Chapter V: E. Walker was always in office at Lord’s; in 1891 he filled the post (3)

I said, “You hear the huntsman’s horn?” and the man did nothing. Very soon after Payne came up, rather angry. The whipper-in, however, disarmed him by confessing that he had done wrong; “But,” he added, “I could not stop them, as Mr. Fellowes said they were killing their fox.” Whereupon Payne laid the body of the pack on the line, and killed in a few minutes.

I had the best of it that evening after dinner.

I was in the famous Waterloo run of February 22, 1866. Its merits have been very much overrated, for hounds were constantly changing foxes, and were never near catching any one of them. It was only a journey.

One of the fastest runs I ever saw in the Midlands was fifty-five minutes, from Thorpe Trussels to Rolleston. William Coke (otherwise known as “Billy Coke”), my old college friend, Stirling Crawfurd, Little Gilmour, and myself were alone with hounds when they killed in Rolleston Spinney; the pace had beaten the rest of the field. Another time I had a very fast gallop from Parson’s Gorse up to Bunny Park. The incident remains in memory, as I had it all to myself on a five-year-old horse, The Kite (by Falcon, dam by Julius Cæsar), belonging to Mr. Crawfurd. The Kite’s portrait, by Ferneley, now hangs at Buchanan Castle.

I had some good horses in those days. In a run from Crick Gorse hounds crossed the Stamford and Rugby Railway, then in process of construction, and enclosed with new double posts and rails. My horse jumped them both, in and out, and I was up when the fox went to ground in the yard at the back of Standford Hall.

The first man to come up was that fine old fellow, Sir Francis Head; I did not know him to speak to. He, however, made me a profound bow, saying he “hoped I was satisfied with myself.” I said my satisfaction was less with myself than my horse, as indeed it was, for that was my first day on him.

The Wizard was one of the best hunters I ever had. At the finish of a fine run with the Pytchley he jumped the Avon, in spite of the fact that the flood water was out on each side of him. It was a big jump; Jim Mason, the steeplechase rider, and many others, failed to reach the other side. Mason was so impressed with The Wizard, that he offered to pay me the value of the stakes of the Liverpool Steeplechase before the horse started, if I would lend him for six weeks; but I refused. He was well suited for the Liverpool course: fast, good at water, and also at banks—thanks to his training in Norfolk.

Mason had a vein of originality in him. Returning from hunting to Market Harborough from Langton one afternoon, he and some others had to cross the brook. Fog came on very suddenly, and they could not find the ford; they turned back, but it was so thick they could not find the gate. Mason then said there was nothing for it but to cry “Murder,” to bring some one to their aid, and he did it lustily. Nobody coming to help, he changed his tactics. “Let’s be very jolly and laugh,” he suggested. The rest agreeing, they laughed so long and loudly, that three labourers came to see what the joke was.

The Coot, a chestnut, was another good horse. On him I had a grand gallop from Waterloo Gorse, by Tally-ho Stick Covert to ground near Cottesbrooke Park. It was a very fast thing, and there was nobody else in sight of hounds during the latter half of the run.

The Coot was well known in Leicestershire in his day. Visiting the patients in the Leicester Infirmary one day, a poor fellow, who lay very ill in his bed, called to me, “Squire, Squire,” as I was leaving the ward. Going to his bedside, I found that he wanted to enquire after the health and well-being of the Coot.

One morning, when staying at Lamport Hall, I went to meet the Quorn at Keythorpe Hall, and as I came near, Charles Leslie (then M.P. for Monaghan) came galloping forward to meet me with a message from Sir Richard Sutton. It appeared that at a large party which had taken place overnight at Quorndon Hall there had been much talk about various riders, and Sir Richard had declared that if I were out I should beat the whole field. Leslie had sent his best horse, Marmion, for me to ride; but I preferred my own, and did not regret it.

It was as well that hounds were able to run that day, for there was some pretty hard riding. They found in Ram’s Head Gorse, and ran fast, over a very strongly-fenced country, to Stockerston Wood. I led during the whole run, jumping gates and whatever else came in the way; and when hounds entered the wood the only other man in the field was Little Gilmour. Lord Cardigan was close up with him: he had put his thumb out of joint in a bad fall, and had to go home.

In talking over the riders he knew with Lord Cardigan, he paid Lord Wilton what I thought a great compliment, saying he thought nothing of his riding, “for he would jump through the bars of a gate.” It seemed to me to prove the ease with which he crossed country, and certainly few men were often as near hounds as Lord Wilton in a good run.

Sir Richard Sutton was always very kind to me. I well remember his gratification when I justified his good predictions that I should cut down the field. But on another day I had the misfortune to get into his bad books. He was going to draw Norton Gorse, and on the way we had to pass through Ilston Spinney. Having had a hint from a farmer, I made haste to get through the spinney, and when half-way heard a view halloo. Away went the fox and away went the hounds on a blazing scent—no master, no servants, and a hard riding field on the top of the pack, with nobody to keep them in hand. It was a regular scurry, and many of them got falls, among them Lord Wilton. At last hounds checked, and the Baronet came up. We had unduly pressed hounds, and nobody had a word to say when he spoke his mind about it. We all caught it in a strain we remembered, though Sir Richard never allowed an abusive word to pass his lips. Egged on by others, I begged him to let us off, promising to help kill the fox, for I had seen him in the Norton Brook while I was in the air. Hounds were got on to the line, and, settling to it, soon killed him.

“Now,” said Sir Richard, “I will serve you all out; I’ll find my next fox in Charnwood Forest.”

There was general dismay at this announcement, for Charnwood Forest was fourteen miles off. Lord Gardner, recovering the shock first, came up to me.

“You must stop this!” he said. “Go and apologise for us.” I declined, feeling and saying that I was no better than the worst among the offenders; but on Lord Gardner’s urging that “there was nobody else he would listen to,” I gave way, and Sir Richard, like the really good, kind-hearted master he was, let us off, and found another fox close by.

There were two lively young members of the Quorn who habitually pressed hounds, Colonel Forrester and Bromley Davenport, whose shortness of sight may perhaps be pleaded in extenuation. On arriving at the meet in his chariot, as the vehicle was called in the ’forties, Sir Richard enquired of his first whipper-in whether these gentlemen were out. He was told they were, and forthwith the whipper-in was ordered to draw some of the best hounds, which were put into the carriage and sent home!

Sir Richard Sutton had a strong sense of the duty of a master and the right way to discharge it. On one occasion he killed his fox in the shrubbery of a clergyman. The place was very nicely kept, and the hunt servants having made, as was rather unavoidable, rather a mess of the paths, &c., the owner wrote to complain. Sir Richard, instead of going to the meet with a pair of horses next morning, ordered out four, and went a good deal out of his way to call and apologise; to offer payment also. The clergyman, a very gentlemanly man, repented the tenor of his complaint, and Sir Richard’s anxiety to put matters right quite disarmed him. He apologised for having written, would not hear of accepting compensation, and expressed the hope that he might see hounds in his neighbourhood again soon! So much for civility.

My acquaintance with Lord Gardner, to whom I have referred before, began in a way which illustrates one phase of that good sportsman’s character. One day, when still fresh from college, I was riding a five-year-old. Lord Gardner took my place at a fence and nearly gave me a fall. I passed him in the next field, out of which there was only one place, and that beside an elm. He came at it with a rush; I gave my horse his head, and jumping side by side with Gardner threw him heavily against the tree. He reported this to Mr. Little Gilmour, but got little sympathy, Gilmour telling him that if he meddled with me he would probably get himself killed. “Do you think so?” said Gardner. “Yes I do,” replied Gilmour. “Then please introduce me to him,” said Gardner. We became fast friends, and our friendship continued all the time he stayed in the country.

Rather a funny incident occurred with the Quorn one day in a scurry from Cream Lodge Gorse. A sporting captain’s horse fell over a large ant-hill, and the soldier came down rolled in a lump. I got down and stretched him out in a furrow. It was damp, and he soon changed his position; so, remarking that if he was able to look for a dry place I thought he could take care of himself, I jumped on my horse again and went on. The gallant soldier was grievously hurt by my remark, considering it implied that he was soft. His feelings suffered more injury than his body.

In a good run with the Quorn the fox crossed the canal. We most of us rode for the bridge and stood on it until the hounds were well over. Cardigan and Wilbraham Tollemache stuck to the hounds and crossed the canal with them, Cardigan exclaiming: “I am in first, Wilbraham!” In a minute his brother-in-law exclaimed, “I am out first, Cardigan,” and jumped on his horse, leaving Cardigan struggling in the water. A man on the bridge called out: “Paddle with your ’ands, my lord; paddle with your ’ands.” There were not many feet of water.

In those days there was scarcely any wire, and the now familiar warning to “ware wire,” was rarely heard. In a gallop from Masterton Oziers one large field was fenced with it, and we made for a gate. One man stuck to the hounds, and falling head over heels over the fence was a good deal hurt. We had called out “wire” repeatedly, and the more we did so the faster he rode. His reason for doing so, he said, was that he saw it was a big jump, and thought we were calling “fire, fire,” for him to fire away at it, with plenty of steam on! Mr. Haycock, a hard-riding yeoman, went head over heels in a bottom and could not get out. Lord Macdonald coming next pulled up. Haycock called out “Come on, my Lord, there is accommodation for you here as well as for me.” The Lord of the Isles declined the invitation. Haycock sold a nice horse to a Duke, who took him to task for selling him such a brute. “What’s the matter, your Grace?” “He has been running away with me all the morning.” “If that is all I don’t care; when he was mine I was always running away with him.” Sir James Musgrave, riding a nice horse, told him he was slovenly at timber. “Take him out on Sunday morning, Sir James, and give him a few heavy falls over timber,” was his advice.

No fence is as nice as timber if your horse knows his business, but do not take liberties with it with the sun in your horse’s eyes, or be heard to call out “ware horse”; it is always “ware hound.” Another hint—do not hunt in a cap, as it will not give way in a fall, but your neck may.

Gumley Wood was at one time unintentionally spoiled as a covert by the clergyman of Gumley. He was a mighty collector of moths; he so bedaubed with treacle the trees in the wood that the foxes would not lay in it; but we always found in the gorse close by. In the next parish lived one of Whyte Melville’s heroes, Parson Dove. Jogging home after hunting one evening, I asked him how he filled up his spare time in the summer; he said he gardened a good deal. Enquiry elicited that there was but one flower he cared for, and that was a cauliflower.

ROBERT FELLOWES.

(_To be continued._)

The Education of the Puppy.

Within a few short weeks the unwelcome words, “To finish the season,” will all too often appear as the corollary to the weekly newspaper announcements of hunting fixtures, and already “the stinking violet,” that is reported to have been anathematised by one of the greatest among huntsmen of the past as the means of smothering scent, is filling the air with the perfume of spring.

THE MOTHER.
]

At this season, when the trout fisherman is rejoicing in the warmer weather, that promises to bring about a hatch of March browns, and the shooting man is thinking of the first eggs of early-laying pheasants, when all the world welcomes the balmy days of spring, only the foxhunter is heard to complain. He is forgetful of the fact that he alone of the army of sportsmen enjoys a full six months of his favourite pastime, a six months that may be extended to eight, if he will content himself with the sport afforded by one or two of the woodland packs which, beginning cubhunting in the month of August, never consider the season finished until a May fox has been killed.

But even the discontented foxhunter, if he be worthy of the name of sportsman, can find something to do in connection with the “sport of kings” to while away the weary months until the dewy September morning, which finds him once more revelling in the music of hounds as they teach the cubs their business.

For some weeks, at any rate before his charges return to kennels, he cannot find better employment than the personal supervision of the education of the puppies, one or two of which, as an enthusiastic hunting man, we must take it for granted that he is walking. True it is that he will not have many weeks to devote to them ere the spring cart from the kennels makes its appearance to carry them off, loath though they may be to undergo what will be to them the most important part of their training, or to be drafted into the ranks of the unentered should they not prove equal to the standard, either in height, pace or quality, required by the particular hunt to which they belong.

Short although the time remaining may be for what we can term the preparatory schooling of the puppies, the ardent foxhunter may yet do much to make the youngsters committed to his care more fitted to take their places in the public school to which they are so soon to be removed. During the busy hunting season when their care has been in the hands of his deputies, our hunting man has probably thought little of the education of the puppies, which, maybe, will later on contribute to his next season’s enjoyment. But now that he has perforce to remain more at home he may discover that his duty as a private schoolmaster has been sadly neglected, and the puppies that should have been a credit to him have, from lack of the proper attention, grown up dunces, with all their good manners yet to be learnt, and many bad ones to be thrashed out of them. Let him then take them in hand at once, and endeavour to repair some of the mischief that his laxness has brought about. The hours spent in thus occupying himself will not be wasted, and he will feel the satisfaction of having done something for the hunt that has so often provided him with sport in the past.

To judge by the accompanying picture reproduced from a coloured engraving of considerable antiquity, the custom of sending puppies out to walk is of very long standing. It will be noticed that the puppies are to be conveyed to their destinations in bags or panniers slung across the saddle. The artist has depicted the kennel huntsman, faultlessly arrayed in scarlet, tall hat and top boots, trimming with a pair of scissors the ears of one of a good litter of puppies about to be sent to walk. The picture is suggestive of a train of thought that it may be well to give expression to at the present time, when the duty of puppy-walkers to their charges is under consideration, and possibly a few thoughts upon puppy management may induce the negligent walker to exercise greater care another season, even if it is too late to put them into practice during the time that remains before last year’s puppies return to kennel.

“SENT TO WALKS.”
]

First and foremost comes the thought of the comparatively few who are really qualified to walk a foxhound puppy. Many who undertake the duty do not appear to have their hearts in the work, their main object being to keep the puppies out of harm’s way—not so much to save the puppy _from_ harm as to prevent him _doing_ harm. On the other hand, there are some walkers who, in their anxiety to do well by the puppy, and give him enough exercise, allow him to run wild and to hunt hares. Of course, plenty of exercise is essential for the well-being of a foxhound, and in order to ensure his getting it the puppy should daily accompany some reliable person, be he the groom exercising horses or the tradesman who has long country rounds to make. The importance of his being a trustworthy man, who has his heart in the work, cannot be overrated, far more harm than good being done if, instead of keeping his charges in order, he encourages them to run wild. In this connection it may be mentioned that it does not always follow that foxhounds entered in their youth to hare are afterwards useless for fox, for many instances can be recalled of such puppies having turned out to be thoroughly reliable hounds, that would stick to a cold line even with hares jumping up in front of them; but it is a risky proceeding to give puppies exercise by allowing them to hunt ground game, and may lead to endless trouble.

As to the home treatment of foxhound puppies, no better advice can be given than that contained in a leaflet recently noticed in these pages. One thing to which due attention is often not paid is the accommodation provided for young foxhounds. Too many puppies are allowed to run about all day picking up filth, disturbing coverts, and doing all kinds of mischief; and then are left to find a damp, draughty bed in a wood house. On really wet days it is better to keep them shut up, except for a short time, during which they should have a sharp run, care being taken that a good bed of clean straw is afterwards provided in which to dry themselves. If allowed to remain wet, and to lie on the damp ground, evil results are bound to follow. It is also of the utmost importance that they should be shut up at night, otherwise everyone is molested, and bad habits, such as cattle and sheep worrying, are sure to be contracted.

A couple of puppies should always be walked together. They certainly thrive better, nor do they fret so much when first sent out, or when first taken back to kennels, although it must be confessed that where two or three are gathered together the capacity for mischief is not only doubled, but perhaps quadrupled. But if it is, the sport they will some day provide will more than compensate their walker for the few shillings they will cost him. As companions to children foxhounds cannot be surpassed, and many an hour will be whiled away in each other’s company, each keeping the other out of mischief.

A very sore point with puppy walkers, and one to which more attention might well be paid, is the fact that they are often requested to walk and do well for a couple of puppies possibly for six months, but when these puppies are returned to the kennels it is only to be destroyed, and often their fate has been perfectly evident for some months previously. The walker naturally feels aggrieved when such an ending comes to hounds on which he has spent time and money. Now, to remedy this state of affairs, it has been suggested that the kennel huntsman or some other responsible person should always be in touch with all puppies at walk, and should, as soon as he can detect for certain the worthlessness of a puppy, be entitled to relieve the walker of it, and thus save him unnecessary expense and much disappointment.

In conclusion, every member of a hunt, and everyone who has the well-being of foxhunting at heart, should feel himself under an obligation to walk a couple of puppies for his hunt, and thus relieve the master of the necessity for sending promising hounds to unsuitable walkers. But, quite apart from any obligation, the pleasure to be derived from seeing “puppies grow into hounds” will well recompense him, even if they never become shining lights in the pack, or win prizes at the Peterborough Show.

F.

A few Cocks and some Rabbits.

The shooting season is drawing to a close. One can almost fancy that there is a touch of spring in the air. The long frost has gone at last, and the thoughts of bird and beast are turning once more towards love and war. Far above us in the rocking elms, the rooks are noisily putting their own houses in order, and thievishly beggaring their neighbours. The partridges, no longer huddled together in thinned coveys, their feathers so fluffed out that they look double their natural size, have here and there already paired off. Old George, the keeper, reports that another twenty or thirty cocks can be spared, and that during the frost the hungry rabbits have been working havoc among the young trees. They must be thinned, or something is sure to be said presently on the subject of damages.

So a day is fixed for a last shoot, and, making an early start, four old friends walk across the quiet fields towards the Big Wood. Two guns are placed forward, and two walk with the beaters. I am one of the former, and, left to myself, the mystery of the Big Wood gets into my bones, and I begin to dream dreams. The silence is absolute. Presently, a tinted cloud of long-tailed tits invade the bushes round me, eager to discover an atom of greenery, and, if they do, quite prepared—if I may be allowed a forlorn little joke—to nip it in the bud. They remind one of a troop of lesson-freed children raiding the strawberry beds, in the hope that some early fruit may happily be found, ripe enough, in their very liberal interpretation of the term, to eat. My covert is drawn blank, so the tits are off, with a scolding complaint, to try their luck elsewhere.... Two rabbits, unconscious of impending fate, chase each other far down the ride which stretches before me. Silence reigns once more. Then, long before I can hear the beaters, pat, pat, pat, come some halting footsteps over the carpet of leaves. It is a wary old cock pheasant, already on the alert, and by no means unconscious of trouble ahead. He looks inky black in the shadow. He runs forward a few yards, then stops to listen; on again to the right, but, not satisfied, bustles back. An excursion to the left, but scenting danger there, he is back again. Then, irresolute, he stands facing me in the sunlight, with his bright eyes and gorgeous coat of many colours. He has played this game many times, and so far his head has kept his life. With my back to a tree, I do not move an eyelid, but he sees me, or smells my pipe, and back for good and all he scuttles, head down, with the evident intention of executing a flank movement to the rear. There is a cry of “cock back,” in the direction in which my friend disappears, but no answering gun. I like to think that the wicked old rascal has once more out-manœuvred us, and saved his skin. As the beaters push on, all the guns become busy. The bunnies are hustled noisily forward, and in the comparatively open space are bowled over, or, bolting back, have a shade of odds in their favour, some of them, I am afraid, being “picked off the beaters’ toes.” Hens come whistling over, offering most tempting shots. B., on my left, crumples up a very high one, because, _he says_, she had a leg down. Beaters and the other guns now emerge, and the slain are laid out and counted. Twenty-five rabbits, two cocks, a hare, and B.’s hen. Old George eyes her and B. suspiciously, and, feeling her all over, mutters “_he_ didn’t see no leg down.” Nearly all the cocks have run on, but will be cornered presently. So the day wears on, monotonously delightful, one beat in the Big Wood being very much like another. But at lunch there seems to be some mystery in the air. Our host and old George are to be seen whispering together like conspirators; old George’s ribston pippin of a face screwed up into something as near a grin as it ever wears, while our host looks humorously perplexed. I notice afterwards that we leave out a certain beat, and call old George’s attention to the omission. “Never you mind Muster A., you go where you’re told,” is all I get for my pains. The old man still treats me as if I were about ten, the age at which he began to teach me to shoot. The mystery remained one until after dinner that night, when our host let the cat out of the bag, under solemn vows of secrecy. That beat was left out because in it lay a fine dog fox, shot through the head by the Master who was out with us, and who had shot at a rabbit in the thick undergrowth. Thus was the blood of many a bunny avenged, and poor “Charlie” met an inglorious end in the house of his friends. Old George, and no one else, happened to see the tragedy, and notwithstanding my protest that it was much too good a story to keep to ourselves, the Master knows nothing of the murder to this day.

As I have said, George and I are very old friends, but we are also very old antagonists. He is a great politician; a Radical of the Radicals, while of course with him I am a Tory of the Tories. To-day I manage to score off him; no easy matter at any time. He had picked up some early primroses in the wood, and put them into his button-hole, to keep for a certain young lady, a prime favourite of his, who, with our hostess, is to join us at lunch. Before he could give them to her I caught him by the sleeve, and, pointing to the flowers, cried:—

“Hullo, George, I’ve always said that you would see the error of your ways some day. So you’ve actually joined the League. Who captured you? Lady Mary?”

Now, Lady Mary is the energetic wife of our Conservative Member, and it is a matter of common knowledge that there is no love lost between her and George. First game of the rubber to me! But we were soon all square. In the afternoon, coming through a thick hazel copse, stooping and worming myself along, half blinded with the irritating blows from the whippy twigs, a five-pound note worked out of my waistcoat pocket, into which I had carelessly stuffed it. Old George, whom nothing escapes, picked it up, but said nothing. When the beat was over, and, before moving on again, guns and beaters were gathered round the game, he asked me, “Be you dropped hanything, Muster A.?”

“Not that I know of, George,” I replied. “Why?”

“’Cos I picked up this here, which I think come out of your pocket.”

“Yes, by jove, it’s mine,” I cried.

“I reckon they lie a bit thicker in Lunnon than down hereabout. When I seed it fust I thought it must be”—he paused for effect—“a luv-letter.”

As my aspirations in a certain quarter, not quite unconnected with the aforesaid young lady, were pretty well known, this sally was greeted with a loud guffaw at my expense, and the game was “one all.”

Later in the day he won the rubber. I was one of the forward guns in the last beat, and having placed my gun at safety against a tree was lighting my pipe, when, for the first time during the day, there was a cry of “woodcock forward,” and he flitted past me in his usual silent, ghostly fashion, quite close. I grabbed my gun, covered him, and pressed, then frantically pulled at the trigger. Long before I realised what was the matter, and had slipped up the safety-bolt, the cock had placed a thick tree between us, and my shot hummed harmlessly through Hampshire. I hoped against hope that I had not been detected. But as we gathered round I soon realised that I was lost.

“Did you see that there woodcock, Muster A.?” asked old George.

“Yes,” I replied with assumed carelessness. “I think I saw it: wide of me on the right.”

“Oh!” grunted the old man, “wide o’ you, was it? Where might you be a-standin’, then?”

“Oh, somewhere over there,” said I, waving my hand vaguely, and, trying desperately to create a diversion, added, “That was a high cock to wind up with, B., a regular clinker.”

“But,” persisted old George, “wasn’t you a-standin’ by that there hold hoak?”

“I believe I was, George,” I yawned, “somewhere there.... What did we get this beat?”

The old scoundrel walked off to my “hold hoak,” and picked up a cartridge. I was the only gun using a 16-bore.

“Bain’t this your cartridge?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, George,” I said.... “Shall we make tracks, it’s getting rather chilly.”

“Hout of range, was he,” said the imperturbable old chap. “Why, that there woodcock comed out by that there holly, and you could ha’ knocked ’un down with a stick.”

I ran up the white flag, and said humbly: “I was lighting a pipe, George, and was at safety.”

“I knowed that,” replied my tormentor, looking round in triumph, “_for I see’d yer_.”

* * * * *

The stars are shining frostily as we finish, and the full moon rides above the tree-tops, “like a rick a-fire.” Each beater gets a couple of rabbits and an extra shilling, as it’s the last day. Pipes are lit, and we walk home out of the Big Wood, more ghostly than ever in the moonlight, across the stubble and the plough, on to the open road. Bag: 28 pheasants, 7 hares, 120 rabbits, a couple of jays, and a rat.

A. H. B.

Breeds of British Salmon.

Having on a former occasion advanced some reasons for discrediting the theory that fish hatched from the ova of autumn-running salmon _must_ immigrate or run inland in autumn; and that, similarly, the progeny of spring salmon _must_ regularly return to the rivers in spring, in obedience to inherited proclivities, we may now be permitted to give additional reasons, not less weighty perhaps, for our disbelief. The gist of our previous argument in controverting the theory in question was that since the strength of the migration of grilse—and fish-culturists and competent observers have conclusively proved that grilse are the adolescents of spring and of autumn salmon alike—is always evident in summer, this fact alone completely knocks on the head every iota of what has been advanced to prove the existence of two different breeds of British salmon, each inheriting an instinct for ascending the rivers at a particular time, irrespective of age, sex, or condition. This theory of transmitted instinct to obey a seasonal duty may at first sight appear plausible enough to some, but those who give credence to it cannot, we fear, do so from ascertained facts. Why, for instance, as already remarked, the ascent of the grilse in summer should alone be sufficient to demolish such a theory, since, when making their first ascent, and while yet adolescents, they are not obeying, as is perfectly clear, an inherited instinct for ascending during what may be called the “parental ascending season.”

From personal observation and a mass of reliable data, we have the strongest reasons for believing that the spring salmon of the Scottish rivers—not the winter salmon, which, as a rule, are older and larger—are the most vigorous and active fish of all; that the grilse are the young of spring, summer, and autumn salmon alike, ascending at a time when the temperature of the fresh water suits them, for though scarcely less active, they are less vigorous and certainly more sensitive than the spring salmon; and that the autumn salmon, generally, are fish that have already been inland as spawners, and from not going back to the sea till late in spring or early in summer, are therefore later in reascending the rivers than they were in ascending them on the previous occasion, not returning from the feeding grounds till autumn, when they are heavy with spawn, and consequently unable to remain long in the fresh water without injury to themselves.

Mr. J. A. Harvie-Brown, F.Z.S., foremost and most versatile of authorities upon the salmon, entirely agrees with what we have stated. “The spring fish,” he says, “are vigorous younger fish and reach highest up the rivers, and can stay longer in the fresh water without hurt to themselves. The autumn fish are older, larger fish: and many begin to go out of condition before they leave the brackish, as they are less able to stay long in the fresh.”

In his book on “The Salmon,” the late Mr. Russell, of the _Scotsman_, argues “that the facts are at the least equally compatible with, and indeed entirely suitable to, the theory that the fish coming up all the year are the adults of various ages, and that those rushing up in a body in summer are the young of the same species. What are those clean salmon that run up the rivers in late winter or early spring? Where have they been in the preceding months? What do they want now? They cannot be wanting to spawn, for there is no spawning for at least six months to come. They cannot have spawned early in the preceding or rather present spawning season, gone down, recovered, and returned, for numerous experiments show that the period of return is about three months, and it is only about three months since the earliest fish had begun to spawn in the rivers which these are now ascending. They must have passed the autumn or earlier winter in the sea. Then they must have passed the winter without breeding.”

Briefly put, the views we hold concerning the whole matter (as regards long-seasoned rivers) are: That the early running salmon are fish that have not spawned in the immediately preceding season (the great majority, which are small fish, females preponderating, have passed their girlshood in the sea); that the late spring and early summer salmon, for the most part, are fish that have not been gravid in the preceding spawning season; that the salmon appearing later in the summer, say from June, represent the first-descended of the previous season’s spawners returning again to the rivers; that the grilse that arrive inshore in summer seeking the fresh water are the breeding portion of the stock of grilse for the year, as proved by their ova and milt, and that the autumn salmon, the great majority of which are large fish, are those that spawned latest in the previous season, or, as kelts, were exceptionally late in getting back to the sea.

What we have stated and emphasised above is expressly intended to show how untenable is the theory that spring and autumn salmon (or, as we should call them, if we are to speak accurately, spring-run and autumn-run salmon) are distinct and separate breeds.

We now come to give other strong reasons for discrediting the notion, theory or hypothesis, that there are different breeds of salmon in the Scottish rivers. Accordingly it is advisable to be specific, necessary to select certain rivers and state the facts. Our choice is the Don and the North Esk. Now as regards these rivers, what are the facts? First, that early every year thousands of salmon are netted at their mouths and in their tideways, and many thousands more above their tideways; second, that owing to the severe river netting _plus_ the fixed obstructions which no fish can pass as long as the water has a low temperature, not a score, perhaps not half-a-dozen, pairs of so-called “spring fish” survive, and eventually reach the upper strath or glen sections. These are strictly facts, facts that cannot be disputed, facts that the Fishery Board for Scotland may conveniently verify. Now we should like to ask, is it at all likely that the many thousands of salmon that are netted in these rivers in spring are _exclusively_ the progeny of three, six, or even a dozen pairs of spring-run salmon? We answer that it is not likely. We go farther and say it is impossible. But some one will query: Are there not in ten spawning salmon more thousands of potential salmon than the thousands that are caught annually in spring by the rods and nets conjointly? Quite true—say fifty thousand in a dozen fish of 8 or 9 lb. each (a good average weight in spring). But then the crucial question must be asked? What percentage, reckoning all the risks from frost, drought, spates, and so forth, hatches out? And what proportion, considering the scarcity of their food at recurrent periods, and all the perils and all the enemies to which they are exposed during the years of their growth in sea and river, survives to reach the adult stage? Let us suppose that 5 per cent. of the whole hatched ova—and this is a liberal estimate—advances through all the stages—parr, smolt, and grilse—till the adult fish is reached. On this calculation the mature progeny, resulting from a dozen pairs of spring salmon, would number two thousand five hundred.

No, we cannot accept the theory that spring salmon are a different breed from autumn salmon; nor can we agree with the dictum that they are to be preferred for hatchery purposes. No fish-culturist who has devoted himself with eminent success to the breeding of salmon, would ever dream of preferring the spawn of fish that have been ten or eleven months in the fresh water, to the spawn of fish that have been in the rivers only two. Numerous experiments have proved that of the ova of spring salmon about 75, and of the ova of autumn salmon about 95 per cent. is the average that hatches out and reaches the parr stage; and that as a particularly high percentage, 98 is more common in the latter than 78 in the former case. How, then, can it be contended that spring salmon are to be preferred for their ova? In conclusion, the whole argument may be clinched in a single sentence thus: If from twelve pairs of spring salmon, the maximum number of “escapes” in Don and North Esk annually, there survive to reach maturity a progeny of two thousand five hundred, are we not warranted in assuming that the grand result from the ova of the many thousands of fine large fish that ascend these rivers in autumn and early winter would be millions on millions of salmon, or more than the pools could comfortably hold? Enough! Enough! Informed opinion is against the theory of different breeds of British salmon with different inherited migratory instincts.

W. MURDOCH.

VANGUARD RUNNING A FOX TO GROUND.

(_From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain,” by permission of the
publishers._)
[_From a picture at Birdsall._
]

The Foxhounds of Great Britain.[5]

A REVIEW.

History has been lavish in a casual sort of way with hounds and hunting during the last century. “Nimrod” in early days initiated descriptions of our most fashionable and best countries, as well as their denizens, and did a leading part to bring sporting literature into popularity; yet he was in no sense a hound man—he loved the horse and his rider, and was, _par excellence_, their historian. “Cecil,” who followed him, was, on the contrary, a hound man, his happiness lay in the kennel, and in his descriptions of the countries through which he toured, his pen ever hung on the treasures of the kennel, and its management in breeding. “Druid,” in his unique and gossiping way, gathered his facts and hound-lore from fireside chats with huntsmen—the best of his day. To him sketches of hunting countries mattered little; he simply delighted his readers with fragmentary touches, so pithy and telling, of men and hounds, and their manners, which, however, added little to the general history of hounds or hunting throughout the country. It has been left to Sir Humphrey de Trafford in this twentieth century to initiate the idea, and carry it out, of gathering together all the threads of bygone days, and weld them together in a comprehensive form, showing what our foxhounds throughout the United Kingdom are at the present time—their early history, their main features, their chief supporters, and their hound-lore. To bring all this into the compass of one volume was no easy matter, where so many interesting facts had to be garnered into a given space, and that by those best versed in their subject; yet the task has been accomplished in a way which I venture to think its readers will appreciate as eminently practical and useful.

Whether you take this historical sporting book as a whole, or in the light of individual packs and their countries, you cannot fail to be struck by the landmark that it is for us to-day. Here we find one hundred and ninety-nine English packs of foxhounds in England and Wales (and I have failed to discover one that is missing), twenty-four packs in Ireland, and eleven in Scotland; and it needs little research to see how they have one and all grown and flourished through good and bad times, fighting and encompassing difficulties, spreading, subdividing, increasing in numbers and in importance, ever onwards, until it can hardly be said that there is a square mile of country outside large towns or manufacturing centres where the foxhound is not honoured and welcomed. This is veritably a proud thing to say in the year 1906, yet it brooks no denial. It will surprise many readers to find with what authenticity some of our great packs can carry back their history to bygone centuries. Of these the Berkeley bears the palm, for did not a Lord of Berkeley so far back as the fourteenth century establish a metropolitan pack with kennels at Charing Cross? His descendants had so fostered and spread their hunting that in 1770 the then Lord Berkeley held all the country from London to Berkeley Castle, in Gloucestershire, a distance of 124 miles, with kennels at Cranford, Gerrard’s Cross in Bucks, Nettlebed in Oxon, and at Berkeley Castle. Thus arose the old Berkeley Hunt, which became a separate country in the year 1800, only to be since sub-divided into an east and west pack. The Berkeley also annexed at one time nearly the whole of Gloucestershire, and founded the Cotswold when they built kennels at Cheltenham. The noted Harry Ayris was huntsman at Berkeley from 1826 to 1857.

SIXTH VISCOUNT GALWAY IN 1875, WITH HIS FAVOURITE HOUNDS, BRIDESMAID
AND RUBY.

(_From “The Foxhounds of Great Britain and Ireland,” by permission of
the publishers._)
]

The Belvoir also claim a very old heritage, viz., from the reign of James the First, and the first Duke of Rutland hunted about the year 1650. The Bramham Moor pack was instituted in the reign of Queen Anne, and will ever be associated with the family of Lane Fox. The Burstow owe their origin to Sir Thomas Mostyn, who migrated from North Wales. The Burton will always be coupled with the name of Lord Henry Bentinck. The Badsworth claims 1730 as its date of origin, while the Badminton commenced its unbroken reign of ducal mastership and signal success in 1762, including as it then did the present Heythrop country and nearly all Wiltshire. The long service of their huntsmen has always been phenomenal. Philip Payne served as huntsman under four dukes, and Will Long, who succeeded, served as whip under him for seventeen seasons; and now Will Dale is continuing the _rôle_, in succession to Charles Hamblin, although as huntsmen themselves the last three Dukes of Beaufort have had no compeers.

The Bedale is inseparably associated with Lord Darlington and the dukedom of Cleveland; while the Old Berkshire country is, curiously enough, indebted to the Church for its early history; the Rev. John Loder being its founder in 1760, only to be succeeded by his son-in-law, Mr. Symonds, another clergyman, in 1850. This would seem to be a fitting history for a pack kennelled so near Oxford University; but indeed, as I have had occasion to mention in a former article in your Magazine, foxhunting owes much to its patronage by the Church from time immemorial, and surely this is not its most inglorious tradition.

We cannot help being struck with the number of packs that come under the letter B in this volume, no less than twenty-three of them, including the Duke of Buccleuch’s, in Scotland; and the letter C comes next with over twenty.

The Earl of Yarborough has the proud distinction of being the owner of a pack that through eight generations has been handed down lineally as a private pack to the present day, and from 1714 its kennel book has been maintained carefully. It is, indeed, hard to say how much foxhunting owes to such splendid sportsmen as the Pelhams have been in their care and breeding of hounds. The Yarborough pages in this book are a revelation to sportsmen who appreciate what a landowner can do with 60,000 acres within a ring fence, and able to indulge to the full in hereditary tastes.

Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn’s pack, the Wynnstay, is another instance of the success of a territorial magnate successfully forming an historic pack and country.

The Quorn, the head and front of fashion, that has led the way among the daring hard-riding spirits of Great Britain for more than 200 years, is most ably dealt with in this volume. From the days of John Boothby in 1700, and of old Hugo Meynell, who succeeded him in 1753 up to 1800, there have been twenty-five masters of the Quorn who have one and all handed down their names to posterity as worthy of note, and have earned the gratitude of many thousands of men who have in their time satiated their ambitions over those Leicestershire pastures, where the oxer still holds its own, and wire is treated as a noxious weed. The picture of old Hugo Meynell and his old huntsman, Jack Raven, is inimitable; you can see there the characters of those two aged sportsmen discussing the _pros and cons_ of the day, and can fancy how fully they are entering into it. Let us leave that Meltonian chapter with all its particulars and prints to the full appreciation of its readers.

The Cottesmore is scarcely a less interesting chapter. Founded by the Noel family at Exton Park in 1753, that adjoins the village of Cottesmore, from which it takes its name, it soon came into the Lowther family, and was hunted for a long series of years by the first Earl of Lonsdale. Then we find Sir Richard Sutton at the head of affairs, followed by Sir John Trollope, afterwards Lord Kesteven, and Mr. Henry Greaves—always in high feather—with its glorious sweet-scenting country, its grand woodlands, strong foxes, and expansive acreage of upland pastures. Surely, if any country in the world is made for the sport of kings, that country is the Cottesmore, which now enjoys the acme of sport, and worthily so.

We long to dwell on the Atherstone, the Meynell, the Oakley, the Grafton, Lord Harrington’s, Lord Galway’s, and the Rufford, did our space permit, but are not their stories all faithfully and succinctly told there?

Cheshire stands out well, and the old Tarporley Hunt Club is a lasting tribute to the hunting instincts of that famed shire, where every other sport stands aside to make way for it. Shropshire also is its goodly neighbour, hunted as it is from end to end, right up into its Welsh border, in a style worthy of its best traditions; and viewed from its grand old Hawkstone on the north to gaunt Clee Hill on the south, is a fair domain of sport.

Yorkshire, of course, is another leading feature in the book, as well it must be, and so are our southern, eastern, and western counties; none, indeed, escape all the notice that is their due; and as it is not given to all sportsmen to revel in the realms of pasture, unalloyed by the drawbacks of small enclosures, hills and dales, crags and boulders, mud and marshes, or impenetrable woodlands, so we all accommodate ourselves to locality, and are happy in our less ambitious surroundings and histories. To these this book will not the less be a treasure. Whether we happen to be east or west, north or south countrymen, we recognise a friendly word, a well-known and honoured portrait on every page.

Neither Ireland nor Scotland has been forgotten, as it is well they should not be, for as far as hunting is concerned, are we not united in a bond of love and friendship, which it will indeed be hard to sever? For is it not to those Irish horses that we owe our mainstay over here, that so soon learn to jump our flying fences as easily as their native banks? And do not we welcome some of our finest riders from across the Irish Channel?

In dealing, however, with the historical side of our foxhunting book, we must not overlook its value as regards the foxhound himself. Great pains have been taken by the compiler of this work to define the combination of blood which has been diffused into each individual kennel and has contributed to its success. To hound-lovers this book must prove of especial value, and we can picture the delight of our old friend, Mr. Cecil Legard,—whose portrait is to be found in the introduction—when he scans its pages, and the satisfaction he feels at having spent many years in perfecting the Foxhound Stud Book. It would ill become me to enter into much foxhound lore in this short review, further than to say that, from the days of the old Corbet Trojan down to those of Brocklesby Rallywood, and so on through the Belvoir celebrities and the Craven and Warwickshire favourites, as well as others in profuse plenty, not only are they made mention of, but the portraits of many of them adorn the pages and speak for themselves as to the symmetrical beauty of the modern foxhound—a fact that the success of the Peterborough Hound Shows bears ample evidence to. When I look at these splendid specimens of hound culture I cannot ever refrain from picturing what natural perfection there must be in the grand attributes of that little animal the fox, which for centuries right up to to-day has been enabled to withstand the onslaught of his foes, and defy all their artifices.