds witliout the birds hearing you too 
 soon, I'll back a good man to have such a day's sport here on duck 
 in the middle of August as he wont forget in a hurry. He can 
 wade in many parts of this ground 5 and the man who wades will 
 always beat the man in a boat. 
 
 Water-boots are of little use far out in the rushes, for the bottom 
 is uneven, and I don't think I ever remember a single day on this 
 ground, when I really waded, even in good boots, that I came out 
 of the rushes dry. Still, if a man only keeps on the edges whert 
 he can see and feel the bottom well, a pair of water-boots towards 
 the end of September, when the water gets cold and the evenings 
 chilly, are very comfortable, especially in flight-shooting j and if 
 
Duck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden, 59 
 
 you could get a pair of boots to come right up to the fork, and fit 
 the thigh tight, they might be useful. I never, however, had 
 /I pair of water-boots even that came high over the knee, which 
 did not, after a few hours' wading, wrinkle down, so that 
 every step you took, the water flew up behind into the bend 
 of the knee, and ran down the leg till the feet were soon as wet 
 inside the boots as they would have been had you waded barefooted 
 ind much more uncomfortable. However, as our best duck and 
 snipe and shooting is in August and September, when the water is 
 warm, a pair of flannel trousers, low shoes, and a change in the boat, 
 if one means camping out, is the very best dress ; for one never feels 
 chilly after wading in flannel. 
 
 I don't care to boast of my own performances, for I never do 
 make a very heavy bag. I once killed in these rushes twenty-three 
 strong flyers in one day, and eleven snipe, but I saw a friend of 
 mine knock down twenty-eight full-grown ducks one after the 
 other. I did not shoot that day, for I wanted him to have the 
 sport. I fancy, however, if a man were to beat these rushes every 
 day (and a good duck-shooter should, because it makes no matter 
 to the birds in such a tract of rushes as this how much they are 
 shot at in the beginning of the season — they never leave them- 
 and, strangest of all is, that they do not become wild till about the 
 end of September, when, all at once they pack, and as soon as ever 
 a gun is fired, they rise in clouds and go right away), he might 
 average, with flight-shooting, twenty couples of ducks a week 
 throughout August and September 3 and that's no bad work 
 for one gun. He w^ould, however, kill most of his birds 
 at flight, especially in tlie end of the season. At this time 
 the ducks all appear to leave the swamp in the day — where 
 ihey go to I never could make out ; but, I fancy, to the large open 
 waters. But they come back in hundreds at night to feed, and tliis 
 is the time I nail 'em. I poach the holes in the reeds with floating 
 irimmers in the day, and, as soon as I have got my night-lines all 
 out, and just before I can see the evening star, I go to a favourite 
 place, right in the line of flight, and set myself high and d-v. and 
 
6o Buck-s/iooting in JVermland, Sweden. 
 
 ** wait the coming storm." And I have not to wait long. First a 
 flight of teal dash by as pioneers, and I know I have not long (o 
 wait now. The first intimation of the approach of the general 
 flight is the " whish, whish, whish, whish " of wings high in the air 
 overhead. Scouts, I suppose, on the look-out, for I invariably re- 
 nark that, as soon as I have heard this, the birds begin to drop down. 
 Backwards and forwards they dash by sometimes singly, sometimes 
 .n twos and threes j and for about an hour the shooting is first-rate 
 — especially if you are well in the line of flight ; and it takes some 
 little knowledge of the swamp to get this. No doubt the birds 
 drop down into the rushes in many places, but there is one high 
 road, and the man who can find this out may lie on his bunk and 
 smoke his pipe all day while his mates are beating the swamp ; but 
 as soon as he sees the sun go down he will take his stand, and in 
 two hours' time will probably come back with as many birds as it 
 would take another a whole day to kill. This flight-shooting lasts, 
 perhaps, not more than an hour, and you can follow it any evening. 
 And, mind, I do not mean, when I use the term *' flight-shooting," 
 shooting the birds on the water as they pitch to feed. For this 
 work you must have a moon, and the light is so uncertain when a 
 man is sitting low on a large swamp, which is bounded on both 
 sides by high ground, that perhaps scarcely ten nights in the month 
 will do for it. However, if you can find a good place where tlie 
 birds feed really well, you will kill double the quantity you can in 
 flight, for you may get two or three at a shot ; and shoot as you may, it 
 seems next to impossible, here at least, to drive the birds from a 
 favourite feeding-ground. However, this sport is over by about ten 
 or eleven, and you may then go home. And I will now tell the 
 reader how I got home one night from this very swamp. 
 
 It was in the third week of this last month of September, just at 
 the new moon, and although of course the moon gave no light, still 
 the twilight is always clearer just at this time, and after the fiight was 
 over I went down to a good bit of feeding-ground, and, sitting with 
 my face to the west, I managed to see the birds tolerably clear, if they 
 came in pretty close, and, although I had but little sport. I was 
 
Duck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden. 6 » 
 
 lotJi to leave the ground till the birds had done feeding. There i* 
 to me a kind of fascination in this quiet, solitary sport, which I never 
 find in any other. The dead silence v^^hich reigns over all, unbroken; 
 save by the calls of the different night-birds as they pass over (and 
 these are real music to the naturalist's ear), the consciousness that 
 no prymg observ-er is "touting you through the hedge," and the 
 excitement of the sport, all give it pecuhar charms in my eye ; and 
 if a man gave me the choice of the best day's covert-shooting, or a 
 good night on duck-shooting on a favourite feeding-ground, I should 
 vithout he^itation choose the latter. There is a singular httle island 
 butting into the river in the middle of this swamp. It is not a 
 natural island, but evidently a large heap of gravel rising hke a 
 pinnacle, perhaps loo feet high, several hundred acres in extent. It 
 has evidently partly been tlirown up by the hand, and many sup- 
 pose that in the early days an old cloister stood here, which suppo- 
 sition is doubtless correct, for the village church stands on another 
 height not far distant, and this valley was probably peopled when 
 all the neighbouring district was one wild unbroken forest. Be this 
 as it may, this immense mound is now all grown over with fir and 
 juniper, and this is my camping-place when I shoot the swamp — and 
 a more picturesque camping-place it would be hard to find. I had 
 drawn my punt up on to the strand of this island when I rowed over, 
 but unfortunately had not pulled it high enough up, and while I 
 was in the swamp it had drifted away, and when I came down to 
 row myself back over the river I found no boat. This was pleasant j 
 I did not much care to camp out, for a jolly friend on the other 
 side of the river was waiting up for me, and I much preferred a 
 glass of his hot brandy-and-water and a cigar to a *' night out " on 
 " the dismal swamp." Moreover, it was dark, and some heavy drops 
 of rain were just beginning to fall. I could see the light twinkling 
 'n his window about half a mile down the river, on the other side, 
 as if to tantalize me. However, I was not going to be beaten just 
 like this. There was a stand of boats about 500 yards down the 
 river on the other side, which the peasants used for rowing over the 
 river to church and for fishing ; so I stripped (for tlie stream was 
 
6a Duck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden, 
 
 strong, and I durst not try to swim over in my long boots and shooting- 
 coat), and slipped in to swim over to these boats, and row back 
 for my clothes. It was a stiffish swim, for tlie current was powerful. 
 However, I got well over. We have a plan here of locking up the 
 oars on an iron bar, which comes out at the back of the punt j and, 
 as every boat was locked, I had to break a pair of oars off with a 
 stone. This was a longish job, as Swedish iron is proverbially tough, 
 and tliese peasants do their work pretty strong. The night was not 
 too warm, and it was rather chilly work, as I stood in purls natura- 
 lilms for about a quarter of an hour tinkering away at this old iron 
 bar. But I got the oars free at last, soon rowed over for my clotlies, 
 dressed, and was at my friend's house by midnight. He belonged 
 to the ** Peep-o'-day Club," so we had a couple of my ducks roasted, 
 and made a very jolly night of it. I walked home next morning, and 
 thought no more of my little adventure j but I had not seen the 
 end of it yet. Three nights after I came home from shooting, and 
 all at once my head began to throb as if it would split, and every 
 ioint in my body ached. I knew what was up, for I had felt this 
 before. I turned in directly, took a hot cup of coffee and brandy, 
 and in half an hour was shivering like an aspen leaf, my teeth chat- 
 tering like castanets. I had a touch of our Swedish " frossa," or 
 ague — one of the nastiest sicknesses I think it is possible for a man 
 to have, and one against the attacks of which not the strongest is 
 proof. The fit lasted two hours. I was all right next morning, 
 and had only to wait to see whether the fit w^as to come on every 
 day, or every second, third, or fourth. My next fit did not come on 
 t;ll the third night, so now I knew that it was the tertian ague, and 
 as the fit always comes on precisely at the same hour, I knew when 
 to look out for it -, and as, luckily, my first fit came on at night, it 
 does not cause me much inconvenience, for I just turn in an hour 
 Defore I know it will come on, take a good dose of coffee and 
 brandy, and wait for the shivering fit. It is a horrid complaint, for 
 X pulls a man down so j and although, except just when the fit is 
 on you, you can work as usual, a kind of low, listless feeling hangs 
 over a man the wdiole while the aa^ie is on him. It often hangs 
 
Duck-shooting in JVermland, Sweden. 6^ 
 
 about people here for years. The spring ague is always the worst. 
 Lucki'y, mine is not a very severe attack j and as each fit appears 
 to become weaker, I hope in a short time to be all right again. 
 
 The sport upon the swamp I have described, depends in a great 
 measure on the state of the water. If the water is high we have 
 not only more ducks, but we can shove the boat along better j and 
 if the water is low, the contrary is the case. In a dry season we 
 have scarcely any snipe, and I have remarked one thing as curious 
 regarding the snipe here. As I said before, it is one line of snipe- 
 ground along the whole extent of this meadow, perhaps four 
 English miles long, every yard of which appears to be good lying 
 for snipe ; and yet I only know live places on tlie whole swamp 
 that are wortli beating. In these places the snipe lie in wisps, and 
 often far out in the water, and if they would only lie well, a man 
 would have little trouble in killing five or six couples in each place 5 
 but as soon as ever you flush your first bird, his " scape, scape" puts all 
 his comrades on the qui vive, and all at once they keep rising round 
 you, till I am certain that I have seen considerably above a hundred 
 in the air at one time, flying round and round, rising higher and 
 higher, a sure sign — as every old snipe-shooter knows — that he is 
 pretty certain never to see those birds again that day. Still, when 
 the wind has been blowing fresh, I have had some capital shooting 
 on this swamp, and one day this very September I ought to have 
 bagged twenty couple, for I had forty-five shots, but only picked up 
 hirty-one birds. In fact, I begin to fear very much that I am fast 
 going off my shooting. There is always something wrong now, 
 either with the gun or the ammunition. The powder is bad, or 
 the shot IS either one size too large, or one size too small. It never 
 used to be so -, and depend upon it when a man begins to make 
 all sorts of excuses when he misses, he is either a pottering shot, or 
 his nerves are not in tune. I would rather by half see a man miss 
 ten shots clean running and never say a word about it, than see 
 another man kill five out of ten, and bother you with a hundred 
 reasons and excuses why he missed the other five. However, on 
 this day I had some little excuse, for half a gale was blowing from 
 
64 Duck-shooting in Wermlandy SiJoeden, 
 
 the south, and as of course T shot against the wind, I often really 
 had trouble to get my gun up and hold it steady. I never saw so 
 many snipe in one day in my life, nor did 1 ever see them lie so 
 well. I had a rare steady retriever wdth me, and never lost a bird. 
 And now a word or two about this aforesaid retriever. 
 
 Some few years since I recollect reading in the Field the 
 following remarks from, I think, the Hon. G. Berkeley, " That if 
 he had a dog to break, he would trust it to no one's hands but those 
 of Anthony Savage." I always had the greatest ambition to 
 become possessed of a first-rate retriever. Luckily, chance brought 
 me in correspondence wdth this \-ery Mr. A. Savage (who, by the 
 way, is a very good ornithologist). I w^as therefore very much 
 pleased when I came in correspondence with Mr. Savage on 
 ornithological matters, and tnore pleased still when the result of that 
 correspondence led to his sending me over last May a fawn-coloured 
 retriever bitch, which, as far as I can see, is a perfect retriever both 
 by land and water. I have not lost a single duck or snipe this year, 
 and that is saying something in this country, wdiere the reeds are so 
 thick. Our season begins early, long before the birds are strong 
 flyers, and altliough such a thing would not do in England, when 
 we are at Rome we do as they do at Rome ; and as I argued upon 
 the principle, if I don't get the birds now, some one else will, and, 
 moreover, as all our duck-shooting parties among the gentlemen 
 take place just at the commencement of the season, I joined many 
 parties before the ist of August, and it was a caution to see Sutt 
 (as w^e call her) catch the young birds about three-quarters grow^n, 
 and bring 'em alive to me one after the other. This just suited the 
 Swedes, wdio, so long as they get the game, hardly care much how 
 they do get it. This, however, was not likely nmch to improve my 
 lady's steadiness, and she got worse when the old birds were losing 
 neir pinion feathers, and, though they could not fly, could scuttle 
 along the w\iter at a good pace. I once heard the late Bill Scott 
 remark, in his usual energetic manner, in reference to a horse who 
 some one said would "walk over" for the Derby, — "Will 
 he ? well, he must walk quick to w^alk out of my way, that's 
 
Duck-shooting in JVetmland, S-iveden. 6^ 
 
 all." So it was with the poor ducks — they could not even 
 walk away from Sutt, A^ho, I am certain, I have seen 
 chase a mallard for an English mile, and bring it back alive to 
 me. I fancy, if Savage sees this, he will say, " Well, if I had 
 known how she would be used, I should have thought twice before 
 I sent such a dog over there 5" and I must confess I began to won- 
 der myself how it would be \^'hen the snipe season came on, and I 
 wanted her to hunt within shot. But as soon as ever the birds 
 became strong flyers, and the snipe came down, she forgot all these 
 tricks, and settled down to one of the steadiest dogs I ever shot 
 over, and never ranged out of shot. It was a real treat to see her 
 huggle up a rail or a httle bothering jack out of a bit of thick grass ; 
 and she retrieved so tenderly, that I never saw her rumple a feather, 
 except the first lark I shot to her when I tried her. I suppose this 
 was new to her, for she mauled it terribly, and I began to fear she 
 was hard-mouthed, but she soon proved the contrar}^. She became 
 quite a noted character round here, and I am certain I could have 
 shot over half Wermland only for the sake of my dog. I once 
 recollect coming down Fleet Street, when I was accosted by a cork- 
 screw-curled gipsy-looking fellow, carrying a pretty little Skye 
 terrier, who asked me if I wanted to buy '' a nice little toy tarrier 
 dawg," adding, as a recommendation, **^ sweet as a nut — clean in 
 the 'ouse, and wonderful tricky.'' And I soon found out that this 
 was the case with my new retriever. I soon taught her to do 
 almost anything — fetch a cap off a person's head in a moment, if I 
 only pointed to it, drop my powder-flask in the reeds and send her 
 back for it 3 hide my handkerchief in a room full of people (often 
 in another person's pocket), and set her to find it 3 all which, and a 
 dozen other such tricks, made her a general favourite, but on two 
 occasions nearly brought me into serious disgrace. On one occasion, 
 in a httle party was an old gentleman who wore a skull-cap, as old 
 gentlemen often do here. Sutt was in the room. The old gentle- 
 man was leaning back in a chair, talking to a friend. I had occa- 
 sion to cross the room by the back of his chair, and in so doing laid 
 Qiy hand on his shoulder. Whether Sutt took this as a signal or 
 
 F 
 
66 Duck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden, 
 
 not I cannot say, but in less than half a minute after she sprang up 
 behind the chair, dragged off the old gentleman's thatch, and 
 triumphantly brought it to me, amid roars of laughter from all the 
 company, save the old gentleman, who clapped his hands to his 
 head, wondering what the deuce was up. On another occasion, in 
 the same house we had a little music, and a celebrated violin player, 
 whose fiddle was a real old Cremona of a fabulous date, electrified 
 las with his fiddle. He laid his old fiddle on the piano, and 
 walked to the other end of the room to talk to a friend. Two 
 little boys were larking with Sutt, and one or other of them 
 managed to pull the cover off the piano, and the old Cremona fell. 
 Judge my dismay, as well as that of the whole room, when Sutt 
 sprang forward, seized the old fiddle by the handle, and brought it 
 up to me, as proud as a peacock. I jumped up, and took it out of 
 her mouth as tenderly as I could, and put it into the old professor's 
 hands, who stood tlie very picture of misery and dismay. There 
 was no laughing on this occasion. No one spoke a word, for if the 
 old fiddle had been destroyed, I really think the good old owner 
 would have scarcely deemed life worth living for. He never said a 
 word, but walked out of the room with the fiddle under his arm. 
 As soon as he got into the passage we could hear him run through 
 the gamut in all directions, backwards and forwards. I never did 
 hear such extraordinary music in my life. But in five minutes he 
 returned with a smile on his good-humoured old face to tell us it 
 was all right, and patting Sutt on the head, told her in Swedish 
 that she had frightened him more than he had ever been frightened 
 in his life. I would not have had that old fiddle injured by my dog 
 for a hundred pounds. 
 
 I said that we were in the habit of dropping a floating trimmer 
 here and there in the open places among these bulrushes, and now 
 I want Mr. Francis to read this. 
 
 At the back of the island I have mentioned above is an open 
 place in the bulrushes considerably deeper than the water in any 
 other part of the swamp 3 it is probably between four and five hun- 
 dred yards long, and less than one hundred broad, and has all the 
 
Duck-shooting in JVermland, Sweden, 67 
 
 appearance of having originally been a fish stew 3 and this f\ivours 
 the supposition that a cloister originally stood on this mound, foi 
 we know that the old monks in all ages were desperately fond of 
 fish. This hole is now fringed with reeds all round higher than a 
 man's head, and choked up in all parts, save the bottom, with thick 
 cow-docks and waterlilics. It is, in fact, the very place of all others 
 where a large pike would lie ; and my poaching experience in the 
 still waters of our midland British streams told me so the very first 
 time I saw it. No one had ever thought of wetting a line here; I 
 was at once determined to try it, and the first night I had thirteen 
 hues out with nice lively bait, and the result next morning was 
 three pike, the one eight pounds, the other two about five pounds. 
 This looked very promising. The next night I got another of eight 
 pounds, and a smaller one about two pounds. The latter was dead 
 on the hook, and when I took it oif I saw its sides were mutilated, 
 and scored here and there as if cut through to the bone with a 
 razor. I knew "my gentleman" was now at home, and the very 
 next night I baited witli the largest and liveliest roach I could get, 
 and went next morning to take my lines up with every anticipation 
 of great success. However, it was a blank — one fish of about 51b. 
 was all we got. I did not visit the swamp again for a week, 
 and on that day, strange to say, although we fished for some time, 
 we could not catch a bait longer than three inches. These I fancied 
 were no use, and thought it hardly worth trying, but luckily a 
 fellow rowed up in a boat who had been taking up a long chain 
 line which had been out all night, and in the bottom of the boat lay five 
 or six half-rotten roach of three-quarters of a pound to one pound 
 each. I got a few of these, and laid out seven lines. In the morning 
 as soon as we spritted into the hole I saw one of the trimmer-sticks 
 drawn fast into the candocks ; and whilst I was thinking whether I 
 had laid out a line in that spot, I was startled by a splash close to 
 the stick, just as if you had thrown a dog in. We got to the place 
 as soon as we could, and then I saw such a pike standing in the 
 water, with his head to the boat (the trimmer hook just in the side 
 bone of tlie jaw, and the line wrapt round the candocks), as I 
 
68 Duck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden, 
 
 never fancied I should live to see. I was fairly startled^ and hardly 
 knew what to do, for I could plainly see (he was not two feet below 
 tlie surface) how slightly he was hooked. I pulled up the candocks 
 and loosed him, and he ran out into the middle of the hole, and 
 aofain grot fast. I will not tire the reader witli all the chases we had 
 backwards and forwards after that pike. I suppose it w^as at least 
 half an hour before I got the landing-net under him, and lugged 
 him into the boat. I never saw such a monster of a pike -, he was 
 not so very long, but so broad in the back, and darker-coloured 
 than any pike I ever saw before. He was as fat as butter, and 
 just weighed thirty-nine pounds Swedish, which would be some- 
 where about thirty-eight pounds English. I dried his head as a 
 trophy, and I hope to have the pleasure in autumn of showing it 
 myself to Mr. Francis, along with tlie hook that took the fish. I don't 
 mean to say that he was put into the stew by the monks that owned 
 the old cloister, but there was something very wicked and monkish 
 in his appearance, and, judging from the length and size of his 
 tusks (I can hardly call them teeth), might have been of any age 
 you pleased. 
 
 We often have a night leistering in the shallow water on the 
 open places where the reeds have been cut. We get nothing but 
 pike ; plenty of them, however, for the last night 1 was out I stuck 
 twenty-seven pike. They were, however, not very large, the lot 
 weighing together about seventy pounds. I have, however, often 
 killed one cwt. here in the night. This is a sport (groans from the 
 opposition) which I greatly delight in 5 and let me say that it takes 
 some little skill to guide tlie boat single-handed, attend to the fire, 
 and strike the fish well. 
 
 No other ducks breeds with us, as far as I can see, save the wild 
 duck, the widgeon, and the teal 3 and of these the former is by far 
 the most common. No wild geese breed with us, and, strange to 
 say, I never even saw a flock pitch during their migrations. Towards 
 the middle of September, the ducks get very strong and wild, the 
 old mallards are then assuming the full plumage again, and when a 
 shot is fired the birds rise from all parts of the reeds. About the 
 
Buck-shooting in Wermland^ Sweden, 69 
 
 end of September they leave the reeds, and large flocks assemble by 
 day in the wide open water, but returning every night to the swamps 
 to feed. It is now almost impossible to approach them without 3 
 punt-gun, and even this would hardly be safe in our wide waters. 
 Towards the middle of the month the golden-eye come down, and 
 the common wild duck begin to travel coastwise. A few golden- 
 eyes remain in the open water during the winter, but no wild duck. 
 The weather now begins to get chilly and inclement, the duck- 
 shooting season in Sweden may be considered at an end, and with 
 it the shooting season in all the midland districts, except an odd shot 
 at a hare or other forest game. I never could make out which way 
 the scoters, scaup, or geese come down from Lapland. It must be 
 along the coast, for they certainly do not pass through the midland 
 districts, and tlie same remarks will apply to the principal part of 
 the waders. 
 
 I have only seen one double snipe this year, and that I could not 
 kill. I do not know what is the cause, but the double snipe seem 
 to be gradually disappearing in this country. When I first came 
 into Wermland I killed seventeen double snipe in one afternoon in 
 a rough, dry tussock meadow at the top of this ver}'- swamp. This 
 was, however, a very exceptional case. The double snipe comes 
 down to us the earliest of all the snipes, and leaves the soonest. I 
 generally expect to find the first about the middle of August, and 
 never kill one after the third week in September. The common 
 snipe begin to draw down early in September, the jack towards tlie 
 end of the montli, although you may flush a few jacks up to the 
 middle, even up to the end of October. The cream of the snipe- 
 shooting here ends by the middle of October. 
 
 Take it altogether, I consider with us the past has been an excel- 
 lent season for all forest game, especially capercailie ^ and altliough 
 I never do much this way, I have killed more this year than ever I 
 did before. My new retriever is an excellent bitch for the forest, 
 where a pointer would be little use, and where a close-hunting, 
 well-broken dog is the very thing, for it is wonderful how close 
 both the capercailie and black grouse lie in the cranberry and 
 
7© Duck-shooting in Werinland^ Szveden. 
 
 bleaberry bushes, which form the undergrov.'th cf the Swedish 
 forests. 
 
 Everything now warns us that tlie Northern winter is approaching. 
 The winter migrants are fast coming down from Lapland. ]Many 
 of our summer birds have left. The night frosts have set in, and, 
 as I sit and look out of my ^^■indow on a forest tableau, painted in 
 every shade of red, yellow, and green, I think of the beautiful lines 
 of the American poet — 
 
 "It is brilliant autumn time, the most brilliant time of all. 
 When the gorgeous woods are gleaming as the leaves begin to fall — 
 When the maple boughs are crimson, and the hickory shines like gold^ 
 When the noons are sultry hot, and the nights are frosty cold; 
 When the country has no green save the sword-grass by the rill. 
 And the willows in the valleys, and the pine upon the hill; 
 And the pippin leaves the bough, and the sumach fruit is red. 
 And the quail is piping loud from the buckwheat where he fed; 
 When the sky is blue as steel, and the river clear as glass. 
 When the mist is on the mountain, and the network on the grass; 
 When the harvest is all housed, and the farmer's work is done, 
 A::d the woodlands are resounding with the spaniel and the gun.** 
 
71 
 
 MY FIRST STEEPLE-CHASER. 
 
 • The merry men of Lincolnshire were foremost in the fray, 
 
 "VNhen 'Walker* rode the 'Gaylad/ and 'Skipworth' steered the grey; 
 Over any line of country ' Old Discount ' was a trump. 
 
 And only felt at discount in * the mare's' rear round the clump." 
 
 I oxcE heard an old gentleman, when complaining bitterly of his 
 son's extravagances at Oxford, wind up a long tirade against 
 picture-dealers, dog-dealers, horse-dealers, and all otlier dealers, by 
 declaring energetically that he thanked God he had never possessed 
 a taste of any kind in his life. Now I have no doubt, on an abstract 
 view of the case, he was right, for doubtless to indulge in any taste 
 (unless it is that of money-making) dips sadly into a man's pockets, 
 and perhaps, after all, those men will rub through life tlie easier 
 who have not a single taste to gratify. It is true, nevertheless, that 
 such men must be looked upon as mere automatons in tlie great 
 drama of hfe, and as such are certainly more to be pitied tlian 
 envied. 
 
 Now I will suppose that scarcely one of my readers agrees with 
 this old gentleman, but I will, nevertheless, ask him one question, 
 which is — Has he ever indulged in a taste for screw deahng ? If he 
 does so, I wiU candidly ask such a one whether he has not taken 
 more interest in watching tlie progress of that one screw (for, screw 
 as he may be, the owner always fondly believes tliat there is a 
 hidden value in him) than in all the rest of his stud, whose capa- 
 bilities he knows to a pound ? There is a sort of mystery attached 
 to the screw which is truly delightful. His greatest charm hes in 
 his very imsoundness, and, " Oh ! if I could but only get this one 
 right, what a plater or hurdle-racer he would make !" is tlie ownei's 
 constant theme. 
 
72 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 It is certainly now many years since I had anything to do with 
 this class of horse, but I must confess that once on a time I never 
 grumbled to give 15/. or 20/. for a good-looking "screw," when I 
 should have thought twice about 35/. or 40/. for a horse which I 
 knew was all right. This dealing in screws is, however, after all, 
 a dangerous and expensive taste to indulge in, for I really do think 
 that it brings a man into fellowship with more of the pariahs and 
 outcasts of the sporting world than any other. No one can deny 
 that it is the very lowest step in the horse-dealer's ladder. Sporting 
 butchers, broken-down dealers, rough-riders, even the very cads of 
 the stable, can all meet on an equality in this game, and all distinc- 
 tions are levelled by the talismanic go-between of the screw. 
 
 Now mind, by screws, I do not mean old, worn-out rips, which 
 have gradually passed through every phase in a horse's existence, 
 worked hard in all, and at length become worn out in the service — ■ 
 nor the horrid screw you see in the hands of a blackgTiard coper 
 at a country fair, but I mean the real " casualty horse " (and I do 
 think no name can be more appropriate than this for the class of 
 horse which I am describing), still in his prime, who shows good 
 points and good breeding, but who has been disabled or blemished 
 in his youth 3 perhaps has broken down in training, or been thrown 
 up on account of his temper, or some unlucky accident or latent 
 disease, which has baffled the keenest of the faculty, yet being too 
 good or too handsome to be knocked on the head, he has been sold 
 out of the stud probably for a 10/. note, with all his faults, and 
 found his way into the hands of a man of whom there are dozens in 
 every hunt, who having but little money, yet rare eyes to the good 
 points of a horse, and who, with an intuitive love for a screw, 
 always prefers seeing the beginning of a run in a good place, on a 
 raking, showy, unsound bit of blood, than the finish of it, on a 
 steady, sound old hunter. The great ambition of such a man is to 
 •endeavour to find out where the fault really lies which has baffled 
 so much veterinary lore, and his waking and sleeping thoughts are 
 concentrated upon his screw- no matter if the horse has only three 
 legs to go upon, the hidden nugget lies in the fourth; and visions of 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 73 
 
 county cups, hurdle-races, and it may be even a heavy steeple-chase, 
 loom in the future — if his screw can only be once got right. I 
 really do not know, as such a man hustles his screw up to the three 
 or four first fences (which he is sure to clear gallantly), whether he 
 envies a single man in the field, let him be mounted how he may. 
 The screw can probably beat the most of them, even in his present 
 state, ridden in the reckless manner of a man who only cares to see 
 the first mile ; and there is no saying \\'hat he may do after he is 
 once got right, for the owner of a screw invariably feels confident 
 that this day must come, sooner or later. 
 
 I have but to cast my mind's eye back tlirough the dark vista of 
 years that have fled — choose any good hunting morning in the 
 season, by the side of a well-known covert, and tlie very man and 
 horse I am describing stand revealed. A little apart from the crowd, 
 on the grass by the roadside, a small knot of grooms and sporting, 
 hard-riding young farmers, are gathered round a man and horse, 
 whose prototype was to be met with in my day at ev^ery covert side 
 in the kingdom. A rare-topped, blood-looking nag, a little queer 
 on his pins, whose neat head is set off to advantage by a heavy 
 snaffle-bridle, is standing in the middle of the ring, undergoing the 
 strict scrutiny of the "horsey" crowd by whom he is surrounded. 
 It is certainly hard to detect a flaw in the horse, except upon a very 
 close examination, as he stands there quietly champing his bit, and 
 swishing his long thin tail backwards and forwards, as a warning to 
 the crowd that they had better keep clear of his heels ; and, save 
 that he looks rather more ragged and staring in his coat, we can see 
 but little (as far as good points and breeding go) to choose between 
 this screw (for, good as his looks are, we can tell at the first glance 
 that he is a screw) and that magnificent satin-coated 200-guinea 
 chestnut which has just been walked by in charge of the groom 
 with a cockade in his hat. The rider is apparently well known to 
 all J has a joke for one man, a quiet bit of chafi:'with another, and 
 the knowing wink and careless, but meaning, nod of the head with 
 which he answers the inquiry of a jovial-looking farmer as to "What 
 have you got there now, Tom ?" tell the horse's history plainer than 
 
74 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 words can speak. A few strokes of our pen can describe the rider 
 after a fashion as we have already attempted with the horse, but it 
 would require the pencil of poor Leech to do tlie whole picture 
 justice. There he sits, as I have seen him scores of times before, 
 the very personification of " the right man in the right place." He 
 is certainly not one of the upper ten thousand, but there is a con- 
 fident, determined look about him which strikes the eye at once, 
 and a quiet sporting cut about the whole /nan which must be bred 
 in the possessor if he will wear it properly. Every member of the 
 hunt, from the noble owner downwards, has a cheery word to say 
 to him, and the quiet respectful manner which he assumes to his 
 betters proves that he knows his place as well as his business. 
 Originally a small farmer, but a far keener judge of the points of a 
 horse than a bullock, a constant attendant at every race meeting and 
 steeple-chase for miles round, his farm became neglected, and Tom 
 was perforce obliged to look to horses as a means of gaining a living, 
 instead of aflbrding him a noble amusement. A reckless, devil- 
 may-care, open-handed, open-hearted sort of a fellow, of whom the 
 worst that could be said was that he was nobody's enemy but his 
 own, he was a general favourite j and as he always rode as if he had 
 a spare neck in his pocket, and possessed a cool head, a firm seat, 
 and a fine though strong hand on a horse — tlie three best qualifica- 
 tions of a cross-country rider — he won the affections of a rich old 
 uncle, who had already made a fortune at the very trade which Tom 
 was only just commencing, who took him into his employ to show 
 oif his *' casualty nags," and occasionally to ride steeple-chases and 
 hurdle-races for him. And no one better fitted for tlie task j for if 
 he only did mean going — which was not, however, always the case 
 — no one harder to shake otf than Tom, however he might be 
 mounted. He was truly one of that sort immortalized in the old 
 hunting song, who, 
 
 " Spite of falls and bad horses, undauntedly still. 
 Rode up to this motto, ' Be with them I will.' '* 
 
 The whole appointments of both man and horse may perhaps 
 
My First Sieeple-chaser, 75 
 
 appear a little shabby when scruthiised through the eye-glass of 
 a swell, but they are all good. The neat lolb. hunting saddle 
 may have seen some service, but the model and the fit are perfect j 
 and the side loop on each flap for the surcingle to pass through 
 prove that it is not only in the hunting field where that saddle is 
 required to do battle. We all know that nothing sets off a screw 
 so well as a neat-fitting saddle. A plain dark hunting martingall, 
 and a heavy snafifle with broad reins, which look as if they would 
 hold an elephant, complete about as workmanlike a turn-out as is 
 to be met with at that covert side. 
 
 The dress of the man is in perfect keeping with the rest of the 
 picture. The broad, baggy, brown cords, meet a pair of long, 
 plain, faultless jack-boots 3 a tight pepper-and-salt surtout, buttoned 
 close up to the throat, reveals in front a few inches of a long, striped 
 groom's waistcoat J a head, which seems as if made expressly for 
 charging through a bullfinch, is "tied on" by a neat check scarf 5 
 while a strong napless hat shades ahandsom.e, close-shaved, weather- 
 beaten face, in which sturdy resolution and good-nature strive for 
 the mastery. His riding weight may be about eleven stone 3 and 
 his broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and hard brown gloveless hands, 
 added to the firm short seat, all form tlie very beau-ideal of a 
 cross-country jock ; and although there are perhaps scores of better- 
 mounted men in that field, many a scrutinising eye is turned towards 
 him as he quietly wends his way to that corner of the covert where 
 he expects the fox to break ; and more than one hard rider inwardly 
 wonders where the deuce Tom picked up that " goodish-like horse, 
 what he gave for him, and where his fault lies " — for the very fact 
 of being in such hands condemns him at once. And well may they 
 scrutinise this nag, for he is destined ere long to be a sharp thorn in 
 many of their sides ; as on tliis occasion Tom is mounted on "^ my 
 First Steeple-chaser." For the first few fields after they have gone 
 away the screw leads them, and the way in which he came over that 
 ox fence in the corner of tlie field leading from the woods is in the 
 mouth of every one. However, it does not suit his rider, on this 
 first appearance with a new performer, to let all the field see where 
 
;& My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 tlie screw is loose; so at the first check he quid 17 turns his horse's 
 head homewards ; and, as he gently walks him home towards his 
 uncle's stables, picking all the soft places hj the roadside, he keeps 
 continually asking himself the oft-repeated question, but for which 
 he has never yet been able to find an answer — ^What this horse 
 really would be worth if he was not such a confounded screw? 
 
 Having introduced the nephew to the reader, w^e will now say a 
 few words about the uncle. He was a small but independent gen- 
 tleman-farmer, living in the same village as ourselves, well-to-do, 
 but a very saving card ; and it used to be a standing joke in our 
 hunt when he appeared at the covert side — always showingly if not 
 perhaps well mounted — that it was even betting which was the 
 greatest screw, the horse or the rider. He was a pleasant, merry 
 little fellow, and considered to be the best judge of a horse in our 
 county : and this was saying no little, for every farmer round us 
 was a breeder, and the names of Lottery, Gaylad, and Peter Simple 
 were a few samples of the many nuggets that were turned up at 
 our "^ diggings," where everything was dated from the year when 
 so-and-so won the Leger or the Brockelsby. He was a beautiful 
 light weight, with the finest seat and hands on a horse in the world; 
 but he had imfortunately been lamed for hfe by a tremendous fall. 
 His left leg had been not only broken, but perfectly shattered ; and 
 although the doctors saved it by a miracle, they could never get it 
 straight again ; and from that day he was a cripple for life, and ever 
 after walked wlih. a stick. I do not know, however, whetlier this 
 misfortune had not its advantages ; for " Pray take care of my poor 
 leg, sir," was a rare password when the old fellow was working 
 through a crowd up to a horse of which he particularly \^^^nted to 
 take stock. I sometimes used to drive him to Lincoln fair, for he 
 bought many a sound horse on commission, though never for 
 himself, and one of his dodges amused me much. We used to seat 
 ourselves upon the bridge, and whenever a horse was led by which 
 he fancied, I was started off to stop him and keep him in price, and 
 thus give the old boy time to hop up and look the horse well over, 
 while I was apparently attempting a deal. And it was worth 
 
My First Steeple-chaser. 77 
 
 something to see the pohte way in which he addressed me, as I 
 turned away, just as if he had never seen me before : " If you're 
 quite done, sir, perhaps I can try and deal." His lameness cer- 
 tainly did not interfere with his equestrian powers, when once he 
 was firm in his saddle, and although he was obliged to ride two 
 holes shorter on his left stirrup-leather than his right, and used only 
 a single spur, with which he was continually higgling at his horse's 
 side, he had such a marvellous knack, to use poor old Dick Chris- 
 tian's words, "of catching 'em up and putting "em at it," that he 
 was generally in his place. I may mention that Dick Christian was 
 a perfect oracle with the old man 5 and " if Christian only had that 
 horse for twenty minutes from Ashby pastures, he'd sell him to a 
 swell for a little fortune," was constantly in his mouth. Not that 
 he used to risk his neck upon every " casualty hoss " that passed 
 through his hands : the nephew did the rough work, and when he 
 had taken the sharp edge off the screw, the uncle drove it home. 
 He could probably have atforded to ride as good a nag as any man in 
 the hunt 3 but the love for a screw was born in him, and he owned 
 candidly that he never cared to buy a horse whose value every 
 dealer could tell to 5/. Always chopping and changing, swopping 
 and higgling, he was never seen half a dozen times on the same 
 horse 3 and I once heard him lament, when he was completing a 
 little chop, after his old principle of drawing as much to boot as 
 both the screws were worth, '' It's very hard : I never get a horse 
 that suits me but some one comes and takes a fancy to him, and 
 I'm fool enough always to part with him." Of course the word 
 "warranty " was not to be found in his vocabulary, for, as he told 
 me, he never but once in his life warranted a horse sound, and that 
 was returned on his hands j so what was the use of a man's word in 
 horse-dealing? Still there was nothing of the low dealer or coper 
 about him. Scrupulously neat and clean in his dress and appear- 
 ance, his manners, whenever he could sink the shop, fitted him for 
 any company. I never heard an oath or a coarse word pass his 
 lips J his pew in the little village church was never vacant on the 
 Sunday morning; and, strange as it may appear in one of his trade. 
 
78 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 I do not believe he'd have told a lie to save his life. Mind, I don't 
 always mean to say that he " told the whole truth " on all occasions 5 
 but whatever he did tell you was a fact ; his style of dealing did not 
 require to be pushed by the aid of lies and crooked prevarications. 
 No one ever dreamt that a horse was sound when he had one to 
 sell, and he never wished anyone to think so j but he never was 
 known to deceive a man Avhen he bought a horse for him on com- 
 mission. He was strict enough then about the warranty, which he 
 handed over to the purchaser with the receipt, charged his com- 
 mission, and, as far as he was concerned, the matter was at an end , 
 and I never once heard a man find fault with a horse which had 
 been bought through him. When he had, however, a horse of his 
 own to sell, his style of doing business was this : — '^ I had him of 
 so-and-so, but he's wonderfully improved since I got him" (which 
 was generally the case). "I know nothing about him, mind 3 but 
 it's my opinion, if he only gets into the right hands, and shakes off 
 that lameness, he'll make such a horse as we have not had in our 
 county for many a day. Now you know as much about him as I 
 do. They do tell me he's got by so-and-so, and that looks likely 
 enough. Thirty pounds is his price, with all his faults j if he was 
 sound, I should ask you 100/. Why, his very looks would sell him, 
 if he were lame all round." And he was considered such a rare 
 judge of what a horse really was and might be made, tliat I don't 
 know whether many a man did not rather prefer buying one that 
 was a little screwy out of his hands in preference to a sound one 
 from a regular dealer. Blood and bone were what he most looked 
 at. i^.i was his lowest height, and 20/. the highest price that he 
 gave, except on extraordinary occasions. He had a perfect horror 
 of a fast trotter j his pace was always a sling canter along the green 
 turf by tlie roadside, and although no one was fonder of setting a 
 parcel of young farmers larking across his own farm, he detested it 
 in the field, unless a horse was sure to be sold by it ; and his standing 
 motto to the young ones used to be, that he never knew a horse 
 have one jump too many left in him at the end of a long run. A 
 country racecourse was his delight, especially when, as was generally 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 79 
 
 the case, he had some rip or other to run. And although he had 
 never missed a Leger since he was twenty, he rarely laid a shilling 
 on a race. He was a perfect walking racing calendar, knew the 
 pedigree of every stallion out, and the fund of turf information he 
 possessed was extraordinary. Like all good judges, however, he 
 was shy of giving an opinion 5 and ^'I'm told, mind you, although I 
 know nothing myself, that such a horse will see a better day," was 
 his quiet way of "" putting a friend on 5" and it generally turned out 
 well for those that took the hint. 
 
 Now, after all this long rambling preface, I fancy it is about time 
 that I told tlie reader something about my first steeple-chase horse. 
 Well, it was, as near as I can recollect, in the end of July, 1 84 — 
 that I had to go down from our place to York upon some business. 
 I met the night coach on the North-road, and as there was plenty 
 of room, I got the box-seat alongside of tlie coachman. At our 
 first stage, the coachman — who, like the rest of the craft, dabbled 
 in horses a little himself, and, of course, knew my old friend — 
 begged me to look at his near leader, when we got down to change, 
 for he fancied he was just the sort of nag to suit him, '' for, although," 
 added the man, *' he certainly is a little groggy, I'll eat my hat, 
 if he only got into the right hands, a pot of money might not be 
 made out of him." At the next change we stopped to supper, and 
 I then had lots of time to examine the horse in whom lay such 
 hidden treasures. His looks certainly did not behe the coachman's 
 words. Apparently as thorough-bred as Eclipse, sixteen hands 
 high, with lots of bone, and a nose which, as his owner observed, 
 might be got into a quart pot, while rather drooping quarters and a 
 long thin swish tail gave him quite a varmint appearance. Indeed, 
 I think I never set my eyes on a much more taking horse than this 
 — his very poverty only brought out his good points into bolder 
 relief 3 and were it not for an unfortunate twitch apparently in the 
 near hind leg as he limped towards the stable, he would have been 
 perfect. But the secret of his being in this team was accounted for 
 by this very lameness, which had baffled all the best veterinary 
 surcreons in the North, and was destined to remain incurable till the 
 
So My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 patient underwent a course of charges and ^' inflammable iles'* 
 under the hands of a queer, eccentric, but very clever country horse- 
 doctor, who was attached to the stables. I could well believe the 
 coachman when he told me his horse's pedigree : how he had gone 
 lame in training, and no one could find out the seat of the disease j and 
 after the usual vicissitudes in such a horse's career, he had come down 
 to leader in a night coach, where he seemed likely to end his days, 
 unless by some lucky accident his enthusiastic driver should suc- 
 ceed to some property, when he was at once to be released from 
 slavery, and again put into training j " and if only that hind leg 
 would stand, he was to win the Liverpool in a canter." I may add, 
 that amongst his other accomplishments he had carried a whip, was 
 a perfect fencer, and could be ridden by a lady in a packthread. 
 
 There is one good thing when one buys a horse with all his 
 faults — it saves a deal of trouble in examination and no end of lies. 
 This examination is often great humbug, for two-thirds of the 
 buyers who look into a horse's mouth, punch his ribs, pass their 
 hands down the legs, do so only because they have seen others do 
 the same — but as for any idea of how old the horse is, or whether he 
 is sound or not, after such a scrutiny, they are just as wise as they 
 were before. It however gives them an importance in their own 
 eyes at least, for to be considered "horsey" is the height of many a 
 young man's ambition. But don't let any of these unfortunates 
 fancy that the real dealer is deceived by all this : he knows at once 
 the sort of man he has to deal with by the very way in which he 
 walks up to a horse, just as surely as a gunmaker knows at a glance 
 only, by the manner in which a man handles a gun in his shop, 
 whether or not he is a customer with whom he can take liberties. 
 There is only one point to be settled when buying a screw, and that 
 is the price j and as the coachman did not open his mouth too wide 
 (he had given, he told me, ij/. to his brother, who was stud-groom 
 
 to Lord , for the horse, and as he wanted to get a box-coat 
 
 and a new hat out of him, he thought 23 Z. would not be too much) 
 after about five minutes' chafi' — for of all bargains none is so prolific in 
 the latter commodity as one like the present — the bargain was struck. 
 
My First Steeple chaser, '6\ 
 
 and the horse that was to win the Liverpool in a canter Ix^came 
 mine, at the nominal price (according to the seller's idea) of 23/, 
 
 In this instance there was a little more chaff than usual, for 
 every strapper and horse-keeper in the stable (which, perhaps, 
 turned out some sixty coach-horses in the day) seemed to be 
 particularly interested in this bargain, and everyone had some 
 remarks to make on my new purchase. I am sorry to say 
 that these remarks in general, direc'-ly the bargain was closed 
 (for, of course, no one opened before) were anything but compli- 
 mentary to old " Dot-and-Go-One," as the horse had been facetiously 
 christened in this stable j and one ugly old fellow, who answered to 
 the characteristic name of '' Ginger," and who was evidently the 
 wit of the stable, was particularly annoying. '' So you've bought 
 our steeple-chase boss, have you, sir ? well, he's a rare bred 'un — 
 got by Golumpus, dam by Highflyer, I should say, for he's quite old 
 enough. You'll want a stud-groom, sir, when he goes down to 
 Liverpool : better take me along with him." This was a specimen 
 of the badinage in which he indulged, as soon as the coachman had 
 bustled away to see after his way-bill. And, as I left the stable, I 
 just caught his last remark — '^ Ah, he looks like a steeple-chaser, he 
 do ! Should not wonder if that swell means to ride him hisself 3" 
 which was the signal for a hearty guffaw from the assembled 
 strappers. 
 
 However, old Dot-and-Go-One had now become my property 3 
 and as I went towards the bar to look after the coachman and 
 settle for my new purchase, I walked with a dignity befitting the 
 owner of the winner of the Liverpool in prospective. After I had 
 paid for him, I was determined that he should never again look 
 through a collar in my possession, so 1 bargained with the landlord 
 to keep him till I returned 3 and I deemed it prudent to make 
 friends with old " Ginger" before I left, as most probably he w^ould 
 have charge of the horse during my absence. This was very soon 
 effected by the gift of a gallon of ale, and the promise of half-a- 
 crown more when I returned, if I found the horse well cared for. 
 The man now became very civil, but he could not altogether drop 
 
 (7 
 
Sz My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 his chaft'. Such an opportunity for the display of his wit had not 
 occurred for a long time, and he was determined to make the most of 
 it. As he drank success to my new bargain, he confidentially asked 
 me to let him ^' stand a fiver in the first race I ran him for," and he 
 kept continually following me about for orders as to how he was to 
 treat the horse during my absence — what bandages he should put 
 on ; whether I would have his mane plaited, or his tail banged j in 
 fact, it was quite evident he regarded me as " a muff," and nothing 
 else. This, however, I cared little for at that time — the days had 
 long passed by when the slightest imputations on my pretensions to 
 be a sportsman would have been regarded as a personal insult ; and 
 although I never went so far as the old betting-man \\q read of, 
 who declared that he would willingly give loo/. to be taken once 
 again for a flat at Newmarket, I had much rather, when having 
 anything to do with horses^ be regarded as a fool than not. 
 
 On a lovely August morning, about a week after making the 
 bargain as already narrated, I again pulled up at the door of the little 
 roadside inn, to take possession of my new purchase. A week's 
 rest had done wonders for the old cripple — he did not appear to go 
 a bit lame as he walked out of the stable ; and even the landlord, 
 of whom I borrowed a bridle and saddle (for I intended to ride the 
 horse home myself), seemed struck with his good looks, as he was 
 led to the door. I must say, screw as he was, I was much pleased 
 with my new bargain. He cantered so corkily along the grass by 
 the roadside, that I was tempted to have a shy at some rails by the 
 side of a gate, which we so often see across a country lane, and he 
 popped over them like a bird. There Mas not much in this leap, it 
 is true, but there was a good deal in the style he jumped it, which 
 sbowed that he could do twice as much, if it was asked of him. 
 
 It was early when I reached my friend's house ; but laziness was 
 never one of his faults, and he stood on his lawn to welcome me, 
 in company with the very two men of all others to whom I wished 
 to show the new nag — his nephew, the rough-rider and the vet. I 
 pulled up close to the trio, and the two questions, '■ What have you 
 ^ot there?" and "Well, what do you think of this one?" passed 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 83 
 
 each other, as it were, on the road. I was soon out of my saddle, 
 and Tom in my place. The old gentleman hopped two or three 
 times round the horse to look him well over, but never spoke a 
 word 3 he hardly cared to look into his mouth. His quick eye soon 
 detected where the screw was loose, directly Tom walked him 
 round him, down the gravel walk, and "There, take him round to 
 the stable, and come in and have some breakfast," was the only sen- 
 tence he uttered till we got into the snug little parlour, which I so 
 well remember, with the sporting pictures arranged round the walls, 
 the bookshelves filled with odd volumes of the sporting magazines, 
 and the perfect museum of hunting-whips, jockey- whips, and other 
 sporting paraphernalia in the different corners. And then the cheer- 
 ing, substantial breakfast ! I soon told the history of the horse j and 
 although I had rather exceeded the regulation price, the old man did 
 not seem to think that I had done wrong. We all visited the stable 
 after breakfast, and had a careful examination of the horse, who, I 
 was sorry to observe, was now pulled out as lame as ever. Not- 
 withstanding all their knowledge, not one of the three could decide 
 exactly where the horse was lame. The vet. fancied the lameness 
 laid in the pastern, and was for firing at once 5 the nephew fancied 
 it was in the hock 3 while the old man declared he was lame all 
 round. Still they all agreed that he was a very likely horse, and 
 the vet. quite deemed that it lay within the powers of his science 
 to bring him round. 
 
 Now, it so happened that in our hunt we had an annual steeple- 
 chase every March, of 5/. entrance, with 50/. added, and it was the 
 ambition of every hard-riding member of the hunt to win this 
 steeple-chase. The old man had attempted it twice and failed, not- 
 withstanding all the powerful assistance of his nephew, who was 
 certainly by far the best cross-country race-rider in the hunt. He 
 fancied that he saw in this horse the very thing he had long been 
 looking for J and without aspiring quite so high as the coachman, 
 his late owner, he still thought him good enough to win this race, 
 if he only once came right 3 and the old man was not deceived. 
 One of the conditions of this i2st. steeple-chase was, that every 
 
 G Q. 
 
84 My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 horse must have been hunted one season with the hounds, and be 
 ridden by a member of the hunt. J^ow, here was just the thing 
 to hand. We had certainly the services of the best jockey. It 
 wanted full three months to the beginning of the hunting season 
 to try and bring the horse round. The risk was not great j so a 
 bargain was struck at once. The old gentleman was to take half 
 the horse, and we were to be part-owners j share the expenses and 
 the winnings. He was to have the sole management of the affair ,- 
 I was only to be a sort of sleeping partner, and not to interfere in 
 the least with the training. Tom was to ride, and have a share in 
 the stakes, if he won, and we agreed to put the Vet. on at 25/. to no- 
 thing in his first race, if only he could get the horse right to the post. 
 
 Certainly if our hunt steeple-chase was destined ever to be won 
 by a screw, it did seem as if old Dot-and-Go-One was to be the 
 lucky horse, considering the hands he had now got into. Of course 
 we were all bound to secrecy : the horse was to have a run in one 
 of the old man's meadows, and then to be brought up and got into 
 hunting condition. Although part owner, I knew no more what 
 mysterious operations that horse went through than the very coach- 
 man of whom I had bought him, but I believe both the old man 
 and the vet. had an anxious time of it. Sometimes the horse would 
 come limping out of the stable at a pace which the old man, with 
 the aid of his stick, could have beaten, down the gravel-walk ; some- 
 times he seemed to go lame on one leg, sometimes on the other,, 
 and sometimes all round j at others he would come bounding oat 
 of the stable as if he had never been lame in his life. Scores of 
 times did the old man declare he would give treble the value of the 
 horse if he could only discover where the lameness really did lie, 
 and many an anxious hour did he spend in watching him and think- 
 ing what a triumph it would be if he only could carry off this much- 
 coveted prize with a screw, of whose existence no one in the hunt 
 had the least idea. But, wherever the disease lay, or whatever 
 remedies were applied, the horse certainly did get better, and by the 
 middle of November he was seen at the covert-side. 
 
 The winter passed over, and the old horse kept much about the 
 
My First Steeple-chaser. 85 
 
 came. On liis sound days nothing could beat liim, when Tom 
 chose to send him along — for he was riding to orders, and never 
 took the horse through a whole runj and sometimes he would ap- 
 pear at the covert-side so lame that chaps began to wonder what 
 reason Tom had for persevering with such a screw. Still he was 
 now in rare condition, and as the stable had found out the secret 
 that, however lame he might start, he always managed to shake off 
 his lameness in about the first mile, and as he was a splendid fencer 
 and had a great turn of speed (for Tom had managed to get the 
 length with him of some of the best horses in the hunt), it began 
 to look quite on the cards that the much wished-for prize would 
 come home to these stables at last. Although part owner, I had 
 never got on the horse since the day I rode him home, but I now 
 and then saw him out with the hounds 3 and one morning when I 
 rode home by his side, Tom informed me confidentially that he had 
 the cracks safe enough, and if the race was to be won by an 
 outsider, old Dot-and-Go-One would have it. 
 
 In these hunt steeple-chases there is usually very little mystery, 
 and it is pretty well known months beforehand what horses will be 
 entered. In fact, the owners are generally proud of their horses, 
 and boast of what they are able to do, and, as they know they have 
 to meet nothing but what they have seen out many times before, 
 they have more confidence than in a great open race j in fact, these 
 steeple-chases used to difier not in the least from a usual run, save 
 that the men wore jackets instead of coats, and instead of choosing 
 their own hue had to ride over a certain number of ordinary 
 hunting-fences between two flags. There was, however, on this 
 occasion, one horse which puzzled all the hunt, and this was the 
 screw. Of course Tom was as close as wax about him, and 
 all that his nearest friends could get out of him, when they 
 tried to work the pump, was, "I can't think whatever the old 
 fool (his uncle) means, by sticking to this screw for so long. I 
 never can see the end of a run on him, and if he goes ever so 
 sound for the first mile, he's sure to shut up before the end of 
 the second." But there were a few old hands who had watched 
 
85 l^ly First Steeple- chaser. 
 
 Master Tom ver}'- closely, and had seen him pull up and leave 
 the field, when old Dot-and-Go-One was fall of running. 
 They, moreover, knew very well that the old man (his uncle) 
 had always some good reason for what he was doing, and it did 
 not surprise them in the least when the entries for the Findon 
 Steeple Chase " came out" in the county paper a fortnight before 
 the race to see in the list of fifteen entries Mr. 's br. g. Dot-and- 
 Go-One, aged, blue body, white sleeves and black cap. The mystery 
 of the brown screw was partly cleared up, but no one was a bit the 
 wiser as to his capabilities. He was never seen out in the field 
 again after the entries were published, for his owner declared in the 
 words of the old Yorkshire trainer that, save a little gentle exercise on 
 his own farm, " the old horse should never sweat again till he sweated 
 for the brass." However, it was nothing new for the old man to 
 run a screw and get beaten 5 and the two cracks of the hunt — the 
 one a magnificent chestnut gelding by Priam, belonging to a farmer 
 who had won this steeple-chase in the two previous years, and the 
 other a wiry little bay mare, nearly thorough-bred, the property of 
 a half-pay captain — were made hot favourites, and backed at very 
 short odds against the field. 12 to i could be had about any other, 
 and two or three who placed unlimited confidence in the old man's 
 judgment went about quietly picking up these odds wherever they 
 could get them about the screw ; and although it was never a very 
 heavy betting race, one young fellow, *'just out," who had taken 
 great liberties with the horse, in consequence of a trifling dispute he 
 had with Tom about a favourite hunter which he rode, and which 
 Tom had declared to be nothing better than a pig, found himself upon 
 the eve of the race to stand to win 500/. on either of the favourites, 
 but to lose about i^ooZ. if Dot-and-Go-One pulled through, of 
 which 300/. would find its way into Tom's pocket. 
 
 The little village of Findon lay in the best and stifFest-enclosed 
 part of our hunt, about twelve miles from us. The village itself 
 stood on a gentle rise, and the old ivy-covered church-tower was a 
 landmark for miles. The snug parsonage, embedded in a clump of 
 large elms, where the rooks had held undisputed sway for centuries. 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 87 
 
 stood close into the church, while neat farmhouses \nd well-filled 
 itack-yards scattered around, bespoke the agricultural wealth of the 
 district. The village, of course, boasted its blacksm'th's shop, its 
 pound, and its one public-house, the " Rutland Arms," where good 
 accommodation was to be obtained for man and horse, and whose 
 excellent loose boxes never stood empty on the night before a 
 Findon Toll-bar meet. As a man gazed from the hillside by the 
 church upon the valley below, his eye wandered over a panorama 
 such as few countries could display — a panorama such as is never 
 seen out of merry England, and which stretched for miles over 
 perhaps tlie best agricultural as well as the best hunting country in 
 the world. The little river Swift — which here dwindled to a brook, 
 but a brook of formidable dimensions — wound its tortuous course 
 through rich meadows, which bounded it on either side j while 
 ploughed fields of stifl:^ useful clay-land, and large enclosures of old 
 swarth, which had never been turned up by the plough within the 
 memory of man, separated by bull-finches, ox-fences, strong post- 
 and-rails, and splashed stake-and-bound growing blackthorn hedges, 
 w^ith a ditch on each side, all formed the heau-ideal of a stiff hunt- 
 nig-country. 
 
 The start for the steeple-chase was m a meadow close to the 
 village, and the brook, or river as it was called, which was the 
 third fence from the first flag, was here, perhaps, eighteen feet wide, 
 and eight to ten feet deep. After this the line went on over large 
 enclosures of grass and plough, with some excellent galloping ground 
 up to the flag, placed in a grass field about two miles distant, round 
 which the horses had to come ; and then back again over much the 
 same line of country, down to the brook again — which, however, 
 was not nearly so wide on returning ; and then on to the finish be- 
 tween two flags placed in the starting meadow, giving a straight 
 run-in of about four hundred yards from the last fence. The 
 whole line, including twenty-seven good hunting fences, and the 
 brook twice, was beautifully chosen ; and as almost every man and 
 horse who went for the race knew the country well, and had crossed 
 the line some time or another with the hounds, it was a far more 
 
88 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 open race than many of the crack steeple-chases, where horse and 
 rider, perhaps, never see the country before the morning of the race. 
 Our friend Tom, who had ridden in this steeple-chase twice before, 
 and knew the line to an inch, was very confident this time, for the 
 country was deep, and he considered old Dot-and-Go-One just the 
 sort of horse to pull off the race. The old horse had certainly 
 wonderfully improved, and, although he still went at times a little 
 lame, such was his strength and bottom that it seemed scarcely to 
 interfere with his going, especially in deep ground 3 added to that, 
 he rarely made a mistake at his fences, and had a good turn of speed 
 over the flat. Of course, as in most steeple-chases, the brook was 
 the centre of attraction, for it was pretty certain that on this day 
 more than one nag and rider would have a cold bath ; but the fence 
 which all the old hands considered the most dangerous in the race 
 was the fourth fence from home coming back, leading out of a 
 ploughed field into the meadow where the brook had to be crossed 
 for the second time. This was a new, strong, splashed blackthorn 
 hedge, above four feet high, with growers and binders thicker than 
 a man's arm, on a bank, with a wide ditch on both sides. If a 
 horse made the least mistake here he must be thrown out of the 
 race, for it would neither bend nor break. It was well known to 
 all the hard riders in the hunt, and more than one had come down a 
 tremendous cropper at this very fence. Not one place in it was weaker 
 than another, so it must be taken in the line j and as the horses 
 before they came back to it would be naturally distressed, it was 
 clear that more than one would come to grief at this stake-and- 
 bound rise — as the country people here called it. A lane ran parallel 
 with the side fence of the meadow where the right hand flag was 
 j)laced ; and here all who had the most interest in the horses stationed 
 themselves, for it was pretty certain that at this point it would be 
 decided who had the race in hand. 
 
 It is needless to dwell upon the bustle and excitement that pre- 
 vailed throughout the little village on the evening before the steeple- 
 chase. It would be tedious as a thrice-told tale. Ten horses had 
 arrived 3 and as two horses from the village were sure to go, and one 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 89 
 
 rr two more were expected in the morning, the probable starters 
 were calculated at thirteen or fourteen. Every farmhouse was 
 filled on this evening, and even the parsonage had its mild coterie 
 of hard-ridinor black coats, each of whom had some interest, althou2:h 
 he did not care to show it, in watching how young So-and-so (a 
 farmer's son, probably from his own parish) would perform on this 
 memorable occasion. The Rutland Arms was full of grooms, horse- 
 dealers, and hard-riding outsiders, who had not exactly the entry 
 of the better houses, and here the fun was fast and furious 3 while 
 ■each jovial farmer and comely farmer's wife and daughter did the 
 honours of the table to a company as jovial and as truly British as 
 themselves. Not much talk about agricultural distress on this 
 ■evening ! The prices of wheat or oats were never once quoted j 
 and if £ s. d. were ever touched upon, it was merely to inquire 
 the price of such and such a horse for the next day's race. The 
 little village was in a perfect blaze — lights streamed from every 
 window and open door, the stable lanterns flitted across the dilferent 
 yards like meteors, as anxious grooms or owners visited their 
 favourites, to see if all was comfortable for the night j while every 
 now and then the stentorian chorus of some orood old huntinor sons: 
 would break upon the ear, disturbing the stillness of the usually 
 quiet street. Oh, these happy reunions of jovial manly spirits ! the 
 remembrance of which no distance of time can ever obliterate ! 
 By midnight, however, every light was extinguished, every voice 
 hushed. Young jockeys were restlessly tossing in their beds, won- 
 dering what luck the morrow had in store for them 5 while the 
 older ones were riding the race over mentally, and weighino- 
 their own chances against those of other good rivals whom they 
 were so soon to meet. A loose box had been engaged for our 
 horse at the Rutland Arms 3 but night closed in. and, to the sur- 
 prise of many, he had not made his appearance. Not that I was a 
 bit surprised, for there was something mysterious about all that my 
 old friend did, and I, moreover, well knew that the horse was 
 standing comfortably bedded up at a farmhouse about four miles 
 distant. "They'll see us quite early enough in the morning. 
 
9© My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 depend upon it," was the old man's remark to Tom as he locked 
 the stable-door for the last thne that night — a remark which even 
 elicited a grim smile from old Sam, who was stud groom on this 
 occasion. 
 
 About eleven next morning the little cavalcade walked up the 
 village street, " the observed of all observers." The old horse in 
 neat blue and white body-clothing, with all the accompaniments, in 
 true sporting marching order, led by Sam 3 Tom (in full jockey 
 costume, his colours, however, hidden by a blue pilot cloth pea- 
 jacket, his silk cap stutfed into his hat), and the old uncle, following 
 on their ponies. I never remember seeing old Sam look so respect- 
 able or so pleasant as he did on this eventful morning. He never 
 once contradicted his old master, never interfered with orders, and 
 the only remark I heard him make to Tom as he gave him a lift-up 
 in the stable-yard of the inn was, '^ There, God bless you ! the old 
 man's told you what to do. I don't want to see you again till you 
 come back to weigh in 3" and Sam kept his word, for he never 
 moved from the public-house parlour, where he sat stoically 
 ruminating over his pipe, till an ostler breathlessly rushed in with, 
 *^Your horse has won !" And then, "I knew he would," was the 
 only comment he made, as he bustled out to lead the winner back 
 to scale. 
 
 There was no denying it, that as Tom rode down to the starting- 
 meadow, he and old Dot-and-Go-One looked a very dangerous 
 couple, and the jockey of the favourite hurriedly whispered to hi? 
 owner, as they passed him, " I should not see a bit of fear if we 
 only had that fellow and his screw safe in the brook." However, 
 the last jockey's hand had been shaken, the last instructions had 
 been given, and thirteen horses, ridden by thirteen of the best 
 riders in our hunt, were all drawn up in a line, anxiously waiting 
 for the signal to start : 
 
 " All good 'uns to look at, and good 'uns to go. 
 And if put at the pound-wall of Ballinasloc, 
 There was not one among them would ever turn — no.** 
 
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My First Steeple-chaser. 91 
 
 The day was fine, and country people mustered strong, every 
 hard rider for miles around was there, and a cheer burst from the 
 crowd as the clear manly voice of one of the stewards (over whose 
 farm the principal part of the line ran) shouted '' Are you all ready, 
 gentlemen? Then off you go." And away the lot went, like a 
 flock of pigeons floating over a dovecote top. The three fences 
 leading down to the brook were cleared by all in their stride with- 
 out a mistake 5 but directly they got into the meadow, three or four 
 of the older jockeys were seen to take a pull at their horses as if to 
 steady them for what was coming. ''^ I'll give you a lead over," 
 shouted Tom, as he came through his horses, and old Dot-and-Go- 
 One skimmed over the brook like a swallow on a summer evening. 
 As he turned in his saddle after he had landed, to see who had 
 followed him, five horses and riders were struggling in the brook, 
 while seven were in the meadow with himself. As soon as he had 
 seen our horse well over, my old friend and myself, with a crowd 
 of well-mounted farmers, galloped across to the lane to watch them 
 come back over what the old man called the '''^ casualty fence" in 
 the race 3 and we, therefore, did not see much of the horses again 
 till they had turned the middle flag. Only two of those that got 
 in the brook came again into the race, and they did not catch the 
 other horses till they were half way round. One of the Findon 
 horses — a great, strong, fine-looking hunter — had rushed to the 
 front, after crossing the brook, and made the pace tremendous, 
 closely followed by the favourite and two others. Tom lay about 
 fifth, the whole time inwardly wondering how long it would be 
 after they had rounded the flag before the leaders came back to 
 him. Strange to say, there was hardly one of the front division 
 that he was the least afraid of 3 but there was a great raking 
 chestnut mare who had lain close to him throughout the race, 
 taking every fence just behind him as surely and safely as himself, 
 but who never tried to pass him, which he began now to consider 
 dangerous. Tom had taken no notice of this chestnut at starting, 
 nor could he for the life of him call to mind either the mare or her 
 
^2 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 rider. The young farmer who steered her was eNidently riding to 
 orders, and those orders clearly were to let Tom lead, and keep 
 dose behind him. No matter whatever fence he went at, the 
 chestnut took it exactly in the same place j and if he tried a bit of a 
 spurt, it was all the same, she stuck as close to him as his shadow. 
 As soon as he rounded the flag, the horses began to change places. 
 Two of the leaders fell back, while Tom gradually crept to the 
 front, followed closely by the mysterious chestnut ; and when we 
 saw them again, within three fields of the great fence, Tom was 
 leading, the chestnut and four others well up, but nothing else in 
 the race. In the field leading down to this fence the favourite and 
 one of the Findon horses drew up to the two leaders, and the four 
 came down to the hedge together. The rider of the chestnut now 
 changed his tactics, and, instead of following Tom over, charged 
 the fence in a line with him. Probably he was afraid of Tom 
 coming down right before him j in fact, it was a very awkward 
 place either to lead or to follow over, and one which had much 
 better be taken alone. The Findon horse got down to it first, but 
 swerved at the crowd in the lane, and had to be turned and put at 
 it again before he cleared it. Tom and the chestnut went over 
 beautifully side by side 3 the favourite fell a burster. The Findon 
 horse could not be got over till the leaders were nearly down to the 
 brook, and only two of the other horses came on to the fence, one 
 of whom fell, the other scrambled over. The race was now left 
 to Tom and the chestnut : they cleared the brook so near together 
 that their knees almost touched on landing. Tom took a pull at 
 his horse, and the chestnut passed him and went on with the 
 running. This was bad policy, and just what Tom wanted. 
 Whether the young farmer thought he had the screw safe, or 
 whether he now fancied that he could win as he liked, and wished 
 his friends at the wuining flags to see by how far he could win, 
 there is no telling j but he pressed his mare on over the fence into 
 the straight run-in, and then set to work with her 3 Tom all the 
 while lying close to him, but so straight behind him that the jockey 
 on the chestnut could not see him till they were within a hundred 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 93. 
 
 yards of the winning flags. It was now Tom's turn, and rouslno- 
 up old Dot-and-Go-One with three overhand cuts that might have 
 been heard all over the meadow, he closed in with the mare and 
 won on the post by a short length. "A magnificent finish!" 
 shouted the bystanders, but there were a few in the crowd who saw 
 but little in the finish except a splendid waiting race on Tom's part,, 
 who, they felt confident, could have won by twenty lengths if he 
 had pleased ; and directly I heard the old uncle's remark, as he 
 shook his hand upon winning, " You did that monstrous well, my 
 lad," and saw the nephew's quiet smile, I was of the same opinion- 
 myself. 
 
 Every -one cheers a winning jockey, and of course Tom came in. 
 for his share ; in fact, he was a pretty general favourite with all, 
 and many who had no pecuniary interest in the race were really 
 glad that he had won. The old uncle was in a state of great ex- 
 citement, and it was a treat to see him as he rode by Tom's side 
 back to scale in a barn, belonging to one of the stewards, gracefully 
 bowing right and left, in acknowledgment of the cheers, which he 
 understood quite as much for himself as for the old horse and its 
 plucky rider. As for Tom, he bore his honours very meekly^ the 
 expression of his countenance rarely displayed the workings of his. 
 mind 3 but I observed him suddenly change colour as he approached 
 a little pony-carriage, standing close to the gate leading out of the 
 winning-field. My eye involuntarily followed his, and, on looking 
 m that direction, I saw a respectable but very surly old gentleman, 
 sitting in that little carriage, who stared at our party, but without 
 taking the least notice of any one of us, and by his side a dark-eyed,, 
 dark-haired girl, apparently his daughter. The girl was pale as- 
 death, but her black eye flashed fire as it caught Tom's, and a deep 
 red flush mantled over her cheek and forehead as she slightly waved a 
 white handkerchief which she held carelessly in her hand. No one 
 observed this dumb show save Tom, myself, and, of course, the 
 lynx-eyed old uncle, whose eagle glance nothing escaped ; and as we 
 rode together up to the scales he confided to me that this girl, the 
 daughter of one of the richest farmers in the county, mi^ht have 
 
94 -My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 been Tom's wife long ago, if he had only been tolerably steady j 
 but the old man her father not exaetly approving of Master Tom's 
 goings-on, had peremptorily forbidden him his house, and threatened 
 his daughter with penalties far worse than those of a convent, if she 
 ever spoke to him again. The girl obeyed her lather at the price of 
 a broken heart, but she silently registered a vow in heaven, that if 
 she could not become Tom's wife she would never become the wife 
 of another man j and this vow she solemnly kept, perhaps living on 
 in hope, but gradually dying of despair. The old uncle wound up 
 his little history with *' Mind you, her father's an old fool, for if the 
 girl had married Tom she might have kept him straight 3 anyhow, 
 she could never have been more miserable than she is now. There's 
 many worse-looking fellows than Tom 5 and if he is a httle wild, 
 all I can say is, there is not a more straightforward chap or a better 
 rider in our hunt." The old gentleman evidently thought it 
 impossible to say more in his favour. 
 
 After the steeple-chase came a hurdle-race, but although two of 
 the steeple-chase horses went for it, one of them winning, the old 
 gentleman would not enter our horse, as he had a better plan in his 
 head, wliich he brought about in the evening. All left the course 
 well pleased with their day's fun. Many went home that night, 
 but we all stayed j and Sam had strict injunctions to see after the 
 old horse, as he might be wanted again in the morning. The 
 owner of the chestnut was not half satislied with his defeat, and his 
 son, the jockey, was very sore at having been out-ridden by Tom. 
 In the course of the evening party-feeling waxed high, for both 
 horses had their supporters, and after a great deal of personal chaii 
 a match was made for 50/. a-side, to come off next morning at 
 eleven, over the steeple-chase course. As Tom quietly closed a 
 10/. bet with his rival rider, his sarcastic remark of "Just see what 
 an example I'll make of you in the morning, young man. You 
 shall ride a waiting race to-morrow, whether you like it or not," 
 raised the hopes of our party j and he kept his word. 
 
 The match came off as agreed. Tom jumped away with the 
 lead, and kept it the whole way round, gradually improving it up 
 
My First Steeple-chaser. 95 
 
 to the big fence, where the el)e.stnut fell^ and the screw cantered in 
 by himself. 
 
 At three o'clock we left the village for the farmhouse, where we 
 meant to stay the night ; and as old Sam led our horse in triumph 
 out of the inn yard, he pithily obser\-ed to a group of stable-men 
 and grooms who had gathered round to see him start, " There, I 
 don't fancy you'll want us again at Findon for a twelvemonth." 
 Just as the old horse was leaving the yard, Tom walked up to his 
 head and pinned on each side of the head-stall a blue and white 
 rosette, which the old uncle mysteriously whispered to me had been 
 sent him in the morning by " that party." There was certainly 
 some value attached to these little cockades, for on going into 
 Tom's bachelor apartments a short time after the race, I observed 
 them pinned up over che bracket where his whips hung 5 and when- 
 ever afterwards he left home to ride the old horse in a race, they 
 accompanied him as surely as his whip and spurs, and generally 
 decorated the horse's head as he returned iiome a winner. 
 
 After lunch the stakes for both the steeple-chase and the match 
 were handed over to my old friend, who generously left 10/. behind 
 him for the poor of the parish {" Reads well in the country paper, 
 don't you see r")^ and after deducting 25/. for the Vet., according 
 to promise, and 5/. for old Sam, he divided the rest into three parts, 
 for himself, Tom, and me. He had now gained the long coveted 
 prize — he had won "the Findon," and that with a screw, which he 
 flattered himself no one could have doctored but himself. Tom 
 had made a very good day's work j his share in the stakes, and 
 about 300/. in bets, came to enough^ as the old man observed, to 
 stock a little farm with. But " if you'll be a little more steady, 
 you may marry that girl yet, and do well," only met with a sad 
 shake of the head from Tom, as he tossed off a bumper of sherry 
 and left the room. As for myself, not a word of praise fell to my 
 share for having been the original purchaser of the horse — in fact, I 
 was a real sleeping partner, in every sense of the word, and had no 
 more to say in regard to the management of the old screw than 
 tlie coachman of whom I bought him. 
 
g6 My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 As soon as we got home, an important ceremony took place- 
 that of re-christening our horse. He had now distinguished him- 
 self j i^o/. had been bid for him, in two places, as the auctioneers 
 say, before we left Findon, and we considered he was fully entitled 
 to a less plebeian name than Dot-and-Go-One. Now the christening 
 of a horse who has three or four masters is not an easy matter j. 
 each one of us had a fancy name of his own. I thought " Splinter 
 Bar" appropriate, on account of his having been bought out of a 
 coach. Tom leant to " Rory O'More," or ^'^ Donald Caird," 
 probably from having some kindred feehng with these worthies. 
 The Vet. had hardly a mind on the subject, so long as he was con- 
 sulting physician, and Tom was jockey. He fancied the old horse 
 good enough to win under any name, so we just left the choice ta 
 the old man, who, to our great surprise, went at once into the 
 classics, and thouglit Hercules would " look very well on paper." 
 I fancy it would have puzzled him to tell us who Hercules was,, 
 for, as old Baron Alderson observed to one of the witnesses in the 
 noted Running Rein case, when the counsel asked him where they 
 got the name of Maccabeus from, '' Oh ! that name comes out of 
 a book which your party very seldom look into." However^ 
 
 Hercules it was, and three weeks after Mr. 's br. g. Hercules 
 
 (late Dot-and-Go-One) figured in the entries for a steeple-chase in. 
 Warwickshire. This time, however, Hercules came home without 
 the cockades, for he was beaten cleverly by Powell on the Grey (1 
 believe, candidly, through jockeyship, though none of us told Tom 
 so, as we did not much mind, for we had httle or nothing on the 
 race, and saved our stake). His work, however, now began in. 
 earnest. It did not suit my old friend when he had a good bit of 
 stuff to work upon to let him stand idle, and throughout the whole 
 summer Hercules and Tom had a merry time of it, flitting about 
 the country like two Will-o'-the-Wisps, from one little race meeting 
 to another ; and wherever there was a small plate or hurdle-race to 
 be run for, they were sure to make their appearance on the morning 
 of the race, sweeping off everything before them till they became 
 almost as notorious i" our district as old Isaac and Sam Darling 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 97 
 
 used to be on the Warwickshire side. As he never went for any- 
 very great stake, the old horse rarely met with company to make 
 him gallop 3 and although the stakes he won were generally small, 
 they paid expenses and a little over, and gained my old friend a 
 kind of notoriety which he had so long aimed at. 
 
 Yellow-leaved autumn, however, came round again at last, and 
 the old horse, who now scarcely ever went lame, but who, strange 
 to say, notwithstanding all his knocking about, seemed to keep as 
 fresh on his legs as ever, and who was always, to use a favourite 
 expression of old Sam's, " A rare doer," made his appearance for 
 the last time at Findon gorse, early in November, just to show him- 
 self to his old friends once again, previous to his going down into 
 a remote western county — which my old friend, whose knowledge 
 of geography was limited to " the sheers," as he called them, fancied 
 was altogether out of England — to run for the great event of his 
 life, the Grand Annual Aristocratic Bideford Steeple-chase (this was 
 not exactly the name, but it is near enough for our purpose), of 20 
 sovs. entrance, with 100 added, and in which Vanguard, Peter Simple, 
 Gaylad, and a host of other cracks, were to meet as competitors. 
 Hercules was now in a racing stable, for, as my old friend observed, 
 the horse was public property, and the responsibility of bringing him 
 out for this great race was more than he dare undertake himself, so 
 he was placed for about six weeks with one Mr. Snaffle, to put the 
 linal polish on him. The weekly bulletins were favourable 3 and 
 when it became generally known that he was meant for the race, 
 every member of our hunt felt interested in the old horse's success, 
 and many a quiet commission was sent up to London to back him 
 by men who rarely hazarded a shilling on a race. Now, although 
 old Hercules was well known as a good horse among a limited 
 circle, his fame had hardly spread beyond that circle, and however 
 good he might be among platers, with country jockeys on their 
 backs, it was quite a different thing when he had to meet the best 
 steeple-chasers in England, with regular professional jockeys up, 
 and twelve or fifteen to one could be easily obtained about him. 
 But the stable-money was on him, Tom declared himself equal to 
 
 H 
 
98 My First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 the task of steering him, and, as the journey was long, the old horse 
 started about ten days before the race, in charge of Mr. Snaffle's 
 head lad on a mule, for we had no railroad conveyance direct at 
 that time, and we could hardly stand the expense of a van with 
 posters. He reached the little town about three days before the 
 race, and when he took gentle exercise on the racecourse the morn- 
 ing after hi:; arrival, was observed by more than one lynx-eye, who 
 was watching him, to go a little lame. 
 
 The race was fixed for the Wednesday, and it was agreed that 
 our party should take the night coach up to London on the Satur- 
 day night, and reach Bidefordcomfortably by the Tuesday morning. 
 The old horse travelled across the country, and in less than half the 
 distance. On the Saturday our hounds met at Waverley Wood, 
 and Tom rode over to meet them on another ^''casualty nag,'* 
 which my old friend had lately picked up cheap. He was not a 
 bad topped horse, and perhaps less of a screw than the generality 
 of horses that came into these stables, but he was a vicious, hard- 
 mouthed brute, a regular "mistechst" devil, as old Sam used to 
 observe (I never could define this mysterious word), who could do 
 almost anything he liked when in the humour, but, if he were not, 
 was just as likely to take the bit between his teeth and walk through 
 a gate, or flight of rails, without rising at them. We were to start 
 at eight to meet the up night-coach on the north road, and Tom 
 promised not to do more than just to show the horse the hounds and be 
 home to dinner (which always on hunting days consisted of a beef- 
 steak pudding) by two. I never saw him in such high spirits before. 
 He was in rare condition, and just the steeple-chase weight to a pound. 
 He quite longed to meet some of the cracks, and inwardly hoped that 
 he might be able to turn the tables on the Grey this time. During my 
 connexion with this steeple-chase horse, I had been brought much 
 into contact with Tom. I had come to know him better, and the 
 more I knew him the more I liked him. Under a rough exterior 
 and the veil of wild reckless manner, there was a vein of simple, 
 warm-hearted kindness running through his character which atoned 
 for marvy a faulty and when, in his calm moments, I could draw 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 99 
 
 him away from the only subjects he cared much to talk about, I 
 was struck with the justice and soundness of the remarks which fell 
 from his lips. He was, in fact, but one specimen of a class unfor- 
 tunately too common — a class of men who have been well brought 
 Ep in their youth, but having abandoned all to the fascinations of a 
 sporting life, find themselves m a few years drawn into a vortex from 
 which they can never extricate themselves, and linked in irrevocably 
 with associates whom tliey can never shake off. Study the private 
 history of a hundred such men, and we shall find that in ninety 
 cases a woman has accelerated the fall. So it was with Tom. 
 
 The morning was dull and mild 5 a heavy dew hung on the 
 hedges, and little globes of water, pure and clear as crystal, stood 
 on every turnip-top. The old uncle prophesied that it would be 
 very nasty riding in the deep woodlands this day, and thought Tom 
 was as well at home 3 but he wanted to see a friend or two before 
 he started for the race, and he left the house at nine as gay as a lark. 
 I was to spend the day and dine with the old man, and to while 
 away the time I took up my gun and strolled over his farm. But 
 the turnips were like a river, the birds were as wild as hawks, and 
 in an hour or two I came back with an empty bag. The old man 
 was a little nervous and fidgety the whole day 3 and old Sam did 
 not mend matters, for he went croaking about, abusing his old 
 master for buying horses which were fit for nobody to ride, and 
 prophesying that the new nag, which he hated the sight of, would 
 be the death of some one or other, before they had done with him. 
 There's more truth than we are aware of in the old saying, that 
 "coming events cast their shadows before 5" and the dulness of 
 this morning was a fitting prelude to the melancholy finish of the 
 day. Two o'clock came, without Tom making his appearance, and 
 after half an hour's grace we sat down to dinner without him. Just 
 before we sat down, however, a red-coat pulled up to tell us that 
 the hounds had found in Waverley Wood a ringing fox, who hung 
 about it the whole morning, and as he did not see much chance of 
 their getting him away, he had left them in the wood. Soon after 
 two more red-coats pulled up to tell us that the hounds had whipped 
 
 H 2 
 
100 My First Steeple -chaser, 
 
 off and gone to another small gorse about twelve miles distant. 
 They casually observed that they had seen Tom j that the new- 
 horse seemed to give him a good deal of trouble, and then they 
 rode off. Our dinner this day was a dullish affair, and it was not 
 till we had got fairly settled to our pipes that the old man began to 
 cheer up. He was just proposing to me that after this race, win or 
 lose, he would buy my share in the steeple-chaser, and settle, give 
 him to Tom, when a man, whom we both knew well, cantered up, 
 and, throwing himself out of the saddle, begged to see some of us 
 directly. We could tell by the expression of his face when he 
 entered the room that something was wrong. He was luckily a 
 man of few words, and did not keep us long in suspense by use- 
 less preface j he said a bad accident had happened to Tom 3 his 
 norse had fallen at a flight of rails and broken his back j Tom had 
 been picked up insensible, and was now lying at a farm-lodge, 
 which was luckily close to where he fell, and that we had better 
 run over to him as soon as possible. It did not take us much time 
 to get ready, and, although the lodge was about eight miles distant, 
 we reached it well within the hour. I hardly think we exchanged 
 twenty sentences during the whole of that ride j and the only 
 observation the old man kept making aloud to himself was, 
 *^ Strange that they should have taken him in there ^ And strange, 
 indeed, it was, for the accident had happened close to the lodge 
 where the old gentleman lived whom I had noticed at the steeple- 
 chase with his daughter, and Tom's lifeless body had been carried 
 into the very house in which he had so strictly been forbidden evei 
 to enter while alive. His horse had rushed at a small flii^ht ol 
 rails leading out of this very farm into a lane which ran in front of 
 the house j they both rolled into the ditch beyond 3 the horse broke 
 his neck, and poor Tom, who fell under him, was dragged out on 
 to the bank a corpse ! (Strange, I have seen three fatal accidents in 
 the hunting field, and every one of them has been at a small fence 
 which the rider has taken carelessly and heedlessly, when the 
 hounds were not running, but going from one covert to another.) 
 They placed the body on a gate, and carried it up to the house. 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, loj 
 
 The girl, who might have been Tom's wife, stood at the window 
 and saw him fall, and the stern old father met them at the door 
 with their lifeless burden. 
 
 No time now for any display of passionate feelings. The faults 
 of the dead man were all forgotten in his sudden and violent death, 
 and the old man, with a faltering voice, bade them carry the body 
 upstairs, and hurried back into the parlour to endeavour to console 
 his only daughter, but wdth a heart nearly as heavy as her own. 
 What his feelings were at this moment it would be hard to say. 
 Did his thoughts recur to that fearful passionate scene, when with a 
 dreadful oath he bade the young man leave his house, and prayed 
 that God would strike his daughter dead before his very face, sooner 
 than see her become the wnfe of a man whom he designated as a 
 reprobate and an outcast ? Did he think of all the bitter anguish, 
 of the many sorrowful days and nights which the poor girl had 
 suffered since that fearful oath was recorded ? Or did he feel that 
 now the fatal curse had come home to him ? His only daughter 
 lying on the sofa insensible before him 3 the man upon whom her 
 sole affections w^ere placed, a corpse in the room above his head ; 
 himself a pow^erless, sorrows-stricken, grey-haired old man, w^ho 
 had tried to measure his strength, as it w^ere, against the Almighty 
 One^ and had failed. But we will draw the veil over this sad 
 scene. 
 
 As the old uncle and myself galloped up to the door, the groom 
 who took our horses whispered to us that Tom was dead, and, as 
 the old father met us in the passage, he grasped our hands, and led 
 us upstairs without saying a word. On a bed, in the best room, lay 
 poor Tom, just as he had fallen. His death had been instantaneous, 
 and, apparently, painless ; at least the expression of his features was 
 unaltered, and his face wore the same determined look of resolution 
 which so well became it when living. A little blood had oozed 
 from his nose and mouth, but this had been carefully wiped away j 
 and no one who gazed upon that calm and quiet face, could have 
 guessed that he had died by a violent death some tw^o hours before. 
 Tt was painful to watch the countenances of the two old men as they 
 
102 My I'irst Steeple-chaser. 
 
 stood in silence by that bedside, and more painful still to think what 
 feelings were working in their breasts at that solemn moment. It 
 was a relief to leave the chamber of death, and go down into the 
 parlour. The daughter had been carried to her bed-room in a 
 swoon, and the little parlour was filled with men who had seen the 
 accident, and who had stopped at the lodge till our arrival. From 
 them we learnt the full particulars. The old uncle was now 
 anxious to get home and make arrangements about the removal of 
 the body. So, after leaving particular instructions for them to cut 
 off a hoof of the horse before they buried him, we rode home. 
 There was but little outward exhibition of grief during the whole 
 of this sad scene — the principal actors in it were made of sterner 
 stuff than to show the sorrow which struck inwardly, but deeply, 
 into their breasts ; and as for the poor girl, she lay, during the 
 whole time, happily unconscious of all that was taking place around 
 her. 
 
 What was to be done about the steeple-chase now that poor Tom 
 was killed ? Of course the old uncle could not go down to the 
 meeting j but the horse was there, heavily backed by many of his 
 friends. And when the old man asked the company in the parlour 
 how he should act, the unanimous reply " Just as if Tom was alive," 
 decided him, and at ten o'clock the Vet. and myself took our places 
 in the night-coach to go down to Bideford, engage another jockey, 
 run the horse, and do our best to win. 
 
 "We reached London by twelve o'clock next day, and Bideford 
 by the Tuesday morning. The journey was a dreary one, far diffe- 
 rent from what we had expected it would be. Just before starting 
 I went up into Tom's room for the jacket and cap , but I had 
 not the heart to take down the two little rosettes which hung up 
 over them, now that he who had so fondly cherished these valued 
 remembrances would never see them again. 
 
 The coach was filled, outside and in, with steeple-chase riders 
 and betting-men, and the conversation the whole way down was 
 slangy and turfy When we entered the little town of Bideford 
 the place was in a bustle, and as we pulled up at the Woolpack in 
 
My First Steeple-chaser. 103 
 
 the market-square (the principal sporting inn), the coach-office and 
 the steps outside were thronged with a group of knowing sporting- 
 looking characters of every grade and description. Our horse was 
 standing at this inn stables, attended by the lad who had brought 
 him down, who was anxiously waiting our arrival. Great was the 
 lad's distress when he saw only two of our party alight from the coach, 
 and greater still when he heard of poor Tom's sad accident, for he 
 had backed the old horse up to nearly the whole of his year's 
 wages, more on the strength of Tom's jockeyship than anything 
 else. His spirits sank within him when he heard that we had 
 come down to seek a strange jockey in a strange town, where, 
 as the lad said, they did not speak even in the same language 
 as ourselves. However, the first thing was to see after lodgings, 
 and then try and engage a jockey for the morrow. As I picked my 
 way to the bar through a crowd of sporting-men to engage beds 
 for the night, " our Jem," as neatly go t-up and looking as hand- 
 some as ever, was chaffing the pretty barmaid on the very same 
 subject. She was trying to persuade him that for one night he 
 must put up with the inconvenience of a double bed with a friend. 
 To which Jem strongly objected, adding something in an undertone 
 to the girl, which caused her to laugh heartily and turn away 
 quickly (evidently, however, not displeased), under pretence of 
 serving some other customer. I was quite prepared for her reply 
 of " all engaged," when I asked if I codd procure beds for myself 
 and the Vet. ; but I thought she need not have regarded us quite 
 so contemptuously as she did, although we might both look a little 
 travel-soiled and seedy after our twenty-four hours' journey 
 outside a night coach. She treated us, however, very differently 
 next day, when the race was over — ^but not to anticipate. We 
 considered ourselves lucky in procuring the loan of a bed-room for 
 half-an-hour to put ourselves a little straight, and to this we at once 
 retired — my friend, the Vet., anxious to arange a toilette with 
 which he was bent upon astonishing the good people of Bideford, 
 and the sporting part of the community in particular. And it 
 certainly was a magnificent '^ get-up," built expressly for the 
 
104 ^y Fir^t Steeple-chaser, 
 
 occasion, of which none of us had the least idea. A bright-green, 
 long-waisted cutaway, with gilt buttons as big as half-crown 
 pieces, a very staring red plaid waistcoat in the long -approved 
 grooms' style, a pair of bran new white cords and mahogany tops, 
 a yellow belcher neckerchief, and new white hat, which he had 
 decorated in London with a black crape band out of respect to poor 
 Tom, completed a costume which would have shone brilliantly at a 
 country fair. But when I noticed how his clothes hung about 
 him, as if they had been thrown on with a pitchfork, and looked 
 at his broad freckled face, sandy hair and whiskers, and brown, 
 gloveless hands, I fairly groaned in spirit when I reflected that I 
 should have to be leader to such a bear among men who of all 
 others, perhaps, aim at a neat and quiet costume. There was, 
 however, no help for it now, so I just made the best of it, and 
 affected not to hear the remarks which greeted us as we made our 
 appearance again in the passage before the bar. " Halloa, Jennings !'* 
 asked one man ; " whose colours are bright green and tartan ?" 
 " Why, the gentleman has made a mistake, the race does not come 
 off tiU to-morrow," added another. "Devilish neat style of tiling, 
 and by no manes gaudy," drawled out the prince of the Irish 
 steeple-chase jockeys to a friend, as he eyed the burly figure of the 
 Vet. from top to toe. Such were among some of the compliments 
 which fell on my ear. But when I heard one fellow whisper to 
 another " It's the other one's the jockey -, him in the green coat's a 
 rich Yorkshire fiirmer, owner of that lame brown horse standing in 
 No. 10," I took my cue directly, and determined to play second 
 fiddle myself, leaving to the Vet. all the arrangements of what 
 promised to be rather an intricate affair. He was immensely 
 gratified when I told him this, and it was quite pleasing to hear 
 him order an ostler to send to him directly the lad who looked 
 after tho, Hrown horse in No. lo, and to watch the deferential 
 manner in which the man obeyed him. The old horse seemed to 
 know him again as soon as he entered the box, and testified by a 
 faint neigh his pleasure at seeing him ; but there was evidently one 
 other he missed out of the little group, and that was his favourite 
 
My First Steeple -chaser, 105 
 
 jockey who had so often steered him to victory, for, after we had 
 carefully locked the door and began to strip him, the old fellow 
 kept turning his head every now and then in that direction, as 
 though he expected to see it open every minute and poor Tom walk 
 in. However much he might be out of place in the crowd that 
 thronged the bar-passage, the Vet. was " all there" in that loose 
 box, as he threw oiF the "bright-green cutaway," and proceeded 
 carefully to examine the horse. More than a dozen times was his 
 hand slowly passed down that treacherous hind leg, and severe was 
 the cross-examination which the lad underwent as to how the horse 
 fed, how he galloped, &c. The examination was apparently satis- 
 fa'ltory, for, after he had given some directions about fresh bandages, 
 al. J to have the horse ready for gentle exercise at three in the after- 
 noon on the race-course, he remarked, on leaving the stable, " If 
 we had but poor Tom here to ride him, we should be very near 
 pulling through." 
 
 When we returned to the inn to lunch we were regarded as 
 objects of curiosity by the assembled crowd. Our horse had been 
 standing there for three days, and beyond his being the property of 
 a midland farmer, and that a country jock was coming down 
 expressly to ride him, nothing was known about him. Nothing 
 could be got out of the lad who looked after him — he was too well 
 tutored. The idea of sending a lame horse (for he was most 
 decidedly a little lame, although it was hardly perceptible) to run 
 for such a stake and in such company, added to the mystery, which 
 was in no degree lessened by the countryfied appearance of his 
 owner and jockey, as we were taken to be. 
 
 When we sat down to lunch, however, a little of the mystery 
 was cleared up, for one or two jockeys had now arrived who had seen 
 the horse run in Warwickshire j and it was whispered about that 
 notwithstanding all his lameness, he would prove to be a very dan- 
 gerous outsider. But the strangest thing was nobody had yet 
 seen his old jockey. It was well known that the man who rode 
 him in Warwickshire was always in the habit of riding him, and 
 Tom was personally known to man^' of the jockevs^ which we were 
 
io5 My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 not. It is true I knew every professional jockey in that room by 
 sight, and many to speak or nod to, but I was not on what might be 
 called friendly terms with any one of them 5 and as not one of them 
 was likely yet to have heard of Tom's accident, I did not care to 
 tell how it was that we had come down alone and had not even yet 
 engaged a jockey to ride the horse. I knew very well that all the 
 crack jockeys were sure to be taken up, and moreover I did not 
 fancy that any one of them would care for such a mount as this, 
 unless to suit some purpose of his own. But where were we to 
 find a jockey at the eleventh hour, in a distant town, where we 
 scarcely knew a soul to speak to ? This was the question which 
 spoilt my lunch. The Vet., of course, was out of the question, for 
 I suppose he walked fourteen stone. There was but myself and the 
 stable lad. Now I certainly could hold my own across country, and 
 had even once ridden in the Findon race, where, as an old York- 
 shire trainer observed, *'I made a very poor tew of itj" and I did 
 not therefore much fancy measuring lances with such men as Oliver, 
 Mason, and some others whom I saw taking lunch with us, and 
 chaffing each other across the table with that quiet, self-satisfied air 
 which proved that they were perfectly at home here, and that the 
 coming event to which I was so nervously looking forward was an 
 every-day matter to them. I did not see one of the " Lincolnshire 
 division" present, or I might have found a friend. It is true that 
 both *^01d Peter" and Gaylad were expected to run, but they 
 had long since passed into other hands than those who bred them, 
 and Lincolnshire knew them no more. As to the stable-lad, he had 
 never ridden a steeple-chase in his life. Besides, he was probably 
 three stone too light. Moreover, as he told me afterwards, he 
 had come down to look after, not to ride, the horse, and he did not 
 know how Mr. Snaffle might take it if he got the mount. That 
 worthy had sent word down that he would be there on the morning 
 of the race, if possible j but as he placed implicit reliance on the 
 lad to see after the horse, and of course concluded that Tom 
 would be there to ride him, he gave the matter very little further 
 tliought, and it was hardly likely that he would leave his business 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 107 
 
 and come down so far to see a horse run in which he had only a 
 temporary interest. 
 
 How different were my feehngs on the afternoon when I rode 
 into Findon before that steeple-chase, to what they were on the 
 present occasion ! Then, every second man I met was a friend. I 
 knew our horse would be properly and fairly ridden, and we were 
 all of us very confident in his success. But now, we were in a 
 strange country without a friend. It wanted but twenty-four hours 
 to the race, and we had not even engaged a jockey for the horse. 
 Poor Tom's recent death sat heavily on my mind, and if it had not 
 been that others at home were anxiously waiting for the result of the 
 old horse's performance, I declare I would have sent him back that 
 afternoon by the lad, and left the town by the night coach, without 
 even staying to see the race in which, strange to say, I had now lost 
 all interest. The Vet., bold as he might be at home, was a very different 
 man here 3 and I could plainly see, notwithstanding the brightness 
 of the new green coat, he sat very ill at ease at that table, among 
 men whose deeds of daring he had so often seen recorded in the 
 Life, and whose chaff and inuendoes he could plainly see were 
 covertly directed against himself. He was by no means desti- 
 tute of pluck, and had proved himself an awkward customer on 
 more than one occasion ; and as I saw that he was burning to get 
 into a row with some one, I was right glad when lunch was over, 
 and he proposed a stroll through the old town to buy a new ash 
 stick. I thought this would be a good opportunity of getting the 
 correct weight of the lad and myself, and as we passed a butcher's 
 shop, at the door of which a very jovial, good-humoured looking 
 man was standing, I asked him if we might just step into his scales. 
 The request was at once granted, and after we had got our weights, 
 the butcher, who was evidently a sporting man, civilly asked us into 
 his little back parlour, to have a glass of ale, and on following him 
 in we saw two other men sitting there smoking their cigars, evidently 
 talking over the coming race. One was a fat, jolly-looking fellow, 
 apparently a country farmer j the other was the very counterpart of 
 poor Tom, save that his hair and whiskers were sandy, and his face 
 
io8 My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 pock-marked and freckled. His clothes fitted him as tight as if he 
 had grown in them. Coat, waistcoat, and trousers were cut in the 
 approved sporting style, back-stitched, double-stitched, and strapped. 
 It seemed as if nothing could tear them ; and upon the Vet., who 
 was by no means shy, requesting if he might feel the thickness of 
 those fine trousers, and remarking upon the apparent excellence of 
 the quality, the man good-humouredly remarked, "You're in the 
 west of England now!" His low-crowned hat and a formidable 
 cutting whip lay on the table, and I felt certain, at first sight, that 
 the man was a jockey. The whole performance of weighing had 
 been watched from the back parlour by these two men through the 
 little window which commanded the shop, and they were now 
 eager to get at the bottom of what they began to consider a mystery. 
 They soon told us all they knew about the coming race, how many 
 horses were likely to start, who would ride them j and in the course 
 of conversation, the brown screw came upon the carpet, but about 
 him they were' quite in the dark 5 they had all seen him, and 
 watched him at exercise j knew that he had come from a distance, 
 and as they could well see that his slight lameness was of old 
 standing, they naturally thought that he would not have been sent 
 so far, if it was hkely to interfere much with his going. Great was 
 ;he jolly butcher's surprise when I told him this was our horse, that 
 we had no jockey for him, and that I had come into his shop 
 casually to weigh, in case the forlorn hope of steering him should 
 fall to my lot. Words can hardly express my delight when I heard 
 him remark, "This mount would just suit you, Jem j" and when 
 the young man replied, "I should very much like it," I felt as if 
 luck had turned right in our favour. It is true, I knew nothing of 
 either men, but I felt relieved of an immense responsibility. Any- 
 how, Jem could hardly be a worse jockey than myself. There was 
 something honest and straightforward about both men -, and the 
 very fact of their being ensconced in that little back parlour, instead 
 of joining the noisy crowd which were assembled at the Woolpack, 
 proved that, like ourselves, they were outsiders. We soon learnt 
 lem's history. He was indeed a second Tom — a farmer, living 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 109 
 
 about ten miles from the town, a capital rider, had hgured in one 
 or two previous steeple-chases on this course, but never in a crack 
 one, and had come down to Bideford on this occasion expressly on 
 the off chance of getting a mount. 
 
 He gave the old horse a rattling spin for half a mile on the race- 
 course in the afternoon, and his remark of "he'll do," as he got off 
 him, satisfied me that there was no mistake about our new jockey. 
 The jolly butcher himself was bursting with importance. Such a 
 strange thing to happen in his little back parlour j it seemed just as 
 if it was to be ! And although we all agreed to keep the thing as 
 dark as possible till next morning, he could not help confiding the 
 secret to a few friends, and when I went into the long room at the 
 Woolpack in the evening, I heard "What'll any one lay a^ira 
 jFfarcules ?" and observed two or three men quietly booking the 
 long odds against the old horse, who could hardly be said to have 
 come into the betting. The Vet. and myself walked over part of 
 the steeple-chase course that afternoon j there was not a fence in it 
 to compare with Findon, but as the country was pretty heavy, we 
 fancied it would suit our old horse, whose forte was in deep ground j 
 but then the same remark would apply to some other of the cracks, 
 especially "old Peter," who was a familiar acquaintance, and we 
 were far from confident about the result of the race. We got beds 
 at the civil butcher's, and, as all anxiety was now off my mind, I 
 slept well that night. 
 
 About eight next morning we sat down to certainly the most 
 substantial breakfast I ever saw. Of course the chops and kidneys 
 were perfection — we were in the right shop for them ; but I cer- 
 tainly never expected to taste such ale — for we all fancied the 
 Findon tap was not to be equalled in England. All were in high 
 spirits. Jem had tried on the blue-and-white jacket and cap, and 
 liked the colours. The Vet. had been about the horse ever since 
 five, and his broad, good-humoured Yorkshire face beamed with 
 dehght as he entered the little room and saw a breakfast laid out, to 
 which he was quite prepared to do ample justice. The jolly butcher 
 and myself had become very friendly. He was a little bit of 
 
no My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 screw dealer himself, but his hne lay among the trotters, and he had 
 taken me into his stable to show me three nags, either of which, he 
 declared, coiild trot the two miles under the six minutes ; and when 
 I told him I fancied I had one at home who could beat either of 
 them, he swore that he would travel all the way to Findon to see 
 her, which he did. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, as mild as May, and the sun shone 
 brightly out of an unclouded sky j the jackdaws were cawing high 
 in air round the old church tower, whose bells were ringing out a 
 cheery peel, and over whose battlements floated " the red-white-and 
 blue," in honour of this day. The steeple-chase was evidently a 
 gala-day in tlie old town of Bideford. A brass band paraded the 
 streets as on an election day. The county famiUes were flocking 
 into the town (for there was to be a grand ball in the evening), 
 well-mounted men on strong usefid hunters rode up the high street 
 towards the course, and the town was crowded with country people, 
 who had come miles to see the race. All was in a bustle. Every 
 one you met seemed full of importance 5 but it was easy to distin- 
 guish who were the real actors in the play about to be performed. 
 The race was fixed for two ; the horses were to saddle in the inn- 
 yard, parade through the market-place, and then proceed to the 
 racecourse, where the start was, about a mile out of the town. It was 
 a pretty and a national sight to see eleven of the best steeple-horses 
 in England, ridden by the crack jockeys of the day, meet in that 
 market-place ; and old Hercules, with his new jockey on his back, 
 walked every bit as proudly through the crowd as the best of them. 
 They were marshalled to the racecourse by the clerk of the course, 
 in a bran new pink and leathers, and the whole affair was very well 
 arranged. The racecourse was very prettily situate, and from the 
 top of the grand stand the eye wandered over a wide tract of cham- 
 paign country, with very httle plough, through which the silvery Wye 
 wound its placid course, while the dim blue outhne of the Welsh 
 mountains could be distinctly traced in the distant horizon. Nearly 
 the whole of the steeple-chase course, dotted out with white flags, 
 could be seen from the standi and though there were as many 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, iij 
 
 fences as at Findon, and a fair brook twice, the fences were of a 
 very different description j there was much more grass than I had 
 expected, and I was fearful tliat some hght- weighted thorough-bred 
 (for tlie days of handicapping had just commenced in steeple-chas- 
 ing) would gaUop away from the rest, for this course was just suited 
 to such a horse. 
 
 I paid my half sov. and took a place on the stand 3 but not so 
 the Vet. — with his usual Yorkshire caution he stationed himself 
 at the brook, and invested his ten shillings, at twelve to one, as 
 the old horse came down to it pulling double. The start was very 
 pretty. The only orders Jem received were, to follow one or other 
 of the favourites — and these he obeyed to the letter, never leading 
 himself, but sticking to the leaders as close as wax. It was a ver}^ 
 fast run race ; and at a mile from home only seven horses were left 
 in it. These soon dwindled down to five, and only three of them 
 came up, with anything like a chance, to the large brushed hurdle 
 across the racecourse, the last fence in the race. But the blue-and- 
 white colours were there. They all three rose together at the 
 hurdles, and when they landed safely the struggle began. " Van- 
 guard wins !" "Peter wins!" "Hercules wins!" were shouted by 
 a thousand voices. Half way up the run in, however, the gameness 
 of the old horse told 3 he struggled manfully to the front, and as 
 they shot by the grand stand, close to which the winning flags were 
 placed, he was two lengths ahead, Jem hard at work with whip and 
 spurs, and the judge's fiat was — Hercules by three lengths. 
 
 What a curious thing is popular favour ! Here was a strange 
 horse, which but few on this course had backed for a shilling, and 
 which scarcely a dozen men knew, and yet a hundred cheers 
 greeted him and his jockey as they came back to scale 3 and a score 
 of burly-looking squires and country farmers slapped me on the 
 back, and shook me by the hand, as they congratulated me on the 
 old horse's success. There were very few there who knew how 
 little chance old Hercules stood of winning twenty-four hours 
 before ; and I met the good old butcher with a thoroughly cordial 
 handshake below the stand, for without him the race would pro- 
 
£ 1 2 My First Steeple-chaser. 
 
 bably never have been ours. The Vet. was in a high state of 
 excitement, and his bright-green coat and white hat could be seen 
 strugghng through the thickest of the crowd to get up to the horse's 
 head 3 and he eyed tlie curious gazers with a fierce glance as they 
 crowded round the winner, and pertinently asked them, "What 
 they thought of the lame horse now ?" 
 
 It was singular that on this very afternoon they buried poor Tom, 
 and as the shouts at the success of his old favourite were rending 
 the air on that racecourse, the solemn, measured knell of the passing 
 bell from a quiet little village church, nearly 300 miles distant, tolled 
 the last requiem of one who, a short week before, had fondly hoped 
 that those cheers would have been lavished on himself instead of a 
 stranger. 
 
 Of course we attended the race ordinary at the Woolpack. The 
 chair was taken by one of the head men in the county, the dinner 
 was excellent, and all passed off capitally. We had lots of health- 
 drinking and speechifying. The Vet. broke down in returning 
 thanks to the winner, but came again further on in the evening and 
 astonished the company with a tremendous Yorkshire hunting song, 
 which was loudly applauded, and which I was very fearful would 
 be encored. The owner of the second horse, who had already been 
 beaten in Warwickshire by Tom, declared that the old horse had 
 won that day upon his merits, and that he always feared him, 
 although he did not say so. Not much money was lost. Our 
 horse was a good one for the bookmakers. The old butcher and 
 his friends stood well on him. I had not backed him for a shilling ; 
 but the Vet. had managed to win fifty pounds, and as a good deal 
 of it was in pounds and fivers, it took him some trouble to collect. 
 But he carried away with him a trophy from Bideford, which he 
 valued even more than all the money, and this was a large roll of 
 the celebrated west of England drab, the identical stuff from which 
 Jem's trousers were built. He had ingratiated himself much in the 
 good butcher's favour, who gave him the cloth in return for the 
 receipt of the noted " inflammable iles." 
 
 The stakes were paid over to us next moining. We gave Jem a 
 
My First Steeple-chaser, 113 
 
 very good present for his excellent riding, and 10/. to the lad for 
 having so manfully stuck to the old horse throughout. Just before 
 we left, the pretty barmaid presented me with two grand blue-and- 
 white rosettes to decorate old " Hercules' s " head, declaring that 
 these were her favourite colours — a pretty good hint, as my friend 
 the butcher observed, that she would hke a silk dress of the same. 
 And as I thought that in all probability we should never see the old 
 town again — certainly never take away so much out of it — I went 
 out and bought her the richest blue silk piece that I could find j 
 and I'll do her the justice to say, that I felt certain she would well 
 become it. 
 
 About an hour before we left, old Hercules was led out of the 
 town in triumph. We had a parting bottle of champagne with the 
 civil butcher and Jem, without whose aid we should have left 
 Bideford "'unhonoured and unknown," and after promising Jem 
 that he should have the mount if our horse went for any other good 
 race while I had anything to do with him, we mounted the outside 
 of tlie up-coach, and left Bideford in very different spirits to those 
 in which we had entered the old town. 
 
 There were no telegraphs down to our remote county in those 
 days 3 and as we lost no time on our journey, we had the pleasure of 
 bringing the news of the old horse's victory home ourselves. Her- 
 cules came back from his training-quarters as soon as he got home,, 
 and I took him to meet the hounds a few days after (my first mounts 
 by the way, on a horse which I had now owned about eighteen 
 months), to receive the congratulations of his friends. We ran 
 him for one more steeple-chase in our county, with the odds of ten 
 to one on him 3 but the hawbuck of a country jockey who rode him 
 managed to go on the wrong side of a flag, and lost us the race* 
 We were all of opinion that he sold us. 
 
 My old friend became quite an altered man after poor Tom's 
 death 5 he had lost his right hand, as it were, and he cared little 
 now to bring a horse to the post under the pilotage of a jockey whom 
 he could not trust. Grief shows itself in various forms, but the old 
 man's sorrow took a very disagreeable one 3 he became ill-natured 
 
114 ^y First Steeple-chaser, 
 
 and snappish, and could scarcely bear a word to be spoken to him, 
 and old Sam and the lads had a weary time of it. I have no doubt 
 Tom's death affected him deeply, for he had the hoof of the horse 
 that killed him mounted in silver, which, with the whip and 
 spurs he used in l>Is last race, together with the little Findon 
 cockades, hung up ever after over his mantelpiece till he died. The 
 Vet., moreover, took to bad ways 3 to use a favourite phrase of his 
 own, he could not " carry corn 5" the little money he had won 
 during his connexion with the old horse, and the excitement of the 
 racecourse, upset him, and he took to company and drinking. He 
 still, however, stuck to his favourite "inflammable iles," and one 
 night a tremendous explosion was heard in his little back shop, and 
 when the neighbours rushed in he was found lying insensible on the 
 floor, with a candlestick grasped tightly in his hand, and a two- 
 gallon jar, which had doubtless contained some dangerous ingre- 
 dient or other used by him in his mysterious mixtures, shattered into 
 a thousand pieces at his feet. The window of the little room was 
 blown out, and every jar and bottle on his shelves broken. He 
 never recovered that smash. My share in the horse I sold to my 
 old friend, who kept him through the summer without once running 
 him, and sold him again for a hunter the next season. The old 
 gentleman died shortly after — it was quite clear that his silent but 
 deep-rooted grief wore him out 3 and his little farm and stables 
 passed into other hands. The poor girl, who should have been 
 Tom's wife, never looked up after the sad accident ; she lingered 
 on through the winter, but the next spring saw another little head- 
 stone in the village churchyard, not far from where Tom lay, and 
 the simple initials, "J. H., aetat. 25," was alltliat told the sad his- 
 ♦/9iy of many years' patient suflfering. 
 
"5 
 
 THE TROTTER. 
 
 ** Oh ! he's such a one to bend his knee and tuck his haunches in, 
 And to throw the dirt in flats' eyes, he never thinks a sin." — Old Song. 
 
 "If there is one thing I hen du,'' a Yankee captain once drawled 
 out to me, "it is, sing our almighty national song, 'Yankee 
 Doodle 3' " and if there was one thing I flattered myself, when a 
 young' un, I could du better than anything else, it was, sing the 
 then popular (at least among my set) song of "The Trotting 
 Horse," two lines of which head this chapter 3 and the way I learnt 
 it is worth telling. I took my singing lessons on the coach-box, by 
 the side of one of the patriarchs of the road, when a journey to 
 London from our remote parts occupied the whole day, thus 
 affording me ample time to practise my singing lessons — my pre- 
 ceptor being a Jehu of the true old school, and after his fashion the 
 neatest dandy on our road. The old boy had once possessed a 
 beautifiil voice, now, however, grown rather husky through age 
 and constant exposure to the weather. StiU there were few to 
 beat him at this song ; and when the chairman at the little " free 
 and easies " which the members of his craft were wont to hold on 
 the Wednesday evening at the old Magpie and Stump, gave the 
 order — " Attention, gentlemen ; Mr. Jarvis will oblige us with the 
 'Trotting Horse,' " the applause was, to use a popular phrase, 
 "unbounded." Unlike many selfish men, who, if they possess a 
 better knowledge of anything than their fellows, or a secret of any 
 kind, are only desirous of carrying it with them to the grave, nothing 
 seemed to give this old man greater pleasure than to find that I 
 improved under his tuition. He even tried to get me up in " A 
 southerly wind and a cloudy sky 3" but, according to his quaint 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 T/ie 'Trotter, 
 
 phraseology, I could never " come the dog language right," and he 
 gave up the task in despair. 
 
 Poor old boy ! I dare say he has dropped off his perch this many 
 a year since. The box which he last mounted when alive was a 
 melancholy one to him, for the old Regulator was driven off the 
 road by the rail, and the last time I spied my quondam tutor he 
 was perched on the box of a 'bus near the Mansion House. " Bank, 
 Paddington — jump in, sir," shouted the cad. There was room on 
 the box, so I clambered up, and was by the old man's side before 
 he recognised me. I made four journeys over the stones that day 
 alongside the veteran, who was still as great a swell as ever, although 
 a shade seedier than when last I saw him ; and we agreed at night 
 to look in at the old Magpie and Stump for the last time. 
 
 My old tutor's name was Jarvis — Frank Jarvis — but he was known 
 at that day all down the road as old Joliffe, on account of the pecu- 
 liar boat-shape build of his hat j and a neater, cleaner, little old man 
 never mounted the box. Although I always style him the old man, 
 he was not so very old, but he had one of those faces which always 
 look old and thoughtful, and never guide one as to the age of the 
 man j and men considerably older tlian himself, when alluding to 
 him, always used the term " old," although, perhaps, they would 
 have repudiated it themselves. He was invariably scrupulously clean 
 and neat in his dress, and his manners might have gained him ad^ 
 mission into the B. D. C. His clothes were always of the same cut 
 and pattern, only the style varied a trifle with the seasons. The 
 neat, hard, close-napped Joliffe was white in the summer, black in 
 the winter (the former he generally managed to win on the Derby,, 
 the latter on the Leger). The neckcloth at all seasons was spotless 
 white, as pure as snow. A long brown Newmarket coat, very wide-- 
 in the skirt, and with pockets very low down, reached to his "hocks," 
 as he would have termed themj and a long striped black-and« 
 white stuff waistcoat came down below his hip bones. His breeches, 
 were always the same, light drab kerseys 3 and the neatest, best- 
 fitting pair of brown top-boots — the creases of which natty little 
 Arthur Pavis himself might have envied, but which in winter he 
 
^he 1 rotter, 117 
 
 encased in fustian overhauls — completed the attire of one of the 
 neatest-dressed, most obliging, and gentlemanly old coachmen of 
 his day in England. When his well-shaped buckskin glove was off, 
 a plain black and gold mourning ring gave an aristocratic finish to 
 .a hand as clean, as white, and as well-shaped as a lady's. 
 
 I never heard his early history, nor did anyone in our part know 
 it, but I gathered from occasional slips in his conversation that he 
 was born to fill a higher station than the box of a coach 3 and his 
 manners, with all the true genuine poHsh of the old school — and 
 two or three exquisite Httle studies of hounds, and one favourite 
 hunter, done in oils, which graced the walls of his little parlour — all 
 bespoke the fact. 
 
 He had come down to our little town from London some ten 
 years previously, and started the old ^^ Regulator" on his own 
 account. He drove the whole journey up and down himself, on 
 each alternate day j and as " three wheels and the hind boot of the 
 coach *' belonged to him, and as he was an accommodating ola 
 fellow, wiUing to obhge anyone, and a great favourite with all the 
 gentry and farmers round us, his coach was always fuU j and it was 
 wonderful to witness what a miscellaneous freight the old Regulator 
 used to carry. 
 
 She was truly and Hterally speaking a family coach. Anxious 
 mothers would trust their children up and down to school with old 
 Johffe, and feel quite satisfied that the old man would treat them 
 as a father ^ and jolly country farmers would hand over their wives 
 and daughters to his charge with every confidence that they would 
 be well looked after on their journey. The jovial squire would 
 stop the coach himself at the park gates with, "Well, Frank, you 
 have not forgotten that little bit of fish j" and the pretty barmaid 
 of the Cross Keys would exclaim with her sweetest smile, as he 
 handed over to her across the bar counter a mysterious-looking brown 
 paper parcel (not, however, a crinoline then), " AVell, now, that is 
 kind of you," and bustle away to fill him a glass of the best pale 
 sherry, the only liquor the old boy ever tasted. Everybody on the 
 road seemed to know him, ^nd everybody respected him. This sort 
 
ii8 The Trotter. 
 
 of thing has all gone by now ; but I dare say many of my readers 
 can remember the day when one solitary coach drove up three 
 times a week to London from tlie neighbourhood, and there was no 
 way of getting any commission done in town save through the 
 coachman. What an important personage that coachman used to 
 be, and what a general favourite he was with all ! 
 
 Accommodating, however^ as she might be, and useful as a 
 luggage van, the old Regulator still had her faults ; and perhaps the 
 one which would have been looked upon as the greatest in this go- 
 ahead age was tliat she was always behind her time. In the 
 winter, no one could tell at what hour she might come in 5 
 and if I happened to go down to the booking-office at seven (she 
 was due at six), I hardly cared to ask if the Regulator was in, but 
 my commonplace question as to what time do you expect her to- 
 night was always met by the same stereotyped answer, " Impossible 
 to say, sir." 
 
 And this may be accounted for in many ways. In the first 
 place, she was a hea\y coach in every sense of the word, and over 
 her best ground was never timed at more than eight miles in the 
 hour. Moreover, her old driver had many little private ventures of 
 his own, and had often to pull up by the roadside three or four 
 times in one stage, to transact a little business on his own account. 
 He was a kind of country general dealer, and nothing which he 
 could by any possibility stow away in the old drag came amiss to 
 him. I have known him buy a plough which was standing at a 
 blacksmith's shop by the roadside. It was hoisted on to the roof of 
 the coach and carried twenty miles down the road to an old friend of 
 his, who had long been looking out for such a pattern. I believe we 
 should have had a pair of harrows also, but to find room for them 
 beat even the old boy. He did fancy he could lash them on under 
 the coach, if he only had time. As for live stock, this coach often 
 resembled a menagerie on wheels—geese, poidtry, pigeons, nothing 
 came amiss. In fact, there was not an article in general use which, 
 to use a phrase of his own, he did not know '^ where to plant if he 
 could only buy it right." He was fond of asking your opinion as 
 
ne T^r otter, 119 
 
 to what you thought of his purchases 3 and now and then, if I 
 happened " to beggar my looks, and hint something not very com- 
 pHmentary," he always had his answer ready, "Well, I dare say I 
 was a fool to buy it 5 but I think I know a bigger fool to whom I 
 think I can sell it again." He did not, however, confine his little 
 speculations alone to such things as he could carry on his coach. If 
 he by a chance saw a promising colt or a likely-looking heifer 
 grazing by the road side, he never forgot it, and if it was for sale he 
 generally, sooner or later, managed to find a customer for it. Many 
 a time have I known him pall up at the gate of a field by the 
 roadside, hand me over the ribbons, and leisurely walk down the field 
 to inspect some animal or other he fancied would suit him. We 
 never passed through a toll-bar but some rough rider was waiting 
 to show him a raw colt, some farmer to talk to him about a 
 bullock, or some old woman with a basket of geese, poultry, or 
 eggs. He was a great horse dealer in a small way 5 and as he 
 worked best part of the ground himself, was always shoving 
 some new purchase or other into the team, which certainly had 
 no business there. He was always chopping out and in 5 and 
 not a team on. tlie whole journey, except the first two and the 
 two last, could be said to be properly matched. In vain did strange 
 passengers grumble at all this (as for his regular passengers, we all 
 knew the old man's little foibles too well ever to say a word) 3 he 
 was incorrigible, and this I think the reader will admit, when I 
 mention two circumstances which fell under my own observation. 
 We were coming up one day after a large Midland fair, and for 
 half the journey, when we had a team which he dare trust in my 
 hands, the old boy gave me the reins while he got inside to have a 
 little bit of loo with three horse-dealing friends. And on another 
 occasion, when some leather plating stakes were being run for in a 
 park which we had to pass by, he coolly drew his coach into the 
 park, saw one race run, then drove out again, and resumed his 
 journey. 
 
 There was a standing joke against him, that he once bought 
 three live pigs somewhere down the road, shoved them into the 
 
I20 The Trotter, 
 
 hind boot (which, wonderful to say, was empty on this journey), and 
 sold them to a pork butcher near Islington. He dare hardly bring 
 them into London. Unfortunately, a little of the straw left in the 
 bottom of the boot told its own tale. I should never have known this 
 had I not been standing at tlie Peacock one evening about Christmas 
 to see the old man come up. He was, as usual, two hours behind his 
 time. A group of cads and rough fellows, whom we always see 
 hanging about such places, were gathered close to my elbow. 
 When the lamps of the old Regulator bore in sight, one of 
 the roughest of the lot was the first to notice it, and he 
 communicated the fact to his fellows in the following com- 
 plimentary sentence, growled out in a voice husky with gin and 
 London fog, '' Here comes the old Slow and Dirty. I wonder 
 whether old Boat Tiles got any more pigs up to-night !" 
 
 However, with all her faults, the old Regulator was a safe coach, 
 and, notwithstanding all the " bokickers " which helped to swell her 
 team, very little went wrong on the road. Moreover, she paid well j 
 and as most of her customers and passengers were regular ones, who 
 all knew and liked her old driver, if a complaint from an outsider 
 did reach head-quarters, it was taken very little notice of by the 
 coach-masters, who worked the old coach the two first stages out of 
 London. 
 
 Well, as I said before, it was on tlie box of this old coach that I 
 took my first lessons in singing, and, I may add, in driving also ; for 
 as soon as we were well clear of the place where we changed, it 
 generally used to be this : " Here, catch hold of 'em j we'U change 
 places now and have a little harmony." 
 
 Our first song, as soon as I got the horses well together, was the 
 *' Trotting Horse," and the driving and singing-lesson commenced 
 after this wise : '' Now, keep that off'-side leader well in hand." Old 
 Boy sings : ** I ride as good a trotting-horse." "There, don't you see 
 that near wheeler's doing all the work ?" — " as any man in town." 
 "Have you got that right?" "He'll trot you sixteen miles an 
 nour." "Keep that oft- wheeler up to his collar." "I'll bet a 
 hundred pound," and so on 3 and the " Trotting Horse " usually 
 
T!he I'rotter, 121 
 
 lasted us over the best part of the stage. The next on the pro- 
 gramme generally was, "A southerly wind and a cloudy sky," and 
 here the old man had the whole performance to himself, and many 
 a gaping rustic would leave off his work and stare at us in stupid 
 astonishment as we drove by him, the old man waving his whip in 
 all the ecstacies of " Have at him," " hi, wind him," " my steady 
 good hounds." I recollect one evening at tliis very part of the 
 performance we happened to meet the hounds coming home from 
 hunting. They turned down a by-lane into the turnpike. Just 
 as we drove by, a scream from the huntsman, which seemed 
 to rend the skies, caused the old bokicker to start and nearly 
 pull the reins out of my hands, and a poor old lady, who was 
 sitting just behind me, almost jumped off her seat as she screamed 
 out, "La', let me get down, I think you're all mad." We pulled 
 up, not, however, to let the old lady down, but to allow the old man 
 to give us one whole verse of the song ; and as he had now the 
 huntsman and two whips to help him find his fox he soon got away 
 with him, and the ratthng view-halloa which the second whip 
 hurled after us as we drove off, rings in my ears to this very day. 
 "There's dog music for you," exclaimed the old boy, in his seventh 
 heaven, as he waved his black JolifFe triumphantly. This was a 
 standing joke down our road for years after. 
 
 " Tom Moody" used to come next on our list, and here I was 
 allowed to join in chorus ; and there was something rather novel in 
 the way we used to get through " Harry Bluff" as a duet. The 
 old man's fund of songs appeared to be inexhaustible, and he never 
 seemed happy except when singing them. They were chiefly, 
 however, of the sporting order ^ and, except a few old national 
 English baUads, such as "The Death of Nelson," " Harry Bluff," 
 and a few others of that sort, he did not care much to sing any one 
 which had not a little dog language in it. 
 
 Thus the milestones were merrily passed, and thus our journeys 
 used merrily to roll on. Oh, those were happy days and happy 
 journeys, deny it who can ; and although we certainly did not get 
 over our ground quite so quickly as in these days of steam, we had 
 
122 '^he 'Trotter, 
 
 a deal more fun on our road ; and a drive on the old Regulator did 
 not wear the uniform monotony of railway travelling, for in those 
 days a journey up and down to London furnished us simple rustics 
 with incidents and matter to talk over for weeks after. 
 
 I was very young and very green when I took my first singing- 
 lessons, and at that time did not even possess a horse of my own j 
 it is true I had often been at the covert side on one of the old 
 carriage horses, and had been once or twice weU up on an old pony, 
 who had a perfectly marvellous knack of scrambhng and tlirusting 
 through places which no horse in the world could get over. But I 
 had never seen the hounds on anything like a real hunter. How- 
 ever, the lucky day came at length, and, through the kindness of 
 the old coachman, I became the fortunate possessor of a little flea- 
 bitten grey, w^all-eyed Irish mare, which the old man swore could 
 leap over anything on which she could lay her chin, and for whom, 
 as he emphatically concluded his little chaunt, no hounds were too 
 fast, no day too long, and no country too heavy ! 
 
 She was standing at a public-house by the roadside, and one 
 afternoon we pulled up the coach to look at her. She was brought 
 out into the yard by a bare-headed, coatless, rough-riding lad, who 
 looked after her. A gate was set up in the yard, over which the 
 boy rode her bare-backed three or four times, much to the satisfac- 
 tion of the old man and a group of assembled horsekeepers. This 
 only caused us a delay of some ten minutes, but that was nothing 
 on our road. However, it made about our tenth stoppage that day, 
 with which the business of the coach had not the slightest concern j 
 and some of the passengers were " exceeding wroth," for they could 
 see our whole performance from the coach. There was only one 
 objection to my buying the mare, or I would have done so at 
 once, and this was, I had no money. I knew where I could 
 borrow a lo/. note, but the price of the mare was 45/. On stating 
 this difficulty to the old man, he generously agreed to let me have 
 the mare on receipt of this 10/., when I got it, and to trust me for 
 the rest. 
 
 I was a nice weight then j and although I had, I fear, but little 
 
The trotter. 
 
 123 
 
 j udgmer. t, I rode with plenty of pluck ; and I su])pose this just 
 suited the hot Irish blood of my new purchase. I hunted her for 
 two months, and never was carried better in my life. I rode to 
 a leader, and this leader was one of the best men with the hounds, 
 though I did not at first know it, for I was a perfect stranger as yet 
 in that field. I well recollect that first run 3 we had as sharp a forty- 
 five minutes as I ever rode to ; and though I got three falls, I was 
 one of the nine who saw the fox pulled down. This was on the 
 Monday, and on the Saturday I was out again. I soon recognised 
 my leader, a hard-riding farmer, in a green coat, this day mounted 
 on a powerful black horse, with strength enough to carry a church. 
 As soon as we found I "at him again," and in a very merry burst 
 of twenty minutes, in which I only got one fall, he left me but a field 
 behind. On my third appearance he good-naturedly noticed me, 
 told me to stick to him as close as I could — he was not afraid of my 
 riding over him 3 and seeing I was but a young performer in 
 the saddle, he gave me a few hints as to riding at my fences. A 
 third good run, and the wall-eyed Irish mare again in a good place. 
 I rode home with the farmer to his house that night, where I slept, 
 and, through the instrumentality of the Irish mare, formed a friend- 
 ship which remained unbroken for years. I hunted her for two 
 months, when I had to leave the country. The last day we were 
 out the farmer bid me 60I. for the mare, which I took. The old 
 coachman and I shared the ''''boots," as he called it, and I may 
 reckon I got my first two months' hunting for nothing. But this 
 was not aU : I did not require to buy a horse the next season 3 with 
 tiie old coachman on one side of the country, and the hard-riding 
 farmer on the other, I had a mount whenever I wanted it. I don't 
 say I got the pick of the stud j but, as I was riding to sell for them, 
 they never put me on a very bad one. That was a merry winter for 
 me J and I enjoyed that season much, and not the less because I rode 
 cheaper and better than ever I did in my life, other men's horses 
 with my own spurs. 
 
 I know not whether it was that the constant repetition of the old 
 song of the " Trotting Horse " gave a bias to my tastes, but this I 
 
124 '^^he I rotter, 
 
 do know, that from the time I first heard it, I have always dearly- 
 loved a fast trotter j and for some few years in my early life I gene- 
 rally owned one which could hold its own among our country nags. 
 I don't mean to say that I ever possessed a Peerless or a Flying 
 Cloud, but I once had a Welsh mare (whom I shall presently intro- 
 duce to the reader) who did her two two-mile heats in five min. 
 iifty-three sees, and five min. fifty-seven sees., and pulled up 
 "neither sick nor sorry J " and it must be acknowledged that this 
 was not bad travelling. I can truly say with Sam Slick, " I must 
 confess I am fond of a horse. I have made no great progress in the 
 world myself 5 I feel, therefore, doubly the pleasure of not being 
 surpassed on the road. I never feel so well or so cheerful as on 
 horseback, for there is something exhilarating in quick motion j and, 
 old as I am, I feel a pleasure in making any person whom I meet 
 on the way put his horse to the full gallop to keep pace with my 
 trotter." 
 
 This taste for trotters might have been an inherent one, and, 
 probably, like most other tastes, would have developed itself in due 
 time 3 but I question much if it would ever have taken so strong a 
 hold upon me, had I never heard that rollicking free-and-easy old 
 song, the "Trotting Horse." If such is the case, all I can say is 
 that old Jarvis has much to answer for, because of all kinds of racing, 
 trotting matches are certainly the lowest j and the possession of a 
 fast trotter is sure to keep its owner in a continual state of excite- 
 ment, squabbles, and disputes -, and it used to appear to me that " to 
 win, tie, or wrangle " was the sole motto that must continually be 
 borne in mind in bringing a trotting match to a satisfactory 
 result. 
 
 On the afternoon of the last day of the fair, the owner of the 
 drove, who spoke and understood English well, and who had 
 probably heard of my taste for trotting horses, asked me whether 
 I would buy the mare he rode, which he thought, if in condition, 
 could trot fast enough to beat most that she met. She was not for 
 pubhc sale, so was not with the drove, but standing at a little public- 
 house in the town. When we went to look at her I could see 
 
The 'Trotter, 125 
 
 nothing very striking in her appearance, and certainly very little 
 that betokened the fast trotter. She stood about fifteen hands, was 
 eight years old, of a rusty-black colour with a blaze down her face, 
 a beautiful blood-like head, and sweet fore-hand, but ugly drooping 
 hind quarters, and a swish tail very low set on j she had rare good 
 flat legs, as hard as iron, big knees, and large open feet, and, save 
 her poverty, was without a blemish or a fault. The man said he 
 was sure she could trot a mile in three minutes, and he wanted 30/. 
 for her. I liked the looks of the mare much, and bid 25Z. at once. 
 After a little wrangling he proposed to take her out of the town 
 next morning, ride her himself, and, if she trotted the mile to my 
 satisfaction, I was to give him all he asked. To this I agreed. No 
 one knew anything about the matter, and next morning, at five, 
 the Welshman, who certainly walked over eleven stone, and rode 
 in a saddle the like of which I never saw before or since, was 
 mounted, and all ready for the start. We rode gently about two 
 miles out of the town, and I sent a friend on with him to the 
 third milestone to start him, and stand myself at the second to 
 see him come in. Very few were astir at that early hour, and we 
 had the course to ourselves. I waited some little time rather 
 anxiously, for the appearance of the mare at my end, when at 
 length an unearthly screech broke upon my ear, to which the shrill 
 *'coo'ee" of an Austrahan stock- rider would have been as nothing. 
 This was followed at intervals by another and another, gradually 
 drawing nearer 3 then the clatter of hoofs became more distinct, till 
 at length the mare came flying by me (followed by my friend at 
 top speed, both enveloped in a cloud of dust), pulling double, at a 
 pace which I thought I never saw bettered in a trotter. It was not,, 
 however, a clattering hammer-and-pincers trot, nor a high-actioned 
 trot with the knee doubled up to the chin, but just a lengthy, low,, 
 stealing pace — much after old Alice Hawthorn's st}4e of galloping. 
 As the man pulled up I could not help thinking of "Old Jolifte," and 
 how much he must have admired the way this Welsh mare " tucked 
 her haunches in" as she shot by the milestone. We made the mile 
 two seconds under the three minutes, but I will not say we were right 
 
126 'The T: rotter. 
 
 to a second. This, however, I did not care a pin for. If she could 
 travel at that pace with twelve stone on her back (for I am certain 
 the old saddle weighed a stone), and in her present state, I fancied 
 that, with about ten stone on her, and in top condition, she would 
 be *^hard to hold." I gave the man the price he asked, and a pound 
 for his trouble, and led the mare back to town, the proudest man in it. 
 I was forty miles from home. Not a soul but myself and friend knew 
 anything of the trial j and " Now, my boys," I thought, '^ I'll drop on 
 some of you when I get home. You little think what's coming." Before 
 parting the man told me that they fancied she was by a tliorough-bred 
 horse, out of a Welsh pony ; that she had never been caught up 
 tiU six years old j that he never found out she could trot till the 
 previous autumn 3 and that he had christened her ''^ Patty Morgan." 
 He, moreover, gave me the following instructions which I was im- 
 phcitly to follow : always to ride her in a snaffle ; never use a whip 
 or spur, but get all out of her I could by shouting. I could, of 
 course, not catch her scream exactly, but after a few lessons, I man- 
 aged to make a pretty good imitation of it, and we parted. 
 
 I have had a good many horses through my hands, but never one 
 about which I felt so anxious as this mare. I saw in her something 
 better than common, and I was rather at low water just then, not 
 having a trotter which was worth backing for a shilling. It is true 
 I had a tidy little punchy cob, a fair second-rater, but he had been 
 lately beaten so often that they had facetiously christened him *' The 
 Drum," which is never heard except when it is beaten — so they ex- 
 plained the pun. I dare say it was a very stale one j that it was a very 
 poor one, I think the reader will allow j anyhow, of course I never 
 could see the wit of it. However, " The Drum " might be put out 
 of commission now, and my new mare come forward to the sound 
 of kettledrums and trumpets. I think I visited her in her stable a 
 dozen times before I left the town, and I hired a man expressly to 
 lead her gently home, where she arrived on the evening of the next 
 day. The fellow had particular injunctions not to come up with 
 her till after dark j and depend on it I was waiting for him on 
 the road when he did lead her up. By ten, Patty Morgan was 
 
The Trotter, 127 
 
 comfortably suppered up in a loose box, and the relish with which, 
 she turned to her corn, after indulging herself in one hearty roll, 
 proved that Enghsh air had by no means destroyed her Welsh 
 appetite. I did not sleep much that night ; I was tormented with 
 all sorts of fears concerning my new purchase. However, she was 
 all right when I went up to the stable next morning, and greeted 
 me with a kind of whinny which asked for breakfast as plainly as her 
 language could speak. We gave her a double measure of corn to 
 make up past shortcomings. I think I never did see so greedy a 
 feeder 3 she "went into her corn," as the groom observed, "'just 
 like a terrier into a rat." The Welshman had told me that nothing- 
 in this world would hurt her but scarcity. After breakfast we had 
 her and the Drum out 3 I rode the mare and put the groom up on 
 the cob. We took them to our favourite " try sting-place," a mile 
 on the turnpike-road which ran by the top of our village, as straight 
 as a two-foot rule and as level as a bowling-green. The mare did 
 just as she liked with the cob, and I sold him that afternoon to a 
 sporting butcher who had long been nibbling at him, under the plea 
 that I rather fancied I should have nothing more to do with 
 
 trotters. 
 
 We soon changed Patty Morgan's looks. Her long rough coat 
 was just coming off in patches 3 and when I bought her, her colour 
 rather resembled that of a very old rusty black bombazine gown, 
 such as you will occasionally see on decayed old ladies, or, more 
 often still, on London lodging-house keepers en deshabille. In a 
 short time, however, she " moulted out " into a beautiful black, 
 glossy and soft as velvet 5 and good keep and gentle exercise wrought 
 such a change in her, that at the end of two months her old 
 owner would never have known her again. She soon became a 
 general favourite with all. I think I never saw so quiet a horse 3 
 you could do anything you pleased with her, except ill-treat her 3 
 but if you did that, then ''look out for squalls." One of the lads 
 cleaning out the loose box once struck her rather sharply with the 
 handle of his fork, to make her turn round. My lady's Welsh 
 blood was then up. She rushed at him like a bull-dog, seized him 
 
128 "the Trotter, 
 
 by the shoulder, and worried him as a terrier would a cat. The 
 groom, who was luckily in the stable, hearing the boy scream, 
 rushed to his help, and it was just in time, for she had got the lad 
 down, and was kneeling on him. The groom afterwards said he 
 never in his whole life saw such a picture of savage rage as she then 
 presented. However, strange to say, directly he halloed to her, her 
 passion seemed to subside in an instant. She rose from the boy, 
 and the groom dragged the lad out with a shoulder not only broken, 
 but literally crushed. This was a warning to us all. She had far 
 more the manners of a dog than a horse, and soon got to know me 
 so well that I believe she would have followed me any^^here, espe- 
 cially if I carried an apple in my hand or pocket. 
 
 The reader must not think that during my first two months* 
 possession of that mare my bed was a bed of roses. I felt like one 
 who is in possession of a momentous secret, which a slip of his 
 tongue may reveal at any moment. One great object was to keep 
 this mare as dark as possible till the proper moment, and this was no 
 easy task. By some means or other it got whispered about that a 
 new trotter had come home to our stable, and my parting with the 
 cob just at the time looked very suspicious. Miss Morgan's early 
 habits of life had not been those of idleness, and she required a 
 deal more exercise to keep her from breaking out than our other 
 horses. She had, I believe, never looked through a collar in her 
 life, but this did not seem to make a pin's head difference to her. 
 The first time we put her into a dung-cart to try, she walked away 
 with it like the steadiest old team-horse on the farm, and after her 
 first lesson in harness gave us no further trouble. I took a contract 
 to lead gravel from a pit, about two miles off, on to the turnpike- 
 road 5 and often and often, when she has been standing quietly by 
 the side of the gravel-pit — all her best points hidden by blinkers, collar,, 
 and breeching — looking as rough and dirty as the men who were 
 shovelling in the gravel, have passers-by — members of *' the prying^ 
 inquisitive clan" — pulled up, attracted by the name on the cart,, 
 and tried, by pumping the labourers, to see if they could not glean 
 a little information about the new trotter, which so many had heard 
 
'The Trotter, 
 
 129 
 
 of, so few seen. Little did they think that " Patty Morgan," whose 
 name they were often to see afterwards at the top of the poll, 
 was then and there standing quietly in the shafts under their 
 very noses. But we did not neglect her education for all this. 
 Twice a week we had her out on our " convincing ground j" and 
 often in the grey twilight of morning, or in the deep, full, quiet 
 moonlight, the labourer going out to his day's work, or the jolly 
 farmer on his way home from the neighbouring market, would be 
 startled by the thundering clatter of hoofs as Miss Morgan and her 
 schoolmaster came rattling by him at a pace which hardly gave him 
 time to pull up and turn round before we were out of sight. 
 
 I was not quite certain on what stage the new actress should 
 make her dthut, and this, like many otlier more important events in 
 our lives, was decided by accident. I very rarely rode the mare out 
 by daylight, and if perchance I did, I took good care that no one 
 should ever fancy she could trot -, and notwithstanding all their sus- 
 picions that I had something or other a little better than common, 
 not one, even of my oldest associates, knew anything about the capa- 
 bilities of my new mare. But my whole life, during the first three 
 months I owned that mare, was one of prevarication 3 and glad 
 enough was I when the day arrived that all further secrec;y was un- 
 necessary, and Miss Patty Morgan was brought out at the tenth 
 milestone on the Nottingham road, and her colours — Lincoln green 
 and white sleeves — hoisted in defiance of all comers. 
 
 I had ridden her over one day to see a friend who resided at a 
 few miles' distance, and I did not leave his house till latish in the 
 evening. There was no moon, still it was not dark 5 but it was 
 towards the end of September, and the twilight bore that haziness 
 which is so peculiar to an English autumn evening. I was riding very 
 gently along the crown of the road, for I had it all to myself, when 
 I presently heard the rattle of wheels, and the clatter of hoofs be- 
 hind me. The mare pricked up her ears, and with a sharp " Hi !"^ 
 there shot by me a gig (in which sat two men), drawn by a horse 
 which, as far as I could then observe, appeared to be one of the 
 most magnificent steppers I had ever seen. They came upon me 
 
130 The Trotter. 
 
 so suddenly, that if I had been a believer in the supernatural I 
 might almost have thought they had sprung out of the very earth ; 
 but there was something perfectly natural in the jovial laugh of one 
 of the men just as they passed me, and something completely 
 human in the whifi' of cigar smoke which the night air wafted to 
 me after they had driven on. I think I should have taken no 
 notice of them, but the mare began to get very fidgety, so I gave 
 her her head and rattled after them. I dare say they had full a hun- 
 dred yards' start, but I was soon close behind them ; and as the 
 mare was now on her mettle, I shot alongside of the gig almost 
 before they had heard me come up. I was on the oft-side 5 the 
 man who was driving saw me at once, and the defiant manner in 
 which he threw away his cigar, rose a little higher in his seat, and 
 pulled his horse together, with a " Hi ! Morgan, go along, old boy !" 
 proved that he was fully prepared to accept the challenge I had 
 so presumptuously thrown out. The horse made a magnificent 
 spurt, and the gig drew clear of me in an instant, but it only needed 
 a very slight pressure of my knee, and one ''Hold up, Patty !" to 
 bring her alongside of him again. This time I reached the horse's 
 head, and here I kept for about a mile 3 once, indeed, I shot ahead, 
 and I daresay I had got a clear length, but he soon overhauled me, 
 and for a mile and a half we were head-and-head. I don't know 
 whether the horse was doing his best — I fancied he was ; and I 
 fancied, moreover, that I could have gone by him when I liked. 
 But I did not think much of this- for in the first place I was not 
 sure that he was doing his best, and moreover, he was drawing a gig, 
 which, as far as I could see, contained two heavy men. Now there was 
 a toll-bar about a mile ahead, and, above all things, I did not want to 
 keep their company so far, for at this gate I knew we must stop, and 
 anxious as I was to find out all about my unknown opponent, I did 
 not yet want the secret of my mare to be '' blown." Luckily, how- 
 ever, a lane led up to a farm lodge out of the high road on my side, 
 and when we came to tliis I pulled up, and politely bidding them 
 good-night, I turned up it. 
 
 I waited quietly under the hedge till the sound of the'r wheels 
 
"l^he Trotter. 131 
 
 had died away in the distance, and then walked the mare gently up 
 the grass by the roadside to the turnpike-gate. The gig had, I 
 should fancy, driven by about ten minutes, and the old pikeman 
 had turned in for another snoose j but I soon pulled him out again, 
 and when I asked him who it was that had just gone through, his 
 answer was, " Sam West and Morgan Rattler, sir." 
 
 " Did he ask you any questions ?" 
 
 '' Well, sir, he did ask me who lived up at Maple Lodge -, and 
 when I told him Mr. Johnson, he asked if he had not got a fast 
 trotter, and I told him, ' Not as I knew on.' " 
 
 " And what did he say then ?" 
 
 '''Why, he just d d my eyes for a stupid, know-nothing old 
 
 fool, and drove on." 
 
 Sam West and Morgan Rattler have now to be introduced to the 
 reader ; but to do the subject justice will require a chapter to 
 themselves. 
 
 Mr. Samuel West, or, as he was always called, " Sam West,'* 
 was a character, and, if report spoke true, a very bad character too j 
 and when it is added that his old dun horse, Morgan Rattler, had 
 been the partner in one-half of his scrapes and escapades, we may 
 conclude that the old saying, *' Like master like man," would have 
 held as good in their case as in any other. Before, however, we touch 
 upon their histories, they may as well both of them give us one 
 brief sitting for their portraits. 
 
 Sam West at this time was a fine, handsome, gentlemanly- 
 looking man of about fifty, stood six feet high, had a commanding 
 figure, witli a very broad chest, and arms that indicated immense 
 muscular strength. His face bore a manly, open expression, and 
 his bronze cheek was tinted with the florid glow of rude health. 
 His features were regular, and, had it not been for a slight indenta- 
 tion of the bridge of the nose and the loss of two front teeth, would 
 have been faultless 5 and no one who looked at that mild blue eye, 
 and quiet, generally thoughtful countenance, could ever have guessed 
 that so much devilry lurked under so handsome a mask. His whole 
 dress and appearance, clean and strict to the letter, without a shade 
 
 K 2 
 
132 "The 'Trotter, 
 
 of dandyism, all bespoke the English country squire. The low- 
 crowned hat covered a head as white as snow, and the tight-fitting- 
 drab trousers sat close to a tliigh and leg which a sculptor would 
 have longed to model. 
 
 His old horse, Morgan Rattler, was a wonder — a great raking, 
 upstanding brute, fully sixteen hands high, of a light dun-colour^ 
 and though eighteen years old (for Sam had bred him) as quick on 
 his legs as ever he had been. A more savage, vicious horse was, 
 perhaps, never foaled 3 yet in his old master's hands (but in no one 
 else's) he was as quiet as a lamb. " There was nothing that old! 
 horse could not do," as Sam used to observe, *' except pay the turn- 
 pike-gates." He could live with the best horses in the hunt across 
 the stifFest country, could jump a gate standing, was a splendid gig 
 horse, and, stranger than all, was the fastest trotter in our county. 
 I have said that the old dun had been partner in many of his. 
 old master's scrapes, and so he had j and I dare say the Sandford 
 Lock, the Wooton toll-bar and the six-barred gate with the chevaux 
 de frise out of Norbury Wood, are still standing to bear witness. 
 to this very day of some of the desperate leaps which the old dun. 
 had carried his daring master over. He was a fine, handsome- 
 shaped horse, but had a drooping off ear 3 and the way he got this. 
 was curious. 
 
 He was bringing his old master home in the gig one night from) 
 a neighbouring fair. As usual, Sam w.as "market merry," and, as 
 was his accustomed wont, was sitting on the low cushion on the 
 near side of the gig, as being the easiest seat, and half asleep.. 
 When in this state he always placed implicit reliance on the old 
 horse, who never made a mistake with him. Within about five- 
 miles from Sam's house was a steepish hill, and here the old dun. 
 pulled up into a walk. Luckily the stoppage woke up Sam, and 
 they were going gently up the rise, when, by the hazy indistinct 
 light of the young moon, he saw a man on the near side of tlie road,, 
 apparently getting over a gap in the hedge. Sam took no notice of 
 this, for poachers abounded in those parts j but on reaching the 
 crown of the hill, he saw another man a little ahead of him standing; 
 
The 'Trotter, 133 
 
 in the middle of the road. His suspicions were now excited. He 
 had a goodish sum of money about him 3 and he never travelled 
 without a pistol stuck in between the cushion and the rail of the gig 
 on the off-side, to be ready to hand at a moment's notice. It did 
 not take him many seconds now to shift into the driving seat, and 
 he was just waking up old Morgan, when the second man sprang 
 at tlie old horse's head, to which he clung like a bull-dog, shouting 
 all the while to his comrade, who was running up the hill after the 
 gig, to come on. Sam was an excellent pistol-shot : his pistol was 
 levelled straight at the man's head in an instant, and he fired. The 
 man fell like a log of wood 3 old Morgan sprang up into the air 
 with a bound as though he was going to fly away with the gig, and 
 then set off at a full gallop, which he kept till he pulled up short at 
 a turnpike-gate, about two miles distant. Just as Sam had fired the 
 pistol, the man behind, who was now within a few yards of the gig, 
 hurled a hedge stake after him, which struck him across the back 
 of the head, and knocked his hat off, fortunately without stunning 
 him. When he got to the gate, Sam, as usual, began to abuse the 
 turnpike man for keeping him waiting, when the old fellow, hap- 
 pening to look down, saw that the horse was standing -"ith his off 
 fore-hoof in a little pool of blood. The old man called Sam's 
 attention to this, and, on jumping out, he found that the pistol- 
 bullet had passed clean through the root of the old horse's ear. 
 Sam fancied he must have missed the man altogether, who fell 
 through the horse giving so violent a plunge 3 but this they never 
 could make out, for no body was ever found. It was a lesson to 
 Sam, however, never to trust again to a single pistol 3 for, as he 
 truly observed, had he chanced to have shot the old horse dead he 
 would have been left unarmed at the mercy of two ruffians, who 
 would, doubtless, have knocked his brains out before he could have 
 cleared himself from the gig. Sam could never make out how he 
 missed that man, for he always boasted, and with good reason, of 
 his skill as a pistol shot. 
 
 Sam West lived about fifteen miles from us, on his own estate, 
 called Ashby Grange. The estate was a good one, and the old 
 
134 "^h^ Trotter. 
 
 house. In other hands, might have been one of the finest in the 
 country. No saying what traditions were connected with that old 
 building, or what historical lore was attached to Ashby Grange. 
 At the time of our tale, however, it was little better than a domestic 
 ruin, and the iron finger of decay was fast completing a wreck 
 which neglect had commenced. Built some centuries back, the old 
 house presented a glorious specimen of the architecture of that day, 
 but now fast crumbling to decay. How preferable (as some anti- 
 quarian has observed) is the aspect of the fragments of some once 
 great edifice to tliat which such a house as we are now describing 
 presents to our view. There the tall gable reaches its chimney-stack 
 bleakly to tlie sky, and the green banks scarcely mark out the 
 obliterated gardens. Time has done his worst there, and the death 
 struggle is over. One can trace the terraces of the gardens restored 
 to grazing land again with the calmness with which one walks over 
 the grass-grown grave of a friend long dead 3 but here we see the 
 very action of decomposition going on — the crumbling stucco of the 
 ceiling in all (save the few rooms which are still kept inhabited), 
 feeding the vampire ivy, the tattered tapestry yet hanging on the 
 walls, the picture flapping in its broken frame, the machinery of tlie 
 clock fallen through the roof into the chapel, and the fresh ferns 
 sprouting out in the choked gutters, and yet the masonry in all its 
 firmness, witliout a stone displaced, the sculpture as sharp as the 
 first day it was carved, the solid oak staircase yet entire — this is 
 a melancholy without a redeeming touch of hope or comfort ; and 
 yet, desolate as it appears now, within fifty years Ashby Grange was 
 a habitable and comfortable house, and a moderate outlay a few 
 years ago would have saved all the time-honoured associations con- 
 nected with the old building, and preserved a house that thousands 
 could not now restore. 
 
 Such was Ashby Grange when I first saw itj but there were old 
 labourers living in the parish who could remember the days when 
 it wore a very different aspect. The estate had been in the family 
 for generations, and the house of West was as old, and at one time 
 as honourable, as any in the county. Sam's grandfather was a true 
 
'The 'Trotter, 135 
 
 specimen of the old Sir Roger de Coverley school, and in his day 
 the Grange was the resort of the best county families. A justice of 
 the peace, a kind landlord, a good neighbour, and in every sense of 
 the word a pattern of the true old English country gentleman, the 
 old squire was beloved and respected by all 3 and when the hatch- 
 ment frowned over the massive gothic doorway of the Grange, 
 many an eye was wet and many a heart was heavy, for it told the 
 rich, in mute but eloquent language, that they had lost a true friend 
 and kind companion, and the poor, a charitable and generous 
 protector. 
 
 Sam's father was a soldier, a greater portion of whose early life 
 had been spent abroad, and his tastes possessed little in common 
 with the old country families among whom he now came to reside. 
 He was profligate and dissipated, deeply addicted to play, and his 
 habits were just such as those which quiet country gentlemen would 
 detest and despise. Very changed was the aspect of affairs at the 
 old hall during the time he reigned over it to what they were in the 
 days of the good old squire. The country gentlemen of the oldest 
 and best families gradually withdrew themselves from his companion- 
 ship, and tlie prestige of the old Grange was fast waning. But 
 there was a certain set who still associated with the colonel. Men 
 whose standing in society was tarnished but not utterly blemished, 
 and for whom the loose, free-and-easy habits which had now full 
 licence at the Grange possessed abundant attractions. They were, 
 however, gentlevien, and the nightly orgies in the colonel's day had 
 not yet sunk to the gross debauchery of those that characterized the 
 reign of his son. The colonel was a widower, with one son — our 
 hero. He was killed by a fall from his horse, after having lived at 
 the Grange for nearly a quarter of a century, and Sam, at the age 
 of twenty-five, succeeded to an encumbered estate worth about 
 2000/. per year. 
 
 Sam might have commenced life with the fairest prospects in 
 view 3 but the school in which he had been brought up was a bad 
 one, and quiet country gentlemen shook their heads when they 
 h^ard of his accession to the property. Ever since the day he was 
 
136 l^he Trotter, 
 
 expelled from Oxford, he had been running wild down at Ashby 
 amidsc scenes of riot and dissipation, and it could hardly be expected 
 that the son of such a father could turn out any other than a profli- 
 gate and a spendthrift. And so he did. But had he strictly fol- 
 lowed that father's example things might not have been so bad j 
 for, with all his wild, licentious habits, that father was a man of 
 sense, and though extravagant and fond of play, was still an excel- 
 lent manager. It is true he might have been looked coldly upon by 
 the country gentlemen, and many declined his invitations, alleging 
 that the boisterous merriment of the Grange was too much for 
 them. Still no one actually cut him, and he met his neighbours 
 upon neutral ground as an equal, and with a show of friendship on 
 either side. He was a perfect gentleman when he chose it ; and 
 although strange tales of the nightly doings up at the old hall got 
 whispered about, he never shocked propriety by any outward breach 
 of decorum. Surely, he argued, if he gave away a dinner, he had 
 a right to ask whom he pleased to eat it ; and if old Squire Langley 
 or the Hon. Mr. Compton did not choose to accept his invitations, 
 they could stop away. 
 
 But Sam's bane was a decided and innate taste for low company, 
 and he followed his father's footsteps to the shadow, but among 
 associates ten times lower and more degraded. Even the few 
 country gentlemen who had, as it were, tacitly acknowledged the 
 father, and occasionally visited the Grange, could not but view with 
 repugnance the low tastes of the son. They gradually fell away 
 from Sam, and in a few years none but the outcasts of society would 
 associate with him. Broken-down horse-dealers, gamblers, the 
 lowest hangers-on of the racing-stables, prize-fighters, touts and 
 black-legs, were now the only company that were met at Ashby 
 Grange ; and If those old steel-clad, corsletted knights and warriors, 
 or ruffed dames of high degree, former proprietors of the estate, who 
 looked down grimly out of the canvas from the walls of the ancient 
 banqueting-room, could but have started into life and joined one of 
 Sam's nocturnal revels, they would have been rather struck with 
 the altered aspect of affairs. But for all this Sam had a kind heart 
 
ne 'Trotter, 137 
 
 and generous disposition, was a first-rate sportsman, and possessed a 
 spirit of daring and energy which would have been invaluable if 
 directed in a good cause. He was positively afraid of nothing 5 had 
 immense strength, and a power of endurance such as few could 
 boast. Scarcely a month passed without some fresh lawless or 
 daring exploit, in which he had figured, being recorded in the 
 county paper 3 and he was being continually bound over to keep 
 the peace for some assault or another. Up to the age of thirty-five 
 he was unmarried, but suddenly a new actress came upon the stage 
 to reign as queen over Ashby Grange. Where he picked her up, 
 who she was, or what she had been, no one at the time knew -, but 
 she was one of the most beautiful women that had entered those 
 old portals for many a year, and her grace and manners might have 
 adorned a Court. 
 
 There was a good deal of '^ the tragedy queen " about her ; her 
 manners were quiet, composed, and lady-like, her carriage dignified 
 and graceful, and she was altogether the very last sort of woman 
 that any man who knew Sam West would have dreamt of his taking 
 as a wife. Her age might be about twenty-five ; she was above the 
 middle height, superbly formed, and her long glossy ringlets, black 
 as jet, clustered round a brow and over a neck and shoulders as 
 white and pure as alabaster. 
 
 It turned out that she had been a second-rate actress in a low 
 London theatre, which Sam had happened to visit in one of his 
 nights about town. Whatever he did was generally off-hand. He 
 rarely gave up much time to reflection. If he liked a horse he 
 bought him at once without further parley ; and fancying he saw 
 something about this woman a little better than the generaHty of his 
 female associates, he procured an introduction to her, and after 
 trying her with proposals which she indignantly scouted, he married 
 her at once, and brought her down to be the mistress of Ashby 
 Grange. 
 
 And he did right 3 for if any mortal hand could save him from 
 the ruin which was just then hanging over him, it was hers. What- 
 ever her antecedents, she was well fitted to fill the post to which 
 
138 The Trotter. 
 
 Blie was now elevated. She soon found that she had given her hand 
 to a man who, as his friends pleasantly used to observe among them- 
 selves, "could not live another mile at the pace he was then going," 
 and had come down to an estate heavily encumbered, to preside 
 over a house which was now the resort of all the spendthrifts and 
 broken-down sporting men in the county. But she never quailed 
 • — the greater the perils which menaced her husband, the greater 
 pride did she feel in helping to extricate him from them j and, like 
 a true woman, her courage rose as fresh difficulty after difficulty 
 stared her in the face. It was nothing to her that not a lady in the 
 neighbourhood ever noticed or called upon her 3 it was nothing to 
 her that when in her visits to the little neighbouring market-town 
 the county ladies whom she met crossed over the road, or gave her 
 the path with a chilling politeness and a cold haughty stare such as 
 only high-bred ladies can assume — God help them ! Judged fairly 
 by their intrinsic merits, there was hardly one among them who 
 could hold a candle to her. Kind and generous in her disposition, 
 warm-hearted almost to a fault, with a character as stainless as her 
 brow, grateful to her husband for having rescued her from the pollu- 
 tion of low London life, and dragged her from an existence which 
 she detested and abhorred, she loved him with all the fervour of a 
 woman's passion, and she had now but one sole aim in life, to 
 endeavour to render herself worthy of the position to which he had 
 raised her. She soon saw his faults, but she never blamed him. 
 She had been brought up in a hard school, but a school in which 
 she had good opportunities of reading the human heart 5 and if but 
 few gleams of sunshine had hitherto illuminated her rugged path, she 
 had studied the dark side of life in all its phases. She saw at once 
 that it was in vain to endeavour to clean the '^Augean stable " at a 
 single sweep. She knew that complaints and remonstrances would 
 avail her nothing. She saw that her only chance of accomplishing 
 the task was by kindness, affection, and patience, and she set about that 
 task with a tact peculiarly her own. She never reproached her husband 
 for excesses which she had not the power to stem. She never 
 looked coldly upon his dissolute and abandoned friends 3 she received 
 
The Trotter. 
 
 139 
 
 them with a courteous grace that was bred in her, and although in 
 her inmost heart she might have despised them, she never gave the 
 shghtest outward indication of the fact. But, courteous as her 
 manners were towards them, they all saw at once that she knew 
 and read them thoroughly, and not one of them ever felt at his ease 
 when that black eye flashed upon him. One by one they became 
 less frequent visitors at the Grange, and the old house began to 
 wear a quieter and a more respectable aspect than it had done for 
 years. 
 
 '' Can't stand the missus, Sam," was the answer of Tom Wood- 
 croft, the steeple-chase rider — who always rode for Sam, and who, 
 although a wild, harum-scarum fellow, was by far the best and 
 least dangerous of all his acquaintances — in reply to Sam's question 
 as to why he saw so little of him up at the Grange now. " She's 
 
 always too civil for me 3 and yet I know that she reads us all 
 
 like a book." 
 
 " Sorry for you, Sam 5 sorry for you," observed Captain Morris, 
 who was Sam's most intimate friend, and had lived on him, riding 
 his horses, winning or borrowing his money, for the last six years ; 
 " but, excuse me, old fellow, you've quite lost your position in 
 society by bringing that woman home." 
 
 This friendly and disinterested Httle speech was made on the 
 evening of the day in which Sam had introduced the captain to his 
 wife. The captain was a keen hand, and in one hour had read her 
 character, just as truly as she had read his own, and he saw plainly 
 if that woman was allowed to have the upper hand he would soon 
 be obliged to look out for lodgings elsewhere. 
 
 "Tell you what it is, master," growled out Jemmy the tout one 
 day to Sam, on leaving the stable-yard, '' if you don't soon get rid 
 of that filly " (jerking his thumb knowingly in the direction of the 
 house) "you'll be losing all your old friends." 
 
 And even Tom G r-, the prize-fighter, who used occasionally to 
 
 run down to Ashby to blow the London fog off him, as he called 
 it, candidly remarked : " She is a stunner. I've no fault to find 
 with her, in the least 3 but my name's Walker. I never yet met the 
 
140 ^he 1. rotter. 
 
 man that I was afraid of looking in the face j but as for that woman, 
 I could not stand her eye full upon me for half a minute if you'd 
 make me champion of England." 
 
 Sam was a little worried by these remarks at first, but her unlibrm 
 kind and affectionate manner towards him soon put him right 3 and 
 when blunt, honest farmer Jones met him for the first time after 
 his marriage, driving his new wife round to show her the parish, 
 and shook his hand, with "Well, Sam, my boy, you've done the 
 best thing now you ever did in your life," his face beamed with 
 inward satisfaction, and he looked down upon the beautiful creature 
 that sat by his side as a kind of protector, and felt that, if only she 
 was true to him, he could well afford to make any sacrifice for her 
 sake. He never cared when, by chance, he heard of any of the 
 spiteful reports which were spread round the neighbourhood 
 respecting her. However they might sneer at her, however they 
 might scandalize her out of hearing, no one in the neighbourhood 
 could help allowing that she seemed born for the station which she 
 filled j and as Sam proudly walked by her side for the first time 
 through the little market-town near him, all agreed that it would 
 be hard to find so handsome a couple, pick the whole county 
 through J and bold indeed must have been the man who would 
 have dared to breatlie a word of scandal against her fair fame in the 
 hearing of the stalwart protector who now walked by her side. 
 
 Things soon began to wear an altered aspect at the Grange, and 
 the simple villagers one and all agreed that, if there was an angel on 
 earth, it was the Squire's lady. It is true that, except the good 
 clergyman's wife (who had read and appreciated her character from 
 the first) and some of the neighbouring farmers' wives, sdie had but 
 few female friends 3 still she was never dull or lonely. Her whole 
 time when her husband was at home was occupied in amusing him, 
 and when he was absent the cares of the poor villagers were her 
 sole conce.'ij. So matters went on for a few years, and Sam's wife 
 was a happy woman. She gloried as she marked the change for 
 the better, for she well knew it was owing to herself. But darker 
 days were in store for her. Whether Sam began to tire of the 
 
The Trotter. 143 
 
 monotony of the respectable life he was then leading, or whether 
 he became weary of a submission which was yielded to him without 
 an effort to gain it, it is hard to say, but he gradually grew restless 
 and uneasy 3 and although it was very rarely now that any of his 
 old associates came home to him, he by degrees got into the habit 
 of meeting them at neighbouring public-houses and taverns, till at 
 length he scarcely passed at home, in his wife's company, one 
 evening out of the seven. The poor woman saw the change, but 
 she never repined. She had now other cares and anxieties to 
 Eontend against. They had no children until five years after their 
 marriage, when a little son was born. The poor child was sickly 
 from its cradle, and by degrees sank into a helpless idiot. One 
 would have thought that such an affliction would have bound any 
 father closer to a wife, whose fondest earthly hopes were thus 
 rudely dashed away ; but it had a contrary effect on Sam. He 
 loathed the very sight of that child, and as for the poor mother who 
 bore it, he appeared to regard her as the sole cause of the calamity. 
 He now seemed to shun a home into which she had brought the 
 only ray of pure sunshine which had entered it for years, and he 
 took again to drinking deeply — a vice which for some time he hadi 
 abandoned. "Cuss them bad shillin's," says Sam Slick, *'they are 
 always coming back to you 3" and now, as his poor wife, whose 
 spirits were gradually becoming broken, was nearly always confined 
 to her room in charge of her idiot boy, and was rarely seen by any 
 one, his old acquaintances one by one returned j and on the night 
 when I had my first spin with Morgan Rattler on the turnpike-road,. 
 Sam West, though past the age of fifty, was a v/ilder and more 
 reckless man than ever, without the excuse of youth to palliate his 
 excesses. 
 
 Such was the history of Sam West and Morgan Rattler 3 and I 
 only hope I have not tired out the reader, for I have got a little 
 more to say about both of them yet. 
 
 On reaching home, after the chance contest between my new 
 mare and Sam West's well-known favourite, I told my groom Jem 
 of my little adventure. Now this groom had lived at Ashby Grange 
 
142 57?^ 'Trotter, 
 
 for a year before he came to me, and knew " Old Morgan " well, 
 for he had both ridden and driven him, and he also knew by this 
 what the mare could do. The name of Morgan Rattler was a name 
 of dread around us, and although there were doubtless many trotters 
 in England to beat him, there was not one in our country-side could 
 live with him ; and as surely as ever a little cup or trotting sweep- 
 stakes was advertised in our district, so surely did old Morgan put 
 in an appearance and carry it o^. 
 
 ** And so you think you could have gone by him, sir?" asked the 
 man, after I had finished. 
 
 " Yes, Jem ; but then I don't think much of that, because I'm 
 not so sure that he was doing all he knew." 
 
 *^ Ah, but you may depend on it he was," answered the shrewd 
 fellow. "You may take your oath Sam was half drunk, or he'd 
 never have let a stranger on the high road get the length of old 
 Morgan for a mile for nothing. I know what Sam is when he's 
 on the spree j and the old horse is as bad as he is just then. He'd 
 never have let you get to his head if he could have helped it. I 
 wonder he did not try and savage you when you came by his side. 
 I've ridden both horses, now, and I know there's not a deal of 
 difference between them. At catch weights I'd even back the 
 mare j for there's not a boy in the country can ride or drive old 
 Morgan, and a child could hold Patty. If we can only keep this 
 dark, we shall make something of it yet." 
 
 But we could not keep it dark from such a wily old fox as Sam 
 West. By noon the next day he was back again to the turnpike- 
 gate, found out from the old man who kept it who it was that had 
 passed through just after him on the preceding night, and obtained 
 a pretty accurate description of my marv3. 
 
 Now, Sam was a man of decision, and drove at once down to our 
 village ; he did not come straight up to me, but put up at the little 
 public-house. I was in the stables, when a message was brought 
 to me that two gentlemen wished to speak to me up at the Rising 
 Sun directly. 
 
 I went down at once. A light cane-bodied gig with remarkably 
 
"The 'Trotter, 
 
 M3 
 
 high wheels and straight shafts, the corduroy-covered driving cushion 
 nearly level with the rail, was standing at the door without a horsej 
 and I walked straight into tlie little parlour, where Sam West and 
 his friend Captain Morris sat discussing a large dish of eggs and 
 bacon. 
 
 Nothing could be more polite than the manner in which Mr. 
 West greeted me. He apologized for thus troubling me, but said, 
 as he had just learnt that it was I who had ridden by his side the 
 night before, he had a great curiosity to see my mare, and hoped it 
 would not be asking too much if he begged me to show her to 
 him. 
 
 I now saw that the plot was thickening, and that the time would 
 soon come when all secrecy must be laid aside. I therefore cheer- 
 fully complied with his request, and took him to my stables to show 
 him the mare. 
 
 Keen was the scrutiny to which Patty Morgan was subjected on 
 that mornings and, although he said but little, I could see that Mr. 
 West regarded her with more interest than he cared to show. He 
 merely asked if she was for sale, and, when I answered "No," left 
 the stable. He recognised his old helper, and, as he tossed him a 
 half-crown, observed to me, " You've got one of the best men in 
 the county there, if you can only keep him sober." 
 
 We went in and had a glass of sherry, and he gave me a most 
 cordial invitation to come over to the Grange, and take pot luck 
 with him any day I had nothing better to do. 
 
 About a fortnight after this, the following conversation took place 
 between Jem and myself: 
 
 " I think I shall ride over and see Mr. West to-day, Jem." 
 
 " Do you, sir ? Well, mind what you're about, that's all. You 
 know I've lived there, and am up to all their tricks." 
 
 '' I'll take care ; so just put the saddle on tlie new mare, and 
 bring her round in twenty minutes." 
 
 " Not if I know it, sir," answered the fellow. 
 
 I looked at him in blank astonishment. " What do you mean by 
 that?" I asked. 
 
144 T^he Trotter. 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say you're ever going to take the mare 
 over there, sir ! As sure as ever she gets to the Grange, they'll 
 either do you out of her, or else get a fair trial out of old Morgan. 
 I know what Sam meant when he asked if our mare was for sale. 
 No, sir, no 3 take my advice, and ride the pony over, but leave the 
 mare at home. I should like to see her meet old Morgan dearly, 
 but not till tlie money's down." 
 
 There was good sense in the man's advice, though not given very 
 respectfully, and I took it. 
 
 Now, I had a great curiosity to see Mr. Sam West '' at home,'* 
 for although, in common with every one in the neighbourhood, I 
 could not but know him, I was not intimately acquainted with him, 
 and had never once set my foot in Ashby Grange. I wanted to see 
 the old house of which I had heard so much j I wanted to see his 
 wife J and, abov^e all, I wanted to try if I could not get a match on 
 between old Morgan Rattler and my new mare. I was confident 
 now that she would take some beating. I must begin with her 
 somewhere, and why not as well with old Morgan as any other 
 horse ? If she was beaten by a horse whose name was in every one's 
 mouth, she would not be disgraced, for I was sure she would run 
 well up. 
 
 I mentioned my project to the groom, and he approved of it. He 
 was certain old Morgan must be getting stale, and he felt quite con- 
 vinced that nobody would drive him but his master. So he ad- 
 vised me, if we did make a match, to be sure and have it at catch 
 weights, and to make it two-mile heats. As I rode oif, he added, 
 *'I shan't feel easy till you come back, for I know where you are 
 going. Keep your eye on the captain — he's a bad 'un j and be sure 
 and remember me very kindly to the missus." 
 
 I reached the Grange about eleven j and when I first caught sight 
 of the old house through a long avenue of elms more than two cen- 
 turies old, I was not a bit surprised at all I had heard in praise of it. 
 There was something truly imposing about that venerable building, 
 seen from a little distance (for I was not near enough to detect the 
 ravages which the hand of neglect and time had committed), as ii 
 
The Trotter, 
 
 H5 
 
 burst suddenly upon my view, a glorious memento of past ages, in 
 all the grandeur of ancient British architecture, its outline clearly 
 defined in a cloudless blue October sky, which formed the back- 
 ground of the picture. It needed now very little stretch of the 
 imagination to fill the tableau with, living forms — the bold crusader, 
 the stalwart knight armed for the tournament, and the lady of high 
 degree with falcon on her fist — all seemed to meet me as I rode 
 over the old bridge that spanned the moat which encircled the house 
 and gardens. But as I approached nearer to the building, the signs 
 of dilapidation became more apparent ; the place seemed deserted, 
 the clatter of my pony's hoofs, as I rode across the large, empty, 
 grass -grown court-yard, struck a chill to the very heart 3 and the 
 only living actor in the scene, save some poultry and pigeons, ap- 
 peared to be my pony, myself, and a purblind old mastiif, who was 
 chained under a horse block by the stable-door, and who greeted me 
 with a deep-mouthed bay, the echoes of which fairly startled me. 
 This brought out a helper from the stable-yard, who took my pony, 
 and I followed him to the stables, anxious to see what they were 
 like, and how they were filled. 
 
 However much tlie house and the rest of the premises might be 
 neglected, this was not the case witli the stables. They were new, 
 capitally arranged, and kept in the greatest order. Four hunters, 
 which had just been straightened up after their morning's exercise, 
 in first-rate condition, every one of them up to sixteen stone, were 
 standing in clothes and bandages 3 and a perfect model of a gig- 
 horse occupied a fifth stall, while, on the door of a loose box at the 
 end of the stable, I read the redoubtable name "Morgan Rattler," 
 written in gold letters under one of his plates. One of the prettiest 
 little fox-terriers I ever saw came bustling down the ladder from the 
 loft above (where he was very busy hunting after rats) to welcome 
 a strangerj and under the manger of the gig-horse lay a favourite 
 <nter-hound bitch, suckling tliree puppies. I never was ir a better 
 .<ix-stall stable in my life, nor one that seemed to be kept ni better 
 order. The stalls were roomy, the partitions high, and each stall 
 
 L 
 
14^ l!he T^r otter. 
 
 could be immediately converted into a loose box by hanging a gate 
 on between the pillars. 
 
 Old Morgan was at home, and I asked if I could see him. 
 
 "Certainly, sir 5 but you'd better not go in to him," was the 
 reply. 
 
 His box was closed by two half doors, the top one of which we 
 opened. The old horse was standing lazily in the middle of a very 
 roomy box up to his knees in straw, apparently half asleep. 
 
 " The old boy does not get much sleep o' nights, I often don't 
 get him suppered up till three o'clock," observed the man apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 When the door opened, he came sidling up to us, with his ear 
 laid back and a cunning look in his wicked old eye, as if he was 
 half debating whether he should rush at us and seize us with his 
 teetli, or whether he should lash out his powerful hind legs at the 
 door over which we were leaning. But, " Now, old man, none of 
 your nonsense!" and he came quietly up to receive the accustomed 
 carrot, without which the groom never, he said, entered his box. 
 
 He certainly was a wonderful-looking old horse. His dun colour 
 and his hanging ear gave him a peculiar appearance; his shape 
 was unexceptionable j and, although they had been deeply fired all 
 round, his legs now seemed as hard as four oak posts. He had a 
 very clean, blood-like head, well set on, and he carried his flag (to 
 use the dealers' term), in the shape of a long swish tail, gallantly. 
 He stood above sixteen hands, and was altogether a real varmint- 
 looking horse. He had neither clothing nor bandages on him^ 
 nothing but a plain, heavy headstall. He carried no flesh, but 
 appeared to be one compact mass of bone, muscle and sinew. 
 
 '•^Wonderful horse that, sir," observed the man, as we closed the 
 door of the box; "there's nobody can do anything with him but the 
 guvnor and me. You'd never believe what that horse has done, 
 and yet he's as good now as he was at six years old." 
 
 "He can trot a bit, too, can't he?" I carelessly asked. 
 
 "Trot! I believe you — there's nothing in tliis county can touch 
 him. There ^^^as a chap, however, tackled him the other night as 
 
The Trotter, 147 
 
 the guvnor was coming home from Retford fair, and the guvnor 
 did say when he come home tliat old Morgan's stockings were tied 
 tighter to shake him off than ever they were in his hfe before. The 
 guvnor was not half pleased about it, and could not rest easy till he 
 found out who it was." 
 
 ^'Well, Old who was it?" 
 
 ^''Oh, why, a dealing chap on the other side of tlie county. It 
 was a mare he was riding. The guvnor's seen her." 
 
 "And what did he think of her?" 
 
 "Why, he rather liked her; but he did not seem to think a deal 
 on her, for I heard him say to tlie captain as they were looking at 
 old Morgan, after they came home, ^That little Welsh mare's a 
 neat little thing, and not half a bad 'un for a mile, but I should like to 
 get a match on between her and old Morgan for two. It was a 
 deep trick of that chap's turning up the lane when he found he was 
 beaten. He's no fool, that fellow, anyhow.' " 
 
 I never listened so eagerly in my life to any conversation as I did 
 to this; and if the man had given me ten pounds, I should not have 
 felt half so gratified as I did when I learnt so unexpectedly and by 
 chance the "guvnor's" opinion of my mare. But he was a little 
 out in his reckoning tliis time, for we had tried the mare to be quite 
 as good at six miles as at one; beyond that we had never gone. I 
 was now in high spirits, for, to tell the truth, I had begun to "funk" 
 a httle when I saw those stables and their appointments, for I then 
 knew I had to deal with a man who, whatever irregularities could 
 be laid to his charge, was not very likely to make a mistake in any- 
 thing about horses, and a man, moreover, on whom the experience 
 of every phase in sporting life for thirty years was not likely to have 
 been thrown away. At first I felt as if I had come on a foolhardy 
 errand; and, as Mr. West was out in the village and was not 
 expected back for an hour or two, I had half resolved to sneak 
 home again, and leave old Morgan to the quiet enjoyment oi tlie 
 honours he had so bravely won and so manfully maintained. 
 Directly, however, I heard what the groom said, I began, like Nick 
 Bradshaw in "The Clockmaker," to feel "quite encouraged like," 
 
148 ne Trotter, 
 
 and now determined to wait till Mr. West came home, and let 
 matters take their course. 
 
 Like all good stablemen, tliis man was remarkably civil. He took 
 me into the saddle-room, which, of course, was as well appointed 
 and in as good order as the stables, took me to see the greyhound- 
 kennel, and after that showed me the most magnificent brace of 
 hea\y pointers I had ever looked at. In fact, whatever might be the 
 internal arrangements of the old Grange, the sporting appointments 
 were complete, and everything I saw bespoke the sporting tastes o^ 
 the owner. Every fowl (except a few of the sweetest little spangled 
 bantams) were thorough game, and the man pointed out to me a 
 magnificent "ginger pile" which had been champion in a main 
 iit Nottingham the year before. Every pigeon we saw was a fancy 
 bird of some strain or other. Two tame foxes were kennelled in 
 the yard. The coach-house door was covered with pads and 
 muzzles, while three or four gilt plates on the stable-door proved 
 that it was not alone hunters and trotters that had come out of these 
 stables. 
 
 I did not cai<s to go into the house till the owner came home, so 
 I thought I would amuse myself while waiting for him by a stroll 
 round the premises. I went down a long flight ot stone steps which 
 led from the back of tlie house into what had once been a splendid 
 garden, now a perfect wilderness. Originally it had been laid out 
 with the greatest taste and care j now you could not distinguish the 
 flower-beds from the walks. I never saw so sad a picture of gross 
 neglect, and the further I strolled the more I grieved to think what 
 this place might be in any other hands than those of the preseni 
 owner. It was the same over all — 
 
 " Nightshade, on each border glowing. 
 Said a rose might here be blowing. 
 If I left her room to grow in. 
 
 Fruit-trees tottered to their fall. 
 And their virtue sapped with ivy. 
 Here and there an empty hive I 
 Saw, but not a bee alive; I 
 
 Found the wasps had killed them all,** 
 
The Trotter, 149 
 
 The pedestal which had once supported the sun-dial had been snapped 
 m half, aad tlie old sun-dial itself lay buried in a bed of nettles. 
 Several statues which had once been handsome, but every one 
 of which was in some way or otlier now mutilated or disfigured, 
 were scattered here and there. One chubby little leaden Cupid 
 had apparently been used as a target for Sam's pistol practice 3 while 
 a pond perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, originally a famous 
 fish-stew, but now choked up with weeds and filth, the surface 
 covered with a thick green coating of slimy duckweed, formed a 
 rare breeding-place for myriads of frogs and water-newts. 
 
 By the side of this pond was a httle kind of summer-house, in 
 tolerably good state of repair, and a well-trodden path down to it 
 proved that it was more resorted to than the upper part of the gar- 
 den. I walked up to it to have a peep in, and found that I had 
 stumbled on one of the greatest curiosities of the place, adorned in 
 a manner which the old squire, Sam's grandfatlier, would have little 
 dreamt of. It was apparently fitted up as a smoking-room. A 
 little, jolly-looking, three-cornered table stood in the middle of the 
 floor, and a couple of lockers, fitted into the walls, doubtless con- 
 tained the materials for a jovial evening's carouse, and many a jovial 
 carcase had those old walls witnessed. It was to these old walls that 
 my attention was particularly directed. They were not decorated 
 with pictures of any kind — Sam had a soul above the flashy daubs 
 which generally adorn the walls of smoking-rooms or bachelors' 
 apartments — they were not even papered, as we commonly use the 
 term3 yet I question much if the most splendidly-furnished drawing- 
 room in Portland-place cost more (reckoning by the square inch) 
 to paper than the walls of that little summer-house; for nearly two 
 whole sides of the room were covered with copies of writs and 
 summonses, collected with the greatest care and during upwards of 
 a quarter of a century, by a man who had been in continual hot 
 water during the whole of that time — civil, but still most pressing 
 invitations for Samuel West, of Ashby Grange, in the parish of Ashby, 
 gentleman, to appear before every judge who had ruled supreme 
 in any one or other of her Majesty's Courts of Queen's Bench, 
 
i^o The Trotter, 
 
 Exchequer, or Common Pleas during that period, at the suits of so- 
 and-so, '^greeting." A large square patch on the middle of the 
 third side was devoted to summonses to appear before one or the 
 other of her Majesty's justices of the peace for the county, for 
 assaults, poaching, trespasses, or (crime of crimes) for having, ^^■hen 
 in a state of intoxication, obstructed a policeman in the exe- 
 cution of his duty. There were some few declarations pasted here 
 and there among the civil processes, but most appeared to have been 
 settled as soon as the first shot had been fired j while on the margin 
 of every summons was written how the case terminated — for in- 
 stance, "Fined 5/.," "Discharged with a caution," "Bound over to 
 keep the peace." I have examined collections of various kinds in 
 my life, but I never saw half so curious a one as this. 
 
 By a careful study of these walls, one read Sam's whole life as 
 plainly as any biography could tell it. The summonses which con- 
 tained the gravest charges bore dates during the ten years that elapsed 
 between Sam's succession to the property and his marriage (a few 
 were even antecedent to that period) j many of the writs were issued 
 at the same time, and I was sorry to see that many were dated 
 witliin the last five years, and that each succeeding year seemed to 
 beat the last in number. For the first few years of his married life, 
 not a summons appeared, and very few writs. The earlier sum- 
 monses were principally to answer charges of "assault and battery," 
 some of them of a rather grievous nature 5 but of later years Sam's 
 principal offences seemed to have been of a more venial kind — tres- 
 pass in pursuit of game j and the keepers of the Right Hon. the Earl of 
 
 appeared to have had many a merry dance after him, according 
 
 to the statements contained in these summonses. I observed the copy 
 of the last writ bore date just three days prior to my visiting the 
 summer-house. I could not but help thinking that Sam must be a 
 tolerably profitable client to whatever attorney he might honour 
 with his patronage. It was not so much through inability to pay as 
 through a careless inattention to all matters of business that Sam 
 always required to be summoned before he paid a debt^ and I have 
 met with more such men than one during my journey through life, 
 
The Trotter. 151 
 
 However, from all accounts, affairs at the Grange were now wear- 
 ing a threatening aspect, and they did say that Sam was only 
 nominal possessor, living in the hall of his ancestors on sufferance, 
 for that the mortgagees held all the title-deeds, and that Capt. 
 Morris had a bill of sale over all his personal property. 
 
 On leaving the summer-house I branched off into the labyrinth 
 of trees and rubbish with which I was surrounded, anxious to see 
 the extent of this wilderness, when I suddenly came upon a little 
 spot, a perfect oasis in the desert. It was a small patch of garden- 
 ground, laid out and tended with the greatest care. The flower- 
 beds were kept in the neatest order, and stocked with the choicest 
 varieties of hollyhocks, dahlias, and other autumnal flowers, which 
 now blazed showily out, in strange contrast with the weeds sur- 
 rounding them on all sides. Working in one of the beds was an 
 old man, and by his side stood a lady, and a boy about ten years of 
 age. I had little difficulty, from what I had heard of her, in re- 
 cognising in this proud-looking, handsome woman (for she was 
 still handsome, notwithstanding the years of suffering and neglect 
 which she had passed through), the lady of the mansion j and the 
 vacant unmeaning stare with which the boy regarded me, as I ap- 
 proached, told me plainer tlian words could speak that this was her 
 idiot son. 
 
 The lady looked me over with one long, keen, searching glance, 
 as I introduced myself and apologized for my intrusion. I said I 
 was waiting for Mr. West, and had strolled quite by chance into 
 the garden to pass away the time. 
 
 "Not much to see at Ashby, I fancy, except the stables," was 
 her reply j adding in a tone of bitter irony, " unless it is a proof of 
 what waste and neglect can accomplish. A friend of Mr. West's, 
 I suppose ; you want to see him something about a horse ?" glancing 
 at the jockey- whip in my hand. 
 
 " Well," I said, for her keen black eye was on me, and I felt 
 that prevarication was useless (I had heard of Tom the prize- 
 fighter's remark, and I could not help thinking that he was about 
 right, and that, if she had only been born a man, what a splendid 
 
15^ The Trotter. 
 
 Queen's counsel she would have made), " I certainly had a curiosity 
 to see old Morgan Rattler, of whom I had heard so much ; and Mr. 
 West having kindly asked me, I had taken tl.e opportunity of the 
 fine weather to ride over this morning." 
 
 Her manner was courteous enough, but rather chilling ; and no 
 wonder at it. I thought how that woman must detest the very 
 name of horses, and hate the sight of anybody connected with 
 them. She, however, asked me politely to walk in and wait for 
 Mr. West, and, taking her boy by the hand, led the way up to the 
 house. The poor child clung to his mother's side, apparently 
 frightened at the sight of a stranger. He, however, kept furtively 
 eyeing me, and seemed to regard my silver-mounted whip with 
 great curiosity. After a little coaxing, I put it into his hand for 
 him to look at. The brio^ht grleam of satisfaction which shot from 
 his lustreless eye as he showed the coveted treasure to his mother 
 proved that the lamp of light even yet glimmered in that darkened 
 mind ; and I ventured to remark to her that there was still hope, 
 and that, in my opinion, the child would outgrow the malady. 
 
 God knows, I spoke at random ; but even that random speech 
 shot a ray of comfort into the poor mother's blighted heart, and 
 that one simple action, and those hap-hazard words, placed me upon 
 a far better footing with that woman than the most sycophantic 
 compliments I could have paid her, or the most studied politeness 
 I could have shown towards herself would ever have done. How 
 true it is that the way to a mother's heart is through her child's ! 
 
 The poor boy seemed to have taken a great fancy to my whip. 
 r happened to have an old repeating watch in my pocket — not one 
 of the diminutive, waistcoat-pocket affairs now in fashion, but a 
 regular old-fashioned gold hunting watch, nearly as large as a small 
 turnip. I pulled it out to show the boyj and when I rung the 
 chimes in his ear, his delight knew no bounds. From that minute 
 we were sworn friends, and I walked up the old stone steps with 
 the child's hand in mine, and his mother by his side, as though we 
 had all been on terms of intimacy for years. When we got in, 
 the lady apologized for leaving me, and, showing me into a long 
 
The Trotter. 
 
 -^5^ 
 
 old banqueting-room, which now served for the sitting-room and 
 parlour, left me. The boy would not part with tlie whip, so I let 
 him carry it away with him. 
 
 It was a splendid room, and the wainscot and polished floor were 
 altogether of old British oak, now nearly as black as ebony. This 
 room was in tolerable repair, for it lay in the best wing of the 
 house 3 and as the chamber above had been converted by Sam into 
 a granary, the ceilings were sound. The walls were garnished with 
 old-fashioned portraits of Sam's ancestors and other celebrities of 
 bygone ages. Mighty bold did those old knights look, as they 
 frowned down upon me, many of them clad in mail, with his 
 gloved hand upon his sword hilt. And mighty fine were those high- 
 born dames in ruff and bodice, who with meaningless eyes seemed 
 to follow me wherever I went. But there was not a knight or 
 lady in any one of those old frames who for proud, manly, real 
 English good looks and bearing, could compare with the two that 
 seemed fairly to stand out of the canvas at the far end of the room, 
 representing the present squire and his lady, taken as large as life, 
 at the period of their marriage. Old Morgan hung over the 
 mantelpiece ; and one or two old-fahioned hunters, in the short 
 dock and crop-eared style of the last century, kept him company. 
 
 Presently a bold, fine-looking, over-dressed female servant brought 
 in the materials for a substantial lunch, and about ten minutes later 
 tlie squire and his friend the captain came in. He welcomed me 
 most cordially, hoped I had made myself at home, and we sat 
 down. Mr. West was looking as fresh and handsome as ever, and 
 the way in which he went in at the cold pigeon pie and phea- 
 sant proved that his appetite was still unimpaired. It really seemed 
 as if no amount of dissipation could ever undermine that iron 
 frame. Of course we had some ale, such as you cannot get out 
 of ""the shires j" and we topped off the heartiest lunch I had made 
 for a long time with a glass of bro\\'n sherry, of which Sam 
 remarked, "You wont find a headache in a hogshead of it." 
 
 After lunch we went the round of the premises. It was a treat 
 to go round the stables and kennels with such a conductor as Sam 
 
Ij4 The Trotter. 
 
 \\'('sl. 1 1 W'Ms :i I It Ml lo sec I lie w ;iv in w Iiicli lit' wiilk cd ii]) Ion liorsc ; 
 011(1 il' llif lolltT or the hody clolliiii!;- was llif li-ast oiil of plact' or 
 jlt'raiii;c(l, Iiow soon liis keen vw dftfclcil it, and liis hand si'l it: 
 riidit. It \s as, iiionov IT, a ticat lo sfc liow t'\ fry ihinih aninuil 
 alxiiil llit'sc picmiscs loNcd liiin, and how ihi-y I't-foL^nist'tl him 
 thic(il\' lh('\' saw him. Tht- old maslili" hajfil onl his iiont'sl wtd- 
 coiiif, llic lilllc hi I itT canic houiuling up tt) grcvt him, the Ibxcs 
 ln!'!',id al ihc end of (heir tliains to irat'h him, ovtMi tho old 
 " !;in!;t'r piif" llappcd his wiiii^s and siiil lorlli a sliiill trow of 
 di liancc, as il he ifcollfctt'd who iiad liandK'd him in Jiis list 
 main. The pii'/'ons st'i'iiifd as if tlit-y would almost st'ttK' on his 
 shonldtT ; and, as lor t)ltl Morgan, as st)t)n as he ever hcartl the well- 
 know n Noiif, he sent I'orlh a wiKl neij^h t)!' iltTi!;hl, as mueh as to 
 say, " I am (|iiite ready if yoii are." Ah, well, I ihoiiidit, this man 
 is not hair st) bat! as he has heen rejiresentetl. There must he st)mc 
 i^ood in that heart — tlumb animals anil ehildreii nt>ver make mis- 
 takes. As wi' wi-re walkln;; to the stahles, the eaptain asketl me 
 whether 1 had hrou'dit liie little mare t)\'er ; aiul t)n m\' answering 
 '• No," 
 
 " rity," he remarkeil ; " we mii;ht have had a mile spin with t)ld 
 Mor!;an ; il wouhl have amuseil Sam. lie clt)es nt)t seem in good 
 sj)irits." 
 
 Anil many others had made the same remark during the last ten 
 ilays ; lor siiiee the day on whiih he hail haiuled over that hill t)f sale 
 to the eaplain, giving him the jiower to seize e\tTy liorsi> he had at 
 a tla\'s notice, the stpiire had heen an altereil man, though no one, 
 not e\en his wile, knew the exact eause, although many guessetl it. 
 1 lis larms were well let; ami although the tvstate, over which he 
 hail unlimited control, was mortgaged, there w as alwa\'s sutlicient 
 lilt lo maintain him. aiul rcspcclahly, loo, with cari\ alter the 
 interest was paid. MorcoM'r, the railroad was ahout to run right 
 ihroiijdi the heart ot his estate. liis compensation w tmld have 
 l»t>en sonu'thing handsome, and he eoulil have struggled on against 
 !iis just tlid)ts till this compiMisation money wouKl liavi> set him tree, 
 liis principal trcilitor was the captain, aiul the griMtiM' [lart ol' the 
 
'I'lii 'Viiiticr. 
 
 »55 
 
 nioiicv owimI Io liim was Inr iiKHirv In,! ;il cjrds ;il S;im'.s ou n lihic, 
 not one sirilliiii; ol w Ii'k li ((niM ever li,i\c hccn rccoviTcd in a 
 <-()tlll "I I.IW. Ill Mil 111I;MI,|I.I(iI liioiuclll, llic CMJ)!;!!!! |)(M"SU;l(lc'(l 
 liiin Io sijMi ;i Mil ot s.ilc Io liiin ol' :ill his person. il |)io|)crly ;is a 
 S('( iiiil\- " iiificl\' :is ,1 III. liter oT (oiiii;" and Ironi lli.il nioineiil lu' 
 had pl.ieed hiiiisell ill ihe power oT as nii'.eiiipidons a sharper as 
 e\ er e\i .led. 
 
 Al (i\c \\f s.il down Io an e\eelleiil dinner, S.iiii (hd 
 lh>' honours of ihe l.ihK- wilh ihe ni.iniieis ol" a line s^cnlle- 
 niHii, which all ihe colli, iniinal ion ol' low hahils ,ind low a.sso- 
 ' I. lies li.id liol ell. iced. I lis wile seeiiied lar more ch(>errul, 
 and her iii. inner was huh h iiioie coidi.il louards ine thai) 
 when I h.id lirsl met her in the ('.irdeii. Sporliiij'; .snbjeel.s 
 seemed a\(»ided hy lacit conseiil, and dinner p.issed oil" amid 
 a desnlloiy ( oiu cis.ition on <MMier.il lopics siu h as all conld 
 join in. I'lil when wc (piietly settled down in Sam's lillK' 
 sanctum (lor lliere was a lireplace in the old siimnier house. 
 \vhi( h rendered it very eomrorl.ihie now the nlchls wen- l)e!';in- 
 ninj; Io jm-I chilly), we lairly o|)ened. We were now joined hy 
 Tom Woodeioll and a sporlim; Iriend. We talked of" horses and 
 hounds, and the system oC Meynell." Sam \\\\\v us a jnaphie dc- 
 scri|)lion of I wo or three lainons inns in w lii( h he h.id dist iiii'iiished 
 liimseil; ,iiid his ;i( (oiiiit ol the in. inner in which old Mor!;aii 
 carried him o\cr the lock pound ,iiid the spiked I'.iie out of Norhnry 
 Wood, rorined iiol the least inleresling lopics in thai evening's con 
 vcrsalion ; hnl not the sliidilesl allusion did he e\cr make (o any of 
 those little p.ilches which adorned the walls, the history ol wdiich I. 
 was loninnj^ to hear. In (act, as lliey ohseivcd, Sam was a ( ii|) loo 
 low on this occasion. 
 
 We passed a rcniaik.ihly |)leasanl evening — noliiinpj like* cxrcsH. 
 I was on my jMi.ird, Imt there was no occasion lor il. 'I'om Wood- 
 <:ro(t ( onid not drink, liavinj^ pist risen from a si( k hed, to wdiich lu* 
 had heeii conlined lor the last three weeks, hy a broken collar- 
 hone and I wo broken ribs. The caj)lain, like his cral'l, was careful, 
 and I loihtw (•(! suit , a-nd there was no j)ressiiii^. S.im niereJy (;b- 
 
1^6 The Trotter, 
 
 served, when he saw me fill my glass, that I was drowning the 
 miller, adding, that if he did drink a glass of grog himself, he liked 
 it strong. To my surprise, old Morgan's name was never men- 
 tioned, till at length, during a pause in the conversation, the captain 
 turned suddenly round to me, with — 
 
 '"And so you think your little mare's good enough to beat old 
 Morgan, do you ?" 
 
 Now, if I had ever thought anything of the kind I had never 
 given him the slightest intimation of the fact^ so I observed 
 quietly that I hardly knew enough of the old horse to give an 
 opinion, but that if Mr. West had no objection I should not mind 
 trotting him for two miles if he gave me one hundred yards' start 
 in each mile. 
 
 Sam directly answered, " I've nothing whatever to do with tlie 
 old horse now ; he belongs to the captain, who, I dare say, will ac- 
 commodate you." And he never made another remark on the 
 subject. 
 
 The captain and I soon came to terms. It does not take long to 
 make a bargain when both parties have made up their minds about 
 it ; and after far less wrangling than is usual on such occasions, I 
 matched my black mare, Patty Morgan, to trot against Captain 
 Morris's dun horse, Morgan Rattler, at catch weights, the best of 
 three two-mile heats, the mare to have one hundred yards' start, for 
 50/. a side, the match to come off over two miles on the Nottingham 
 road, half-way between my place and Ashby on that day six weeks, 
 between the hours of two and four. We each of us placed 10/. in 
 Tom AVoodcroft's hands, to bind the bargain, and we agreed to 
 meet three nights after at the Woolpack, a coaching inn, which 
 stood on the very ground, to draw up articles and stake the 
 money. 
 
 I never made a match so quietly or so pleasantly in my life, and 
 the only bet we booked upon it was one even 10/., which the 
 captain laid me, that although old Morgan was to give me one 
 hundred yards' start, he would beat my mare in the first heat by 
 that distance. Sam certainly did not seem in his usual spirits that 
 
The Trotter. 
 
 ^S7 
 
 night. He appeared to be in that frame of mind when drink takes 
 no effect upon a maiij for akhough he drank glass after glass with- 
 out any stint, he rose from the table as sober as any man in that 
 company. About eleven we all retired to our bedrooms, after 
 spending a very different evening from what I fancied I should have 
 done from all that I had heard of the doings at Ashby Grange. 
 
 I slept on a sofa in Sam's study, and I think it would have taken 
 an auctioneer some time to appraise the miscellaneous contents of 
 that room. The shelves were filled with just such books as we 
 might have expected to find in such a man's library 3 and every 
 other article in the room bore some testimony to the sporting tastes 
 of the owner. His three favourite double-barrels hung in a bracket 
 on the walls 3 a case of *^ saw-handles," by Nock, stood on the 
 mantelpiece J while tandem whips, jockey whips, boots, spurs, 
 boxing-gloves, single-sticks, and even a battered policeman's hat, 
 with other articles "too numerous to mention," were stowed away 
 in every corner. 
 
 I left the old Grange at about eleven the next morning, after re- 
 ceiving an invitation to repeat my visit, which I promised to do, and 
 which I certainly should have done j but I little knew, as I shook 
 hands with both Sam and his wife on parting, what a sad calamity 
 was threatening them 3 and I should have regarded that poor woman 
 with far deeper interest if I could only have known what would be 
 her fate within one short week from that day. 
 
 As to my whip, the little boy, with the cunning peculiar to his 
 class, had hidden it away, and no one could find it ; but Sam gave 
 me another to keep as a remembrance of him, telling me that it 
 had been in good hands, for that " Sim" had won the Queen's 
 guineas with it at for him, on his old mare. Maid Marian. 
 
 Jem was very pleased when he saw me come home so early, and 
 heard that I had so easily made the match on better terms than it 
 had expected. He would hardly believe m« when I told him what 
 sort of an evening we had spent, and opened his eyes with astonish- 
 ment when I said that the captain was now owner of old Morgan. 
 He could scarcely think it was all on the square, and was not 
 
1 53 The Trotter, 
 
 satisfied till we drove down to the Woolpack on the appointed 
 night, drew up articles, and staked the money in the landlord's 
 hands. However, when I read over the articles to him next 
 morning, he observed, " Ah ! that looks like business : and now, 
 sir, I think if I was you I should send over for Mr. Jones and hear 
 what he says about it." 
 
 Mr. Jones was a small country trainer who lived a short distance 
 from us, on the edge of what was even tlien called " the forest," 
 although all traces of forest land had been long swept away, and 
 corn grew in glades where a couple of centuries ago herds of red 
 deer browsed at will under oaks coeval with the Druids. He was 
 a great man at all our little country meetings, as trainer and jockey, 
 and perhaps there were few men in England at that day who could 
 bring a trotter to the post more fit, or ride him better when there, 
 than this Mr. Jones. 
 
 He was a very respectable steady man, a man on whose word 
 you could always rely, and in whom implicit confidence could be 
 placed. His dress and whole appearance was peculiar — a dash of 
 the nag with the pulpit. The low, broad-brimmed hat, white 
 neckcloth, and black surtout, always buttoned up to the throat, 
 summer and winter, gave him rather a clerical look ; while the neat 
 drab kerseys, and light jockey boots or long drab gaiters, smelt 
 of the stable. He was a little, wiry, attenuated, cadaverous-looking 
 old man, of whom Mr. West once facetiously observed on Notting- 
 ham race course that he looked " for all the world just as if he had 
 come out of his grave for a glass of cold water, and could not find 
 his way back again" — a remark which Mr. Jones never forgot or 
 forgave. He knew a horse well, could easily get up at a little over 
 8st., was an excellent judge of pace, a very fair rough-race rider, 
 and in figure and style very much resembled ^^ Auld Tommy Lye," 
 especially when mounted. He had both ridden and trained for me 
 before, and I had every confidence in him. 
 
 I sent a special messenger over for him directly (I had no fear of 
 his being "retained" on the other side, because I knew his ani- 
 mosity against Sara), and about noon he rode up. He was a man 
 
The Trotter, 
 
 159 
 
 of few, indeed I may say, very few words, and never wasted his 
 breath in useless remarks. I knew his peculiarity. I told him 
 what I had done and what I wanted him to do. He never made 
 a comment, but merely asked if he could see the mare. I dare say 
 he stood looking at her for full live minutes without saying a word, 
 during which time he chewed up about a foot of straw, bit by bit j 
 and we tlien left the stable. He followed me indoors, but never spoke 
 till I poured him out a glass of sherry to drink the mare's health in. 
 
 "Well, sir" (he always began an important sentence with "well, 
 sir"), "that I'll do with pleasure j and now will you show me the 
 articles ? ' ' After he had carefully gone through these word by word, 
 he returned them with this remark — 
 
 " Any how the captain was not drunk when he drew up these 
 articles." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that I was, then," I asked him rather 
 hastily ? " 
 
 "Well, sir, I did not say so." 
 
 " You have done well in making the match at catch weight, for 
 I know nobody can drive Morgan Rattler properly but the squire, 
 and he walks i jst. 3 but you ought by rights to have had 2^0 yards' 
 start in the two miles to bring tlie horses level, instead of 100." 
 
 " Oh, then," I remarked, "you fancy there's so much difference 
 between the two, do you ?" 
 
 "Well, sir," answered the old man, "I never said exactly that j 
 I know what old Morgan can do, but I don't know yet anything 
 about the mare. But still, you know, in trotting, four inches make 
 a great difference, and in making a match you should always try and 
 get all you can. However, send the mare over to-morrow. I'll do my 
 best with her, depend on it, and in a week's time I'U let you know 
 what I think of her." 
 
 I knew it was no use trying to get any more out of him, and we 
 parted. The next morning Jem took the mare over, and in a few 
 days the old man discovered, to his great satisfaction, that Patty 
 Morgan, with his weight on her back, could travel the two miles 
 quicker than even old Morgan Rattler had done in any match in his 
 
i6o The Trotter. 
 
 life 3 but then all his matches had been in harness, and he had 
 been driven by his old master, who walked, as we have before said, 
 nearly fifteen stone. 
 
 It was on a Tuesday morning that I left the Grange, and on the 
 following Monday Sam agreed to drive his wnfe over to dine and 
 spend tlie afternoon with one Mr. John Robson — ^or as he was always 
 familiarly called, Jack Robson — a sporting farmer, a very old friend 
 of his, who lived about six miles from him. It was clear to all 
 that Sam had become quite an altered man since he gave the 
 captain that unfortunate bill of sale. He was silent and reserved, 
 appeared to seek the company of his wife much more t]:.an he had 
 done for years past, and seemed to hang about her as if Le had some 
 secret to disclose, but could hardly muster courage for the task. 
 Her woman's tact soon discovered this. All her old affection, 
 wdiich had, as it were, gradually become blunted during so many 
 years of cold neglect and suffering, appeared to revive, and the last 
 week of that unhappy woman's life was a happier one than she had 
 known for years. What seemed strangest of all was that from the 
 day Sam made over his property, he never again either drove or 
 rode old Morgan Rattler. He would lean over the half-door of his 
 box for half an hour at a time talking to his old favourite, and 
 feeding him w^ith bread or carrots j beyond this the partnership 
 between the two seemed dissolved. But of course, as yet he was 
 apparently master over all, and took a horse whenever he wanted 
 one, and it was the gig-horse which he drove on this eventful day. 
 The day was clear and fine, the fresh air brought back some of the 
 colour to his wife's faded cheeks, and her eye once again beamed 
 with its old lustre, for ancient memories of happier days long since 
 buried in oblivion and forgotten, rushed upon her mind with their 
 full force, as she once again and for the last time sat by her 
 husband's side in that gig. As Jack Robson came out gallantly to 
 hand her out of the gig, he honestly declared that the squire ought 
 to be proud of her, for that she was looking as handsome as ever 
 she had done in hei life. They spent a pleasant afternoon, and it 
 \»as late before they started for home. The weather had by this 
 
The Trotter, i6i 
 
 time completely changed. The wind had risen and was blowing in 
 violent gusts 5 heavy masses of scud and cloud drifted across the 
 stormy sky, while 
 
 *• The moon, as if in malicious mirth. 
 Kept peeping down on the ruffled earth. 
 As if she enjoyed the tempest's birth. 
 In revenge for her old eclipses." 
 
 The horse was very fidgety at starting. It is probable that he did 
 not like to face the storm, which was then raging at its full height j 
 and it was some little time before Sam could get him settled down 
 to a steady trot. Even then he would not go pleasantly, but kept 
 breaking, fidgeting all over the road, shying at every stone heap^ 
 till at length Sam lost his temper. 
 
 " Confound the horse, I never knew him like this before." And 
 he drew the whip sharply across him, with '^ Now steady, will you ?" 
 
 This was all that was wanted to fire the train. As soon as the 
 horse felt the lash, he gave one sudden plunge as if he would have 
 snapped the traces and went off at tlie rate of twenty miles an hour. 
 All Sam's strength of arm was of no avail now, and all he could do. 
 was to try and keep the horse in the middle of the road 5 but his 
 coolness and presence of mind never left him. 
 
 " Sit still, and for God's sake don't scream : leave the horse 
 to me," was all he said to his wife, as she laid her hand, as 
 it were imploringly, on his arm. 
 
 Luckily the road was straight and good, and there was little fear 
 of meeting anything on it at this time of night 3 but there were 
 rocks ahead which Sam never saw till he was close into the 
 breakers. For the first mile and a half the road was straight,, 
 and ran apparently right down to a backv^jter, which carried the 
 stream from a neighbouring mill into the main river 3 but when it 
 reached the water, the road suddenly branched off at right angles, 
 followed the side of the stream for about one hundred yards up to 
 the mill, and then turned sharp again to the left, over a bridge, and 
 * so straight on. As far as the road ran parallel with this mill- 
 stream, the sides were built up with flat coping stones, which faced 
 
 M 
 
i62 The Trotter. 
 
 the water, and, as it were, edged the road ; but no wall protected 
 the road from the water, only a single rail extending along the 
 whole length. It was a nasty bit of road, to say the best of it, 
 even with a steady horse by daylight, for there were two sharp 
 turns to be made within a hundred yards ; and for a runaway horse 
 I don't think a more dangerous place could be found in England, 
 The backwater, when the stream was full, reached nearly on a level 
 with the top of the coping stone (in the spring floods the water 
 often came up into the road) ; and if a horse should by any accident 
 dash over that single rail, in an instant he was in ten feet of water — 
 the stream, when the mill was going, running down like a " mill- 
 race." Sam's horse never slackened his speed, but came on in mad 
 career right down to the water. He never tried to turn, but dashed 
 straight at the rail, which he breasted ; the rail gave way, and horse 
 and gig plunged headlong into the stream. Whenever Sam was 
 driving he invariably kept the apron unbuttoned on his side, to be 
 ready to spring out at a moment's notice. The consequence was, 
 that when the horse dashed up against the rail, he was thrown out 
 of the gig by the concussion, and although he pitched in the 
 water, he fell clear of the gig. His poor wife, however, was fast 
 in her seat, and no human power could save her. The mill was 
 going, the water came rushing down with an irresistible force, and 
 gig and horse were rapidly carried down the stream. The horse 
 fought bravely for a short time, but the heavy gig soon pulled 
 him down ; and the struggle, although violent, was a short one. 
 The moon was now completely obscured by heavy clouds, and 
 the night as dark as pitch. Sam, who was a strong swimmer, 
 struck out instinctively for life, and reached the opposite shore 
 (for the stream was narrow), but with some difficulty ; he dragged 
 himself up the bank, and then sank down exliausted in a kind of 
 swoon. Whilst he was battling against that angry current, nothing 
 could be seen through the murky pall that surrounded him. 
 
 The waters hissed and bubbled in his ears, and he was deafened 
 with the roar of the stream as it came rushing and tumbHng down 
 the narrow channel under the mill wheel. But above all the din 
 
The Trotter, 153 
 
 and tumult of the storm, one long wild piercing shriek of agony 
 rose upon tlie chill night air — a shriek the like of which is scarcely 
 ever heard once in a life, bat if once heard, is never torgotten. It 
 was the last imploring call for human aid, where human aid was 
 none ; and with tliat wild shriek, a pure and gentle spirit winged 
 its flight from a world of grief and pain to that happy land where 
 sorrows are unknown — ^where the '' wicked cease from troubling, 
 and the weary are at rest." 
 
 A light was dimly burning in the mill, and to this West directed 
 his steps as soon as he could rise from the ground. The miller and 
 his men gazed with terror upon his spectral figure, as, dripping wet 
 and without a hat, he staggered into the mill and sank down upon 
 a heap of sacks. '' My wife, my poor wife ! " were the only words 
 he uttered 3 and it was some time before they could gather from 
 his incoherent speech any particulars of the sad accident. They 
 had heard nothing, for all outward sounds were drowned in the 
 rattle and roar of the mill. 
 
 The miller immediately stopped the wheel j lanterns were 
 lighted 5 one man went down the stream in a boat, the rest followed 
 on the bank. They had not far to go. About a hundred yards 
 down from the place where the horse breasted the rails was an 
 osier-bed in the middle of the stream j and here the gig and horse 
 had been borne by the current and brought up on the muddy bank. 
 The body was still in the gig j they dragged it out and carried it 
 up to the mill. But the vital spark had fled for ever, and the 
 dishevelled tresses, wide, staring eyes, and pale, bloodless lips gave a 
 ghastly, death-like appearance to a countenance which had so lately 
 beamed with animation and life. A messenger was despatched in 
 hot haste for the nearest doctor, and another to Jack Robson, with 
 the melancholy intelligence. Both arrived before midnight 3 but 
 the time had gone by when human assistance would have availed, 
 and the words of consolation which they kindly uttered to the 
 bereaved husband fell coldly upon ears which scarcely heard them. 
 The body had been carried up to the miller's house, and such res- 
 toratives as were at hand had been applied. West never left that 
 
 M a 
 
1 64 TJie Trotter, 
 
 bedside where lay the only human being he had ever really loved— 
 the only true friend he had ever possessed on earth 3 but sat with 
 his dead wife's hand convulsively clasped in his own, without 
 speaking a word. Not a tear did he shed — not a lamentation 
 escaped him j but the tightly compressed lips, the heavy breathing, 
 the fixed, stern, determined look, and the spasmodic shiver which 
 would every now and then convulse his whole frame, all sufficiently 
 indicated the fierce struggle that was raging in his breast. 
 
 Early in the morning the body was removed to Robson's, where 
 it lay till the coroner's inquest was over. They then carried it to 
 the Grange to place it in the family vault j and the poor, low-born 
 actress was laid in the same grave, side by side, with the mouldering 
 remains of haughty beauties who, during their lives, would scarcely 
 have deemed her worthy to wipe the dust from their feet. Sam 
 was the only one of that proud family who had formed, what the 
 world is pleased to call, a wesalliance; and of all the arrogant mis- 
 tresses that had ever yet ruled over Ashby Grange, not one 
 but could boast of a pedigree as faultless as her face ; but 
 there was not one among them all who had ever played the true 
 woman's part like her on whom the vault was just closing. Not one 
 but might have felt honoured by the acquaintanceship of as true a 
 lady, and a woman as beautiful as the most beautiful among tliera 
 all, and whose only earthly fault lay in her obscure origin. 
 
 The Grange was now no longer a home for Sam, and, leaving 
 his poor idiot son in the charge of the good clergyman, he went up 
 to London on the day after the funeral — an altered, but a broken- 
 hearted man. The only mementoes which he carried away with 
 him were his wife's picture and that of old Morgan 3 and from that 
 day he never saw the old Grange again. He gave notice to the 
 mortgagees to foreclose tlie mortgage at once, and sell the estates > 
 and the captain took possession of all the personal property under 
 his bill of sale. All was, however, brought to the hammer, except 
 old Morgan, whom the captain claimed as an independent gift from 
 the squire 3 and no one gainsayed him. The estate realized a far 
 larger price than was expected, on account of the anticipated rail- 
 
The Trotter. 165 
 
 road. The personal property also sold well; for so many were 
 anxious to secure some remembrance of Sam West, whose name 
 for the last five-and-twenty years had been a household word in our 
 parts. An eccentric sporting baronet bought the old summer-house 
 as it stood; it was carefully removed and set up again in his park. It 
 fetched a high price; in fact, as the auctioneer observed, it was the 
 most '^sportin' lot" in the whole catalogue. After the mortgages 
 and all the debts were paid, there still remained about ten thousand 
 pounds ; five of this was invested in the funds for the maintenance 
 of the poor idiot boy, of whom the good clergyman kindly under- 
 took the charge, and with the other five thousand Sam emigrated 
 to Australia. No one in our parts ever heard from him again ; and 
 the name of Sam West, by degrees, became forgotten. 
 
 The Grange passed into the hands of a rich railway director, ori- 
 ginally a shoeblack, now a millionaire. He renovated it after his 
 own vulgar taste; and it was a question in the neighbourhood whe- 
 ther the old house had not better have remained as it was during 
 Sam's reign, and been left to crumble into ashes. 
 
 As soon as I heard of the sad accident, I wrote over to the cap- 
 tain to know whether he might not wish to declare the match off, 
 or at least postpone it a little out of respect to his old friend, stating 
 my willingness to meet him either way. I received a laconic reply 
 to my note, in which he said that he certainly expected that the 
 match would come off according to articles. He added, " that 
 he was not aware that Mrs. West had nominated Morgan Rattler, 
 or, probably, I might have been in a position to have claimed forfeit; 
 that Mr. West had nothing whatever to do with the horse, or the 
 match; and, moreover, he felt certain that nothing would cheer him 
 so much in his present affliction, as to hear that old Morgan had 
 added another to his list of victories." I may add that the captain 
 had taken up his residence at the Grange till Sam's affairs were 
 settled; and, if all accounts were true, the old house was just then 
 anything but *'a house of mourning." 
 
 When I read the letter over to old Jones, he quietly remarked, 
 *'Well, sir, if the captain thinks it is such a good thing, try and get 
 
1 65 The Trotter, 
 
 a pony more on the mare with him^ and let me stand your halves" 
 — which I accordingly did. The mare went on capitally j old Jones 
 declared that she was the sweetest goer he had ever crossed. Nobody 
 ever mounted her but the old man^ and his beautiful light hand just 
 suited her tender mouth. 
 
 Not so old Morgan. He was always a savage, hot-tempered, 
 mpetuous brute, and would never do his best except in the hands 
 of his old master. The only man who could ride him at exercise or 
 in his trials, was the groom who always looked after hinij but he 
 had no idea of match-riding. The old horse, moreover, had now 
 got into a habit of breaking — a thing he had never done in Sam's 
 hands — and, in fact, went so rustily and unpleasantly, in any hands 
 he was not used to, that when the jockey who was engaged to drive 
 him (the best jockey in England of that day to put up on a savage 
 horse or a trotter) came down to the Grange a week before the match, 
 to get a little used to the horse, he candidly declared he dare not 
 back him for a shilling, because however good he might be, there 
 was no dependence to be placed in him now 3 for as sure as ever he 
 got to his top speed, so sure he was to break. This was true to the 
 letter. There was but one man in England who knew exactly 
 when that old horse was at his top speed, and who, moreover, knew, 
 from long experience, that the slightest mistake of his driver then 
 would be fatal — and that was his old master. He knew just when 
 to press him — when to let him alone — and as long as old Morgan 
 felt Sam's firm, but steady, pull on his bit, he knew that he was 
 doing all that was asked of him 3 and, as for breaking in his hands, 
 to use Mr. West's expression, "the old horse did not know how to 
 do it." 
 
 The evening before the day appointed for the match, bcUi horses 
 were on the ground, and stood in the Woolpack stables. Although 
 only quite a local affair, this match excited considerable interest, for 
 old Morgan was known to so many, and his name was connected 
 with so many daring exploits, that he had become quite a public 
 character^ and although it was known that the squire had no longer 
 
The Trotter, 167 
 
 any interest in the old horse, and was not even going to dri^e him, 
 still the names of Sam West and Morgan Rattler had been so long 
 connected, tliat hundreds who had not the slightest interest in either 
 horse came, and many from a long distance, as much to see the 
 famous Morgan Rattler as anything else. 
 
 The night before the race he was favourite at about two to one, 
 but there was not much betting. His backers would have felt far 
 more confidence if his old master had been going to steer himj and 
 although very little was known about the mare, no one liked to take 
 liberties with old Jones, who did not often make a mistake. 
 
 Early in the morning, Patty Morgan went over the ground, ridden 
 by old Jones "in mufti," and, although of course she did not do her 
 best, she pleased most who saw her. 
 
 At ten, old Morgan was brought out in a bran-new light-match- 
 cart, driven by one of the best trotting jockeys in England, and 
 attended by a crowd of admirers. The old horse looked well, as 
 hard as beans, and his magnificent action and proud, lofty carriage 
 obtained him a host of friends. He was sent over the first mile 
 pretty sharply, brought gently back, and taken again to his stable. 
 He became a hot favourite now, and many laid three to one on 
 him 3 but there were a good many there who had seen the old 
 horse pull off many a previous match, and who had now ridden by 
 his side and watched him carefully. They had not forgotten how 
 freely he used to step out when "the squire" held the reins, and 
 they soon saw that his style of going in a stranger's hands was very 
 different to what it used to be with his old master up. This was 
 not lost upon them, and, although it seemed like deserting their old 
 colours, they could not believe it was safe laying three to one on 
 him. They preferred to take the odds rather than give them 3 and 
 even Jack Robson — one of the old horse's staunchest admirers, and 
 Sam West's best friend — booked 100 to 300 on the mare with the 
 captain, remarking as he closed the bet, "If the old squire was up, 
 mind, capten, I should lay the other way." Mr. Jones went quieily 
 wandering about among the crowd, saying nothing, but hearing 
 
i68 Tke Trotter. 
 
 everything. He felt quite easy after he had seen the fashion in 
 which the horse went with his new jockey, and remarked quietly 
 to me, "I'll lay he breaks three times in the first mile." 
 
 The start was fixed for two, from a milestone which stood about 
 five hundred yards below the Woolpack^ and the conditions of the 
 match were that the horses should trot two miles straight away for 
 the first heat, rest half an hour, and then come back over the same 
 ground for the second heat^ and, if it came to a "who shall," the 
 odd trick was to be played out over the same ground as the first heat. 
 
 As the time drew near, I dare say a couple of thousand people had 
 assembled — country gentlemen, hard-riding farmers, fast tradesmen, 
 sporting butchers, on what they deemed fast-trotting cobs — ^jostling 
 each other and talking loud, with all that freedom of speech and 
 manner so peculiarly characteristic of the horsey mob which one 
 usually sees brought together when a trotting match takes place, 
 and last, not least, all the roughs in the neighbourhood, with whom 
 Sam had always been an immense favourite, and who came pre- 
 pared to give old Morgan an ovation on winning, for they could 
 never believe that anything living could beat the old horse. These 
 latter gentry formed no inconsiderable a body in the ranks of 
 the spectators, and I almost feared that, should our mare get the 
 best of it, they would bring it to a wrangle. However, nothing of 
 the sort happened, and the match was run fairly out from end to 
 end. 
 
 At about ten minutes to two, old Morgan was driven slowly down 
 to the starting-place J and directly his well-known colours — crimson 
 and black — were seen, a cheer rose, which proved that, among a 
 certain set, his old master was still a popular man. 
 
 **Pity t' auld squire don't drive him hisself. Ay! but he's a 
 grand hoss," was passed from mouth to mouth. 
 
 He was soon followed by the mare, old Jones looking quite smart 
 in his new Lincoln green and white cap. Although not greeted 
 with any enthusiasm, she still had her admirers, for she stepped along 
 as a rough observed, "as spry as an eel;" and "Ay! but she's a 
 
The Trotter. 169 
 
 bonny little thing, though she has not got the stretch of old Morgan," 
 was the verdict that was passed on her. The old man rode without 
 whip and spur, in a plain ring snaffle. 
 
 They took their places, Patty Morgan a hundred yards ahead. 
 The umpires were aU ready, the watches set, and at the word "Go!" 
 both went off at a slashing pace, accompanied by, perhaps, a hun- 
 dred horsemen who wanted to see the race run throughout. Some 
 of the longest winded of the roughs also ran by them for a hundred 
 yards or so, cheering old Morgan with all sorts of yells and strange 
 noises. From the very start the old horse overpowered his jockey, 
 and came thundering after the mare at such a pace, that at the end 
 of the first mile there was scarcely a length between them. But the 
 mare had been going quietly within herself, old Jones's hands down 
 the whole time; while old Moro-an was frettinof and fumins:, shak- 
 inghis head, yawing, and boring at the bit as if he would pull his 
 jockey's arms off". After passing the first milestone, old Jones 
 pressed the mare with his knees, and shouting to her, "Come up, 
 old woman!" she shot out at her best speed. Old Morgan now 
 broke 3 it was plain his temper was gone, and the heat was no longer 
 in doubt, for the mare went stealing away from him and shot past 
 the milestone more than one hundred and fifty yards in advance, 
 having done the two miles in 5 min. 53 sees. 
 
 The backers of the old horse looked blue 3 it was clear that the 
 name of Morgan Rattler was no longer a name of dread unless 
 coupled with that of Sam West. The betting for the second heat 
 was even, the mare for choice. This was a very hollow affairj old 
 Morgan broke three times, and the mare won at least by three hun- 
 dred yards, and was never pressed. 
 
 This was Morgan Rattler's last performance in our county. The 
 captain left the Grange as soon as Sam's alfairs were wound up, and 
 took old Morgan up to London with him. Whether he ever trotted 
 him again, I don't knowj but I fancy he set up a brougham on the 
 strength of the money he had won of Sam, and drove tlie old horse 
 in it — at least I judge so from the following fact. 
 
I JO The Trotter, 
 
 About a year afterwards, I happened to be in London, and pass- 
 ing along the top of Farringdon-street one afternoon, I saw a crowd 
 assembled. When I got up I observed two or tliree policemen taking 
 charge of a horse in harness^ w"ith a pair of broken shafts hanging at 
 his sides. Little groups of bystanders, as usual in such cases, were 
 standing round, discussing what had taken place. It was quite plain 
 that there had been an awful smash, for I obsened two or three more 
 men lifting up a cab, which had apparently been upset also. I ven- 
 tured to ask a heevj stableman, who stood smoking his pipe at a 
 little distance from the crowd, backing and hUing like a ship in stays, 
 if he could tell me what had been the matter, and I received from 
 him the following graphic account of the transaction, much in the 
 words of the "Confused individual," in Punch, but uttered with 
 such volubility, and in so tliick a voice, that I could hardly follow 
 the narrator — 
 
 "Matter, sir! gentleman's 'oss run away with a broom, sir. Never 
 see anythink like it in all my born days. Down he comes the 'ill with 
 the shanes a danglin' all about his legs — knocks a butcher's cart into 
 a linendraper's shop — bangs up agin a carridge-and-pair — smashes 
 the pannels all to bits, hupsets a phe-aton, and, if he 'adn't a 
 run up agin this here cab and dashed it right over, and stopt hisself, 
 blowed if I don't think there'd ha' been some haccident!" 
 
 I thanked my informant, and pushed through tlie crowd to get a 
 nearer view of the horse who had so much distinguished himself. 
 and great was my surprise when, in the hands of two policemen — 
 talking to the captain, with (apparently) his groom — I recognised 
 my old friend ^Morgan Rattler. Yes, I could not be mistaken, even 
 if I had not known tliat well-bewhiskered, foxy face at a glance^ 
 for there were the drooping ear, the deeply-fired legs, the fine shape, 
 and peculiar dun colour to swear by. And tliere the old horse 
 stood, apparently as fresh as on tlie day when he met Patty Morgan 
 at the Woolpack ; and, as he defiantly looked round him, seemed to 
 intimate that he was quite ready for such another burst if they would 
 only put hi'i^ into harness again. 
 
Ihe Trotter. 171 
 
 "Game to the last, old boy," I thought j "I only wish your old 
 master was here to see you now 3" and I walked away. This i? 
 the last I saw of old JMorgan Rattler. 
 
 As to the little mare, she did me good service. I kept her for 
 rvvo years, during which time I got a good deal of gig work 
 out of her, besides running fifteen matches, winning eleven. It 
 was true they were most of them country matches, and for no 
 great stakes. Occasionally, however, she flew at higher game. 
 I ran her one year for tlie Manchester Trotting Sweepstakes, and 
 although she did not win, she finished well up with Lady Sale. 
 I was getting her ready for this race on the following year when 
 she broke down incurably, and I chopped her away to old Jones for 
 a slab-sided, spindle-shanked, three-cornered blood filly, which the 
 old man always fancied would do great things. For once in his life, 
 however^ he was mistaken. I kept her for two years, and, with old 
 Jones up, ran her for many little country stakes 3 but she never got 
 higher than No. 2, generally 4 or 5, and she managed to lose me 
 more money than Patty Morgan had ever won for me. Old Jones 
 kept the httle Welsh mare for breeding, and she threw a colt to 
 Mulatto, which he sold for a long price. 
 
 And what became of Sam West? Well, if the reader is not 
 already tired out, I will tell him. I said he went to Australia, and 
 about fifteen years afterwards, when the diggings had broken out, 1 
 followed him. I was not long on tlie gold-fields, but went into tlie 
 bush kangarooing. I was camped with two mates, about thirty 
 miles south of Melbourne. 
 
 Now, we rarely had more than one change of clothes in a bush 
 tentj we used to buy a suit of ready-made ones in Melbourne, which 
 ^e wore till they were no longer decent, and then went up to Mel- 
 bourne again for a nev/ rig. There was something very comical in 
 tlie manner in which a digger or a bushman at that day used to 
 *'cast his skin." He would come down to Melbourne in his old 
 suit, walk into a ready-made clothes shop, and select a whole new 
 suit, even to shirt, boots, and stockings. He tlien walked off into 
 
i'j2 The Trotter, 
 
 ihe clothier's back-yard, with his bundle of new clothes, a bucket 
 of water, and some soap. Here he performed his toilet, cast away 
 his old "slough" on to a huge heap of old clothes which lay in the 
 corner of the yard, and walked out of the shop, in all the pride of a 
 new cabbage-tree hat, jumper, and moleskins, so altered tliat his 
 most intimate bush friend would hardly know him. 
 
 We used in our tent to "change our coats" about once a quarter. 
 On one occasion we all three walked up to Melbourne together for 
 that purpose. Not one of us had a shilling in his pocket, but we 
 had money to receive when we got to town. We left the tent in 
 the afternoon, and walked up through the night. It was in March 
 (the Australian autumn), and the morning sun rose in a clear 
 cloudless sky, so peculiar to this beautiful country. It was a lovely 
 morning, and by about seven we had reached Brighton, a little 
 suburb, then six miles from Melbourne, now, I suppose, annexed 
 to it. 
 
 As we were tired, we threw ourselves down and lit our pipes undei 
 a large gum tree on a piece of common land, for there still remained 
 signs of the bush, even so near town, although the country round 
 was studded with pretty little villas built with the greatest taste, 
 surrounded by small parks or gardens. We rested just in front of 
 one of the prettiest of these. A neat flower garden faced the road, 
 on the grass plot of which lay some of the very largest pumpkins I 
 ever did see in my life. We lay smoking our pipes, speculating as 
 to the weight of the pumpkins, when a tall, handsome, portly, 
 florid-looking old gentleman, in a dressing-gown and straw hat, 
 walked out of the house, apparently to get a snilf of the fresh morn- 
 ing air. He had all the look of a man who was perfectly at home, 
 and appeared to survey his little house and garden with great satis- 
 faction. We were just wondering what the "old bloke" was going 
 to have for breakfast, and wishing he would ask us in, for, as we 
 had no money, we knew we must wait till we came to Melbourne 
 before we got a " feed." All at once his eye fell upon us, and he 
 stepped out of the wicket to have a nearer view of us. Our 
 
Ihe Trotter, 173 
 
 looks certainly were not prepossessing, for our clothes were ragged 
 and dusty, and no man looks the fresher in the early morning for 
 having been up all night, no matter how he may have spent his 
 time. In fact, our appearance was in strange contrast with that of 
 the neat, fresh-looking old man who was now approaching us. 
 
 "Here comes old Cockatoo to ask us in to breakfast," growled 
 ne of my mates, the roughest of our lot. 
 
 "No such luck!" I said. When the old man, after he had taken 
 good stock of us, accosted us with — 
 
 "Are you looking out for a job, my lads?" 
 
 "No," one of us answered, "we are looking out for some break- 
 fast." 
 
 He did not, however, take the hint. It is one of the privileges of 
 declining years to be garrulous and inquisitive^ and this old gentleman^ 
 certainly took every advantage of his privilege. I can hardly say how 
 many questions he asked us. "Were we sheep-shearers? — were we 
 splitters? — where were we bound for? — where did we come from?" — 
 &c., &c. But when I told him we were neither one nor the other,, 
 but kangaroo-hunters living down in the Western Port district, the 
 old man became quite interested. "And what part of the old coun- 
 try do you come out of?" was one of his numerous questions. My 
 rough mate's patience was now fairly exhausted, and with, "What 
 
 the h is that to you?" he rose up, saying, "Come, my lads, itV 
 
 time we were in Melbourne." 
 
 I was rather sorry he had answered the old man so roughly, for 
 his questions were harmless enough, and his grey hairs and venerable- 
 aspect warranted a certain degree of respect. He seemed hurt at it, 
 too, as I could see when he answered, " Well, mate, you need not 
 cut up so rough, I meant no harm 5" but, with a pertinacity which 
 an Old Bailey barrister could scarcely have equalled, he turned round 
 to me with^ "Well, what was your county at home?" I directly 
 told him. 
 
 "Did you know Ashby Grange, then?" he hurriedly and ex- 
 citedly asked me. 
 
174 '-^^^ Trotter. 
 
 ''Yes," I answered, "1 should think so; and Sam West and 
 Morgan Rattler, too." 
 
 "Come in! come in! all of you," said the old manj and turning 
 to me, said, "I'll introduce you to an old friend." 
 
 He took us into his little parlour, where over the mantelpiece 
 hung the very portrait of old Morgan which I had seen at the Grange 
 the last and only time I was there. 
 
 I recognised the horse at once, and when I turned round and 
 looked the old man well over, I had no difficulty in recognising in 
 him the once renowned and notorious Sam West. He was, of 
 course, considerably aged, for he was getting on then for seventy. 
 But the beautiful climate of Australia suited him, and his years sat 
 lightly on him. He had bought a bit of land, built himself a little 
 house, and was passing the few remaining years of a wild and 
 stormy life happily and quietly in growing pumpkins and breeding 
 Cochin-Chinas. 
 
 I soon told him who I was, and it was a jovial meeting. No fear 
 of our breakfast now — such a silvery round of cold beef! The old 
 gentleman carved at a side table, and his knife and fork knew no 
 rest for the first twenty minutes. 
 
 "It does me good to see you chaps eat," said he, as he filled our 
 plates for the third time; adding, " don't be offended when I tell 
 you that when first I saw you I took you for three bushrangers, 
 and little did I think that a man lay there who had once beaten 
 old Morgan." 
 
 He could not do enough for us. Did we want money? — would 
 we have a dozen pumpkins ? — anything he had we were welcome 
 to, except old Morgan's picture. Before leaving, he beckoned me 
 out of the room, and when I got into the passage, he eyed me in- 
 tently from top to toe, and at last broke out — 
 
 " You don't mean to say you are going into Melbourne in that 
 state! Oh, dear! if any of the old friends at home could see you 
 now. Don't you think" — and here he paused as i+' "'^t liking to go 
 on — " a suit of my clothes would fit you ?" 
 
The Trotter, 175 
 
 I laughingly thanked him, but dedined his kind offer. I told him 
 I would call upon him quite a different figure when I came back 
 from Melbourne; which I did. As long as I remained in that part 
 of the country we were sworn friends. Our kangaroo-cart never 
 went up to town without leaving him a hind quarter of a kangaroo, 
 or a bunch of game 3 and it never came down again without a little 
 present of some kind or other, if it was only a large pumpkin. 
 
 So strangely do old acquaintances meet in this world when they 
 least expect itj and so strangely is something or other always turn- 
 ing up in after years to revive within us the memories of our past 
 lives? 
 
1/6 
 
 THE FISHING DAY. 
 
 " I shall stay the reader no longer than to wish him a rainy day to read the 
 following discourse; and that, if he be an honest angler, the east wind may never 
 blow when he goes a-fishing." — Izaak Walton. 
 
 It was a beautiful sentiment, whoever uttered it, that "to trans- 
 mit the first bright and early impressions of our youth free and 
 uninjured, to a remote period of life, constitutes one of the loftiest 
 prerogatives of genius." And although the task of transmitting 
 such impressions, in all their original freshness, is an impossibility, 
 yet which of us is there who will not gladly, at times, snatch a 
 minute from the hours which are engrossed in the hurry and bustle 
 of the world, to turn back to the early chapters of his " book or 
 jjfe?" How fondly then does memory love to dwell upon the 
 pages which are written in the free, bold characters of boyhood ! — 
 perhaps the only pages in that mysterious book which are written 
 without a blot ! 
 
 Such, at least, is the case with me j and although 1 well know it 
 is useless now to sigh for 
 
 " The returning bloom 
 Of those days, alas ! gone by. 
 When I loved, each hour, I scarce knew whom. 
 And was blest, I scarce knew why " 
 
 still the remembrance of those happy days will haunt me to the 
 last page of life's chapter 5 and many a trivial and careless inci- 
 dent of my boyhood stands out in bold relief upon the tablets of the 
 mind, while graver and more momentous passages of after years 
 have passed away and left no impression. 
 
 Which of us can ever forget his first pony or his first gun? 
 
'Ihe Fishing Bay, 177 
 
 Although many years have passed since that day, I could even now 
 find the very spot in the rough sedgy meadow where I killed my 
 first hare 3 and whatever may be the standing crop now in that 
 field, if I were only once again in it I fancy I could find my way 
 to within a hundred yards of where I shot my first partridge. As 
 for my first run with foxhounds, why, that red-letter day in my 
 calendar will keep its freshness to the last. But whatever may be our 
 favourite sport in after years, there is one which I think I may safely 
 say was the dearest and most treasured of all the pastimes of our boy- 
 hood, to everyone of us who had the opportunities of enjoying it : I 
 mean that of angling — at once the most fascinating, innocent, and 
 least selfish of all field sports, and one whose quiet recreations are 
 so peculiarly adapted to our earliest youth or declining years. 
 
 Moreover, there is less jealousy existing between the members of 
 the gentle art than among sportsmen of any other class Let the 
 north country angler boast of the Tweed, the Coquet, or the Till ; 
 let the richer and more aristocratic brother tell of the salmon he 
 has taken in the magnificent rivers of Northern Europe : the true 
 bottom-fisher of the Thames envies neither of thenij while the 
 trudging tinker, as he sits by the side of some favourite bream or 
 chub hole in one of our sluggish Midland streams, quietly watching 
 his float, and even the little shoeless urchin whose only treasures 
 consist in a " willow rod, some thread for line, a crooked pin for 
 hook," are both happy and contented in the full belief that theirs is 
 the only sport worth enjoying. 
 
 And why is tliis ? Because, in whatever locality, in whatever 
 manner the sport is pursued, there is a quiet calm infused into the 
 angler's mind, when following his favourite pastime, which no other 
 sport can ofier ; and whatever the prey, whatever the scenery amid 
 which the angler roams, he sees the hand of God written in every 
 flower, in every blade of grass, and, unlike those who follow the 
 more boisterous pursuits of the chase, he has full time and leisure t. 
 observe and reflect on all the beauties of nature which are so pro- 
 fusely spread before his eyes. 
 
 Early associations lend a greater charm to die angler's sport man 
 
 w 
 
178 The Fishing Bay, 
 
 perhaps to any other ; and the scenes among which his early days 
 have been passed leave a far deeper impression on the angler's mind 
 than the sport itself. My early days were spent in the quiet of a 
 secluded village by the side of a sluggish inland stream ; and the 
 only fish met with in it were the pike, perch, chub, bream, gudgeon, 
 roach, eel, and a few other kinds, which the scientific fly-fisher 
 would despise. But the village was, perhaps, one of the prettiest 
 in England, and the stream gently wound its crooked, Scheldt-like 
 course through a lovely pastoral landscape. I have since that day 
 Wandered over many lands, and fished in mountain streams which 
 came dashing and tumbling over beds and masses of rock in all the 
 magnificence of wild, untamed nature, through scenery of the 
 grandest description. I have seen the lordly salmon quivering in 
 his last death-throe by the side of the dark pool, whose waters hissed 
 and bubbled at the bottom of the fall which carried the upland flood 
 with a resistless force down to the sea. Yet the old mill, the 
 staunch, and the lock on my own native stream, are far dearer to 
 me than all these : and if 1 only had my choice, I would rather by 
 far spend one afternoon in again watching the perch as they sail to 
 and fro around the piles of the old rustic bridge across the back- 
 water, or the chub, as he lazily rises in the still, deep hole under the 
 old pollard which overhangs the little stream where my first angling 
 lessons were learnt, than see the largest salmon killed in the finest 
 river, which is bound to me by no early associations, and in a land 
 where all men are strangers to me. 
 
 It would be a difficult task to choose any individual day from the 
 many spent so happily by the side of our own favourite little stream. 
 Let us take any one towards the end of July (which used to be our 
 favourite season for perch), and all we shall require to aid our sketch 
 will be a dark, cloudy morning, wind S.W., with just such a breeze 
 on the water as slightly rustles through the flags and willows which 
 fringe the margin of the river, and curls the ripple on tlie dark 
 waters of our favourite pit or hole. 
 
 The evening before an excursion like the present was generally a 
 busy one. The minnows and gudgeons had to be looked over and 
 
The Fishing Bay, 179 
 
 sorted J the tackle to be overhauled 3 lines tried, hooks spliced, gut 
 bottoms proved -, and many an anxious eye was turned towards the 
 setting sun, and two or three journeys made to the river-side to 
 ascertain the colour and the height of the water. Before these ar • 
 ranofements are concluded, the sun has sunk behind the old wood 
 which bounds the western horizon on the other side of tlie river; 
 and as '^ early to bed and early to rise " should ever be the angler's 
 motto, we are soon in full enjoyment of that undisturbed re- 
 pose which few of us can ever hope for after the days of boyhood 
 have passed. At seven in the morning we leave the house with our 
 factotum — an amphibious sort of fellow, half gamekeeper, half 
 fisherman — laden with the minnow kettles and the landing net — 
 and, not the least important thing on a day like the present, the 
 basket of provisions. 
 
 We have to call on an old friend who lives just outside the vil- 
 lage, to breakfast; and, although we are pretty punctual to our time, 
 he is already awaiting our arrival. His cordial greeting as he meets 
 us at the gate is as cordially exchanged, and, as we set down our 
 rods and tackle in the little trellised porch before his door, we all 
 agree that, had old Izaak himself bespoken the day, we could not 
 have been more fortunate in the weather. Our friend, who is this 
 day to be the captain of the party, is a veteran both in " flood and 
 fitld;" and, although a slight bend in the shoulders and the scant 
 silvery locks proclaim tliat he is traveUingin the downhill of life, the 
 hrm step, the bronzed, ruddy, healthy, weather-beaten cheek, and 
 the keen eye, prove that the ravages of time have had but little 
 etlect on a frame so well seasoned by the healthful pursuits of a 
 country life. 
 
 We are too anxious to be off to waste much time at breakfast; 
 and while we are at the boat-house getting the punt in order, the 
 deep, lull-toned chimes ringing forth the hour of eight from the tall 
 spire in the distance, strike upon our ear "with voice prolonged 
 and measured fall," mellowed by the water over which the sound 
 parses. 
 
 The ripple on the stream is beautiful, and the sun can scarcely 
 
 N 2 
 
j8o The Fishing Bay. 
 
 make his way through the heavy clouds, the screaming swifts chase 
 each other high in the air above our heads, while the swallows skim 
 over the margin of the river in pursuit of the gnats and flies, whose 
 brief ephemeral existence is cut off almost ere they have begun their 
 short-lived enjoyment. The little sedge-warbler keeps inc2ssantly 
 hopping about the flags and willows in which the boathouse is shel- 
 tered, uttering its merry and ceaseless note j while the kingfisher, 
 startled from the willow on which he was perched, dashes down the 
 stream with the speed of an arrow. The dense mass of candocks 
 and water-lilies to our right are the secure resort of many a jack, 
 who lies there in grim repose awaiting his daily prey -, and by the 
 muddy bank of the osier-bed which faces us is the best tench-hole 
 in the whole river. Oh ! these are all every-day sights and scenes 
 familiar to the angler and lover of rural life, and, trifling as they 
 may appear to be to the careless observer, the true lover of nature 
 treasures them in his heart j but it is not until, perhaps, far absent 
 from the spot where he has so often observed them, that their beauty 
 is fully appreciated. It is then that '' distance lends enchantment 
 to the view," and when, in after years, the thoughts for a moment 
 recur to these pleasant visions of youth and home, do they rush 
 across the mind with their full force. But, like the bubble on the 
 stream, they are seen only for an instant before they burst and dis- 
 appear in the headlong currents of the waves of life. 
 
 We sprit down in the punt to the old locks, about a mile down 
 the stream, dropping a trimmer or two behind us on the road. We 
 leave the pant at the top gate; and, as the locks are closed, the 
 deep still hole at the bottom gate is the spot where we commence 
 operations. The stream runs slow, the water is dark and low, and 
 all promises well. Rods are soon put together, each one chooses a 
 bait to his own fancy, and takes his place. For a while not a word 
 is spoken, each being too much occupied in watching his float. At 
 length, after a slight move, one float disappears under water, and in 
 a few seconds a perch of about one pound is struggling on the bank 
 — first fish, upon which a little jealousy has depended. Another, 
 
The Fishing Day, i^i 
 
 ana another, soon succeeds. As we proceed down the stream, the lock- 
 pound, the head of the staunch, the mill-tail, are all successively tried, 
 and each yields something to help to fill the creels ; but the fish of the 
 day, a perch of two and a half pounds, is taken by our veteran 
 friend, with a paternoster, in a deep hole against one of the piles of 
 the old wooden footbridge that crosses the backwater. 
 
 The sun has all the morning been obscured by clouds, and, as the 
 fish have all been well on the feed, by twelve each creel holds its 
 share. But tlie evening's sport has yet to come. We now cross 
 the river in the punt, to the osier holt on the opposite side, where 
 we propose to lunch in the shade, screened from the oppressive rays 
 of the mid-day sun, which has now found its way through the 
 clouds. The creels are emptied, fresh flags put into each, tlie fish 
 carefully repacked, and laid in the shade till lunch is over. The 
 minnow-cans are sunk, the provisions are spread out upon the grass j 
 and, as ceremony is unlooked for on an occasion like the present, 
 each man for himself. Thanks to the provider of the feast, no one 
 can grumble at either quahty (ir quantity — the bottled ale, which 
 has been sunk in the river all the morning, is excellent, and no one 
 finds fault with either the cold pigeon-pie or the lamb salad. Not a 
 breath of air is now stirring ; the cattle stand lazily up to their knees 
 in tlie shallow ford a little way down the stream j the haymakers 
 have left their work in the meadows, and are now seated under the 
 tall hedge-row, resting from their toil, during the heat of the day j 
 and as the fish are now altogether off their feed, the margin of the 
 stream is as smooth as glass. 
 
 But hark ! a hail from the opposite bank, and the jolly miller 
 calls to us to bring the punt across. As he says, we can have no 
 fishing for an hour or so, but if we will come up to the mill and 
 smoke a pipe, he promises us that he will stop the wheel in the 
 evening, when we shall be sure to have some rare sport, both in 
 the head and tail water. This is too good an mvitation to be refused, 
 more especially as the miller is '^one of us," although his line lies 
 more among the bow-nets and eel- traps. A rare evening's sport 
 
i8a The Fishing Bay. 
 
 winds up a happy day^, and it is not until the sun, fast nearing 
 the western horizon, "proclaims it high time to get home," that we 
 leave off. 
 
 We unscrew oar rods, pack up our tackle, and turn out the fish 
 on the grass for inspection. We have had a very fair da) 's sport : 
 a dozen of the perch will average one pound each, and several from 
 a half to three-quarters of a pound ; three or four heavy chub, and 
 a good-sized pike or two make up the catch ; and each one, as he 
 packs up his creel, feels satisfied with its contents. 
 
 After a parting glass of ale, just to keep the night air out, and a 
 hearty good-night from the jovial miller, we start for home. The 
 deep crimson streaks across the western sky mark a glorious sunset, 
 and the pale moon has already begun to cast a silvery light over the 
 tranquil stream which, but an hour ago, seemed almost alive with 
 fish rising at the evening flies, dancing up and down over its surface. 
 The bat flies so close by us, that we can distinctly hear his sharp 
 snap as he catches at a gnat. The last waggon has left the meadow 
 with its load -, and the silence of the evening is broken by the voices 
 of the haymakers, dying away in the distance as they slowly follow 
 it home. 
 
 Our homeward walk lies through the meadows, now almost ob- 
 scured by the heavy mist, which, rising up from the river, shuts the 
 landscape from the view. Our steps may not be so pliant as they 
 were in the morning, but our hearts are as light ; and although our 
 creels are well filled, no one feels their burthen. The lonely heron, 
 startled by our laugh, rises from the river side, and as he wings his 
 measured flight to the old heronry in a distant park, the air resounds 
 to his hoarse, discordant scream j and the pewit, as it wheels in airy 
 rings over the fallow to our left, " wakes the echoes with unweary- 
 ing cries." 
 
 We soon reach the village, guided by the twinkling lights in the 
 cottage windows, which shine like beacons to guide the weary tra- 
 veller on his homeward track. We enter our old friend's gate, and, 
 having doffed our creels in the hall, are soon in his snug little par- 
 lour, where supper is awaiting us. When this is finished, tlie old 
 
The Fishing Day. 183 
 
 man lights his pipe, our tumblers are filled, each man's catch is 
 talked over, and many a discussion takes place on the merits of a 
 superior bait or a favourite hole j and many are the tales told of the 
 weight of fish taken upon such a gravel or at such a staunch. 
 
 Happy as are the recollections of scenes like the present, how- 
 much of that happiness is tinged with regret as we look back upon 
 them, through the dark haze of time ! Many years have now fled, 
 still it seems like yesterday as I recall to my mind the last evening I sat 
 at my old friend's table after a fishing-day like that above described — 
 one of the happiest of that happy party of four brothers, all tried 
 companions in every rustic sport and amusement. Within a year 
 of that evening, our old friend was taken from us, and his place was 
 filled no more. Out of the four brothers, the youngest now sleeps 
 his last long sleep in the old churchyard, against the wall of which 
 the quiet waters of his favourite stream continually ripple — meet 
 resting-place for one whose earliest and happiest days were spent 
 upon its margin, and 
 
 ** The others are dwelling far apart. 
 With coldness in each selfish heart. 
 Happiest far that stripling boy 
 Who died in the hours of peace and joy, 
 Who passed in the flush of his beauty's bloom 
 From his * happy village ' to the tomb !" 
 
 The window is open^, and tlie night-breeze as it sighs through the 
 leaves of tlie sycamore at the gate, wafts the perfume of the jasmine 
 and acacia into the room. All is still save the never-varying hum 
 of the distant mill, and the monotonous *^crex, crex," of the corn- 
 crake from the opposite meadow. The moon rides high in the pale 
 blue atmosphere 3 not a cloud overshadows her brightness, and her 
 light silvery beam dances upon the rippling waters of the river 
 which flows on silently at the bottom of the garden. 
 
 The quiet tranquillity of this evening is felt by all, and each, as he 
 silently gazes on the river, seems lost in his own thoughts. The 
 evening is fast waning, and a happy one have we spent, listening to 
 the tales and maxims of our good old friend. His manly features 
 
184 'l^he Fishing Day, 
 
 wear a tlioughtful cast, and he utters a sigli as he shakes the ashes 
 out of his last pipe. We rise to depart, and each, as he warmly 
 grasps our hands on taking leave, truly feels tJiat 
 
 " The evening breezes chill 
 
 Now close our joyous scen^ 
 And yet we linger still 
 
 Where we've so joyous been; 
 How blest were it to live. 
 
 With hearts, like ours, so light. 
 And only part to give 
 A last, a long good night. 
 
 Good-night r 
 
i8S 
 
 THE BEST FOURTEEN-HANDER 
 IN ENGLAND. 
 
 It used to be a saying in my day " that there was but one best 
 horse, one best dog, and one best gun in England, and that every- 
 body had them." And as there is a good deal of covert truth in 
 this observation, it may appear a little presumptuous on my part 
 when I make the bold assertion that once in my life (but only for 
 twenty-four hours) I was really the lucky possessor of the best 
 fourteen-hander in England, in the shape of a little one-eyed rat- 
 tailed galloway, who won three races for me in one day, beating 
 what we considered the best ponies in England, after which, for 
 two years, she went through the length and breadth of the land, 
 sweeping away every prize that was run for by horses of her 
 standard ; and the reader will probably inquire wherefore, when I 
 had become possessed of such a treasure, I did not keep it ? This 
 question he will find very satisfactorily answered if he reads on to 
 the end of my story. 
 
 The tale is this. One evening in the end of June, a pretty good 
 many years since, seated on one of the coaches which then ran 
 between Birmingham and Leicester, I entered the little half-town, 
 half-village of HoUerton, on the eve of the annual feast and pony- 
 races. At this time, races for horses under fourteen hands were, I 
 fancy, much more the fashion in England than at the present day ; 
 and, although called '''pony-races," they brought out a very different 
 class of animal from what are generally understood by the word 
 pony J for I have seen perfect racehorses in miniature saddled for a 
 galloway stakes, in as good training and very nearly as well-bred, 
 but deficient only in size, to any of our thoroagh-bred racers. Na 
 
1 86 The Best Fourtcen-Hander in England. 
 
 place was more renowned in my day for its pony-races than Hol- 
 lerton 3 and the Hollerton Cup of i^ sovs. with a Sweepstakes of 
 ^ sovs. added, often brought to the post twelve to fifteen of the 
 rery best and handsomest little racers in England 3 and the dis- 
 tance (nearly the same as that of the Derby) would perhaps be 
 covered by these little flyers considerably under the four minutes. 
 I fancy, moreover, that " leather-flapping," as these little half-bred 
 racers were contemptuously called, was more followed in the mid- 
 land counties than elsewhere ; and, although the practice was 
 considered by many as being greatly open to fraud (which it probably 
 was), I do not fancy that the turf is in a bit more healthy state now 
 than it was then ; nor do I believe there was half so much " roping" 
 or '^'^ milking" carried on then as there is now. Be this as it may, I 
 know that these little meetings used to afford many a happy day's 
 amusement to the country people, who, but for them, would 
 probably have never seen a day's racing in their lives. They 
 brought together neighbours and friends ; they infused a little spirit 
 of racing: emulation amons^st the farmers and breeders of each 
 particular district 3 and, if they did not lead such men to breed a 
 better class of horse, they certainly gave them opportunities of 
 finding out when they had a good one, and, moreover, of making 
 the most of such a horse when they did possess it. 
 
 At all events, this kind of racing just suited my pocket and 
 tastes, and for a few years it was very rarely that I had not a '' little 
 one" in for the '' Hollerton Cup." Once I had won it, and once 
 I had run second, and on th*^ present occasion I had a share with 
 my friend " the screwdealer" (mentioned in my sketch of the 
 " Steeple-chaser") in a little pony called The Rejected, with which 
 the old man was very confident of winning the cup this year. 
 
 I got down at the *' Dolphin" (the principal sporting inn in the 
 place) about eight in the evening, and as this was just the 
 hour when the entries were closing for the morrow's races, not 
 only the pavement in front of the inn, but the inn yard itself was 
 crowded with burly farmers, horse-dealers, country jockeys, and 
 second-class racing men, who either had something to run or felt 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 187 
 
 an interest in a pony belonging to a friend. There was nothing 
 very aristocratic about the looks of the throng, but there was some- 
 thing truly British j and many a cordial shake of the hand did I 
 receive as I elbowed my way through the crowd to look for my old 
 friend, who I knew had arrived that afternoon, and was somewhere 
 about the premises. 
 
 Whilst pushing my way through the crowded inn passage I ran 
 against a man who was forcing his way out, and whom I instantly 
 recognised as one "Joe Cox," by some considered the biggest 
 blackguard in our parts. As soon as he saw me he seized me by 
 the arm, dragged me out again into the inn yard, and when we 
 were clear of the listeners, accosted me thus : " You're the very 
 man I was looking for, sir. If you want to buy the best fourteen- 
 hander in England, now's your time." 
 
 I must, before proceeding with my tale, introduce Mr. Joe Cox 
 to the reader. He was, to use the words of my old friend, a very 
 " equivocal" sort of character, and the very last man in the world 
 to part with the sort of horse he had just named, if he luckily 
 owned such a treasure, which was very unlikely. 
 
 He was a low, horse-coping kind of a fellow 3 a stout, muscular, 
 goodish-looking man, of about thirty-five, who kept a little beer- 
 shop, the '' Crooked Billet," on the edge of "Merry Sherwood," 
 the resort of all the broken-down horse-dealers, poachers, sheep- 
 stealers, and vagabonds in the neighbourhood. He was a man 
 possessed of considerable acquirements, such as they were — a capital 
 ludge of a horse, and a rare bruising rider for his weight. He was 
 an excellent pigeon-shot, and an incorrigible poacher j could fight, 
 wrestle, throw a quoit, play the tambourine, and kick a football 
 with any man in Nottinghamshire 3 was renowned throughout the 
 county for his breed of terriers, game-cocks, and ferrets, and, as he 
 was just the sort of fellow who could be very useful to country 
 gentlemen of certain tastes, and was, moreover, hardly the man one 
 would care willingly to offend, he was in a certain degree patronized 
 by many. Although not exactly what we should call a "steady 
 character," Joe was not a bad sort in his way, and would go any 
 
i88 The Best F our te en-Han der in Eytgland, 
 
 lengths to serve a ^'pal," or even a gentleman vt^ho trusted him. He 
 was a jovial, hearty fellovi^, with a peculiarly English yeoman cut 
 about him, could sing an excellent song, and tapped as good a glass 
 of ale as any man in the county. He was always remarkably civil 
 and respectful to his betters, and, as nothing beyond a predilection 
 for any kind of fun or mischief, and an innate propensity to get the 
 best of any one in a deal (a very venial offence, by the way, in our 
 horsey neiglibourhood), could be brought home to him, he reigned 
 unmolested at the " Crooked Billet " over subjects who particularly 
 delighted in " a shiny night at a season of the year," and whose 
 ideas respecting the rights of meum and tuum were probably hardly 
 so strict as they should have been. In fact, although the old forest 
 might be very much changed since the days when bold Robin 
 Hood roamed at will through its merry glades and pastures, there 
 was still a very lawless, roving, Robin Hoodish spirit remaining in 
 the characters of the inhabitants of that district; and if the bold 
 outlaw could have arisen from his grave to revisit the scenes of his 
 former exploits, the " Crooked Billet" would assuredly have been his 
 house of call. But all Joe's multifarious accomplishments were as 
 nothing compared to his consummate knowledge of every phase in 
 the chicanery of low horse-dealing and "leather-flapping 3" and 
 although it naturally happened that out of the many horses which 
 yearly passed through his hands, a good one must now and then 
 turn up, I hardly ever heard of a man who cared to venture on a 
 second deal with him. 
 
 Such was Joe Cox, such were his accomplishments j and a 'S^ery 
 respectable sort of acquaintance!" I fancy I hear the reader ex- 
 claim. Probably this w^as correct, but, nevertheless, I must candidly 
 confess that I did not altogether dislike the man 3 and although, as 
 I shall presently explain, he had left his mark pretty deeply upon 
 me in the first and only horse transaction I ever had with him, still 
 there was something so talismanic in the words, " The best fourteen- 
 hander in England," especially just at a time when to be the 
 possessor of such a treasure would ensure my winning the Hollerton 
 Cup 3 and, moreover, as there was evidently some mystery to be 
 
The Best Fourteeyi-IIander in England, 189 
 
 solved, I did not, as most prudent men would have done, tear my- 
 self away from him, but, merely answering his question as to 
 w^hether '' I w^anted to buy the best fourteen-hand pony in Eng- 
 land ?" wdth, '' Not if it be anything like the last I had of you, 
 Joe," I quietly waited to hear his explanation of the mysterious 
 sentence. 
 
 Before, however, I proceed with my story, I must beseech the 
 reader's patience, and travel back over a period of more than a 
 twelvemonth, in order to explain w^hy I answ^ered Mr. Cox in the 
 manner I did, and I trust this digression will be pardoned, be- 
 cause it touches upon rather an eventful episode in m.y life, and one 
 which, if it had turned out right, would probably have given quite 
 a different influence to my future career. It will at least describe 
 a race such as very few of my readers have probably ever ridden 
 in, and, moreover, a race for a heavy stake — a wife and a fortune. 
 
 Early one fine morning in the beginning of May, in the year 
 preceding the meeting just alluded to, I espied Mr. Joe ride up to 
 my gate, leading one of the very prettiest little chestnut mares it has 
 ever been my lot to cast eyes upon. That she was as handsome as a 
 picture, I could see with my own eyes, although I might be a little 
 sceptical as to whether she strictly answered Joe's description 3 for 
 according to his account she was such a treasure as no man could 
 hope to possess more than once in his life, and very few, even that. 
 According to his account, she was nearly thorough-bred, perfectly 
 sound and free from vice j and had for the last tw^o years been carry- 
 ing a young lady, w^ho, however, had become too consumptive to be 
 allowed horse exercise, and who was therefore reluctantly obliged 
 to part with her favourite pony. It was beautiful to listen to Joe's 
 pathetic account of the parting between this " dear young lady" and 
 her little pet. He declared it was solely on account of his solemn 
 promise that he would put her into the hands of a man who would 
 use her kindly, that he ever became possessed of her j and it was 
 with the laudable wish to keep his promise that he had troubled 
 himself to bring her over a matter of twenty-five miles for me to 
 look at. And the cunning rascal wound up with, " I had you in 
 
190 The Best Fourteen- Hander in England. 
 
 my eye, sir, when I bought her ; and when I mentioned your name 
 to the ' dear young lady,' as one who I knew, of all other men, 
 would take charge of her pony and use her kindly for life, she 
 clasped her hands together and said, ' Bless him !' And if you 
 could only have seen her at that minute, sir, you'd have said she 
 looked as much like an angel as anything you ever see in your hfe, 
 sir !" Joe had a habit of speaking quick, and running his sen- 
 tences into each other, which rather detracts from the pathos of a 
 tale ; but he spoke all this with an air of such feeling, and, more- 
 over, threw in his little bit of flattery so well, that I had almost 
 made up my mind at once to try and buy the mare. His last shot, 
 however, decided me : " And besides, don't you see, sir, if you 
 can't find any nice young lady friend where you can place her, 
 you've nothing to do but to pnt her into training, and if she don't 
 w^in you the HoUerton Cup, why I'll return you every shilling of 
 the money, and take her back again, sir." There was another little 
 circumstance which also helped my decision : the night before I 
 had been kicked out of my gig by a vicious brute which 1 neither 
 dare put into harness again or sell in my own neighbourhood, but 
 which I felt certain Joe would tackle. He did not seem to think 
 a bit worse of the horse for having played me this trick, so long as 
 it was considered in the price, and after a Uttle higgling I agreed to 
 take the mare as she was, giving him my kicker and 15/. 5 and as 
 I well knew the value of a warranty from such a character, I 
 merely took a receipt for the money, and Joe rode off apparently 
 thoroughly satisfied, although he was taking away with him about 
 the most dangerous brute that ever looked through a collar. Per- 
 haps he was consoled by the reflection that he was leaving nearly 
 as dangerous a one behind. Just as he rode out of the gate, he 
 turned to remark, " You'd best ride the little mare in the bridle 
 she's got on now, till you get a bit used to her mouth, sir, for if 
 she has a fault it is that she hangs a little heavy on the hit. Not that 
 that makes twopence difference to a man like you, as knows a hoss > 
 fact, I dare say, like myself, sir, you would not care to ride one if 
 you could not feel his mouth. Keep 'em well on the bit, that's 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 391 
 
 my motto, sir 3' and with a polite wave of his hat, Mr. Cox rode 
 off. I never heard so neat a description of a regular bolter in 
 my life. 
 
 When I turned the little mare into the loose box which the 
 kicker had just vacated, and looked at her meek, dove-like eye, 
 sleek satin coat, and faultless symmetry, I felt quite pleased with 
 my new bargain. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, I 
 certainly experienced that feeling in this instance 3 and when the 
 beautiful little creature came sidling up to me to take some oats out 
 of my hand, and nestled her velvet nose against my breast, I in- 
 wardly thought of the "dear consumptive young lady" whose pet 
 she had so lately been, and vowed that Joe's solemn promise should 
 never be jeopardized by any treatment her little favourite would 
 receive at my hands. The mare had not been in the stable an hour 
 before I put her under the standard, and found, to my delight, that 
 she was the very height for Hollerlon 5 and I now began seriously 
 to think of abandoning a project which I had half formed, and of 
 sending her instead to my old friend's stable, to get her fit for the 
 HoUerton Cup. But myfirst project was one well worth entertaining j 
 and when I cantered the mare two or three times round a small 
 paddock close to the stables, sitting lady-fashion on the saddle, with 
 a counterpane tied round my middle and dangling down her side, 
 and found she took not the slightest notice of it, I began to put 
 some confidence in the story of the consumptive young lady, and 
 to fancy that really, for once in his life, Joe might have told the 
 truth on this occasion. I deemed it prudent, however, to stick to 
 the bridle which she had been used to (about as coarse and sharp a 
 looking curb as ever I had seen) and a strong martingale, and though, 
 as Joe said, she certainly did hang rather heavier in hand than I 
 should have fancied a consumptive young lady would have liked, 
 I had not the slightest fault to find with either her going or her 
 paces. My old friend was away at a fair, and would not be home 
 all the Saturday following, so I could not get his opinion o;a 
 my new purchase 5 but 1 sent directly over for the vet., and, 
 after a caiefu] examination, he passed her as sound in every 
 
192 The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 
 
 respect. Although he shook his head when he heard of 
 whom I had bought her, he declared that, as far as soundness 
 went, she was all right, and as to vice of any kind, if such a lamb- 
 like little thing was not to be trusted, all he could say was, he never 
 again would place faith in any horse's countenance. 
 
 I must now explain lo the reader the project to which I have 
 above alluded. To use Joe's words, I certainly did " know a kind 
 young lady friend where I could place this little pet," and, perhaps, 
 advantageously for all parties. Moreover, upon serious considera- 
 tion, I did not feel quite sure wdiether I was not bound in honour 
 to the '^consumptive young lady" to place her late favourite in 
 hands which I felt certain would use her well instead of sending 
 her into a racing stable. There lived in a village about four miles 
 from us a young lady, into whose custody I could deliver my charge 
 with a safe conscience, and who, whenever we met, was continually 
 pressing me to buy her a pretty little pony for her own especial use. 
 She was the only daughter of an old, sun-dried Indian officer, who 
 had come to reside and end his days in the quiet of this little village, 
 and whom we young ones had irreverently christened " old MuUa- 
 gatawny." He was evidently "warm," judging from the style in 
 which he lived, and, as he was an hospitable old fellow after his 
 fashion (though desperately passionate and tyrannical in his own 
 house), he was always glad to see a friend to help him eat his curry, 
 smoke his cigars, listen to his tiger stories, and join him in the 
 evening at a quiet rubber at whist. His daughter was a fine, dash- 
 ing girl, with a goodish spirit of her own, rather fast, and very fond 
 of riding about the countr}' with an old groom behind her ; but 
 what I most liked in her was that she had a plain way of saying just 
 what she thought, without caring a pin whether it offended you or 
 not. I was a good deal at the old nabob's house, and, of course, 
 thrown a good deal into the society of the daughter, so that at last 
 I had the vanity to flatter myself that, as the novelists would say, I 
 was "not altogether indifferent to her." Moreover, I began to 
 think that Chunee Villa (as the nabob's residence was called), a 
 ftne, dark-eyed girl, and a lac of rupees (which was the very least 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 193 
 
 we fancied in our rural innocence that her old father could possibly 
 have amassed during his Indian campaign), would be very well 
 worth dropping in for. Having talked the matter over with my 
 old friend, who, although unmarried himself, was a great advocate 
 for seeing us young ones settled in life, he strenuously advised me 
 not to throw such a chance away 5 and, as he had heard that she 
 was an excellent horsewoman, he thought it would be a master- 
 stroke of policy if we could pick up a quiet lady's horse, on which 
 I was to ride over, and, if she admired it, as would most probably 
 be the case, I was to open the campaign at once by begging her 
 acceptance of it. That she must admire the little chestnut mare, 
 I felt certain j and although there may not be much in a name, I 
 thought there was something delicate and lady-like in that which 
 the "vet." and I bestowed upon her, namely, "The Evening 
 Star." 
 
 I had formed my plan of proceeding, which was, that on 
 the following Sunday morning, I would ride over to the old 
 nabob's house on the little mare, go to church with the old man 
 and his daughter, or (if he was confined to his easy-chair with the- 
 gout, which was often the case), better still, with the daughter 
 alone 3 and in the afternoon press her to accept the little mare as aj 
 present, which, although not altogether a disinterested one on my 
 part, I flattered myself would be accepted, and, if matters only weat 
 on smoothly, then, " hey for a wife and a lac of rupees !" As I sat 
 and ruminated over my future prospects, I felt quite amiably inclined 
 towards Mr, Cox for having put me in possession of the stepping- 
 stone to such luck, and I inwardly resolved, if things turned out as- 
 I trusted, that I would, out of gratitude, do something very hand- 
 some for him. 
 
 Youth is naturally impatient, and I really began to fancy that 
 Sunday would never come (it was on a Wednesday that I bought 
 the mare). The reader will probably ask why I did not ride over 
 with the little mare directly, and perhaps that would have been the 
 most cavalier way of doing business j but, must I confess it, I was 
 rather selfish, and I wanted to see my old friend first, and, in case 
 
 o 
 
194 The Best Fourteen-Hajtder in England, 
 
 he should fancy that the Evening Star would prove of any use as 
 the second string to the fiddle which we were intending to play at 
 the next Hollerton races, why, then I would enter into a sort of 
 compromise with the young lady, and give her the mare with the 
 reservation that I should run her first for the cup, and, if she won 
 it, her value would be greatly enhanced. How beautifully and how 
 easily in life can we form projects for the future, and how rosy do 
 they appear till some unforeseen accident scatters them like chaff 
 before the wind. 
 
 The Sunday came at last, a lovely morning, ushered in with that 
 calm, refreshing quiet which so peculiarly characterizes an 
 English Sabbath in the country. All nature seemed at peace. As 
 I opened my bedroom window, the loud carol of the thrush was 
 heard from a neighbouring spinny j the swallow flew backwards 
 and forwards from her nest, which was built over my very window 3 
 'and the blackbirds were hopping upon the little grass-plot before 
 the house as if at least they feared no disturbers so early on so quiet 
 a morning. It was only a little after five, but I was soon dressed 
 and in the stable to see that every care was taken with the little 
 mare who was, perhaps, destined on that day to be the maker of 
 my future fortune. I meant to leave about eight, breakfast with 
 my old friend, whose house I must pass on the road, and then 
 canter on to Chunee Villa, about two miles distant, and arrive 
 there just in time for church. I never was a very " heavy swell " 
 at any time, but this morning I got myself up with a little more 
 <:are than usual — neat but not gaudy j and as I knew my lady's 
 horsey propensities, I did not fancy that a new black "cutaway" 
 :and a pair of tight-fitting drab trousers would offend her. I felt in 
 a very pleasant humour, and as I cantered away from my own gate 
 I was at ease with myself and the whole world — and that is what 
 very few of us can say after the days of youth have once passed. 
 I rode up to my old friend's door 3 he had spied the new nag from 
 the window, and he soon hopped out to welcome me. He was 
 delighted with the little mare, and very gratified to learn that I 
 had borne his instructions in mind, and was about to open the 
 
The Best F our te en-Han der in England. 195 
 
 campaign as he had recommended. He could not find a fault or 
 flaw with the new nag j and the only thing that spoilt her in his 
 eye was that I had bought her of " that Joe Cox/' whom he hated 
 like poison. However, strict as was his examination, he was bound 
 to declare that he fancied she was all that Joe had said, and he only 
 trusted this latter worthy had come honestly by her, for he never 
 could believe, unless there was some fault which we were unable 
 to detect, that such a little beauty could have come into his hands 
 fairly. He saw no reason why I should not part with her at once, 
 as, however good she might be, he fancied the one we then had in 
 training was good enough to " lick her head off." However, on 
 one thing he insisted — that I should take the breaker's bit out of 
 her mouth, unless I wanted to ''crab" her off hand 3 and when 
 one of the lads led her round to the door after breakfast, she was 
 decorated in a neat new racing snaffle with a blue-and-white plaited 
 band on the forehead. The martingale was taken away, and then 
 she looked, as he triumphantly observed, a nag fit to be shown to 
 any lady, even if that lady was the Queen of England. 
 
 Among his other tastes the old man was a bit of a florist, and 
 his tulips, carnations, anemones, and dahlias, when they were in 
 season, were the envy of all the gardeners round us. In front of 
 his house was a large round bed, divided into little squares, in which 
 his favourite flowers grew, and in the middle of which stood one of 
 the largest and handsomest rhododendrons I ever saw. This 
 bed was fenced off from the gravel walk which led round it by a 
 light iron fencing just high enough to keep a dog out, and treliised 
 with iron netting to prevent his game fowls from intruding 3 for, 
 like many of the old school, he had a strong penchant for ''the sod." 
 Beyond this bed was a lawn as soft as velvet and smooth as a 
 Turkey carpet, in the middle of which stood the old chestnut tree 
 to which I have alluded in a former sketch 5 and at the back of 
 this was a thick plantation of fir, hollies, laurel, and Spanish 
 che'stnuts, which screened the house from the road, from which the 
 plantation was divided by a deep, bricked '' haw-haw," flanked 
 with spiked slanting palings about three or four feet long. This 
 
 o 2 
 
196 The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 
 
 flower-bed, lawn, and shrubbery were the old man's chief delight, 
 and, it is needless to say, were scrupulously kept j and, if I had 
 wanted to offend him, I do not think I could have chosen a more 
 effectual mode than by riding over this lawn, where every horse- 
 print would have left an indelible mark. Even to pluck a flower 
 without first asking leave was a grave offence. I mention all this 
 that the reader may be acquainted with the premises, and in some 
 measure prepared for what is to come. One of the stable lads, as 
 I said, led the mare round, and the old man hopped down to the 
 gate to open it for me, that he might see her canter along the road 
 and watch her action. I do not know whether it was that a change 
 in the bridle wrought an entire change in the mare, but I had no 
 sooner got settled in my saddle than she broke away from the lad 
 at her head, reared up, and then, suddenly flying round as if on a 
 pivot, lashed out her hind legs within a few inches of his head. 
 She then sprang over the little iron fence, right into the old 
 man's very finest hyacinth-bed j dashed through the rhodo- 
 dendron bush, crushing his favourite flowers right and left, 
 with as little remorse as if they were only so much gravel; 
 lumped out on to the lawn, and then rushed into the planta- 
 tion, through which she dragged me, dashing me first against 
 one tree, then against another, till we came down to the haw- 
 haw at the bottom, which she cleared at a bound, and, as soon as 
 she felt the turnpike-road under her feet, went off, with her ears 
 laid back and her head stretched out, at a speed which the old maD 
 declared (as we shot by him, standing with the open gate in his 
 hand), if it would only last, was good enough to win all the 
 HoUerton Cups in England. I have been through some thickish 
 bullfinches in my time, but never through such a "stitcher" as 
 this. It is a miracle that I kept my seat, and, as the sequel will 
 prove, it would have been quite as well for me if I had not. Bui 
 I did not come off scathless — my new hat was flattened just as if I 
 had been " bonneted;" and, had not my nose prevented it, my liead 
 would certainly have come through the crown ; one arm of my 
 best black coat was torn completely off, at least hung on only by a 
 
The Best Fourleen-Hander in England. 197 
 
 thread 3 the coat itself was ripped ap the back, and ray trousers 
 spHt open at both knees. A pretty figure I must have cut as I came 
 shooting out of that shrubbery, to the amazement of a quiet coun- 
 try family, who were just passing on their way to the church in the 
 little neighbouring town ! However, when I got on to the turn- 
 pike, and saw there was no help for it, I pulled myself together as 
 well as I could, pushed my battered hat up over my eyes, and this 
 gave me a still more rakish appearance, and, as I saw the roaol 
 was pretty clear, I thought it best to let my lady have her 
 fling out, feeling confident that the pace would soon kill her 
 with my weight on her back. But I little knew her pluck 
 and bottom ; and as little did I know what I afterwards learnt, 
 that this was not the first time by many that she had bolted 
 in this way. In fact, the whole tale of the dear consump- 
 tive young lady was a '^pleasant conceit" of Joe's, for it turned 
 out that this meek, dove-eyed lady's hack had passed into 
 his hands from a farmer on the Belper side — one of the best 
 judges of a pony in England, who would never have parted with 
 her if he could have found a lad to hold her, for she had shown 
 herself good enough, when in the humour, to beat anything oi her 
 size J but after having bolted with himself and all his boys, he reluc- 
 tantly threw her up, and sold her to Mr. Cox for about a fifth of 
 her value, if she had been quiet. But, strange to say, at times she 
 was as quiet as a lamb, and then a sweeter little horse was never 
 crossed 3 but there was no saying when she might take it into hei 
 head to bolt, and when the fit was on her, no arm or bit in England 
 could hold her. 
 
 This was the history of the little mare, and I never was more 
 regularly sold in my life. However, I had no time now to think 
 about whether I had been done or not, for I was within a couple of 
 hundred yards of the turnpike-gate, which, as usual on a road where, 
 except on market-days, there was but little traffic, was shut. Now 
 this gate was a strong ash one, more than five feet high, with bars 
 so thick that an elephant could hardly have broken them. There 
 was a stiff stile by the side on a high, broad causeway, and although 
 
198 The Best F our te en-Han der in England, 
 
 not quite so high as the gate itself, this stile was pretty nearly as 
 nasty a leap, for it had two foot-boards, which crossed each other, 
 projecting more than a yard on each side. There was a legend 
 that one *^*^Jack Russell," a hard-riding, drunken farmer, had cleared 
 this very stile when coming home from market at night, and when 
 its white bars could hardly be seen, for it was one of the condi- 
 tions of the wager that the lamp which blazed over the turnpike- 
 door should be extinguished when he took this dangerous leap. He, 
 however, cleared it well, and the stile for ever afterwards went by 
 the name of Jack Russell's stile. This feat was naturally much 
 talked of in our hard-riding neighbourhood, and Jack Russell became 
 a sort of hero in my eyes. Scores of times when riding along the 
 turnpike-road have I been tempted to have a shy at this very stile 
 myself, and try if I could not do as much as Jack Russell, but it 
 looked such a desperate stiff bit of timber, and, moreover, the cause- 
 way was always as hard as iron, so that if the horse should 
 make a mistake, certain death seemed to stare me in the face. I 
 have, no doubt, often cleared as large a jump when out with the 
 hounds, and thought nothing of it 3 but then I had soft ground 
 under me to fall on. The little mare appeared to see the closed 
 gate as soon as I did, and made up her mind in an instant, for she 
 flew up on to the causeway, which was, I dare say, a foot higher 
 than the road, set her head straight at the stile, and cleared it ap- 
 parently as easy as she would have done a sheep hurdle. 
 
 I turned back in my saddle with a look of triumph as the old 
 pikeman w^as hobbling out to see whatever it was that had just shot 
 by his house. " Gentlemen," as the public speakers say, " this was 
 the proudest moment of my life." I had now done as much as 
 Jack Russell, and that on a pony which I had never ridden over 
 a hurdle. There are m.any grades of ambition in this world, 
 and I had now reached the summit of mine. ^' Oh ! you little 
 iewel," I thought, as the pony went sailing along the smooth 
 causeway, as fresh as ever, '^I'll forgive you all now, and 
 never for a moment regret the 30/. you cost me. As soon 
 as I can get you pulled up, I'll turn you gently home, for it's out 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 199 
 
 of the question thinking of the nabob's daughter to-day." But 1 
 very soon had something else to think of. Being a fine Sunday 
 morning, many country people were on their way to the church in 
 the little town, which was now within half a mile or so, and whose 
 glorious peal of bells distinctly floated upon my ear. They 
 naturally chose the causeway to walk on, under the shade of a row 
 of magnificent chestnuts, which extended along the road right up to 
 the town. Now it is clear that I had no business there 3 and I 
 began to get rather nervous as I saw little groups slowly wending 
 their way ahead of me, and who, not having yet heard the clatter 
 of my horse's hoofs on the hard causeway, had little idea of the 
 danger which so closely menaced them. As for pulling up, or 
 even turning the mare into the road, that was out of the question 5 
 she had a mouth of iron, and the little bit which was in it was bat 
 a plaything to her. Moreover, my hands were almost paralysed, 
 and I had no more power over her than a child. I had lost my 
 whip in the shrubbery, otherwise, as I now saw what a frightful 
 risk I was about to run, I should certainly have knocked her down 
 by a blow with the handle between the ears. As to throwing 
 myself off at the pace she was going, on a hard road, I dare not 
 risk it 3 for even if I cleared her, I might be killed by the fall, and 
 if my foot should happen to hang in the stirrup the consequences 
 were too dreadful to think of. All I could do was to shout. 
 
 The first group I came down on was a country lad and his 
 sweetheart. They luckily heard me, and, being young and active, 
 sprang on one side as I passed them like a shot. The next was a 
 corpulent, elderly, " Sairey Gamp " looking old lady in a stuff gown, 
 carrying in her hand a formidable cotton umbrella and pattens. 
 (There was not a cloud in the sky 3 but no saying, it might come 
 on to rain before night, and she doubtless thought it as well to be 
 prepared.) Luckily she was not deaf, but heard me shout, and 
 scrambled into the ditch before I was down on her. The old lady 
 was game, for she viciously struck at the mare's head with the 
 cotton umbrella as I went past, and screamed out, *' Cuss you ! for 
 a bad 'un, whoever you are" — words which rang in my ears for 
 
2,00 The Best F our te en-Han der in England, 
 
 days after. The next was a more formidable lot — nothing less 
 than a ladies' school of girls^ walking demurely to church in Indian 
 file 5 as poor Tom Hood has it — 
 
 " Two and two. 
 Looking as such young ladies do. 
 Trussed vv^ith decorum and stuffed with morals.* 
 
 I scattered them right and left, like a hawk swooping among a lot 
 of pigeons, without doing any harm j but hardly was I clear of 
 them when the worst of all stared me in the face. It was two 
 nursemaids indolently dragging along two children in a little sort 
 of four-wheeled carriage (it was before the days of perambulators). 
 Now they had lots of time to get out of the road, for they both saw 
 and heard me coming j but, with a stupidity for which it would be 
 hard to account, they left the little carriage standing slanting across 
 the causeway, and jumped down screaming into the road. If I had 
 felt a little nervous at the turnpike-gate, that was nothing to what 
 I felt now. But if I had only known what a rare bit of stuff I had 
 under me, I need not have been in the least apprehensive, for she 
 seemed hardly to think such a leap as this worth rising at, but 
 cleared it in her stride, never looking to the right or left. I cer- 
 tainly shouted to the mare to ''come up" as she rose at the leap, 
 for I thought this might urge her 3 and I mention this because it 
 was afterwards brought against me to prove what a reckless cha- 
 racter I was, for one of the girls swore that I purposely jumped at 
 the little carriage, and exultingly shouted '' tally-ho !" as I cleared 
 it. I just caught sight of one of the little children's faces looking 
 up at me as I was in the air, and I think I never saw such a curious 
 expression of countenance in my life. 
 
 I was now close to the town j and just here a lane branched off 
 which led straight up to the village where the nabob resided. I 
 had now this pleasant alternative staring me in the face — either to 
 gallop through the town just as the people were flocking into 
 church, or else to go through the village right past Chunee Villa. 
 I could hardly say that I had much choice, but perhaps the latter 
 was the best, as I fancied the mare must pull up before I reached 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in Endand. 20 j 
 
 sb 
 
 the village 5 and so she probably would have done, had not every- 
 thing conspired against me on this eventful morning. She turned 
 up the village lane as sharp as an eel 3 and when I got a hundred 
 yards up it, who should I see cantering slowly along before me but 
 my friend the vet. He was perfectly astonished when he saw who 
 it v/as, as I galloped past him, and could hardly believe that I was 
 on the same mare that he had but a few days before pronounced 
 as quiet as a lamb. Anxious to see the end of this wild-goose chase, he 
 clapped spurs to his old Rozinante, and followed me. The clattering 
 of hoofs behind her sent my mare along, and in a few minutes I was 
 in the village, in the mJddle of which the church stood. Chunee Villa 
 was right opposite j and just as the old nabob was coming out of his 
 gate, with his daughter on his arm, to cross over to the church, I 
 shot by him, closely followed by the vet., wdio was making des- 
 perate play with both whip and spurs to close in upon me. I saw 
 all, as it were, through a mist — the country people wdio were as- 
 sembled in the churchyard waiting for the clergyman, stood amazed, 
 and the old officer, after remarking to his daughter " that it was the 
 most disgraceful scene he had ever witnessed in his life," led her 
 into the church. A little farther on I met the clergyman and his 
 family. And now the mare, as if knowing that she had done all 
 the mischief she cared about, pulled up, and I jumped off just as 
 the vet. rode up and breathlessly inquired, " Why, whatever are 
 you up to. Master Tom ?" It was a little wdiile before I could get 
 breath sufficiently to explain myself j and then, to his astonishment, 
 he found that it was no " lark," as he at first imagined it to be. 
 
 I dare not turn back till the people were well in church. We then 
 led both our horses home by a cross-country road, which passed the 
 back of my old friend's lodge, w^here I arrived in about an hour 
 after I had left it — a rather different figure from w^hat I was when 
 I last rode up to his door. The old gentleman had been in a state 
 of great anxiety till I returned. He had gone down to the turnpike- 
 gate to pick up a little news, and had taken care to measure the 
 jump, the tape showing from where the mare bated to where she 
 fell, measuring over the stile, just 23 feet, or only two less than Jack 
 
203 The Best F our te en-Han der in England, 
 
 Russell's noted jump, which he had also witnessed and measured; 
 and this he considered wonderful for a pony. I borrowed a hat 
 and pea-jacket of the old man, and rode home in the evening on a 
 horse of his, leaving the little mare in his hands to see what he 
 could make of her, feeling confident in my own mind that / had 
 made a very bad day's work with my new purchase. 
 
 Of course such an affair as this made a bit of a stir in a little 
 country neighbourhood, where people are dying for the want of 
 something to talk about ) and a pretty story they got up about me. 
 " Give a dog a bad name and you hang him," is an old and a true 
 saying 5 and as "casualty horses" generally prove to be casualty 
 horses in more ways than one to their owners, and as there was 
 generally a goodish deal of larking going on about us in those days 
 — in which, as in duty bound, I took my part — I was, as the police 
 would say, rather a marked man, and got the credit for many a lark 
 with which I had not the least to do. However, I could not deny 
 this last little freaky which no one was charitable enough to attribute 
 to its right cause — that of accident. Oh, no ! it was all planned at 
 old Jackson's ! After a champagne breakfast, I had backed my- 
 self to clear the turnpike-gate, and reach the village where the old 
 nabob lived, in so many minutes 3 and the poor vet. (who was as 
 innocent as a child unborn of any foreknowledge that I was even 
 going to ride the little mare on that day) was, as they said, stationed 
 in the lane to see that it was done. 
 
 Such w^as the tale that got bruited about in the morning, and 
 which, of course, reached the ears of the old nabob and his daughter. 
 Little did I know what strictures were passed upon my conduct by 
 all the old gossips in the neighbourhood j and it is perhaps as well 
 I did not. No one was a bit surprised at my leaping the turnpike- 
 stile, for they all said I was just the sort of fellow to do it j but to 
 choose the Sunday ! of all days ! for such a feat, and just as every - 
 body w^as going into church — it was disgraceful — it was wicked — it 
 was scarcely to be bL4ieved ! 
 
 In our little market-town we had a nasty little weekly paper 
 
The Best Fourieen-Hander in England. 203 
 
 which came out on every Tuesday, under the domestic title of the 
 Bee. What resemblance it bore to this industrious little animal I 
 was ever at a loss to imagine, for in a country district, the moderate 
 circulation of a little weekly newspaper could bring, I should 
 fancy, very little honey to the editorial hive 3 and though I will do 
 it justice to say that in its attacks it displayed quite as much rage 
 and venom as its little namesake, still its stings were so coarse and 
 rude, that they bore far more resemblance to a prog from a pitch- 
 fork than the neat sting of a bee. It nevertheless had a wide cir- 
 culation among the farmers, who look for little in a newspaper save 
 the meets of the hounds and the market intelligence. Now it can 
 be easily believed that when local news was scarce, such an adven- 
 ture as the one I have described would be regarded as a kind of 
 godsend by the editor of the Bee, who had seldom anything more 
 interesting with which to treat his readers than that " our enter- 
 prising and spirited townsman, the Landlord of the Red Lion," had 
 started an omnibus to run daily to the neighbouring railway station 5 
 or that Squire So-and-So, with his usual splendid munificence, had 
 presented the inhabitants of the town with a new pump 3 or that 
 Hannah Smith, the wife of a labourer, had, with an equal munifi- 
 cence, presented her husband with twins for the fourth occasion, 
 making the extraordinary number of sixteen children in the space 
 of so many years, all of which are living and doing well ; — and such 
 other scraps of local news which could not fail to be highly edifying 
 to any one who had at heart the welfare of the " parterre " over 
 whose flowers this provincial little Bee was wont to buzz. Now 
 the editor of the Bee had taken a great prejudice against me, for 
 what reason I could never make out (for I was not a ^Svriting 
 chap " then, so no slip of my pen could have offended him). And 
 although I had made up my mind to see my ride noticed in his 
 columns, and doubtless with some little embellishments, I hardly 
 expected that it would form a leading article in the next Tuesday's 
 Bee. However, great was my surprise on opening the paper of 
 that day to see a leader of a column and a half in length, headed. 
 
204 The Best F our te en-Han der in England, 
 
 *' How Long is this to Last?" describing every particular of my 
 eventful ride (of course carefully concealing the fact, which the 
 editor could have known as well as myself, that my mare had rut? 
 away with me from my old friend's door), and calling upon the 
 local authorities to take strict and vigorous measures for bringing to 
 justice the offenders in such cases, which were now but too common, 
 and for protecting the lives of her Majesty's subjects, and preventing 
 their being recklessly ridden over on their way to church by a 
 parcel of (shall I finish?) "drunken rough riders and horse-dealers." 
 Such was a specimen of the neat manner in which our Bee made 
 its attacks. 
 
 This Tuesday was an important day for me. I had been over at 
 my old friend's lodge all the morning, giving the Evening Star what 
 he called a rare ''bucketing 3" and when I came home I found the 
 paper and a letter lying on my table, and was told that a *' gentle- 
 man " wished to see me on particular business. I bid the serv^ant 
 show " the gentleman " in, and as I was deep in the leader before 
 referred to, in walked the superintendent of our force of ''rural 
 Bobbies," and after the usual commonplace apologies, served me 
 with a summons to appear before the Bench on the following 
 Thursday, to answer the charge of having, when in a state of in- 
 toxication on the previous Sunday, leaped the turnpike, thus 
 evading the payment of toll, and, galloping along the footpath^ 
 endangered the lives of sundry of her Majesty's liege subjects, tc 
 wit> the old lady with the pattens, the two Misses Simpkinsons and 
 their young charges, and, worst of all, of the two future editors of 
 the Bee. The stinging leader was now accounted for — the two 
 children in the little four-v/heeler belonged to no less a personage 
 than the editor. 
 
 I cared very little for the summons, as I knew my old friend's 
 evidence would soon clear me; but my "cheek blanched" when I 
 took up the ominous-looking letter, and recognised the coat-of-arms 
 on the seal as belonging to the owner of Chunee Villa. The 
 contents v/ere, like his Lidian engagements, which he had so often 
 related to me — sharp, short, and decisive ; and as the letter will 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 205 
 
 not occupy a great deal of space, I may as well give the reader the 
 full benefit of it. It ran thus : — 
 
 "Chunee Villa, May — , 184—. 
 
 "Sir, — [Formerly I was never less than "Dear sir," and occasionally " My 
 dear sir,"] — Allow me to advise you (as a man who knows something of the 
 vvoild) that on the next occasion you ride a race in public, you should choose a 
 fitter day for the performance — a less-crowded course, and a more respectable 
 opponent. 
 
 " My poor daughter's nerves received such a shock in witnessing the disgraceful 
 scene of Sunday last, that she has been confined to her room ever since. But she- 
 desires me to present her compliments to you, and begs that you will not give 
 yourself any further trouble in looking out for a pony on her account, as we leave 
 Ais for Cheltenham at the end of the week, where I hope that repose and a com- 
 plete change of scene will restore her shattered nerves to their former state. This 
 letter requires no answer. 
 
 " I am, sir, yours obediently," &c. &c. 
 
 It was not long before I was on my way to my old friend's with 
 the paper, letter, and summons in my pocket, to hold a consultation 
 as to our next proceedings. The summons he dismissed very sum- 
 marily — that would give us very little trouble. The leader in the 
 paper is just what we might have expected from "an ignorant old 
 fool " like the editor; and he returned old Mullagatawny's letter 
 with the remark, '' Well, you're scratched for that stake, anyhow." 
 And, considering all the troubles which were gathering round me,. 
 I managed to spend a very jolly day, for two or three hard-riding; 
 friends — and amongst them Jack Russell himself — looked in to hear 
 the right version of the affair; and twilight was fast closing in before 
 we broke up our little party under the old chestnut tree. The little 
 mare and myself were of course the heroes of the day, and it would 
 have been quite as well for the "Evening Star" if she had kept 
 her jumping accomplishments to herself, for she was sad- 
 dled and brought out in the afternoon, and, now that we knew 
 that she could jump if she liked, she was put over every kind of 
 fence that the old man's farm afforded. Every one of the party had 
 a mount — no matter now whether she bolted or not. She certainly 
 tried it once, but the iron arms of Jack Russell were too many 
 for her 3 and he wound up the afternoon's performance by bring- 
 
zo6 The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 
 
 ing her over the gate into the stable-yard, and triumphantly 
 exclaiming as he slid off her back, when she pulled up, that for 
 her inches he never saw her equal in "lepping." What would 
 the poor consumptive young lady have thought, could she only have 
 seen her little favourite handled as she was this afternoon ! 
 
 On the Thursday morning I rode over to the magistrates' meet- 
 ing, with my old friend, whose testimony I felt certain would clear 
 me. The only anxiety he laboured under was that " old Bung " 
 would be chairman on this occasion. I may add, in parenthesis, 
 that **^old Bung" was a rich brewer in the town, and possessed ot 
 considerable landed property, over which my old friend was con- 
 tinually trespassing with his greyhounds — the only kind of poaching 
 which he cared for — and more than once had been brought up for 
 trespass before this very bench. The magistrates met at twelve, 
 and, after three or four affiliation cases had been disposed of, my 
 charge was called on. I may add that I had no want of counsellors j 
 and, as I entered the court. Jack Russell (whose experience as a 
 defendant in charges before the magistrates was acknowledged to 
 be great) pulled me on one side, and, after whispering to me 'Hhat 
 I had no occasion to answer any questions which would criminate 
 myself," he pushed me into the room, bidding me " keep up my 
 head and fight low, for they could not hang me this time." As it 
 was market-day, most of the hard-riding farmers in the district had 
 strolled into court to watch the proceedings on my behalf. The 
 case for the prosecution had evidently been got up with much care, 
 and the weight of evidence against me, as the editor (who was 
 sitting close to the magistrates' clerk to take notes) observed to a 
 friend, was "crushing." Old Giles, the pikeman, the dreadful old 
 lady with the umbrella, the two Miss Simpkinsons, and the nurse- 
 maids, were all gathered together in a little group as witnesses 
 against me 5 and, on looking towards the bench, I not only saw to 
 my dismay that "old Bung" was chairman, but I also saw the 
 owner of Chunee Villa seated on a chair to his right hand. The 
 two other magistrates were, as rny old friend whispered to me, 
 " the right sort," and we had nothing to fear from them. After 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 207 
 
 ordering all the witnesses out of court, with as much solemnity as if 
 I was going to be tried for my life, the clerk read the complaint 
 against me, and *'old Bung," in a severe tone, asked me what I 
 had to say to it. I merely observed that it would, perhaps, save a 
 great deal of trouble and valuable time if I pleaded guilty to all the 
 charges laid against me, except that of intoxication and hay'ingwilfully 
 endangered the life of any one. It was altogether an accident on 
 my part, and if they would call my old friend or his stable-lad, the 
 matter could be cleared up at once. After a little consultation they 
 agreed. But this did not suit the old nabob, who was very 
 fond of hearing himself speak ; and he rose directly to address 
 a few words to the chairman, who, of course, motioned him 
 to proceed, amidst a dead silence in court. He had just 
 begun, " If your worship will only allow me to say a few 
 words in reference to the — the — the prisoner at the lar " — 
 when he was suddenly brought up by a voice in the crowd calling 
 out, "'Hold hard, old Mullagatawny! we don't want any drum-head 
 court martials here." The court was convulsed with laughter j 
 the very policemen were obliged to turn their faces away , the 
 clerk pretended to be searching for something among his papers j 
 and the magistrates on the bench could hardly keep their gravity. 
 As for the old major, he grew purple with rage 3 he could only 
 stammer out the question as to ''• whether an officer in her 
 Majesty's service was to be so grossly insulted?" when he sat 
 down in his chair, and was seized with such a fit of coughing that 
 we were all fearful he would break a blood-vessel. What he was 
 about to say with reference to the " prisoner at the bar," was thus, 
 unfortunately, lost to the public, for he never put his spoke in the 
 wheel again. The chairman was dreadfully enraged, declared he 
 would clear the court at once, and, if only the policeman would 
 place the offender before him, he would make an example of him. 
 I guessed pretty well who was the offender. My old friend's 
 evidence quite satisfied the bencb that I was not to blame in this 
 affair, and I was *' discharged with a caution j" much to the chagrin 
 of the editor of the Bee, who had already prepared a very pretty 
 
2oS The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 
 
 little skeleton account of the proceedings, as he fancied and hoped 
 they would be, for the edification of his next week's readers. "Old 
 Bung" suggested that I should be bound over to keep the peace at 
 once to all her Majesty's liege subjects, but the magistrates' clerk 
 thought they could hardly go so far as that, and I left the court, as 
 Mr. Russell observed, without a " stain on my character." But, if 
 she was to be believed, the case terminated quite to the satisfaction 
 of the eldest Miss Simpkinson, who confidentially whispered to a 
 friend, at a little tea-party at old Mrs. SnuflHeton's on the same 
 evening, ''You can't think, my dear, what a relief it was to my 
 mind when I heard that the wretched young man had confessed his 
 guilt. There is something so awful in the thought of having to 
 bear evidence against a fellow creature in a charge of such magni- 
 tude ; and then the idea of ' kissing ' the book in the presence of 
 so many people. I really think, my dear, that I could never have 
 gone through it !" 
 
 I am afraid the reader will begin to fancy that I am something 
 like the little mare — very hard to pull up when I have once boltedj 
 so I will crave his patience no longer than just to inform him what 
 became of the young lady and her lac of rupees. As her old father 
 hinted, they proceeded at once to Cheltenham, and three months, 
 after I read in the fashionable intelligence of the Bee the following- 
 paragraph : " At Cheltenham, on the inst., the lovely and 
 
 accomplished daughter of Major , late of Chunee Villa^ in this 
 
 county, was united to the Hon. , &c." So that prize was lost 
 
 to me for ever. But if that little paragraph in the Bee did cause 
 me any pangs of regret, they all vanished soon after, when I 
 received a letter from a friend, who was hunting down at Leaming- 
 ton in the following spring, and where the lady to whose hand I 
 had once the ambition to aspire was the belle of the season. On 
 the first sheet of the letter was pasted a slip, cut out of a Leaming- 
 ton paper, headed, " Elopement in fashionable life," which informed 
 the world that the Honourable Mrs. , daughter of that dis- 
 tinguished Indian officer , had a few days previously left her 
 
 home, &c. It promised further particulars in a future number, and 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 209 
 
 anticipated some employment for the gentlemen of the long robe. 
 My friend was a man of few words, and his only remarks on the 
 affair were contained in two sentences. Above the paragraph he 
 had scrawled "Crumbs of comfort to the afflicted," and under it, 
 " Don't break your heart, old fellow, I fancy the little loiter would 
 have just suited her. / never liked her eye!' I am far from a 
 vindictive man, but I must say that I read this letter with consider- 
 able satisfaction. 
 
 My old friend could make nothing of the Evening Star, for she 
 was never to be trusted. He soon chopped her away, and she left 
 our country. 
 
 It is quite time, I think, that I returned to Mr. Cox, whom I 
 left standing in the inn yard at Hollerton, about to explain to me 
 how I might, if I wished it, become possessed of the " best 
 fourteen-hander in England." 
 
 The secret turned out to be this. A young farmer of his acquain- 
 tance (whom I also knew) had brought a pony to Hollerton to run 
 for the cup, w^hich, as Mr. Cox said, would be very hard to beat, for 
 he knew the pony and all about her. The owner was a wild, 
 spendthrift young fellow, wdio had made away with everything, 
 including two or three good hunters 3 and, besides this little pony, 
 possessed scarcely a shilling or a shilling's worth in the world. 
 This pony he had himself bred, and had ridden to hounds 5 and, 
 although he had only just taken to racing her, she had won the 
 only two races for which she started. She had now been for a 
 short time in the hands of a trainer, who brought her down and 
 entered her for this cup, paying the entrance money himself j in 
 fact, the young farmer had no money, either to pay the entrance or 
 :he trainer's bill. It seems that they had quarrelled that evening, 
 and the trainer turned round upon him and declared that unless his 
 bill was paid that night he would run the mare as his own next 
 day, keep the cup and stakes if he won them, or else scratch her, 
 and at all events stick to the mare till his bill was paid. The 
 young man was so enraged against the trainer for turning round 
 upon him at the last minute, that he declared to Cox that if he. 
 
 p 
 
aio The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 
 
 would buy the mare^, he should have her with her engagements by 
 paying the trainer's expenses — a little over 20/. — and the entrance. 
 His only desire was now to get the mare out of the trainer's hands. 
 J hardly liked to interfere 3 for in the first place, I always avoided 
 meddhng with other men's quarrels, and in the next place, I won- 
 dered, if it was such a good thing as Cox represented, why he did 
 not buy the mare himself j but I never liked .0 see any man put 
 upon, and it did seem here as if this young farmer was hardly 
 being fairly dealt by. I knew something of him, as well as of the 
 trainer ; and although I felt certain that I stood very little chance 
 of winning the cup, even were the mare good enough, if I took 
 her out of the tramer's hands just before the race, I felt much 
 inclined to assist the young man. If the mare was only half 
 what Cox said she was, I thought her chances of winning were 
 very good indeed j but then I knew how little reliance I could 
 place on his word. Altogether I was puzzled how to act, for 
 curious cards of this sort often turn up trumps. I thought, how- 
 ever, there could be no harm in hearing a little more about the 
 matter, so I went with Cox back again into the room where he had 
 just left the party sitting. 
 
 The trainer, the young farmer, and a few roughish-looking cha- 
 racters sat at a table drinking, and at the time of our entrance the 
 dispute ran high. The trainer was sober and cool j the young man 
 half tipsy and passionate. He was vehemently declaring that he 
 was robbed, for he had backed the mare for the only roZ. note he 
 possessed, and the trainer (who, I fancy, knew the mare to be 
 better than the young farmer thought her) appeared to be trying to 
 get her at his own price, of which there seemed every probability, 
 seeing that the young man had neither money nor friends. I could 
 see that the rest of the party, although they said but little, sided 
 irith the trainer. 
 
 Just as we stepped into the room, the young man declared he 
 would sell the mare to any one ; and the trainer stated he was 
 quite willing to deliver her up to anybody who would pay his bill 
 and the entrance. He said almost as much as that he did not fancy 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 211 
 
 there was in the county a fool big enough to do this, seeing that 
 the mare was under his charge with the muzzle set; the key 
 of the stable was in his pocket, and how easy it would be for him 
 to prevent her winning unless he wished it. 
 
 I made up my mind at once how to act. I shook hands with 
 the young man and the trainer, and sat down at the table. After a 
 little chat, I asked the young farmer if he would stand to his word. 
 He said yes. I then laid 30/. on the table to pay the trainer's bill 
 and the stake, took receipts from both parties, and thus added 
 another very ^'^dark one" to my " string," for I had never seen my 
 new purchase, knew nothing about her, and, although I had the 
 receipts in my pocket, the trainer still had possession of the 
 horse — and possession, we all know, is nine points in the law. I 
 knew there was now only one plan to adopt. The trainer was 
 undoubtedly taken aback, but he did not show it. He merely 
 asked me when I would have the mare delivered ; and when I saw 
 him wink at one of the party, whom he told to step out just to 
 find the lad who looked after the mare, I knew it was high time 
 to come to an understanding with him. So I just asked if we 
 could have a few words together, and he directly followed me out 
 into the passage. 
 
 I began by saying that it was very hard upon the young fellow 
 obliging him to part with his mare -, that I had no intention ol 
 trying to win the cup with her now I had bought her, as it would 
 suit my purpose much better to win with the one we had ; and 
 that if I did send her, it would be only to cut out the work for our 
 pony. He entered into a long rigmarole, said that the agreement 
 between him and the young farmer was that his bill was to be paid 
 before ten that night, and unless it was so he was to run the mare 
 as his own. I began to think that there might be something in 
 this, because it seemed so natural that the young farmer should 
 fancy that he would be able to find some friend at the races who 
 would lend him the money. Moreover, the trainer did not bluster 
 at all. He said he was quite willing to give the mare up to me 
 directly, told me plainly that she would be very hard to beat if I 
 
 p 2 
 
212 The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 
 
 could only find a boy to ride her, but that he only knew one whom 
 he would trust on her back, and that was his lad. He told me 
 candidly that he had backed her for loL, at to to t, and he hinted 
 that he did not think it very fair on my part acting as I had done. 
 
 I could see that the man really thought the mare would be very 
 near winning ; and as I moreover saw that I was in a position 
 v^diere I could hardly help myself, I turned sharp round to him and 
 said, " Now, I'll tell you what I'll do. You shall run the mare 
 just as if she was your own 3 I shall have nothing to do with her 
 till after the race. If you win, I shall claim the cup, and the stakes 
 you may divide between the young farmer and yourself 3 and to 
 show how little I think about your mare, I shall bet you 10/. our 
 mare beats her." 
 
 His answer proved that I had taken the right course. '' Done," 
 
 he said directly. " By , sir, you're a gentleman. Now I'll 
 
 run the mare, and win you the cup ; she can do it, but with only 
 one lad on her back, and she shall. And as to your pony beating 
 her, why you never had one in your stable like her." 
 
 I had put him a little on his mettle, and this was just what I 
 wanted. I bade him good night, and went to look at the hst of 
 entries which were now posted up in the long room of the inn. 
 
 Fifteen ponies were entered, and as the money was all down 
 we could reckon on fifteen starters. Among the list I saw the 
 names of cracks from many parts of England. A Cambridge pony 
 and one from Belper, were the favourites 3 but I was told by many 
 that a little mare from Wiltshire, in whose veins the blood of the 
 renowned "Mat of the Mint" flowed, would win the cup. I 
 casually asked how about The Rejected and Bessy Bedlam — the 
 former our own pony, the latter the new mare in whom I had 
 become so unexpectedly interested. There was a rush at me 
 directly, with offers of 8 to i against either of them. I backed 
 Bessy Bedlam for 10/. on these odds 3 and now thought I had 
 invested quite enough on about the wildest and most hazardous 
 speculation I had ever touched in my life. 
 
 On turning to leave th ? room, I met my old friend, who had been. 
 
The Best F our te en-Han der in England. 213 
 
 as he said, ^'searching for me higb and low." He had heard thau 
 I had been seen in company with "that Joe Cox," and could not 
 rest easy till he had seen me. However, he was glad that he had 
 found me, and we sat down together. I hardly knew how to break 
 my speculation to him, for I could not help thinking I had 
 acted a little rashly 3 and although if the party were to decamp in 
 the night, taking the mare with them, 50/. would cover all my 
 losses, still ^ol. was a risk, and if I should be done by Joe a second 
 time, I should never hear the end of it. I therefore fidgeted a 
 little in my chair, thinking how I could best open the ball. 1 have 
 no doubt many of my younger readers will know exactly how I felt, 
 for how few of us who have reached the age of twenty have not 
 had some little matter or other in our time to break to " the 
 governor," and hardly knew how to do it ! My old friend was not 
 in a ver}^ good humour, he had found the field would be much 
 stronger than he anticipated, and as the Cambridge pony had 
 already beaten The Rejected, and it was considered by most good 
 judges that the little Belper nag could give the Cambridge mare 
 41b. and a beating, and as it was whispered that the Wiltshire pony 
 could run away from either of them, he saw little chance of bring- 
 ing the cup home this time. I told him exactly what I had done. 
 He was not a man of many words, but what he did say were to the 
 purpose. He told me plainly that I was not only born a fool, but 
 that I should die one j and if I went on in this way, the sooner we 
 closed accounts the better. I knew the old man's passion would 
 be of short duration, and I moreover knew that he was a true 
 friend. So I merely observed " this was quite a private matter 
 of my own, and I did not wish him to have any share in it." 
 For the first time in our lives we parted unfriendly. He hopped 
 off on some business of his own, and I went to join the parlour 
 company, to hear Mr, Cox sing " A southerly wind and a cloudy 
 sky," "Tom Moody," and "The death of Nelson," in a style 
 which few, even professionals, could beat. He was in great force 
 on this occasion, and we spent a capital evening. 
 
 I did not see my old friend again that nighty but about six in the 
 
a 14 The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 
 
 morning I was gratified when I came out into the yard to see him and 
 the trainer in conversation. This proved that the party belonging to 
 my new mare were still in the town. A little farther up the yard I 
 recognised Mr. Cox, holding his head under a pump, the handle of 
 which an ostler was plying most vigorously. When he joined us, 
 his face shone like the rising sun. He confidentially informed us that 
 he had taken rather too much brandy-and-water on the preceding 
 evening, but the company was really so excellent that he was a 
 little off his guard. And he further told us that the day's sports were 
 to commence with a match between himself and the notorious Ben- 
 digo — who was then barely past his prime — to throw a cricket -ball, 
 kick a football, and hop loo yards for io/.,the best of the three events. 
 
 We went then to look at Bessy Bedlam — and she was worth 
 looking at ! She had but one eye, and a head like a fiddle, a ewe 
 neck, a goose rump, and a thin rat-tail 3 but such hind-quarters, 
 chest, and legs, that my old friend swore that " she looked exactly 
 as if she had been built by contract, and that the builder had taken 
 so much time about the legs and quarters, that he was obliged to 
 finish off the top part in a hurr}^" She had, moreover, a drooping 
 ear on her blind side , and when I looked her over, I felt gratified 
 with one reflection — that if I did not bring the handsomest pony 
 to the post that day, I should at least bring the most remarkable- 
 looking one. 
 
 We were next introduced to the jockey ; and if the appearance 
 of the mare was striking, that of the lad who was to ride her was 
 no less so. He was about nineteen, but looked just like a little old 
 man of fifty. He was what we might term an '*^ old-man boy," 
 and evidently one of the shrewdest and downiest of his class. He 
 had a strong Jewish cast of countenance, and an enormous hook 
 nose ; and when he turned and looked me full in the face to 
 answer a question, I discovered that, like the mare, he also had but 
 one eye : but such an eye ! I would not have been an hour in that 
 lad's company for something ; for I felt, when that eye was upon 
 me, that the boy could read my inmost thoughts as plainly as 
 If they were written on my face. 
 
The Best Fourteen-Hander in England. 215 
 
 On leaving the stable, the old man whispered to me that " at 
 least the whole party were well matched." He rather regretted I had 
 anything to do with such a lot, but considered that I had acted very 
 prudently in trusting implicitly to the trainer 5 and as to the mare, 
 she was the very sort to be a dead take-in, for all her racing 
 points were good, and he considered her head and tail the best 
 points about her in one respect — for a man who had once 
 seen them would hardly think about looking any further 3 and 
 yet, he added, " ^o you see, I never knew a horse that went 
 on either of them." One thing was clear — that if the mare 
 had a coarse, ugly head to carry, she had plenty of strength 
 to carry it witlij for although but fourteen hands high, she looked 
 big enough for 12 stone with any hounds in England 3 and if we 
 could judge from her hind-quarters, her stride must be immense. 
 
 At ten, the important ceremony of measuring took place in the 
 inn yard 3 and it was worth going a hundred miles only to see the 
 little beauties which daintily stepped under the standard that 
 morning. Bessy Bedlam came last, and a roar of laughter an- 
 nounced her appearance. She came lounging up, with her great 
 head almost on a line with her withers, a round blinker over her 
 off-side eye, and her rat-tail sticking out like a postman's horn.. 
 The clerk of the course declared that she could never pass under 
 the standard 3 but she did. I saw that it was rather an anxious 
 time just then with the trainer, who would not now trust her in 
 anybody's hands but his own : he spoke two or three words sharply 
 to her, and she flinched slightly as the standard passed over her 
 withers. My old friend was breathlessly watching the proceedings, 
 but though he made no remark, he gave me the slightest wink out 
 of one corner of his eye, which spoke volumes. The operation 
 had to be repeated three times before the clerk passed her 3 and 
 then the owner of the Belper mare offered to lay 50Z. that if he 
 could measure her fairly and alone, she would stand 14. i. 
 
 At twelve we proceeded to the racecourse, in a meadow about 
 half a mile from the town. Mr. Cox's match came off first, and 
 ended — as s^-ich affairs usually do between such parties — in a 
 
21*6 Ihe Best Fourieen-Hander in England, 
 
 wrangle. The Nottingham roughs mustered strong, and proved 
 themselves able proficients in the vulgar tongue ; but I will do Mr. 
 Cox the justice to say that neither himself nor his party required 
 any tutors j and the first match of the day seemed to create most 
 amusement among the rough lot which were collected on that little 
 racecourse — and a rougher lot I think I never saw. There was a 
 grand stand, a sort of temporary weather-boarded erection, from 
 which the whole race could be seen 5 but I borrowed a pony of the 
 trainer that I might watch the start and finish, for the course was 
 in the shape of a horse-shoe. There were lots of waggons for the 
 country-people 3 the course was in beautiful order, and exceedingly 
 well kept. 
 
 At one the bell rang for saddling, and at a quarter past the clerk 
 of the course got the lot to the post. Bessy Bedlam's colours were 
 all black. She seemed to become a great favourite with the crowd, 
 on account of the original appearance of both herself and jockey. 
 As she walked up to the post, I felt sure there was more in her 
 than met the eye — and more than one good judge held the same 
 opinion. 
 
 The jockey of Bessy Bedlam managed to get the mare close in 
 to the cords on the near side^ for he was anxious to see as much of 
 the horses as he could with his good eye, and he was just as anxious 
 that the mare should not. There he patiently sat till the starter 
 had got them all well in a line, and directly the word to '' go" was 
 given, he suddenly seized hold of the mare's off ear, dug both spurs 
 into her sides^ and jumped away with the lead as if the race was ta 
 be only a furlong. As soon as he had set her well going, he let ga 
 of her ear, got his reins together, settled himself in his saddle, and 
 went striding away as if he meant to cut the whole field down 
 before he got to the distance. The secret of the mare was this : 
 She was dangerous in a crowd, and, moreover, would never make - 
 an effort if she got shut in by her horses ; but if she could jump 
 away from them at first, she took a good deal of catching ; and 
 although she seemed to have but one pace, that was a strong one^. 
 and one which, as the trainer observed, she would " keep on at for 
 a aay." This accounted for his saying that there was but one lad 
 

 :zi s 
 
 <1 ^ 
 
 
 CO r 
 
The Best Fourteen -Hander in England. 217 
 
 who could ride her. I had heard his last instructions to the jockey 
 as he threw him up into the saddle : " None of your half lengths. 
 Take the lead and keep it the whole way round, and win by as far 
 as ever you can." 
 
 Not one of the other jockeys seemed to take the least notice of 
 Bessy Bedlam, as she went sailing along with her head down, 
 gaining at every stride. They sat watching one another, naturally 
 concluding that she had bolted w^ith the lad, and must soon come 
 back to them. But they were reckoning without their host. The 
 long, lurching stride of the one-eyed mare soon began to tell, and 
 long before they had covered a mile the tailing had begun. When 
 they came into the distance, she was at least ten lengths ahead, the 
 boy sitting wdth his hands down, as quiet as a statue. The 
 Rejected, to my old friend's mortification, had shot her bolt, and 
 only four w^ere now in the race, except the one-eyed mare. The 
 Cambridge and the Belper ponies now came away, and made a last 
 effort to close in with Bessy Bedlam. But it was useless, she 
 neither slackened nor increased her speed, but shot past the post 
 alone, and pulled up as cool as if she had only been taking a common 
 canter. 
 
 My old friend was thunderstruck, and so were a good many more j 
 and all declared that they had never seen the HoUerton Cup won in 
 this fashion before. 
 
 A hurdle race followed -, w^e got a post entrance, and won thi? 
 nearly as easily as the cup 3 and a match for 2j/. against the Belpei 
 mare made her third victory on that day. 
 
 When she was led off" the course, we could hardly get near her 
 for the crowd, and she went hobbling off^ with her head down, after 
 her old style, apparently as ready to begin again as when she first 
 came on to the course in the morning. The trainer was as quiet 
 as the mare, merely observing, " I told you how it would be, sir." 
 And as for the lad, he never spoke a word, but quietly set to work 
 with the mare as soon as he got her into the loose-box, without at 
 all seeming to fancy that he w^as entitled to any praise for the share 
 which he had borne in the day's performance. 
 
 The mare was certainly mine to all intents and purposes, but I 
 
2i8 ' The Best Fourteen-Hander in England, 
 
 had not the heart to take her away from the young farmer now 
 that I saw she was hkely to be the means of retrieving his fallen 
 fortunes. I had won the cup, and had picked up a little in bets 
 and stakes. Even my old friend, much as he coveted such a prize, 
 seemed to think that it would be acting badly towards the young 
 farmer if we took her away from him 3 and, moreover, he observed, we 
 could do nothing unless we had the lad who rode her as well — and 
 he would not have such a boy on his premises for ten times the 
 worth of the mare. So, much to the joy of the trainer and the 
 young farmer, I gave back the mare, took back the money I had 
 paid, and left Hollerton with the inward satisfaction always atten- 
 dant upon the consciousness of having done a good action, and satis- 
 fied with the reflection that without the aid of the one-eyed mare I 
 should certainly never have brought away the Hollerton Cup on 
 this occasion. 
 
 For two years after that I often used to see the little mare's 
 name, which, however, was now changed, at the head of the poll 
 amongst the best of company 3 but it w^as the last time I ever at- 
 tended Hollerton Races, and I rarely saw aov of that party again, 
 for they all lived on the far side of the country. 
 
319 
 
 THE KEEPER'S TREE. 
 
 Most men who lead a country life — whether sportsmen or not — • 
 know the sort of tree to which I allude, and the kind of fruit 
 which decorates its branches. There are usually three or four such 
 trees scattered over every large manor, generally on the edge of 
 some spinny, often a lone weird-like ash or small oak, from whose 
 lower branches are suspended skeletons and bodies in every state of 
 decomposition, of all such beasts and birds as come under the 
 denomination of vermin — a word which bears a very extensive 
 signification in the gamekeeper's vocabulary. As the wind sighs 
 through tlie branches of the old tree, cats, pole-cats, weasels^ 
 hawks, owls, crows, magpies, jays, swing to and fro, like so many 
 malefactors hung in chains ; and well do I recollect as a boy, when 
 the taste for natural history was just developing itself, with what 
 interest I used to examine the ''^ keeper's tree" which stood at the 
 entrance of a little wood close to our village, to see what rarities I 
 could discover in this miscellaneous and ghastly museum. 
 
 The subject maybe a stale one to many, and it may have possibly 
 been treated of before ; but I have often thought that a chapter on 
 the keeper's tree might prove not only interesting, but useful to 
 many gamekeepers and men who are addicted to the pursuits of a 
 country life, as pointing out in a concise manner what quadrupeds 
 and birds may really be considered vermin by the keeper (because 
 in this case, the innocent often suff'er for the guilty), and also 
 shortly to describe the habits and appearance of the different birds 
 of prey, to enable the gamekeeper, who is not generally a scientific 
 naturalist, to say at a glance what species it is that he has shot or 
 
220 The Keeper's Tree. 
 
 trapped. I do not intend to give any instructions respecting the art 
 of trapping or killing vermin in any way. Every gamekeeper who 
 knows his business, knows, probably, far more than I do how this 
 is to be done. I only wish to point out the distinguishing 
 differences between one species and another, and to give him a hint 
 as to what specimens will pay him far better to carry to the nearest 
 bird-stuffer or collector, than to hang up to rot on the branches of 
 his " keeper's tree." But my observations must necessarily be very 
 short. We will first slightly notice the four-footed vermin peculiar 
 to the British Isles, and the list is meagre enough. 
 
 There can be no doubt at all that the man who preserves foxes 
 must pay for it by his game ; for even supposing, as we are told, 
 that a fox does not molest game and poultry in its own immediate 
 vicinity, still, others from a distance will invade the preserves ; and 
 there cannot be a doubt, in my opinion, that tlie fox is the greatest 
 enemy to the game preserver at aU seasons of the year. The 
 English preserves are so well stocked, and, moreover, are so full of 
 rabbits, that the damage done by " Old Charley " is not so apparent j 
 but in our Swedish forests, which swarm with foxes, the damage 
 they do to the game is incalculable. We have good proofs of this 
 in early spring, when the snow first melts. During the winter the 
 black grouse huddle together in small packs, and bury themselves 
 under the snow, leaving little air-holes to breathe through. How 
 long they can lie in this way, or how long they can subsist \^'ithout 
 food, is, I believe, not rightly known, or whetlier they leave the 
 hole to return to it ; but as soon as the snow melts, we can always 
 see by the large heap of droppings, often more than a peck, where 
 such a hiding-place has been, and, when the ground is clear, the 
 bones and wings of the birds scattered about so many of these 
 burrowing places, prove that they form the principal larders of the 
 hundreds of foxes that prowl about our forests throughout the 
 winter. I do not believe that the capercailly ever burrows in the 
 snow like the black grouse. 
 
 In Sweden, during the winter, many thousand foxes are annually 
 shot for the sake of the skin, which is worth about half a guinea j 
 
The Keeper's Tree. 221 
 
 and as there is no fox-hunting in a country hke this, I am always 
 glad to hear when one is killed. 
 
 But in England the case is very different j and as every British 
 pack of foxhounds must be regarded (by every one who has his 
 country's interest at heart) as a national benefit in more ways than 
 one, any httle damage a fox may do in the preserves or the hen- 
 roost is wiUingly overlooked, and in our " old country," at least, I 
 should have as soon expected to see a child as a fox suspended from 
 the branches of the "keeper's tree." 
 
 There is a great question whether the badger can be ranked 
 among the list of vermin. That they wiU occasionally destroy 
 young birds is pretty certain, but the habits of this animal are such 
 as to render him a very innocuous enemy to the keeper. 
 
 In such districts as they frequent the marten (or, as it is usually 
 called, the marten-cat), is most destructive, not only to game, but to 
 every small bird and animal that comes within its reach. To the 
 cruel bloodthirsty nature of the wolf, the marten adds the stealthy 
 cunning of the cat, and it can creep from branch to branch with a 
 noiseless step, neither the old birds at roost, the young ones in the 
 nest, or even the nimble squirrel, are secure from its attack. In 
 Sweden the forests are full of martens, and the skin is highly valued. 
 I fancy their principal food with us is the squirrel 3 at least, I know, 
 as soon as the martens come into the forest in the winter, if they 
 are at all numerous, the squirrels disappear. I do not fancy that 
 the marten is at all common in any part of England, but of the two 
 species, the stone or beech marten is certainly the most so. This is 
 not the case in Sweden, for we very rarely hear of a stone-marten 
 being killed with us 3 whereas a winter never passes but I get four 
 or five fine martens in the woods close to home. 
 
 Some naturalists consider that we have but one species of marten, 
 and that the pine-marten is only a variety of the common stone- 
 marten ; but this I wiU not agree to. The principal difference is 
 that the breast of the pine-marten is yellow, that of the stone- 
 marteti white. This might be the result of age 3 but I can prove 
 from young specimens tliat the breast of the pine-marten is yellow 
 
2,22 The Keeper's Tree, 
 
 from its birth. Moreover, in the pine-marten the soles of the feet 
 are covered with hair j in the stone-marten they are bare. And 
 the habits and locaHties frequented by the two are entirely different. 
 
 Although I never remember to have seen a marten hanging from 
 the branches of the " keeper's tree/' I scarcely ever recollect looking 
 at one of these museums without seeing an old "fumar" or two 
 (as we used to call the pole-cats), and well did they deserve their 
 fate, for I fancy that no animal of its size is more destructive to game 
 than the pole-cat. It has been stated (I know not upon what 
 authority) that sixteen turkeys have been known to be killed by i 
 single polecat in one night. 
 
 The polecat resembles the marten-cat, but is smaller. The tail is 
 about five inches shorter, and there is no spot on the breast, eitlier 
 white or yellow, all the underpart being black. 
 
 If a keeper should chance to kill a polecat in which the toes are 
 webbed, and the hair of the body dark brown instead of yellow at 
 the bottom, let him preserve it, for this is a rare northern species ; 
 but it probably will never be met with in Britain. 
 
 The stoat and the weasel may justly be ranked among the 
 keeper's enemies. It is true they are both small, but neither a 
 young hare nor a rabbit is secure from the attacks of either, and I 
 fancy that both are very destructive to the eggs of all kinds of birds. 
 
 The weasel is much smaller than the stoat, and the tail is always 
 of the same colour as tlie rest of the body. In the stoat the tip of 
 the tail is always black. 
 
 In Sweden both tlie weasel and the stoat turn pure white during 
 the winter. 
 
 Perhaps there is no greater enemy to all kinds of game than the 
 common cat when it once takes to roam j and if a cat is by chance 
 found a quarter of a mile from the village, the keeper is fully 
 justified in knocking him over. A cat has no excuse, for it is 
 always well cared for at home ; and if it once turns poacher it is of 
 little or no use for the legitimate purpose of killing rats or mice. I 
 really think some cats, like men, are born poachers. I recollect at 
 home that we had a fat sleek old tabby who lived principally in tlie 
 
The Keeper's Tree, 223 
 
 parlour on the fat of the land, and took his afternoon's doze in the 
 winter as regularly as any old octogenarian on a cushion provided 
 for him before the parlour fire. Now, he surely had no business to 
 stray away from home — at least, after game. However, one day 
 we missed him, and there was great lamentation, for he was a nice 
 sleek-coated, round, well-fed cat, of a monstrous size, and a general 
 favourite. About a week after his mysterious disappearance T 
 chanced to pass by the keeper's tree, and there hung my old 
 favourite, "grinning a ghastly grin," a warning to all other evil- 
 doers. 
 
 These are about all the quadrupeds that the British keeper has 
 to fear, except, perhaps, the lurching cur, and if one of these falls 
 by the keeper's gun (as undoubtedly hundreds do in the course of 
 every year) I suppose he is left to rot in a ditch, for I never recollect 
 seeing a dog in any one of the scores of these museums which I 
 have examined. 
 
 Both the squirrel and the hedgehog are accused of stealing eggs : 
 I can't say, for my own part, that ever I caught one in the act of 
 "petty larceny," and I fancy this is a very unusual occurrence. 
 
 The list of feathered vermin is more numerous. 
 
 The eagle is never very likely to grace the branches of the 
 keeper's tree. This is a bird which is rarely killed in any of the 
 cultivated districts of Great Britain, and if by chance one should fall, 
 the most unscientific keeper would scarcely decorate his own 
 museum with so grand a prize. I need only obser\-e that of the 
 two species peculiar to Britain the golden eagle is the rarest and 
 finest, and may be known at a glance by the legs, which are 
 feathered down to the toes, and the centre half of the tail being at 
 all ages dark brown. The root of the tail in the young bird is 
 white, in the old bird grey. In the white-tailed or sea eagle half 
 of the legs and feet are bare, and the tail in the old bird is white, 
 in the young bird speckled throughout its whole length. 
 
 Few keepers are able to distinguish a falcon from a hawk j and 
 the best marks I can give them are, that in the falcons the tail is 
 level, or nearly so, with the ch).sed wincfs : in the hawks, of which 
 
224 . The Keepers Tree. 
 
 we have but one species common in England (the sparrow-hawk), 
 the tail extends two-thirds of its length beyond the closed wings. 
 In all the falcons, there is a sharp lip in the sides of the upper 
 mandible of the beak, which distinguishes them from any other 
 birds of prey. Moreover, in the falcons, the second wing feather 
 is longest, which is the case with no other of the birds of prey. 
 • The largest of tlie falcons is the gyrfalcon (we use this as a 
 common name), and without going into a description of the three 
 diiferent species (the Greenland, the Iceland, and the gyrfalcon), I 
 can only say, that if a keeper should chance to kill a white, blue- 
 grey, or white-spotted falcon, about two feet long, any collector 
 will willingly give him a good price for it as a British-killed 
 specimen. 
 
 The peregrine-falcon is so rare in Britain that a British-killed 
 specimen should never decorate the branches of the " keeper's tree." 
 The peregrine is about sixteen inches long, with a broad black 
 moustache under the eyes. It is not likely to be confounded with 
 any other falcon except the last, from which, however, it may be 
 known at a glance by the tail, which, instead of being two inches 
 longer, is level with the closed wings. The young bird differs very 
 much in colour from the old, but the tail in both has several dark 
 bars across it. 
 
 I cannot arrange the birds in this list scientifically, nor is it 
 necessary. I need only add that in keeper's parlance the term 
 ]iaw\ is applied to every genus in this family. 
 
 The goshawk is larger than the peregrine, and without describing 
 it more minutely I will just say that if a keeper shoots a large 
 hawk, about two feet long, in which the tail extends two-thirds of 
 its whole length beyond the closed wings, he may be certain that 
 this is a goshawk j and if he shoots a smaller hawk, of about one 
 foot in length, in which the tail extends two inches beyond the 
 closed wings, it is the sparrow-hawk. 
 
 The goshawk is rare in England, and a very old grey specimen, 
 which I have always found very difficult to obtain even in Sweden, 
 is well worth preserving. \\\ Sweden, where the goshawk abounds. 
 
The Keeper's Tree, 225 
 
 I fancy that it is, especially in the forests, by far the most destruc- 
 tive of all the birds of prey. I have seen a goshawk strike down a 
 capercailly. 
 
 The sparrow-hawk is a quick, spiteful little bird, and in Sweden 
 I have observed them pursue the snipe (often when I have flushed 
 them) more than any other hawk. 
 
 Should the keeper fall in witli a Large brown hawk, not quite so 
 large as the goshawk, but more plump in the body, in which the 
 end of the tail is level with the closed wings, it is a buzzard. Of 
 these we have three. British species, two of which, the rough-legged 
 buzzard and the honey buzzard, are rare in Britain. 
 
 In the common buzzard the legs are bare, and the tail is dark 
 from the root to the tip. 
 
 In the rough-legged buzzard the legs are feathered, and the root 
 of the tail is white. This is very conspicuous when the bird is in 
 the air. 
 
 The honey buzzard is rather smaller than either of the two last, 
 and may always be known by the beak, the root of which, instead 
 of being covered with bristles, as in all other birds of prey, is covered 
 with small close-set feathers. 
 
 Of the three I consider the rough-legged buzzard far the most 
 destructive to game ; and in Lapland, where these birds swarm on 
 the fells, I had good opportunities of seeing their eyries strewed 
 with the remains of ptarmigan. Doubtless both of the others will 
 also strike down game if it comes in their way, but, generally 
 speaking, the buzzard is a dull, sluggish bird, whose principal food 
 is frogs, lizards, snakes, and small animals. 
 
 I may here remark that in most of the birds of prey whose 
 breasts are spotted, if the spots are longitudinal, or set end on end, 
 the bird is a young one (but may be two or three years old) -, if the 
 spots, however, are placed transversely or across, the bird is old, and 
 in full plumage. 
 
 The osprey is very rare now in England, and its depredations are 
 principally confined to the river and fish-stews. Still it should 
 always be shot when an opportunity presents itself, for when an 
 
 a 
 
226 The Keeper's Tree. 
 
 osprey has once taken a fancy to a particular pond or stream it 
 never leaves it as long as it is unmolested and the supply of food lasts. 
 
 The osprey is a dark-looking hawk, hardly as large as the kite, 
 and may always be known by the white unspotted breast and belly, 
 the blue legs and feet, and the tail, which is fully two inches shorter 
 than the closed wings. 
 
 The kite is known to every keeper by the deeply-cloven tail 3 is 
 not much more destructive to game than the common buzzard. 
 
 None of the family are, however, so destructive, so obnoxious to 
 the keeper as the falcons, for their courage and powers of flight are 
 superior to those of any other birds of prey. 
 
 We have already noticed the only two large falcons which are 
 known in Britain, but we have still three left — three real little pests, 
 which should never be spared. These are the kestrel, the merlin, 
 and the hobby, and these, with the sparrow-haw^k, are the only four 
 small hawks which the British keeper need dread. 
 
 The commonest of all is the kestrel, and the male and female are 
 so unlike, that most keepers suppose them to be different species. 
 In the kestrel the tail extends one-fourth of its length beyond the 
 closed wings, and this will distinguish it at once from either of the 
 others. In the female the tail is red-brown, with about ten dark 
 bars across it. In the mail the tail is blue-grey, only with a broad 
 dark tip. The body-colour of the male is deep red 5 in the female 
 and young birds, red-brown -, length about fourteen inches. 
 
 The hobby is smaller — the tail is shorter than the wings, and in 
 plumage it is not unlike the peregrine ; upper parts dark bluish- 
 black, with a small moustache on the cheek, and a white chin. In 
 the old bird the thigh feathers are pale rusty red, unspotted j in the 
 young birds they are covered with dark oblong spots. 
 
 There is another species of hobby common on the Continent, 
 very rare in Britain, the orange-legged hobby, which may be 
 •^nown at once from the last one, by the nearly black body colour, 
 the tail being exactly equal in length with the closed wings ; the 
 thighs, feet, legs, and under tail coverts are deep red instead of 
 rusty yellow. 
 
The Keeper s Tree, 327 
 
 The merlin is the smallest of all British hawks, breeds on the 
 ground on the moors in the north of Britain, but is not often seen 
 farther south. The male is light blue on the back, the female is 
 brown. May be known directly from the last by the tail, which 
 extends two inches beyond the closed wings. In all the birds of 
 prey the female is considerably the largest. 
 
 The harriers or hunting hawks, as they used to be called in the 
 fen, are principally confined to fens and large open moors, where 
 they may be seen beating the ground with a slow steady flight, as 
 regularly as the best trained pointer. The only one I ever met with 
 among the stubble and turnips has been the common hen harrier, 
 the male and female of which differ so much in plumage that a 
 man even possessing more ornithological knowledge than tlie gene- 
 rality of keepers might be well excused in considering them distinct 
 species. 
 
 The harriers are distinonished from all the other hawks by the 
 round disc of feathers encircling the face (hke owls), tlie long 
 pointed wings, and the long thin legs. 
 
 The marsh harrier is the largest, being scarcely smaller than the 
 goshawk, of a dark-brown colour, with a rusty yellow tinge on the 
 head and thighs. Tail scarcely longer than the closed wings. 
 
 The male hen harrier is blue grey above, white underneath, with 
 the outer edge of the wings underneath black. The female, or 
 ringtail as it is called, is brown above, rusty yellow beneath ; 
 smaller than the last. The tail is much longer than the closed 
 wings. 
 
 There is another species which has, I dare say, often been con- 
 founded with the last — Montague's harrier. It very much re- 
 sembles the hen harrier, but is rather smaller. The best dis- 
 tinguishing marks are the tail, and the relative length of the wing 
 feathers. In Montague's harrier the tail is level with the closed 
 wings, and the third wing feather is the longest. In the hen 
 harrier the third and fourth wing feathers are equal, and the 
 tail, as I before observed, is much longer than the closed wings. 
 
 I have a great doubt whether an owl of any kind that is met 
 
228 The Keeper's Tree, 
 
 with in Britain ought ever to be destroyed, for they do but httle 
 damage to the game, and incalculable benefit to the agriculturist 
 and farmer, and yet we rarely see ^'a keeper's tree" without an old 
 owl or two (I do not know why of all birds the owl should always 
 be an '''old owl" among our keepers and countrymen) decorating 
 its branches. 
 
 There are but two species, however, common in Britain, and both 
 of these are so well known to every keeper and country lad, as ta 
 need no description. These are the barn owl and the brown wood 
 owl. 
 
 It is true the long-eared owl and the short-eared owl in some 
 districts and at some seasons are not so very rare. Of these the 
 short-eared owl is a summer migrant. Neither of these is so large 
 as the common brown owl. In the long-eared owl the horns or 
 ears on the forehead are very conspicuous. In this species the tail 
 is more than one inch shorter than the closed wings. In the 
 short-eared owl the horns are very short, and the tail is nearly level 
 with the closed wings. In the brown owl it is two inches longer. 
 
 The great eagle owl and the snowy owl are neither of them ever 
 likely to grace the branches of a British keeper's tree^, and if by 
 chance he should kill the hawk owl, in which the long-pointed tail 
 reaches nearly four inches beyond the wings, or any one of the 
 smaller species, he would, if he did not know exactly what it was 
 himself, be sure, for curiosity's sake at least, to take it to some 
 ornithological friend in his neighbourhood. 
 
 The carrion crow, the magpie, and the jay, all come within the 
 list of vermin, and, I believe, these complete my list. 
 
 Many foresters and keepers have an idea that woodpeckers do a 
 great deal of harm to the trees by boring them in search of insects. 
 This is not the case, for such insects as the woodpecker seeks after 
 are not found in healthy trees. As soon as ever the woodpecker is 
 seen feeding on a tree stem, it is a sure sign that the tree is sickly, 
 and will soon decay, and the sooner it comes down the better. 
 Sacrifice the tree, but spare the woodpecker, unless, indeed, it is 
 wanted as a specimen. 
 
The Keeper's Tree, 229 
 
 The useless destruction of any animal must be deprecated by all j 
 but if I want a specimen, either for preserving or eating, I feel no 
 *cruple in killing it. I don't know that ever I kill a quadruped, 
 bird, fish, or insect wantonly 3 but the man who wishes to preserve 
 his game, has an undoubted right to destroy any quadruped or bird 
 which is destructive to that game. Every true naturalist must 
 reverence the memory and envy the feelings of the late Mr. 
 Waterton^ and were I a rich man, and possessed the opportunities that 
 he did, I would follow his footsteps to the shadow. But if all were 
 to do this, the chain of nature would be totally destroyed. If the 
 stronger animals were all allowed to roam over the face of the world 
 unmolested, the weaker would soon be swept away 3 and, on the 
 other hand, unless the latter were kept down, the world would 
 soon become uninhabitable. It is all very well for the sentimentalist 
 to tell us that we have no right to take away a life which we cannot 
 restore. This sounds well in theory, but it will not do in practice, 
 for even the most careless observer cannot open a page in the great 
 book of nature without seeing that one universal system of destruc- 
 tion, is hourly carried on, from the lowest to the highest of those 
 creatures who form the brightest pictures in that great book. I 
 cannot exemplify my subject better than by referring the reader to 
 a little woodcut which forms the frontispiece of a small book. The 
 Boy Hunters, by Captain Mayne Reid. It is entitled, "The 
 Chain of Destruction," and consists of seven groups. In the first 
 the humming-bird is diving into a flower-bell, behind which the 
 jaws of death are waiting to receive the unconscious bird in the 
 shape of a huge tarantula spider. In the next the tarantula falls a 
 prey to the cameleon, which, in its turn, is destroyed by a scorpion 
 lizard. No sooner is this act in the drama played out, than the 
 lizard is attacked by a snake j this is carried high in air by a 
 swallow-tailed kite, when man, the lord of all, steps in, and, with 
 his rifle, forms the last link in the "chain of destruction." I have 
 looked at this picture times and often, and many a train of sugges- 
 tive thought has been awakened in my mind by the contemplation 
 of that little woodcut. 
 
230 
 
 THE RABBIT BATTUE. 
 
 About tne end of 1864, a discussion took place in the columns of 
 The Field on the subject of "Battue Shooting," in which the non- 
 contents appeared to have the best of it. 
 
 In this discussion I took no part, but I must candidly admit that 
 it did then, and still does, seem rather strange to me that any noble- 
 man or gentleman who goes to a great expense in preserving game, 
 should not be allowed to kill that game in the manner which is 
 most pleasing to himself 3 and I do not consider that a man like 
 myself, who goes to no expense in game preserving, but is content 
 to wander about over wild, half-preserved ground, and pick up a 
 brace or two of birds and a hare after a hard day's fagging, has any 
 right to tell my Lord this, or the Duke of that, that he is no sports- 
 man, because he rather prefers "a warm corner" in one of his own 
 well-stocked preserves, where he is sure of a shot about every five 
 minutes, to a day's hard work over a rough country, where one 
 shot in the hour is, perhaps, all he can expect. 
 
 It is quite another question whether there is the spirit attendant 
 upon the battue that there is upon following a brace of good dogs 
 over a country tolerably supplied with game. I take it that this is 
 entirely a matter of taste. Probably the aristocrat finds quite as 
 much excitement in knocking over his twenty-five brace of 
 '^rocketers " in two hours, as I do in bagging my twelve couple of 
 duck or snipe on a Swedish moss in the day. Different men have 
 such different ideas of sport. The salmon-fisher sneers at the punt- 
 fisher 3 the punt-fisher thinks that the ne plus ultra in angling is to 
 kill a two-pound roach with a single hair. The fox-hunter jibes at 
 the thistle-whipper ; and the man who has once lived through a 
 fast thing from Crick Gorse, or the Coplow, wonders how any one 
 can call it sport to hunt with the Old Surrey. 
 
The Rabbit Battue, 231 
 
 So it is, so it always will be, and so it ought to be. I, for my 
 part, am quite content to take my sport as I find it, and without tan- 
 talizing myself with the idea that many men have better sport than 
 x-nyself, am consoled witli the reflection that a great many have worse. 
 
 I certainly never did join in one of those lordly battues, for a very 
 good reason — I never had a chance. So I am quite unable to say 
 whether there is any fun or excitement in them or not 3 but all I 
 can say is this, that if they are only half as jolly as our '^ rabbit 
 
 battues " used to be in the old forest of , in the days when 
 
 I could bowl over nine out of ten rabbits, and scarcely see half of 
 them (I should be sorry to back myself to do it now), I only wish 
 some game-preser\^er would be kind enough to give me a chance of 
 joining in one. But this will most probably never be the case, and 
 even if he did, I very much fear I should not feel half so much at 
 home among the aristocratic breech-loaders as I used to do among 
 a lot of game-keepers and farmers, armed with old-fashioned muzzle- 
 loaders, and some of those of a very primitive description. I am 
 afraid a breech-loader would puzzle me ; and I am quite sure I 
 should never like to see myself in "knickerbockers." Besides, 
 every fish had best keep to its own swim. So I much fear I shall 
 die without having the satisfaction of deciding for myself whether 
 these aristocratic battues are so unsportsmanlike as many wish us to 
 believe, and live upon the recollection of the pleasure I have expe- 
 rienced in the only sort of battues which I have ever had the luck 
 'o join in, and one of which I will now attempt to describe to the 
 reader. 
 
 "We shall want you to help us on Saturday, Master Tom, to kill 
 a few rabbits. You'd better be at my lodge to breakfast by eight j 
 we shall have nobody there but the old lot." 
 
 Such was the invitation I received from our head keeper (the 
 keeper who looks after the land in our own parish is always our 
 keeper, although we have not the slightest interest in the game 
 further than that we feed it), as, on his pony, he met me coming out 
 of our gate one afternoon towards the middle of February, and the 
 contract \vas ratified by — 
 
232 The Rabbit Battue. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Johnson 5 I shall be very happy to come. Wont 
 you get off and have a glass of ale?" 
 
 This was an invitation I was expecting, for I knew that they had 
 begun rabbiting in the forest, and when there was to be a greai 
 day I was always sent for. I knew what a "few rabbits" meant 
 — often thirty to forty dozen 5 and I also knew who the " old 
 lot" would include. 
 
 I never could find out exactly whether or not Mr. Johnson 
 claimed the rabbits in our forest as his own pecuhar perquisite ; but 
 this I know, that I never by any chance called at his lodge (no 
 matter what was the season of the year), but it was sure to be, 
 '' Come in and have a glass of ale and a bit of cold rabbit-pie." 
 On one occasion, I recollect finding a bone on my plate, which I 
 was sure did not belong to a rabbit. My host saw it as soon as I 
 did, and I suppose he deemed some explanation necessary, or he 
 would hardly have told me, "Ah, I'm so glad we had that pie to- 
 day, for I shot an old heron down at the pond the other nighty and 
 I told the missus we'll try how it eats 5 for I never tasted one 
 before. What do you think of it ?" I thought it tasted wonder- 
 fully like pheasant ; but this I kept to myself. However, it was in 
 December, when pheasant, as well as heron, is in season. 
 
 As soon as the regular season closed, and the " party staying at 
 the hall" had wound up with their last battue, Mr. Johnson ap- 
 peared to assume a temporary ownership of the forest, and sent 
 round invitations to his friends to come and join him in what 
 he used to call " a day's rabbiting, and a bit of lunch with us in the 
 forest," with quite as much form as my lord had, the month before, 
 invited his more aristocratic friends to a day's pheasant-shooting and 
 dinner on such a day. He found dogs, ammunition, &c., and stood 
 lunch : all we had to do was to kill the rabbits — which he kept. 
 
 This was rare pohcy on his part. Of course these little gather- 
 ings were chiefly composed of his lordship's tenants, and gave each 
 one, as it were, a kind of interest in the game on the estate ; and 
 although just '"ound us, every farmer was a far better hand in the 
 saddle than mih. the gun, still they liked a bit of sport in any 
 
Ihe Rabbit Battue, 2^^ 
 
 shape 5 and these roUickings were looked forward to as little 
 jubilees by every farmer who could shoot 3 and I really believe 
 'if anyone of them had not been invited to the rabbit battue and 
 the rook shooting at the hall, he would have looked upon it as 
 a personal insult. Anyhow, all the others would have supposed 
 that something was wrong between him and Mr. Johnson. Thus, 
 every tenant-farmer on the estate had a kind of indirect interest 
 in preserving the game, and standing well in with the head-keeper. 
 
 There is no shrewder judge of human nature than a Yorkshire- 
 man ; and one winter which I spent in a little village not far from 
 York, I was much anmsed at the way in which the village trades- 
 men collected their Christmas bills. About the new year a suc- 
 cession of feasts wai held at the sign of the Charles the Twelfth. 
 One evening it was the shoemakers' feast 3 another night it was 
 the blacksmith's, and so on. Each, in his turn, would invite all his 
 customers in the village to a bread-and-cheese supper and ale 3 and 
 it was understood that this was the evening he intended to gather 
 toll. Every one came prepared to pay, and not a single customer was 
 ever absent 3 for, as a jolly old farmer told me, if you did not go 
 the others would think you had not got " the brass 3" and if you went 
 you must pay. So, at a very trifling outlay for bread-and-cheese 
 and '''yeal," the tradesman collected his debts punctually without 
 any trouble. 
 
 So it was with Mr. Johnson and our farmers. When lunch came 
 on, the past season was sure to be discussed, and it was then a treat 
 to him — casually, as it were — to allude to " that afternoon in Mr. 
 Jones's turnips 3 my lord often talked about it afterwards" (I believe 
 just then Mr. Jones considered himself a personal friend of his lord- 
 ship's), or, " My lord said to me, 'We'll shoot over Brown's farm 
 to-morrow 3 we're always sure to find game, and lots of it there.' " 
 No trouble to preserve game if the keeper only identified him- 
 self with the tenants 3 and this is no difficult matter after all — at 
 least, not if every keeper can " soft sawder" them like Mr. Johnson. 
 
 But there was another class of men with whom it was also his 
 interest to ingratiate himself, and, moreover, without whose assist- 
 
234 'Th^ Rahhit Battue, 
 
 ance I am very much afraid Mr. Johnson would never have been 
 able to get all the rabbits he wanted 3 for oar farmers, who had but 
 little time or opportunity for practice (keen as they might be) were 
 no great hands with the gun. There is always, in every village, 
 some " ne'er-do-weel/' or other, of a better class than the day 
 labourer — say, for instance, one of the clergyman's five sons, or a 
 young farmer (in a town it is generally a publican or sporting butcher), 
 who seem as if tlie love for a gun was born in them. These men 
 are the keeper's greatest plagues. He can hardly declare a civil 
 war against them as against the regular poachers j but they require 
 continual watching, and cause the keepers as much anxiety and 
 trouble as all the night poachers put together. 
 
 " I tell you what. Master Tom," blurted out Mr. Johnson one day 
 to me (as he burst through a hedge which had hidden him from 
 my view, and caught me in the act of picking up a dead bird out 
 of the ditch, which I had shot on ground where I had a right, but 
 which had unfortunately towered out of bounds), '' if there were 
 three such young scamps as you in the parish, I'd give up my place 
 to-morrow." But it was just such scamps as we whom he was right 
 glad to enhst into his rank at a rabbit battue, and depend upon it 
 we were in the best places somewhere in the middle of the line. 
 This post of honour was of course occupied by Mr. Johnson him- 
 self j and as the spaniels were never far from him, the two men on 
 his right and left hand were sure to get the best shooting. Besides, 
 when we sat down to lunch we used to come in for our share of 
 the same sauce as the farmers, only served up in a different style — 
 something after this wise. 
 
 *'I heard a double shot the other afternoon in old Brown's 
 turnips, but I never came down to see, for I said to Joe : ' Oh, 
 it's only Master Tom killing a couple of rabbits, for I'm sure that 
 he will never meddle with the game after his lordship has so kindly 
 given him leave to shoot the rabbits.' " Or, addressing himself to 
 Mr. Simpson (a sporting publican in the neighbouring town, who 
 had a nasty trick of driving a dog-cart along the high road with one 
 old pointer covered up by the apron, and beating any likely field 
 
The Rabbit Battue. i^^ 
 
 by the road side which he fancied was out of the way of the keepers, 
 and_, after one double shot, popping up again into his dog-cart, and 
 driving on a httle distance before he repeated the trick), thus: 
 " Somebody told me the other day, that he saw a dog-cart very 
 like Mr. Simpson's drive down the lane over Tillmyre ; but I said, 
 * It's no matter if it was him : he's too much of a gentleman ever 
 to meddle with our game after his lordship has given me such strict 
 orders always to invite him whenever we have a good day's 
 rabbiting.' " 
 
 These little bits of flattery saved ]\Ir. Johnson many a hare and 
 partridge. He had, as it were, touched our honour. We were 
 under an obligation to him for a nice day or two's sport, and there 
 would have been something very mean if we had requited his 
 generosity by killing his game. 
 
 But civil as he was with us, with the daring poacher it was the 
 fortiter in re and nothing else ; and no keeper in our county had 
 consigned more of this class to the county gaol than Mr. Johnson. 
 
 By eight a.m. on the Saturday morning I was at Mr. Johnson's 
 lodge, and found that a goodly company had already arrived there 
 before me. It was a beautiful hunting morning, and every one of 
 my readers knows, without my telling him, what sort of a morning 
 that is in the middle of February in England ; and the more the 
 weather was like hunting, the better it always used to be for our 
 rabbit battues. 
 
 Jovial were the greetings, as I gave my pony into Joe's hands — a 
 lathy under-keeper, who was standing outside the door bare-headed 
 (not, however, outof comphment to me), to meet me — and walked 
 into the lodge, which was now filled with game-keepers, farmers 
 (many of them in top-boots, by the way), and one or two of the 
 neighbouring gentlemen, who, according to Mr. Johnson's plr-ase- 
 ology, were ^' of the right sort, and capital shots." Great w?s the 
 Babel 3 half a score men talking, eating, laughing, and drinkmg at 
 once. It was a sort of standing breakfast. There was plenty to 
 cut at 3 every one helped himself, and ate it how he liked. It was, 
 as we used to say in the olden days at Lord's Ground, when wq 
 
20^6 The Rabbit Battue. 
 
 retired to dinner with the players, a regular " scrabble." All were 
 in high spirits, and everyone seemed as if he had made up his mind 
 to enjoy himself on this day at least. 
 
 But, '' Now then, gentlemen, it's time to be off!" brought us all 
 to our feet 3 and "Who wants powder or shot?" *^ Have you got 
 any caps?" "Shall we take old Pilot to-day, Joe?" "What 
 quarter of the forest shall we beat first?" and such like questions, 
 proved that the real business of the day was about to commence. 
 The forest where we are to begin lies about one mile from the 
 keeper's lodge, and we form a merry group as we walk up the 
 village lane towards it ; but one of the party is missing, and the 
 often-repeated question, " I wonder what's got young Tom Hardy 
 to-day ?" proves that the missing man is a general favourite ; and so 
 he may well be — a proficient in every field sport, a capital shot, 
 and one of our best riders, and, moreover, the life and soul of every 
 village feast and harvest-home for miles round. Just as we are 
 turning into a hand gate which led from the village lane up to the 
 wood, a figure is observed, a few fields distant, working his way, on 
 a grey horse, across country towards us. We recognise him by his 
 white hat, and as he comes sailing over a hedge and double ditch, 
 leading into the field next but one to that in which we are now 
 standing, we can see his gun slung across his back. All eyes are 
 now centred upon this object of attraction, and many are the 
 speculations as to what he's on to-day. "Why, it's the grey colt," 
 exclaims the most far-seeing of the hard-riding lot who are now 
 intently watching how he will come over those rails in the corner, 
 which Tom has purposely ridden out of his line to have a shy at. 
 A balk ! But tlie grey colt is in hands which will stand no non- 
 sense j at the second attempt he charges them gallantly, and, 
 " That's you ! Well done, Tom !" — as he lands safely in the large 
 hundred acres of old swarth, in which we are standing — burst from 
 the assembled group, who have for the moment forgotten all about 
 the coming sport while watching the performance of the grey colt. 
 
 Tom soon canters up, and after explaining to us, " that, as the 
 colt was a little fresh, and wanted handhng, he thought he'd just 
 
The Rabbit Battue 237 
 
 lark him over from his lodge " — about two miles distant, over as 
 pretty a line of country as one could choose even for a Grand 
 Aristocratic — he slides out of his saddle, and giving the colt to one of 
 the beaters to lead back to the keeper's lodge, joins the party ; and 
 we are soon at the edge of the wood, where a wiry young under- 
 keeper is waiting for us at the gate witli about six couple of spaniels. 
 
 As it is now nine o'clock, we lose no more time, and Mr. Johnson 
 having marshalled his forces, assigns each man his place, and gives 
 us the following brief instructions : " Now mind and keep well in 
 hne, gentlemen. No hares ! Stop at every shot, and, above all 
 things, take care of the dogs." A very necessary precaution, by 
 the way, seeing that the undergrowth is thick, the dogs close 
 hunters, and the rabbits lie like stones. We muster about sixteen 
 guns, only seven of which, however, are to be depended on. Of 
 course, Mr. Johnson takes the post of honour — the middle place. 
 The best men are to his right and left ; and as for the top-boots,, 
 who are anxiously asking ''Where about in tlie line they shall be,"" 
 he merely remarks, tliat " He does not care a pin, so long as they 
 are at least two gun-shots from him." The beaters are also in the 
 line, for in this fun there was no sneaking down to the bottom of the 
 wood for a favourite stand ; every man had as good a chance as his 
 neighbour, for we used to walk in a line right through tlie forest, 
 kick the rabbits up, with the help of the dogs, and knock them over 
 as best we could. No covert in England could have been so well 
 adapted for this sport. The old oaks stood wide apart 5 and the 
 undergrowth, which was tolerably open, was formed of hazel bushes 
 and long dead grass. 
 
 We had not been five minutes in line before the fun begins. 
 Bang, bang! "Dead, Flora!" then a pause; then bang again on 
 both sides, amidst shouts of ''Look to!" "Well killed!" "Well 
 missed you !" as the case may be. The heaviest shooting is of 
 course in the middle of the line, for the spaniels never hunt far 
 from the head keeper, and we, who are pretty near him, get some 
 capital sport. I generally used to have to account for fifty or sixty 
 caps at the end of the day : and, without boasting, I well recollect 
 
238 The Rabbit Battue. 
 
 that nine caps out of ten told a good tale. It used to be beautiful 
 to see Mr. Johnson roll rabbit after rabbit over without hardly ever 
 missing a shot. There was a wonderful knack in this rabbit- 
 shooting. A quick shot did not see his rabbit six times out of ten. 
 "Keep your eye on thegrass, and fire well forward," was Johnson's 
 motto : and I am sure that I have seen him pick a rabbit so close 
 out of a dog's mouth (as it were), that it was a miracle how he 
 could miss the dog ; and as both rolled over in a confused mass I 
 often thought that " Dead, Prince, dead !" shouted in his husky 
 voice, might apply to the dog as well as the rabbit. But, as he was 
 Wont to observe in his blunt way, " If men like us keepers, who 
 always have the gun in their hands, can't shoot, I should like to 
 know who can !" 
 
 Thus we go on beating the whole quarter of the forest slowly 
 backwards and forwards, firing on an average, I suppose, two shots 
 in the minute, when we are in motion. AVe do not waste much 
 time in loading, and sometimes the cannonade runs along the whole 
 line. Now and then the cry of "Mark cock!" puts every one on 
 his mettle, for to kill a cock is the height of every man's ambition j 
 and though our forest was not a very noted one for cocks, we generally 
 used to bring to bag three or four couple in a day's rabbiting. 
 
 But our friends the farmers are getting thirsty, and begin to ask 
 if it is not almost lunch-time. The lunch is to meet us at the 
 well-known spot, an old oak in the middle riding, and we begin to 
 draw towards it. Sure enough, as soon as we come in sight of the 
 old tree, there stands the keeper's pony, quietly grazing under itj 
 and Joe, the under-keeper, lying on the grass, keeping ward and 
 watch over the provision-basket and the ale. The party soon 
 settle down ; and although every one of us played a tolerable knife 
 and fork at breakfast, we appear to have found our appetites again, 
 for the cold round of beef and rabbit-pie provided from Mr. Johnson's 
 larder very soon began to look small. The ale is from the village ale- 
 house, and a "shilling whip" among the non-professionals pays for 
 this, and leaves a trifle over for the under-keeper. As soon as the 
 serious business of the lunch is over, the short pipes are brought 
 
Ihe Rabbit Battue. 239 
 
 out, and cigar-cases are handed round. I invariably notice that 
 men who are quite unused to cigar-smoking, and who would infi- 
 nitely prefer a yard of clay, are the last to refuse a cigar when it is 
 once offered to them. I presume there is in their ideas something 
 aristocratic in smoking a cigar ; and in general what a sad mess 
 they make of it ! Such rolling and wetting, such trouble in 
 lighting ! (Has the reader ever had the pleasure of giving a light 
 from his nice even-smoked cigar to a man who is not used to 
 smoking ? I have often, and I have inwardly wished my perse- 
 cutor somewhere else, as he thrusts his cigar-end into mine, puffs 
 three or four huge volumes of smoke right into my face 3 and if he 
 does not altogether extinguish my cigar, is sure to return it to me 
 in such a dilapidated condition that it is hardly worth smoking 
 again.) Such puffing to set the weed well going ! and when it is 
 once alight it generally burns half-way down one side, leaving a 
 long outer crust upon the other. Talk of throwing pearls before 
 swine ! I always shudder when I see a first-rate regalia in 
 such hands. Of course, Mr. Johnson, during a thirty years' attend- 
 ance upon the "swells," as he terms them, has learnt to smoke a 
 cigar as it should be 3 but it is evident that he does not think 
 smoking improves the shooting, for he significantly remarks, " I 
 like to see the cigars come out. Now I don't care whether you 
 shoot at hares or rabbits." 
 
 The hour of lunch is the j oiliest of the day. Old jokes, which we 
 have heard over and over again, but which somehow never appear 
 to become stale -, anecdotes of feats in the saddle, or with the gun, 
 which we know by heart, now and then interspersed with a quiet 
 bit of " chaff," passing away the time. And as all are on an equahty 
 this day, there is no restraint on the conversation. My lord's 
 doings are canvassed just as candidly as those of his meanest 
 tenants 5 and if any one in the neighbourhood should chance 
 to have a blot on his escutcheon, it is now freely commented on : 
 just as freely are the good points in another man's character 
 applauded. That old oak, in the deep quiet of the forest glade, 
 forms a picturesque and English scene in itself 3 and if any 
 
^4o The Rahhit Battue. 
 
 one wished to sketch a truly British group, here they are ready to 
 hand under the shade of its old branches. Tradition tells us that 
 there are old oaks in the forest which were coeval with the Druids. 
 Certain it is that many of them (and probably the very one under 
 which we are now lying) have often sheltered the bold outlaw, 
 Robin Hood, when he and his merry band were wont to wander 
 at will over these forest glades after a more noble quarry than that 
 which we are this day pursuing. But it seems that even then 
 this forest had lost its guardians, for not so very far from this old 
 oak an upright stone marks the spot to this day where '' Stoode ye 
 bocasse tree in which Robin Hoode hyde his bowe and arrowes 
 when pursued by the sherifFe. Blown down in j 7 — ." The bow and 
 arrow has now given place to the fowling-piece, and the red deer 
 now no longer roam in a state of nature over the old forest j but I 
 don't fancy the race of foresters have degenerated, for though the 
 *'kirtle of Lincoln green" has been laid aside for the rusty old bit 
 of velveteen, I very much question whether I could not pick half- 
 a-dozen men out of the group now assembled under this old oak 
 who would give the bold outlaw and his resolute followers some 
 trouble if they were once again to appear in the precincts of this 
 chase. 
 
 I have always been of Pope's opinion that " the proper study of 
 mankind is man," and I have derived considerable instruction and 
 amusement during my journey through life, in studying the dress, 
 habits, and appearance of my fellow travellers whom I chance to 
 meet on the road. And there is a good deal to study in the group now 
 before ir.Cj and the study is not the less pleasing because every man 
 bears the impress of the true Briton unmistakably marked in ever}" 
 feature and appointment. I am not fond of quoting from others, 
 for to say the least of it such a practice betokens a want of ability 
 in one's self 3 but there is a something so truly national and so full 
 of tnie British sentiment in the following passage, copied from a 
 JittJe series of sporting sketches entitled " Behind the Bar " (sketches, 
 moreover, which, for true and vivid descriptions, can never be 
 beaten), that I cannot help borrowing it, believing fully it will find 
 
The Rabbit Battue, 241 
 
 a response in the breast of every English reader ; " I like the round- 
 cropped bullet-head that one never sees out of our own little island. 
 I like the fresh healthy colour that deepens instead of fading with 
 age 3 and the burly, thick-set form, square and substantial as a 
 tower, deriving its solid proportions from a good English ancestry, 
 ' men of mould,' since the days of Robin Hood, and the vigour from 
 good English beef and floods of nut-brown ale. These are the sort 
 of men that kept the greenwood in merry Nottinghamshire, and 
 bore back the chivalry of Europe at Agincourt, Cressy, and Poitiers; 
 these are the sort of men that would turn the tide of an invasion. 
 To-day handling the rifle as deftly as their fathers did the bow, yet 
 impatient, somewhat, of long bowls at five or six hundred yards, 
 and longing withal to get to close quarters, and try conclusions with 
 the bayonet. When it comes to clash of steel, depend upon it the 
 'weakest will go to the wall.' " 
 
 I have often thought that if our French neighbours should ever 
 be rash enough to throw a body of their far-famed Zouaves on to 
 our coast, how a band of British gamekeepers, active resolute men, 
 armed with rifles, in the pride of manly strength, would bear them 
 down, especially if it came to clubbing distance. How easy is it to 
 pick every keeper out of this group ! The muscular form, the reso- 
 lute and determined, but frank, open countenance, the firm, but 
 respectful bearing, and, moreover, the true cut of the workman 
 about every one of them, all tell their own tale ; while the well- 
 worn, usefally-built fustian shooting-coat, and breeches and gaiters^ 
 form an appropriate sporting costume, such as one never sees out of 
 England. I don't know how it is, but a real, well-built English 
 shooting-coat seems a Chinese puzzle to a foreigner. What a con- 
 trast to the group now before us would a lot of swarthy, bearded 
 French chasseurs form ! each with a hugeFrench horn slung across his 
 back, his couteau de chasse by his side, his nondescript cap, his long 
 coat with no pockets, and his embroidered game-bag, in which are 
 stuffed all his shooting paraphernaha in one confused mass ! Or, 
 worse still, a group of blowsy, fat German jdgers, each with his 
 long pipe, and his broad, pasty-coloured face, looking exactly as if 
 
243 The Rahhit Battue. 
 
 he had been sat upon ! I am not a prejudiced man, and I believe 
 
 that just as good a heart can beat under one sort of coat as another, 
 but I do hke to see a man's dress fitted for his occupation. I must 
 confess to a leaning towards the old sporting dress of some twenty- 
 five years since, and I can hardly fancy a greater burlesque than to 
 see the burly form and features of my old friend Mr. Johnson disfi- 
 gured in a pork-pie hat, knickerbockers, red stockings and mous- 
 taches. 
 
 But we have still two hours' more work before us, and we again 
 form in line. The afternoon's shooting much resembles that of the 
 morning, save that the men's voices are a little louder, and the guns 
 seem to go a little quicker. By four we have beaten back to the 
 gate, where we began in the morning, by the side of which all the 
 dead rabbits are collected. We have had a very good day's sport, 
 about fifty-seven dozen rabbits and three and a half couple of cocks, 
 Mr. Johnson scored the highest — eighty- two rabbits and two cocks, 
 out of eighty-seven shots. The seven best men average about sixty 
 each, and no man scores less than a dozen. Each man takes a couple 
 or so of rabbits home with him (for the missus, if he has one) -, the 
 under-keepers are left behind to paunch the remainder ; and we all 
 walk back to Mr. Johnson's lodge just to '" have a crust of bread 
 and cheese and a glass of ale," and to light a cigar to smoke on our 
 road home. 
 
 Here the next day's fixture is planned, and as we ride home in 
 the deepening twilight of the chiU February evening, we think what 
 a void this life would be if it was not for occasional little gatherings 
 like the present, and how foolish is the cuckoo cry of the leveller 
 that no one but the wealthy aristocrat can enjoy the sports of the 
 field! 
 
243 
 
 MY LAST DAY IN THE FEN. 
 
 I 
 
 " At evening, o'er the sullen fen. 
 The bittern's boom came far." 
 
 The dull haze of a November evening was fast closing in over the 
 landscape as I drove down the North Bank from Peterborough, now 
 many years since, on my last visit to the Crowland fen. The 
 starlings had settled down to roost on the large reed beds with 
 which the wide expanse of flat, uncultivated country around was 
 studded J and, save the monotonous call of the restless peewits 
 dashing round and round over their night's camping-place, and the 
 occasional quacking of a pair of ducks as they rose from their 
 splashy feeding-grounds, a total silence reigned over all. The 
 heavy mist was rising fast, obscuring the few landmarks visible by 
 daylight in this dreary waste j and it was with no little satisfaction 
 tliat I hailed a glimmering light shining murkily through the 
 window of the solitary public-house half-way down the Bank, 
 which was to be my head-quarters for the night, preparatory to the 
 last day's snipe shooting I should probably ever enjoy in a spot 
 endeared to me by so many fond recollections. 
 
 At that day the fen was the fen. The many thousand acres, ay, 
 miles, of low, marshy ground extending along the east coasts of 
 Norfolk, Cambridge, and Lincolnshire, afforded then excellent sport 
 to the wildfowl-shooter, a wide field for tlie naturalist, and a home 
 to a half-amphibious class of men, as an old writer quaintly 
 observes, " of a rugged and uncivilized temper, envying others 
 whom they call upland men, and usually walking about on a sort of 
 Btilts, and who keep to the business of grazing (qy. geese), fishing 
 and fowling." 
 
 It was to one of these " ancient fossils " that my visit was 
 
 R 2 
 
244 ^y Last Day in the Fen, 
 
 intended, and right glad was I when I pulled up at the door of his rude 
 hostel, and, giving my horse in charge of an antediluvian ostler, 
 whose whole appearance was in perfect keeping with the locality, I 
 made my way into the kitchen of the inn (the bar-parlour of this 
 sporting snuggery), attracted by the blazing light on the open 
 hearth, contrasting well with the gloomy landscape I was leaving 
 outside. A glance round the room at once discovered the owner's 
 calling, and another at the chimney-corner showed me the owner 
 himself. Two or three lumbering, huge punt-guns, all upon the 
 flint-and-sieel principle, hung from the rafters 3 a crazy hand-gun 
 for stopping the cripples stood in one corner ; while sprits, stalking- 
 poles, and setting-sticks, nets of every variety, and huge water-boots 
 were stowed away wherever space could be found for them. 
 Seated in a venerable arm-chair (of which he seemed to form part 
 and parcel) sat our friend the host, touching up the lock of an old 
 duck-gun J and a smile played over his withered features as he rose 
 to welcome me. A small group of fen "bankers" — not of the 
 Lombard-street genus, but rough hirsute navvies, in red nightcaps, 
 mud-stained frocks, worsteds, and highlows — who were seated 
 round a small deal table, deep in the mysteries of '' High, low, 
 jack, and the game," made way for me with a rough but genuine 
 civility J and ''Come, wont you drink with us, master," carried 
 with it a well-meant and hearty welcome. 
 
 The king of the fen gunners now stood before me, nearly 
 seventy years of age, short, but compactly built, his old weather- 
 beaten face something resembling the colour of the turf sods that 
 lay on his hearth. The few scant sQvery locks combed over his 
 wrinkled forehead plainly told that he had reached the period of 
 years usually allotted to n^an j yet the active motion, the spare, 
 erect figure, and above all tbe bright grey eye, also as plainly told 
 that the hand of time had dealt lightly with him. Bred in the fen, 
 his whole hfe had been spent in its solitudes, and his whole httle 
 world centred in this rude spot. Rarely, indeed, did he visit the 
 haunts of his fellow men, except when the autumn floods drove the 
 birds into the uplands, and he made certain periodical trips up the 
 
My Last Day in the Fen, 245 
 
 river with his punt and big gun. Scarcely cognisant of what was 
 going on in the outer world, he was nevertheless perfectly at home 
 in his own peculiar district -, and, rich in lowland lore, a rare fund 
 of reliable information regarding the fauna of the fen, the results of 
 more than half a century's experience, flowed glibly from the lips 
 of one who had probably never opened a book in his life. Our 
 supper was soon ready and heartily enjoyed, and the evening glided 
 by in converse witli the old man, and in listening to the anecdotes 
 which poured in on all sides ; for as soon as the navvies knew what 
 was the purport of my visit, each one had something extraordinary 
 to relate respecting the fishing or shooting in this locality. 
 
 I shall never forget on a previous occasion being camped in this 
 very public with a friend from the North, now, perhaps, one of the 
 best ornithologists that not only England, but Europe can boast. 
 It was in the spring, and we had come down to explore the fen, and 
 to see if we could obtain nests of the bearded tit, hen harrier, &c. 
 As usual, a lot of these navvies were billeted in our hostel, and 
 they listened with evident interest to the cross-examination which 
 the old gunner underwent respecting his knowledge of the habits 
 of the ftn-birds, &c. Next morning, about breakfast-time, I heard 
 an unwonted stir outside the house, and the clattering of heavy 
 highlows and a confused murmur of voices told us something 
 was up. Presently the door burst open, and a gang of about 
 a dozen elbowed their way into the room. One was elected 
 spokesman, and, holding up a handkerchief which evidently con- 
 tained, in his estimation, a treasure of some kind or other, he 
 accosted my friend with, '' Nov;', then. Old Curossity, we've got 
 something for you." It is needless to say that " Old Curossky" 
 was soon on his legs, and after many injunctions to be very careful, 
 the handkerchief was opened, and a hedgehog crawled out on the 
 floor ! The scene at that moment was a rich study for Leech • and 
 I can hardly say which was the most striking — the triumphant air 
 with which the navvies regarded their treasure, or the blank look 
 of disappointment which suddenly overspread the countenance 
 of my friend. I dared not look at either, but busied myself with 
 
24<^ My Last Day in the Fen, 
 
 my breakfast. However, ^''Old Curossity" was too old a collector 
 to show his disappointment, especially when he felt that a good- 
 natured motive had prompted the gift 3 so, thanking them cordially 
 for their present, and ordering a gallon of ale to be instantly dis- 
 tributed among the lot, he dismissed them, after strongly impressing 
 upon their minds that he did not want any more such animals 
 unless they should happen to fall in with one perfectly luliite. His 
 mind, however, was not at rest throughout the day, and he fre- 
 quently expressed his fears that on our return we might find 
 another group awaiting our arrival, with some other such specimen j 
 and, as he truly observed, '' I should not mind if they came single, 
 but when they come in such droves a gallon of ale hardly furnishes 
 a mouthful each." 
 
 After that night of sound repose, which no one enjoys better 
 than the sportsman, I was up betimes. The weather had cleared, 
 the wind blew gently from the west, and it was the day of all 
 others for snipe-shooting. To describe the day's sport would be 
 superfluous, one day's snipe-shooting so much resembles another. 
 The splashing through the reed-beds and marshy meadows 3 tlie 
 jumps of the fen ditches j the '^ scape" of the rising snipe j the 
 *' Well killed, master," of the guide when a good shot was made — 
 are famihar to every sportsman. Suffice it to say that I never had 
 a better day in the fen than my last. Nine and a half couples of 
 snipe, three mallard, five teal, was the bag ; and the last shot that I 
 fired in the fen I can remember as if it was but yesterday, for we 
 had neaily reached home, and as I was climbing over a gate two 
 mallard rose from a fen-dyke close to me, and I made a good wind- 
 up by killing them right and left. There is nearly always some- 
 thing of melancholy associated in this life with the reflection tliat 
 *' this is the last," and as the echoes of my gun died away in the 
 distance I thought of the many solitary and happy rambles I had 
 enjoyed in this spot j and it was with a feeling of depression, 
 heightened by the gloom of the evening, that I bade adieu to 
 my old friend and turned my horse's head homewards. That 
 
My Last Day in the Fen, 247. 
 
 I should ever see him again I much doubted ; but that the old 
 place should ever be drained, and a railway carried into the heart of 
 the fen, was past my belief. The old duck-man has long since 
 been gathered to his fathers, and it is possible even that the " Old 
 Cross Guns" or "Dog and Doublet," has been whitewashed up and 
 shines forth in cockneyiied array as the '*■ Railway Hotel." 
 
 It is now so long since I set a foot on the fen that I hardly know 
 what changes have been effected in this region by the march of 
 improvement and cultivation j but I will proceed to make a few 
 remarks on this district as it was in my day ; and I suppose even 
 now something remains to remind us of what was once the true 
 fen. And although a railway whistle is now heard in districts 
 where twenty years back the wild cry of the curlew was borne 
 over the breezy wold, and corn now waves on the site of Whittlesea 
 Mere, there must, I suppose, be still an odd corner or two which 
 will yet hold a snipe, and localities even now where the bearded tit 
 and swallow-tail butterfly are still to be met with. I know no 
 district in England so favourable to the pursuits of the shooter as 
 this used to be. If we seek the wild moorlands of Scotland, or 
 our more northern counties, we shall perhaps enjoy better and more 
 exciting sport -, and in the well-preserved stubbles and coverts of 
 midland and southern England we can always make sure of a 
 heavier bag than in the fen. But if, as the old song has it, " 'Tis 
 variety gives constant life to the chase," a day in the fen is worth a 
 dozen in the inclosures 3 and the man who happily combines the 
 naturalist with the sportsman, and thinks the face of nature never 
 looks so bright as when in her own original dress, rude as tliat dress 
 may be, will testify to the pleasure which he has experienced whenever 
 he falls in with a district isolated as it were from the rest of the 
 world, and where he can follow his favourite pursuits alone and 
 unmolested. I suppose it is the force of early association, but I 
 well know, as regards myself, that in every foreign country which 
 I have traversed since I left England, I cared little for the well- 
 stocked districts, but have always felt the greatest delight when 
 
248 My Last Day in the Fen, 
 
 wandering alone by the wild sea-beach, or plashing through the reed 
 beds in some lonely morass where probably no human foot had 
 ever trodden before. 
 
 But to return to our more immediate subject. In 1635, as we find 
 by Hay ward's Survey, the fen lands in the counties of Norfolk, Cam- 
 bridge, Huntingdon, and Lincoln extended over above 300,000 acres, 
 of which the Great Bedford Level formed the principal part. The 
 general character of the fen is a rich peaty soil, in many places 
 marshy, covered with bushes and coarse grass, intersected with 
 dykes, whose banks are fringed with reeds and aquatic plants. 
 There are several lakes or meres in the fens, the principal of which 
 in my day was Whittlesea Mere, the most extensive southern lake 
 in England, lying about three miles from Stilton, on the Great 
 North Road. And in bygone days before the railway era, when 
 this road was the pride of coachmen, the traveller on the mail during 
 the summer was struck with the beauty of the lowland landscape 
 which burst upon his view beyond Stilton, the quiet waters of the 
 mere glistening in the rays of the morning sun just rising over the 
 fens. This mere was about nine miles in circumference, covering 
 about 1600 acres, lying in a hollow, surrounded by the high lands 
 of Whittlesea, Yaxley, and Stilton. The water was shallow and 
 pretty uniform throughout, rarely exceeding five feet in depth. 
 It was surrounded by fens j and though many acres were yearly 
 drained, still thousands of acres retained their original character. 
 Of course the reclaimed lands, a rich alluvial soil, carried capital 
 crops. Nowhere have I seen such coleseed as in the fen 3 and I 
 have heard of new land growing ten quarters of wheat to the acre» 
 On such farms the holders mast do well j and a very substantial 
 class were the fen farmers of my day, and I only trust they still 
 continue so. The mere, as well as the fen dykes, abounded in fish, 
 principally of the coarser kinds, perch, pike, eels, &c. 3 and I 
 recollect we used to take a ^sh here that went by the name of the 
 eel-pout, but whether it was the burbolt or not, I am not able to 
 say. I have had many an excellent day's sport with floating 
 trimmers on the mere, but I never caught any out-of-the-way sized 
 
My Last Day in the Fen. 249 
 
 fish 3 141b. was about the largest I ever took, although I saw one 
 taken of above 351b., and one eel, the largest I ever saw in my life, 
 weighing 61b. I recollect, when quite a boy, the mere being llown 
 dry. Yes, the water was actually blown out of the mere by, I 
 think, a strong easterly wind. But whichever quarter the wind 
 came from, the result was that the bottom of the mere lay nearly 
 dry, and it was then that '' tlie mighty wonders of the deep" were 
 brought to light. Eels, bream, tench, and pike of an immense size, 
 were taken out of the holes by the neighbouring fishermen, who 
 launched their gunning-punts on rollers, and then slid them over 
 the muddy bottom. It must have been a curious scene. It was 
 graphically described to me in after years by old Cole, of Holme 
 (who in my day rented the fishing of the mere), and I recollect he 
 told me that he was almost frightened at times on seeing a 
 hole filled with large bream and eels struggling and splashing, the 
 eels ravenously fixing on the large bream as if they would devour 
 them. So immense was the quantity of fish which died in the mud, 
 that for days a pestilential vapour hung over the mere, and so great 
 was the destruction that the fishery of the mere had never to my 
 day recovered itself. But another great source of profit in this 
 region consisted of the extensive reed-banks that fringed the borders 
 of the mere. Hundreds and hundreds of acres were yearly cut and 
 carried away for the purposes of thatching ; and I know no prettier 
 landscape than a view of the mere in its icy winter coat, the 
 fringe of reeds ghstening in the white hoar frost. 
 
 Every naturalist can well supposs how rich such a district must 
 have been, and to many a botanist, entomologist, and ornithologist, 
 this was in my day as sacred ground. The swallow-tail and other 
 rare butterflies were often common enough here, and the drawers of 
 my egg-cabinet can even to this day boast of many treasures taken 
 in the fen. The kite and common buzzard bred then in Holme 
 and Alconbury woods, close by ; the harriers on the fen itself 3 and 
 the water rail, the spatted crake, and many other aquatic birds, 
 among the reeds and coarse herbage, which afforded them a 
 secluded, and except to the prying eye of the collector, a secure 
 
250 My Last Day in the Fen, 
 
 retreat. The rufF and reeve were never common in this fen, but 
 farther down in the Thorny fen many couples were annually taken 
 ^nd fattened for the table. But one of the prettiest of all the little 
 fen birds, was the bearded tit {Parus llarmicus), which bred in the 
 reed-beds near the mere 3 and so eagerly were tlie birds and nests 
 sought after by our collectors, that every year it was becoming more 
 rare, and by this time, like many other of our rarer species, is 
 probably extinct. It was called in the fens the bell-ringer, from its 
 clear musical little note ; and I have many a time watched with 
 pleasure the graceful and airy motions of a family of these birds 
 flitting among the reeds after each otlier, in the manner of a long- 
 tailed tit down a tall hedgerow, or balancing tliemselves on the 
 reeds, their bell-like note ringing through the clear winter air. 
 They remained in the fen during the whole year 3 and were it not 
 that the gunner was forbidden to shoot among the reeds in the 
 winter, on account of the damage the shot would do, they would 
 probably have all been shot out long before my day. Another 
 curious and interesting object in the fauna of the fen was the 
 immense flights of starlings which nightly visited the mere at the 
 close of autumn to roost upon the reeds. They appeared to come 
 in from all quarters, and I have observed hundreds of these birds 
 passing over, heading for the fen many miles distant, at the close of 
 an October day. Thousands would settle on one spot, and the 
 damage they would do in one night was incalculable. One of the 
 fishermen who rented part of the reeds has told me that he has had 
 an acre broken down in one nighty and the pounds of powder 
 that were shot away in the big swivel guns every evening to drive 
 them oflf is past all belief. The guns were rarely shotted, or I am 
 certain on many evenings might have equalled Colonel Hawker's 
 famous "starling shot." 
 
 But it was at the fall of the year that hundreds of aquatic birds 
 of difl^erent species, driven down from northern climes, resorted to 
 the fen for shelter 3 and it was then that the duck-shooters and 
 decoy-men reaped a rich harvest. Till the autumn floods set in 
 
My Last 'Day in the Fen. 251 
 
 the birds kept in the fens ; but, as soon as the upland meadows 
 were flooded, they dispersed over the country, and betook them- 
 selves to favourite feeding grounds far away from the mere 3 and 
 of course the punt-shooters followed them up. The low meadows 
 up country were then a favourite resort for fowl, and Warmington 
 Sulk and Perry Hurn were household words in the vocabularies of 
 the wildfowl-shooters 5 and how well can I, even now, recollect a 
 winter scene in this neighbourhood ! 
 
 The November flood has set in, all the meadows are flooded, in 
 many places one foot deep, and the muddy, turbid stream of the 
 Nene warns us that there is still much water to come down. A 
 trip of ducks has just passed upwards, and the deep-measured cackle 
 of a flight of wild geese, high in air above our heads, falls musi- 
 cally on the ear. We strain our eyes over the waste of waters to 
 watch them gradually disappear, when, skimming over the surface 
 of the floods, a solitary figure bears in sight, which we at once 
 recognise as one of our friends the duck-men. At first he is standing 
 erect, spritting his punt along in the shallow water, when all at once 
 he shifts his position, for he has caught sight of a small flock of 
 birds feeding on the edge of the flood 3 and now it is an interesting 
 sight to see the cautious way he works up to them. Lying flat in 
 the bottom of the punt, his legs stretched out behind on each side 
 to steady it, a small stalking stick in either hand, he gradually and 
 noiselessly approaches the unconscious fowl, which go on feeding, 
 little aware of the enemy that is drifting down upon them. As long 
 as they keep their position all is right, but as soon as one rises on 
 the water and shakes his wings, and the rest of the birds draw 
 together, it is plain they suspect danger. If the gunner is not yet 
 within shot, now is the time for his greatest caution ; however, he 
 quietly drifts down to within about a hundred yards — the cover is 
 thrown off' the lock of the gun, a bright flash, a loud report, the 
 boat flies back many yards through the water, and two pair of half- 
 birds (as they call the pochards here) and a pair of ducks are lying 
 breast upwards on the water. The dead birds are collected, the 
 
253 My Last Day in the Fen, 
 
 punt is drawn up on to a bank, the big gun sponged out and loaded, 
 and, after scanning the horizon with his eagle-eye, he proceeds in 
 search of another trip of fowl. 
 
 Considering the rudeness of the tackle, it is wonderful with what 
 accuracy these fellows shot. The guns were always of the rudest 
 description, and I never saw a swivel of any kind used in tliis fen. 
 The gun just lay flat in the boat, the muzzle protruding a few 
 inches, and tlie line of aim was regulated by the man reclining to the 
 right or left of the boat, according to the distance that the fowl are 
 from him. The end of the butt was padded, and when it went off, 
 the shooter let it fly under his right arm, and woe to his shoulder if 
 by chance it resisted the recoil. The powder in use was the com- 
 mon blasting powder, the shot No. 2, the wadding oaken or coarse 
 fen grass ; charge, about three ounces of powder to one pound of 
 shot. It is best to approach fowl up-wind or sideways -, next to 
 impossible to get them down-wind. When the birds were well in, 
 punt-shooting used not to be such a bad game. Even in this dis- 
 trict, I have known a gunner to shoot 5/. worth of fowl in one trip. 
 The prices here used generally to be 4^. for a pair of whole birds j 
 IS. 6d. for pochards or widgeon. Bat, after all, the life of a w^ild- 
 fowl-shooter, when he has to depend upon it for a subsistence, is 
 hard and precarious — to say nothing of the exposure to weather. 
 The risk of shooting in tliese crank punts, with the tackle these fen- 
 men generally use, is not little. I recollect one poor fellow, who 
 was out flight-shooting in these meadows, breaking his collar-bone 
 with the recoil of the gun, and having to lie all night in the bottom 
 of his boat till daylight (being unable to steer his punt), exposed to 
 the bitter inclemency of a drizzling December night ; and more 
 than once I have known of a gunner being frozen in at night, and 
 having to wade home tlirough a mile of shallow ice. I knew one 
 or two amateurs who sported punt-guns here, but they made sad 
 bungling work of it ; and all that I ever heard of their doing was 
 frightening up the fowl from men who could have killed them. In 
 my day there were several decoys in tliese fens, but I believe Skelton 
 
My Last Day in the Fen, 25^ 
 
 was the largest. They used to begin working them about six weeks 
 before Christmas, and continued until four weeks after. Five-and- 
 twenty years ago, the decoy-men, however, were complaining of 
 the scarcity of fowl, so I should suppose at the present day the trade 
 cannot be worth following. 
 
 The principal ducks in this fen were the common wild duck, the 
 pochard, widgeon, and teal, now and then a few golden-eye, and 1 
 have killed an occasional pintail and shoveller. 
 
 It is the opinion of many antiquarians that at the time of the 
 Romans this fen-land was one vast forest, and old De. la Prynne 
 even supposes that the fall of the trees was the proximate cause of 
 Ihe formation of the turf and soil, which accumulated by degrees 
 around the fallen trees, till additions year after year produced the 
 fen-land as we now see it. Certainly old trunks are occasionally 
 dug up in this and many other of the fens. Probably, in the days 
 of bold Robin Hood, Rockingham Forest, which now comes within 
 twenty miles of the fen, extended much farther ; and I well recol- 
 lect a friend of mine, when digging out for a boat-house by the 
 side of the Nene, finding, about four feet below the surface, a curi- 
 ous old buckhorn-hafted knife, and a single horn of a red deer (not 
 a fallow), doubtless left there centuries before by some of the 
 merry outlaws who then roamed at will over the forest of Rocking- 
 ham and merry Sherwood. As it is, there was but one tree of any 
 magnitude standing in the Holme fen at my day, and this was a 
 huge willow on the western bank of the mere, which had evidently 
 braved the blasts of centuries. 
 
 Following a familiar train of ideas, the mind instinctively wanders 
 back from the scenes of our own time to the days of yore, when 
 
 " Unheeded was the Manton by the partridge and the quail. 
 And o'er each lazy inland mere were wild ducks wont to sail.** 
 
 But although the boom of the modern punt even then never broke 
 the stillness of the fen, the sports of the field were probably then 
 carried on with as much zest as at the present day, and the " Heigh- 
 
lo-la-la-leiip !" of the falconer cheered his well-trained falcon on to 
 the quarry. Many a gay cavalcade of knights and ladies gay, 
 A^hose bones have long since crumbled into dust, then rode forth 
 with falcon on wrist from the portals of many an ancient hall in the 
 neighbourhood for a day's heron-hawking in the fens. It was 
 merry days in old England then. Vast must have been the extent 
 of fen land when Ethelwold was king, and the monastery of Crow- 
 land (whose ruins still form a bold memento of the days that are 
 past), was founded. Many are the traditions of genii and kelpies 
 inhabiting the fens at that timej and the benighted traveller has 
 trembled in his lonely journey over the dark, dank fen, as the sullen 
 boom of the bittern shook the night air, or the deep, solemn note of 
 the curfew bell from the distant abbey of Crowland, borne upon 
 the night breeze across the dreary flat, fell upon his startled ear. 
 Benumbed with cold, his senses bewildered with fear, how many a 
 one has sunk in hopeless despair upon that damp, cold bed, from 
 which few have ever risen again alive ; or misled by the treacherous 
 flickering light of the *'Will-o'-the-Wisp," dancing "in murky 
 night o'er fen and lake," has wandered out of his track, and, floun- 
 dering on through bog and mire, has found a grave in tlie dark pool, 
 and the last despairing shriek of the dying man sinking below the 
 surface was carried on the night breeze over the dreary marshes, 
 where there was no one to hear it. 
 
 The fen mast have, indeed, been a favoured region in the days 
 of old William of Malmesbury, if his quaint account of the Isle of 
 Ely in his time is at all correct -, for he describes it as " the very pic- 
 ture of paradise, a wonderful solitary and retired place, fit for 
 monks, as making them mindful of heavenly things, and more 
 mortified to things below. It is a prodigy to see a woman here, 
 but when a man comes he is welcomed like an angel ; so that we 
 may truly call this isle a lodge of chastity, a harbour of honesty, 
 and a school of divine philosophy." As for chastity and honesty, I 
 guess the fen-men now are about on a par with their upland neigh- 
 bours 3 but I must say I tliink if I condemned myself to do penance. 
 
My Last Day in the Fen, 255 
 
 and mortify my flesh to things below, I should not take up my resi- 
 dence in the fen ; for harder riders, better shots, and a more jovial, 
 rollicking set than the fen farmers of my day it would be hard to 
 meet with. The welcome, certainly, is as hearty as of yore 3 but I 
 fear the bright eyes of some of the fen women of the present day 
 would upset the theory, and play sad havoc with the ascetic maxims 
 of even so rigid a disciplinarian as William himself. 
 
 I recollect in my time the question of ever being able to drain 
 the mere was a point often under discussion, and although many 
 enterprising minds never for a moment doubted the practicability of 
 such a scheme, others of surer dispositions shook their heads, and 
 appeared to think with Camden, " that it is tlie safest plan to fol- 
 low the oracle's advice in the like case, and not to venture too far 
 where Heaven has put a stop." But had old Camden lived till the 
 go-ahead nineteenth century, his opinion might probably have 
 changed 5 and I can fancy the venerable historian would open his 
 eyes widely were he to wake up from his long sleep (after the 
 manner of '^'Nimrod's" old gentleman in the Quicksilver mail) 
 and find himself some fine morning whisked into Whittlesea in a 
 quick train, and his trance broken by the civil request of the green- 
 coated guard, "Whittlesea, gentlemen j tickets, if you please." 
 
 As a matter of national benefit, there can be no doubt of im- 
 mense advantages to be derived by bringing this waste land into 
 cultivation. But looking upon it with the eye of a sportsman or 
 naturalist, I must say I always feel regret when I see these wild 
 districts reclaimed ; for so little now remains to prove to us the 
 original state of our island, and there are now so few spots in Eng- 
 land where the sportsman or naturalist can wander free and unmo- 
 lested away from the busy haunts of men, and look upon nature in 
 her original state. To a cosmopolite like myself, this matters little, 
 for, happily, there are many other countries where I can always 
 pitch my tent in the forest or on the moor, with but little chance 
 of annoying my next neighbour. But let the sport be what it may 
 in a foreign land, it still wants the charm of home association to 
 
2^6 My Last Day in the Fen. 
 
 complete itj for, although I have killed more snipe in one day in 
 Northern Europe than I could, perhaps, bag in England in a week, 
 and more wildfowl in one evening's flight-shooting in Australia 
 than I could well carry home, I have never felt half the true plea- 
 sure in the sport that I used to do when wandering in bygone days 
 with no one but my old guide in the wild solitude of the Crowland 
 fsn. 
 
257 
 
 DID YOU EVER DRIVE A JIBBER 
 DOWN TO A FIGHT? 
 
 Reader, have you ever driven a jibbing horse ? The chances are 
 that you have. Well, is not it pleasant ? — especially if you have a 
 woman by your side, and the horse goes through the performance, 
 as he generally does, in a crowded thoroughfare or in the market 
 square of a country town, when the footpaths are thronged with 
 passengers. I have always remarked that a rank jibber, as if proud 
 of his accomplishments, invariably chooses a place for the display of 
 the pantomime where there are plenty of spectators j and on this 
 account, jibbing, although one of the most annoying, is perhaps one 
 of the least dangerous of aU vices, for assistance is nearly always at 
 hand, and there appear to be in every town a particular class of 
 men who are always on the look-out to assist on such occasions. 
 Where they come from it would be hard to say. You scarcely ever 
 see them about the streets 3 but so sure as a mishap of any kind 
 happens with a horse, three or four baggy-breeched fellows, gene- 
 rally bareheaded, with gaiters buttoned up in front, and long-sleeved 
 waistcoats, are on the spot in an instant; and while the eager 
 spectators stand gazing at a respectful distance — everyone suggesting 
 some plan of relief, which not one of them has either the skill o; 
 pluck to execute — these fellows push their way through the crowd, 
 pounce on the horse at once, as if he was their pecuhar prey, and, 
 no matter what the nature of the accident, go to work to set 
 things right, with a coolness and dexterity perfectly marvellous. 
 You will see such fellows hanging about stable-yards, and you are 
 sure to meet with them at the taps of coaching inns j but you 
 rarely see them beyond the precincts of the yard itself, save on 
 occasicuis like tliose above mentioned, or else when a brake turns 
 
258 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight? 
 
 into the street with an awkward young horse coupled up alongside 
 of a steady old near- wheeler. You then behold them in all their 
 glory 3 and no aristocrat, as he leans back in his well-appointed 
 barouche, enjoys his park ride more than these fellows seem now 
 to enjoy themselves, perched on and about the brake in all the 
 dishabille of the stable-yard, ready for any emergency. 
 
 Well, we will suppose aU this is familiar to you. You have 
 probably more than once been started by the powerful assistance ot 
 three or four such fellows, one at each wheel, and another at the 
 head of the horse, who will persist in backing your gig into a 
 linendraper's shop-window. 
 
 But did you ever drive a jibber down to a fight ? 
 
 I dare say not. I, however, havej and I will describe a little 
 adventure of the kind which once happened to me — a good many 
 years ago, but still not so long as to be entirely forgotten. Do not, 
 however, be shocked ! it is the drive down, and not the fight, which 
 I am about to describe. 
 
 In the year 1842, a prize-fight was fixed to come off in Cam- 
 bridgeshire, on a common called Melbourne Heath, between two 
 worthies — the one a black man, named Sambo Sutton j the other, 
 a copper-coloured individual from the antipodes, the champion of 
 Australia, who rejoiced in the aboriginal solriquet of Bungareej 
 and I received the following laconic note from head-quarters a few 
 days previous: — " Littlebury, Oct. 25, ten a.m. Be in time." I 
 was then about twenty miles to the east of Cambridge, so on the 
 afternoon of the 24th I rode over to the old town, intending to 
 hire a fresh horse to ride down to the fight on the next day, and 
 have my own horse fresh to take me home again in the evening. 
 These were the days whan the prize-ring was hardly at so low an 
 ebb as it is at present j and special trains were not then chartered 
 tor the occasion to convey the company stealthily down to the 
 meeting, but all who wished to see the performance had due notice 
 of the time and place^ and travelled down as best they could — in 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber do\vn lo a Fight ? 259 
 
 gigs, cabs, go-carts, or on horseback, making no more secret or 
 mystery of their mission than if they were going to a race or a 
 fair. 
 
 I reached old Alma Mater about eight p.m., and as I was a 
 perfect stranger in the good old town I asked the first pohceman I 
 chanced to meet whether he could recommend me to a snug little 
 second-rate sporting inn where I could put up for the night, and 
 hire a horse for the next day ? He at once directed me to a little 
 inn in Trumpington-street, which he said was just the sort of house 
 to suit me, kept by a landlord of the right sort, where he told me 
 I could hire a horse, and, moreover, hear all the news respecting the 
 next day's proceedings. On riding into the inn-yard I met the 
 landlord, and found him just what the policeman had described. 
 He knew all about the fight 3 agreed directly to let me have a 
 saddle-horse for the morning j and said he would have gone down 
 himself, but the Newmarket October Meeting was then on, and he 
 was anxious to be there. After seeing my horse located in a very 
 snug loose box, I turned to go into the inn with the landlord, who, 
 on leaving the stable, bid the ostler be sure and have the " Capten's 
 dog-cart" all clean and neat in the morning, as the "''Cap ten" was 
 going to drive him down to the races in it. The " Capten's dog- 
 cart," however, as the reader will presently see, was destined for a 
 journey of quite another kind on the morrow. 
 
 I found every room in the little inn crowded with racing men. 
 The day's racing at Newmarket, of course, formed the sole topic of 
 conversation ; and during the whole of my tea, disjointed sentences, 
 such as " collared him at the bushes," ''came away from him over 
 the flat," " give him three pound and a beating," floated on my ear. 
 After tea I lit a cigar, proposing to myself to have a stroll round. 
 the old town 3 but just as I was walking out of the gateway of the 
 inn, I ran against two men, both of whom I well knew, one being 
 no less a personage than the " Capten," the proprietor of the dog 
 cart then standing in the yard. '' Halloa ! what are you doing 
 here ? Come in and have a glass of brandy-and-water. I have not 
 
 s 2 
 
26o Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight? 
 
 seen you for an age/' was his cheery greetings and while I follow 
 him back again to the snug little bar-parlour I will introduce him 
 to the reader. 
 
 The " Capten" was a jolly, handsome-looking fellow of about 
 forty, always dressed in a scrupulously neat, sporting style, and who 
 managed to make an income of about 500/. per year out of his 
 wits, and a little annuity of 250/., which he used to tell us had been 
 left him by a maiden aunt, a lock of whose hair he always wore in 
 an enormous brooch, encircled by a gold horse-shoe. He was never 
 '•^Capten" with us — always plain Harry j but on every racecourse, 
 and at tlie principal sporting inn in every town from Hereford to 
 Newcastle, he was known as the "Capten," and nothing else. 
 What right he had to ihe title none of us ever cared to inquire. He 
 was a true cosmopolite — a perfect citizen of the world 3 and his 
 whole year was spent in travelling throughout England, from one 
 race meeting to another. In the winter, steeple-chasing claimed 
 his attention ; and I think I can safely answer for it that I never 
 went on to a racecourse or steeple-chase ground, at that day, with- 
 out seeing the " Cap ten's" handsome face and portly form, seated 
 generally in a low four-wheeler, drawn by a perfect cob, surrounded 
 by a little mob of knowing fellows, who were either convulsed with 
 laughter at some anecdote he was relating, or else deferentially lis- 
 tening to his opinion on passing events. Where he lived, or if he 
 had any home at all, I never knew. His letters always used to be 
 addressed to Craven-street, in the Strand j but although I have called 
 tliere a score of times, I was never lucky enough to find the 
 " Capten" at home. It is needless to say that a man leading such 
 a life as he did, was tolerably wide-awake j and though he never 
 betted heavily, he put on quietly and safely his " little fivers," as he 
 used to term tnem, and at a little bit of three-card loo had scarcely 
 an equal. He certainly was one of the joUiest fellows in England, 
 and the best of company j but there are spots even on the disc of 
 the sun, and so it is hardly to be supposed the " Capten's" character 
 was stainless, and his worst faults were a hasty temper, selfishness, 
 and egotism. " What's the good of having friends unless you make 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight F 261 
 
 use of them ?" was the motto which he never failed to act up to. 
 No man had a better opinion of himself. " If / say so, it ivas so !" 
 used to be his invariable answer, if by chance he had been describing 
 a race to you, and you happened to hint that one of the very 
 jockeys who had ridden in it had given you quite a different version 
 of the aifair just before. He used to boast (what I believe was 
 true) that he could travel to every race meeting in England without 
 spending a shilling for "tlie wear and tear of his teeth j" and as, to 
 use an expression of his own, he was ^' no bread and cheese man," 
 this was a matter of some little consequence to him. There was 
 not a town in England which owned a racecourse where the 
 *^ Capten" had not a friend in some sporting farmer in the immediate 
 neighbourhood j and as he could sing a good song, tell the best of 
 stories, and as his presence always shed a cheerful ray of light upon 
 any company, he was welcome wherever he came. He rarely 
 stayed in a town, and would have made no exception in this 
 instance 3 but he had to meet a man in Cambridge that night to 
 settle some money matters with, so had driven up expressly from 
 Newmarket after the day's racing was over. 
 
 I soon told him what my errand was, and directly he found out I 
 had hired a horse, he proposed that, instead of my riding down, as I 
 intended, we should put it into his new dog-cart (which, by the way, 
 he had just taken for a bad debt), he would be coachman, and we 
 would toddle down to Littlebury to breakfast, as comfortable as could 
 be — see the fight, and return to Cambridge in the afternoon. There 
 was nothing coming off at Newmarket next day which he cared 
 about seeing ; moreover, a day's rest, as he said, would do his cob no 
 harm, and besides which, he had a great desire to see the '' mill" as he 
 termed it. I had not the least objection to make to the proposed 
 arrangement : in fact, his company was a treat at all times ; and as 
 he knew a great deal more both of sporting men and sporting life 
 than I did, 1 felt rather flattered by his patronage than otherwise. 
 
 I went down soon after to the stable to see my horse suppered- 
 up, and to tell tlie ostler the arrangements for the morning; besides, 
 to know if he had any objection to substitute the dog-cart for the 
 
262 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight 
 
 saddle. "In course I've no objection," said the man, "if the 
 Capten hasn't 3 but akhough the horse you're going to have to- 
 morrow is an out-and-out saddle horse, I'd hardly trust him myself 
 in harness. However, if the Capten's made his mind up, there's 
 nothing to be said 3 but I should recommend you if you do mean 
 driving down, to take a saddle that you may ' ride and tie ' home — 
 (I fancy I see the Capten at this game !" added the fellow with a 
 grin) — " and a ' sack' to bring the new dog-cart back in." 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with the horse?" I asked 3 "is he a 
 bolter !" " Oh, not by no means 3 he'll never run away with you in 
 harnish! you'll only be lucky if you get him along, for a ranker jibber 
 I never put between the shafts!" And the fellow wound up by 
 giving me a bit of most sensible advice, holding me all the while 
 fast by the button, and speaking in a slow and distinct tone. " If 
 you're determined upon letting the Capten drive you down, mind 
 that he stands all repairs. If you risk the horse, let him risk the 
 cart. I'm not much afeerd of harm coming to the boss, but I 
 would not give much for the shafts of the new dog-cart if he do 
 take to jibbing as I have seen him. My word ! I fancy I see the 
 Capten if he do begin ! Well, he must be a hawful man sure/?/ to 
 think of taking a beautiful new dog-cart like that" (we were 
 standing just against it) " down to a fight of all places, with a boss of 
 which he knows nought ! Why, it was only this afternoon he 
 almost blew my head off because a little scratch come on one of the 
 panels !" 
 
 I went back to the Capten, and told him exactly as the ostler had 
 told me 3 but he was then in his third glass of brandy-and-water, 
 and not in the humour for being dissuaded from any project on 
 which he had set his mind. If that was all the matter with the 
 horse, he did not care. He never yet saw the jibber which he 
 could not shove along 3 and as the landlord, who was drinking with 
 him, did not give the horse half so bad a character as the man had 
 done, he willingly agreed to stand all repairs if anything happened 
 to the dog-cart 3 and we arranged to start at eight next morning. 
 
 The Capten was certainly an excellent whip, and if he prided 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a FigJit ? 263 
 
 himself upon one accomplishment more than other, it was in 
 screwing an awkward horse in and out of a crowd. He was too 
 heavy for violent horse exercise ; but if it had been possible to follow 
 hounds in his four-wheeler, I'll warrant he would have seen as 
 much of a run as any man. The old hackney coachman's remark 
 to the swell, '*" Ah ! you look like a coachman, but you drive like a 
 gentleman,'' would certainly not have applied to him 3 for when 
 he was on the box he not only looked a workman, but he was 
 one. 
 
 About eight next morning we were in the yard, and the jibber 
 put to. Let the horse be what he might, he certainly was a very 
 showy-looking onej and when the Capten, cigar in mouth, had 
 mounted the new dog-cart in all the pride of a neat drab coat and 
 a horse-rug artistically wrapped round his knees, I could not help 
 fancying that a more sporting turn-out would hardly leave Cam- 
 bridge that morning. I asked the ostler quietly how about the 
 "saddle and the sack?" but he seemed overawed in the Capten's 
 presence, and never said a word. I jumped up into the cart beside 
 the Capten j the man led us out of the gateway, and we rattled up 
 Trumpington-street at about nine miles an hour, without the 
 slightest attempt at jibbing on the horse's part. It seemed as if he 
 really knew he had a man behind him who would stand no nonsense 3 
 and we were soon clear of the town, and bowling along the smooth 
 turnpike-road as gaily as you please. The morning was fine, the 
 air pure and bracing', the Capten was in high spirits, and I fancy 
 felt a little proud in showing me how well he could handle a horse 
 respecting whom I had hinted my fears on the preceding evening. 
 He was evidently, however, quite prepared, for he kept the horse 
 well up to the collar ; and if ever he showed the least symptoms of 
 shirking, down came the double thong across his quarters, with, 
 *' Oh ! you would, would you ? you brute !" In fact,. he never gave 
 the horse time to think about playing any tricks j he was evidently 
 bent upon showing him that his master was behind him, and this 
 he did with a vengeance. I now began to feel quite at my ease, 
 and fancied that the jibbing existed only in the musty brain of the 
 
264 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 
 
 old ostler, who had invented the tale for some purpose or other besl 
 known to himself. 
 
 The horse bowled us down to Littlebury without a mistake, and we 
 pulled up in front of the inn, amidst a crowd of vehicles of every 
 description 3 and as the Capten threw his whip to an ostler who had 
 caught hold of the horse's head, he triumphantly turned round to me, 
 with, " It's no use a jibber trying it on with me, I never give him time 
 to begin." This inn was the head-quarters of the " fancy" on the pre- 
 sent occasion. The black man was staying in the house, and the fight 
 was to come off on a common some six or eight miles distant. 
 Every one of the motley group assembled in and about the inn 
 seemed to know the Capten, and the Capten seemed to know 
 every one of them. The black was a tremendous favourite j his 
 blue-and-white colours were round every neck, and I fancy they 
 would have laid two to one on him 3 and, according to the Capten, 
 who generally went with the swim, it was like coining money to 
 back him. I knew the black, but I had never seen the Australian ; 
 and although I fancied, like the rest, that Sambo must win, I bore 
 in mind the old motto that a battle's never won till it's lost, and 
 did not deem it prudent either to lay or take the odds till I saw the 
 men in the ring. 
 
 After a scrambling breakfast — or lunch, for it was eleven before 
 we sat down — we all started for the common, and I dare say the 
 thronor of vehicles standinsf about the inn had now swelled to above 
 a hundred. Our horse had been taken out to feed, and the dog- 
 cart stood in the yard. Whether he was rather disgusted at the 
 sharp practice of the early part of the morning, I cannot say, but, 
 certain it is, when we got up into the dog-cart again, the horse 
 began to show temper, and, much to the discomfiture of the Capten, 
 he refused to stir an inch. However, there was plenty of help at 
 hand, and we were shoved out into the road amidst the cheers of 
 the bystanders, with lots of advice how to manage the horse on the 
 road, all which, however, the Capten treated with supreme con- 
 tempt. This little incident did not improve his temper, and, as 
 there always appears to be a kind of secret sympathy between a 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jihher down to a Fight ? 265 
 
 horse and his driver, the horse's temper seemed to go too. We had 
 hardly got him well out of the sight of the inn, before he shut up 
 again, and I dare say he did this five-and-twenty times in the first 
 four miles. But it would tire the reader's patience out to describe 
 that drive. There is, moreover, something so monotonous in jibbing 
 — the same thing over and over again. Carriages, gigs, dog-carts 
 kept passing us, and every one who drove by had some little bit of 
 consolation to offer to us. The Capten's temper and patience — never 
 great at the best of times — soon became fairly exhausted. The 
 doubled thong was now never still — behind the collar, before the 
 collar, over the ears, across the flank ; in fact, he now seemed bent 
 upon acting up to the old Irishman's advice to his son in a row, 
 "Wherever you sec a head, hit at it." I hardly know which came 
 in for the greatest share of abuse, the horse, the ostler, or myself. 
 " If it hadn't been for me, he'd never have thought of coming. He 
 might have been quietly down at Newmarket, instead of exposing 
 himself in this manner before so many men who knew himj" and 
 as for the poor ostler, if he could only have heard half the epithets 
 which were showered upon his head for putting such a brute in 
 harness, he might truly have said that the Capten was, indeed, " a 
 hawful man." 
 
 There was only one plan to keep us going, and that was, directly 
 the horse stopped, for one to jump down, get to his head, lead him 
 on a bit, when he would start and take us on a little way before he 
 stopped again; and I was thus kept in very good exercise, con- 
 tinually hopping out of that dog-cart. Beyond the annoyance of 
 the thing, we suffered little inconvenience just then, for we had lots 
 of time before us. The road was wide, and although a good many 
 vehicles were driving to the same point as ourselves, there was 
 plenty of room to pass us. 
 
 I may add that, notwithstanding all the horse's good behaviour 
 in the morning, I had not forgotten the ostler's warning, and I tried 
 at Littlebury if I could not hire another horse, instead of this to 
 take us on. But there was not one to be had for love or money. 
 We had nothing, therefore, to do but to go on, and make as good 
 
265 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 
 
 a fight of it as we could. The Capten was obstmate, and swore he 
 would not be beatj so^ by dint of double-thonging and leading, we 
 managed to come into the road wdiich ran across the common, as 
 it were, horizontally with us. Now, on this road was a continuous 
 stream of carriages of every description, perhaps a mile long, ail 
 heading to our right, and w^e just cut the road about the middle of 
 the line. They were not so closely packed ^s to leave any diffi- 
 culty for us to fall in 3 but when w^e were in, the cart just behind 
 us, in which sat four of about the biggest roughs I have ever seen, 
 was far too close to be pleasant. The Capten, to my surprise, was 
 now very quiet ; in fact, he was meditating, and if I had only 
 known what a master-stroke of policy he was just then revolving in 
 his mind to cut the whole concern, I should not have been surprised 
 at his silence. It was not long before the horse stopped again, 
 which, of course, brought up all directly behind us 3 and if the chaff 
 and advice which we received on our starting from Li^tlebury was 
 severe, they wxre classical compared with the taunts and epithets 
 which were now showered upon us. I was out of the cart in an 
 instant, to start the horse 3 and this performance had to be repeated 
 about once in every five minutes. However, everything in this life 
 must have an end, and on looking ahead I saw the cart which was 
 heading the procession suddenly turn from the road on to the com- 
 mon, followed by all the rest. This cart contained no less a per- 
 sonage than the commissary of the P.R. (described in All the 
 Year Round in the notice of the Farnborough fight in i860, as a 
 sage of hoary and venerable aspect") with the important material, 
 the ropes and stakes. He drove a little way on to the common, 
 where he proceeded to pitch the ring. 
 
 We had now not much farther to go, and I began to wonder 
 inwardly to myself what the Capten would do with the horse and 
 cart, for it seemed to me perfect madness to take them to the side 
 of a crowded ring 3 and the only house that I could see was a lone 
 red-brick house at the further end of the common, about one mile 
 and a half distant. But I need have been under no apprehension 
 on the Captcn's account, for we no sooner came to where the first 
 cart had turned off (at which point the horse again resolutely shut 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight? 26'^ 
 
 up) than the Capten began to groan as if he were seized with a 
 sudden fit of the cholera. 
 
 '' Oh ! this dreadful cramp ! Just catch hold of the reins and let 
 me jump out and shake my leg a bit or I shall go mad !" 
 
 I was taken completely off my guard,, seized hold of the reins, the 
 Capten jumped down (certainly, for a man with a violent fit of 
 the cramp on him, he was wonderfully active), and disappeared 
 among the gigs and carts, which were just forming in one dense 
 mass by the roadside. He certainly did "shake his leg" to some 
 purpose, for I never saw him again. 
 
 I sat wondering \\hat would be the next move, when I was 
 roughly told, in language more emphatic than polite, not to block 
 up the road, but to move on one way or the other ; and, as I would 
 rather miss the fight altogether than tackle that horse single-handed 
 in such a rough mob, I jumped down and led him out of the way 
 of farther mischief. That I must now lose the fight I felt certain, 
 because, as I was answerable for the horse, I must get him some- 
 where in safety, and there was nothing for it but to try and reach 
 the red-brick house in the distance j and, as it was less trouble to 
 walk altogether and lead the horse, than to keep jumping up and 
 down from the dog-cart, I led him the whole way, and found to 
 my relief, when I arrived at the house that it was a roadside inn. 
 
 My feelings just then "could be better imagined than described." 
 To be put to the expense and trouble of coming so far merely to 
 lose the fight, and, moreover, to be done so cleverly by the Capten, 
 who, I felt certain, would not forget to tell it to his friends at the 
 ring-side, was too much to be borne (at least patiently), and I was 
 in no very amiable humour when I led the horse into the inn-yard, 
 and gave him in charge of an ostler. My savage reply to the man's 
 civil question as to what he should give him — " An ounce ball 
 through his head if I had my way " — caused the man to stare open- 
 mouthed at me. I fancy he regarded me as a lunatic ; and it was 
 not till I explained to him all the circumstances of the case, that he 
 appeared to be fully at his ease. 
 
 "Well, sir, that is annoying," remarked the good-natured fellow 
 as he proceeded to take the horse out of harness. " But I'll tell 
 
;68 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to aFight ? 
 
 you what you do. You see that four-wheeler there ? Well, 
 master's going to drive a few friends down to the fight in it hisself, 
 and I shouldn't wonder, as you aint a very big 'un, if he would not 
 give you a lift as well. You'd better go and speak to him ; you'll 
 find him indoors." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "that's all very well, but I expect the fight'll be 
 half over by this, for the stakes were pitched before I left." 
 
 " Oh, no," replied the fellow coolly, as he led the horse up the 
 yard J " the fight's not begun yet." And I went into the inn. 
 
 It was one of those rambling old roadside inns — a house of accom- 
 modation for the large waggons which in that day used to come 
 up from all parts of the country to London, and for the droves ot 
 cattle on their way up to Smithfield Market. Although there 
 doubtless was a parlour, I walked straight into the large, clean, 
 bricked kitchen, before the fire of which a jovial-looking man, half 
 gamekeeper, half farmer, was standing in his shirt-sleeves, smoking 
 a pipe ; and I at once took him to be the landlord. There were 
 three or four other men in the room, one of whom bore the unmis- 
 takable impress of the prize-fighter (but I did not know him) ; 
 while seated by the fire was a man whose countenance I could not 
 then catch, swathed in a rough white great-coat, a fur cap on his 
 head, and a flaming yellow-and-white handkerchief round his neck, 
 and whom, at the first glance, I took to be a poacher. I imme- 
 diately opened the ball by ordering "glasses all round," and then 
 told the landlord exactly my position. After a hearty laugh at my 
 expense, he said I need be under no apprehension of losing the 
 fight, for although, if 1 liked, I had lots of time to run back to the 
 ring, if I chose to wait I might willingly "hang on" his iour- 
 wdieeler ; and adding, " Depend upon it, sir, we mean to sec it," 
 he turned away to brew the brandy-and-water, which wa!» the 
 liquor selected by the company. I must confess I was altogether 
 puzzled by the cool way in which they all seemed to be taking 
 matters ; and I ventured to remark to the rough gentleman by the 
 fire, that if we did mean to go, I thought it was about time we left : 
 when he gruffly replied, "Oh, there's lots of time! they wont 
 fight till I get there." "And why not?" I asked, determined to 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 269 
 
 get at the bottom of the mystery, which his answer soh^ed at once, 
 ''Because I'm Bungaree." 
 
 Here was a piece of luck ! Chance had brought me to the 
 Austrahan's head-quarters : and, notwithstanding the trick which 
 the Capten had served me, I was now in a better position than him- 
 self, for I was comfortably under shelter by the side of a good fire 
 (no bad thing even in England on a day towards the end of 
 October), in company with one of the principal actors in the day's 
 performance, while he was standing on that bleak common^ — no 
 doubt, fuming and fretting at the non-appearance of the Australian. 
 
 Presently Dick Curtis came in. Now Dick had been my preceptor 
 in the '^ noble art" of self-defence, and, of course, I knew him well. 
 He was going to second Bungaree, of whom, however, he did not 
 appear to think much. He whispered to me to buy one of his 
 colours, as it would encourage him 5 and this I willingly did, 
 especially as I was about to have the honour of escorting him to the 
 ring — and, moreover, I determined now to back him for all the 
 money I had about me. 
 
 Soon after we all left the house. The landlord's four-wheeler 
 was as accommodating as a patent portmanteau, for it managed 
 to stow away seven of us, with a little squeezing. We all sported 
 the flaming yellow-and -white, and our carriage must almost have 
 resembled a huge moving bed of full-blown crocuses. 
 
 We were soon at the ring, and we pulled up amid a perfect hurri- 
 cane of abuse and rough language from the mob, who had for the 
 last hour been anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Australian, 
 whom they began to fear would not dare to show. In fact, even 
 bets had been laid tliat there would be no fight. The backers of 
 the black, and their name appeared to be legion — for I saw very 
 few " crocuses" sported round that ring-side — talked of claiming 
 forfeit J but Mr. Curtis knew a trick worth two of that, so merely 
 referred them to the articles — and, quickly pushing his way through 
 the excited mob, the Australian tossed his cap into the ring, and 
 followed it himself, attended by his seconds. 
 
 I soon met the Capten, in company with two or three friends, all 
 sporting the black man's colours. I knew he was a pretty cool 
 
270 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 
 
 hand, but I must own I was rather surprised when he asked me in a 
 bullying tone what I meant by serving him such a trick as driving 
 away from him in the manner I had done, and telling me he 
 should hold me answerable for the new dog-cart. I was not just 
 then in the humour for any nonsense, and I plainly told him where 
 I had left the cart, and when he wanted it he might go and see 
 after it himself. The dispute between us would have waxed high, 
 but we were stopped by poor Tom Spring, who asked, "■ What are 
 you loys quarrelling about ?" and suggested that if we could not settle 
 our dispute in any other way, we had better step into the ring after 
 the black and tlie Australian had left it. The Capten soon cooled 
 down, and in a tone of irony begged to know what I was doing 
 with that handkerchief round my neck, adding that he supposed, 
 now I had mounted the Australian's colours, I was game enough 
 to back him for a ^'^ tenner." I told him I had no objection, and 
 almost before the words were out of my mouth, he laid me 10/. to ^/. 
 on the black. Hardly was the bet closed before a quiet, downy-look- 
 ing, long-faced gentleman, who was with him, remarked in the 
 most polite manner, that although himself quite a stranger to the 
 Capten's young friend, as I seemed bent upon losing my money, 
 I might as well let him have a little as any one else. To use a 
 Yankee phrase, I was then about '' as savage as a meat-axe," and 
 the drawling tone and supercilious air of the Capten's long-faced 
 friend did not improve my temper, so I directly took his 20/. to 
 I o/. All the bets were staked in Spring's hands, and the fight began. 
 Now don't let the reader be the least afraid that I am about to 
 treat him with an account of the fight after the fashion of the sen- 
 sation articles in the morning papers of the present day — telling him 
 how the blows sounded like "dead thuds on raw meat," and such 
 other interesting details which render a prize-fight far more disgust- 
 ing upon paper than in the ring itself. Suffice it to say, I think that 
 I never did see so bad a fighter as the Australian. He had not the 
 slightest chance with the black man, who, to use an expressive 
 simile of the Capten's, "walked round him Hke a cooper round 
 a tub," and hit him just when and where he pleased, with- 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 271 
 
 out the slightest return. The Capten was in esctacies ; and his 
 long-faced friend, who was of a much less demonstrative tempera- 
 ment, mildly expressed his regret that I should have been so unfor- 
 tunate as to risk my money on so bad a man, but at the s;ime time 
 pohtely offered to accommodate me now with 30/. to 10/. if I 
 wished it. I had one solitary ten-pound note and a few shillings, 
 and was just in the humour for any rash act 3 so I handed it over at 
 once to Spring who was standing close behind us, and it was covered 
 in an instant by three new crisp ten-pound notes, which the long- 
 faced gentleman seemed to be holding all ready in his hand. As 
 he gave the money to Tom Spring, I heard him tell him to stand 
 where he was for a few minutes, as he would not have to hold the 
 money long j and I moreover heard the Capten whisper to him, 
 " Mind, I go you halves !" 
 
 It is a good old motto that a great deal of harm arises from doing 
 things in too much of a hurry 3 and if the long-faced gent had not 
 been so desperately eager to close my bet, he would have saved him- 
 self 30/. I don't think the fight had lasted more than twenty 
 minutes, and the black's partisans were already shouting to him to go 
 in and win. It really seemed now as if there would be very little 
 trouble to do this, and he went hopping up to Bungaree in his 
 usual dancing-master fashion, as "The Life" would term it, "to put 
 the final polish on him." But the Australian, like one of his native 
 snakes, was scotched, but not killed, and he met the black with a 
 tremendous blow on the throat, which sent him off his legs just like 
 a nine-pin. No pen can describe the hubbub and excitement which 
 arose round the ring at this unexpected change in the aspect of 
 affairs. Several of the black's friends pushed their way to his 
 corner to offer advice to his seconds. He never, however, could 
 shake off the effects of that blow. The Australian, now determined 
 to make hay while the sun shone, never gave him a moment's rest, 
 but paid back with good interest all the rough usage he had received 
 in the early part of the contest j and after fighting perhaps half an 
 hour longer, the black was reluctantly taken from the ring by his 
 seconds, who deemed it cruelty to persevere any longer with a 
 
272 Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 
 
 beaten man. The Australian was tiius unexpectedly declared the 
 winner j your humble serv-ant was a richer man by 60I., and I never 
 won any money with so much pleasure in my life. There was a 
 second fight, in which, however, very few appeared to be interested, 
 and most of us prepared to leave the ring as soon as the first affair 
 was over. 
 
 The Capten was never a very good loser at any time, but on this 
 occasion he lost with worse grace than usual. I generally was an 
 easy- tempered fellow, and as I had won his money, I stood his 
 growling for some time pretty well. But at length, when he bade 
 me in a tone of command, go back to tlie inn at once and fetch the 
 dog-cart to him, while he stayed to see the second fight, I told 
 him plainly I was going back by another road, and unless he chose 
 to walk back to the inn witli me he might get home as best he 
 could. A young swell who was standing close by, however, directly 
 offered him a seat back to Cambridge on his drag, which he will- 
 ingly accepted ; and politely informing me tliat I could now drive 
 to the devil if I chose, he turned his back on me, and walked away 
 in company with his new friend. I soon found Spring and got the 
 bets, and then started on foot for the inn where the dog-cart was 
 standing. Where they took the Australian to I don't knowj but 
 he did not go back to the inn which he had left in the morning j 
 and I saw him no more. 
 
 The Capten had already paid pretty well for the shabby trick he 
 had served me in the morning, but I had not done with him yet. 
 I had made up my mind not to bring his dog-cart home for him, 
 so when I got back to the inn I borrowed a saddle and bridle of 
 the ostler (the landlord had not got home — T suppose he was stop- 
 ping to see the second fight), and, bidding him take care of the 
 dog-cart till a man came from Cambridge with the saddle and 
 bridle, on a horse to fetch it, I left the inn to return on horseback. 
 I may add that one of the springs of the dog-cart was sprung, and 
 a goodish deal of paint, as well as the Capten's crest, was 
 scratched off the hind panel. Whatever faults the horse might pos- 
 sess in harness, he was certainly, to use the ostler's words, " an 
 
Did you ever Drive a Jibber down to a Fight ? 273 
 
 out-and-out saddle hoss." I took a quiet cross-country cut to 
 Littlebury, and thus avoided the crowded road over the common 3 
 and as I cantered along the grass by the side of the lane, I kept 
 picturing to myself the Capten's rage when he found out the trick 
 I was playing him. As I passed by the inn at Littlebur}^, the drag 
 stood at the door. The party were inside, doubtless " washing out 
 their throats," and it is hardly necessary to say that I did not go in 
 to join them, for I was most anxious to get back to Cambridge as 
 soon as I could, and not the least anxious to face the Cap ten in his 
 present humour 3 so I just cantered quietly by, without any one 
 observing me, and never pulled up till I reached tne town. 
 
 It was good daylight when I arrived and delivered up the 
 jibber into tlie ostler's hands. '' So you've come back in a saddle 
 after all — and whatever have you done with the Capten ?" asked 
 the man, as he carefully examined the horse all over to see 
 if he could find a blemish on him. Luckily he was as sound as 
 when he left the yard in the morning. I told him all that had 
 happened, where I had left the cart, and bade him give my com- 
 pliments to the Capten, and tell him he could have it whenever he 
 chose to send back the bridle and saddle and pay the expenses. 
 The man seemed very unwilling to undertake the job. '^But 
 whatever will the Capten say to all this ? Why, it will cost him a 
 matter of about 3/. to get the cart home !" and he began totting up on 
 his fingers the different terms — '' 2/. is. for a harness hoss (and lucky 
 if he gets one for that in the race week), a crown for the man, a 
 crown for the ostler 3 and then you say there's a spring broke and a 
 panel scratched — let alone the money you've won on him. No ! I 
 really do think I never dare tell him all. Can't you just step in, 
 and write a bit of a note ?" and as the poor fellow did seem in awful 
 dread of the Capten, I went into the bar and wrote as short a note 
 as I could, telling where the cart was left. I may add, that 
 although the Capten could never deny himself a single gratification, 
 he always had an eye to the main chance, and never threw a shilling 
 away where he could save it, and this the osder well knew. This 
 ostler, like many others of his class, was a bit of a wag : and there 
 
 T 
 
274 Did you ever Drive a Jibber doivn to a Fight ? 
 
 was something inimitable in the manner in which he mimicked the 
 Capten's rage when he was supposed to receive my note. I was 
 now in a terrible fidget to get away, for I would not have had the 
 Capten walk into the yard just then for a trifle. So I mounted my 
 horse directly, and it was not until I had left the old town some 
 miles behind me that I pulled up at a httle roadside inn to get my 
 dinner, which I now began to want, having eaten nothing since 
 morning. I think I never enjoyed a beefsteak so much in my life 3 
 and I did not hurry, for I knew the Capten was safe enough in 
 Cambridge, and not likely to walk into this little parlour and spoil 
 my meal. 
 
 I got home that night, and for several days after rather nervously 
 looked over my letters before I opened them, in case I should recog- 
 nise the Capten's bold superscription on the outside of one. But, 
 strange to say, I never received a line from him, and I did not see 
 him again till, on going into the starting-field at the next " New- 
 port Pagnall," I spied the identical dog-cart and the Capten's broad 
 back just in front of me. I thought it best to take the bull by the 
 horns, so I rode up and hailed him. I will do him justice to say, 
 that although a passionate, he was not a vindictive man ^ and, more- 
 over, as luck would have it, he had made a capital little book on tlie 
 race which was just coming off. He greeted me in his usual cordial 
 manner, and merely remarking that I had served him out very 
 cleverly for the trick he had played me, and that tlie repairs and 
 expenses had cost him nearly 5/., wound up by assuring me that no 
 power on earth should ever induce him again to drive a jibber 
 down to a fight. 
 
275 
 
 THE LEATHER PLATER. 
 
 ^* While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, 
 Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race, 
 And what matches he won to the ostlers count o'er. 
 As they loiter their time at some hedge alehouse door." 
 
 It was the evening after the Hollerton Steeple-chase — a dull, 
 drizzly^ dark night in March — that I pulled up at the door of the 
 Chequers (a little roadside coaching inn, just half-way between the 
 steeple-chase course and our place) to wash my horse's mouth out 
 with a pailful of gruel, and my own with a glass of hot brandy-and- 
 water — of both which we stood *' very much in need," to use the 
 words of old Louis Philippe when he bolted from France, and, 
 landing an outcast at a small inn on the English coast, gave orders 
 to the landlord to procure him a new suit of clothes. 
 
 I had ridden twenty miles over to the race in the morning, and 
 had never been off the horse's back save for an hour the whole day, 
 and, except a hasty snack at the race lunch, had not broken my fast 
 since breakfast. We had run in the day's steeple-chase a four-year- 
 old, who had never been out before, but who had promised great 
 things in his home trials j and although the field was strong, we 
 went in for the odd chance, and fancied it possible that he might 
 pull the race off for us. But it was not to be. He could only 
 manage to finish fourth, and probably would not even have secured 
 that place if a good many of the horses that started had not been 
 put hors de combat before they reached the distance flag. 
 
 We had one of our best professional steeple-chase jockeys up, and 
 when I paid him, as he gave me back the jacket and cap after the 
 race, I had the satisfaction of hearing his opinion of the horse 
 delivered in the following candid terms : — that " of all the brutes 
 
 T a 
 
276 The Leather Plater, 
 
 he ever did ride, our horse was the worst. As for galloping, he'd 
 be d — d if he could not kick his hat as fast ; and as for leaping,, 
 he'd bring a thirteen-hand pony which would pound him any day^" 
 adding, that " if we had any more like him at home, the sooner we 
 cut their throats the better." He ironically thanked me for a very 
 pleasant ride, and went off to the jockeys' tent to dress for the 
 hurdle race, for which they were just then clearing the course. 
 
 Now it is true the horse had been beaten, but he did not cut up 
 quite so badly as Tom made it out, for he had finished fourth with 
 three of the best horses in England before him 3 but then Tom was 
 known to be as energetic in his language as in his riding, and 
 when excited his discourse (to use the phrase of a late great dignitary 
 in our church) was wont to be " more pagan than parliamentary.'' 
 A better little fellow than Tom never lived, but he had evidently 
 never studied old Talleyrand's maxim, that " speech was given us. 
 to conceal our thoughts." 
 
 However, there was no help for it now. I had suffered the 
 mortification of seeing the horse beaten, but 1 was not obliged to- 
 stay and hear him abused 3 so, giving orders to our head lad to bring 
 the horse on to the Chequers that night, where I would wait for him 
 I left the course, and did not even stay to see my energetic little 
 friend win the hurdle race on a screw of his own, which he always 
 kept bottled up for such occasions, and which he had appropriately 
 christened *' Flatcatcher." 
 
 I know nothing in this world more cheering than, when tired, 
 disappointed, and hungry, on a dark rainy evening, to see the bright 
 ray of light which suddenly blazes across the road from the un- 
 shuttered window of a road-side inn — especially if it is one which 
 we are in the habit of "using." All our troubles and disasters are 
 forgotten, and vanish before that blaze of light like the mist before 
 the morning sun. We are sure of a hearty welcome (for, say what 
 they may of hospitality, there is no welcome so sincere as one which 
 is paid for) and a snug haven for the night, and we put nobody out 
 of their way by our arrival. Our horse seems to know all this as 
 well as ourselves, for, pricking up his ears, he breaks out into a 
 
The Leather Plater, 277 
 
 sharper trot as soon as he sees the well-known signal. The old 
 ostler has heard us coming, and stands by the water-trough with 
 his lantern held above his head to endeavour to make us out before 
 we reach the door j and when we do pull up^ he takes our horse 
 with the cordial greeting, "Oh, it's you, is it, master? What, you're 
 on the old mare to night ? I thought I knew her trot. Glad to see 
 you, sir. Gently, old gal, we'll soon have you all right. You won't 
 go any further to-night, sir? I'll take care of the old mare." And 
 he leads her round to the stables as we walk in to the well-lighted 
 passage, and turn into the snug little parlour, where we have spent 
 many a pleasant hour before. No occasion for us to go round to 
 the stable to see that our mare has her fair allowance 3 we can 
 safely trust old Sam. And we feel just as confident that in half an 
 hour she will be rubbed dry, revelling in a snug loose box with 
 •straw up to her knees, and anxiously waiting for the pail of gruel 
 which the old ostler will be mixing for her at the kitchen fire, as 
 that we shall be comfortably seated before a blazing coal fire, with 
 a heel on each hob, watching the pretty waiting-maid laying the 
 clotli for our supper, and contentedly listening, every time the door 
 opens, to the hissing of the half-pound of rump-steak which is 
 grilling for us on the kitchen fire. 
 
 The Chequers was an excellent type of a country roadside inn, 
 as we used to see them some five-and-twenty years ago 3 and its 
 landlord, old John Harrison, the very man to rule over such an 
 hostelry. He had for nearly a quarter of a century driven one of 
 the London coaches up and down this road, till, weary of so long a 
 servitude, he married the buxom cook up at the Hall and settled 
 down as landlord of the Chequers. Three or four of our 
 coaches used to change here ; and those coachmen who did not 
 change seldom passed his door without pulling up on some excuse 
 or other — but in reality to have a word with old John and taste his 
 old ale, which was as much renowned all down that road as him- 
 self. The railways, of course, have taken away much of the 
 ronaance of road-travelling, and probably those little road-side inns 
 are now hard to find 3 but I suppose even now there must be nocks 
 
27 S The Leather Plater, 
 
 and corners in the far country, beyond the screech and whistle of 
 the engine,, where one or other is still to be met with, whose jovial 
 landlord can remember the day when half a dozen London coaches 
 passed by his door, and when ten miles an hour, including stoppages, 
 used to be considered good going. 
 
 Every man has some favourite hobby of his own which he is 
 never tired of riding, and my old friend John Harrison's hobby was 
 a singular one. Of course it was "horsey" — that was natural. 
 And yet I never heard that he bought a horse in his life 3 in fact, he 
 would not even horse a single stage of any one of the coachei 
 which changed at his own stables. But there was not a horse, 
 either in the hands of a gentleman or a farmer, within a radius of 
 ten miles from the Chequers, of which he did not know the value 
 and capabilities ; not a horse in the hunt that he did not appear to 
 know as much about as the man who rode him ; not a colt was 
 ever foaled in the neighbourhood but he had the pedigree of both 
 dam and sire at his fingers' ends -, and not a horse was for sale in 
 his part of the country that old John had not mentally appraised, 
 and whose buying and selling value he could not tell you to a five- 
 pound note. He had a good deal of leisure and time on his hands, 
 for, except the smoking and talking part of the business, his wife 
 managed the indoor concerns, and he was continually poking about 
 the country on a punchy, wall-eyed, weight-carrying old cob (John 
 rode sixteen stun, as he pronounced it) looking in at all the farm- 
 houses — where he was an especial favourite — just to see what sort 
 of a colt the last which the old mare threw was likely to turn 
 out 3 or up at the Hall stables, where his brother was stud groom, 
 to see how the horses were getting on. In fact, he seemed to have 
 the key of every stable in that part of the country 5 he used to be 
 here, there, and everywhere — and no telling, when you were riding 
 about the little lanes for which our country was noted, but old John 
 and the wall-eyed cob might turn up. His memory was remark- 
 able 3 he never forgot a horse when he had once seen it, and was 
 certainly an extraordinary judge of horseflesh, insomuch that he 
 became quite notorious 3 and the Chequers at length became a sort 
 
The Leather Plater, 279 
 
 of a registry office for all the horses which were for sale in the 
 neighbourhood. Lucky for the seller if John passed a favourable 
 verdict on his horse as he sat in solemn conclave smoking his pipe 
 on an evening among the parlour company at the Chequers. And 
 if old John once "crabbed" a horse, the sooner he was sent up to 
 Tattersall's or Aldridge's for unreserved sale, the better j for if the 
 fact once got wind, no one on this country side would have looked 
 at him. 
 
 John no sooner heard that it was I who had ridden up, than he 
 came waddling into the parlour to hear all the particulars of thc 
 day's racing. Bad news travels fast, and although I had left the 
 course within an hour after the race, the intelligence ol our horse's 
 defeat had already reached the Chequers. " Sorry to hear the colt," 
 for with some men who know when a horse was foaled he remains 
 a colt for an indefinite period, "got beat to-day," was his greeting as 
 he shook my hand, and " Excuse me, sir, but I think you made a mis- 
 take this time — put him into rather too good company. He did not 
 come of a fast sort. Lots of staying and jumping blood in him, 
 but neither dam or sire had ever pace. I knew them both well. 
 Hope you did not get hit very hard, sir," was his oracular disquisi- 
 tion, after I had sketched him the leading features of the race. 
 Then telling me that he would come in and have a bit of chat with 
 me as soon as I had done my supper, he toddled out of the room,, 
 evidently fully impressed with the idea that it was the "colt's" lack 
 of pace, and nothing else, that had lost us the race. It appears that 
 Tom, who rode him, thought so too 3 but then he did not express 
 his opinion quite so mildly. 
 
 After supper old John again appeared, bearing in tAvo smoking 
 tumblers of hot brandy-and-water and pipes {his "treat," as he 
 observed), and drawing our chairs into the fire, we proceeded to- 
 talk over the day's racing, and to canvass the merits and demerits 
 of every horse in the neighbourhood. The fund of horsey lore 
 which the old man possessed was extraordinary. 
 
 Towards the close of our tete-a-tete, and when I was getting rather 
 yawning — for a man who has been on horseback all day tires at 
 
28o The Leather Plater, 
 
 length, even of talking about horses, that most prolific of all 
 sources of conversation — old John observed, that " he thought he 
 knew of a colt which would just suit me, if I could only buy hin? 
 right." 
 
 '' Do you r" I carelessly answered ; " and where is that ?" 
 The fact is, he had just woke me up out of a brown study, in 
 which I was engaged in drawing up a mental balance-sheet — a kind 
 of profit and loss account between the brown horse and myself — 
 and trying to calculate how many horses it would take to ruin a 
 man of my means, if he was in the habit of bringing them out 
 over and over again to be beaten, as I was just then doing. 
 "You know Shark's Lodge, up at Holliwell?" inquired he. 
 " Oh, yes, near the gibbet, where our hounds often meet." 
 ''Well, do you know old Jack Radford, who lives up there ?" 
 " I've seen the old beggar, but I can't say I know much of him ; 
 nor do I want, if all I hear is true, for they tell me a rougher, 
 surlier old customer never breathed." 
 
 '^ Yes, he is certainly not very polished, but old Jack's a good 
 sort at bottom, for all that. I've known him many years before 
 ever he came into this country, and I never knew him tell a lie 
 or put a friend in the hole in his life. Now he's got a two-year-old 
 bay colt — will be three this grass — by Mulatto out of his old black 
 mare Plover, that will make a galloper some day or other, or I'm 
 out in my reckoning. Now you take my advice — get rid of this 
 one 5 he'll only lose you heaps of money. He'll never be fast 
 ■enough for a steeple-chase, but is just the very horse to carry 
 Charley, the first whip j and he's a good-looking one too. They'll 
 give you all the money you ask for him up at the stables ; I've had 
 a little conversation with my brother on the subject. And you take 
 and buy old Jack Radford's colt, and go into leather plating at o ice. 
 He's as near thorough-bred as Eclipse — for, though the old mare 
 has got a stain, there's not many besides old Jack and myself can 
 tell you where it lies — yet he'll always be a half-bred 'un, and 
 nothing else ; and you'll be able to run him for any half-bred 
 stakes in England, when and where you please." He then launched 
 
The Leather Plater, 281 
 
 out into a description of the colt, given with the most wonderful 
 accuracy, and after that gave me the performances and pedigree of 
 the old mare Plover in full, pointing out to me exactly where the 
 stain lay, which gave her, as he expressed it, " the long hairs in her 
 pasterns." As he warmed with his subject, I could not help gazing 
 in silent admiration on that wonderful old man, whose head could 
 not only carry a description of some scores of horses, but even 
 their pedigrees in full 3 and I was just promising him that I would 
 certainly ride over and look at Jack Radford's colt, when our lad 
 came up with the beaten horse, and we both went out to look at 
 him and see him done up for the night ; so Mr. Radford's two- 
 year-old was forgotten for that evening. But as I bade old John 
 good-bye next morning, he strictly enjoined me to ride over soon 
 and look at the colt, adding impressively, " Now mind what I say. 
 If you don't buy him the day will come when you'll blame yourself 
 for not taking my word. If you can get him under one hundred 
 he's cheap j but mind, it's no use trying to beat the old man down, 
 for he always asks what he means to take, and nothing else." And, 
 giving me a sly poke in the ribs, he added, with the knowingest 
 wink out of his keen little grey left eje, '''There's a Jilly indoors 
 wortli double the money, if you could only get her at the price j" 
 and so we parted. 
 
 The village of Holliwell was perhaps one of the ugliest and dirtiest 
 in England ; and the only redeeming quality which it possessed was, 
 that Holliwell Hangers, one of the best coverts and surest finds in 
 our hunt, lay within its precincts. I don't believe, unless it was to 
 meet the hounds at " Holliwell Gibbet," that any stranger would 
 ever have found his way into this village from one year's end to the 
 other. It was a long, straggling village, situate on the borders of 
 Holliwell Openfield, — a large, unenclosed tract of some thousands 
 of acres of stiff clay ground, and coarse, spongy, undrained grass 
 land, in which the holdings were divided from each other by broad, 
 deep ditches (big enough to hold a man and horse very comfortably), 
 with rotten banks, choked up with briars, coarse grass, and all such 
 other rubbish as a good farmer will never willingly see on his farm> 
 
282 The Leather Plater, 
 
 There was not a tree of any size in the whole parish, excepting the 
 wood, which lay about half a mile on the other side of the village, 
 and a few old elms which stood close into the church, and served 
 in some degree to shelter the parsonage from the biting east wind, 
 which, when it did blow, seemed to expend all its fury upon 
 HoUiwell. The village consisted of one long, straggling street, from 
 the wretched hovels on each side of which hang-dog, poaching- 
 looking scoundrels, with the eternal short black pipe in their mouths, 
 and slatternly half-dressed women, would peer out upon the stran- 
 ger with sullen scowling looks, without ever offering him the 
 slightest recognition of civility which the English labourer usually 
 bestows on his betters. In fact, the village of Holliwell bore the 
 worst repute of any village round us — a nest of sheep-stealers and 
 poachers j and I cannot describe the Holliwell villagers better than 
 in the words of poor Tom Hood : 
 
 " The women — the wretches had soiled and marr'd. 
 Whatever to womanly nature belongs. 
 For the marriage tie they had no regard ; 
 And as for drinking, they drank so hard 
 That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs. 
 The men, they fought and gambled at fairs. 
 And poached, and did not respect grey hairs ; 
 Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses. 
 And broke in houses as well as horses ; 
 Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton. 
 And would sell their own mothers and wives for a button. 
 But, not to repeat the deeds they did — 
 Backsliding, in spite of each moral skid — 
 If all was true that fell from the tongue. 
 There was not a villager, old or young. 
 But deserved to be whipt, imprisoned, or hung, 
 Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries 
 To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, or Murray's.** 
 
 Of course there was one public-house in the village — "The Five 
 Bells," kept by the village blacksmith, a bloated, blear-eyed, tun- 
 bellied old sinner (in every sense of the word), who was never seen 
 with either coat or hat on, whose highlows were always un'aced, his 
 
The Leather Plater, 283 
 
 breeches unbuttoned at the knee, and whose principal occupation 
 appeared to consist in drinking his own ale and smoking along pipe 
 in the winter by his kitchen lirej in the summer, on the bench in 
 front of his old shanty. Half-way down the street was a kind of 
 dissenting chapel, a little Zion, where an ignorant Chartist shoe- 
 maker was wont to expound the Scriptures to a congregation as 
 ignorant and radical as himself, in a style which bordered both on 
 heresy and blasphemy. 
 
 The clergyman who looked after the religious welfare of the 
 poor district was a hard-riding, roystering divine of the old school, 
 whose principal boast was " that he was born in the same year with 
 the ' Game Chicken,' and that they were the same weight to a 
 pound 5" whose breed of game fowls was unrivalled ; who was a 
 capital shot ; who could give you the winner and duration of every 
 prize-fight which had taken place during the last thirty years ; who 
 could tell you without hesitation the winner of every Derby and 
 Leger since the commencement ; and whose sole library consisted 
 of the Racing Calendar from the beginning, and some odd volumes 
 of the old Sporting Magazine. I attended this old clergyman's 
 sale after his decease, and a more unclerical miscellany 1 never 
 before saw exposed at any auction. Not that he was altogether a 
 bad clergyman ; but, living in such a wild, out-of-the-way place, 
 among such parishioners, he was hardly likely to be any other than 
 what he was. His charity was unbounded ; and when any of his 
 sick parishioners chose to send for him, he was ever ready to attend 
 at the dying man's bedside 3 and although the words of consolation 
 which fell from his lips were uttered in strong language, they were 
 well suited to the rough ears which heard them. His discourses 
 from the pulpit were, however, beautiful ; his voice and delivery 
 first-rate ; and old Stephen, our huntsman, who once happened to 
 ride over to Holliwell one Sunday morning to see about a young 
 hound at walk, chanced to stroll into the church while the old 
 clergyman was delivering his sermon, and he ever after used to 
 declare that it was worth riding fifty miles only to hear old parson 
 T "rally it out" from the pulpit. 
 
284 The Leather Plater, 
 
 The whole village wore a wild and desolate appearance ; and 
 even the summer's sun failed to shed any beauty on the bleak, 
 cheerless landscape round Holliwell. In the autumn and winter 
 the roads leading to and from the village were almost impassable j 
 and as to the Openfield — except just in the very height of summer, 
 the w^ater stood in pools in all the rushy furrows and low places j and 
 if by chance a fox broke away from the Hangers across the Open- 
 field, it was "bellows to mend" with a good many before they had 
 got even to the end of it ; for a bit of more dangerous or deeper 
 riding was not to be met with in our hunt. But, strange to say, on 
 the other side the Hangers a splendid rich, enclosed, agricultural and 
 hunting country stretched away for miles, and some of the best 
 runs with our hounds were from Holliwell Hangers. Whichever 
 side of the wood the fox broke from, there was sure to be a burning 
 scent ; and I have seen the hounds fly over the Holliwell Openfield 
 *' heads up and sterns down," and go right away from the horses, which 
 were floundering and squashing, in many places knee-deep, after 
 them. Holliwell Openfield was a noted place for plovers, and 
 thousands of plover eggs were yearly sent away from this spot to 
 the London markets j and if by chance you lost your way coming 
 home from hunting, and wandered after nightfall across this desolate 
 place, the melancholy, never-ceasing cry of the peewit, and the 
 scape of the snipe, as it rose under your horse's very nose, soon told 
 that you were in Holliwell Openfield. But that the land was not 
 altogether incapable of carrying crops, if only properly managed, 
 was proved by the fact that when this Openfield was enclosed and 
 drained some years after the date of my tale, and a new race of 
 men succeeded the original tenants of the soil, not a parish in the 
 country grew better or larger crops of wheat to the acre than this. 
 But at the time I speak of the Openfield was unenclosed, not an 
 acre of it drained, and the land was in the hands of the poorest 
 and slovenliest farmers in England. The best and most laconic 
 description which I ever heard of Holliwell was given by Charley, 
 our first whip, to a gentleman who asked him what place this was 
 as they rode through the village with the hounds one evening after 
 
J he Leather Plater, 285 
 
 hunting. *'Well, I should say it was the last that the Lord built, 
 and the first he forsook." 
 
 The words Holliwell Gibbet also gave an awful significance to 
 the place, and told a fearful tale of about as horrid and cold-blooded 
 a deed as was ever perpetrated. The cross-tree of the gibbet had 
 been down for some years, but the old post still remained. The 
 lone cottage by the edge of the wood where the dreadful murder was 
 committed had long since tumbled to decayj but there were old men 
 still alive in the village who well remembered that Sunday afternoon 
 when the young sailor, who had been absent from his home for 
 years, made his appearance once again at Holliwell, and was seen 
 to enter his poor old father's cottage. He had always been a wild 
 reckless youth from his earliest boyhood, and from the day he ran 
 away to sea, a beardless boy, he had never been heard of till he 
 again made his appearance at Holliwell, a weathen-beaten, black- 
 whiskered man. Yet, with all his faults, the old father loved that 
 boy dearly, and wild as he had been — wild as he even still might be 
 — the old man's morning and evening prayer was, that his reprobate 
 son would come back — that he might see him once more, and bless 
 him before he died j and the son did come back, and the old father 
 saw him, and for the last time. The old man owned a little bit of 
 land on the common, kept a cow or two, a few sheep and geese,, 
 and even in this wild spot, by a life of hard work and privation, 
 had managed to scrape together a few pounds. These he kept con- 
 cealed in an old box under his bed ; and it was this paltry sum that 
 doubtless cost the old man his life. Towards nightfall the son left the 
 hovel, and next morning the old man was not seen hobbling about 
 the common on his stick, as was his usual wont. A labourer, who 
 by chance passed the cottage soon after daybreak next morning,, 
 was horrified at seeing a pool of stagnant blood which had welled 
 its way under the door, and settled in a deep red clot on the stone 
 before it. He broke open the door at once, and there lay the 
 old man stiff and dead on the floor, the back of his head broken in 
 with a hatchet, and his throat cut from ear to ear. The box was 
 open, but no money in it. It is rarely that a murderer does not 
 
286 The Leather Plater, 
 
 leave some trace behind him which inevitably leads to his detection, 
 and the young sailor, in the confusion of the moment, had dropped 
 his tobacco-box, which lay by his old father's head, a damning 
 evidence of the son's guilt. The police in those days might not 
 have been so quick as they now are, but they were as sure. The 
 young sailor was traced to Liverpool, where he was taken on board 
 a brig loading for South America, brought back, tried, convicted, 
 and executed, and after that hung in chains in front of the poor old 
 father's cottage, on the green where he had so often played in 
 childish innocence, but which he had now desecrated by the blackest 
 crime of which man can be guilty. Many years have passed away 
 since that deed of blood was perpetrated, but as long as the old 
 gibbet-post stands, the remembrance of it will ever cast a blight over 
 Holliwell. 
 
 But barren and uncultivated as the whole district just round the 
 village might be, and rough and uncouth as were its inhabitants, 
 there was not a more desolate spot or a more neglected farm in the 
 whole parish than ''Shark's Lodge 5" and old Jack Radford, who 
 lived there, was probably the roughest and most uncultivated old 
 fellow in the whole village. The lodge stood so lonely, on a rising 
 ground, without a hill to shelter it from the howling blast j and 
 around it lay the farm of six hundred acres, which, as Charley the 
 whip — ^who had taken a dreadful spite against Holliwell and all that 
 belonged to it — again observed, might, perhaps, on a dry season, 
 ''carry fifty grasshoppers to the acre." 
 
 But even up at that desolate lodge were two treasures which one 
 would have little dreamt of seeking in so wild a spot — the old black 
 mare Plover, who was acknowledged by all who had seen her go, 
 some twelve or fifteen years back, to have been the very best hunter 
 that was 2ver ridden to our hounds, and • who was now as good as 
 a fifty-pound annuity to her old owner 5 and Annie Radford, the 
 old man's daughter ("the filly indoors," to whom John Harrison 
 had alluded), one of the finest women in England, and who was 
 soon afterwards destined to wear a coronet of her own winning. 
 Who or what old Jack Radford originally was I do not believe a 
 
The Leather Plater, 387 
 
 man in our parts^ save John Harrison, knew, nor did any one care 
 much to inquire. He had migrated to HoUiwell from the Yorkshire 
 "Wolds some eighteen years before, bringing with him the black 
 mare Plover, then in her prime, and his little daughter Annie, a 
 child of about a year old. It was soon evident to the hard-riding 
 crew, amongst whom he had so promiscuously dropped, that the old 
 man (for although he was scarcely fifty when he came to Holliwell, 
 he looked full sixty, and was never known from the first by any 
 other name than " Old Jack Radford") was as deep in the mysteries 
 of horseflesh as the best of them ; and his greatest detractors (for, 
 strange to say, not a man in the hunt or a farmer in tlie neighbour- 
 hood ever liked him from the first) could not help owning that a 
 better seat or hands on a horse they nev^er saw, and that Jack Rad- 
 ford on Plover was harder to beat than any man and horse in the 
 hunt. He owned but one hunter, and consequently rarely showed 
 with the hounds 5 but he always picked the best meets when he did 
 show, and never went home from a run without having done some- 
 thing to be talked about. The old man's day was before my time, 
 and I never saw him out ; but I have been told that it was a treat 
 to see him leading the field over our stiffest country — the old man, 
 with his jockey seat and hands down, sitting as still as if he were 
 part and parcel of his horse, his countenance grim as death, and the 
 old mare stealing along with a low, lurching stride, taking every 
 fence in her line without a mistake and apparently without any 
 exertion. The day was never too long or the country too stiff for 
 ojd Jack Radford and Plover. But he never boasted or talked 
 about either his own deeds 01 those of his favourite mare 3 he was 
 one of the most surly, taciturn men that ever lived, and if he did 
 answer a question, it was in so rough and uncivil a manner that 
 one hardly cared to risk a second rebuff. As years wore on, his 
 manners became even ruder and more unpolished -, the old man 
 began to get a little stiff in his joints, and it was really a rehef to 
 the whole hunt when at length he turned the old mare up, and was 
 no longer seen at the covert-side. Various were the surmises as to 
 what serious crime was weighing on old Jack Radford's mind, and 
 
288 The Leather Plater, 
 
 rendered him so gloomy and taciturn ; and Charley, the whip, who 
 was the wit of the kennel, declared " that he must have sold his 
 soul to the devil, or he never dare ride in the reckless manner which 
 he did 3 or, if the pair of them were really mortal, they must be Dick 
 Turpin and old Black Bess come to life again." From the day he turned 
 the old mare up he became more testy and misanthropical, rarely 
 went oiFhis own farm, was never seen at market, and, if a butcher 
 did want to buy any of his stock he must come to Shark's Lodge 
 himself for that purpose. Now, the old man's farm was not quite 
 so bad as Charley represented it. It was a decent, rough, grazing 
 farm, consisting of large pastures, divided from each other by deep, 
 broad ditches — a capital one for breeding horses on and pasturing 
 young colts. It is true that the land in many places was in very 
 wretched condition, and the herbage coarse and rough 3 still, in parts, 
 the bottom was good, and many prime beasts were really grazed at 
 Shark's Lodge. There was very little arable land, and as the graz- 
 ing land was principally fed down by rough colts and bullocks taken 
 in at tack, the old man farmed his land with very little trouble and 
 at very little expense. 
 
 I had never exchanged a word, good, bad or indifferent, with the 
 old man, and had never seen either the old mare Plover, or the 
 " filly indoors," though I had heard both of them rapturously spoken 
 of. As for calling at the lodge, no one would ever dream of this, 
 except upon the most urgent business; for, by all accounts, old 
 Radford was more likely to slam the door in your face than ask 
 you to walk in. He was, moreover, a particularly ugly old fellow, 
 with a cadaverous-looking, hatchet-shaped face, cold, bleak, grey 
 eyes, and large projecting front teeth like a rabbit j and Charley 
 used to tell a good tale, that a sailor, who was on the tramp down 
 to Liverpool, happened one day to call at the lodge to ask for a bit 
 of bread. Old Radford spied him from the window, and, bustling 
 to the door, opened it, and bid the man be olf^ without even giving 
 him a chance of asking for what he wanted. The man went his 
 way out 3 in less than a quarter of an hour he returned. Old Jack 
 met him again on the threshold, and, holding the door half ajar. 
 
The Leather Plater, 289 
 
 went on at the sailor with " Did not I tell you five minutes ago that 
 I never gave anything to vagrants?" " Oh, yes," said the manj 
 *' but I did not come to you to beg for anything j I only came back 
 to tell you something I forgot when I was here just now." Old 
 Radford's curiosity was aroused, and still holding the knob of the 
 door in his hand, he asked the man what it was. *^ Well," said the 
 sailor, "I've been all over the world, and among all kinds of people, 
 
 but I never before in my life did see such an ugly old as you 
 
 are. I thought you might like to know it. Good-morning, 
 master." Old Cleaver, the butcher, who happened to be in the 
 parlour settling for some beasts, heard the conversation, and he 
 did not forget to retail so good a joke. 
 
 The time had now arrived when I must either beard the lion in 
 his den — must pay a visit to Shark's Lodge, see old Jack Radford, 
 and have a look at tlie "bay colt out of Plover," — or run the risk 
 of forfeiting the respect of my esteemed friend John Harrison for 
 ever. I had. through his instrumentality, sold my brown horse 
 for eighty guineas to the stables up at the Hall — not, however, for 
 the use of Charley, the first whip : the master taking a fancy to 
 him, he at once went into his private stables, carried him for nearly 
 ten years with the hounds, and never gave him a fall. He always 
 declared that he was the safest as well as the cheapest horse he 
 ever rode. Well, one afternoon, very early in April, I left the 
 hounds running a ringing fox up and down The Hangers, and rode 
 up to Holliwell village. I did not choose to ride up direct to 
 Shark's Lodge, because I felt pretty certain that I should have to tie 
 my horse up to the garden rails while I went in 5 so I rode up to 
 the Five Bells — where, as the sign-board boasted, there was 
 "^'excellent accommodation for man and beast." The old black- 
 smith led my horse into a rude but very warm stable — for it was a 
 thatched hovel, with every crevice and air-hole stopped up with 
 itraw^ and, throwing an old sack over his loins, I gave him a feed 
 of corn and made him as comfortable as circumstances would allow. 
 I was rather surprised to see that my horse was not the only occupant 
 of the shed, for a large, slashing, bang-tailed black horse, with a 
 
 u 
 
290 The Leather Plater, 
 
 peculiarly neat hunting saddle and martingale still on him (the 
 girths having been slackened), was going in at a feed of corn with 
 apparent relish. I did not, however, take much notice of this, for 
 I naturally concluded that he belonged to some one or other who 
 had been out that day with the hounds, and had called to refresh 
 himself and his horse at the Five Bells on his road home from 
 hunting. 
 
 I followed the landlord into the house, and in passing through the 
 kitchen, where I stopped to order a rasher or two of bacon and 
 some poached eggs, I had time to observe the company who sat 
 smoking round the fire — and a more villanous lot of scoundrels I 
 never clapped eyes on. Poacher and sheepstealer were as unmis- 
 takably branded on every countenance as if the words had been 
 seared in with a red-hot iron. In fact, every man in that kitchen 
 was of the same stamp, and belonged to a set of ruffians who 
 would stick at nothing where plunder was concerned j a set of 
 
 miscreants — 
 
 " Who did not care a 
 
 For the law or the new police. 
 And would scruple but little in killing the lamb 
 If they fancied they wanted the fleece." 
 
 And as I looked at the blackened rafters and the dingy old settle by 
 the fireside, I thought if they couJd only speak, what nice tales of 
 desperate deeds, and deeds of villany which had been planned in 
 that old kitchen, they could tell us of. 
 
 The old blacksmith showed me into the parlour — a dull, dark, 
 dirty little room, the walls of which were decorated with rudely- 
 drawn, highly-coloured scriptural pictures, among the most ex- 
 traordinary of which was old Noah coming out of the ark in top 
 loots. It is very strange — and I never could make out why — but 
 I have invariably remarked that you always see scriptural pieces 
 suspended from the walls of rooms where you would least 
 expect to find them. Fancy that old blacksmith leaving his 
 kitchen company, whose conversation was made up of the most 
 blasphemous oaths and dark allusions to the most desperate 
 
The Leather Plater. 291 
 
 crimes, and going into his parlour to gaze upon a representa- 
 tion of our first parents in their original innocence, or the birth 
 of the infant Saviour! In this room, before the fire, with 
 his chair on tlie tilt and his feet cocked up on each side of the grate, 
 in true Yankee fashion, sat the owner of the black horse, smoking 
 a cigar and drinking a tumbler of thick, muddy-coloured brandy- 
 and-water. We looked each other over at the same moment. It 
 was not a long survey — something like the glance which a detective 
 throws over a chap whom he fancies "is wanted j" but that survey, 
 short as it might be, was sufficient instinctively to tell each of us 
 that the other was "a party concerned about horses," and, with a 
 touch of the freemasonry which characterizes the craft, he drew his 
 chair a little on one side to make room for me at the fire (for April 
 at Holliwell was like February in any other part of the county), 
 and glancing at my dirty top boots and splashed appearance, he 
 opened the ball with " Any sport to-day, sir ?" I sat down by the 
 fire, informed him what we had done, and a desultory conversation 
 on horses, hunters, and the like took place, during which I had a 
 good opportunity of taking stock of my new acquaintance. He was 
 a peculiarly neat, dapper, good-looking little fellow, with an eye and 
 beak like an eagle's j crisp curly hair and whiskers, both neatly 
 trimmed, as if the singeing-lamp had been slightly passed over them, 
 and both sparingly powdered with grey ; wiry, but slightly built, 
 and whose riding- weight out of the saddle would not much exceed 
 nine stone. He was dressed in the orthodox sporting style of the 
 day, long-waisted pepper-and-salt single-breasted cutaway, looped up 
 in front with two fox's teeth ; long-waistcoat to match 3 tight-fitting 
 drab trowsers, roomy in the seat but tight at tlie bottom, stitched 
 and strapped all over in a most mysterious fashion j and remarkably 
 neat round-toed Wellingtons. His scarf was white worsted with 
 black-currant spots, fixed in front with a large plain gold horse-shoe 
 pin. His very straight-brimmed hat stood on the table, and a plain 
 Molucca hunting cross and a pair of well-worn dog-skin gloves lay 
 by its side. There was no mistake about this man j the stable, and 
 nothing but the stable, was his vocation 3 but whether he was a 
 
 u 3 
 
292 The Leather Plater, 
 
 steeple-chase rider, a swell horse-dealer, kidman (I could tell some- 
 how or other that he was not a regular horse-dealer), or stud-groom, 
 I could not for the life of me guess. I could see at once he was 
 not a gentleman 3 and he certainly did not belong to the hard- 
 riding crew of blackcoats that followed our hounds. He was a 
 stranger J and I could never call to mind having seen him out in 
 our country. He had clearly not been out with the hounds that 
 day — the drab trowsers and Wellingtons plainly told thatj but 
 who or what he was, or what possible business such a dapper little 
 man could have in the frowsy old parlour of the Five Bells at 
 HoUiwell, was a mystery which I was most anxious to solve. He 
 had hardly a speck of dirt on his well-polished Wellingtons. I 
 ventured to remark this ; and his reply soon told me all about the 
 man and his business. " Well," he said, '' in general I do manage 
 to ride pretty clean j but the roads were good enough till I came 
 over the north road and got into this God-forgotten country." 
 
 '' Have you ridden far ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, about fifteen miles, from (mentioning our county 
 
 town, where there were cavalry barracks). The fact is my chap was 
 out with your hounds about a fortnight ago, and he heard of a colt 
 in this very place which they told him was a well-bred 'un, and he 
 thought it might make a charger, and, perhaps, win our Cavalry 
 Cup in the autumn, so he sent me over to look at him. My 
 name's Turner, his stud-groom." 
 
 " And who is your chap ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, Captain C, of the ," he answered: "'you must have 
 
 seen him out with your hounds." 
 
 I certainly had seen the captain out with our hounds ; and, 
 moreover, I owed him a bit of a grudge for a little circumstance 
 which took place a short time before — no doubt on the very day 
 that he had heard of " the bay colt out of Plover." The cap- 
 tain and I were riding at each other, and, as far as our horses went, 
 we were pretty equally matched 3 but, as for riding, I could not 
 hold a candle to the captain, who was one of the crack gentlemen 
 jocks of the day. We had got a little out of our line, and found 
 
The Leather Plater. 293 
 
 ourselv^es alone in a large grass pasture surrounded by a bullfinch, 
 through no part of which any horse in the world could possibly 
 force his way. There were but two really practicable places 
 in the whole line of fence — the gate over which we had come into 
 tlie field, and four stiffish rails in the corner, under a haystack, out 
 of it. I knew this field well, for I had once been pounded here 
 before. The captain had the gate first, and, without turning to see 
 me come over, lie sent his horse on at a thundering pace down a 
 straight dry ride, evidently meaning to have the bullfinch at the 
 bottom. As soon as I was over the gate I slanted my horse to the 
 right for the rails in the corner, as I knew that was the only way 
 out of the field. Of course by this I lost ground, but I was not 
 half-way across the field before I saw the captain take a pull at his 
 horse : he was now evidently watching me, and I fancy, even at 
 that distance, did not half like the looks of the bullfinch which 
 stared him in the face. I went hand-over-hand at the rails, which 
 the captain had now spied, and turning his horse towards me, we 
 raced down to them. The old swarth was sound^ and capital gal- 
 loping. I got to them first, and catching my horse tight by the 
 head, was just beginning to drive at them, when he suddenly shied 
 at a boy who at that very minute rose from the bottom of 
 the haystack, where he had been lying. The horse, however, 
 could not balk the rails altogether, but he rose too near, and 
 breasting them, we came over into the next field all in a heap ; and 
 as I lay on my back — to use a favourite phrase of my poor old 
 friend Tom Heycock — " I had an excellent opportunity of seeing 
 the sun, moon, and stars in full illumination." The horse was a 
 good deal shaken, for I was up first. I was not stunned, although 
 very " dizzy like 3" for I remember as I lay the captain cleared the 
 rails gallantly to my right, and his derisive laugh as he went sailing 
 on to catch the hounds, which were now turning again towards us, 
 did not improve my temper, which was already rather ruffled by thi» 
 fall. I picked myself together as well as I could, and got the horse 
 on his legs ; he was so lame in the shoulder that he could scarcel}/ 
 go. Luckily we were close to a farm lodge, and I knew the farmer 
 
294 The Leather Plater, 
 
 who lived there well, so I led my horse up, left him there, rode 
 home on an old pony I borrowed of him, and sent a man next 
 morning to bring home my horse. I owed the captain one for his 
 civility ; and the thought immediately flashed across my mind that 
 I could not get rid of my obligation in a better way than by 
 buying the " bay colt by Plover" over his head if it were possible. 
 
 So I asked the groom rather anxiously, but as unconcernedly as 
 1 could, " Have you seen the colt ?" 
 
 " Yes, and I never in my life saw such an old ruffian as the 
 farmer who owns him," was the reply. 
 
 " What did you think of the colt — did you buy him ?" was my 
 next question. 
 
 " Well, he's not a bad like colt," answered the groom, taking a 
 long pull at his cigar ; '' and he looks all over like galloping ; stands 
 on rather short legs, but covers a deal of ground ; looks like 
 flying with about nine stone up, but he'll never carry my chap -, he 
 rides eleven stone, and is about as hard on a horse as a man can be. 
 Besides, the colt is a little light below the knee. However, he's 
 good enough to win our cup, even with the captain up, among the 
 lot of muftis he'll have to meet 3 and even if he can't do that he'll 
 make a sweet park hack or a ladies' horse, — and my chap knows 
 where to place him if it comes to that. It won't be the first one 
 we've given away from our stud to a favourite." 
 
 "Well, but did you buy him r" I again asked, waiting anxiously 
 for his reply. 
 
 " Why, no, I have not bought him yet. The Itict is, the old 
 chap as owns him wants eighty for him, and it seems the captain 
 knows that. 80 he just gives me a cheque for that sum, and tells 
 me to buy the colt if I liked him. Now, it's not very likely I 
 mean to buy without standing in ; but as for getting a ten-pound 
 note out of this pig-headed old clodhopper, that's no go. I showed 
 him the cheque, and told him very plainly that the sale of the colt 
 was in my hands, and that if I gave up the cheque I should expect 
 ten pounds out of it from him when the colt was delivered. If 
 my chap had never heard anything about the price I could have 
 
The Leather Plater, 295 
 
 made a good thing of it, for the colt looks a hundred and fifty all 
 over 3 and, what's more, he's worth ir, too," added the groom, 
 viciously poking the dead coals on the top of the fire with the toe 
 of his boot. 
 
 " What did the old chap say when you asked him for the tenner 
 back?" I then inquired. 
 
 ''■ Why, I thought he'd have pitched into me with a hayfork he 
 had in his hand. He just walked out of the box, held the door in 
 hand till I had followed him out, then locked it, and walked up to 
 the house without saying another word — never asking me in, nor 
 even so much as bidding me good-day. I never did see such an old 
 ruffian in all my life. I wonder whether they breed them all like 
 him in these parts ; and yet the old boy knows a horse well, too," 
 added the groom apologetically — as if that circumstance would 
 cover a multitude of sins. 
 
 "What shall you do now?" I next asked. 
 
 " Why, I shall call on my road home and buy the colt, and see 
 if I can work anything out of the old fellow. I must have the colt, 
 for my chap seems to have set his mind on him. I'll just wait an 
 hour to let the old boy get over his temper 3 but I must be out of 
 this one-eyed place by daylight, so that I can get on to the north 
 road before the sun goes down." 
 
 It was now two o'clock. I had learned all I wanted to know, 
 and it struck me rather forcibly that unless the groom looked pretty 
 sharp, the bay colt by Plover was not very likely ever to carry one 
 of the captain's favourites as a park hack. 
 
 Our conversation was now interrupted by the entrance of iiy 
 poached eggs and bacon. While I was discussing them my frieiid 
 sat by the fire cursing things in general, especially our country a^id 
 the state of the roads -, wondering whoever could have been fool 
 enough to think of placing a village where Holliwell stood 3 and 
 anathematizing all masters who interfered in the buying of their 
 horses without first consulting their stud-grooms. '' What the devil 
 is the use of a man having a stud-groom," he fiercely asked me, "if 
 he knows as much about a horse himself?" 
 
296 The Leather Plater. 
 
 Of course I never hinted that T was on the same errand as he 
 was, and as soon as ever I had boked my dinner I rose, and, bid- 
 ding him good-by, saying that I had a tired horse and a longish 
 way to ride home^ I A\-alked into the yard, jumped on to my horse, 
 and rode straight up to Shark's Lodge. 
 
 Old Radford was leaning over the garden-gate as I rode up, 
 looking about as vicious as ever I saw a man in my life. I knew 
 my customer, so determined to be as rough witli him as I was sure 
 he would be with me. 
 
 As I pulled up at the gate his first shot was not encouraging. 
 
 "Now, what do youre want?" (in broad Yorkshire.) 
 
 " I want to see old Jack Radford," I roared out at the top of 
 my voice. I have invariably found that nothing discomposes these 
 sort of customers so much as shouting at them. 
 
 " And u^hat do you want with ' old Jack Radford ?' as you call 
 him." 
 
 "I want to see him," I again shouted. 
 
 "Well, ycu can see him now, for I'm old Jack Radford; but I 
 aint deaf." 
 
 " Oh, you're old Jack Radford, are you ? I should not have 
 thought it. Well, I want to buy your bay colt 3" and I jumped 
 off my horse, and proceeded to tie him up by the bridle to the 
 garden-gate. 
 
 Had I treated the old man with deference and civility I should 
 probably never have seen the colt -, but he now seemed to regard 
 me as one of his own kidney, and opened the garden-gate with 
 " What are you doing now — do you think we aint got no stabling 
 here ?" I thereupon led the horse through, and followed the old 
 fellow to the stables, which were at the bottom of the garden, 
 and were the only part of the premises that seemed to be in toler- 
 able repair. 
 
 As soon as I had tied my horse up, the old man threw open the 
 door of the loose-box, and our bargam was closed in less than three 
 minutes, after this fashion — • 
 
 " Now, tliere's the colt." 
 
The Leather Plater, 297 
 
 I did not care to look hira over ^ I meant buying. I knew old 
 John Harrison would not deceive me^ and I had not forgotten 
 what llie stud-groom had said about his value. So I merely asked, 
 " What's his price ?" 
 
 " Eighty," was the curt reply. 
 
 "Guineas or pounds ?" 
 
 ""It was gaineas last winter, but I'll take pounds now. I've 
 got another coming on, and one's as much as I can look after 
 now." 
 
 " I'll have him," I said. " I suppose you warrant him ?" 
 
 "Yes ; he's never had anything the matter with him in his life 
 that I know on." 
 
 We left the stable without another word ; and this is how the 
 bay colt out of Plover became mine at exactly tlie same price I 
 had got for my brown horse. 
 
 On the road up to the house — for the old fellow was obliged to 
 ask me in to settle — I told him I supposed it would do if I gave 
 him ten pounds to bind the bargain, and left my cheque for the 
 remainder, which I would cash the next day when the colt was 
 delivered. He was perfectly satisfied. We had now reached the 
 back door, and he pushed me into his kitchen, with " Never mind 
 your boots," seeing that I was looking about for a scraper or mat 
 to rub them on. We walked through the kitchen into the little 
 parlour beyond, in which sat two persons who deserve a passing 
 notice. The one was a slim, handsome, pale-faced young man o' 
 about twenty, who sat propped up by pillows in an easy-cha^' 
 before the hre, his head bandaged up, and his right arm in splinr.s 
 and a sling. The other was a girl about nineteen, who was sitting 
 working at a small table by the window. The room was neat and 
 clean enough, giving evidence of a woman's care j the furniture 
 massive, old-fashioned, and simple ; and the only ornaments in 
 the room were a vase tilled with violets, primroses, and snowdrops 
 on the table, and a portrait of old Plover suspended over the 
 mantel-piece. An open piano stood at the end of the room. All 
 these I took in at a glance. 
 
298 The Leather Plater. 
 
 The old man introduced me thus : '' Here, Annie, here's a 
 - — I do beheve he was very nearly saying gentleman, but he 
 checked himself — party as has come and bought the bay colt." 
 
 ''^Has he?" quietly remarked the girl, in a tone that indicated 
 neither interest nor surprise ; and, rising from her seat, she made 
 me a kind of half-bow, half-curtsey, in a style which I never saw 
 beaten amongst the highest-bred ones, and drawing herself up to 
 her full height, regarded me with a fixed stare, so steady, so long, 
 and so searching, that I was almost tempted to ask her if she 
 thought she should know me if she saw me again — when the old 
 man turned to the door, and calling to her with a rude, " Here, 
 gal," she followed him, and swept out of the room with the air of 
 a Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 Whether or not she would have known me again was of little 
 moment3 but I'll swear that only from the parting glimpse which 
 I obtained of that woman, I should have known her again among a 
 thousand. The first glance of Annie Radford left an impression 
 upon my mind which years could not eradicate. I was so taken by 
 surprise — so thunderstruck with her surpassing beauty, which 
 flashed so suddenly upon me — that for the moment I forgot where 
 I was, and stood vacantly gazing at the door out of which she 
 had just passed, as if I fancied I could see her through it 5 and 
 I was only aroused from my reverie by the sick man asking me, 
 in a faint, mild tone, " So, you've bought our bay coU, have you. 
 
 sir 
 
 I am not an adept at describing female beauty 5 and I very much 
 question whether any pen, however good, could do justice to Annie 
 Radford. Tall and exquisitely formed, with a rich, clear olive com- 
 plexion, dark as that of any Spaniard ; large, full, languishing blue 
 eyes, and hair as black and glossy as the raven's wing. Her fea- 
 tures were as regular and as faultless as her form j and there was a 
 look of determination about her beautiful mouth and her sharp, 
 clearly-chiselled chin, which said that if once she got the upper hand 
 of a man, she would be very likely to keep it, and a proud, hau2:hty 
 bearing about the whole woman, which plainly told that she would 
 
The Leather Plater, 299 
 
 be able to hold her own among any company. Her hair was simply 
 parted on each side of her temples, and plaited behind in a long, 
 thin braid, which reached nearly down to her waist. A little bunch 
 of snowdrops was carelessly stuck in on one side of her temples, as 
 if by their pure white contrast to set off the deep purple gloss of 
 her hair. She was dressed in a plain black silk dress, the bodice of 
 which fitted tightly over a magnificent bust, that any sculptor might 
 have longed to model 3 and a kind of small black velvet mantilla 
 was thrown loosely over beautiful shoulders. 
 
 A horsey old friend of ours used to observe that if he was in the 
 habit of buying women, as he did his horses, and was not quite cer- 
 tain about their pedigrees, he should look only for three points, 
 which would be certain to indicate their breeding — the ear, the 
 ankle, and the hand. He did not put the least faith in the face, 
 for, as he said, you just as often saw a pretty face on a dairy-maid 
 as a duchess ; but the small ear, the long tapering hand, and the 
 clean, well-turned ankle, ^^^ere only to be met with among the 
 "high-bred ones." These three points were perfection in Annie 
 Radford, for I criticised them all pretty closely when she returned 
 to the parlour shortly after, bringing in a tray, on which was set 
 out a very nice little lunch. The hand and ankle were both superb, 
 but they were nothing in comparison to her beautiful little ear. It 
 was so pink and transparent that it reminded one of a dehcate little 
 pink shell. I know this simile is a very stale one. but I can find 
 no better. I fancy that I have read somewhere that our great great- 
 grandmothers — who, by the way, appear t.n have been for the most 
 part arrant coquettes — were in the habit of presenting the tips of 
 their ears for their favourites to kiss. Had Annie only lived in 
 those days, how the old powdered pig-tailed beaux would have con- 
 tested for a kiss at that delicate Httle ear ! I certainly never had 
 seen that girl's equal before. As wx sat at lunch, I looked first at 
 old Radford, then at Annie : I could not see the slightest resemblance 
 between them in any one respect j and I mentally offered to lay 
 100 to 20 that old Jack Radford was no more Annie's father than 
 that he was mine. I should have won if I had laid, for not lons^ 
 
300 The Leather Plater, 
 
 after I learnt both their histories from John I-Iarrison, who appearer 
 to have known old Jack some twenty years before, when he kept a 
 small roadside inn, somewhere up in Yorkshire, and Harrison drove 
 one of the north country coaches that changed at his door 3 and I 
 will tell the tale as it was told to me. 
 
 Annie's mother, the only child of one of the oldest and proudest 
 houses in tlie county, when a lovely girl of eighteen, eloped from 
 her father's house with a man whom she dearly loved — her inferior 
 in birth, it was true, but her equal in every other respect — whose 
 only fault consisted in his poverty. Six weeks after their marriage, 
 they both w rote to the father, praying for his forgiveness. That 
 father was a stern, unforgiving old man, and the reply he wrote to 
 his daughter's letter was, that as she had made her bed, so might 
 she lie upon it ; and, enclosing a cheque for one hundred pounds, 
 told her that he had now done with her for ever, and that the letter 
 he was now writing, was the last communication he would hold 
 with her in this world. And he kept his word. Two more letters 
 which the daughter wrote to him were returned unopened, and the 
 poor girl had not the heart to write another. Her husband, who 
 had unfortunately been brought up to no profession, but who had 
 been maintained by an old uncle, who was believed to be rich, now 
 apphed to that uncle for assistance. He was a great speculator in 
 railways, and such like. Just at that time a panic occurred among 
 all the speculators in England. Shares fell, the old man became 
 a bankrupt, and was obliged to retire to the continent, where he 
 lived for a few years upon a slender pittance doled out to him by 
 his creditors. 
 
 After they were married, the young couple went up to London, 
 where the husband managed to eke out a slender subsistence, 
 sometimes as amanuensis, sometimes as contributor to the daily 
 papers. The poor girl was devotedly attached to her husband, and 
 although the privations which she had to undergo were such as she 
 had been little used to, she never complained. Two years after the 
 marriage little Annie was born, and six months after her birth, the 
 poor father, who had never been a strong man, and who was ill 
 
The Leather T later, 301 
 
 fitted to stand against the troubles which pressed so heavily on him, 
 died. The poor girl — for she was scarcely anything else — was 
 thus thrown upon the wide world without a friend to assist her, 
 and almost penniless. She resolved once more to seek her father, 
 and endeavour to enlist his sympathies — if not for herself, at least 
 on behalf of her infant daughter. She travelled down into York- 
 shire by the very coach which Harrison drove. 
 
 Old Jack Radford, who had been a groom in her father's stables 
 for nearly twenty years, had left the service, and, marrying an old 
 female servant at the Hall, who had nursed Annie's mother in her 
 infancy, had taken the little roadside inn which he then kept. The 
 only faults that could be brought against Jack Radford were his 
 ugliness, his short crusty temper towards men (no man, however, 
 could be kinder with his horses, and many a vicious savage brute 
 which had been turned out of the breaker's hands as incurable, 
 succumbed to his gentle treatment), and his rude, uncultivated 
 manners, which even a five-and-twenty years' servitude and con- 
 nexion with gentlemen could not tone down. He had been brought 
 up in a racing-stable — so there is little wonder that he could ride j 
 and, when we add that he was a thorough-bred Yorkshireman, we 
 need hardly say that he was a consummate judge of a horse. He 
 was as good a groom as ever strapped a horse, as honest as the day, 
 and a trusty, faithful, and attached serv^ant in his own rough way. 
 His public was just six miles from the Hall gates, and here the poor 
 girl alighted with her little daughter, one dark, cheerless November 
 evening. She had not the courage to go straight to her father's 
 door. It is needless to say that she was received as a daughter 
 both by Jack Radford and his wife, who had both known her from 
 her childhood. 
 
 The next morning Jack took a letter from her up to the Hall. 
 He did not see the old father 3 but in about half-an-hour he received 
 an answer, which he was commissioned to deliver to the poor girl. 
 He rode home with a light heart, for, from what he could gather 
 in the servants' hall, he was led to believe that the old man was 
 becoming more reconciled to his daughter. He delivered the letter 
 
30Z The Leather Plater, 
 
 himself into the poor girl's hands, and, with the freedom of an old 
 domestic, remained in the room while she read it. But had he 
 only guessed the contents of that unnatural letter, he would not 
 have delivered it for untold gold J for it was filled with the most 
 bitter invectives and unkind reproaches, and there was not one single 
 sentence in it which carried the slightest ray of hope to the poor 
 girl's blighted heart. But she read every sentence of it from end 
 to end, and, although her eyes were dimmed with tears, not one 
 word in that fatal letter escaped them. When she had finished 
 it, she stood for some moments with compressed lips and heaving 
 bosom, motionless as a statue, gazing on little Annie, who was lying 
 fast asleep on the bed, when all at once the letter dropped from 
 her hand, and lifting her beautiful eyes to heaven, she uttered this 
 simple and heartfelt prayer : " O God, protect my little Annie, for 
 I have no power to help her !" and sank upon the bed in a swoon. 
 And God heard her prayer, for her child's protector stood there by 
 her side 3 and that simple, honest groom vowed at the moment that 
 if anything happened to the mother, he would be a father to the 
 child, and he religiously kept his vow. 
 
 Nobody liked Jack Radford j his appearance was unprepossessing, 
 his manner repulsive, and no one cared to probe beneath that rude 
 surface. Had any one done so, he would have found as kind and 
 true a heart as ever beat, and a religious probity of feeling which 
 would have done honour to the noblest in the land. 
 
 The swoon was succeeded by the most violent hysterics, which 
 lasted for some time, when suddenly she became tranquil But it 
 was only the lull that precedes the coming storm. Radford and his 
 wife stood by the bedside watching her, when all of a sudden they 
 perceived that the pillow on which her fair cheek rested was satu- 
 rated with blood. In the violence of her paroxysms the poor girl 
 had burst a blood-vessel. No human power could stay that welling 
 tide, and in less than ten minutes the young mother lay a corpse by 
 the side of her infant daughter. 
 
 Radford immediately galloped over to the Hall that he might 
 himself break the sad intelligence to the father. He sent up word 
 
The Leather Plater, 303 
 
 to the old mail that he wished to speak to him on tlie most im- 
 portant business, and the answer which he received was that he 
 might send up any message he had to dehver by the footman. 
 Jack's patience was now fairly exhausted, and bursting out with, 
 " Then tell the old man that dear Miss Annie (Annie was also the 
 mother's name) is now lying dead up at my house 3" and, wiping away 
 a tear which trickled down his rugged cheek — the first he iiad ever 
 been known to shed — he left the servants' hall, and went round to 
 the stables for his horse. 
 
 The serv^ant went upstairs and delivered the message exactly in 
 Radford's own words. When he entered the study, the old father 
 was walking to and fro, a rigid, gloomy frown spread over his 
 whole countenance, and his breast torn with the fiercest of all 
 human conflicts — a struggle between affection and pride. It is 
 probable that in a short time nature would have asserted her sway, and 
 the old manwould have eventually become reconciled to his daughter^ 
 but his pride would not allow him to make the concession too freely 
 — and behold the results ! When the man delivered the message, he 
 watched the old father's countenance anxiously, to see what would 
 be the effect of it ; but he watched in vain, for not a muscle of that 
 iron face moved — not the slightest change came over those gloomy 
 features. He stopped in his walk, looked the servant full in the 
 face, and the only remark he made was in a tone of thunder, "Send 
 Radford up to me." Radford had not left the stables, and in five 
 minutes was closeted with the old father in his study. The inter- 
 view was a brief one, and all that Radford said when he returned to 
 the servants' hall was this, " I always thought that the old man had 
 the hardest nerve of any man in the county, but I never knew it 
 before to-day." 
 
 That evening the body was conveyed over to the Hall in a hearse 5 
 a few days after it was buried in the family vault, and the dark 
 hatchment frowned over the massive old doorway at the Hall. The 
 last time that hatchment was up was when his poor child's mother 
 had died in giving her birth. Since then his wife had lived to him 
 in the image of his daughter. She was now lost to h^ni for ever. 
 
304 The Leather Plater. 
 
 and his own cursed pride had made him what he now was, and 
 must remain to the end of his life — a broken-hearted, childless, and 
 lonely old man. The little orphan was left in charge of Radford's 
 wife. From the day that his daughter's corpse entered the Hall until 
 the day of the funeral, the old father never left his study by day, and 
 was seen by no one save the servant who carried him up his solitary 
 meals. But at nightfall he would steal to the room where his dead 
 daughter lay, and sit for hoars gazing on those calm, lovely features, 
 whose beauty even the hand of death had no power to mar. He 
 and Radford were the only mourners who attended the funeral j 
 and as they walked after the corpse to the little village church (for 
 he would have no vain display). Jack could scarcely believe it possible 
 that six short days could have wrought so great a change in any 
 man. Instead of the tall, great, iron-framed man, which he was 
 but a week ago, he was now only a shattered, tottering wreck of his 
 former self, and the agony of mind which he had suffered during 
 that period, appeared to have added twenty years to his life. After 
 the funeral, he called Radford into the study, and warning him 
 that it was the last time that his daughter's name should ever pass 
 his lips, gave him a cheque for three thousand pounds. With one 
 thousand of this Jack was to leave the neighbourhood, taking the 
 little Annie with him, and settle on a farm in a distant county ; the 
 other two thousand were to be invested, and the interest applied 
 towards the maintenance of the child till she came of age, when 
 the principal was to be paid over to her. No persuasion could ever 
 induce hmi to see his dead daughter's child. 
 
 Jack happened to hear of this farm at Holliwell, and as he was 
 always of a reserved misanthropical turn, the locality just suited him. 
 He took it on a twenty-one years' lease, renewable at the end of 
 the term, and left Yorkshire at once with his wife and little Annie. 
 He had no children of his own, and therefore took a double plea* 
 sure and pride in the rearing of his little ward. His old master, at 
 the time Jack lived with him, was one of the hardest and boldest 
 men across country, but he never saw the hounds again after his 
 daughter's death. The day before Radford left he sent for him and 
 
The Leather Plater. 305 
 
 gave him the choice of two of the best horst- s in his stnble. Radford 
 chose an old brood mare and the black mare Plover, then rising four 
 years old. 
 
 The old father did not long survive his daughter, although he 
 never by deed or word gave the slightest outward mdication that 
 remorse for his past conduct was silently wearing him out. The 
 canker was gnawing at his heart, and in less than twelve months 
 the family vault received another guest, and the old man slept side 
 by side with his once loved daughter. Had he but listened to the 
 voice of affection instead of that of pride, both father and daughter 
 would still have been alive and happy, and the close of the old man's 
 life might have been cheered by the love and kindness of a child, 
 who, save by an imprudent marriage — how coldly and devoid of all 
 affection does this hacknied phrase sound — had never given him an 
 hour's uneasiness in her life. The estates were strictly entailed, 
 and as the old man had always lived pretty ^\'ell up to his income, 
 he left but little personal property. All he had he bequeathed to 
 his nephew, a captain in the Royal Navy, who succeeded to 
 the estates. 
 
 Radford never had any communication with this gentleman; 
 and the sad tale of Annie's mother, like other events in this world, 
 by degrees became forgotten. Neither Radford nor his wife ever 
 breathed the slightest hint to Annie that she was anything but their 
 own daughter, and the little girl, in whose veins some of the best 
 and oldest blood in England flowed, grew up and thrived in the 
 rude district to which she had been transported under the fostering 
 care of the old groom and his wife, as wild and unrestrained as any 
 one of the colts which roamed over its rugged pastures. Had she 
 been their own daughter, the worthy old couple could not have 
 treated her more kindly. No one was allowed even to say an un- 
 kind word to Annie, who did exactly as she pleased at the Lodge. 
 Old Radford's wife died when Annie was twelve years of age, and 
 the old man, who determined scrupulously to fulfil the sacred trust 
 U^hich he had undertaken, took little Annie up to London, and 
 placed her at one of the best ladies' boarding-schools which he cou}d 
 
 X 
 
3o6 The J^eather T later, 
 
 find. It was a sorrowful day both for the old man and the girl 
 when she left the Lodge, and her letters, which she used regularly 
 to write once a month, plainly showed that she pined after her rude 
 country home. She, however, soon became more reconciled. She 
 was a girl of extraordinary parts j no task was too hard for her to 
 master, for she possessed a spirit of determination which could sur- 
 mount every obstacle. Years passed quickly on 5 her term of 
 schooling had expired, and she returned once more to the freedom 
 of a country life, which she had never forgotten. Old Radford met 
 the coach which brought her home, and he could scarcely believe 
 that the splendid, handsomely-dressed young woman who sprang out 
 of it with the light step of a fawn was his "little Annie," whom 
 he remembered only as a rompish, curly-haired little girl, whose 
 sole delight was in playing with the old Newfoundland dog Nero, 
 or scamperiug over the common on a pony as wild and untutored 
 as herself. 
 
 Annie had been home from school some time previous to the day 
 on which I saw her first, and although only nineteen, her face and 
 figure had fully ripened into all the charms of mature womanhood. 
 We have not quite done with Annie yet j but as the reader may 
 probably like to change the subject for a while, we will return to 
 the invahd who sat by the fire, and who had broken my reverie by 
 the simple question, "So, you've bought our bay colt, have you, 
 •sir ?" 
 
 To the invalid's inquiry whether I had bought the bay colt, I 
 replied "Yes;" and drawing a chair close to tlie fire, I seated my- 
 self by his side. 
 
 "And what do you mean doing with him, sir?" asked the young 
 man. 
 
 "Well, I did think of giving him a summer's run, getting him 
 fit by autumn, riding him a bit with the hounds, and, if his pace is 
 pretty good, putting him into a steeple-chase or hurdle-race. His 
 breed ought to pull him through." 
 
 "Yes, he's well bred enough, if it comes to that; and if he only 
 turns out as good as the old mare, you need not be afraid "^ any- 
 
The Leather Plater, 307 
 
 thing on this country side. But I'll tell you what," observed the 
 young man, shifting himself uneasily in his chair, *' I've had the 
 schooling of that colt, and a sweeter colt I never wish to ride — a 
 lady could ride him in a pack-thread (I directly thought of the 
 captain and his favourites). He's got lots of pace, and can fly for 
 a mile and a half with about nine stone on his back, and I don't 
 think there are many half-bred uns that can live with him at that 
 distance. He's certain to make a hurdle-racer, for that's just his 
 distance, and he can take a hurdle almost in his stride. He's as 
 quick on his legs as a cat. But somehow or other I don't think 
 that he'll ever make a steeple-chaser, for whenever I put him at a 
 big fence he rises just as if his fore-legs were tied. I've got to 
 thank him for this," observed the youth, pointing to his bandaged 
 arm. " I will, however, say one thing — it's the only fall he's ever 
 given me. But it was a rum un. However, it was perhaps more 
 my fault than his, for it was a gate he fell at, and he was nearly 
 pumped before he came to it. Still, I never fancy he'll have sub- 
 stance enough for a steeple-chaser, and if I was you, sir, I'd keep 
 him for hurdle-racing or the flat. However, I dare say you know 
 best, for I don't suppose you'd have bought him if you did not 
 know what to do with him," and the sick man leaned back in his 
 chair as if the exertion of speaking was too much for him. 
 
 " I wonder you never sold him before, for he's a very taking 
 colt," I observed, after a pause. 
 
 " Did you look at his near hock ?" he asked. 
 
 "No," I replied J "I did not care much to examine the colt 
 very closely. I bought him entirely on old John Robinson's 
 recommendation, and I'm quite sure that he'd never deceive me." 
 
 "No, that I'm sure he never would," observed the young man ; 
 "but, as I was a-saying, that hock has always 'crabbed' the coll. 
 We could have sold him for a hundred and twenty in the autumn, 
 but Mr. Hawthorn — you know him, sir, the veterinary surgeon — 
 refused to pass him, that hock looks so curby ; but take my word, 
 sir, there's nothing in it. He was foaled just so, and I've always 
 remarked that these sort of hocks stand the longest, if the colt is 
 
 X 2 
 
30 8 The Leather Plater. 
 
 foaled with them. No ; if he should ever spring a curb it wont 
 be in that hock, you may lay your life." 
 
 Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Annie 
 with our lunch. 
 
 Directly she had set this out, she proceeded to make the invalid 
 comfortable by adjusting his pillo\\'s, and by other little attentions, 
 which she performed with all the dexterity and care of a profes- 
 sional nurse, and when she affectionately patted him on the head 
 after she had finished, saying "Poor Frank!" as she did so, I 
 regarded it as une affaire Jinie between the two, and for the moment 
 felt quite jealous of the poor sick rough-rider. 
 
 But had I known all, I should have been much more inclined to 
 pity than to envy that young man ; for the pain of body which he 
 was then suffering was nothing compared to the agony of his mind, 
 devoured as it just then was with the heartburning passion for a 
 girl whom his instinct told him was as heartless a coquette as ever 
 lived, and whom he yet could not help loving. It appeared that 
 he was in some distant manner connected with old Radford, and, 
 like Annie, was an orphan ; but, nnlike her, a penniless one. The 
 old man had given him a home at the Lodge, and in return he 
 looked after the horses, broke in the colts, and made himself generally 
 useful about those hundred and one odd jobs which are always 
 to be done in every stable, although perhaps not absolutely necessary, 
 and which never seem to fall into the regular routine of any man's 
 business in the yard. We used to call such fellows in my day " odd 
 men." Frank had been well brought up -, his father had been a 
 respectable Yorkshire farmer j he had received a tolerable educa- 
 tion, but the taste for horses which was inherent in him led him to 
 choose the life which he was now leading He had been at the 
 Lodge two years before Annie returned home from school ; and up 
 to that time there was not a more careless or lighter-hearted young 
 fellow in the county. He was an exceedingly fresh, clean-looking, 
 handsome young fellow ; a capital rider, with an excellent nerve and 
 pluck J and during the season could always manage to earn fifteen 
 shillings to a pound per day by riding young horses to the hounds. 
 
The Leather Plater. 
 
 3^^ 
 
 He was also a nice weight, a very tolerable race-rider considering 
 the practice he got, and had won more than one steeple-chase In 
 our county. 
 
 To be under the same roof with Annie Radford and not to love 
 her was an impossibility j and as the young rough-rider never 
 •dreamt that there was any difference in their positions, and, more- 
 over, as he felt confident that he could always fight his way in the 
 world, and considered that what little property old Radford had saved 
 would eventually become Annie's, he did not deem it in the least 
 preposterous to aspire to her hand. It is true that she had received 
 a superior education, but at home she took the entire management 
 of the house j and although she felt that a drawing-room was her 
 proper place, she never gave herself airs. The consequence was, that 
 Frank soon fell desperately in love with Annie ; and the worst of 
 all was, that the girl encouraged his passion, well knowing at the 
 time that she never meant to marry him, but merely to indulge 
 that passion as a passing whim. He consulted with the old father, 
 who neither favoured nor discouraged his suit, merely telling him 
 that Annie might do exactly as she pleased, for that she was quite 
 able to take care of herself — and so she was, as the sequel will 
 prove. 
 
 It was impossible for a girl to be so surpassingly beautiful as 
 Annie without knowing it herself, and the flatteries which she had 
 received from her schoolfellows, among whom she was unanimously 
 voted the belle, had influenced her mindj while a compliment 
 which had been paid her by a foolish old fellow in London, who 
 told her that "she was handsome enough to be a countess," was 
 never forgotten. From that time she had made up her mind " to 
 fly at high game 3" and while she was playing fast-and-loose with 
 the poor horsebreaker, she was only biding her time and waiting 
 quietly for the fulfilment of the old gentleman's compliment ; and 
 she brought it about in this manner — and as we shall only see Annie 
 on the stage once more, we may as well anticipate a little and finish 
 up with her history. 
 
 Now; counts and lords do not usually go poking about into such 
 
3IO 7 he Leather Plater, 
 
 out-of-the-way places as Holliwell to seek their mates j and Annie 
 instinctively felt that the first act to be played out in the drama 
 was to leave the old Lodge, and come out into the world and show 
 herself. Although a heartless coquette, Annie was an affectionate 
 girl where she took a liking; and it was not without a pang that 
 she m.ade up her mind to quit the old Lodge for ever. Rough as 
 old Jack Radford might be, he had been always kind to her. He 
 was in her firm belief her father 3 and, as Sam Slick says, " this is 
 a large word when it's spelt in big letters." She had, moreover, 
 conceived a romantic affection for the wild district in which she had 
 been reared ; and had it not been for her ambition and love of 
 admiration, would, no doubt, very willingly have taken Frank for a 
 husband — although the odds are that she would soon have broken 
 his heart afterwards. However, she felt that she had a destiny to 
 fulfil, and she set about her task just as we should expect a woman 
 of her determined character would do. 
 
 One evening, about a week after the day on which I had bought 
 the bay colt, Annie and the young rough-rider were sitting by the 
 fire alone. Old Radford, who was rather unwell, had retired to 
 bed early. The young man sat, as usual, propped up in his chair, 
 and Annie sat on an ottoman at his feet, her beautiful head resting 
 on his knee. He had been pleading for her love with more than 
 usual earnestness, and the girl, whose manner towards him appeared 
 of late to have undergone a complete change, treated him with 
 more genuine affection on that evening than she had ever done 
 before. One of her hands was clasped in his, and as she looked up 
 into his face her countenance was tinged with a tender melancholyj 
 and there was a softened expression of pity in her deep blue eye. 
 Beautiful as he had always thought her, she never appeared in his 
 eyes half so beautiful as on that sad evening. They sat thus for 
 perhaps ten minutes without speaking a word, when she suddenly 
 rose, and gently disengaging her hand from his, she kissed him on 
 the forehead and bade him good-night in these words, which he 
 never afterwards forgot : " Good-by, Frank j God bless you ! 
 Youll never forget your poor Annie." She gave him no chance 
 
7 he Leather Plater. 311 
 
 for a reply, but hurriedly left the parlour. This was the last time 
 he ever saw her as Annie Radford. 
 
 She went straight up to her bedroom, where she had already 
 packed up a small trunk; wrote a hasty note to old Radford, which 
 she left upon the table, and in which she told him that she was 
 going up to London to get a situation as governess, and could not 
 trust herself to say good-by, but that he would soon hear from her 
 again, and then went down to the kitchen to wake up the farm 
 servant whom she had engaged to wait upon her. Poor Frank was 
 tossing uneasily on his feverish bed ; old Radford was snoring in 
 his ancient four-poster ; the whole house was still — and at ten she 
 silently stole out at the back door, accompanied by the lad who 
 carried her trunk and Nero, the Newfoundland dog, who never left 
 his favourite mistress's side. They took a short cut across the 
 fields into the lane which led up to the north road, about four miles 
 distant, and by the top of which one of the night coaches up to 
 London would pass about twelve o'clock. 
 
 The night was still and fine, the moon was riding high in the clear 
 blue heavens, and even the bleak cheerless tract round Holliwell 
 wore a mild and mellow aspect under the soft influence of her 
 silvery rays. But the wayward girl heeded not this. She felt a 
 choking sensation at her breast, her breath came quick, and her 
 heart throbbed as though it would burst from its confinement 3 but 
 she neither stopped nor turned till they came to the top of a little 
 hill on the farther edge of old Radford's farm, from which she 
 must take her last look at the old Lodge, or see it no more. Here 
 she stopped, and turning round, gazed earnestly for some minutes 
 on the wide open prospect which lay stretched out below her. 
 Every distant object Was nearly as visible as by day, and as her eye 
 wandered vacantly over the little village which now lay so quietly 
 at her feet, the memories of her early childhood rushed with full 
 force across her mind. But there was one well-known spot endeared 
 to her by a thousand fond recollections, upon which her dimmed 
 eyes rested longer than upon any other 3 it was the old farm Lodge, 
 where the only true friends she had ever possessed in this world 
 
312 ine Leather t later, 
 
 resided. Her eyes seemed riveted upon the old house, which the 
 briglit rays of the moon had now brought out into full relief, and 
 which she was now leaving for ever. 
 
 She saw the white cottage, the garden she made. 
 And she thought of the lover, forsaken, betrayed ! 
 
 Her resolution all at once gave way, and her long -pent-up 
 feelings found relief in a violent burst of tears. 
 
 But her courage soon returned, and again she nerved herself for 
 tlie task she had undertaken. They reached the north road in good 
 time, and had to wait a little while under the sign-post before the 
 rattling of wheels and the cheery twang of the horn (for the turn- 
 pike was just ahead) announced the approach of the old Highflyer. 
 
 '^ Any room inside r" shouted the lad, as the coach pulled up. 
 
 '' Plenty," was the laconic reply of the jolly old guard, as he 
 swung himself down from his perch behind to open the coach door. 
 *' Here, jump in, miss j" for the old fellow, who was not insensible 
 to the charms of a pretty face, had already made out, by the aid of 
 the moon's rays, that she was both young and " exceedingly fair to 
 look upon," and, as he afterwards observed to the coachman, 
 ''evidently belonged to a better sort." 
 
 '■' How far are you going with us, miss ?" 
 
 "To London," was the reply given in a thick choking voice, 
 which was not lost upon the shrewd old guard, who remarked it to 
 the coachman at the next change, adding that he should not be a 
 bit surprised if it was a " helopement 3" and throughout the whole 
 journey Annie was always alluded to as " that mysterious party we 
 took up at the HolUwell way-post." 
 
 Her little portmanteau was flung into the hind boot. As she 
 bade good-by to the poor farm servant she slipped a sovereign into 
 his hand. She patted Nero on the head, inwardly wondering 
 whether the old dog would soon forget her. The guard scrambled 
 up again into his seat j and with an '"All right, Jem," and another 
 twan^j; of the horn, the Highflyer rolled on and bore Annie away 
 
The Leather F later, 313 
 
 from the home of her childhood, which she was destined never to 
 see again. 
 
 Annie had the coach pretty well to herself all the way up to 
 London, and her gloomy reveries (for she was far from happy) were 
 only disturbed at the diiferent changes, when the kind old guard, 
 who had constituted himself a sort of father protector during the 
 journey, would thrust his jolly mottled face in at the coach window 
 just to inquire how she was " getting on j" to remark that the nights 
 were uncommon cold for the season of the year, and to ask if she 
 would not "get out to take a little refreshment." But her 
 heart was too full to allow of her swallowing a mouthful, and she 
 gently and civilly repulsed all the old gentleman's little advances at 
 familiarity. However, about eight in the morning they stopped to 
 breakfast, and here, as she peremptorily refused to alight, the guard 
 took upon himself to bring her out a cup of tea and some toast, and 
 observing that her eyes were red with weeping, he felt it his duty to 
 say a word or two to comfort her. 
 
 '^ Come, cheer up, miss j you'll see the old folks at home once 
 more if you live, I dare say." 
 
 This the old fellow considered a very shrewd diplomatic speech j 
 for he now fancied she must drop some chance word or another 
 which would unravel the mystery which he had been puzzling 
 himself throughout the whole night to solve, perched as he was 
 in solitary state on his old backgammon board 3 for they had 
 but two passengers besides Annie, and these were both in front. 
 
 But the- shaft missed its mark. She replied not a word to his 
 kindly-meant observations, but merely thanked him for all his little 
 attentions to her, and this with a smile so gloomy, and yet so 
 sweetly sad, that the old man afterwards declared that the High- 
 flyer had never carried such a passenger since he had been guard on 
 her. 
 
 If, however, he had been struck by her surprising beauty when 
 seen only imperfectly by the light of the moon, how much more 
 was he astonished now, when it burst upon him in all the full blaze 
 
314 ^-^^ Leather F later, 
 
 of daylight. He could talk of nothing else when he went back to 
 the inn to get his own breakfast^ and it was not long before the 
 coach door again opened, and the new coachman (one of the 
 greatest swells of that road), apologizing for disturbing her, pro- 
 ceeded to ransack the whole inside of the coach under pretence of 
 seeking for a small brown-paper parcel — which it is needless to say 
 he was unable to find. 
 
 Now this coachman was far younger and less plethoric than the 
 old guard, and was, moreover, considered to be the best judge of a 
 woman and a horse down the road 5 and the glowing eulogy he 
 passed on Annie's charms so raised the curiosity of the pretty bar- 
 maid that she stepped across to the coach to ask the lady inside 
 if she would not just step upstairs " to wash her hands and straighten 
 her hair a bit" — an offer which Annie at once accepted. 
 
 When she came downstairs again all traces of sorrow had dis- 
 appeared from her countenance 3 the cold water had added a 
 brighter glow to her beautiful features 3 and she looked so fresh and 
 blooming as she sailed majestically across the bar passage, that 
 every one instinctively did her homage. Even "■ Old Ginger," the 
 oldest, surliest, and ugliest horsekeeper in the yard, raised his bat- 
 tered cap to her as he met her coming down the steps 3 and the 
 portly landlord himself bustled to the coach door to open it and 
 hand her in — a thing which he had never been known to do before 
 in his life. 
 
 In the afternoon the coach rolled over the London stones. By 
 five the old Highflyer had ""shot her rubbish" at the White Horse 
 in Fetter Lane, and the guard and coachman were seated in the 
 Magpie and Stump over the way, discussing their pipes and brandy- 
 and-water and their mysterious passenger at the same time. 
 
 Annie had plenty of money, for every half-year old Radford 
 used scrupulously to pay over to her the interest of her funded 
 property, and for which he invariably took her receipt. Living in 
 the private retired manner which they did up at the Lodge, Annie 
 had but few wants and fewer opportunities of spending her money 3 
 and except among the poor villagers (and it was a sad day for them 
 
The Leather F later. 315 
 
 when she left), she hardly spent a ten-pound note in the year. Out 
 of her two years' allowance she had saved nearly one hundred 
 pounds, which she brought up to London with her. Now avarice 
 was not one of Annie's faults, and she had not lived long enough in 
 the world to have learned the true value of money. She considered 
 it was only so much dross, wdiich was meant to be spent 3 and the 
 sooner it was got rid of the sooner the trouble was over. A more 
 liberal, open-hearted girl did not exist. Every coachman who 
 drove her that night received a half-guinea tip as he presented him- 
 self at the coach door, with a civil touch of the hat and " I leave 
 you here, missj" and a sovereign to the old guard, and thanks for all 
 his kindness, given in her sweetest manner, quite confirmed the old 
 man in the opinion he had formed respecting her. He shook her 
 hand with all the familiarity of an "old friend of the family," and 
 bidding her, if ever she wanted a friend in London, to be sure and 
 find out old Ned Simpson, the guard of the Highflyer, he wished 
 her a most cordial good-by, and turned away, remarking to the 
 coachman who stood waiting for him, that '' If that 'ere gal isn't a 
 countess, she only ought to be." 
 
 The sentence fell on Annie's ear — that word had been uppermost 
 in her thoughts for the last two years — and she felt as if there was 
 something prophetic in the old guard's speech. 
 
 She followed the chambermaid upstairs, and after changing her 
 dress, ordered a cab and drove at once to the house of her friend 
 the schoolmistress at Kensington. Annie had always been a 
 favourite with every one at the school, and as the servant opened the 
 door to the cabman's knock, she gave a little scream of delight as she 
 called out, "Why, if here isn't Miss Annie come back !" As usual, 
 she paid the cabman double his fare, who, as he thanked her, gal- 
 lantly observed, that if she wished it, he'd wait two hours and drive 
 back for nothing, only for the sake of having so handsome a fare. 
 Annie walked straight up to her former preceptress's parlour. The 
 greeting was cordial on both sides, and Annie's cheeks flushed with 
 haughty pride as the old lady held her at arm's length, that she 
 might scan her features well, and w^ound up her survey by exclaim* 
 
31*5 The Leather Plater, 
 
 iiig, " Why, ] declare that you are looking more beautiful than ever, 
 child." 
 
 Annie soon unfolded her errand to her old friend, who knew of 
 just the very situation to suit her. A lady down in Hampshire 
 w^anted a governess for her two little daughters. She wrote olFby 
 that night's post, a favourable answer was received, and in a week 
 Annie was installed at Woodbine Cottage, one of the sweetest 
 spots in Hampshire, as governess to two little girls, who soon 
 learned to love her as an elder sister. Here Annie remained for 
 six months, and was treated with such uniform kindness by all, that 
 ■she might perhaps have almost forgotten the destiny she had 
 Jeft home to fulfil, and been content to remain at the cottage — at 
 •any rate till the education of her young charges was completed — 
 had not a little circumstance taken place which led to the accom- 
 plishment of her fate. 
 
 The lady, who was a widow, had gone away for a few days to 
 visit a neighbouring friend, leaving Annie at home ; during the 
 lady's absence the cottage was honoured with a visit from her 
 nephew, a good-looking fellow enough, but one of those shallow- 
 brained fools wdio think that every woman they see must be at once 
 struck with them, and, in fact, whose whole life passes without a 
 single idea, save that of flirting with and saying smart things to 
 every pretty girl they meet. Of course he w^as immediately struck 
 with Annie's beauty, and commenced a flirtation with her from the 
 very first evening they met. To this sort of thing Annie made not 
 the slightest objection ; his manner was sufficiently respectful — that 
 was enough for her 5 and at a quiet bit of playful badinage and 
 persiflage she was fully his match. But his manner became more 
 familiar. He was one of that mean, low, spiritless class, who con- 
 sider that a poor governess, because she is a friendly dependent, is 
 ''fair game," and must feel flattered by the attentions of any one 
 whose circumstances happened to be better than her own. He, 
 however, did not know Annie yet 3 but he soon found out his 
 mistake. He considered himself very lucky in having met with so 
 handsome a companion as Annie to dispel the gloom of a dull 
 
The Leather Plate?, 317 
 
 country house, and he was continually following her about. Thi& 
 rather bored her, but at the same time amused her. One morning 
 she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, painting in water- 
 colours, in which art she was a proficient. Her hanger-on was not 
 long before he found her out, and, drawing his chair close to her, 
 commenced a violent flirtation. As long as he confined himself tO' 
 this all was well j but emboldened by Annie's submission, he pro- 
 ceeded to freedoms which he would never have dared to attempt 
 with any female had he not fancied that she was unprotected- 
 Annie's hot blood was up — she rose from her seat, looked him 
 fixedly in the face for some seconds, then taking up the glass of 
 dirty water in which she was cleaning her brushes, coolly dashed, 
 it into his face, and left the room without saying a word. 
 
 Annie went to her bedchamber and wrote a note, in which, after- 
 thanking the lady for all the kindness she had received since she- 
 had been at the cottage, she told her that circumstances compelled 
 her to leave the situation without a moment's notice. She 
 referred the lady to her nephew for an explanation, and wound up 
 by saying that, although she was aware by leaving thus abruptly 
 she had forfeited all claims to any salary which might be due to 
 her, still, if the lady chose to pay, she begged that she would hands 
 it over to her nephew, in order to purchase him a new white waist- 
 coat, in place of the one which she was afraid she had spoilt, when? 
 giving him his last lesson in painting. 
 
 She then packed up her trunk, got one of the outdoor servants 
 to carry it to the railway station, not half-a-mile distant, and in less- 
 than an hour was on her road back to London. 
 
 Half-way between the cottage and London was a little refresh- 
 ment station, hardly in the style of the Swindon or Wolverton- 
 station, but still a very neat little room where half-a-dozen nymphs- 
 served out hot soups, buns, porter, &c., to those hungry and thirsty 
 fciilway travellers who requited them. These girls were chosen 
 principally for their good looks, and when Annie pushed her way 
 up to the counter for a plate of soup she took a critical survey of 
 the beauties behind it, and saw at a glance that not one could hold 
 
3i8 The Leather T later. 
 
 a candle to her on the score of good looks. A thought at once 
 struck her that it would be capital fun to have such employment 
 for a short time. She made up her mind at once, and asked if she 
 could speak to the station-master. She was shown into a small 
 room at the bottom of the station. The station-master, quite sur- 
 prised at seeing such a visitor enter his little room, rose to salute 
 her with an obeisance such as he might have used towards Majesty 
 itself, but he w^as still more surprised when he heard upon what 
 errand she had come. He was just then in w^ant of a hand, one 
 of his syrens having left him the day before, and he had not yet 
 been able to supply her place. He would have eagerly jumped at 
 Annie's offer, for such a girl behind his counter would be a treasure 
 to him. But he was a cautious, shrewd old fellow, and of course 
 must learn who and what Annie was, and what she had been. 
 Annie directly gave him a reference to the lady whom she had just 
 left. The station-master knew her well 3 and it was agreed that 
 Annie should remain at the station till replies were received to the 
 two notes which they wrote her that night. 
 
 The next post brought satisfactory answers. The lady wrote 
 most kindly to Annie, said she was very sorry to part with her j 
 reprobated her nephew's conduct severely, considered that Annie's 
 conduct was just what it should have been, enclosed her a cheque 
 for a whole year's salary, and wound up by telling her that if she 
 wanted a situation again she knew where to apply. 
 
 Annie was at once installed behind the counter, and was unani- 
 mously voted queen of the bevy of beauties that served there. 
 The first basin of soup she was asked for was by her late admirer, 
 who pushed his way to the bar to have a ^' chaff," as he expressed 
 it, with the girls. He had little idea that it was Annie who would 
 serve him, but he recognised her at once ; and when she demurely 
 asked him "how he would have it ?" he was fairly nonplussed, and 
 throwing a shilling down upon the counter, turned away without 
 tasting the soup. 
 
 Now it so happened that about eight miles down the line was 
 Beechwood Hall, where resided an old Sir Somebody Something, a 
 
The Leather T later, 319 
 
 great officer and a K.C.B. He had served in India, in Africa, and 
 through the whole of the Peninsular campaign 3 had distinguished 
 himself upon many occasions 3 and, on leaving the service, his 
 country could do no less than confer a baronetcy and a pension on 
 the brave old warrior, who then hung up his " toasting-fork," and 
 retired to pass the close of a stormy life in the quiet solitudes of 
 Beechwood. He had been terribly battered in the wars, had lost an 
 arm, and suffered considerably from a bullet which had lodged in 
 the thigh, and which no doctor could extract. The old man had 
 often great trouble to get about at all, and always went lame. He 
 was a cheery, hearty old cock, as tough as pinwire 3 had a very 
 aristocratic appearance and bearing, with a noble old head as white 
 as snow 3 and, notwithstanding his infirmities, looked and fancied 
 himself ten years younger than he really was. Now, this old 
 K.C.B. was enormously rich, and only wanted one thing — which 
 was a wife. Not that he would have had much trouble to procure 
 one if he had only set about the task in earnest — for money can 
 procure this luxury as well as any other : but he went very little 
 into company, and knew well that if any woman in his rank of 
 life should deign to bestow her hand upon him, it would be for the 
 sake of his money and nothing else. Many match-making mothers 
 would gladly have sacrificed their daughters, and many scheming 
 daughters would have gladly sacrificed themselves, and vowed at the 
 altar " to love, honour, and obey" this old ruin of a man, 
 merely for the sake of his property and status in society 3 and this 
 he well knew. His was a soUtary, cheerless life, and he began to 
 feel the want of some one to nurse and comfort him. 
 
 The old baronet was one of the directors of this line, and the 
 principal business and pleasure of his life was to ride up and down 
 it. He always travelled in his own carriage, which was fitted up 
 most comfortably. Here he could lie at his ease, read, smoke, or 
 sleep, just as it pleased him. The incidents of the journey amused 
 him, and half his days were spent on the railroad. Of course he 
 was as well known down the line as. any one of the drivers. He 
 never stopped at the station without having a plate of soup brought 
 
320 The Leaf Iter Plater, 
 
 out to him^, for it was too great an exertion for him to get out of 
 his carriage and hobble to the refreshment-room j and as it was 
 well known that the old man in his young days had been a de- 
 voted admirer of the fair sex, the prettiest girl in the station always 
 tripped across the platform with the old K.C.B.'s mulligatawny. 
 He was a liberal-hearted, generous old fellow, and the presents he 
 gave away among these girls amounted to a considerable yearly 
 sum. The Spanish was the style of beauty which the old gentle- 
 man most admired ; and even now, when in company with any of 
 his old comrades, he used enthusiastically to dwell upon the con- 
 quests he had made among the dark-eyed "donnas" in Madrid, 
 Seville, and other of the cities of sunny Spain, when campaigning 
 with the '^Iron Duke." 
 
 On the very day after Annie had been installed as queen of the 
 ceremonies at the Resborough Refreshment Rooms, the twelve 
 o'clock train brought up the old K.C.B. 3 and his very respectable- 
 looking valet, who always travelled with him, came into the room 
 to order his soup. He saw at a glance that Annie's was a new 
 face, and moreover that such a face had never been seen at that 
 counter before. She had heard a little about the old officer already 
 from the other girls, some of whom had boasted of the presents 
 they had received from him, so she was not at all unwilling to 
 carry out his soup on a neat little tray. The old officer fairly 
 started when the valet opened the carriage-door, and Annie handed 
 liim in his tray. Visions of the sunny South flitted across his 
 memory, and the images of stately flashing-eyed donnas appeared 
 on the tablet of his mind with all the freshness of yesterday. 
 
 Annie handed him his soup, adjusted his couch, spoke to him so 
 kindly and tenderly, and, in fact, played her part so well that the 
 old man declared to his valet that he had never seen such a girl in 
 England before ; and every time he saw her the more he liked her. 
 He was up and down the line now more often than before, and na 
 one ever brought him his soup but Annie. On her sixth visit 
 to the carriage she came back with a splendid diamond ring on her 
 finger. This was not, however, the ring she was playing for j a 
 
'Ihe Leather Plater, 321 
 
 plain gold ring without a gem would suit her much better. She 
 never showed the ring to the other girls, who, however, had begun 
 "to chaff" her about her conquest. 
 
 In less than a month the baronet invited her to his house, and 
 not being troubled with any false notions of propriety, Annie went. 
 The old officer was a fine honourable old man, and he at once, in 
 the most delicate terms, proposed to marry her. He never hinted 
 in the slightest at the disparity of rank that there was between 
 them. He plainly told her that he would probably be a sad burden 
 to her during his life, but that he should not live long, and that if 
 she conld only cheer and comfort his declining days, he shouJd in 
 return leave her every shilling Ik-; possessed. He had not a relative 
 in the world, and could and would do exactly as he pleased. 
 
 Annie did not take long to consider. '' Better be an old man's 
 darling than a young man's slave," she tliought. She accepted his 
 offer ; left the station at once ; they were married by special lice.Mce 
 off-hand ; and although she had not attained to the rank of a 
 countess, she had married a baronet, a distinguished and brave old 
 officer, whose property was immense. She did her duty faith- 
 fully to her decrepit old husband, who in return denied her 
 nothing. 
 
 Annie well befitted the station to which she had been elevated, 
 ^nd had she been born a lady in her own right, she could not have 
 been a greater ornament to the peerage. 
 
 " There, thank goodness, we've done with Miss Annie," I fancy 
 I hear the reader exclaim ; " and now, perhaps, we shall have a 
 little more about the Leather Plater." And for tliis purpose we 
 must go back for about nine months, and return again to the little 
 parlour at Shark's Lodge. 
 
 As soon as lunch was over, and I had settled with old Radford 
 for the colt, I left. I was not particularly anxious to wait till Mr, 
 Turner arrived. Just, however, as I turned out of the end of the 
 lane, which led from the Lodge into the bridle-road across the Open- 
 iield; I saw that gentleman picking his way up the dirty lane to 
 the Lodge from the village. *' Too late, my friend," I thought j 
 
 Y 
 
322 The Leather Plater. 
 
 and, as I considered that I had bought the colt rather out of the 
 fire, I at once christened him '' Chance." 
 
 He was delivered next day, and two days after I had a levee of 
 hard-riding friends in the neighbourhood to look at him. Many 
 had heard of him, some had seen him j but Mr. Hawthorn's ver- 
 dict on that queer-looking near hock had spoilt his sale, and no one 
 dare venture on him, although more than one fancied him very 
 much. It is always good fun to hear the criticisms which are 
 passed on a new purchase, especially if you have not taken the coun- 
 sel of the criticisers beforehand. Nothing is so easy as to find fault. 
 "He stands on very short legs," observed one. '"That hock will 
 never stand j I'd draw the iron over it at once if he were mine," 
 obser\'ed a second. " He'll never have substance enough to carry 
 your weight across our country. He may make a galloper for a 
 mile, but if he should not, he'll never bring you twenty pounds,'* 
 said a third j and so on. 
 
 Jack Russell was the only one of them who did not try to put me 
 out of conceit with him. He never gave an opinion hastily, espe- 
 cially about a horse j and all he said was, '' Bring him up to my 
 Lodge to-morrow morning, and after that, I'll tell you what I think 
 of the colt." 
 
 Accordingly, I took him up in the morning, and the colt under- 
 went an hour's trial in the hands of a man who was never deceived 
 in what a horse could do or ought to do. He galloped him, ho 
 cantered him j he put him over every sort of fence to be found on 
 his farm, and when he took him back to the stable, observed to me, 
 " You've got something a little better there than you're aware of, 
 old fellow 3 and you can give my respectful compliments to Frank, 
 and tell him it was his hands, and not the colt's fore-legs, that were 
 tied, for I could lift that colt over any fence that it's fair to ride a 
 horse at." 
 
 He proposed to take the entire management of the colt otF my 
 hands — keep him and train him, on the condition that I did not 
 interfere in the least with him 5 and, in return, I was to allow him 
 to stand in halt the winnings of the next year. To this I agreed.. 
 
The Leather Plater. 323 
 
 The colt furnished a good deal that summer, and by the next 
 winter had grown into a very slashing bloodlike, multum in parvo 
 Vorse, showing a deal of breeding. He had all the splendid blood - 
 like symmetry of his sire, but his head was the counterpart of old 
 Plover's, very wide under the cheek bones, and heavy in the jowl, 
 which gave him rather a coarse appearance. By the end of 
 December Jack had found out exactly what he could do, and 
 although like the rest, he always stuck to it that hurdle-racing 
 would turn out his forte, he proposed that we should send him for 
 the Hollerton in March, and declared that — although it w^as ten 
 years since he had put on a silk jacket — on this first occasion he 
 would ride the colt himself. 
 
 " Oh ! I see they've entered that Holliwell colt for the Hollerton 
 
 Steeple-chase," observed Captain to Mr. Turner, as he entered 
 
 the stable one morning early in March, with the list of entries for 
 that race in his hand. " It was a d — d stupid blunder of yours 
 letting that colt slip." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," answered Mr. Turner, who, although he 
 had never ceased inwardly to regret the mistake he had made, did 
 not care to own it. " He'd never have carried your weight, sir 5 
 and as for winning the Hollerton, why they might just as well send 
 a man in boots." 
 
 "I wont say that," thoughtfully observed the captain. "I see 
 Jack Russell names him, and, what's more, rides him. This looks 
 like mischief, for that old fox does not often make a mistake. How- 
 ever, how's our mare getting on ?" 
 
 " Oh, first-rate sir 3 don't you be a bit afraid, sir 3 she'll beat that 
 colt easy enough, especially as the country is likely to be this year. 
 I don't say our mare will win, but you may lay every shilling you 
 can get on at evens tliat she beats the Plover colt in their places.'* 
 And this was given with such a certainty that the captain deter- 
 mined to act on the advice, which he did, and Jack Russell found 
 himself 50/. richer by the venture. 
 
 A fine morning in the end of March, and white flags were again 
 flying over four miles of the deep, stifily-enclosed country around 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 The Leather Plater, 
 
 Hollerton. The course was heavy, the fences large, the brook 
 swollen, and I inwardly felt that if our young horse could come up 
 well this day we had^ittle to fear for his future. It was a weight- 
 for-age race. The first favourite, an old steeple-chaser, the hero of 
 a hundred fights, with my energetic friend Tom up, had to give 
 our colt 21 lb. J and the captain's mare gave us 14 lb. The rest of 
 the field were either untried or very moderate. Seventeen came to 
 the post. The captain jumped off with the lead, close followed by 
 the favourite, our horse lying well up. Although Jack Russell had 
 not ridden in a race for so long, it was quite evident that he had 
 not forgotten his jockeyship, and before they had cleared the sixth 
 fence Tom saw it., and from that point he watched the colt and no 
 other horse in the race. The brook put eight out of the race, and 
 three more fell at the posts and rails beyond it. Among these was 
 our horse, and breaking away from Jack, he galloped down to the 
 bottom of the field before he was caught, and brought back. The 
 six other horses went on, Tom and the captain leading. This fall 
 lost us the race, but it also told us what a treasure we had got in 
 the bay colt out of Plover. He lost three fields before Jack had 
 mounted and set him going again, and there was not a mile and a 
 half left. But now his wonderful speed showed itself. Before 
 seven fences more were cleared he was well up with his horses. He 
 passed these one after the other ; he left the captain in the large 
 meadow next to the winning field, collared Tom at the last fence, 
 and ran him a slashing race home, which he lost only by about two 
 lengths. It was a very exciting race, and the air resounded with 
 shouts of "Crimson wins!" "Green and white wins!" the latter 
 being rather the most popular colour, as our horse was bred in the 
 county. 
 
 Tom was now so satisfied with the colt's speed that he declared 
 if we would uij'er him for the hurdle-race he'd ride him for us for 
 nothing. This otfer was gladly accepted. There was a strong 
 field, and the old "long-headed dun," who had been kept for it, 
 was a hot favourite. Tom declared that this time " he'd reduce 
 the matter to a certainty." He went off at tremendous score, was 
 
'Ihe Leather Plater, 325 
 
 never headed, and won the first heat (just one mile), with die dun 
 second 3 the captain again third on a fresh horse. These were the 
 only three that went for the next heat, and they came in again in 
 the same order, Tom making running throughout. The young 
 horse had now "won his spurs," and we were offered two hundred 
 for him on the course, which we refused. 
 
 There were *' sounds of revelry" that night at the Chequers, to 
 which all our party adjourned after the races ; and old John Harrison 
 was more oracular than ever. 
 
 After the race Tom advised us to keep the young horse only for 
 hurdle-racing or the flat,, and added that he did not think just then 
 there were many half-bred horses in England could beat him 3 and 
 so it turned out, for we had a very merry summer, all over the 
 country, picking up all the little county stakes for which we chose 
 to enter him. We did not fly at any high game the first year : but 
 when Jack Russell and myself came to divide the profits of that 
 year's racing, we were both very well satisfied with the result. I 
 may add, that Frank, the young rough-rider, rode the colt for us 
 three or four times, and in his second season we engaged him for 
 our regular jockey. 
 
 The captain was more vexed with his defeat in the hurdle-race 
 than in the steeple-chase. He had always felt a little sore at my 
 buying the colt out of his hands, and the first time we met we 
 had a word or two on the subject. We were both of us a little 
 " peppery," and the result of the interview was that he matched 
 his mare, which had run third in the hurdle-race, against our young 
 horse — one mile and a half over the flat, for 50/. a side, at 10 st. 
 each. He very much wanted to get the match on with *' owners 
 up," but as I knew this would be as much as giving the raco away, 
 I declined on these terms, and he conceded the point. The match 
 was to come off over Hollerton Race-course in six weeks, and we 
 engaged Tom to ride for us, as Frank was hardly within 5 lb. of 
 the captain in race riding. But even with Tom up I was giving 
 away great odds. The captain's mare was thorough-bred, there 
 was no "long hair in her pasterns," and she had won more than 
 
325 The Leather Plater. 
 
 one good race over the flat in good company. She was just a year 
 older than our colt and stood exactly two inches higher. I there- 
 fore did not display much skill in match-making when I matched 
 our young horse at even weights against his, and more than one 
 friend told me so pretty plainly. However, as the race was p.p., 
 and all the money down, there was nothing to do but to run it out. 
 John Harrison had a capital exercising and training ground in some 
 large old meadows close by the Chequers, where many hunters 
 used to stand during the winter, for three good packs could be 
 reached from this little inn 3 and about a month before the race we 
 sent the colt to stand at the Chequers, and take his exercise under 
 Frank's care. Both horses were in good hunting condition, so they 
 required little more than to be kept in good wind 5 for, obedient to 
 an old principle, which was time-renowned in our county, whether 
 in hunting or steeple-chasing we always liked to run our horses 
 above their weight, and we never drew them fine. 
 
 It was a singular thing, but our horse had not stood at the 
 Chequers more than a fortnight when Mr. Turner also brought the 
 captain's mare over to finish her exercise on these very meadows, 
 and to be in the neighbourhood of the course on which the match 
 was to come off. 
 
 Now he had never fairly got over his little pique against me, and 
 he had always been most anxious, as he expressed it, "to square 
 accounts with me for buying the colt out of his hands." I'll do 
 Mr. Turner the credit to say that he was what old Doctor Johnson 
 so much liked, " a good hater," and he had formed a very masterly 
 plan for putting " our party in the hole," of which, however, even 
 his own master, the captain, was kept entirely in the dark. It was 
 scarcely likely that he and Frank should be under the same roof 
 without becoming acquainted, and although they did not exercise 
 their horses exactly together, still they both watched each other 
 pretty closely, and it took no long time for a man of Mr. Turner's 
 experience to see that, even if I had made the match right, and 
 had received the proper allowance of weight, there would have 
 been no certainty in it ; but as the conditions now stood, they had 
 
'ihe Leather F later, 327 
 
 fully a stone the best of us, and the match was almost reduced to 
 a certainty for the captain. This was a pleasing reflection for the 
 stud-groom, as he leant against the door-post of the Chequers in 
 the evening smoking one of the captain's best cigars, at four 
 guineas a pound j but he was not satisfied with this, he wanted to 
 "have the boot on the other leg," and to try and make us believe 
 That ours was the best horse. For this very reason he brought his 
 mare to stand at the Chequers, and after "sounding" Frank — 
 whom he found, to use a favourite expression of his own, " as 
 green as a radish top" — he proposed one evening, after stable 
 hours, that they should have a spin together for a mile and a half 
 next morning in ten-pound saddles. There was scarcely a pound 
 difference between the weight of the two men. Mr. Turner, who 
 was candour itself with Frank, and who had attained a sort of 
 influence over the young man, had not much difficulty in the task. 
 As he observed, the trial could do no harm j the money was all 
 down J the match must come off; if the trial was ridden fairly the 
 best horse would win, and this would be the case in the match. 
 He fancied his mare must win, and she was sure to be a great 
 favourite, for " all the mess-room money would be on her." If 
 she beat our horse in the trial, it would give us a very good line to 
 go by, and might save us many pounds 3 but if our horse could win 
 the trial, it would be like coining money to back him. 
 
 Of course it was Mr. Turner's meaning that our horse should win 
 the trial, and yet he meant that both horses should do all they 
 knew, and that, as far as riding went, everything should appear to 
 be on the square ; and, moreover, he wanted it to get wind that 
 our horse had beat the mare in a private trial. So, in the evening, 
 he confided to old John Harrison and two or three more friends that 
 the trial wab ro come off next morning, quite privately, the conse- 
 quence of which was that it was watched by more than a dozen 
 eager eyes, and in twenty-four hours the news spread half over the 
 county and up at the barracks that our horse had beaten the mare in 
 a trial by half-a-dozen lengths. 
 
 Although the match was not a heavy one, it created much inte 
 
328 The Leather Plater, 
 
 rest in our county. There was always a great deal of jealousy in our 
 hunt between the military and the civilian^ and every member of 
 the hunt felt that the honour of the county was at stake, and the 
 match was looked forward to with no little interest. Of course the 
 captain's mare was the favourite among the ladies and the swells, 
 while our horse represented the farmers and hard-riding division of 
 the neighbourhood. So old John Harrison was taken into confi- 
 dence, and he apparently fell into the trap at once, observing that it 
 was a capital thing for them all, such a chance did not often turn 
 up, and that if they did not make the most of it, they had no one 
 to blame but themselves. 
 
 But though the stud-groom had not much difficulty in hood- 
 winking Frank, it was quite another thing with the old Yorkshire 
 coachman, who instinctively felt, as he afterwards expressed it, that 
 " some deep dodge was up, though he could not, for the life of him, 
 get to the bottom of it." He had watched both horses closely at 
 exercise, on the old wall-eyed cob, and, although they had never beejt 
 put together, he had seen enough to convince him that at even 
 weights the match was a certainty all one way. The captain's mare 
 was a great, slashing thorough-bred — rising six, and had beaten many 
 good fields before this day. She looked nearly as big again as our 
 young horse, who was always a little light-timbered, although very fast. 
 Old John felt confident that this trial was proposed merely for the 
 purpose of throwing the dust in oar eyes in some way or other, and 
 he moreover felt that he was not in Mr. Turner's full confidence, 
 and his Yorkshire pride was hurt at this. He felt quite sure that 
 Turner knew the mare was the best ; in fact, that worthy had told' 
 him as much, and he was certain that the stud-groom was playing- 
 some deep game to suit his own purposes. If only you can once 
 set a Yorkshireman's curiosity or suspicions on the qui v'lve about 
 anything in horses, he will work out the trail as surely as any London 
 detective. Old John determined himself to supply the missing- 
 links in the chain of evidence. He therefore watched the trial 
 closely when it came ctf next morning 3 he saw that it was fairly 
 run out from end to end; that both men and horses did their best. 
 
ine Leather Plater, 329 
 
 and that our horse beat the captain's mare by two lengths. His 
 private opinion on the result can, however, best be gathered from 
 the following note which I received two days after the trial. 
 
 It was headed '^private and confidential," and sent express, and 
 ran thus : — 
 
 " The Chequers, Wednesday Morning. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — Turner gammoned your lad to try your young horse against his 
 mare on Monday morning at even weights, and ' I stood in.' I saw the trial, and 
 watched both horses very closely. They both did all they knew, there's no mistake 
 about that, and your horse won by a couple of lengths. They rode in ten-pound 
 saddles, which I weighed, as well as both the men. Now I know that this running 
 was not correct, for at even weights I am sure the mare can beat the horse when she 
 pleases. I am certain that Turner has put the double on your lad. I fancy, mind, 
 although I can't prove it. that he managed somehow or other to slip in a stone of 
 dead weight, and if this was the case the running was about correct. I am confi- 
 dent that Turner got up this trial for no other purpose than to make your horse a 
 favourite j for, instead of keeping the trial dark, he talked about it to everybody, and 
 it's known all over the country. I was at HoUerton market yesterday, and they 
 were all talking about it. They made the young horse first favourite, and I quietly 
 took 50 to 40 and stood the mare, and you take my advice and do the same, for at 
 even weight she'll win, in spite of all the trials. 
 
 " Yours obediently, 
 
 "John Harrison." 
 
 It turned out afterwards, just as old John supposed, that Turner, 
 when saddling for the trial, managed to slip in a stone of dead 
 weight unseen by any one, and this brought the horses together. 
 The match came off. Tom made a waiting race of it, and the 
 captain won ; but instead of putting us in the hole, as Mr. Turner 
 intended, the trial was a capital thing for us, for we got all our 
 money quietly on the mare by commission, and, although beaten, 
 we won more on this match than on any other race the horse 
 ever ran for. 
 
 Tom felt, however, so confident that ten pounds would bring 
 the horse and mare together, that directly after the first race he chal- 
 lenged the captain to run over again that afternoon for 50/., the 
 horse receiving ten pounds' allowance. To this the captain, who 
 was rather flushed with his first victory, agreed. In this race Tom 
 
330 The Leather T later, 
 
 changed his tactics, made all the running, and won ver}'- cleverly. 
 A good deal of the mess-room money came back to us in the second 
 match. 
 
 We sent the horse into Tom's stables, who now generally rode 
 for us, and the next year Chance ran in eleven races and won nine. 
 
 We ran him next summer down in Hampshire in a hurdle-race — 
 two-mile heats. He won the first in a canter, and as we were walking 
 him up and down the course between the first and second heats, 
 we were all surprised by the approach of a most gorgeous flunkey, 
 who, politely touching his cockaded and silver-laced hat, addressed 
 me in the following extraordinary and mysterious speech : — '' Her 
 ladyship's compliments, and would feel much obliged by our bring- 
 ing Chance up to her carriage that she might pat him.'' I was 
 walking just then by the side of the horse (whom a lad was lead- 
 ing), in company with Tom, the jockey, and Bob M., the betting 
 man, the rudest and noisiest of his class. We were naturally 
 all very much surprised at such a strange request, and Bob blurted 
 out — 
 
 " What the devil does the fellow mean ? Why, he must be 
 drunk." 
 
 I shall never forget the air of offended dignity with which the 
 footman drew himself up as he answered Bob, " Excuse me, sir, 
 no more drunk than you are 3" and taking me a little aside, he ex- 
 plained the mystery by saying in an under-tone, "Lady , 
 
 Miss Annie Radford as was, sir." 
 
 Now, I had heard that Annie was either married to, or under the 
 protection of, some old nob or other, who was old enough to be 
 her father (of course the latter version of her history was accepted 
 as the truth by this charitable world), but I had not the least idea 
 that she was living close by the town where these races were held, 
 
 and just as little did I imagine that the Lady , who headed the 
 
 list of lady-patronesses for the race ball in the evening, was my old 
 acquaintance, "Annie Radford as was." I told the lad directly to 
 lead the horse over to the other side of the course, and followed 
 him with the servant, leaving Tom and the betting-man staring 
 
T^e Leather Plater. 331 
 
 after us in blank amazement, and both declared that they had 
 never seen "such a go on a race-course before." Tom, in add- 
 tion, bade the footman present his respectful compliments to her 
 ladyship, and say that "if she wished to pat the jockey as well as the 
 horse, she had only to send for him, and he'd step over directly j" 
 to which free-and-easy speech the man only replied by a more 
 supercilious stare. 
 
 As we were walking across the course, I took the liberty of 
 asking the flunkey if " it was all on the square." He affected not 
 to understand me, so I asked him plainly if Annie was really mar- 
 ried. He appeared to be quite offended at my presuming to doubt 
 in fact, and replied with his grandest air, "Married, sir, yes, by 
 special licence 5 I had the honour of assisting at the ceremony." In 
 what manner he assisted, however, he did not explain. 
 
 We had now arrived at the rails on the other side of the course 
 and there, in an open barouche, drawn by a splendid pair of greys 
 
 sat Lady {nee Annie Radford), by far the handsomest and 
 
 best-dressed woman -on that course. A battered, grey-haired old 
 ruin of a man, her husband, sat by her side. Her greeting was 
 most cordial. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. , perhaps you don't remember me." (Oh, did 
 
 not I? 1 felt quite angry with the old K.C.B. for looking so 
 supremely happy in the possession of such a treasure, and inwardly 
 vowed, that if I had the making of the laws, it should be felony 
 at least for an old man above sixty to marry a blooming young girl 
 of twenty). " I saw the name of your horse on the card, and that's 
 the reason I drove over to the races to-day. I watched you leading 
 the colt Chance up and down the course. I knew him again di- 
 rectly, and I could not help sending for him that I might just pat 
 him once again for the sake of 'auld lang syne.' " A melancholy 
 shade passed over her beautiful features as she said this -, but it 
 vanished in an instant, and, turning towards the old fossil, who was 
 leaning back in the carriage, with his leg cocked up on a sort of 
 
 gouty prop, she introduced me to " Sir , my husband," with a 
 
 particular stress on the last word, and shot a coquettish half look 
 
^^2, The Leather Plater, 
 
 'of triumph at me, as much as to say, " You see that I've done what 
 I always said I would." 
 
 I was not in the best of tempers just then, and I had never quite 
 forgotten Miss Annie's conduct towards poor Frank, who was as 
 decent and worthy a young fellow as ever lived, so I " countered on 
 her " in this fashion : " I'm so glad to find that your ladyship," with 
 a slight stress on the word, " still remembers some of us in the old 
 county. If I had not thought that you had quite forgotten him, I 
 would certainly have brought Frank over as well as the horse. He's 
 waiting for me in the jockey's tent." I watched her keenly as I 
 said this, but I would have given worlds to have recalled the speech 
 as soon as I had uttered it, for her face wore such an expression of 
 bitter anguish, as she leaned over the side of the carriage and asked 
 
 me, in a low, plaintive tone, " Is it generous of you, Mr. ^ thus 
 
 to remind me of the only event in my past life upon ^\'hich I can 
 never look back without shame ?" 
 
 The old officer was most affable, and politely asked me to stay 
 and take lunch, which the servants were just then unpacking. We 
 could not get the horse near to the carriage on account of the rails, 
 so "her ladyship " begged me to hand her out and escort her to 
 him, which I did 5 and I really think he knew her again as she 
 passed her delicate, lavender-kidded hand over his soft nose and 
 sleek shiny neck. She asked me, in an under-tone, if I had seen 
 her old father lately, and, unfastening a splendid brooch, in which 
 was braided a lock of her raven hair, along with one of her husband's, 
 she begged me, as a particular favour, to ride over when I came 
 home, and give it to him with " his little Annie's love." She had 
 already written to old Jack a long letter announcing her marriage, 
 not one word of which did the old man believe. However, on the 
 very day that she came of age, he appeared at the Hall, and, to the 
 surprise of both Annie and her husband, related to them her full his- 
 tory. He had kept a strict account of every shilling which he had 
 disbursed for her, and handed over the credentials for the two thou- 
 sand which had been invested in his name. Not a shilling of this, 
 however, would Annie touch, and she cheerfully gave it up to the 
 
The Leather Plater, q^t^;^ 
 
 old man who had so faithfully performed the trust which he had 
 undertaken^ and proved himself so kind a father to the orphan 
 girl. 
 
 It would be tedious to follow the career of the leather-plater 
 through the four subsequent years that we owned him. He won 
 most of the stakes which he ran for, but the expenses took a good 
 deal of the profits, and as these half-bred stakes are never very 
 large when they come to be divided, but a small share fell to each 
 of us that were part owners of Chance. Still we had a good 
 deal of fun with him, and the man who does not possess the means 
 of owning a good thorough-bred racer, will find, perhaps, as much 
 pleasure and excitement, at a far less cost, by running a good leather- 
 plater. What generally licks him, however, is this — he is apt to 
 think too much of his cock-tail, and run him in company which he 
 finds too late are "a leetle" too good for him. 
 
 The last race in which we ran our leather-plater was his most 
 uulucky one. It was a hurdle-race in Nottinghamshire, and as com- 
 plaints had been made the year before that the hurdles were not 
 stiff enough, the stewards were determined that there should be no 
 mistake this year. They put them up 4 ft. 6 in. high, supported by 
 stiffs posts driven into the ground, and strong bars were mortised 
 into the tops of them throughout their whole length. Chance won 
 the first heat easily without a mistake, and only one horse went 
 against him for the second. This was a farmer's horse, ridden by 
 his owner, and it was a guinea to a shilhng on Chance. A friend 
 of mine, who was certainly one of the most unlucky betters out, was 
 on the stand, and as our horse cleared the hurdles opposite, and went 
 on with the lead, pulling double, the young farmer being hard at 
 work with his horse some fifty lengths behind, my friend observed 
 that it was the hollowest thing he ever saw, and offered ^oZ. to 10^. 
 on Chance. A sleek bookmaker, who stood by his side, took him 
 up at once, and booked the bet with this terse remark, " Mind, Mr. 
 
 , it's the odds and not the horse that tempts me." They had to 
 
 come once more round, and win just below the stand. The race was 
 two-mile heats, and I really think that our horse would have distanced 
 
334 ^^^ Leather Plater, 
 
 the farmer if he had stood the race out ^ but in coming over the 
 flight of hurdles next above the stand, he shpped, breasted the top 
 rail, rolled over, and broke his near hind-leg just below the hock as 
 short as a carrot. He rolled over Tom, who was a good deal 
 shaken, and of course his Chance was out ; and the young farmer, 
 whose horse also fell at tlie same flight of hurdles, but without 
 receiving any damage, managed to struggle in alone, and walked 
 over at his leisure for the third heat. It was with great difficulty 
 that we got the horse up, and he was in such dreadful pain that a 
 gun was sent for, and we had him shot on the spot. It was a sad 
 loss for us J we had refused two hundred for him many times, and 
 I think, had he won this race, we should have got two hundred and 
 fifty for him. Thus ended the career of poor Chance, in his day 
 one of the best leather-platers in England. 
 
 Let me, in concluding this tale, make one remark. These little 
 sporting sketches are intended for the amusement, and not for the 
 instruction, of the reader, who is requested to read them as he 
 would a novel or any other work of fiction, and not as plain matter- 
 of-fact. Although the principal incidents in every one of these 
 sporting sketches took place much as they are here described, I 
 have not confined myself to plain matter-of-fact, but have coloured 
 simple details to make them read the better, and, for obvious reasons, 
 have mystified names and localities. 
 
335 
 
 THE POACHER. 
 
 " Donald Caird can wire a maukin. 
 Kens the wiles o' dun deer stalken. 
 Leisters kippers, maks a shift 
 To shoot the muir fowl in a drift ; 
 Water-bailiffs, watchers, keepers. 
 He can wake while ye are sleepers ; 
 Nor for bounty or reward. 
 Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird." 
 
 It was a dull evening in the beginning of December, now many 
 years since, that I had to lead a "beaten horse" home for about 
 twelve miles, after one of the best runs, perhaps, ever known with 
 our hounds. I recollect not only that day, but that season well. 
 We had not a day's frost to stop the hunting until long after 
 Christmas. The scent had lain breast high, the hounds had been 
 running like wildfire, and the men going like mad up to this -, and 
 those whose studs were short, and yet who liked to see as much of 
 the fun as possible, began to wish for a little frost to give our nags 
 a fortnight's rest. This was a peculiar season. In every hunt 
 there are certain crack meets — coverts which are sure finds j and 
 the man who can only hunt twice a week fixes his days according 
 to the advertisement in the county paper, and saves his horses for 
 those fixtures where he can make sure of a nm. But this year the 
 foxes appeared to be scattered all over the country. They kept 
 turning up in all sorts of unaccountable places. Hedge-rows, 
 turnip-fields, belts of plantations which we never thought of draw- 
 ing, all seemed to hold a flying fox ; and some of our best runs 
 this year were from coverts to which, in ordinary seasons, no man 
 (except the most inveterate sportsmen who have plenty of horses 
 
33^ The Poacher* 
 
 at command^ and who deem it a bounden duty, as it were, to appear 
 at every covert side during the season) ever thought of sending a 
 horse on. There are some such men in every hunt, men who 
 appear to be as regularly attached to the hounds as the servants of 
 the estabhshment 3 and if by chance one of these well-known faces 
 is missed from any covert-side, the question immediately passes 
 from mouth to mouth, " I wonder where So-and-so is to-day j I 
 hope there's nothing the matter at home." 
 
 But this year no man liked, if he could help it, to miss a single 
 meet, for there were no blank days j every run seemed to be better 
 than the last 3 and whenever I met the hounds on the Saturday or 
 the Wednesday (the two days in the week which best suited the 
 "short-handed" men in our hunt), the first question invariably used 
 to be, " Did you hear what a ratding thing we had on the Monday 
 or Thursday ?" — the day which I had missed. I only owned two 
 horses, and I could not manage more than two days a week com- 
 fortably : in fact, this was rather too much in a season like the one 
 I am describing 3 but up to this, I had got on very well. We had 
 three " crackers" in November, all of which I had seen 3 but the 
 meets had hitherto been rather wide of us, and the " run of the 
 season" had yet to come. However, at last the long-wished for 
 announcement — ''Saturday: Findon Toll-bar" — appeared in the 
 county paper, and every man who read that paragraph knew that 
 his work was cut out for him on the Saturday. There was not a 
 man in our hunt who would not sooner miss his dinner for a week 
 than a Findon Toll-bar meet 3 and a Findon-gorse fox generally 
 gave us something to talk about for months after. We had had a 
 goodish thing on the Wednesday, over perhaps as good, but quite 
 a different sort of country from the Findon. The hounds had never 
 yet this season met at Findon 3 but as this was always a Saturday's 
 meet, and I had been expecting that it would soon come, I had been 
 saving the grey (my best horse) as much as I could, and always 
 riding him on the Saturdays. 
 
 I was at breakfast on Thursday when the paper arrived, and five 
 minutes after was in the stable to tell the glad news to the groom. 
 
The Poacher, 337 
 
 The man had just brought in the grey from exercise, and, ahnost 
 before I spoke to him, I was m^et with the unwelcome tidings that 
 " he could not think whatever was the matter with the old grey ; 
 he was quite off his feed, had been coughing all the morning, and did 
 not seem to have half got over last Saturday." The horse certainly 
 looked dull. Before night the vet. had visited him, and next morn- 
 ing influenza had set in, which, as his medical adviser predicted, 
 would probably keep him in the stable for a month at the very 
 least. What was to be done now ? To miss a Findon Toll-bar 
 meet was out of the question j and, although he had done his work 
 well on the Wednesday, there was nothing for it but the brown. 
 He was a rare constitutioned horse. It was, however, hardly fair 
 play to bring him again out so soon ; but I could not help it unless I 
 missed this meet altogether. As the Scotch say truly, " 'Tis indeed 
 a bad cause which we cannot excuse to ourselves j" and although I 
 could see that he wanted rest, and felt it was a shame to press upon 
 good nature, still I reasoned witli myself thus. " That we could not 
 be long without a frost, which was generally due about this time,, 
 when both horses would have plenty of rest. After all, I need 
 not do anything more than just see the findj and if I sent the 
 horse on the night before, I might even have a mile or two with 
 them without distressing him, and pull up when I liked." Pretty 
 reasoning this ! Why, I would as soon have chopped my right hand 
 off as have pulled up in a Findon-gorse run while the horse had a 
 leg to stand upon. And as for just seeing the meet, I would rather 
 have stayed at home altogether than see a fox break from this covert 
 and sit still to watch the hounds running over the finest country 
 perhaps in the world. Still, I was not doing exactly right, and felt 
 rather ill at ease the whole morning ; but it often happens that in 
 this life the lucky card turns up at the last moment, when we least 
 expect it. 
 
 Findon was nearly twelve miles from us, and I was in the stable 
 making all the final arrangements with the groom to take the horse 
 on in the afternoon, when a ragged urchin came up with a message 
 that "Muster Russell " wanted to see me up at the lodge directly. 
 
 z 
 
338 The Poacher. 
 
 I asked the boy whether he knew what he wanted, but all I 
 could get out of him was, that " Master was ill in bed, and wanted 
 to see me mmmut about a horse." I rode over directly, bidding my 
 man wait till I returned. The lodge was not two miles distant, 
 and on my arrival I found my friend Mr. Russell, or Jack Russell, as 
 we all called him, propped up in bed j his jolly rubicund face set 
 off to advantage by a clean, white, high tasselled nightcap, his right 
 arm bandaged in splints, resting on a pillow j his countenance the 
 very picture of despair. 
 
 " Why, whatever is up now. Jack?" was my first question, when 
 he bade me sit down by his bedside, and listen to his tale of woe. 
 
 Jack Russell was one of the hardest-riding farmers in our hunt, 
 and always in the first flight. He rode his horses to sell -, and cared 
 little what sort of a harvest he got, so long as only the hunting season 
 was open. Now, this year he had a magnificent four-year old, 
 which he had bought at Horncastle, and in which Jack (who was 
 seldom deceived in the points of a horse) saw, as he termed it, a 
 little fortune. He had never yet shown the horse the hounds — he 
 had quietly been bottled up at the lodge, taking his lessons over the 
 farm under his owner's able tuition. But Jack had intended that 
 he was soon to ^'come out," and he had been anxiously waiting for 
 this Findon Toll-bar meet, when he meant, as he termed it, to 
 " have a cut at every hard rider in the hunt " with him. No horse 
 could promise better — a splendid fencer, with a good turn of speed ; 
 as temperate as the oldest hunter in the field, and of a make and 
 shape that were sure to strike the eye at once. The long-wished- 
 for day had come at last, and on the Thursday, at Bramley market. 
 Jack confided to his friends " that something was coming to Findon- 
 gorse on the Saturday which was worth looking at." Jack was a 
 jovial sort of fellow, and was always about the last to leave the far- 
 mer's ordinary at the Red Lion ; on this occasion he sat a little 
 longer than usual. The price of wheat was up, the farmers were 
 in high spirits, and the astonishing sport which our hounds had 
 shown this season, was, of course, the leading topic of conversation 
 among a company, every man of whom was either a breeder or a 
 
The Poacher, 339 
 
 hard rider. Jack acknowledged to me that when Jie got into his 
 gig to leave, he was a "little gone," but nothing to signify 5 
 however, somehow or other he managed to upset the gig, about two 
 miles from his own door, and hobbled home on foot with a broken 
 collar-bone and his right arm fractured. Now, all hisprojects of show- 
 ing this brown colt to the swells at Findon-gorse were quite thrown 
 over, and, as he told me, the pain of the accident was nothing, but 
 the disappointment about the horse had kept him awake the whole 
 night. Towards morning he had dozed off, and in a feverish dream 
 had seen me, as plain as daylight, ride this colt over the gate out of 
 his farmyard. He interpreted this as an omen. The destiny of the 
 brown colt was clearly in my hands, and, as it was impossible for 
 him to leave his sick bed, would I do him the favour of riding the 
 colt at Findon-gorse instead of him ? If I would he'd never for- 
 get it. 
 
 Would I do him the favour ! Why, I would almost have given 
 him lol. for such a mount on such a day under the present circum- 
 stances 5 but of course I did not tell him that. I was very willing 
 to ride the horse if he fancied I could do it justice, but I could 
 not help owning that it was a great responsibility. And supposing 
 anything should happen to the horse ? 
 
 Oh ! he'd stand all risk. Never mind the horse's neck, or my 
 own, if it came to that. So long as I rode the horse straight and 
 well, he did not care what happened 3 but if I tried to shirk, he'd 
 never forgive me. Above all, I was to ride at young Tom Hardy ; 
 and if only I could beat him over the Findon country, the brown 
 was as good as sold. But to beat Tom Hardy was easier said than 
 done. 
 
 I sat by that bedside for half-an-hour, receiving a long instruction 
 from a man who had ridden to hounds ever since he was ten years 
 old, who for the last twenty years had been one of our crack riders, 
 and who had always sold his horses for longer prices than any man 
 In our hunt. In fact, "I got him of Jack Russell !" would apply 
 to nearly all the best horses in our county. 
 
 He kept continually harping on this string, '' Whatever yo 1 do, 
 
 z 2 
 
340 The Poacher. 
 
 beat Tom Hardy j" and his last remark on bidding me good-by 
 was, " Two hundred is his price — guineas, mind ; and if you can 
 sell him for me, you shall never want a mount this season." 
 
 He agreed to send the horse on that afternoon, and I left him to 
 fret and hdget on a sick bed, while I was picturing to myself in 
 imagination how I would hop over the splashed blackthorns and 
 stiff post-and-rails in the Findon country, now I was sure that I had 
 sot a mount on a horse which could do it. 
 
 I will not occupy too much space in a description of this day's 
 run ; suffice it to say that it was the '' run of the season." We found 
 our fox directly the hounds were thrown into the gorse — a regular 
 *^ silver-grey flyer." He headed straight for Waverley Wood, 
 eight miles without a check, over the cream of our country. Every 
 man meant going that day, and more than half took his own line 
 and kept it. We crossed the Findon brook twice, but as it was early 
 in the run, the cold water proved a stopper to but very few. Tom 
 Hardy was riding a grey, so he was good to make out. As I had 
 not got his length, I did not deem it prudent to take liberties with 
 him at starting, and for the first four miles he led us j but the rest of 
 us were close behind him, ready to come when we were wanted j 
 and I never remember in my life seeing so even a field, or one, to 
 use a racing phrase, which appeared to be so well handicapped. Out 
 of about a hundred men who went away with the fox, I do not be- 
 lieve we lost thirty between Findon and Waverley Wood. For 
 nearly the whole eight miles we rode in a line, every man in his. 
 place, and if a man and horse did come down, they were up again 
 and in their places like magic. Each seemed to feel that the pace 
 was too good, and the run likely to last too long, to take any liber-^ 
 ties with our horses j and every one, if he could only keep his place, 
 felt satisfied. The hounds were in view the whole run up to 
 Waverley Wood, and as every man silently watched his neighbour, 
 he mwardly wondered when the pace would begin to tell. Before 
 \\& got to the wood, it was "bellows to mend " with some of us. 
 End the tailing began. About fifty men, however, were well up 
 
The Poacher, 341 
 
 with the hounds when the fox dashed in — the brown colt and Tom 
 . .-lardy botii in good places. 
 
 Waverley Wood was full of foxes J and after dwelling in it foi 
 about a quarter of an hour — which gave time for the stragglers to 
 come up^ and allowed us to pull our horses a bit together — the 
 hounds went away with a fresh fox, who took us as straight as a 
 crow could fly for about seven miles, over a country, if anything, 
 deeper and stitfer than the last : and they pulled him down in Ley- 
 ton Openfield (then just inclosed), after giving us such a dance 
 among the new stiif doubles as few of us who saw the end of that 
 run ever forgot. I always hated doubles — I don't know why, but 
 I always " funked " them, and this day I shirked them j but I jumped 
 four stiff new gates (certainly not very high ones) in a line across 
 the open field without a mistake ; and this performance sold the 
 horse. I could not beat Tom Hardy, but I *^tied him." I got a 
 pad to take home to Jack Russell, who was highly delighted when 
 he heard from a friend how well the horse had gone. 
 
 He kept his word, and gave me three or four mounts that season j 
 and I dare say I could have had more if I had wished 3 but he had 
 picked up a hard-pulling, impetuous young chestnut, who rushed 
 his fences like a bull : he christened it "Kangaroo," and he fancied 
 it would be good enough to win the Findon in the spring. I don't 
 believe Jack cared much about riding him himself, but was always 
 glad to give me a mount on Kangaroo when I chose to ask for it. 
 I sometimes fancied he would make a nice horse, for he had lots of 
 speed, and could jump when he pleased. I could scarcely, if I had 
 wished, have kept count how many falls that horse gave me, suflSce 
 It to say I considered myself very lucky if I got less than two in a 
 day (and as I had the honour of schooling him for the Findon, I was 
 on him during the winter perhaps two days a week), whenever I 
 rode the celebrated Kangaroo (and he did become a celebrated 
 horse after). But one day the hounds cast up suddenly in a lane, 
 which I could not see for the hedge, and the chestnut, who had got 
 the bit between his teeth, carried me through a stiiFbulfinch right 
 
542 The F oacher. 
 
 into the middle of them. The lecture I received from the hunts- 
 man had such an effect upon me, that I turned the horse's head, and 
 rode him about four miles home in cool blood, straight as a pigeon 
 to Jack Russell's lodge, and I never rode him to hounds again. The 
 old huntsman's sermon was preached quite as much at Mr. Russell 
 as myself, but he was incorrigible. He only regretted I was not 
 two stone heavier to steady the horse, whom he always declared in 
 time would be one of the best with our hounds, and he was right ; 
 but he was so pleased with the after-piece, that he thought nothing 
 of the trick that the chestnut had served me in the lane. 
 
 It was on the evening after this famous run that I was leading 
 Mr. Russell's horse home to our village, picking my way as best I 
 could, through deep, muddy, cross-country lanes and by-roads, one 
 of which a surly old countryman would persist in telling me led to 
 nowhere. Leyton Openfield was a very out-of-the-way place, and 
 the inhabitants of the dirty little village a very primitive lot. At 
 last, however, I found my way into a country which I knew, and 
 the sun was just sinking as I crossed the turnpike-road and struck 
 into a by-lane which led about two miles down to our village. 
 Somehow or other, now I had "got the key" of Jack Russell's 
 stable, I did not seem to feel half so anxious about a frost, and I 
 was rather glad to mark a heavy bank of clouds rising in the west 
 as the sun set, which to my mind bespoke wind and rain rather 
 than frost. The wood-pigeons had just finished their evening meal 
 off the turnips, and were dropping down to roost on the tall oaks 
 in a spinney to my right. The sheep were folded for the night, 
 and a dead silence so peculiar to a winter evening reigned over all. 
 Just as I got into the lane I heard a double shot in a stubble field 
 by the side of the road, and a little further on I saw the head 
 keeper's pony tied to a gate. He was coming up the field as 1 
 passed 3 and as the gamekeeper is rather an important personage in 
 e/ery rural district, especially as he looked over all our village, J 
 stopped to have a chat with him. Of course I gave him a very 
 accurate description of the run, not forgetting my share in the 
 performance 3 and he asked me if I would be kind enough to leav? 
 
The Poacher, 343 
 
 a couple of brace of birds for him at the Parsonage as I rode by, 
 for it would save him the trouble of riding down to the village 
 himself — adding, "T must get home as soon as I can, for we expect 
 ' your gang ' over to-night, and I want to be ready for them." We 
 then parted. I must not trouble the reader with a slight description 
 of our village and our head keeper, and explain what the latter 
 meant when he alluded to "your gang." 
 
 Our village lay in the heart of, perhaps, the very strictest pre- 
 served county in England at that day. It was a pretty little village 
 enough 3 the forest came up within a mile of it one side, while a 
 stiff inclosed rich agricultural country stretched for miles and miles 
 around it on the other. The forest land was full of pheasants, 
 hares, and rabbits, while the open country swarmed with partridges. 
 The whole district for miles around belonged to the Duke of B., 
 one of our strictest game preservers 3 and his head keeper, Johnson, 
 was the very type of his calling — a stout, heavy, muscular, middle- 
 aged man, able-bodied and resolute -, the terror of all the poachers 
 round us, for he looked upon them as the rankest of vermin, and if 
 he could have had his own way, would, I believe, have hung them 
 up on the branches of his "keeper's tree " with as little remorse as 
 polecats or weasels. As I said before, our village was a small 
 one, and I suppose scarcely contained two hundred inhabitants 3 but 
 it was a nest of poachers, and Johnson used to reckon that on any 
 night w^e could turn out a gang of half a score of the most deter- 
 mined poachers in the county — men who were well versed in all 
 the minutiae of the trade 3 who could snare a hare in an open 
 furrow as well as in a smeuse 3 who could silently sweep off covey- 
 after covey of birds in a night in the very heart of the manor j 
 who could clear the home preserves close up to the keeper's lodge 
 witliout firing a shot 3 but who would at times muster in a gang, 
 armed witli guns, and, laying aside all secrecy, march through the 
 forest and nail the pheasants at perch like so many barn-door fowls. 
 Every one of these poachers was a marked man, and every one in 
 the village well knew how he obtained his livelihood during the 
 winter months 3 but they were always civil and respectful enough 
 
344 'J^^^^ Poacher. 
 
 to us, and somehow or other none of us who had no game to 
 preserve seemed to think that poachhig was a very grave offence. 
 It is true they did the farmers in our village but little sen-ice, for 
 just before the hay harvest they all used to migrate into distant 
 counties where labourers were scarcer than with us, and wages 
 higher, and they did not return till the bean harvest was over. 
 During the winter it was very rarely that any one of them did a 
 steady day's work : they were always ready for any little odd job 
 which turned up, but could never settle down to regular work, and 
 their whole days appeared to be spent lounging about the beershop 
 and the blacksmitli's forge (the usual winter resort of all the 
 vagabonds in the paribli), and three nights out of the seven most 
 probably in the woods, so it was scarcely likely they would be much 
 lit for work by day. Of course we had in the village one of the 
 greatest curses of that day, a higgler, and his cart carried away all 
 the poached game and stolen poultry to a distant market, generally 
 to the guards of the London coaches on the North road, who were 
 always ready purchasers. I am not at all for granting too much 
 licence to a police force, but I must say I think that it was an 
 excellent measure, and one which gave the greatest death-blow to 
 poaching, when the law allowed the police the power to apprehend 
 and search any suspected person or vehicle and seize any game 
 which was found upon them. At this time the police had no such 
 power, in fact, our only protectors in the country were the old 
 parish constables, and they were about as much use as tlie old 
 London " Charlies." 
 
 Of course there was a leader to our gang, and he was a man in 
 every respect fitted for the post. He was the son of the old higgler 
 before -alluded to, and a more ruffianly-looking fellow it would have 
 been hard to find. His name was Hammerton — Bill Hammerton, 
 and he was known am.ong his associates, in fact nearly all over the 
 iounty, by the nickname of " Sloppy." He was at this time a 
 little over thirty years of age, a stout, thickset fellow, standing 
 about 5 feet 9 inches, and weighing 13 stone. A more desperate 
 character did not exist, and, unless rumour grossly lied, far darker 
 
The Poacher. 545 
 
 charges than poaching could be laid to his charge. But although 
 he had been imprisoned three or four times for snaring, he had 
 always as yet been lucky enough to escape being taken in any night 
 affray 3 and this was the more singular, for he was always at the 
 head of his gang and in the thickest of the fray in the night 
 encounters which were then so frequently taking place between the 
 gamekeepers and poachers. He was a noted fighter, and the 
 champion of our county. Scarcely a village feast or country fair 
 for miles around us but this Bill Hammerton was engaged in a 
 pugilistic contest, and I never heard that he was beaten. He was 
 a true type of the ruffianly Englishman, combining the strength of 
 an ox with the pluck of a bulldog 3 and one could not help thinking, 
 as one looked at his ugly but resolute and determined features, 
 what a soldier that man would have made if he had been properly 
 trained. 
 
 Now, the head keeper, Johnson, who was himself as brave as a 
 iion, would have given any money to capture Hammerton in a 
 night row, for a price was set upon his head, and if he was only 
 taken the gang would, in all probability be broken up. But he had 
 never yet been lucky enough. 
 
 The others of the gang were common farm-labourers, who could 
 not withstand the fascinations of this desperate trade -, and, say 
 what we will, there must be some fascination in poaching more 
 than in any other crime, for I have known men follow it who, 
 barring the excitement, had no other earthly inducement. For 
 instance, we had once a helper in our stables, who lodged and slept 
 in the house. Now, this man had as good a place as a servant 
 could wish, and wanted nothing. But he was a confirmed poacher, 
 and used to steal out at night and join the village gang whenever 
 an onslaught was meditated on one of the best preserves. We 
 never suspected him, for he was always at his work in the 
 morning. But one morning he was missing altogether. There 
 had been a desperate battle in a wood not two miles from us, and I 
 recollect well that I sat on our garden -wall and counted nearly one 
 hundred shots fired about eleven o'clock, before the keepers came 
 
346 The Poacher. 
 
 up. The battle was a sharp one, but the keepers, as usual, got the 
 best of it. Three poachers were taken -, the rest escaped, and 
 among them our helper. His hat, however, had been knocked off 
 in the melee, and the head keeper secured it. He read the man's 
 name in it, and next morning rode over to see if we could identify 
 it. There was, of course, no trouble to do this. The man never 
 came back to us, nor did we hear of him again till one evening, 
 about two years after, I pulled up on the box of the old Regulator, 
 at the Three Cups in Aldersgate-street. To my surprise, I recog- 
 nised in the slovenly cad that came out to stand at the horses' heads 
 (for we only stopped there a few minutes) our quondam stable- 
 man. I offered to take him back, for he was a rare good man with 
 horses ; but he would not come into the country again, and I never 
 heard anything more of him. 
 
 It was nearly dark before I reached the village, and there was 
 something cheery in the ruddy blaze of light which shot across the 
 road from the blacksmith's forge, and the clang of his hammer, as I 
 approached it. I stopped and called the man out, for I wanted to 
 speak to him about " four removes " next mornings and as I looked 
 in tlirough the open door, I saw the shop was full, as usual, and I 
 recognised four or five of the poachers whom I knew well. One 
 was just unscrewing a short gun-barrel, which he thrust into his 
 pocket as I pulled up. He was a very civil, decent young fellow, 
 and came out to hold my horse while I spoke to the blacksmith. 
 He was followed by a little half-starved lurching cur, which never 
 left his heels, and which, as a mute dog for driving hares into the 
 nets, was invaluable to the gang. As I got on my horse, he asked 
 me in a low tone if I wanted a hare or a brace of "long-tails" in 
 the morning j and I told him " they had better look out, for that 
 Johnson was expecting them." He laughed, and said "they knew 
 it, but tliat they wanted game that night, and game they would 
 have." This was the last conversation I ever had with that poor 
 fellow, for he was dead before morning. Of course Bill Hammer- 
 ton was in the shop, apparently engaged in heating some wire at 
 the blacksmith's fire, no doubt for snares. 
 
If 
 
 
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 liilKiiiti 
 
I'he Poacher, 347 
 
 It was a curious thing, but whenever any great poaching visit 
 was planned to a favourite preserve, our keepers always seemed to 
 know of it beforehand, and to be prepared. In fact sometimes, 
 out of sheer bravado, the poachers would send word to say that 
 they were coming on such a night, and hoped the keepers would 
 meet them like men. 
 
 Now on this night there was to be a grand " gathering of the 
 clans " to sweep the home preserves before the Christmas battues 
 began. Four gangs from four different villages had agreed to meet 
 at the old " trysting place," a gravel pit by the side of the forest. 
 Twenty of the best men with guns were to be told off to shoot the 
 pheasants in the home woods, and the rest were quietly to net hares 
 and rabbits in the forest. The poachers reckoned that they should 
 muster about thirty-five men, which they did. As I said before, 
 Johnson was prepared for them ; but with all his watchers he could 
 not reckon on more than eight men, so he applied for help to the 
 head keeper of the Earl of D., whose preserves joined. Now on 
 this estate every labourer was obliged to take his turn at night 
 watching, so he had no difficulty in borrowing twelve men for this 
 occasion (in fact it was a common cause with the keepers, for if the 
 poachers had swept our woods first, they would certainly on another 
 night have gone on to the next estate) j and the earl's head keeper, 
 as resolute a fellow as Johnson, agreed to head them, just for the 
 fun of the thing. Johnson's men were never allowed any other 
 weapons besides sticks (each had a handkerchief tied round his hat 
 to distinguish him — a rather useful precaution in a night affray, 
 where the rule used to be, wherever you see a head hit at it), but 
 Johnson himself used a singular but far more effective weapon, a 
 stout hayfork, about three feet long in the shaft, " a tolloch over the 
 head from which (I use his own expressive phrase) would bring the 
 strongest man down on his knees like a bullock." I saw this 
 identical hayfork at his house a few days after this battle, and the 
 tines were bent crooked over Bill Hammerton's head. The 
 keepers of the Earl of D. always fought with short dog-spears. 
 The keepers on this night mustered about twenty, the poachers 
 
348 The Poacher, 
 
 nbout thirty-five men. These seemed long odds, but still they were 
 in favour of the keepers, for " thrice is he armed that hath his 
 quarrel just." Besides, as Johnson once observed to me, " Bless 
 you ! when you come really to tackle a poacher, he's very little 
 good. He's never got anything in him but gin and tobacco. They 
 don't, perhaps, get a good meal of meat once in a week 3" which I 
 dare say was about true. 
 
 By ten the poachers had mustered in the gravel-pit by the side of 
 a lane, close to the forest where the netting was to commence. The 
 keepers, who were not up to the trick of their dividing, went down 
 to one of the home-preserves, nearly a mile from the gravel-pit, where 
 they fancied the general attack would be made. But they went to the 
 wrong spot, for they waited on this post nearly half-an-hour with- 
 out hearing a sound, and they almost began to think that the 
 poachers had given up the thought of coming that night, when 
 a double shot was fired in the wood closest to our village, more than a 
 mile from where they were watching. This shot was fired about 
 half-past ten, and I was standing in the stable-yard talking with 
 Jem. We both heard it, and he observed, '' That's only a plant to 
 ■draw the keepers down j it's not that wood they mean to work to- 
 night." In a little time after we counted five more shots, and then 
 all was still. I may add, that it was just the very night of all others 
 that our poachers loved. I never could fancy that the man who 
 wrote the old popular poaching song of " My delight on a shiny 
 night at a season of the year," knew much about real poaching, as 
 our chaps never went out at the full moon for any great attack. A 
 dark, gusty, blowing night, with the moon certainly not older than 
 twelve days, was the night they generally chose ; or a moon three- 
 quarters old, if the night was all right, was nearly as good, only it 
 always rose so late. On this night there would probably have been 
 rather too much moon if the sky had been clear, but heavy clouds 
 drifted across the stormy sky, and the wind was blowing fresh from 
 the south-west. The consequence was, that the reports of the guns 
 were carried plain enough down to our village, which lay to leeward 
 
The Pcacher, 349^ 
 
 of the wood ; but the keepers, who were to the windward, never 
 heard them, so that the ruse, although well planned, entirely failed. 
 
 At about eleven, however, the general attack began. I may add 
 that Hammerton was to head the shooting party, and the young 
 man whom I spoke to in the blacksmith's shop headed the netters. 
 The poachers had gone to a home preserve, full of pheasants, which 
 'in account of the storm, were perching low. This wood lay 
 rather to the windward of the keepers, so they heard the shots, but 
 only indistinctly — at first a dropping fire, but soon four or five to the 
 minute all over the wood. " By G — !" said Johnson, "they're in 
 the home wood. Come on, my lads ! or they'll clear it before we 
 get there." And off the keepers started in the direction of the 
 guns. But the road was rough, and the moon gave little light 
 It was not easy running, and it was half-an-hour before they 
 reached the wood. After the first twenty minutes the fire- 
 slackened, and by the time they got up the poachers were beating a 
 retreat to join their comrades, who were netting in another covert, 
 about half-a-mile distant. It was excellently planned. Hammerton 
 got all his men off but three, who lay hidden with the game in a 
 ditch, by the very side of which the keepers passed in full pursuit 
 without discovering them. It was very unlucky for Johnson that 
 old Sailor (his favourite night-dog) had staked himself the day 
 before in jumping over a dead fence with a pheasant in his mouth,, 
 and was obliged to be left at home, or these three men and their 
 booty would have been secured. As it was, they lay quiet till the 
 keepers had passed, and then ran home as fast as they could under a 
 load of about fifty of Johnson's finest pheasants — which had, per- 
 haps, cost nearly i/. each to fatten. The men reached the village 
 safely; the old higgler's cart was got under way at once 3 by five in 
 the morning they were on the top of one of the night-coaches, and 
 tlie same night were in London. 
 
 It had been planned beforehand that directly the firing ceased, 
 the poachers who were netting were to assemble under a large oak 
 well known to every one of them, and wait till tlie Hammertooi 
 
^^o The Poacher, 
 
 party joined them. He rightly guessed that the keepers would 
 come down in a body to the guns^ and if they could only get a 
 quarter of an hour or twenty minutes' good shooting, his stratagem 
 was to leave off and retreat quickly upon the netting party, so that, 
 in case of an attack, the forces would not be divided. And it was 
 even possible that the keepers would remain searching the wood 
 where they had heard the firing, and in this case they would escape 
 with all their booty, and without bloodshed. It was a very near thing, 
 and, had the keepers come up five minutes later, the poachers 
 might have escaped. They had got clear of the wood, and were 
 keeping well under the hedgerows out of sight j but the crashing of 
 a dead fence as they sprang over it caught the quick ear of Johnson, 
 and he halloaed his men on like a pack of fox-hounds. But they 
 were more blown than the poachers, and although when they once 
 got on the trail they never left it, the poachers reached the wood 
 more than five minutes in advance. As soon as they got safe into 
 the wood, a long but low whistle warned them where their com- 
 rades were standing ; and in a few minutes more the whole party 
 were drawn up under the old oak, breathlessly waiting the coming 
 of the keepers. Johnson was pretty certain that the poachers had 
 entered the wood, but he did not exactly know where. The old 
 oak was perhaps five hundred yards in the depth of the forest, and 
 as the poachers stood as mute and silent as statues beneath its 
 shades, the keepers w^re completely at fault. Had the poachers 
 been content to carry with them a part of the hares and rabbits 
 which they had already secured, and silently retreated, in all proba- 
 bility they would have got clear off j but they wished to save their 
 nets, which were worth ten or fifteen pounds, and they stood still, 
 thinking that the keepers might overlook them in the gloom of the 
 forest. Blue lights and rockets were not, I think, invented then — 
 at least I never heard of our keepers using them ; but what I most 
 wondered at was, that not one even carried a dark lantern in his 
 pocket. Johnson was fairly puzzled. He dared not divide his men, 
 for he knew the poachers were strong, although not aware of their 
 actual numbers, and he thought it worse than useless to try to follow 
 
The Poacher. 351 
 
 up their trail through the wood, now that he had nothing to guide 
 him. He called up his men to hold a consultation as to what 
 was best to be done ; and this was lucky, for it allowed them to 
 gather breath for what was coming. 
 
 The old oak under which the poachers were gathered stood in a 
 forest clearing, with, perhaps, open grass for a hundred yards round 
 it on all sides. The keepers were standing consulting in the thick 
 wood within two hundred yards of the tree, little thinking how near 
 they were to the poachers. They would probably have turned back, 
 when all of a sudden the heavy clouds drifting away from the face 
 of the moon, she shone out in all her glory. Only for a few minutes j 
 but those few minutes enabled the keepers to see the poachers ; 
 and Johnson's shout of triumph, " Here they are ! close in, my 
 lads !" warned them that nothing was left for them but to stand up 
 and fight like men. All their faces were blackened, and many of 
 them disfigured with red patches, and they formed a wild group 
 when their uncouth figures and the old dead tree were suddenly 
 brought into bold relief by the moon's shimmering rays. The keepers 
 dashed into the open space, but the poachers presented a formidable 
 front, for those who had guns were ranged in a line — every muzzle 
 presented to them. They drew back, and rather hesitated, and 
 Johnson's challenge of " Come, my men — no nonsense ! we know 
 you all, so you d better give it up !" was met by a derisive cheer 
 from the poachers, who bade them come on if they dared. John- 
 son's blood was up. He had recognised his old enemy, Hammerton, 
 in the crowd, and he was determined to have him or die in the 
 attempt. Heedless of all consequences, he rushed in at him, and 
 the keepers, instead of showing a front line, followed him in Indian 
 file, and the attack was so sudden that only two guns were fired, 
 one charge wounding a keeper in the thigh. ^' No firing ! butt- 
 ends, my lads !" roared out Hammerton, as he sprung aside and 
 aimed a heavy blow at Johnson's head with the butt-end of his gun 3 
 but the hayfork stood the keeper in good need, for he skilfully 
 parried a blow which would probably have dashed his brains out if 
 it had reached him, and, recovering himself, he brought Hammer- 
 
353 The Poacher, 
 
 ton to the ground with a swinging round-handed hit on the side of 
 the head. The poacher fell, and the keeper, who was overbalanced 
 by the force of his own blow, fell on him. Hammerton was not 
 even stunned, and he seized Johnson like a bulldog by the throat, 
 and these two strong men rolled over and over on the grass, in a 
 mortal embrace, snarling and tearing at each other like two fierce 
 dogs, sometimes the one above, sometimes the other. Meanwhile 
 the battle was raging fiercely all around ; now and then a crashing 
 blow from a gun-stock would bring a keeper to the ground, but the 
 short dog-spears did dreadful service. The men were strictly ordered 
 only to use them as sticks, and not to stab with them, but more 
 than one poacher fell with a dog-spear in his side. It is singular 
 that during the whole of the battle only three guns were fired j 
 but this is accounted for by the fact that only five of the poachers 
 had any ammunition left j and if the keepers had known that only 
 five out of the twenty guns which were pointed at them were 
 loaded, they would not have hesitated an instant about rushing in. 
 It was a curious fact that in this hand-to-hand fight, even when 
 their blood was up, the poachers seemed lo have a repugnance at 
 firing upon the keepers, who had no guns ; for as one of them who- 
 escaped told me afterwards, that although his gun was loaded 
 during the whole time, he did not seem to feel to dare to fire it^ 
 but only fought with the butt-end. 
 
 The battle was too fierce to last long, and in five minutes the 
 poachers beat a retreat, leaving seven prisoners and all their nets, 
 hares, and rabbits, in the hands of the keepers. Poor Johnson was- 
 in rather an awkward case. He could not rise, for he could not 
 shake Hammerton olf^ who was as strong a man as himself. By a 
 desperate struggle, the poacher got above the keeper, and dashing 
 his head against the ground, which partially stunned him, he sprang" 
 to his feet, and^ giving Johnson one settler by a tremendous kick 
 under the ear, he plunged into the thickest of the forest, and, 
 favoured by the night and the confusion of the moment, escaped. 
 It was some little time before Johnson could rise, and his first ex- 
 pression, as he stared wildly round him, "D — n him! I'll have him 
 
The Poacher. 355 
 
 yet," proved how sorry he felt for the loss of the prize which he 
 considered so fairly within his grasp. Several of the keepers had 
 broken heads, but none were seriously hurt except the man who 
 was shot in the thigh, and one of the young watchers who gave 
 chase to a poacher for some hundred yards into the forest. The 
 poacher, finding himself sorely pressed, suddenly threw himself 
 down — the watcher tumbled over him, and, before he could rise, 
 was stunned by a blow from the poacher's bludgeon, who then 
 made his escape. The prisoners, with their booty, were marched 
 off to Johnson's lodge, and next morning were taken before a 
 neighbouring magistrate, and committed for trial to the next 
 assizes. 
 
 When the keepers mustered, one was missing — the young watcher 
 who had followed the poacher into the wood. In vain his com- 
 rades shouted — in vain the shrill whistle which every one of them 
 carried at night, sounded through the wood. No answer was re- 
 turned, and they were obliged to leave the forest without him, 
 rightly judging that he would turn up before morning -, and so he 
 did, but not till daylight, when he staggered up to the head keeper's 
 lodge, pale as death, sick and faint j his head and face covered with 
 blood, and wearing altogether so ghastly an appearance that the 
 other keepers scarcely knew him. The poacher had left him 
 stunned and disabled, and it was probably a long time before he 
 came to himself. When he woke up, all was quiet in the wood j 
 and he then knew that his comrades had left him, and he must fine? 
 his way home as he best could. His keeper's instinct soon put him 
 in the right path, and partly by walking, partly by crawling on all- 
 fours, he managed to find his way to the edge of the covert. The 
 night was now as dark as pitch, for the moon had gone down. He 
 was staggering along a narrow ride in the forest, when his foot 
 struck against something that lay across the path, and he stumbled 
 over the dead body of the young poacher who had headed the net- 
 ting party. He had been stabbed in the side with a dog-spear, but 
 had run as far as his strength could carry him, till he fell dead fronj 
 interna] hemorrhage. His poor little dog kept watch over the body, 
 
 A A 
 
354 ^^^ Poacher. 
 
 and was eudeavouring by all the mute eloquence he possessed, by 
 licking his hands and face, pulling at his coat, to wake up his dead 
 master — but in vain. The poor fellow was buried in our church- 
 yard, and of all the mourners that followed him to the grave, not 
 one deplored his loss more deeply than that ragged little half-starved 
 cur. The keeper fell over the dead body, and for some time lay 
 side by side with the corpse. He was already faint with pain and 
 loss of blood J and when his hand came in contact with that cold 
 face, and dabbled in the pool of blood which surrounded the dead 
 poacher, it was more than he could stand — he fainted away. The 
 night breeze swept in hollow gusts through the dead trees, and the 
 dismal hoot of the owl echoed mournfully through the forest 
 glade J but the two sleepers heard nothing, and it was not till day- 
 light glimmered in the east that the watcher woke, and the grey 
 twilight of the drear winter's morning revealed to him the ghastly 
 features of the dead man who had been his companion through the 
 night upon that damp, chill bed on which they had both fallen. 
 
 The young poacher's sad death caused no little sensation among 
 our simple villagers, and I remember a melancholy ballad was made 
 by some rustic poet on the events of that fatal night. It was a 
 standard song at our harvest-homes for years after. I do not recol- 
 lect it now — nor, if I did, should I inflict a repetition of it upon the 
 reader 3 but the refrain ran thus : 
 
 " The keepers heard us fire a gun. 
 And to the spot did quickly run. 
 And swore before the rising sun 
 That one of us should die." 
 
 The whole occurrences of that eventful night were faithfully 
 described, and the song was sung in a melancholy, drawling tone, 
 so peculiar to a country harvest-home or in the forecastle of a ship. 
 And strange to say, many years after, when I had nearly forgotten 
 not only the song itself, but all the circumstances upon which it 
 was founded, I was standing on the forecastle of the good barque 
 B/ackheath, one fine calm night, in the middle watch, south of the 
 equator, watching the rippling waves as they sparkled under our 
 
The Poacher. ^^^ 
 
 cutwater, and now and then gazing upwards with solemn admira- 
 tion at the Southern Cross and the other beautiful constellations 
 which spangled the deep blue sky — all was silent as the grave, when 
 suddenly one of the lookouts, who was sitting on the foot of the 
 bowsprit began, in a low but not unmusical voice, the first 
 stanza of that melancholy ditty. I have heard it observed that 
 nothing recals the scenes of youth and home to the wanderer's 
 mind so much as hearing the songs of his earlier days in a foreign 
 land J and never shall I forget how vividly the occurrences which I 
 have just described rushed across my mind when I heard this old 
 song crooned out in that "lone, lone sea." I was some thousand 
 miles away from the spot : but the old village, the forest, and the 
 very oak under which the battle took place, stood as plain before me 
 as the bowsprit of that ship. I could see Johnson and Hammerton, 
 as it were, locked together on the ground in deadly conflict, and I 
 could well picture to myself the tableau of the watcher, the dead 
 poacher, and the dog lying together in the forest glade. 
 
 The poachers were tried at the next assizes, but their sentence 
 was not so heavy as we expected it would have been. In fact, the 
 circumstance of the young poacher being killed by the dog-spear, 
 and on which the counsel for the defence dwelt eloquently, served, 
 I think, to influence both judge and jury. The gang was broken 
 up, and although poaching was carried on on a small scale, we 
 rarely heard afterwards in our woods of any serious battles which 
 before that night were so constantly taking place between the 
 keepers and the poachers. 
 
 Hammerton escaped the vigilance of the police for two years, 
 notwithstanding a reward was offered for his apprehension, and he 
 was a well-known character in our parts. I will here narrate a 
 curious circumstance. A description of his person was inserted in 
 the notices, and we did not think it would be very difficult to iden- 
 tify a man who was peculiarly marked by a large mole on one cheek. 
 But, strange to say, there was not one in the parish (except his most 
 intimate friends, and, of course, they would not help us) who coul4 
 positively swear on which cheek this mole stood. Some were cer-^ 
 
 A A 2 
 
35^ The Poacher. 
 
 tain that it was on the riglit, others on the left ; but no one would 
 swear positively, and this mark of identity was useless. He ab- 
 sconded into a western county, and fell in with a character as despe- 
 rate as himself — one *' Bri-J.ol Jack," a low, coping horse-dealer. 
 They worked together for 'jome time ; and not being very particular 
 how they obtained their horses, they soon got into trouble, and were 
 committed to Exeter gaol for horse-stealing. A notice was sent 
 down to us that one of these men was most probably the man we 
 wanted. A constable went down to identify Hammerton at his 
 trial. He was acquitted of horse-stealing, but on leaving the dock 
 was arrested on a poaching warrant by our constable and brought 
 back. Our assizes were held the following week. He was tried, 
 and found guilty j but his sentence was a light one — two years' 
 imprisonment. The words, *' No firing, my lads — use your butt- 
 ends," which he shouted to his gang when the keepers attacked 
 them, probably saved him from a heavier sentence. 
 
 We had now got rid certainly of the worst of our gang, and for 
 a while our village was altered for the better ; and Johnson's mind 
 was at rest. I have no doubt a little snaring and netting went on, 
 but the gang seemed to be broken up, and the deeds of violence 
 which had been committed during Hammerton's reign had become 
 almost a matter of history, and served now merely to furnish con- 
 versation among the rustics at the beer-house and the blacksmith's 
 shop. However, time sped on. Hammerton's two years were up ; 
 and one afternoon, as Johnson was riding home from our village, 
 he met his old enemy walking into it, in better " working condi- 
 tion," as he told his friends, than ever he had been in his life. 
 Hammerton politely bade the keeper " Good afternoon," thanked 
 him for his kindness, and told him he would never forget it — words 
 which bore an awful significance when uttered by as great a ruffian 
 as ever breathed. Johnson, however, was not a man to be frightened 
 by words 3 and merely telling the poacher that he had better not 
 let him get hold of him again, rode on. Hammerton certainly did 
 not forget Johnson's kindness to him, but took a very early oppor- 
 tunity of repaying the obligation. It was in August when he re- 
 
The Poacher, 357 
 
 turned, so there was nothing to be done in his line just then. He 
 found his gang disorganized, and many of them settled down into 
 steady labourers ; but there were two or three lawless spirits who 
 were too far gone ever to settle down steadily, and they welcomed 
 their old captain back, and longed for the dark winter nights to come 
 once again. 
 
 Except a little fowl-stealing, we had, however, nothing to com- 
 plain of now 5 but it was quite evident that Hammerton was 
 organizing another gang for the winter, and at Johnson's request his 
 band of night-watchers was doubled. There would assuredly have 
 been some roughish work this winter if Hammerton could only 
 have kept himself quiet for a few months ; but he was longing to 
 be revenged upon Johnson, and this revenge he determined to 
 gratify on the first occasion. But this was not an easy task. John- 
 son very rarely went out without his gun- and "old Sailor," who 
 seldom left his heels, was as good, and perhaps better, than any one 
 man. 
 
 Our village feast was in the beginning of October, and on the 
 Monday afternoon he rode over to spend the afternoon with his 
 brother, a farmer in our place. He had neither gun nor dog with 
 him. I looked in to smoke a pipe with them in the afternoon, and 
 talk over the season. About five, Johnson left. On his road home, 
 half way between our village and his lodge, was a small spinny, 
 which lay one field from the road ; and just as he passed a double 
 shot was fired, apparently in this spinny. It took him a very few 
 minutes to tie his pony to the gate, and run down the ditch under 
 cover of the hedge, to see what was up ; and when he reached the 
 coppice a decently-dressed man, quite a stranger to him, was stand- 
 ing loading his gun, about twenty yards in the wood. The man 
 never attempted to escape, and his reply to Johnson's challenge, 
 
 " Now, who the are you, and where's your certificate ?" was, 
 
 "You'd better come and see." Johnson was scrambling over the 
 hedge into the spinny, when suddenly another man sprang up from 
 the ditch behind him (he had been covered up under a heap ot 
 ferns), and in less time than it takes to write it the keeper was 
 
35^ The Poacher. 
 
 knocked senseless into the ditch by a blow on the back of the head 
 from the butt-end of a gun-stock. It was but the work of a few 
 seconds j but even in those few seconds he had time before the blow 
 fell to recognise the brutal features of Hammerton. The attack 
 had been all planned beforehand. The poachers watched Johnson 
 down to thefeasT, arid knew about what time he would comeback. 
 Hammerton lay hidden, and the other poacher fired the double 
 shot when he saw Johnson ride up the lane, to draw him down to 
 Hammerton's hiding-place. The stratagem succeeded well ; and, 
 but for the special interference of Providence, murder would most 
 assuredly have been added to the *' bead-roll" of Hammerton's 
 iniquities. But, as good luck would have it, three farm labourers, 
 on their way to the village feast, came over the hedge at the end of 
 the spinny at the very moment, or the keeper never would have 
 Hved to tell the tale ; for Hammerton was standing over him with 
 his gun raised to give him the coup de grace, when a sharp excla- 
 mation from the man in the wood caused him to turn round, and he 
 saw the three labourers getting over the fence not fifty yards from 
 him. The second blow fell harmless. He dashed at once through 
 the hedge into the spinny, and made his escape with his comrade on 
 the other side of it. The labourers, had, however, seen him, but 
 no one dared to follow him, and they turned their attention to the 
 apparently lifeless keeper. The youngest and most active of the 
 three galloped down to the village on the keeper's pony, to tell the 
 news ; the other two carried the body up to the road ; and in less 
 than half-an-hour Johnson's brother drove up in a tax-cart, and 
 took him to his lodge. Although his skull was dreadfully fractured, 
 he was not dead j but brain fever set in, and for weeks his life 
 hung upon a thread. A strong constitution, however, pulled him 
 through ; and, although he never was the same man again, he still 
 kept his place as head keeper, but under strict injunctions that he 
 never again went out to watch at night. 
 
 It was not likely that such a desperate attack in broad daylight 
 should pass unnoticed. A hundred pounds reward was now offered 
 by Johnson's master for Hammerton's apprehension j and, as a good 
 
7be Poacher, 359 
 
 London detective was set on his trail, he did not long escape. He 
 was apprehended in London, tried at our next assizes, and sentence 
 of death recorded against him. The other man was never taken j 
 and Hammerton's sullen remark that he '' never would split upon a 
 pal, even if the halter was round his neck," gave the police very 
 little hopes of obtaining any information from him. Hammerton 
 was transported for life. After serving in a convict gang for some 
 years, he obtained a ticket of leave j and when tlie diggings first 
 broke out, like many others of his stamp, had an extraordinary run 
 of luck. But his eyesight failed him, and he set up a weather- 
 boarded lodging-house and sly grog-shop on Forest Creek. A young 
 man from the same village, who was working on the Creek, chanced 
 one afternoon to go in, and, as no one else was in the shanty, he 
 got into conversation with a hairy, purblind old ruffian, who was 
 smoking his pipe on a log. One question an " old hand" invariably 
 asks you as soon as you begin to talk with him is, *' And what 
 part of the old country do you come out of?" — and the young 
 digger found himself unexpectedly a guest of a man from the same 
 village as himself — a man whom he had never seen, but of whom 
 he had often heard, and a man, moreover, who appeared to feel 
 very httle remorse for the crimes he had committed, for he told the 
 
 digger his only regret was that " he could not get his b eyes 
 
 back again and return home, in which case he would be as bad as 
 ever he had been." 
 
 There are many such men in the bush and on the diggings — 
 ruffians on whose faces the " overseer's brand" (a broken nose) is 
 indelibly imprinted — men of whom, on looking at their brutal, har- 
 dened countenances, you are tempted to ask yourself " Could such 
 a man ever have been a baby ?" — men whose chief delight seems 
 to be to compare notes and growl out their deeds of villany in their 
 peculiar colonial slang, as they smoke their short pipes on an even- 
 ing in the log-hut or round the camp-fire. I have sat and listened 
 scores of times to their conversations, but I do not believe I ever in 
 a single instance heard one such man utter a sentence of regret for 
 his past life. 
 
360 The Poacher, 
 
 We have now done with Mr. Wilham Hammerton j and probably 
 the reader is by this quite as tired of him as myself. 
 
 The gang was now completely broken up, and we rarely after 
 this heard of any very serious affrays between the keepers and 
 poachers in our woods ; but a very lawless set still existed among 
 our villagers, who had always been noted as the worst characters in 
 the county, and they took to a new trade, that of sheep-stealing. 
 Bat we soon put a stopper on this game. However little the far- 
 mers might care when they heard that every pheasant had been 
 cleared oif in such a wood, or on such a night, they did not much 
 like to hear, morning after morning, that Farmer Smith, or old 
 Roberts up at the Lodge, had lost another sheep on the previous 
 night ; and as the sheep-stealers began to get more daring, a consulta- 
 tion was held as to what was best to be done. Now, the English 
 farmers take some rousing, but when once fairly roused, they gene- 
 rally prove themselves men of action and decision. So an associa- 
 tion was formed at once, about fifty members were enrolled from 
 our village and those in the neighbourhood, nearly a hundred pounds 
 were subscribed, and one fine morning a man (a London dealer) 
 walked up to Mr. Jack Russell's lodge, leading a brace of perhaps 
 the handsomest black-and-tan bloodhounds that were ever seen. In 
 the afternoon, a long-winded, lathy young fellow, who got his living 
 by rat-catching, was started with a drag (a sheep's head), with in- 
 structions to run it through two villages next to ours, come back, 
 and walk into our beershop, and there sit till the hounds came up. 
 We gave him two hours' law, and then laid the hounds on. It was 
 a treat to see them hit off his scent frcm the farmyard. The scent 
 was a hot one, and they followed him yard for yard, but in couples, 
 through all his doublings and dodgings j and he had scarcely been 
 seated in the beershop half-an-hour, before the deep bay of the 
 hounds, as they dashed up to the door, told us that he was there. 
 
 The little beershop, as usual, was filled with poachers and sheep- 
 stealers, and great was their astonishment when the door burst open, 
 and the dealer led the two hounds in, coupled up ; and greater still 
 when the rat-catcher, who had jumped up on to the table, threw 
 
The Poacher » 361 
 
 them down the sheep's head out of the pocket of his greasy old 
 shooting-jacket, and dehvered himself up as though in custody. 
 It was a capital play. I could have picked every sheep-stealer 
 out of that group, merely by watching their countenances at that 
 moment. 
 
 The hounds were stationed at Russell's -, he was appointed hunts- 
 man, and the rat-catcher ran the drag twice a w^eek during the 
 winter. The news soon spread far and wide, and for three or four 
 months none of our farmers lost a single sheep. But one Saturday 
 night, when tlie ewes w^ere lambing, in March, a fat ew^e was taken 
 out of Jack Russell's own flock. The loss was discovered in the 
 morning about five. There was a nasty little hoar-frost on the 
 ground, and the scent had got very cold. But the hounds were laid 
 on directly, and after a slow run of two hours, they took us to a 
 village nearly six miles distant, inhabited, if possible, by as bad a 
 lot as our own. They picked the scent up steadily step by step, to 
 the door of a cottage which they would not leave. Mr. Russell did 
 not stop to inquire whether he had any right or not to enter the 
 house without a warrant, but kicked the door open at once. Two 
 men sat at breakfast, with plates of sheep's liver before them (no 
 doubt the property of Mr. Russell), and in the corner of the house 
 lay the skin of the sheep just taken ofl'. We secured this, and the 
 next day the men were apprehended. They confessed, and were 
 transported for seven years. 
 
 We never lost a sheep after this 3 but we kept the hounds on, 
 and running these drags became such a fashionable amusement 
 among our hard-riding farmers that we always ran them on by- 
 days when the hounds were not out. We often used to have 
 from twenty to thirty well-mounted men at our meets, and, as 
 Russell always picked a stiff line of country, whenever there was a 
 good scent our drag hunts were more like steeple-chases than any- 
 thing else. This just suited the men who lived round us at that 
 time (I often wonder what sort of a lot live there now), and espe- 
 cially Jack Russell, who was always making some young one up 
 for the hounds ; and in this kind of hunting, as he observed, you 
 
362 The Poacher, 
 
 never need be afraid of heading your fox or riding over the 
 hounds. 
 
 Times have doubtless much altered since my day, and probably 
 now poaching is not carried on to the extent which it used to be 
 then 3 but I have not the least exaggerated, in the previous de* 
 scription, how it used to be with us some five-and-tvventy years 
 ago. I could not help remarking in Australia that nine-tenths of 
 tlie old convicts, according to their own confession, had been sent 
 out for breaches of the game laws j and, if such was the case, it 
 does indeed seem as if there was some peculiar charm in the 
 poacher's life. I am not one of those, however, who defend the 
 poacher, as many do, on this plea 3 and it would be just as absurd 
 to argue that game in a preserv^ed state is ferce naturce, and as 
 much one man's property as another. I have heard many use this 
 argument, but I fancy now we see things in a different light, and I 
 consider the man who walks into a preserve at night to shoot a 
 pheasant is as much guilty of a robbery as the man who breaks 
 into a hen-house to steal poultry, or into a sheep-fold to steal a 
 sheep. 
 
 Moreover, that man must possess a good share of hardihood of 
 the wrong sort who can wander about a forest in the dead of the 
 night, very often at the risk of his life, engaged in a pursuit which 
 he knows to be unlawful 3 and depend upon it such a man has 
 gone through the worst of the training to render him fit for any 
 other deed of rapine or bloodshed. In my younger days, I had 
 good opportunities of studying the habits of real desperate poachers, 
 and I am certain that such men would have just as soon stolen a horse 
 or a sheep as a hare or a pheasant, if the risk had been no greater ; 
 and the reason why we seldom suffered any depredations at the 
 hands of our gang was, that they acted upon the same principle as 
 the fox, who is said seldom to molest game or poultr)^ in the im- 
 mediate neighbourhood of his own earth. 
 
3^3 
 
 ON GUN ACCIDENTS. 
 
 It is a curious fact, but one which daily experience proves to be 
 true, that in ordinary life we generally find the most serious warn- 
 ings pass unheeded ; and it always appears, when we hear or read 
 of any of the numerous accidents which are so constantly happening 
 through the incautious use of fire-arms, that if the very commonest 
 precaution had been used, the accident would never have occurred. 
 Strange to say, these accidents are not confined merely to the young 
 and inexperienced — for during my career I have seen quite as many, 
 if not serious accidents, still, hairbreadth escapes, happen from 
 guns in the hands of old sportsmen who were well accustomed to 
 their use, as in those of the young and thoughtless ^ and whenever 
 I look back upon the accidents and hairbreadth escapes which have 
 come under my personal notice (and these have not been few), it 
 appears almost certain that not a single one would have taken place 
 if the merest caution had been observed. It seems that neither 
 remonstrance nor experience will ever teach men to be as cautious 
 with guns as they ought to he; and any invention which tends to 
 lessen the chance, or altogether prevent the possibility, of an acci- 
 dent happening with a gun, must be regarded as a great boon, not 
 only to every sportsman, but to mankind at large. 
 
 A perusal of some excellent remarks in the Field newspaper on 
 the breech-loader dictated this chapter 3 and if the invention 
 had no other recommendation than its safe manner of 
 loading, and the ease and quickness with w^iich the cartridge 
 can be removed, for safety sake, when the gun is put away, or 
 about to be carried in a gig, boat, or on horseback, these alone 
 would warrant every prudent man in adopting it. 
 
364 On Gun Accidents, 
 
 Experience has painfully taught us that a common percussion-gun, 
 when loaded, can hardly ever be considered perfectly safe from ex- 
 ploding, in whatever way it is carried or wherever it is placed. As to 
 carrying the hammer down upon the cap, I would just as soon see 
 the gun at full-cock, for about nine-tenths of the casualties which I 
 have witnessed have arisen from the hammer being slightly 
 elevated and then falling down again upon the cap. This is in a 
 great measure prevented by a plan I have seen adopted in many of 
 Rigby's guns — and I dare say those of other makers — which is, 
 where the sear has three catches into the tumbler, the first one 
 when the cock is scarcely raised one-eighth of an inch from the 
 nipple. Were this plan generally adopted, I am certain one-half 
 of the accidents which have arisen from percussion-guns would 
 have been avoided. I notice that this is the plan adopted with 
 foreign makers pretty generally, and I really believe that on this 
 account we do not hear of accidents arising from guns in any 
 country so frequently as in England. Were I a father, and about 
 to put a muzzle-loading percussion-gun into the hands of my son, 
 the lock should be on this principle and no other 5 and he should 
 be taught as his first lesson in\ariably to carry his gun with the 
 hammer at rest just off the nipple. In such a position it is next to 
 impossible for an accident to happen unless the locks break inside ^ 
 for if the hammer is suddenly and accidentally drawn back (unless 
 the trigger is pressed at the same time), it must either come up to 
 half-cock, or the sear will fall again into the third notch of the 
 tumbler instead of allowing the hammer to fall on the cap 3 and 
 even if the hammer of such a lock is suddenly drawn back when 
 resting on the nipple, the chances are that it will certainly come 
 back so far as to allow the sear to fall into the lowest notch, and 
 the hammer will not strike on to the cap. 
 
 Even at half-cock — which we must all acknowledge is the safest 
 way of carrying a common percussion-gun, the risk of explosion is 
 not altogether avoided J for we all know that very often a slight 
 blow will explode a cap, and I suppose (although I never knew a 
 case in point) that if the sear were to suddenly snap, through any 
 
On Gun Accidents, 365 
 
 flaw in the steel, the hammer would fall down and explode the cap. 
 Even when the cap is removed, a loaded gun is not safe. The foil- 
 lined caps are certainly safer than those in which the percussion powder 
 is only pasted into the top of the cap without any covering 5 but I 
 have known two instances myself of the gun firing through a little 
 of the detonating powder being left loose on the top of the nipple 
 after the cap had been removed. 
 
 Now these casualties may not altogether be avoided by the breech- 
 loading system, but two prolific causes of the accidents which are so 
 frequently happening with the old muzzle-loader are altogether done 
 away with by the new plan of loading. I of course allude to the 
 risk of one barrel in a double gun going off while the sportsman is 
 ramming down the charge in the other barrel, and to the chance of 
 the gun bursting through the wadding slipping up in the barrel 
 and leaving a vacuum between it and the charge. I will be bound 
 to say that there are very few men who have shot much, who have 
 not more than once in their lives, when loading a double gun in a 
 hurry, been horrified at discovering that they have been hammering 
 down the left-hand charge, for instance, with the right-hand lock 
 at full cock. Now this can never happen with a breech-loader. 
 
 If admonitions and warnings are to be regarded, and will serve to 
 render a man careful in the use of a gun, no one ought to be more 
 so than myself 3 for I have not only witnessed serious accidents 
 happen from firearms, but I have had some awfully narrow escapes 
 myself. I do not believe I am more careless than the generality of 
 sportsmen, and I ought to know how to use and handle a gun, if 
 practice can teach it 3 and yet I am certain not a year passes but I 
 can look back at the end of it, and call to mind one, if not more, 
 narrow escapes which, because I escaped, I thought nothing of, but 
 which, if I had not escaped, would have cost me the loss of a limb, 
 if not of my life. I believe a man who is in the constant habit of 
 ahooting by himself is, in general, far more reckless and careless 
 with his gun than the man who is accustomed to shoot in company. 
 It is true that the solitary sportsman has only to look out for him- 
 self, and does not risk the life of another by his carelessness 3 but it 
 
^66 On Gun Accidents. 
 
 is also true that he does not run half the risk which that man does- 
 who shoots in company : and I have now become so accustomed to 
 be out alone, that I always shoot nervously in a party. No power 
 on earth will ever now induce me to go out in a boat, if there is 
 more than one gun in it, I have just said no man, perhaps, has 
 had more serious warnings than myself, and I speak the truth. I 
 have had guns go off in my hand, when I least expected it j and 
 though I have escaped myself, had another man been with me, I 
 perhaps should have had a human life to answer for. I had a habit 
 in the bush (where one is of necessity required to have a loaded 
 gun in the hut or tent) of setting my gun at the head of my bed 
 (instead of, as I always do now, laying it on the bed during the 
 day), to be ready to catch up at a moment's notice. Three or four 
 times, when I have been taking it up quickly for a snap shot 
 outside the tent, the gun has gone off by the hammer catching the 
 edge of the bed. I was one dark night in England coming home 
 from pheasant-shooting on a fidgety mare. I got off to pick up a 
 glow-worm which was shining by the road side, and, in getting on 
 again, somehow or other, the gun went off in my left hand, and 
 the charge must have passed pretty close to my head, for my hat 
 was blown off. I was both deaf and blind for some time after, and 
 my face, when I got home (the mare ran away, and never stopped 
 till she pulled up at my own gate), was as black as a powder- 
 monkey's. Now these casualties, as well as a dozen more which I 
 could mention, were certainly caused by the hammer resting on the 
 nipple. 
 
 I once recollect crawling on to some black duck through a rough 
 tussocky plain in Austraha, wriggHng along, like a snake, close to 
 the ground, pulling my gun after me — when bang off it went, and 
 the charge ploughed up the ground just by my cheek. Now I was 
 certain in this case the hammer was down upon the nipple. In 
 these instances I have had no one to blame but myself. However, 
 more than once has my life been placed in jeopardy through guns 
 in the hands of others; and once I had so narrow an escape 
 
On Gun Accidents. '^6'j 
 
 from certain death that, at the risk of tiring my readers, I must 
 relate it. 
 
 When kangaroo! ng in Austraha, there was a little patch of swamp 
 oak, two or three feet high, in a meadow close to which some kan- 
 garoo used to come and feed every night, about a mile from our 
 tent. Besides our party there was anotlier tent about three miles 
 from us, occupied by two shooting American backwoodsmen, who 
 never drove the kangaroo, and when the drove came up murdered 
 them by wholesale with charges of buck shot, but always stalked 
 them in the bush, and killed tliem in a sportsmanlike manner with 
 long rifles. It is needless to say that they were both first-rate shots, 
 and I have seen them cut a pigeon's head off witli a single ball 
 when sitting on a tree at a distance of fifty or sixty paces. Although 
 the bush where we camped was as free to one as another, as each 
 party had lots of kangaroo within a short distance of home (this 
 was before they were shot out in the Western Port district), by a kind 
 of tacit consent we made a rule never hardly to go on each other's 
 beat. Now this patch of scrub was in our territory, and I never 
 expected meeting one of these Canadians there, especially at night. 
 I had often seen the kangaroo feeding here in the twilight, and one 
 evening determined to " lurch" one if possible. It was moonlight, 
 but hazy, and the moon gave a sickly uncertain light. I went 
 down quietly by myself through the forest, and got within, per- 
 haps, a hundred and fifty yards of the kangaroo, which I could 
 indistinctly see feeding by the edge of the scrub. I then began to 
 creep. I was dressed all in grey, with a kangaroo-skin cap on (this 
 colour I fancy best for all night shooting) ; and as I kept occasionally 
 cautiously lifting up my head while creeping through the scrub, to 
 peep if the kangaroo were quiet, I have no doubt, at a little dis- 
 tance off in that indistinct light, I could well be mistaken for a 
 kangaroo myself. I had not crept far, however, before the kan- 
 garoo either heard or winded me ; and the deep, measured " thump, 
 thump" of their tails upon the ground as they started otf was very 
 unpleasant music to my ear. But the click of the lock of a back- 
 
368 On Gun Accidents, 
 
 woodsman's rifle would have sounded far more unpleasant, could I 
 have heard it just then. I sprang up to see if I could get a snap 
 shot, but they had gone out of distance. 
 
 Just as I was turning to walk home, I was challenged by a deep 
 voice — 
 
 " Is that you, ?" and a figure rose out of the scrub where it 
 
 had been hidden. 
 
 It was one of the Canadians ! We stared at one another for 
 a while, as if each were an apparition. 
 
 "Waall, my bully, I guess you never was nearer than 
 
 you've been for the last five minutes. I've had my rifle three 
 times up to my shoulder, but I took it down again because I could 
 not get a clear pull at your head !" 
 
 It seems that the backwoodsman knew of these kangaroo as well 
 as myself, and had planted himself in the scrub for a shot before I 
 got down. But he had not seen the kangaroo at all. I had crept 
 down on the other side (little expecting any one was near me) so 
 quietly that he never heard me till I got into the scrub. His atten- 
 tion was then altogether directed to my movements. He took 
 me to be a kangaroo coming right towards him. I was rather too far 
 from him for him to make me out distinctly, and as I never kept my 
 head long above the scrub, he never had time to get a clear shot j 
 but a few more steps would have sealed my fate, for I was gradually 
 coming well within shot, and in fact, as he told me afterwards, had 
 I only raised my head on the last occasion instead of springing right 
 up, he should probably have pulled, for he was getting tired 
 of waiting — and I should never have lived to tell the tale. It is 
 not every man who can boast that he has been within range of 
 the muzzle of a backwoodsman's rifle pointed well on him, and 
 escaped as I did. We went back to our tent to supper, and both 
 agreed that stalking kangaroo at night was "hardly safe." 
 
 But the darkest day in my life was when I saw perhaps my 
 dearest friend (for we were both then just at the age when true and 
 indelible friendships are formed) shot dead within two yards of me 
 by his own rifle, as he was pitching it over the gate to another of 
 
On Gun Accidents, 369 
 
 the party to catch. The rifle, we all fancied, exploded in the air, 
 for the bullet went in at the front of his throat and came out at the 
 back of his neck ; and had he been struck down by lightning, his 
 death could not have been more instantaneous. I say we all fancied 
 that the rifle exploded in the air, for the man to whom it was 
 thrown did not catch it, and the rifle fell on the ground ; and 
 although we all heard the report, and saw the young man fall, not 
 one of us could, at the coroner's inquest, give any satisfactory evidence 
 how the strange accident happened. I was sitting across a gate 
 leading into a lane from a meadow which we had just crossed ; the 
 three others stood in the lane, having got through the hedge, and 
 my friend was alone in the meadow. When I last saw him alive 
 he was just uncocking the rifle, and I heard him distinctly call out 
 to one in the lane to look out and catch it. I stooped my head as 
 the rifle passed me in the air, and the same moment I heard the 
 report and saw the young man fall dead. We supposed he must 
 have taken the rifle by the end of the barrel, and pitched it but-end 
 first. It was, perhaps, not surprising that an accident should have 
 happened on this occasion, as our party consisted of five young 
 fellows under twenty-one, with three guns and one rifle amongst 
 us. I had no gun, for I had come down the North-road on one of 
 the London coaches, and the party had walked across to meet me. 
 It seems often as if these accidents were predetermined by Provi- 
 dence, and that no human foresight can prevent them, for in this 
 case there were but four bullets. While the party were waiting at 
 the roadside for me they had shot three bullets into an ash tree, and 
 the last one was in the rifle. They wanted me to fire this, and 
 make a diamond on the tree ; but I wished to try my hand at a 
 crow or a magpie, and I carried the rifle till we came to the meadow 
 where he was shot, when I gave it back to him. Now, had I fired 
 away the last bullet as the others wished me, this poor young man 
 would not at least have been shot by his own rifle. It happened 
 just before Christmas, and it is easy to guess what a gloom such a 
 sad occurrence shed over a quiet country family at this joyous 
 season. 
 
370 On Gun Accidents, 
 
 Without being anything of a fatalist, it seems hard to doubt that 
 the finger of an All-wise Providence directs even the minutest 
 actions in the life of man, and that althougli it is the duty of every 
 Christian to use all human caution to guard against accidents, it is 
 pretty clear to me at least that the most important events in our 
 career through life are predestined, and that no human power can 
 change their course. It is with no irreligious feeling that I say this j 
 on the contrary, such a belief teaches us that we are all in the hands 
 of a Higher Power, that we are totally helpless of ourselves, and 
 that we have no right, either to be too much elated by prosperity, 
 or bowed down by adversity, in this life. But I am writing 
 to amuse, not to sermonize my readers. If, as I fancy, it was plain 
 that the hand of Providence guided the bullet which struck my 
 young friend dead in the prime of youth and strength, another little 
 circumstance which happened to me, a short time after, as clearly 
 proves that the same High Power is constantly at work in our be- 
 half, and that many an accident which no human foresight could 
 have prevented was, for some wise purpose or other, turned aside, 
 but by a higher influence than our own. The circumstance which 
 I am about to relate appears almost too miraculous to be true : I 
 have often been doubted when I have told the fact in company, 
 (for it is as true a/ac^ as ever I wrote), and I shall therefore not feel 
 the least offended if any one doubts it. It was this : — 
 
 I had one afternoon, many years ago, come home from partridge- 
 shooting. I had just fired off both barrels of my gun at a covey of 
 birds in a bit of turnips, not three hundred yards from the bouse, 
 and I therefore did not see the least danger in setting the gun in a 
 corner of the kitchen, while I went up to get ready for dinner. I 
 had not fired a dozen shots the whole day, so did not care to clean 
 my gun, which I found standing next morning, apparently untouched, 
 in the corner where I had left it. Directly I took it up, a fat old cook, 
 who was always terribly frightened at the sight of a gun, began to 
 scream and run away 5 so, thinking that I would have a lark with her, I 
 put on two caps, and foolishly presenting the gun, snapped them off' 
 to frighten her. I will not say that I aimed straight at the old 
 
On Gun Accidents, ^ji 
 
 lady's head, nor will I say I did not — anyhow I fancy if the gun 
 had gone off, the whole charge would have passed through her like 
 a bullet. The explosion of the caps, however, frightened the whole 
 party in the kitchen nearly as much as if the gun had gone off, and 
 boy-like I walked out immensely pleased. But my feelings soon 
 changed, when I began to load in the yard. I rammed down 
 the powder in the left barrel all right, but when I came to the right- 
 hand one I could not apparently get the wadding well down. I 
 drew it, shook out the powder, and then found that the right-hand 
 barrel was loaded 3 and it went q^^ directly I tried it again with 
 another cap ! I attribute the first missfire to the powder not being 
 well rammed home, for paper had been used as wadding j but by 
 my ramming down the second charge of powder I had shaken the 
 first charge well down into the chamber. I did not go back into 
 the house, but walked directly to the stable, when the mystery was 
 soon explained. It turned out that the groom, who had ammuni- 
 tion himself, but no gun, had taken my gun early in the morning 
 and loaded it to shoot an "old steernel," as he called it, which fre- 
 quented our pigeon house. These country chaps have an absurd 
 idea that starlings suck the pigeons' eggs, and kill the young birds. 
 He could not, however, get a shot, and set the gun again in the 
 corner without saying a word to any one, having first taken the pre- 
 caution of removing the cap. This fancied precaution, however, 
 nearly cost a human life, for had the cap been on the gun, I should 
 of course have seen when I took it up that somebody had loaded 
 it, and I should not have attempted any practical joking with it. 
 Now had I shot this woman it would have caused me the regret of 
 a whole life, and, although it might have been quite inadvertently 
 on my part, I should have at least been guilty of wilful homicide, for 
 nothmg can excuse a man, who has no wish for the gun to go off, 
 in pointing it deliberately at a fellow-creature, even if he fancies 
 that he is certain in his own mind the gun is not loaded. I 
 felt quite convinced that this gun was unloaded, and yet how I was 
 deceived ! 
 
 One thing certainly is clear, that no mode of ignition can be 
 
 B B '> 
 
j^yz On Gun Accidents, 
 
 more dangerous than the common percussion system with the side- 
 lock, and when loaded from the muzzle the chance of accident is 
 doubled. Moreover, the system of loading from the powder-flask 
 is very objectionable, for it can easily happen that a spark may 
 remain in the barrel, which will ignite the charge when poured 
 in — the flash communicates with the flask, which bursts in the 
 hand. A friend of mine in Australia lost a thumb and three 
 Angers by this very thing 3 and another, a gamekeeper, in England, 
 whom I knew well, had his thumb and forefinger blown oft 
 the right hand by the left-hand barrel of his gun going off while he 
 was loading the right. Had he been loading the left-hand barrel,, 
 his whole hand would probably have been carried away. Now he 
 was a careful man, and his left-hand hammer was down on the 
 nipple j but a spaniel jumped up and pawed the gun while he was 
 loading, and caused the accident which might have cost him his life, 
 yow neither of these accidents could possibly have happened with 
 a breech-loader. 
 
 A gun is, however, never half so dangerous as when in a boat or 
 a gig. Twice have I been within an ace of being shot through the 
 head by a gun going oft' accidentally in a boat, and I will never now 
 go out shooting ducks if there are two guns in the same boat. One of 
 the most melancholy accidents I ever knew happened here about 
 three years ago, to a poor young fellow, an officer, who had only 
 left the river duck-shooting an hour before, to drive his two sisters 
 home in a little carriage. He was standing behind the carriage^^ 
 and shoved his gun in, but-end downwards, between the two girls„ 
 ihe muzzle pointing to his own head. The gun went off, and 
 literally blew his head away. 
 
 It seems clear that every one of these accidents or escapes could 
 have been avoided if proper caution had been used ; but, neverthe- 
 less, they did all happen (it is nothing to our purpose whether they 
 were caused by negligence or not), and I therefore again repeat 
 that any invention which renders it impossible that such accident* 
 can happen must be regarded as a blessing to mankind. It is not 
 enough to say, " Oh, such-and-such an accident could have been 
 
On Gun Accidents. 373 
 
 easily prevented, if proper caution had been used." But show me 
 the man who is always on his guard, and you will show me a being 
 that has never yet existed. The fact is, a gun is certainly the most 
 dangerous weapon a man handles; and a gun accident happens 
 always instantaneously, and without the slightest warning, and is, 
 moreover, if not fatal, sure to carry away a limb. Most other 
 accidents are, in some little degree, foreshadowed, and time is given 
 often for escape ; but not so with firearms. And when we consider 
 that weapons from which a serious accident can result in half-a- 
 dozen diiFerent ways are continually in tlie hands of one half of 
 the male population in every civilized land, the only wonder to me 
 is that we do not hear of ten times more accidents happening than 
 we do now. 
 
 We do not so often hear of an accident, at least in England, 
 happening from the bursting of a gun-barrel ; but in Sweden — 
 where every blacksmith is also a gunsmith after his own fashion, 
 and a barrel is never proved — the case is different. Some years ago 
 one of my fellows had a gun burst in his hand ; and when he went 
 into the Carlstad Hospital to have the wound dressed, the surgeon 
 told him that this was (I think) the sixth accident of the same kind 
 that had come before him within the last month. It was in the 
 spring, when the capercally were playing, and every peasant is a 
 poacher, and all sorts of old spouts are brought into use. In this 
 case there was no wonder at the gun bursting, for when I examined 
 the barrel after the accident, I found that the breech plug was not 
 screwed in, but just shoved in like a cork j and I fancy this was the 
 case with many others of these homespun barrels. 
 
 I have had four guns burst in my hand — the one a gingerbread 
 German walking-stick thing, in which the charge lay half way up 
 the barrel. I could never discover where the barrel flew to ; the 
 stick remained in my hand. The three others were good English 
 twist, and they did not fly, but only opened and bulged. I met 
 with no accident. I knew well how all these three barrels burst. 
 One was stuffed up with snow, the other with mud, which had 
 accidentally come into the muzzle 3 in the other, the wadding in 
 
374 ^^ Gun Accidents, 
 
 me right-hand barrel had risen. Now any one would wonder how 
 it was possible that three such accidents could happen with guns in 
 the hands of a man who was well accustomed to them 3 and so do 
 I now, as I sit in my chair and write this 3 but they did happen, 
 and I would not lay ^ to i that a similar accident might not happen 
 to me to-morrow if I were to go struggling through the snow in 
 our forests in the excitement of following up any game. Some 
 men are by nature more prudent and cautious than others, and to 
 such men there is less chance of accidents of any kind happening j 
 but not one man in a thousand is by nature careful enough to 
 warrant him saying that no gun accident can ever happen to him. 
 
 I have seen three or four awful smashes in Australia witli the two- 
 penny twist brummagem barrels that are sent out into the colonies, 
 when stock, lock, and barrel have all disappeared. One happened 
 at my tent door with a gun which a mate of mine had that very after- 
 noon bought for a 10/. note, against my advice. In fact, it was so 
 palpable a '^duifer" that no one but a fool would have trusted him- 
 self at either end of it. The barrel burst close to the breech. 
 Both locks were carried away (one flew into my tent), and, strange 
 to say, the man who fired it was uninjured. He held the gun with 
 his left hand stretched about ten inches up the barrel, which I 
 cannot help thinking is after all the safest way of holding a gun 
 when firing. 
 
 As I before observed, the common powder-flask is far from safe 
 when loading 5 but one would, at least think that tliere would not 
 be much danger of the flask exploding in the pocket. But it does 
 not appear that this is always so certain, for I once saw a very 
 carious thing happen in Austraha — where, however, strange and 
 unaccountable things are always taking place. Three of us were 
 out quail-shooting on a blazing hot day, and as the birds were 
 plentiful and lay hke stones, the shooting had been heavy. When 
 we sat down to lunch, we all took out our flasks to take stock of 
 our ammunition. On shaking his flask up and down to see how 
 near it was empty, one of the party fancied he heard something 
 rattle inside it. Upon unscrewing the top, to his surprise he found 
 
On Gun Accidents, 375 
 
 three lucifer matches in the flask loose among the powder. How 
 they got there, not one of us could form the least idea j but tliere 
 they were, for I saw them taken out myself, and I shall never 
 forget the sang-froid with which the man coolly lighted one of the 
 matches at his short pipe right over the open powder-flask, just to 
 see if it " would go 3" and having ascertained this important fact, 
 he tersely remarked : " Ah, that shows my time is not come yet." 
 
 Any one who reads the foregoing chapter of accidents will, I 
 expect, think that I have either grossly exaggerated, or else have 
 certainly seen much more than other men ; but neither of these is 
 tlie case. I could mention a score more narrow escapes if I wished, 
 which had happened either to myself or to other men in my 
 presence ; and I have no doubt that if any one of my readers, who, 
 like myself, has shot hard for thirty years, were to reckon up all 
 the accidents he had witnessed or narrowly escaped, it would be 
 seen that others have had quite as many narrow escapes as myself 
 with guns. 
 
 I will merely add that this chapter of hair-breadth escapes is not 
 intended as a sensation article. I have not exaggerated a single 
 fact, nor is a single statement contained in this narration untrue. 
 I wrote it merely to put young sportsmen on their guard, and to 
 prove how easily an accident may happen from a gun, be tlie cause 
 carelessness or what it may. 
 
 A gun now-a-days is in tlie hands of as many men and boys as 
 an umbrella or a walking-slick, and in nine cases out of ten is 
 handled and tossed about in quite as careless a manner. 
 
 When this letter first appeared in the columns of The Field, 
 one correspondent informed us that he had read it with astonish- 
 ment, and probably both might also have added, with incredulity j 
 another, witli amusement 3 but both joined issue on one point, that 
 the escapes and accidents therein described were the results of 
 "gross and unpardonable neghgence." I was seriously thinking of 
 confessing myself to the readers of The Field as a man in whose 
 hands a gun could hardly be safely trusted, but luckily just before I 
 went to confessional, I received a letter from a very old frier-d of 
 
37^ On Gun Accidents, 
 
 mine, a gamekeeper, who told me he had read my chapter with 
 great interest, and that if he chose he couhl narrate quite as many 
 narrow escapes. Now, probably, this man had had double the 
 experience, perhaps ten times that, of the two Field correspondents 
 who sneered at my list of escapes — so I was perfectly satisfied 
 that if casualties with guns are always to be attributed to careless- 
 ness, there was at least one man living who was as careless as 
 myself. 
 
 Probably many men may have shot for years without either an 
 accident or an escape ; but I do not think snch men have any 
 right altogetlier to attribute this circumstance to their great care 
 and caution when handling guns, for I have no doubt that if they 
 did but know it, many times the muzzle of their guns have been in 
 a position (though perhaps only for a moment) when a discharge 
 would have cost them a life or a limb. I do not for a moment 
 deny that a naturally careful man is much fitter to be trusted with 
 a gun than a careless one j but no one can say that a gun is always 
 safe even in the hands of the most cautious and experienced — for I 
 again repeat it, that no mortal can be on his guard at all times j 
 and a man, when out shooting, will often altogether forget even 
 that he has a gun in his hand, and at such times it is impossible 
 for any one to say that an accident might not have happened had 
 Providence so willed it. 
 
m 
 
 ON THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF 
 MANLY AND ATHLETIC EXERCISES, 
 
 SUCH AS SPARRING 5 AND A FEW REMARKS IN 
 
 DEFENCE OF THE MUCH-ABUSED CUSTOM 
 
 OF BRITISH BOXING. 
 
 I. 
 
 ** Why should scholars bend for ever 
 
 Over Livy's pictured tome, 
 "Why ponder o'er the terse with lore 
 
 Of ancient pagan Rome ? 
 Why sigh to view the chariots 
 
 Career 'midst dust and spray. 
 Why long for oil and canvass 
 
 Of an ancient circus day ? 
 
 II. 
 
 ** Ye artists, take Apelles' pencil, 
 
 'Twas a sight to woo the chisel 
 Of a Phidias, when each Roman 
 
 Chose to die before he'd " mizzle." 
 When the Latian tens of thousands. 
 
 Sat and gloried in the " foight," 
 At the clashing of the cestus. 
 
 At the glancing of the quoit. 
 
 III. 
 
 ** Oh, then there were no crosses. 
 
 When a man once dared to peel. 
 No lyings down to compromise. 
 
 No turnings on the heel. 
 
^'^S Manly and Athletic Exercises. 
 
 Each loved the slip of palm-tree. 
 
 Far more than sordid gold. 
 Each loved the crown of parsley. 
 
 In the ruddy days of old. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Then men retained their sinew. 
 
 And their giant strength of limb. 
 Till old age made them totter, 
 
 And their eagle vision dim ; 
 Then men could hit out gallantly. 
 
 Though verging on four-score. 
 There were no cigars and brandy. 
 
 In the ruddy days of yore." 
 
 In the end of 1864, a discussion took place in the columns of The 
 Field on the advantage which would accrue to all who feel a pride 
 in those manly and athletic exercises which are so characteristic of 
 the youth of Great Britain (and of those of no other country under 
 the sun), by the institution of sparring clubs in all our large towns, 
 where the members could keep themselves select, and practise an 
 exercise which is so peculiarly British, and, perhaps, one of the best 
 and most useful going — that of sparring with the gloves. The sug- 
 gestion, as might have been expected, when emanating in the 
 columns of so manly and straightforward a paper as The Field, met 
 with general approval, and many of its readers who were utterly 
 opposed to loxing, advocated the practice of sparring with the gloves. 
 Of course I took a part in the discussion, but unfortunately my zeal 
 carried me a little beyond bounds, and the transition from the spar- 
 ring-room to the twenty-four foot roped-ring was so natural and 
 easy, that my letter not only advocated strenuously the benefits 
 which would accrue to every young man from becoming a profi- 
 cient in the art of sparring, but I even had the audacity and hardi- 
 hood (and it does require some little amount of courage in these 
 days of refinement to say a word in favour of a custom which is 
 fashionably designated as disgusting and brutalizing) to enter into a 
 defence of the much abused system of fair British boxing. 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 379 
 
 This letter drew down upon my head a tremendous philippic from 
 one of the old school, like myself, but no friend to the ring, in 
 which he stated that letters such as mine should never be admitted 
 into a paper like The Field; and after a column's abuse of the prize- 
 ring, and all who had anything to do with it, he wound up by ob- 
 serving, that it was a disgrace to the country that prize-fighting was 
 not made criminal like cock-fighting and bull-baiting. 
 
 Of course I was bound to defend my position as best I could ; 
 and as I still adhere to my original opinion, and am not the least 
 ashamed of repeating anything I have ever yet written in the defence 
 of the practice of fair British boxing, properly carried out, I trust 
 I shall be excused if I recapitulate in these little Sporting 
 Sketches what I then wrote, merely observing, that I am far from 
 expecting that all my readers will be of the same opinion as myself j 
 and as every one can see by reading the heading of this chapter upon 
 what subject it treats, no one is obliged to read it unless he pleases, 
 but can skip it and go on to the next. I shall, however, hope that 
 it will interest some. It is needless here to quote my opponent's 
 letter at full length, but I must at starting set forth the gist of his 
 arguments and observations, because my reply to them forms the 
 groundwork of this present article. 
 
 He first begged to know what I was asking for, and how far I 
 should wish to go ? 
 
 He told us that he was old enough to recollect the time when 
 cock-fighting and bull-baiting had as many advocates as the ring 
 has now, adding that the same innate cruelty of our nature is at the 
 root of all these barbarous amusements. 
 
 He then asked me, did I wish those days to return when (quoting 
 my words in a previous letter) " the rules of fair fighting, as exem- 
 plified in the prize-ring, became, as it were, the law of the land," 
 when a dispute had to be settled by an appeal to the arms ? 
 
 Did I wish milling to return ? or would I, while gentlemen are 
 content to settle their disputes amicably, or by an appeal to law 
 courts, encourage those whose passions are fierce to have recourse to 
 violence ? 
 
3<'^o Manly and Athletic Exercises, 
 
 He asked me did I wish to contend that the British youth of the 
 present day are not as manly and well bred as in the days ot 
 Mendoza or Beau Brummel, or when Horace Walpole with other 
 members of the aristocracy used to attend executions ? 
 
 He stated that it was all clap-trap to say that the rabble who 
 crowd to see a fight between two navvies, go to see fair-play, or to 
 admire manly pluck, or skilful science, '^It is the untamed savage 
 w ithin us." And he moreover stated, that he himself had seen 
 bloody fights enough at fairs and races, attracted to them by a strange 
 fascination, when " he knew he was not in the right place j" and he 
 further added, that the attraction to all such sights (executions, 
 prize-fights, and women endangering their lives on the tight-rope) 
 is the same feeling of morbid excitement. 
 
 He asked why the arguments in favour of fostering a pugnacious 
 principle among boys at school should not equally apply to girls. 
 He tells us of "■ Saturnalian epochs " which used to take place at his 
 school half a centur}^ ago, just lefore the holidays, when the httle 
 boys were urged on to fight by the big ones. 
 
 And he wound up his letter with this monstrous remark, " If 
 prize-fighting is the manly British pastime that it is represented, 
 why do not our noblemen and gentlemen put themselves upon an 
 equality with the players as they do in other sports? If they did, 
 and a few of them were knocked into the other world, the ring 
 w^ould soon be put down." Why, he might just as well say that 
 eve»r)^ ''gentleman" should be obliged to serve in the ranks as a 
 private soldier. 
 
 This was his case, and this is my reply. 
 
 I am asked how far I would go, and w^hat am I asking for ? I 
 am asking for the opponents of the ring to state their case fairly — 
 not to support it by false arguments — and I want no clap-traps to be 
 used on either side. I would go thus far and no farther. I would 
 do all that lay in my power once again to restore the British prize- 
 ring to the position it held in the days when Crib and Spring were 
 champions, and when those scenes of brutality, violence, and intimi- 
 dation which are the characteristics of prize-battles at the pre- 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 38^ 
 
 sent day (and which have alone brought the prize-ring to the low 
 position it now holds) were unknown. I would wish no more. 
 
 I do not consider that a combat between two parties who are 
 free agents and rational beings, who can begin when they please, 
 leave off when they please — in fact, have no occasion to begin at. 
 all unless they do please — can even by the most ingenious sophistry 
 be placed in the same category as the baiting of balls and other dumb 
 animals. I am no advocate myself for dog-fighting, because I am 
 sorry to see such faithful, generous, and useful animals put to so bad 
 a purpose ; but I am not here going to defend or condemn it. I 
 see nothing in cock-fighting a bit more cruel or barbarous than many 
 other of our field sports 3 and if the same " innate cruelty of our 
 nature" is at the bottom of all, the motive that leads me to see an 
 execution, a prize-fight, a cock-fight, a horse-race, or a steeple-chase, 
 must be the same j and hunting, shooting, and angling must, if we 
 are consistent, and argue only on these grounds, be placed in schedule 
 A, as well as prize-fighting. 
 
 I do most sincerely wish to see those times return (if they have 
 ever departed from our countrymen, which I much doubt), when 
 the rules of fair fighting, as exemplified in the prize-ring, became^ 
 as it were, tlie law of the land 3 when a dispute had to be settled by 
 an appeal to arms ; and by arms, be it clearly understood, tliat I 
 mean such only as nature has provided man with. 
 
 It is in my opinion, one of the best features of the age we live in 
 tliat duelling is abolished, and I trust it will never be revived ; and 
 I hope I may yet live to see the day when flogging in the 
 army will be put a stop to. I will allow that it is an open question, 
 but, for my part, I should be happy to see capital punishment abo- 
 Jshed in all civilized nations. 
 
 Some gentlemen may be inclined to settle their disputes amicably 
 or by an appeal to the courts of law — two very excellent plans, but 
 hardly to be adopted I fear in all cases. We must, I suppose, allow 
 something for the difference of habit and feeling, acquired by educa- 
 tion, between the higher and lower classes. Disputes between gen- 
 tlemen do not in general commeuce with any violence, and one 
 
SS2 Manly and Athletic Exercises. 
 
 gentleman can reason with another, which would be of little use 
 with a rough after he had sent forth the fierce British challenge, 
 bidding you *^ stand up fairly and fight like a man." 
 
 I deny altogether that to settle a quarrel by an appeal to arms (as 
 I understand the term) is (quoting the words of my opponent) "the 
 most unfair and cowardly that human ingenuity can devise." The 
 weak is not, as he says, always necessarily at the mercy of the strong, 
 for how often do we see a big bully soundly thrashed by a man of 
 half his size. 
 
 Although I am not going to set myself up as champion for tlie 
 morals of the members of the British P.R., I will say this, that I 
 have known many of them, and some pretty intimately, from old 
 Tom Crib down to Jem Mace, and, take them as a class, they have 
 invariably been quiet and well-behaved men, and in general far 
 superior to men of the same rank in life following different occu- 
 pations. 
 
 I have no wish to see members of our aristocracy in the habit 
 of attending executions, and I will never for a single moment allow 
 that the attraction to such a sight is " the same feeling of morbid 
 excitement" which draws a man to the side of the prize-ring. There 
 doubtless are some brutes in the world who would gloat over any 
 sight of refined cruelty, but it would be the grossest libel upon some 
 of the kindest and best-hearted men I ever had the pleasure of 
 knowing to say that this was the feeling which attracted them 
 (where I have often seen them, and where they were not ashamed 
 of being seen themselves) to the side of the prize-ring. If this 
 argument holds good, it will, of course, apply to myself as 
 well as any other man. Now, I have seen one execution in 
 my life, at Horsemonger-lane, and I would not see another 
 for a large sum of money. Through the influence of the Under- 
 SherifF, I was admitted into the gaol, and stood close to the poor 
 wretch when the drop fell. I have seen many and many a good 
 prize-battle since, and all I can say is, that I wish I was going to 
 see another, conducted after the old style, to-morrow. But the 
 "feeling of morbid excitement" never drew me again to the foot 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 383 
 
 of the scaffold, although I had plenty of subsequent opportunities 
 of witnessing executions if I had pleased -, but I always made a 
 point of seeing a good prize-fight whenever I had a chance. It 
 speaks, I fancy, very poorly for a man's moral courage when he 
 acknowledges that he has seen "bloody fights enough at fairs and 
 races," attracted to them by a strange fascination, when "he knew 
 he was out of place." 
 
 As to the practice of fighting at schools, I have lately read that 
 the boys at our large schools are more refined than they were — 
 "much above that sort of thing now," and that the custom is dis- 
 continued ', and this has been quoted as an instance that the present 
 age is becoming more polished, and that pugilism is on the decline. 
 
 I know little of the habits of school-boys now-a-days. My school- 
 days (so grossly misnamed by some as the happiest days of one's 
 life) have left no single remembrance in my breast save that of 
 utter repugnance. It is probable that the proprietary schools of 
 the present day may turn out more " genteel young men " than the 
 schools of some thirty years ago. Still I should be very sorry to 
 allow that school-boys ought to set the fashions of the age j and 
 just as sorry should I be to acknowledge that a single lesson which 
 I learnt at school (save reading, writing, and arithmetic) was worthy 
 to be remembered in after life. 
 
 A greater set of tyrants and bullies than the bigger boys 
 were I never hope to meet again, and as was natural with 
 slaves, the younger lads during their novitiate were a parcel 
 of unprincipled little sneaks, whose sole aim was to curry 
 favour with their tyrants at the expense of their comrades, and pass 
 the days of their slavery (for no slavery could be more abject and 
 pitiful than that of a fag to a bullying master) as best they might, 
 cheered by the sole reflection that when the time came, they would 
 pay off the debt they were incurring with full interest, which they 
 never failed to do when they rose to be masters ; and I fancy this 
 is much about the same at large schools of the present day. Fagging, 
 bullying, fighting, and flogging had full licence at the public school 
 where I was " dragged up." As for bullying and fagging, of course. 
 
3^)4 Manly and Athletic Hxercises, 
 
 these two systems have left nothing but the most unpleasant recol- 
 lections on my mind, especially as I had not the pleasure of stay- 
 ing there long enough to enjoy a little reign of tyranny myself. I 
 had my share of fighting, and came off sometimes the winner, 
 sometimes the loser j but the severest thrashing I ever got in a fair 
 stand-up fight left nothing more than a transient feeling of (what 
 shall I say ?) disappointment in my mind, certainly, nothing like 
 malice against my conqueror, w^hereas feelings of revenge at the 
 treatment I received from the bigger bullies of the school rankled 
 .n my breast years after I had left it. As to the flogging part of the 
 business, that has certainly left its remembrance, and one not easily 
 effaced, for, like Mr. Foker in " Pendennis," I sometimes dream even 
 now '' that the doctor is walking into me." I can certainly not 
 uphold the Saturnalian epochs alluded to in my opponent's letter, 
 but I fancy these must have been very harmless battles, if, as he 
 says, the master always allowed them to take place just before the 
 holidays, for, although a father may jokingly ask his son when he 
 comes home at Christmas, " Well, Charley, how many boys have 
 you thrashed this half?" I can scarcely fancy that an anxious mother 
 would be particularly well pleased at seeing a young son come home 
 with a black eye, especially if she knew that this academical polish 
 was reserved to the end of the half, so that there might be no mis- 
 take about the lad carrying his brand home with him. This, how- 
 ever, is neither here nor there, for I feel pretty certain that battles, 
 at school, if fairly and manfully conducted, never did the boys who 
 fought the slightest harm in afterlife. 
 
 If all disputes between gentlemen can be so easily settled 
 amicably, or by appeal to law courts, how is it that disputes between 
 nations cannot be settled in the same way ? When the time arrives, 
 that standing armies can be safely dispensed with, then will I at 
 once retract every sentence I have written — every syllable I have 
 uttered in defence of the prize-rmg j but as long as it is absolutely 
 necessary for every nation to keep up bands of paid and trained 
 fighting men, who are bound to take the field armed with deadly 
 weapons, against they know not who, and in a cause of w^hich 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 385 
 
 notably they understand little, and for which they care less, I do 
 again repeat that it is sheer nonsense to raise such an outcry against 
 the prize-ring. What a deal of inconsistency and humbug there is in 
 this world. We glory in the account of a victory which is probably 
 gained at the expense of thousands, but pretend to be shocked at 
 the description of a fair stand-up ficrht between two men, armed 
 with no other weapons than those prft^idedby nature, and even the 
 use of which is modified and restricted, so that not once in a hun- 
 dred times can any fatal accident result, and neither of whom is 
 in general a bit the worse a fortnight after the fight than he was 
 before it. One of the favourite arguments with the opponents of 
 the prize-ring is this, that the common prize-fighter has no ani- 
 mosity against his opponent ? Why, therefore, should he punish 
 him ? Does it not seem that this remark will equally apply to the 
 red-coated prize-fighter ? 
 
 Prize-fighting is peculiarly a British institution, and one of which 
 no real Englishman need be ashamed. When it is properly carried 
 out on the continent, of course, where the words *'^fair play" are 
 unknown, the practice is stigmatized as brutal and disgusting, and 
 the British nation branded as blood-thirsty blackguards. This all 
 looks very well upon paper, and would sound all the better if I could 
 see that our continental neigbours were a bit more honourable, 
 manly, or less brutal and blood-thirsty than ourselves. I have now 
 been in many European countries, but I never was in one yet where 
 the lower orders had not some national method of settling disputes 
 other than by arbitration or appeal to law courts. The French 
 sabot, the Itahan stiletto, the Yankee German hug, are just as 
 common in their peculiar districts as the fair knock-down blow of 
 the Englishman, and yet we have no outcry against all these. It is 
 only the unfortunate practice of British boxing, which after all 
 said and done is the manliest and less cruel of all, that is stigma- 
 tized. We must all allow that, whatever the national mode of 
 fighting, the one which is least likely to sacrifice human life is the 
 one most worthy of being adopted. That the naked fist is the 
 most harmless no one can deny, and the moderation and fair play 
 
 c c 
 
385 Manly and Athletic Exercises. 
 
 exhibited in prize-battles render them by far the least dangerous 
 combats in which men can engage. Moreover, in whatever foreign 
 land can a man cry enough when he is beaten, and where but in 
 England will the bystanders, to a man, see that both parties in a 
 casual encounter have fair play ? It is most unfair to condemn an 
 institution because it is badly managed, and I think that the greatest 
 proof that there must be good in the British prize-ring lies in this 
 fact — that in no other country in which the practice of boxing is 
 unknown do we ever see the rules of fair play which are, as it were, 
 so characteristic of the good Englishman, the least regarded in the 
 settlement of those unavoidable quarrels and disputes which must 
 and will be daily occurring as long as man is man. And why is 
 this ? Because the rules of fair fighting exemplified in the ring 
 became, as it were, a part of the law of the land, when a dispute 
 must be settled by an appeal to arms 5 and the pluck and manly 
 forbearance of the good British boxer was not only admired but 
 imitated by his countrymen. Let foreigners abroad, and let who 
 will at home, abuse the prize-ring as an arena fit for nothing but 
 blackguards and ruffians, no one can, however, deny the fact that 
 if a man — whether he be an Englishman or a foreigner — happens 
 to come into a row in England, he may chance to get a good lick- 
 ing, but in nine cases out of ten not a man will lay a hand upon 
 him save his opponent. As soon as ever he pleases to acknow- 
 ledge himself beaten the fight is stopped, and every bystander, 
 although all may be total strangers to him will see that at least he 
 lias fair play. There is something so truly British in the words 
 " Give him fair play," that one would almost think they were one 
 of the earliest lessons of a true Englishman's childhood. I do not 
 mean to say there are not exceptions to the rule. We have brutes 
 and ruffians in England as elsewhere, and perhaps a brutal English- 
 man is the greatest brute under the sun 3 but, thank God ! these 
 men are not to be taken as types of our national character. 
 
 Far different is the case when a man, especially if he be a 
 stranger, gets into a row in a foreign country. The words " fair 
 play," as we understand them, are scarcely to be found in any 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 387 
 
 foreign vocabulary. Such a thing as a fair stand-up fight is scarcely 
 known out of England ; and when a man is lying defenceless at 
 his opponent's feet, then is the time (anywhere but in England) to 
 punish him. Still, however, I should care little, if I had only one 
 man to deal with, how he fought — whether he kicked me on the 
 side of my head with his sabot, after the manner of our volatile 
 and polite neighbours across the Channel j whether he tried the 
 German- Yankee hug, or came at me with a swinging round open- 
 handed blow on the ear, as is the fashion in Sweden — so long as he 
 came at me alone, and we were left to settle our little passage of 
 arms without interference j for I will back any good man possessing 
 a knowledge of sparring to lick a rough, even at his own game, by 
 straight knock-down blows. But when foreigners fight, they 
 scarcely ever let two men fairly fight it out. Three or four will set 
 on one 3 and it is very little use a poor fellow crying out that he has 
 had enough, with two or three men on him, not one of whom has 
 the shghtest idea of fair play. I am not contending that an English- 
 man is to expect that every man with whom he falls out must be 
 obliged to fight after English fashion. I do not complain of the 
 foreigner's method of fighting when no deadly weapons are used. 
 Like the brutes (and man is little better than a brute when his 
 worst passions are roused), different men have different tactics 3 but 
 still, whatever his mode of fighting, there should at least be that 
 generous impulse implanted in the breast of every man which will 
 forbid him to trample on a fallen foe, and that honest manly feeling 
 which will not allow him to use a knife or any other weapon 
 against an unarmed adversary. 
 
 It is for this reason that I always have upheld, and always will up- 
 hold as far as lies in my power, the fair and manly custom of British 
 boxing — not solely because it teaches men a less brutal and better 
 mode of fighting, but because it implants in the breast of every 
 man who has witnessed a prize-fight fairly conducted, a system of 
 manly forbearance, and a detestation of that cowardly practice 
 of striking a fallen foe, or setting two men upon one like wild 
 beasts. 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 Manly and Athletic Exercises, 
 
 Moreover, in what other country is the knife held in such uni- 
 versal detestation as in England ; and God grant that the opponents 
 of fair British boxing may not be over-zealous in the cause, and 
 while putting down an old English custom, introduce among their 
 countrymen this along with other foreign fashions ! I am truly 
 glad to say that the knife is certainly going out of use in Sweden, 
 but it is not easy to teach old dogs new tricks j and we seldom hear 
 of a fair or any other meeting of peasants even now without the 
 knife being drawn as soon as they get drunk. The fact is this, the 
 fist is the Englishman's weapon, the knife is the foreigner's — and 
 which is the best ? I recollect once hearing a foreign gentleman 
 vehemently declaiming against the brutality of the English prize- 
 ring, and ten minutes after uttering the following sentence respect- 
 ing a man who had made himself obnoxious : " Oh, he had better 
 not go out after dark." Fancy such a speech coming from the lip& 
 of Jem Mace or Tom King. 
 
 Times and the manners of men certainly change as centuries 
 roll round, and the savage customs of our forefathers give way to 
 the march of intellect and civilization. Witness the deadly com- 
 bats of the Scandinavian ^'Balt spannare," when the two naked 
 combatants, armed with knives, were strapped together so that 
 there could be no flinching from the cold steel, and the battle 
 rarely ceased till one or other of them fell dead from his wounds. 
 Those barbarous practices have, however, passed away and the best 
 memento of them which we now possess is Malin's beautiful bronze 
 statue, as large as hfe, of the old Swedish "Bait spannare." This 
 is now set up in the park opposite the theatre in Gothenburg, and a 
 more beautiful piece of statuary I never beheld. The two struggling 
 forms locked together in mortal conflict ; the savage determined 
 expression depicted in the countenances of the two gladiators, for 
 whom there is no retreat j and the distended muscles, are all so true 
 and natural, that one almost expects, while gazing on this splendid 
 work of art, to see the two naked figures start into life, and a real 
 instead of an imaginary battle take place. I remember that I was 
 
 W 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 389 
 
 in Gothenburg the day it was put up, and naturally stopped to look 
 at it. A few people were grouped around it, and among them I ob- 
 served a crew of Bohus Land fishermen. Every one had his case- 
 knife by his side, and, as I watched their stern determined counte- 
 nances while they silently criticised this statue, I felt pretty certain 
 that the spirit of the old "Bait spannare" had not entirely died out, 
 but that if a man unhappily came in collision with this crew, the 
 case-knife at their sides would prove their readiest weapon. By a 
 •curious coincidence, on returning to the town I saw exposed in a 
 •shop window a picture of the boxing match which had just taken 
 place in England between Tom King and Jem Mace. On pushing 
 my way through the crowd to have a look at it, I found the full crew 
 of an English brig admiring it, and it sounded cheery in a foreign land 
 to hear these manly fellows' remarks upon the battle. Now each of 
 these sailors had his clasp-knife by his side, but, nevertheless, I felt 
 pretty certain that if I did chance to get into a row with one of 
 them his knife would never be drawn against my naked fisc, and 
 though very probably I should receive a good licking, I should be 
 sure at least of a fair even-handed light, and that his mates would 
 never interfere even if I did get the best of it, as long as I fought 
 fairly. And it is my firm belief that this manly feeling is in a great 
 degree owing to the usages of the British prize-ring, properly 
 conducted, and, moreover, that it will in a great measure die out 
 among our lower classes when the prize-ring is put down, and the 
 race of good old English boxers becomes extinct. 
 
 I do not consider that I am myself a bit more cruel or evil 
 disposed than my neighbours, although I do uphold the cause of 
 fair British boxing, looking upon the practice as I do as a necessary 
 evil. Once for all I will say this : I regard fighting and quarrelling 
 of ever}^ kind as a breach of the moral law, and as a social evil 5 
 and if all would obey the Divine commandment, that man should 
 love his neighbour as himself, we could dispense with many other 
 institutions besides the prize-ring which the conduct of man 
 towards his brother has now rendered absolutely necessary, not 
 
390 Manly and Athletic Exercises. 
 
 only to protect his property, but his very life. If man had retained 
 his original innocence, neither the prize-ring nor many other 
 customs equally culpable, would require supporters or opponents. 
 But as long as the nature of man remains as man himself has 
 perverted it 3 as long as I see the unmistakable curse of Cain 
 branded on so many countenances j as long as I meet with ruffians 
 among the lower classes of every land in which I travel j as long as 
 I see that the quarrels and disputes which daily arise between men 
 of refinement and education are conducted with quite as much spite 
 and malice, and are marked with every feature, except, perhaps, the 
 bloodshed, which characterizes a street fight between two of the 
 most ruffianly blackguards in London — so long will I uphold the 
 fair practice of British boxing, as teaching the lower classes especially 
 the most natural and least brutal way of settling those disputes 
 which can neither be arranged amicably or by appeal to the courts 
 of law, and these are far more numerous than many of us suppose. 
 Change our nature altogether, and then will I respect my opponent's 
 doctrine 3 but this, I fear, is not going to be done all at once, seeing 
 that it has remained much about the same for some thousands of 
 years, and vices of all descriptions flourish as luxuriantly in the 
 nineteenth century as of yore. I do not, however, for one moment 
 wish to contend that it does absolutely follow that the prize-ring 
 must flourish in order to keep up the true pluck and bottom of the 
 British nation j but this I will say, that the rules of fair play as 
 exemplified in a boxing match fairly conducted must and ever will 
 set a good example to the lower classes, and teach them a far more 
 humane and manly method of settling those disputes which are of 
 daily occurrence than any foreign nation can boast. 
 
 Depend upon it, if boxing is done away wdth the savage disposi- 
 tion of the mob will remain unchanged, and some other mode of 
 settling disputes among the lower classes will be soon adopted. It 
 is all stuff to talk about amicable settlements and courts of law to 
 men who do not possess the better feelings dependent on birth 
 and education. When their worst passions are roused, let any 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises, 391 
 
 opponent of fair British boxing with the naked fist suggest a better 
 plan for the settlement of all such disputes as cannot be amicably 
 arranged, and I will cheerfully bow to his decision. But as I feel 
 certain that no one will be able to do so, and as I also feel quite as 
 certain that some other redress than that afforded by the courts of 
 law will be sought for by the lower classes, I once again, and for 
 the last time, contend that fair British boxing is the best recourse, 
 and that as long as the prize-ring exists, boxing matches will 
 generally be conducted in a fair and manly spirit. It is rarely that 
 any national custom is put down without a foreign one usurping its 
 place, and trifling as any such innovations may appear, they never- 
 theless point significantly to departing nationality. 
 
 One thing is certain, that this is not the time to interfere in the 
 least with any custom, rude as it may be, which has the slightest 
 tendency to keep up the true old national British spirit among our 
 lovk^er classes. The fact may not be apparent to those '^ gentle- 
 men of England who live at home at ease," but men like myself 
 who reside abroad cannot shut their eyes to the fact of the grossest 
 jealousy with which Great Britain and all her doings are regarded 
 by all foreigners, and I say it in full confidence that I am speaking 
 the truth, that she has not one true friend in any foreign nation, 
 nor is there, I fancy, a single country in the world (although they 
 may not perhaps own it), but would rejoice to see her involved in a 
 war which might ultimately prove her downfall. " Why does not 
 England help the Poles?" "Why does not England help the 
 Danes?" was in everybody's mouth in the north of Europe during 
 these late disturbances. All honour to our good Queen and her 
 advisers, that we were not drawn into that struggle, and I trust 
 that we may always steer as clear of interfering between foreign 
 powers. It is probably on this account that the English have lost 
 great caste on the continent, but whatever the cause, one thing is 
 clear, that the name of an Englishman certainly does not now carry 
 the prestige in any foreign country which it did twenty-five years ago. 
 
 This, however, I care little about, and as long as Britons are but 
 
39 2 Manly and Athletic Exercises. 
 
 true to themselves, I have httle fear for the old '" red, white, and 
 blue." But the day may not be so very far distant when England 
 may have to hold her own in another great struggle, and depend 
 upon it, then she must trust solely to herself, and the chief actors 
 in the scene will have to be chosen from the very men who take 
 most interest in those sports which it has of late become the fashion 
 to cry down. 
 
 Whatever changes may have taken place, I have never said or 
 even fancied that the British youth of the present day are a bit less 
 manly than they were in the days when I was young. I certainly 
 do think that we ape our neighbours across the Channel rather too 
 much, and I could perhaps point out more than one change since 
 my young days, which I do not think has benefited qs in tlie least. 
 But I have every confidence tliat the heart of '^ Young England" 
 is still in the right place 3 and, even if prize-fighting does die away, 
 we have cricket, hunting, rowing, steeple-chasing, and many other 
 sports left, and, as far as I can see, quite as good a breed of young 
 fellows as ever we had to carry them on. 
 
 If public opinion has so strongly set in against prize-fighting, it 
 seems far better that it should be altogether done away with than 
 kept up by the feeble balances which now uphold it. And in con- 
 clusion I will remark, that it appears to me perfectly unaccountable 
 if there is such a strong feeling against the prize-ring in England, as 
 many pretend, that boxing matches are not decidedly put a stop to 
 at once. They must either be legal or illegal 3 if they are legal, it 
 seems a great shame that they should be interfered with — and if 
 they are really illegal, it is a disgrace to all who have anything to 
 do with the administration of justice in the land that they are not 
 put down. The arm of the British law generally proves itself 
 strong enough to suppress any public nuisance or ofifence against the 
 laws 5 and no good Englishman ever attempts to interfere with the 
 administration of justice when the law is put in force for the real 
 welfare of the subject. There was little or no trouble in putting 
 a stop to bull-baiting and dog-fighting, and if the prize-ring has not 
 more stanch admirers among all classes, it wolU be just as easy to 
 
Manly and Athletic Exercises. 393 
 
 put a stop to boxing. But I most emphatically deny that such is 
 the case j and with the recollection of the fight between King and 
 Heenan, and Heenan and Sayers, fresh in my mind, I feel confident 
 that if we had as good men in the ring as we had thirty years ago, 
 and if prize-fights were still conducted as fairly and honourably as 
 in those days, that boxing would still be as popular as ever, and 
 that it is owing solely to the misconduct of the men themselves 
 connected with the ring, and to no reaction of true British 
 feeling, that the prize-ring has been brought to its present low 
 position. 
 
394 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 A Sketch from Australian Bush-Life in 1853. 
 
 The traveller who has made an Australiari voyage in a crowded 
 passenger-ship will well remember the feelings of joy which he 
 experienced when the bluff headlands of South Australia first burst 
 upon the view — a rugged, iron-bound coast, whose rocky mountains 
 rise perpendicularly from the sea, and against whose bases the rude 
 waves of the Pacific have lashed in wild fury for ages ; the sum- 
 mits clad with huge forests of iron and stringy bark, whose soli- 
 tudes, but a few years since, were unbroken save by the loud, shrill 
 coo-ee of the native, or the dismal howl of the dingo. A couple 
 of days' coasting, and the Heads are in sight, and, passing through 
 a narrow and dangerous inlet, little more than one English mile in 
 breadth, the good ship rides safely in Port Philip Bay, one of the 
 most beautiful in the world. This magnificent land-locked bay, 
 which more resembles a large inland lake than anything else, is 
 about forty miles in length, and perhaps twenty across ; and, as the 
 emigrant gazes for the first time upon the landscape of singular and 
 novel beauty by which he is on all sides surrounded, the vicissitudes 
 and hardships of the past voyage are forgotten, and any regrets 
 which he may have felt on leaving the land of his birth, perhaps 
 for ever, fade away as he contemplates the smiling aspect which 
 the new country of his adoption wears upon its first introduction. 
 
 As the ship proceeds further up the bay, the country gradually 
 opens upon the view, and, till Geelong is reached, nothing is seen 
 but low beaches, faced towards the sea with stunted honeysuckles 
 
The Wreck, 395 
 
 and gum-trees, or belts of mangrove scrub. After passing Geelong, 
 Mount Elisa dimly rises in the background behind the Geelong 
 plains 3 Melbourne and Sandridge indistinctly loom in sight, while 
 the Dandenong ranges, rising proudly to the north, stand out in 
 bold relief against a cloudless southern sky — the whole scene form- 
 ing as bold a panorama of nature as the eye ever gazed upon. 
 
 Should the vessel stand in towards the larboard shore, the long 
 flat beach from Geelong to Williamstown will be plainly seen — a 
 belt of stunted honeysuckles, faced by a dense wall of mangrove 
 scrub and banks of black, sun-dried seaweed, the accumulation of 
 ages, shutting out the interior landscape from the view. Behind 
 these honeysuckles is another belt of scattered gum-trees, extending 
 along the whole coast, perhaps a mile in breadth, having far more 
 the appearance of an English park than the primeval forests which 
 are met with on the Western-Port side of the bay j while the whole 
 country beyond is one vast arid, stony plain, over which the weary 
 traveller may plod for miles and miles without a tree to shelter him 
 from the fierce rays of the burning sun, his sole companions the 
 solitary wild turkey, or the little plover of the plains, whose long 
 melancholy cry — in perfect unison with the wild regions which it 
 frequents — is the only sound which breaks upon a solitude painful 
 in its intensity. 
 
 Concealed in this nest of honeysuckles, a little south of Williams- 
 town, is a large swamp, in my day called Langhorne Swamp — a 
 rough, tussocky marsh of perhaps two thousand acres, covered with 
 rushes two feet high, and studded by lagoons of ditferent sizes, which, 
 affording capital breeding-ground, were the nightly resort of the 
 hundreds of wild-fowl of all descriptions, which by day rode leisurely 
 on the placid waters of the bay, or lined the banks of seaweed 
 which fringed the coast. 
 
 This swamp was divided from the neighbouring station by a creek, 
 bearing the ominous but well-earned name of Skeleton Creek, 
 being filled with weather-bleached skeletons of cattle j for in 
 summer, when the burning sun had dried up all the water 
 on the plains, this, like most other Australian creeks, was 
 
39*^ TJ^e Wreck, 
 
 nothing more than a succession of muddy water-holes ; and 
 the poor beasts, half-maddened with heat and thirst, would 
 heedlessly venture on the treacherous bottom, which, yielding 
 to every step, at last sucked them in, and held them as securely 
 as a vice. Retreat was impossible, and the poor creatures, ex- 
 hausted by vain struggling, would fall on their sides, never to rise 
 again, and suffer the most horrible of all imaginable deaths j linger- 
 ing often for days, tantalized by the sight of the water which, 
 although within a few feet of their noses, it was impossible for 
 them to reach j the rays of the sun shooting down upon the brain, 
 as though concentrated in the focus of a burning glass 5 myriads of 
 huge blowflies depositing living maggots in their eyes, ears, and 
 noses, and, before death came as a welcome relief, their bodies 
 becoming one living mass of corruption. Talk of the horrors of a 
 living grave ! I cannot imagine any death half so dreadful as this j 
 and yet the stockman who had missed a bullock off" the run would 
 carelessly ride by, and, if it was not one of "our brand," would 
 leave the wretched animal to linger on, without either trying to 
 extricate it or killing it out of its misery. 
 
 In the year 1853, there stood in the belt of gum-trees that 
 skirted this coast, and about half a mile from the sea, a large tent, 
 which was well known to every Melbourne duck-shooter as the 
 "grass-cutters' tent," and many a beaten sportsman has gladly 
 hailed the thin blue smoke of this camp-fire, curling among the 
 old gum-trees, for then he well knew his toils for that day were 
 over, and he was sure to find food and shelter for the night — a rude 
 shelter, it is true, but a welcome one. 
 
 Let me introduce the reader to this tent — and how vividly does 
 my mind recal the scene ! The sun has sunk fiery red behnid Mount 
 Elisa, the deep gloom of night (which sets in here as soon as ever 
 the sun dips below the western horizon) hangs over the forest like 
 a dreary pall, and the bright blaze of the log fire in front of the tent 
 shines like a meteor in the waste of darkness, rendering every object 
 for a hundred yards around as visible as by day. Five or six figures 
 are grouped around the fire, chatting, smoking, or resting after their 
 
The Wreck, 397 
 
 day's labour. These are the grass-cutters, the inmates of the tent, 
 who are employed on the swamp cutting grass for the Melbourne 
 brick-makers. A stranger coming suddenly upon this group would 
 be puzzled at first to guess their occupation or station in life. They 
 might be smugglers — a supposition which the situation of their tent 
 well favoured 3 or they might even be bush-rangers, who had pitched 
 upon this wild spot as a camping place. Two of them are unmis- 
 takably sailors, whose profession can be detected at a glance 5 but 
 what the rest may be it is more difficult to say. The old cabbage- 
 tree hat, the blue jumper, and the moleskin trousers bespeak the 
 working-man, but it is plain this is not the station they were 
 born for, and, although almost every other sentence they utter is 
 garnished by some strange oath or colonial slang, it is certain that 
 better things might be expected from their lips. 
 
 It was in the early days of the diggings, and men of every coun- 
 Xxj, of every station in society, had swelled the ranks of adven- 
 turers that flocked to this new Eldorado. All, however, were not 
 successful on the gold-fields 3 and as some means of subsistence 
 must be found, and light places in Melbourne were eagerly snapped 
 up by such men as really either could not or dared not face the 
 bush on their own account, many a young man of high birth and 
 good education found himself in a situation which a year 
 before he little dreamt ever of filling. To their credit I will say 
 that they most of them took well to the new life, and I have had 
 many proofs in Australia that "an ounce of blood is worth a 
 pound of flesh " in the struggle through life as well as on the race- 
 course. It was very difficult at that time to say who was who in 
 the bush. I recollect on one station where I was camped, a clergy- 
 man of the Church of England was hut-keeper to a lot of Sydney 
 sheep-shearers 3 and stopping one day on the road to accost the 
 younger son of a lord whom I had known at home, but who was 
 then seated on a stone-heap, industriously breaking stones at so 
 much per yard, he told me that he was in rare company, for his 
 next neighbour was nephew to a bishop. These were, indeed, 
 strange times, and such as I fancy we are hardly likely to seeagain^ 
 
398 The Wreck. 
 
 and I strongly recommend the curious reader to consult Lewis's 
 "■Victoria in 1853," a book containing an account of the manners 
 of a people and country which is faithful and true, but will probably, 
 by any one who has not witnessed the scenes which he describes, be 
 looked upon as an exaggerated romance. 
 
 Still, coarse as may be the dress, and rough as may be the ex- 
 terior of the men under observation, there is all the frank hearty 
 manner of the real bushman about them 3 and as one watches them 
 one insensibly feels that although out of place in this rude spot, 
 there are men among the group whose manners would not disgrace 
 the best drawing-room in England. 
 
 But there are two men sitting on a log together who deserve a 
 passing notice. The tight, well-knit, spare forms, the jack-boots, 
 and the long, heavy stock-whips wound round their bodies, all 
 bespeak the stock-rider, even were not their two horses standing 
 close by, tied up to a small honeysuckle. These two answer to the 
 names of Jack and George, and are evidently mates, bound by that 
 indissoluble tie which is perhaps nowhere felt so strongly as in the 
 bush. But, though sworn friends, there is little resemblance 
 between the two men. There is nothing very striking about the 
 appearance of Jact : he is a little, merry-looking fellow, with a 
 bright, twinkling eye, and evidently a ''light-hearted boss," one 
 who would confidently penetrate the wildest part of the colony on 
 his favourite stock-horse, encumbered with no other baggage save a 
 pair of hobbles, an opossum rug, his quart pot, a little tea, sugar, 
 flour, tobacco, and matches. He is an old hand, and evidently an 
 old stock-rider. The other is a man of altogether different stamp. 
 Far younger, muscular, and strongly built, it is nevertheless quite 
 clear that he has not the wear and tear of his mate j and as he 
 stoops down to pick up a coal to light his short, black pipe, the 
 fitful blaze of the fire lights up a countenance in which intellect 
 and good-nature struggle for the mastery — and I think, take it all 
 in all, I never looked upon a much handsomer or finer face. There 
 was something about the very air and appearance of this young man 
 which bespoke good breeding, although he was not a whit less 
 
The Wreck. 399 
 
 colonial than his comrade, and his remarks proved that this -was not 
 his first night in the bush by many hundreds. He had been lucky 
 on the diggings and made a little fortune, and was on the point of 
 returning home to his friends in England, whom he had never seen 
 or heard of for years ; and, to pass the time and keep out of the 
 town till the ship sailed, he was living with his old friend Jack, a 
 stock-man on a neighbouring station. The evening wore on, and a 
 desultory conversation — about as intellectual as one generally hears 
 around a camp-fire, in which Jack (who was principal spokesman 
 on all occasions) was engaged in a fierce argument with one of the 
 grass-cutters, as to whether the "kiddy" or the "cove" could drive 
 a laden bullock- dray best out of the bush — was stopped by the 
 abrupt inquiry from his younger mate as to whether he was going 
 to sit there yarning all night. Five minutes afterwards, the 
 clattering of their horses' hoofs, at that sling canter peculiar to the 
 stock-rider, had died away in the distance, and all was soon silent 
 in the grass-cutters' tent. 
 
 Like most men who landed in Australia at this time, I had a turn 
 on the diggings, but luck was against me. I came down to 
 Melbourne without a shillinor and for a month or six weeks 
 knocked about the town, livmg as best I could, sometimes lumping 
 on board a ship, sometimes at one thing, sometimes another. I 
 well recollect I lodged at this time in a little, low sailors' boarding- 
 house inBourke-street,the landlord of which, although an "old hand," 
 was a capital fellow, and behaved most kindly to me. Two curious 
 things happened during my connexion with "Dan." I was one of 
 the company in his back parlour when the Escort robbery, if not 
 planned, was at least talked over nearly a month before it 
 happened, and I well recollect Dan's prophetic words : " It 
 will never do, my lads. It will take six men for the job, and where 
 will you find six men in the colony who will stick together where 
 money is concerned ?" The other was this : Dan had saved a little 
 money on the diggings and in his boarding-house, and resolved to 
 return to England by, I think, the Madagascar. He oflfered me a 
 
400 The Wreck. 
 
 passage home with him if I would accept it, which, however, I 
 declined. As the ship lay in the bay, one, if not two, of the Escort 
 robbers were taken off her. What became of the ill-fated vessel 
 no one ever knew j it is certain she never reached home, and 
 whether she foundered among the icebergs south of the Horn, or 
 was seized by the crew and scuttled (for she had a large cargo of 
 gold on board), is, I believe, a mystery to this day. 
 
 Coming down Melbourne one afternoon, heartily sick of my 
 colonial prospects, I happened to meet a man I had known in the 
 old countr}'-. He had hired this swamp for the purpose of cutting 
 grass, and as he wanted some one to go down for a short time and 
 overlook the work, I gladly accepted the job — more especially as I 
 had heard the duck-shooting there so highly spoken of. 
 
 It was not a bad billet. I had little to do but walk about the 
 swamp with my gun, count the bundles of grass as they were cut, 
 sell them to the draymen, and pay the men who cut them. In 
 fact, I was what we used to call in the old coaching-yards " odd 
 man" on the swamp, and, although I believe I was looked upon by 
 the grass-cutters themselves as a regular" loafer," I had a very jolly life 
 of it. The men who worked for us were principally runaway sailors, 
 who had left their ships in the bay, and were glad enough to lie hid 
 in our tent till the search for them was over and they had earned 
 a few pounds to take them on to the diggings. In fact, any one 
 who wanted an odd job, found his way down to the swamp j and 
 some strange acquaintances I formed there. 
 
 It was the morning after the night I allude to (I think the 28th 
 of October), that I was out on the coast at daybreak, to get a 
 good morning shot at the wild-fowl, which used to assemble and 
 sit in hundreds on the seaweed banks to rest after their night's 
 feeding. The wind was blowing a heavy gale from the south, and 
 the usually quiet bay was a sheet of foam, which came dashing in 
 as wave after wave rolled on to the beach. While walking along 
 the seaweed, I chanced to spy a Dutch cheese, which had been 
 washed up above high-water mark 3 presently anothei, and another^ 
 
The Wreck. 401 
 
 till at length I came to a broken box half filled with cheeses, 
 and many other articles, " too numerous to mention," as the 
 auctioneers say, lay strewed about. I secured my prizes, hiding 
 them in the mangrove scrub, and hastened back to the tent to give 
 the intelligence that there must have been a wreck on the Heads, 
 and no telling if this south storm continued to blow, what might 
 be washed up. After breakfast, we all turned out, and on going 
 down to the beach, a singular sight presented itself. The coast, the 
 whole length of our station, and probably for miles beyond, was 
 strewed with articles of every description — wax candles, nuts, 
 cheeses, boots, books — in fact, everything that constitutes a general 
 cargo was there. The storm was unabated, and package after 
 package, barrel after barrel, was washed in on the crest of the waves. 
 That there had been an awful wreck on the coast was certain. It 
 turned out that a large ship, the Ontario, laden with a general cargo 
 from Liverpool, had struck on the Heads and just gone to pieces 3 and 
 the wind blowing right on to the Geelong coast, the principal part of 
 her cargo was washed up there. The news spread like wildfire, and 
 every one on the station left work for ^'^ wrecking." At last the 
 larger and heavier articles began to make their appearance, and 
 hogshead after hogshead of port wine, gin, and brandy came rolling 
 in one after the other, like so many porpoises. The dry goods were 
 little cared for as soon as the barrels reached the shore 5 and as 
 more than one barrel was tapped on the beach before it could be 
 taken up, a scene of wild, lawless confusion ensued, such as I never 
 witnessed before, and trust I never may witness again. We were 
 all suddenly transformed into a brutal, selfish, greedy crew of 
 wreckers — battles took place over more than one hogshead, and no 
 one on that day could say, ^' I am better than my neighbour." I 
 don't know how many hogsheads of liquor were secured, but I recol- 
 lect that three fell to our share, which were carried upon bollock- 
 drays in triumph to our tent, where they stood against the door foi 
 any one to taste who passed by. The brandy lasted the longest, 
 and would have lasted much longer but that an old fellow, who had 
 
 D D 
 
407, The Wreck. 
 
 had many a previous tasting-order, called at the tent one night when 
 we were all in bed and requested a dram. I did not turn out, but 
 told him where he could find a pannikin, and went to sleep. On . 
 going out the next morning, the old boy was lying on the ground 
 insensibly drunk by the side of the barrel he had upset, and, as he 
 had forgotten to put the spigot in, the liquor had all run out and 
 fairly deluged him. I wonder he was not smothered. It reminded 
 me of the lay brother in Tom Ingoldsby's admirable legend of the 
 " Lay of St. Dunstan." 
 
 Any one who has spent a year in the bush about that time, 
 can well fancy what a scene that station presented as long 
 as the spirits lasted ; and what impressed me most of all was, 
 not a single Custom-house officer or policeman made his ap- 
 pearance during the whole time of the wreck. All work was 
 at a standstill j the men's huts were filled with brandy, which 
 was handed round in pannikins like water. There is no telling what 
 valuables are yet to be found in that scrub, so many were the 
 articles '' planted," to be called for on a future occasion, and the 
 hider entirely forgot where he had hidden them. One thing is 
 quite clear, that if the cargo had been altogether a dry one more 
 than one man would have made his fortune, for some thousand 
 pounds' worth of things must have been washed ashore. 
 
 How long the wild revelry would have lasted it is quite 
 impossible to say, had not a circumstance happened on about the 
 sixth day which at last brought our lot to their senses, and checked, 
 if it did not entirely quell, the riot, which had now reached its 
 height. It was on the Thursday morning, and the wrecking was 
 over. Only by chance was a stray article now washed up, and the 
 beach was so fairly combed by roughs from Melbourne that we had 
 almost given up looking out. The elder of the stockmen had been 
 our constant companion during the wreck, and the busiest of the 
 busy among the wreckers, but I had never seen George during the 
 whole time. He was a very quiet man, and rather avoided than 
 sought our company. However, on the Thursday morning they 
 
The Wreck, 403 
 
 both rode up to the tent, and we all went down to the beach to 
 pick up some nuts, which were scattered along the whole coast just 
 like gravel. For some days we had not seen a hogshead come in, 
 but on this morning it seemed to be fated that, just as we got down 
 to the beach, the last cask of gin should come tumbling in. Three 
 ]\Ielbourne roughs disputed possession, but our party was too strong 
 for them, and we rolled it above high-water mark. If we had but 
 known that death lay in that cask, we might not have been so 
 eager to secure it. We had neither gimlet nor pannikin, so it was 
 tapped with a knife 3 and as there was a beautiful spring of cold 
 water close by, in a kind of grotto we used to call " the Smugglers' 
 Cave," we filled a cabbage-tree hat, and mixing some gin therein, 
 retired to the shelter of the cave to rest till the heat of the day was 
 over. Most of us slept, and when I woke the sun was getting low. 
 As it was my turn to cook for the week, I returned to the tent to 
 get supper ready, leaving the rest of the party sleeping. I waited 
 for a couple of hours, but as none came home I went to a neigh- 
 bouring hut to see if they were there, and I shall not easily forget 
 the scene that hut presented. A bucket of brandy, with a pannikin 
 floating about in it, stood in the middle of the floor j and a rough 
 fellow, the master of the ceremonies, lay on his bunk, yelling out, 
 "Drink mates, drink ! We don't get a wreck every week." The 
 hut was filled with strange-looking fellows in every degree of 
 intoxication — squabbling, quarrelling, swearing 3 and such was the 
 din and uproar that we none of us heard a horse gallop up to the 
 door, which suddenly opened, and Jack, with a face as pale as 
 death, leant against the door-post. Every one seemed sobered by 
 this sudden apparition, for all instinctively felt that something was 
 wrong. It was some little time before he could speak, but at last 
 he stammered out, '^Is there a sober man among you?" It was 
 curious to hear the different answers to this (as they all considered 
 It then) insulting question, and every one seemed prepared to take 
 his oath in the most solemn manner that he, at least, was perfectly 
 sober. But I could hardly notice this, for my heart felt sick and 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 'ihe Wreck, 
 
 faint, as I knew that something dreadful had occurred. " What is 
 it. Jack ?" at last asked one of the soberest of the party, going up 
 to him. ''■ I've killed poor George !" was the answer, and he sank 
 down upon a bench, the very picture of misery and despair. 
 "Where's the body?" I directly asked. "On your bed in the 
 tent," was the reply. We could make nothing more out of himj 
 so jumping on his horse, which stood outside, I galloped back to 
 the tent, about half-a-mile distant, to see what really had 
 happened. 
 
 Had I needed proof that something dreadful had taken place, 
 the melancholy looks of our poor old bulldog, who was chained at 
 the entrance of the tent, would have furnished it. In general, 
 when I came home, I had the greatest difficulty in getting into the 
 tent, for the old fellow was so glad to see me, and always testified 
 his joy by the most uncouth antics and caresses. Now, however, 
 the case was different. He uttered no bark of welcome as I rode 
 up, but sat half in and half out of the tent, every now and then 
 looking in with a mournfulness of countenance that was almost 
 reproachful. The poor dog had been neglected during the last 
 week, and now his sad looks seemed to say, as plainly as words 
 could speak, "Come in and see the end of it." My heart fairly 
 misgave me, and I would have given worlds to turn back and avoid 
 the ghastly object which I knew lay awaiting me in the tent. 
 There was, however, nothing for it but to go in 3 and pushing by 
 the old dog, who followed me as far as his chain would allow, I 
 went up to the bed, and if I was prepared for a dreadful sight, that 
 which then met my eyes was far more horrid than anything I had 
 anticipated. The man was not dead, but lay on his back, his head 
 in a pool of blood. His glassy eyes intently fixed on me as I 
 entered, blood and froth bubbling up between the lips of his half- 
 opened mouth, as with both hands he convulsively clutched the 
 opossum rug which covered my bed. His forehead appeared to be 
 literally split open, and at the first glance it seemed as if I could 
 see right into his head. I raised him a little, and taking off my 
 
r/ie fVreck. 405 
 
 neck-cloth bound it on the crown and tied it under the chin, for it 
 really appeared to me as if the top of his head would come off. 
 He uttered not a sound, not even a groan 5 and were it not that his 
 eyes and lips seemed to move a little, and the blood came from his 
 mouth at regular intervals of respiration, I should have fancied him 
 dead. I could do nothing alone, so galloped back to the hut, to 
 send one of the party for the nearest doctor, and then returned to 
 the tent to keep solitary watch over the dying man. 
 
 It was one of those lovely evenings so peculiar to the Australian 
 spring : the sun was sinking fast, and his evening rays, as they shot 
 into that solitary tent, fell full upon eyes which never would behold 
 their light again. The air was laden with the perfume of the gum 
 blossoms ; flocks of little green paroquets were gaily chirping in 
 every tree -, the rosellas dashed by me in all their wild freedom, 
 and the forest re-echoed to their glad screams of joy. All seemed 
 happy on that sad evening, save man. 
 
 I found poor Jack stupified, still sitting on the bench where I 
 had left him. We questioned him as to the cause of the accident : 
 it was this. He and George had agreed to race home from the 
 beach ; they had almost reached the tent, when George's horse, 
 swerving, carried him under a honeysuckle, a branch of which 
 struck him on the forehead and dashed him from his horse. He 
 never spoke again. His comrade picked him up and laid him 
 insensible on the bed. This was the whole of the sad story. 
 
 As I neared the tent on my return, the long dismal howl of the 
 old bulldog struck mournfully on my ear. I loosed him from his 
 chain — he crept into the tent and laid himself down by the side of 
 the dying man's bed (they had always been friends), and he never 
 ceased his watch till the corpse was carried out. Poor George was 
 just as I had left him 3 he neither moved nor uttered a groan. His 
 eyes were still wide open, and, though apparently fixed upon 
 vacancy, seemed to follow me about the tent wherever I moAed. 
 This might have been fancy, but certainly he did not appear to be 
 sensible. I dared not move him, for I thought perhaps that might 
 
4o6 The Wreck, 
 
 hasten death. I poured some cold tea into his mouth, but he could 
 not swallow it, and, save for a faint gurgling in his throat, I could 
 liardly tell whether he was dead or alive. I sat down upon a box 
 at the foot of the bed, and though I tried to keep my eyes off that 
 ghastly countenance it was in vain — there seemed some strange 
 fascination in those staring eyes and blood-stained cheeks. Never 
 did time seem so long as when I sat by that death-bed waiting for 
 the doctor j none of my mates came home, and I really thought 
 that dreadful evening would never end. At length up galloped 
 the doctor : a regular colonial one — ''short, sharp, and decisive" — 
 no time to waste in useless words. He gave one quick glance at 
 the poor fellow, felt his pulse, pulled his head about a little, and 
 then, turning to me, said in one rapid sentence, " My word, it's a 
 bad job 5 I hope you chaps won't get into any mess about it. How 
 did it happen ? well, no matter. You see I can do no good here — 
 can't find a new head for him. He'll die in a few hours, and, 
 unless you wish him to die in your bunk, you'd better get him out 
 of the tent as soon as possible j" and, springing on his horse, he 
 galloped off as suddenly as he had come. He told me, however, 
 before leaving, that the poor fellow would lie perfectly quiet till 
 death was at hand, when he would struggle and want water, which 
 would be a sure sign that he had not many minutes to live. These 
 words were fulfilled to the letter : he died about two in the morning, 
 never having uttered a word since the accident, and in his last 
 moments appeared to suffer dreadful agony. 
 
 My mates came home late in the evening, so that I was not 
 alone when he died 3 and next day we got a bullock-dray and 
 carried the body into the wool-shed, ^^^here we laid it on trestles 
 till a coflBn could be made. Of course this sad event threw a 
 damper over all, for poor George was a general favourite. The 
 coflBn was made that day, and as the wool-shed was full of rats 
 and native cats, two of us sat up all night with the body. Next 
 morning a cart was hired to convey it to Williamstown for burial, 
 and about half-a-dozen of his friends followed on horseback, each 
 
The Wreck, 407 
 
 with a crape band round his cabbage-tree hat. It was curious to 
 hear the ditFerent remarks as the body was hfted into the cart. The 
 sailors, of course, monopohzed this job, and "That's you," "End 
 on end," " Gently does it," "Cant him a little over," would have 
 sounded strangely in the ears of a professional undertaker. 
 
 I did not go to the funeral, for I could not get a horse. More- 
 over, I wanted to put the tent a little to rights j and as soon as I 
 had shut the paddock-gates after the mournful procession, I wended 
 my way slowly back to the tent, accompanied by the two sailors. 
 The first thing I did was to cut the blood-stained branch off the 
 honeysuckle which caused his death 3 and I have it now, a memento 
 of the sad event. 
 
 Death is a solemn subject at all times, and his presence is felt 
 equally in the palace as in the cottage j but never more deeply 
 than when he invades a small circle of men who are in a manner 
 isolated from the rest of the world, and whose sole dependence is 
 upon each other. The bushman has in general few friends, but 
 these few are bound to him by far stronger ties than the word 
 friendship generally conveys : and when one of the party is 
 snatched away, his form is missed at every turn. In the bush, at 
 the camp fire, in my wanderings over the lonely swamp, the dead 
 man had often been my only companion, and his cheery laugh stiU 
 seemed to ring in my ears 3 and where was he now ? No 3 a man 
 must seek the solitude of a bush tent to know the real meaning of 
 the word " mate." 
 
 Night fell, and none of the funeral party had returned, and about 
 eleven, tired of watching, I threw myself in my clothes down upon 
 the bed which had so lately been occupied by a corpse. At day- 
 break a man from the hut, who was coming to fetch wood out of 
 the paddock, called at the tent, and told me that a horse and dray 
 were standing at the paddock fence. I went to fetch them home, 
 and found three horses with empty saddles behind the dray. As 
 soon as breakfast was ready, the first of the mourners appeared. 
 He had lost his horse on the plains, and had come home on foot j 
 
4-c8 The Wreck, 
 
 he could not tell where he had lost his mates j he knew that they 
 left Williamstown together, and that is all he recollected. His 
 description of the funeral was graphic in the extreme. 
 
 They reached the churchyard in good order, and had to wait 
 nearly an hour for the clergyman 5 the man who officiated as clerk 
 was in such a state of inebriation that he could scarcely read the 
 responses, and the only spectators w^ere a few diggers, who were 
 walking off the previous night's excesses, and had wandered into the 
 churchyard as they recognised a friend in one of the mourners. How- 
 ever, ^'^ ashes to ashes" closed the sad service, and poor George, hurried 
 from a scene of boisterous excitement, was left quietly in that bleak- 
 looking little churchyard, many thousand miles away from his native 
 village. Little did his friends at home, w^ho had waited so long ""'with 
 the s'.ckening anxietv of hope deferred," for tidings of the absentee, 
 think that the autumnal sun of the 6th of November was shining 
 on his new-made grave. 
 
 As soon as the funeral was over, his friends mounted their horses 
 to return home. It was a sore trial to pass by " Old Jennings's " 
 without just calling in for a '" nobbier," and to talk over the dead 
 man 3 but they had made up their minds for once to leave the town 
 respectably. And so they would have done, if they had not been 
 obliged to pass the house of the subtlest of all tempters, one Paddy 
 Connor. This old fellow was a kind of cattle-dealer, a personal 
 friend of the deceased, and was, as he said, " far too much affected 
 at his death to be present at the funeral." This did not, however, 
 prevent him w^atching for the funeral procession as it passed his 
 house on the road home, and he stopped them, "just to inquire 
 whether they had given poor George a dacent burial." The old man 
 was not a bad sort, although a rough one j and as he stood upon his 
 door-step, he proposed that the whole party " should shed one tear 
 to the memory of the poor deceased." He had but one idea of 
 mourning for a departed friend 3 and a bottle of rum was brought 
 out. The tear having been shed, the old man solemnly observed, 
 " Poor George ! he was such a good sort, don't you think we ought 
 
The Wreck, 409 
 
 to shed just one tear more r" A table was accordingly set out in 
 the road (his was a lone house just on the edge of the plains), a 
 gallon of rum was put on it, the horses were tied to the garden 
 rails, and the whole party dismounted to mourn for the dead man 
 after the old Irishman's peculiar fashion. How long the carouse 
 lasted, I suppose no one can tell j but the horse — more sensible 
 than the men — walked away with the dray across the plains, and 
 not one of the mourners can tell how he followed it heme. 
 
 Poor George ! it was the cursed drink that killed him, and it 
 even followed him to the grave. The clerk who assisted at the 
 funeral service was far from sober, and not a mourner could ride 
 home from the funeral. Sad that a country so blest by Providence 
 in all other respects, should be tyrannized over by those two greatest 
 of all human curses — the thirst after gold and drink. 
 
 And now let no reader think that this sketch is intended as a 
 burlesque — the facts happened exactly as I have stated them 3 and 
 this little story is intended only to show to quiet stay-at-homes the 
 state of society in Australia in the earlier days of the diggings. It 
 has probably now altered ! George's deaih is no solitary instance, 
 but it was the only one of the kind I ever witnessed 3 and although 
 I dare say hundreds of men have seen far more distressing accidents, 
 I can only say that this one left upon my mind an impression which 
 can never be obliterated. 
 
 Very soon after the funeral I left this station and went down into 
 the Western Port country kangarooing, where I remained for three 
 years. When I left Australia in 1859, our ship lay off Williams- 
 town, and one day I thought I would have a last look at the poor 
 fellow's grave. I well knew where to find it j and there it lay just 
 as it was left after the funeral, save that the little mound which 
 marked his last resting-place was entirely overgrown with wild 
 marsh-mallow — a sure sign that he had died amongst strangers. As 
 I left it, I could not help thinking that there were probably some 
 afar oft' who would have given much to see that rude grave but for 
 a few minutes^ as I had done 3 and as I closed the churchyard 
 
41 o The Wreck. 
 
 gate behind me, Haynes Bayly's beautiful lines came into my 
 mind — 
 
 " He should have died in his own loved land. 
 With friends and kindred near him. 
 Not have withered thus, on a foreign strand. 
 
 With no thought save of Heaven to cheer him. 
 But what recks it now ? Is his sleep less sound. 
 In the port where the wild wave swept him. 
 Than if home's green turf his grave had bound. 
 Or the friends he loved had wept him f* 
 
411 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH. 
 
 It was sensibly remarked by the editor of the Scotsman, when re- 
 viewing my little "Bush Wanderings," that every civilized society 
 produces an annual percentage of men who care nothing for what 
 they consider the " molly-coddle" comforts of civilization. Leaving 
 their brothers to wear fine linen, broadcloth, and patent boots — 
 to fare sumptuously every day, and sleep in curtained "four-posters," 
 under the protection of policemen, these "bom vagabonds " rush 
 forth to hard fare and hard work, and risk of life and limb in the 
 prairie or the backwoods, the bush or the diggings — " anywhere, 
 anywhere out of the world" of prim respectability which chokes 
 them. "Society" revenges herself for the contempt with which 
 these rovers treat her, by calling them " ne'er-do-wells," " scape- 
 graces," and other names expressive of shght esteem. It must be 
 owned, however, that " though poor in pelf," as they for the most 
 part continue, they are so rich in experiences that they make far 
 more entertaining company than decorous stay-at-homes — when 
 you can get hold of them bodily during one of their rare, brief 
 visits to tlie world of newspapers or proprieties. How correct is 
 aU this ! 
 
 Perhaps no country on tht^ face of the globe sends forth so many 
 of these " bora vagabonds " as Great Britain. It is true that, as 
 as far as the limits of civilization extend — in the settled districts of 
 the world, if we may be allowed the term — we meet with adven- 
 turers of every European country, scattered here and there, engaged 
 in the all-engrossing pursuit of money-making. Their quarry, how- 
 ever, is man : where the game is thickest, there, of course, is the 
 best chance of securing their prey j and as long as we keep in such 
 fellowship there is little difference between one country and another. 
 
412 TJie JHStraUdn Bush. 
 
 ]Uit. if we sock thcwiKl I'oivst or the riii;i;"cHl icll, the wide jirairie or 
 the silent busli — i\\v ;u\;iv iVom the hiiin;in herds — we shall see the 
 Torld as the A]iiiii;htv has ic\dlv jilanned it ; and here we can revel 
 in all the lu\nrianec> ol' untamed nature, with no other eonipanion- 
 ship than the wild animals who roam in laneied seeurity over 
 teedini^ grounds ran.'h' trodilen by an^' human toot save that ol" men 
 as wild and savage as themselves. 
 
 It is sueh seeniN that ha\e a peculiar charm lor the hardy, 
 adventurous Kngiishman ; anil, no matter how distant, or how 
 inaccessible the land— no matter what hardshij>s or dangers he must 
 undergo betbre he can rc\ich it — tluMv we tind him adajiting his 
 habits to those ot" the rude people among whom he has voluntarily 
 exiled himself, and willingly relin(]uishing all thai, in the opinion of 
 many, alone makes lite wt)rth li\ ing tor — [)urely to gratil'y a K)ve of 
 danger ami adventure. 
 
 The Ibish — what a magic is there in those two simple words to any 
 one who has spent a few^ years in its wild solitudes ! and w liat 
 remembrances will they conjure uj) in his mind of that vast tract 
 ot" w ide-spreading, gloomy-foliaged forest, impenetrable scrub, sandy 
 heath ; swamps d(Uted with the yellow-blossomed swamp oak ; lily- 
 covered lag"oi)ns, crei^ks, water-holes, and chains of ponds bristling 
 with rushes antl fringed with tea-tree scrub ; sun-baked plains, and 
 deep, dankgidlies, lighted up only by the yellow cones of the honey- 
 suckle or the light t'eathcrv foliage ol" the magniticent fern-tree J 
 Adtl to this the (juaint beasts, the brilliant birds, ever-bu/./ing 
 insec^ts, and remarkable-looking reptiles whii'h meet the eve at 
 every step, the pure salubrity of its climate, and, above all, the 
 careless contentment of a life passed in such a spot, where a man 
 has no other care than to int)\ ide his daily bread Irom a larder so 
 liberally spread out betbre him ; and where the thousand ])etty 
 vexations of x^ivilized life, and the thousand wants which the arti- 
 ticial state of man has now rendered indispensable to his very exist- 
 ence, are never lelt. 
 
 And yet I have heanl some men stigmatize such a life as dull 
 and monotonous. 
 
The Australian Bush. 413 
 
 Dull, is it? when the fairest pages of the noblest book that ever 
 was written, and written, too, by a hand that never yet erred — 
 the great Book of Nature, which a man may study for his life 
 and yet scarcely master a single chapter — is continually lying open 
 before us ! 
 
 Monotonous, is it ? when every season brings some fresh pur- 
 suit, every day some fresh charm, and every hour its own particular 
 occupation ! 
 
 No ! let the man who is sated with the enjoyments of fashionable 
 life — which, indeed, we may with some ju>.tice call monotonous — 
 or him who has been crushed and broken by the rude conflicts 
 with the world — try such a life for a few years j and if he does 
 not return again to the haunts of civilization, at the end of his 
 probation, a wiser and a better man, all I can say is, there is no 
 help for him. 
 
 And now let us see how the year is spent in the Australian bush ; 
 and any reader who follows me to the end of my chapter, if he 
 only be a naturalist or a sportsman, will agree with me that a bush 
 life is neither dull nor monotonous. But he must bear in mind that 
 I am not about to describe the life of a squatter, who rules like a 
 baron of old over a run miles in extent, coining money every year 
 where he has no opportunity of spending, save when, with his 
 cattle or his wool, he makes periodical visits down to Sydney or 
 Melbourne from the up-country. Nor of the stock-rider, whose 
 life is spent on horseback, galloping over the bush, looking up his 
 master's cattle j whose sole talk is of bullocks, and whose only 
 study is the different brands of the neighbouring station-masters, 
 and the cultivating a kind of knowledge, which to him seems 
 intuitive, that of singling out at a glance a stray bullock from the 
 largest mob. Nor of the shepherd, who lazily follows his flock 
 from sunrise to sunset in all weathers, and whose life is one calm 
 tame monotony, each day so precisely like its predecessor, that it 
 miLSt be hard for him often to remember how the weeks steal 
 on. Nor of the hut-keeper, the easiest worked, and, generally 
 speaking, the most discontented man on the station. Nor of the 
 
414 'J^he Australian Bush, 
 
 bullock-driver — that most useful of all bush servauts, the true 
 pioneer into the heart of this wild country ; who, undeterred by 
 difficulties, wends his solitary way through ranges, traverses bogs, 
 and crosses creeks with no other guide than his own unerring 
 instinct 3 who looks upon his bullocks as his only friends and com- 
 panions, and with whom he keeps up a continual running discourse 
 as he walks by their side, to relieve the monotony of his tedious 
 journey, in a jargon which, if it were not for the oaths with which 
 it is interlarded, would be perfectly unintelligible to the stranger 
 (but every word of which the great, gaunt, spectral animals that 
 compose his team appear to understand as well as himself) — for of 
 the Australian bullock-driver it may with justice be observed that 
 m the use and abuse of expletives, in the number, variety, and 
 intensity of his oaths and maledictions, from the most childish im- 
 precations to the most daring and appalling blasphemy, " none but 
 himself can be his parallel." I allude to none of these, but to him 
 who — following 
 
 The wish, which ages have not yet subdued. 
 Of man to have no master save his mood — 
 
 pitches his tent in just such a spot as he fancies will suit his purpose, 
 and gains his living (it may not, perhaps, always be an easy one, but 
 it is always an independent one) solely by his gun — either shooting 
 game for the nearest market, or collecting birds and animal skins 
 for sale. I spent five such years myself, and truly happy years they 
 were 3 and to any one who may feel inclined to follow my steps, 
 the perusal of what I am now writing will, I trust, prove both 
 useful and interesting. 
 
 And, by way of preface, I may add that, although the bush 
 in which I camped is no longer bush, but probably the site 
 of some flourishing township in embryo, and the little cockatoo 
 settler— the greatest pest to the real bushman — has built his rude 
 shanty on his small allotment in the heart of that forest, the 
 bush still retains its primeval character if we wander further 
 into the country 3 and although I believe a railway now 
 
The Australian Bush, 41 r 
 
 runs up from Melbourne to the Murray, a distance of upwards 
 of two hundred miles, this is nothing in a land hke Australia. All 
 we have to do is, instead of Melbourne, to take the terminus of the 
 railway as our starting-point, and a few miles' journey from thence 
 will bring us into a bush and scrub far wider, and offering far better 
 attractions both to the naturahst and sportsman than the Melbourne 
 district ever did in its best of days. 
 
 The proper number for a good bush party is three 3 but, strange 
 to say, although two men can and do live together in perfect \lx- 
 mony and goodwill for years, we rarely see three stick togetJier long 
 in Australia. If, however, three good men in the same station o'f 
 hfe— men who are, perhaps, neither labourers nor men of business, 
 but who can handle a gun and do not mind roughing it so long as 
 they are free— set out on a few years of such a life in real earnest, 
 I am certain they would never regret it 3 and I do not know whe- 
 ther they would not make as much at it as many a man in town 
 who, to all appearance, is holding a good and lucrative situation; 
 for, although the profit may not be great, the expenses are smal{ 
 and, if it were not for " the bursts " which are almost sure to occur 
 when a bushman visits town with the hard earnings of perhaps a 
 twelvemonth in his pocket, he might always save a little money. 
 
 Well, we will suppose the party— whether it consists of two or 
 three— to be on their camping ground by the end of March, with a 
 good tent properly pitched, and a good stock of ammunition. It 
 will be always as well to camp within a mile or so of a station, for 
 the blacks are always more civilized in such a district; and, more- 
 over, for the convenience of buying a little flour, tobacco, tea, sugar, 
 and salt (which are the only provisions really necessary in a bush 
 tent, for meat the party must provide with their own guns), when- 
 ever they run short. Flour, &c., is, of course, considerably dearer 
 m the bush, but it is better to take the chance of buying it up-coun- 
 try (and it is always to be obtained at some station or another) than 
 bringing it up from town. The end of March is the best time to 
 get settled, for the summer heat is over, the winter rains have not 
 yet set m, and the roads are good. In the^^'inter, the plains up tlie 
 
41 6 The Australian Bush, 
 
 country are many of them under water, and not to be traversed. 
 Moreover, the kangaroo are just now coming into season, and 
 will afford a good supply of meat for the tent during the winter, 
 even if the party are camped out of reach of a market where they 
 can sell them. 
 
 Kangaroo-shooting will occupy them till the end of September, 
 and if they are shooting for the market they will do nothing else, 
 except duck-shooting, during the winter months. If not shooting 
 for the market, one good shot with the rifle will be able to kill quite 
 as many as are required for home consumption ; but if the party is 
 camped within reach of a market, the kangaroo must then be shot 
 by driving them up to the shooters stationed in a line across the 
 forest, or caught in snares. For either of these purposes a horse will 
 be required, both for driving or bringing the bodies home ; and as 
 such a horse will always pick up his own living around the tent, he 
 will cost nothing more than the original outlay and a pair of hobbles. 
 An old crawler, good enough for this purpose, can be bought at 
 any station up-country for perhaps a live-pound note. 
 
 The most useful dog for all the bush game — quail, snipe, and 
 duck — will be a steady, close-hunting retriever. A good bull-terrier 
 to guard the tent and tree opossums, cats and squirrels, will also 
 drive the kangaroo. As dogs in the bush get their own living, by 
 opossums, which you shoot for them, and then throw on the camp 
 Are whole to warm through, the more you have about the tent the 
 better. 
 
 Next in relation to the bushman's mate stands his dog, and it 
 would be very difficult to say what is the most general breed of dogs 
 one meets with in the bush. Every bushman brings a dog or two 
 up with him of such breed as he fancies best ; and as there is no 
 care bestowed in crossing them they breed indiscriminately, and it 
 would puzzle a good dog-fancier to distinguish one breed from ano- 
 ther. But mongrels as they are, these bush-dogs are not to be de- 
 spised ; for, although self-taught, nature seems to supply the place 
 of education, and their natural instinct appears to be much more 
 highly developed than among the fuller-broken and truer-bred 
 
The Australian Bush, 417 
 
 dogs of the old country. No one knows what a true companion 
 the dog is, and what a friend and servant he can become to man, 
 except he who has passed some years in a bush tent with no other 
 companion. 
 
 But if the reader is desirous of knowing more about the chase of 
 the kangaroo and field sports of Australia than I have space for here, 
 I will refer him to my little Bush Wanderings, which, although '' I 
 say it that shouldn't," contains a better and truer account of bush life 
 and sporting in Victoria than any I have ever yet seen. The price is 
 moderate, only is. 6d., and the publisher is Warne. I shall deem 
 no apology necessary if I make a few quotations from that little 
 volume in the course of this chapter. 
 
 While on the subject of kangaroo-hunting and books, I cannot 
 help telling the reader perhaps the greatest sell I ever had in my 
 hfe. 
 
 Just after I came home from Austraha, I noticed an advertisement 
 in the paper, of a little work entitled " The Kangaroo Hunters," by 
 A. Bowman. " Bowman, Bowman !" I called to my mind all the old 
 kangaroo-hunters I had previously known in Victoria — and I fancied 
 I knew all in that district — but no such name as Bowman could 
 I recollect. " However," thought I, " it may be on ' t'other side j' 
 anyhow I'll have 3^. worth j" so the first large book shop I came to in 
 London, I went in and purchased the coveted treasure. " You'll find 
 it very useful to you if you're going out there, sir," was the comment 
 of the prim shopkeeper, as he wrapped up my book. I, however, was 
 not going out there 5 I had already served my apprenticeship; but I 
 hailed the little book as an old friend, and longed to travel through 
 its pages, and once again in imagination to hold sweet commune 
 with old companions and familiar scenes. I recollect I turned in 
 early that night in order thoroughly to enjoy the anticipated treat ; 
 for if ever I have a difficult passage to master, or happen to get 
 hold of a book of more than ordinary interest, I like to study it at 
 my ease in my bed. My little book was neatly got up, with pretty 
 illustrations ; but the very first picture which I turned to gave me a 
 little bit of an "eye-opener," and raised my suspicions. It was 
 
 E E 
 
41 y The Australian Bush, 
 
 that of a kangaroo being strangled by a boa-constrictor more than 
 twice as long as itself. Now^ as I certainly never myself saw a snake 
 in Australia more than about six feet long, and never even heard, 
 among all the marvels which are related round a camp fire, of one 
 longer than ten feet — (this was a bullock-driver's measure) 3 and as 
 he had just before been telling us that once when crossing a plain 
 on the Sydney side with his bullock-dray, he saw a patch of grass 
 on one side of the road rustling as if it was alive with something, 
 for at least six acres, and on going to the spot he found that it was 
 a colony of snakes gathered together, disporting hither and thither 
 in the long grass — (I wonder the lie did not choke him) — I hardly 
 placed much reliance on his ten-foot snake 3 — and as I beheve the 
 only species of boa peculiar to Australia is a very diminutive fellow, 
 I dipped further into the volume, and the next picture, entitled "A 
 Fight with a Kangaroo," — representing two striphngs of lads, per- 
 haps fourteen years old, the one actually engaged in wrestling with 
 an old man kangaroo, a regular boomer, while the other was 
 attacking him witli a case-knife behind — settled the matter in 
 my mind at once. Why, the strongest bushman that ever lived 
 would have stood no chance whatever if the kangaroo once could 
 put the hug on him in the manner he is doing to the lad in the 
 picture. I was, I must confess, rather startled at this 3 and then 1 
 did what I ought to have done before I threw away my 3^. — 
 turned to the title-page, and found that the book was written by " a 
 lady!" who tells us in her preface that ''in order to stimulate the 
 spirit of inquiry in youth, she is encouraged to continue to supply 
 the young with books which do not profess to be true, although 
 they are composed of truths." My wig! — what a sell! Well, as 
 I had bought my book, I thought I might as well read it through j 
 and I found that the title of the book was as great a fiction as the 
 book itself 3 for instead of enlightening us as to the chase of the 
 kangaroo, it contains the fancied adventures of an emigrant family 
 who were cast away somewhere or other on the Australian coast, 
 and got bushed 3 and, after wandering pretty well all over the 
 colony, encountermg hardships which it was a real mercy they 
 
The Australian Bush, 4(9 
 
 escaped^ turned up, as all heroes of romance g enerally do, *"' all 
 right at last." 
 
 I got through my book and fell asleep. I recollect I dreamt all 
 night of kangaroo, and fancied I was engaged in a deadly struggle 
 with an "old man," which all at once, like the stag of Saint 
 Hubert, assumed a beautiful female form, and I suddenly woke with 
 the last four lines of Peter Pindar's Razor-Seller on the tip of my 
 tongue : 
 
 ' Not think they'd shave !' quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes. 
 
 And voice not much unlike an Indian yell, 
 * What were they made for then, you knave ?' he cries. 
 ' Made,' quoth the fellow with a smile, ' to sell !' 
 
 "And what did you do with the book?" perhaps it may be 
 asked. 
 
 Why I cut it into little square pieces, and put it away. It might 
 come in handy for — wrapping specimens in. But to return to my 
 immediate subject. 
 
 If the party are shooting the kangaroo for sale, they will, per- 
 haps, require about twenty-live per week, and these, sold at the tent, 
 will average about 3.?. each without the skins, which will be worth 
 perhaps 1/. is. per dozen. So the weekly returns during the kan- 
 garoo season will be something like 5/. to be divided between the 
 party, besides ducks. No man's rations in a bush-tent ought to cost 
 more than 125'. per week, so, after expenses are paid, there ought 
 always to remain a small margin for profit. Four days will be oc- 
 cupied in shooting the kangaroo, and they will have two d.i)-,s for 
 rest, and to do all "odd chores" in 3 or, if they are collecting; bird 
 skins, in shooting and skinning their specimens. 
 
 The kangaroo must always be skinned as soon as they are 
 brought home, and hung up out of reach of the dogs, and they will 
 then keep a long time. 
 
 The Sunday is always a day of rest in the bush tents, and anyone 
 who is so inclined can spend the Sabbath in the bush quite as devoutly 
 as at home 5 and one thing I have remarked in my intercourse with 
 the rough fellows that one often meets in the bush (even among 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 The Australian Bush, 
 
 the old hands, many of whom could not probably read a sentence, 
 and who, it is needless to say, make no pretensions to good-breeding 
 or gentility), that I never heard religion made a jest of j nor did I 
 ever find, as is too often the case with the lower classes at home, 
 especially if it should chance — which, although probably seldom 
 happening in England, is of daily occurrence in the colony — that a 
 gentleman is reduced to the level of the working man, that his 
 better manners or birth are thrown in his teeth. I have, on the 
 contrary, always found that a man (and there were, unfortunately, 
 but few) who neither drank nor swore, and spent the Sunday in a 
 proper manner, was always looked upon with respect by his rough 
 bush associates, for they always seemed to have an idea that such a 
 man could be trusted, and his advice and assistance rehed on, in cases 
 of difficulty and emergency. 
 
 It will be very odd if, wherever tne party may be camped, tliey 
 are not in the neighbourhood of some swamp or creek which swarms 
 with duck, and the man who, like myself, prefers a night's flight- 
 shooting to almost any other sport, will find this country one peculiarly 
 adapted to his pursuit. 
 
 Of all field sports in the colony, I think I did like a good 
 night's flight-shooting the best. There is a charm in this silent,, 
 solitary sport which I could never find in any other. When seated 
 well in the shade, by the side of some favourite feeding-ground, with 
 the moon just on the wane, all is still, save the occasional cry of 
 some night-bird, as it rises from the neighbouring swamp, or the 
 whistle of the wings of a pair of ducks, as they pass overhead, and 
 the croaking of hundreds of small frogs in concert, the deep clock 
 of the bull-frog joining, as it were, in bass accompaniment. The 
 slight ripple of the clear water dances in the moon's silvery rays, 
 when all at once 'Svhish," a splash in the water, and a sharp " quack, 
 quack, quack, quack," warns the shooter that a black duck has 
 ■ pitched, and the concert of frogs is hushed in an instant. This is 
 soon joined by others, and having risen on the water three or four 
 times to shake their feathers, and chased each other about for a few 
 minutes,?they settle down to feed. Now is a moment of breathless 
 
The Australian Bush, 421 
 
 suspense to the shooter j the gun is quietly raised, but the birds at 
 first are too far, or not well packed ; however, at length he gets 
 three or four in a line, and the heavy boom of the gun breaks the 
 stillness of night, reverberating over the swamp with a hundred 
 echoes. It may be that some scores of birds were feeding on the 
 lagoon out of sight, which now rise like a clap of thunder, and the 
 air is disturbed by the wings and the cries of the birds as they fly 
 round the shooter's head. His quick ear can well distinguish the 
 different birds by their varied call-notes — the soft, musical whoop of 
 the black swan, the sharp, loud quack of the black duck, the hoarse 
 croak of the mountain-duck, the snort of the shoveller, and the 
 shrill call of the teal, are all familiar to him 5 and as he gathers up 
 his dead birds, he hears the ducks pitching again in various parts of 
 the lagoon, giving him promise of a goodly harvest by morning. 
 When the dead birds are collected, the pipe is ht, the gun charged, 
 and he quietly settles himself down in his rushy screen for another 
 .shot. The early part of the evening is best for this sport : the birds 
 leave the feeding-grounds about midnight, often go out to sea, if the 
 lagoon is on the coast, and return again a little before daybreak, when 
 they often pack on the bank of the lagoon. So, in })unt-shooting, 
 the evening and the morning shots are those upon which the shooter 
 principally depends. Where the birds are feeding well upon ground 
 which has been but little disturbed, flight-shooting is the best and 
 surest game of any with a shoulder-gun, and there is some little differ- 
 ence between flight-shooting out here and at home, where the shooter 
 has to sit for hours, often in sleet and drizzling rain, his teeth chat- 
 tering, and his fingers so cold that he can scarcely pull the trigger. 
 Here a good pea-jacket will keep the shooter warm on the coldest 
 night, and though I have occasionally used gloves, I never really 
 wanted them. The best seasons for flight-shooting are the autumn 
 and early winter. In the months of March and April, 1858, my 
 old mate killed upwards of a hundred couple of birds, principally 
 black duck, at night, with his own gun, in one small water-hole 
 close to the coast. This is the only kind of shooting in the colony 
 for which a man really requires water-boots. As the birds generally 
 
42 z The Australian Bush, 
 
 feed in shallow water, he fetches the dead ones out himself, and he 
 may often have to sit for hours on a tussock of rushes, up to his 
 knees in water. Cording's india-rubber water-proofs are the best 
 I ever used for this work 5 they are warm, perfectly water-tight, 
 never want dressing, and, what is best of all, never get hard, and are 
 always easy to pull on and off. They are certainly too heavy forwalk- 
 ing much in, bat for flight-shooting, boat-fishing, or any other work 
 where the wearer is not constantly in motion, I will back them 
 against any boots in the world. The American gutta-percha 
 overalls are not worth anything for work. At all other times except 
 flight-shooting, the best dress for the Australian duck-shooter is can- 
 vas or flannel trousers and low half-boots. The climate is so fine 
 here, that a man may wade in the swamps with impunity at all 
 seasons of the year, and the best clothes the shooter can wear are 
 those which dry the quickest. 
 
 I do not believe any country in the world is better fitted by 
 nature as a home for waterfowl than Australia. Dreary swamps, 
 miles in extent, lagoons of immense size, where the bulrush and 
 reed vegetate in rank luxuriance, creeks and water-holes completely 
 hidden from view by dense masses of the tea-tree plant, afford un- 
 molested shelter and breeding-places for the birds 3 and there must 
 be thousands of places up-country, in the solitude of whose morasses 
 ^nd fens a gun is never heard, which literally swarm with wildfowl. 
 I shall say nothing here with regard to the practical part of the 
 shooting : all I have the space for is to inform the reader what sport 
 he can meet with, and if he has been a sportsman at home, the 
 tackle and experience that he brings out from the old country will 
 suffice for him in the new one. 
 
 Duck-shooting is perhaps the most profitable kind of shooting 
 out here, if there is a market for the game 3 and even on any 
 station or at any public-house up-country (but it is quite as well not 
 to be camped too near the latter), a pair or two of black ducks can 
 always be exchanged for provisions or sold outright. Of course 
 times have now altered, but when I first came into this country the 
 palmy days of the duck-shooting were in their zenith — the fowls 
 
The Australian Bush. 423 
 
 and buyers plentiful, the shooters scarce. The year previous there 
 was not a lioat or big gun in this part of the colony, and the first 
 punt that ever floated on Melbourne swamps was built in Melbourne 
 Street, where the market now stands, in the morning launched, in 
 ^lle afternoon fitted up with an old musket, and the birds shot and 
 sold in Melbourne before night. In this winter 1000/. was cleared 
 off that swamp alone by the two men who launched this punt. 
 The duck season begins about February, when the old birds bring 
 their young down to the creeks ; and should end in August, when 
 the swamps begin to dry up, and the birds pair off and retire to 
 their breeding haunts. After they have bred they keep about the 
 creeks and water-holes in small flocks or families, till the rains fill 
 the large swamps, when they congregate and frequent the open 
 places on the swamps and plains, where there is shallow water and 
 good feeding-ground. There is little to be done by day iii the win- 
 ter with a shoulder gun out here in these large swamps ; but a 
 punt-gun is the thing at this time of year, if the shooter can handle 
 it well. If, however, there is any feeding-ground near the tent, 
 and this the shooter will soon find out, he will do better by flight- 
 shooting in the evening when the birds come down to feed, than 
 by anything else. I know eight species of Australian wild duck : 
 the black duck is the commonest and most valuable duck for the 
 market. The black swan is hardly worth shooting save for its 
 skin. 
 
 Snipe swarm in certain districts, but, like the snipe at home, they 
 are very local. The Australian snipe is nearly double as large as the 
 British snipe. The snipe season begins with September, and 
 although of course the flush comes down first, you may find them 
 on most good grounds till December. In the early part of the season 
 some rattling sport may be had on good ground. I have bagged 
 thirteen and a half couple myself in the day, and although I have 
 heard of some most extraordinary days' snipe-shooting, I never 
 myself saw twenty couples of Australian snipe fall to one gun 
 in the day. 
 
 In many unfrequented places, especially on the edges of the 
 
424 The Australian Bush, 
 
 smaller scrub up towards the Murray, the bronze-winged pigeons 
 swarm in hundreds, I may say thousands. I suppose in different 
 districts the pigeons appear at different seasons. Their breeding 
 season is from October till the end of January, when the young 
 birds will be strong flyers. At all other times they may be killed 
 whenever they can be met with. 
 
 I take it that tlie quail, like the pigeons, appear in different dis- 
 tricts at different seasons j but I fancy their breeding season is the 
 same everywhere, and they should be spared from about the begin- 
 ning of November till the middle of January. The quail is the 
 Australian partridge, and quail-shooting is certainly the pleasantest 
 of all field sports out here. It reminds the sportsman of September 
 at home, for it is fair open work, and in quail-shooting a man can, 
 if he pleases, have the pleasure of seeing his dogs work in the old 
 style. Moreover, they are generally pretty thickly dispersed over 
 the whole country, and in a few hours' shooting a tolerable shot 
 can always make a nice little bag. I used to consider from fifteen 
 to twenty couple a good day's bag. I once killed thirty-seven 
 couple, and I rarely bagged more than fifteen out of twenty. 
 Taking in misses and lost birds I recovered, every couple of birds 
 cost me o^d. to kill, and they averaged is. per couple throughout 
 the year. 
 
 I may mention that a code of game laws for the protection of the 
 game in Victoria during the breeding season has been framed since 
 my day, but as I have never yet seen it I am unable to say during 
 which months the birds are preserved. 
 
 Besides the game birds above mentioned, these swamps swarm 
 with bitterns, rails, blue coots, herons, cranes, and many other 
 waders. The wild turkey is met with on all the large plains in the 
 interior, and the emu in many places even within the civilized 
 districts. 
 
 Although the hst of game birds indigenous to the Australian bush 
 may be meagre when compared with that of many other lands, 
 still the different species are met with in such vast quantities that 
 there is i wide field open for the sportsman who is content with the 
 
The Australian Bush. 425 
 
 smaller game, and a good living to be obtained by an industrious 
 man in any district a little distance from town, where there is a sale 
 for the birds. Prices run tolerably high for all kinds of game in 
 Melbourne, and although the days are gone by when we could sell 
 a couple of black ducks for 12s. or i^s., a couple of snipe for a 
 crown (which I have done), or a couple of pigeons for 3^. 6d., 
 there is still a good living to be made by the gun if a man works 
 hard and is camped in a tolerable district, especially if he can 
 skin and preserve pretty parrots and other showy birds' skins for 
 sale. 
 
 To the regular fur-hunter the Australian bush offers few attrac- 
 tions, the kangaroo, the wallabee, the native bear, the opossum, the 
 dingo, the native cats and squirrels, being about all I know in the 
 bush worth hunting. The duck-billed platypus is abundant in 
 many of the creeks and water-holes up the country, and this skin 
 is always worth preserving. 
 
 But the very security with which one can live in these forests, 
 safe from the attacks of any wild animals, is one of the greatest 
 charms of bush life in Australia. There is not a single wild animal 
 to fear (altliough at times a half-wild ox is dangerous) -, and were it 
 not for the snakes which abound in all parts, there is little or 
 nothing to be afraid of while wandering in this wild country. 
 Always have a couple of bullets ready patched, to slip into your 
 gun in case one of these cattle looks dangerous. It won't burst 
 the gun even if you ram the bullet down on to the charge of shot, 
 for I have tried it. Be coolj and if you must shoot, don't fire till 
 he lowers his head. Aim, if possible, at the curl of the hair on the 
 forehead. In case you have to shoot a bullock, go directly to the 
 station and report it, or you may get into trouble. You may have 
 to pay for the bullock, but better this than lose your life. The 
 blacks are sometimes troublesome, and I can't say I ever liked them 
 as neighbours j but there is little to be feared from them in the 
 settled districts, and little presents of tea, sugar, and tobacco will 
 go a long way to gain their favour. I have heard the JMurray 
 blacks spoken of as excellent fellows. 
 
425 The Australian Bush, 
 
 Considering the abundance of venomous snakes one meets with 
 in all parts of the bush, it is very rarely that one hears of a bushman 
 being bitten, and a black fellow never. I never was bitten by a 
 snake. If such a casualty had occurred I should have cut the place 
 with my knife, bound up my limb tight about the bite, flashed off a 
 charge of powder in the wound, and gone up to Melbourne as 
 soon as I could. I fancy a snake here is always more anxious to 
 avoid than to commence the attack 3 and unless you actually tread 
 on one, or pick it up by mistake, there is little to fear. It appears 
 that by constant practice the eye becomes so accustomed to range 
 over the ground, that in most instances one sees the snake, let it be 
 coiled up ever so snugly. The snakes here all retire to their winter 
 quarters in March, and do not appear again till September. There 
 is no danger to be apprehended either from snakes or black fellows 
 at night, for at this time these latter gentlemen are afraid to leave 
 their camp-fire. 
 
 Of the minor bush annoyances I may mention scorpions and 
 centipedes, principally met with in dry, stony places, the bites of 
 both which are dangerous, but never fatal 3 large spiders, or, as we 
 used to call them, " triantulopes," as large as penny-pieces 3 bulldog 
 ants an inch long, and thousands of blowflies, musquitoes, and 
 little sand-flies — the latter, so small as scarcely to be perceptible to 
 the naked eye, are constantly invading the tent. But these annoy- 
 ances need deter no one from taking the bush. 
 
 The list of fresh-water fish peculiar to these waters is very meagre, 
 and I fancy the eel is about the most useful one to the bushman. 
 Any one who is going to camp out should be provided with an eel- 
 spear, hooks and twine of diflerent sizes, and a long fine trammel or 
 two, for most of these water-holes and creeks abound in fish of 
 some kind or another, which at times may prove a very useful and 
 agreeable addition to the bushman's larder. If, however, these 
 waters did aflbrd first-rate sport, and even when they have succeeded 
 in acclimatizing our salmon (I hope my head will never ache till I 
 see a salmon caught in the Yarra), I do not think angling" is ever 
 likely to become a favourite amusement with the present race of 
 
The Australian Busn, 427 
 
 Victorians. Unless he i;an make good wages at it, neither the 
 regular colonial shooter nor fisherman deems the sport worth 
 following, and angling in this country hardly affords excitement 
 enough for the amateur sportsman. Of all field sports angling is 
 without doubt the least mercenary, and peculiarly the sport of youth 
 and declining years and a happy and contented mind. As long as 
 the gold fever rages out here, there is not likely to be much quiet 
 or content among the people. No one in this country, as long as 
 he can earn a shilling, is considered old enough to knock ofi'work 5 
 and as for the young '' currency lads," they are far more precocious 
 than the youth at home, and cracking a stock-whip is far more to 
 their taste than throwing a fly. 
 
 If a shooting party attend to their business, and especially if they 
 are collecting as well, there need scarcely be an idle day throughout 
 the year in the bush-tent. Of course the shooter will never, if he 
 can help it, shoot any animal whilst the young are dependent on 
 the mother for food, and during the breeding season all should be 
 spared, I never could find out, nor, I believe, does any one rightly 
 know, when the Australian snipe breed, but I fancy very early. I 
 think, however, that all game birds may be shot with impunity in 
 every month save November, December, and January. 
 
 All the parrots, and, in fact, all the bush birds, are in the hand- 
 somest and best plumage in the winter and spring, and, I take it, 
 must breed between September and February. No one but he 
 who laas spent a season in the Australian forest can picture to his 
 mind the gorgeous plumage of some of the parrots and other bush 
 birds, nor the immense flocks which visit particular districts at par- 
 ticular seasons ; and did my space allow it, I could go deeper into 
 this subject. But I will only add that, as in Europe, each district 
 of this wide-stretched land has its peculiar avifauna j and in what- 
 ever part of the bush he is camped, the collector should make a 
 general collection of every species of bird which frequents that dis- 
 trict — bearing in mind that the most gaudy-coloured birds are the 
 most saleable, but also that a very sombre-plumaged bird may often 
 be very rare and valuable. Through the indefatigable exertions of 
 
428 The Australian Bush, 
 
 Mr. Gould, the ornithology of Australia is now pretty well known. 
 I believe in 1848 he had figured and described above six hundred 
 species as indigenous to the land, and doubtless, since then he has 
 added many more to the list. 
 
 As a guide to a party of three men about to spend a year in the 
 bush, I will just give an idea of what rations they will require. I 
 will suppose they buy them in Melbourne to take up, and then the 
 expense of carriage up will be probably less than the profits the 
 country-storekeeper will demand. However, stores, as I have said, 
 are to be obtained in most places within the settled districts, either 
 on stations or of the country storekeepers — of course, at bush prices. 
 
 The monthly allowance for every man — and it will be easy to 
 calculate the price and weight for a year's rations in the bush — of 
 real necessaries, will be about 4olb. of flour (more than sufiScient), 
 81b. sugar (brown), salt and pepper ad libitum, ilb.tea, lib. tobacco. 
 As the party will live on the game they shoot, I allow no meat 3 a 
 side or two of American bacon will be very useful for frying the 
 dry kangaroo venison in. A few pounds of stearine candles (a 
 photogen lamp is better) and matches must not be forgotten 3 and 
 a tinder-box should always be kept in the tent. 
 
 Galton's "Art of Travel" will be the most useful book that a 
 man can study who is going into the bush. A man who works hard 
 will not have much time for reading, but it is wonderful what a 
 treat a few books of light reading will be found for a rainy day or 
 a leisure hour. 
 
 Of course the tent must be taken up. Let it be a good one, and 
 not a round one, and it will probably stand about two years. An 
 extra sheet of canvas or fly, to cover the whole top, placed at a 
 distance of six inches above it, will render it perfectly water- 
 tight. 
 
 The less stores that are laid in at one time the better, always pro- 
 viding the party is camped where tea, sugar, flour, and tobacco are 
 to be bought. As we rarely see a petticoat in a bush-tent, thrift is 
 not the order of the day. The bushman is generally an extravagant 
 
The Australian Bush. 429 
 
 housekeeper j and by far the best plan is never to have more than 
 a month's provisions in the tent at a time. 
 
 Be careful, in pitching the tent, to choose a spot where by no 
 possibility a branch from a gum-tree can fall on it. Huge branches 
 from these trees are continually splitting off and falling in a most 
 unaccountable manner, without a moment's notice. Pitch the tent 
 on a slight rise, if possible, among heather, which, however, burn 
 clear away, leaving a wide, open space all round the tent. If you 
 see the slightest appearance of a rush growing, however small, be 
 sure that spot will be flooded in the winter. The heavy rains 
 are generally in May, June, and July. It rains principally at night, 
 and if the tent is properly pitched and trenched, and has a good fly 
 over it, the inmates will suffer no inconvenience. 
 
 The camp-fire can, if it be wished, be kept up day and night by 
 banking up j and for a tent-stove, which will be often very com- 
 fortable in the winter, nothing answers better than an empty paint 
 can of block-tin, with holes punched in it, filled with charcoal from 
 the camp-fire. 
 
 Never sleep on the ground, but build up a bunk with forked 
 sticks and cross-poles, over which sacking can be secured, so that 
 you lie at least six inches from the ground. Recollect that in the 
 bush, as well as on the diggings, a good night's rest is worth a meal 
 of meat. 
 
 The bush outfit must include a good axe or two, a spoke-shave 
 and gimlets, a spade, cross-cut saw, hammer and nails j a long- 
 handled frying-pan, a tin bucket, and a dark-lantern 3 a camp-oven, 
 and a couple of pots for boiling water. Every man must provide 
 his own clothes, bedding, knives, plates, and pannikins, and see after 
 them himself in the bush. 
 
 One of the party will be cook for the week, turn and turn about. 
 He will also have to keep the tent neat, and always bear in mind 
 this golden motto — '' a place for everything, and everything in its 
 place." 
 
 Recollect one thing, that a party who are neat in their tent, will 
 
430 
 
 The Australian Bush, 
 
 live twice as comfortable, quite as cheap, and have far less trouble 
 than a slovenly party. 
 
 It will save a deal of trouble if, instead of flour, the party took 
 up a few hundredweight of good sea-biscuits. I should fancy less 
 than a pound a day of good biscuit would suffice for any man. 
 
 As to ammunition, we may reckon that, w^ith care (and ths. 
 greatest care must be bestowed upon this all-important item), lib. 
 of powder will furnish about eighty shots, and lib. of shot, sixteen j 
 so the party may easily calculate how much they must take up. 
 Be very careful, and buy the powder fresh • and the strongest and 
 best will be the cheapest, for you lose so many wounded birds with 
 bad powder. 
 
 Many other little items may be added which will conduce much 
 to the comfort of the party ^ but I have, I think, omitted nothing 
 that is really necessary. A revolver may prove useful, and will 
 take up but little room, and a long spare single gun, to carry 4 oz., 
 will be very serviceable in duck-shooting. 
 
 It would be quite as well, at starting, if the party made an 
 irrefragable law that a bottle of spirits should never enter the tent, 
 and of course every man finds his own "baccy " and soap. 
 
 A man going into the bush, no matter in what country, will do 
 well to provide himself before starting with a tin canteen, such as 
 our rifle volunteers have to carry their sandwiches and sherry in, 
 only have it large enough to hold a quart of water at least. This 
 he will fill with cold tea every morning before he leaves his tent, 
 and the sandwich end will contain a small tin box of the best wax 
 lucifer matches, a small compass, a knife, six spare bullets ready 
 patched, two four-ounce steel charges filled with powder, ditto with 
 large shot, a needle and strong thread, some spare caps, a couple of 
 strong leather boot-laces, a cake of cavendish tobacco, and a httle 
 salt. Before leaving the tent in the morning, let him be sure that 
 not one of these articles is forgotten for he never knows how far 
 he may wander or how soon he may lose himself in the bush 3 and 
 this little canteen, which he can sling round his back without in- 
 convenience, may save his life. It will be quite impossible tliat he 
 
The Australian Bush, 431 
 
 can starve^ even if he is bushed for a month, for I presume he will 
 never leave his tent without his gun and his regular ammunition ; 
 and as it is very rarely that he can wander for thirty-six hours in 
 any part of the bush without faUing in with a creek or water-hole 
 of some kind, and a quart of water^ with care, will last a man a 
 day, there is little fear, if he always has his canteen to fall back 
 upon, of his suffering inconvenience from the most bitter of all 
 pangs, that of thirst. This canteen is never to be resorted to except 
 in cases of real emergency, for it contains what may keep a man 
 alive for many days in case his ordinary ammunition has run out. 
 I may here remark that water is often scarce in the bush, and the 
 Austrahan creeks and water-holes are often so hidden in the scrub, 
 that a man may easily pass by one. If, however, he sees a little 
 patch of tea-tree scrub standing alone on a wide plain, he may be sure 
 there is a water-hole in it 3 or a cattle-track through the scrub will 
 almost always lead to watery and the cheery ^^ ching-ching" of the 
 little bell-bird, which may be heard at an immense distance in the 
 pure clear air of this country, cries "water water," as plain as the 
 bird's language can speak. 
 
 To sum up all, there is little danger or trouble attendant upon a 
 bush life in Australia 3 and, with a couple of good mates, I know 
 no life in the colony which I would prefer to it. 
 
 With a good mate, as long as his health stands, I do consider the 
 shooter's life one of the happiest and most independent in the colony. 
 A good waterproof tent, properly put up, with a fly on the roof 
 and a turf chimney, is by no means a bad residence, and quite as 
 as warm and comfortable as half the weather-boarded houses that 
 are knocked up here. The shooter is generally camped amongst 
 the most beautiful scenery, close to a good water-hole or creek, with 
 plenty of wood at hand. He has few artificial wants, and the real 
 iiecessaries of life are easily and cheaply obtained. His meat, of 
 course, he procures by his own gun 3 and a bag of flour, a little 
 tea sugar, salt, and tobacco, fill his larder. His cooking is simple, 
 his furniture home-made, his time is fully occupied, and not an hour 
 hangs heavily on his hands. His method of \ife is laid down by no 
 
43^ 
 
 The Australian Bush, 
 
 rule. He eats when he is hungry, sleeps when he is tired, and 
 works just when it pleases him. The laughing jackass calls him up 
 in the morning, and the flute-like note of the magpie is his vesper 
 bell. Content and health go hand in hand, and although he may 
 have a small share in the world's troubles — and what class is entirely 
 exempt from them ? — he has also the inward satisfaction of feeling 
 that he is leading a happy, healthy, and independent life, and has 
 no one to thank but himself for his daily bread. 
 
 I have lived at times quite by myself in the bush^ and then, per- 
 haps, it was a lonely, laborious life. Often have I toiled from sun- 
 rise to sunset, come home dead-beat to my lonely tent, and after 
 ten hours' fasting had to light my fire and cook my solitary 
 supper J and often have I turned in fairly " baked," and put my 
 supper off till morning. But with a good mate the case is 
 different. It is true I have spent many a rough day in the forest, 
 and many a night, when lost, have lit my pipe and thrown myself 
 down to sleep before a log fire — no companions but my dogs> 
 no covering save the sky, and no supper but an opossum or 
 bandicote thrown upon the ashes to roast. But I can also truly 
 say that some of the happiest hours in a life which certainly has 
 had its bright as well as its gloomy passages, have been passed in 
 my bush tent j when, after a good day's sport, supper finished, and 
 pipe lit, I have thrown myself upon my opossum-rug, and, the toils 
 of the day fairly over, have spent the hour just before turning-in 
 yarning with my old mate over " the past, the present, and the 
 future." At such a moment I would hardly exchange the rough 
 freedom of the shooter's life for the best situation in the colony. 
 
 Nowhere do we meet with more real friendship and true kind- 
 ness of heart than in the bush. Rough in aspect, careless in dress, 
 off-hand in his manners, there ^ a vein of simple and warm-hearted 
 kindness running through the character of the real bushman which 
 we rarely, if ever, find among men whose better feelings have be- 
 come insensibly deadened by a continual intercourse with tne 
 world. Isolated, as it were, from his fellow-men, solely depena^nt 
 upon his own exertions for his daily bread, he feels himself under 
 
The Australian Bush, 433 
 
 no obligation to any one^ cares little to form new acquaintai ces, 
 and always appears shy and reserved before strangers, especia^'v 
 "new chums." But let him fall in with an old mate, or man of 
 his own stamp, and the meeting is often of a boisterous character. 
 No one more readily sympathizes with the reverses of a mate, and 
 so little selfishness is there in his nature that he willingly shares his 
 all with him, whether it be his last shilling or his last ''%" of 
 tobacco. His rude hospitality is proverbial, and the benighted 
 traveller always finds shelter and food at the bushman's tent as a 
 matter of course 3 and, unlike the way of the world in general, the 
 more "hard up " the stranger is, the more he is welcome. This 
 is all done too without the slightest ostentation, as a duty he owes 
 to his fellow-man, and upon the principle that any day or night he 
 may require the same assistance himself. I am here only alluding 
 to what I call the true bushmen, men who knock about the bush 
 on their own resources, living by shooting, wood-splitting, &c. ; and 
 not to the regular settlers on stations, who — valuing a man as they 
 do a working bullock, for just the work they can get out of him — 
 will scarcely condescend to notice (other than as a parish beadle 
 does a vagrant in the old country) a vagabond shooter who camps 
 upon his run ; although, for my part, I can say that there were but 
 few stations which I called at where I was not welcome to such ac- 
 commodation as the man's hut aiforded — and this I believe they 
 cannot deny you, but by law every settler at a certain distance from 
 a public-house is obliged to furnish a supper and a night's lodging to 
 any wayfarer who calls after sunset. 
 
 It is now some years since I left " my home a vagabond to be," 
 and, during that period, have wandered over many lands, my gun 
 and my fishing-rod my only companions, a free citizen of the world. 
 
 In the prime of years, in the full flush of youth and strength, such 
 a life offers charms of wild independence, which can never be 
 realized by that man who is of necessity tied to one spot, no matter 
 with what comforts he may be surrounded, or what sports he may 
 enjoy, ready-made to hand. But as years creep on, and one begins 
 to feel that the "old gentleman with the scythe " is pressing hard 
 
 F F 
 
434 ^'^^^ Australian Bush. 
 
 upon his heels, his enthusiasm will in a measure abate, and the more 
 he has buffeted with the rude waves of the world, the greater will be 
 his desire to cast anchor in some quiet haven, which he may regard 
 as a permanent home in declining years. For how truly has Sam 
 Slick described the dark side of the wanderer's life in the following 
 words : — '^ Here to-day, gone to-morrow, to know folks but to forget 
 them, to love folks but to part with them — to come without pleasure, 
 to go without pain — and at last — for a last will come to every story 
 — still no home." Never, perhaps, was the historj' of a hfe written 
 in so short a sentence. 
 
 TUE ENP. 
 
 BKADBLRY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
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