Chapter V: E. Walker was always in office at Lord’s; in 1891 he filled the post (4)

A leading feature of this book is its illustrations. It will be evident to all who study it that to gather such a collection of portraits of men and hounds, as well as innumerable hunting groups and meets in almost every country, has been a work that has taxed the energies of all who have had a hand in its compilation. Such a thing has never been attempted before, and its accomplishment will suffice for many a long year. Turn over page after page as you may, you come across old and young friends, the Nestors of bygone days, and our best young Nimrods of to-day. This is in itself a theme on hunting, which I long to go away “full cry” on, were it not that you, Mr. Editor, let fall the threatening crack of the whip, warning me homewards. It concludes with tabulated pedigrees of some of our most celebrated hounds that have won the leading honours at Peterborough, such as Fitzwilliam Harper, V.W.H. Damsel, Belvoir Dexter, Grove Druid, Puckeridge Cardinal, Zetland Rocket, and Lord Middleton’s Cheerful, and winds up with a key plate of the Quorn meet at Baggrave Hall.

Perhaps we ought to say a few words in commendation of those fourteen sportsmen whose brains and pens have assisted the Editor in bringing this great work on foxhounds before the public. They knew their subject, and have striven hard and well to draw together all the cardinal points of interest in each country with which they had to deal. How far they have succeeded it will be for readers or critics to say. Inasmuch as I am myself a helpmate in this matter to a small extent it will not become me to say any more than that it has been a labour of love to me, and that I feel sure that Sir Humphrey de Trafford will, as the Editor, hand his name down to posterity in honour for this standard work.

BORDERER.

Hind-hunting.

For those who like to combine hard riding with careful and interesting hound work, there is no sport to equal hind-hunting. It is not easy work. Indeed, there is no form of hunting which is harder upon man and horse. Patience, judgment and courage are required in no small degree by the man who would see a red-deer hind fairly hunted on Exmoor. In the course of a run we may and often do cross moor and fell, grass and plough. We plunge into the recesses of deep woods, clatter up the beds of mountain torrents, climb up ascents so steep that one wonders the horse can ever face them, and come down hills which seem more fitted for sheep or goats than horses. All this you must do if you wish to _see_ hounds at work. You may do your best, and yet lose the chase, to recover it again later on, or perhaps be left alone to find your way as best you can. If the charm of hunting is uncertainty, then hind-hunting ought to be the most delightful form of the chase, for in none is there more. Sometimes the hinds will not run at all, at others they twist about so persistently that do what you will you cannot keep in touch with the chase, and find and lose the hounds half-a-dozen times in the course of a run. The knowing ones ride to points, cut off corners, wait for hounds to come back to them. But that is not the best way to enjoy a hind-hunt; indeed, taken in that form it might be thought a tedious and unsatisfactory form of hunting. I was for some time rather inclined to undervalue it. The whole secret of the pleasure is to see as much of hounds as you can. In doing that the interest never fails; if there is anything like a good run you want to be ever pushing on, always striving to get forward to take advantage of every check, and get the best of every turn. If one is always galloping to catch hounds, no horse could live through a really fine hind-hunt, a chase which may last for three hours or more, and cover any distance (as hounds run) from fifteen to thirty miles. But so long as you can keep near the pack, there will be many opportunities of easing the horse and nursing him to the end of the run.

Let me tell the story of a hunt with its moments of joy and excitement and its times of deep depression. It is a clear, bright morning, with not too much wind, so that one can both see and hear. The air is keen as we ride on to the meet, fixed for some cross-roads near the haunts of the deer. The first few miles are along a commonplace road enough, and then we turn up a steep hill and gradually come out on the higher land. This is not the Exmoor of the holiday stag-hunter, with its deep leafy combes, its broad expanse of purple heather. It is a study in browns and russets, with the grey-purple of Dunkery in the distance, and here and there a golden blossom of heather in the foreground. The landscape is like a chequer board, with the tiny square enclosures which creep up to the edge of the moorland.

There is one advantage about hind-hunting, you know where to look for your quarry, and they are not seldom out in the open. The Master takes with him four couple of hounds, and goes to look for the hinds. We all go, too, for sometimes the best of the run may come with the tufters. I have known them to get away with the hind, and the body of the pack never to have a chance of coming up.

Presently we hear the horn, a hound challenges, and we know the hunt is up. So closely do hinds resemble the heather in its winter brown, that it is not easy to see them. At last we obtain a glimpse of one as she comes stepping high over the heather with a free, easy and proud step. There is nothing more beautiful than the action of a hind; it is far more graceful than the lumbering lollop of a fat old stag with his mighty weight of body and antlers. The way she goes leads to a covert on the side of a hill, and we make for this point, arriving there before she does. This is one of those cases in which you cannot ride to hounds—there is a bit of impossible ground. We are now on one slope of a deep valley cut by a stream. On the opposite side is a hanging wood, and along its steep sides the hind is working, the hounds hunting fitfully behind. She dodges about, running twice up to the boundary fence, and twice turning back. This is the critical spot, for it is easy to be left here and very difficult to keep touch with hounds. The hind, moreover, comes straight across, almost touching one rider; the hounds stream after her, we scramble up the slope, and down she goes again. Galloping along the top we find an impenetrable beech fence, and by the time we are clear hounds have gone.

This is one of the dark moments of the chase. Though we do not know the country well, we do know that in front there are thick and extensive coverts. We are out of the fun unless we can pick up the pack, which has not yet been laid on. Luck favours us, and after a long trot we find them waiting in the heather on the open moor, and what is also good, our second horses. With hounds now eager for the hunt and a fresh horse, we canter easily over the heather, which is far better going now than in summer, soft, springy and delightful. Watch the hounds, how they try for the line. Presently one hound bounds over the heather and quickens its pace, and then another and another. “For’ard, for’ard!” shouts the Master, and touches his horn, then one and another of the pack speak. There is none of the dash, none of the clamour of foxhounds hitting off a line. The hounds are lobbing over the heather, and we drop into a hand gallop. Now one way they swing, now the other, for the hind seldom runs straight, but in a curious, hesitating, wavering, sort of way. This gives us many a turn. But we need to keep close, for hounds leave us in a moment if we are slack. Downhill she has run straighter, hounds pack more, and speak to the line more freely. This is a delightful gallop over the heather, the horse going easily as we turn down hill. Now catch hold of him and pull him back, and we stride down without an effort, and economise the strength we shall need later. Somehow the hind doubles back, aye, and nearly escapes, were it not that two couple of hounds hold to the line. This saves the situation, though it is quite a quarter of an hour or more, during which we have scrambled down a steep path and up another, before hounds are really going again. Then comes another phase of the chase. The hind has left the open moorland and taken to the fields. A very pretty hunt it is. The pastures hold a scent, and we hunt on merrily till a sharp turn nearly throws us all out. The master’s eye sees the pack at fault. He gallops up the hill, fetches his pack, and casts boldly and quickly down hill. The hind has taken to the water, and it would not be wonderful if she was near the end of her strength. We have been running for about two hours, and have made a seven-mile point.

“This hind must have had about enough,” remarks the Master; but she is not, in fact, near the end of her resources as yet. As soon as hounds touch the line she leaves the water, and runs along the cover on the wooded slopes above us. Suddenly we see the leading hounds turn, for a hind has as many turns and twists as a hare. Now comes an exciting time for us. Hounds are running in an inaccessible bottom, and we have to ride a path about two feet wide on the side of a hill, with tangled cover and brushwood. A branch bashes in one’s hat, another almost sweeps a rider out of the saddle; but the notes of the hounds coming up fitfully and always further on beckon us forward. The going may be bad, but we must get forward. What a relief to find one self on the open heather once more! The horse is not done yet, and we work our way back to hounds, which have a long start.

But now a deep, dark wood swallows them up, and we follow the Master on trust. How he knows or divines which way hounds are going it is hard to say; but it is all right, and we find hounds running over a grass field, and then comes a stretch of most appalling ground. Frozen turf, an outcrop of slippery rock, a hillside broken up as though a number of small earthquakes had taken place; somehow we scramble down. But the hind is really beaten at last. We have been hunting since 11 a.m., and it is now long past three.

This is a good, but not an unusual example of a hind-hunt in the winter or spring, on a day when the weather is fairly favourable. When the weather is bad on the moors it is very bad. For example, the hind has gone up on to the moor, but the hounds have changed in the coverts. The Master and one follower are sitting with a couple or so of hounds for half an hour waiting for the whippers-in to bring on the hounds, while pitiless rain-, hail- and sleet-storms sweep over the exposed hillside. At last the hounds come, and what is wonderful, they can still hunt, though a storm has swept over the moor and their deer is three-quarters of an hour in front. We ride to them a short distance, plunge into a deep valley, and failing to hit the right path where the hind turns up, lose hounds altogether for the day.

Again, sometimes the hind never runs at all, but dodges and turns and twists until at last she fairly beats off her pursuers. These erratic courses of the hind are, so far as we can tell, governed by two motives. The first is to lead hounds away from her calf—the red-deer calves run with the mother till they are nearly as big as she is—and having shaken off pursuit, to return to the place she started from. There is no device to this end she will not try. Sometimes she lies down in the open, and so well concealed is she that it is impossible to distinguish her from the heather. Again, she will work her way down the middle of a stream for a long distance, so that the winter flood may carry away the scent, or she will run backwards and forwards in a covert till the line is foiled. Worst of all she will join a herd. If a hunted stag endeavours to join a band of stags, the others will butt him out of their company. They are not going to be compromised by the presence of an unlucky relative. But a bevy of hinds seem to try to shelter a distressed one, and by running on with her in a bunch to puzzle the hounds. Thus hind-hunting stands very high in the estimation of lovers of hound work. Hind-hunting brings out many latent hereditary qualities of the foxhound. We are reminded that the foxhound’s ancestors hunted stag before they hunted fox. There are, unluckily, very few foxes in the west of England, but there are still some, though mange, traps and fox-sellers or stealers have worked great havoc. Yet hounds seldom run fox when once entered to deer. These staghounds soon develop a considerable aptitude for distinguishing the scent of the hunted animal, so that amidst a multiplicity of lines they hold to the line of the hunted deer. A hound named Tradesman, belonging to Mr. E. A. V. Stanley’s pack, ran a hind from Lype Common to Cloutsham, right round Dunkery, never changing and never losing the line. When the pack were astray, he held on by himself. When they were with him he led them, and was, no doubt, the cause of the death of a stout hind after a long chase. This is a trait which is greatly valued in France, but has been almost lost in most foxhound packs in England, since the huntsman is as ready to change his fox as the hounds are apt to run more eagerly on a fresh line than a stale one. Then the foxhound often recalls his bloodhound forbears, or at least those stately white Talbots, so much favoured by our ancestors, by his steady tracking of the hunted deer.

Like bloodhounds, the staghound runs silently, speaking for a find, for the recovery of the scent after a check, and in covert, in order no doubt that the pack may keep together, but when working over the heather the pack string out in a resolute, silent and rather blood-thirsty fashion, for a staghound means and expects to have blood, and there is quite a different note in his voice as the chase begins to draw to its finish. In most cases in the last stages of a hunt the hounds are close to their quarry, and they know what it means. A curious trait about a hunted hind is that while pursued by hounds she seems almost devoid of fear of horses and men. It seems as if the red deer, from having been a hunted animal for so many ages, was able to distinguish between a real and imaginary danger. A hind has the reputation of being a timid animal, but if you try to ride one off from a point she is bent on making you will soon find that she cares nothing for you, but will hold on obstinately, or perhaps stop short and dodge behind your horse and so make her point.

So, too, I have seen a hind spring up almost in the middle of the pack and endeavour to bother the hounds by running in among the horses. Not the least remarkable thing is the unconcern with which stags look on in the hind-hunting season. I had heard of this, but never saw so flagrant an instance as during the winter of 1905. There was a bevy of hinds on the side of a hill. They were moved by the tufters, which also disturbed a big stag that was lying in the heather. He sprang up and trotted at his leisure up the hill and watched the proceedings. As soon as he understood that hinds, not stags, were the quarry of the day, he strolled quietly back to his lair and laid down again in the place from which he had been disturbed. In the same way bevies of hinds will wheel round, apparently not the least alarmed by the passing of a stag-hunt. Most hind-hunts are long and devious, but every now and then a hind goes right away in a straight line. This, I think, depends a good deal on the cry of the hounds. The red deer, like the fox, regulates its pace by the waxing or waning of the clamour of the pack. As a rule I do not think that Exmoor carries a very good scent in the winter, and the surrounding cultivation is chiefly poor scenting ground. The Brendon Hills, too, do not favour hounds, so that they do not speak much. It is only the sweet scent and enduring foil of a red deer that enables hounds to hunt as well as they do. Of course here as elsewhere there are days when scent is good. With the hind, as with the fox, a strong scent makes a straight-necked quarry, and hounds will drive a hind right away and kill her in an hour and a half or so, which for a hind-hunt is quite a moderate run. It is a very fine form of hunting, especially if you treat it more as a foxhunt than a stag-hunt. The latter is to most people a series of passing pictures of the chase, with a glorious background of wild and magnificent scenery. It is a holiday recreation, rather than a serious business like our winter fox-hunting. But few people make a serious attempt to ride to hounds when hunting on Exmoor. When first I went out hind-hunting I did the same. But I reflected that if one had two horses that it ought to be as possible to see most of the hunt as for the master and the huntsman. Even they cannot go everywhere. Parts of the country are actually impracticable, but they manage in the main to be with hounds. Men who know the country manage with one horse, but the stranger naturally goes further and works his horse harder.

How do you get your second horse? If you send him with the master’s second horse, he is pretty sure to come up with you sooner or later. Of course you can see a great deal with one, but it is unsatisfactory not to be able to see hounds hunt. To enjoy hind-hunting, one ought to see enough to have a general idea of the working of the pack during the whole hunt. Some idea of the way hounds work may be useful, and if, as not unusually happens, the rider finds himself alone with three or four couple of hounds, he can be of use by stopping them; or, if that is not always possible, at all events by keeping the leading hounds in sight, so that when the pack check he may be able to give useful information.

After their second season staghounds generally run mute, or nearly so. Thus they are particularly liable to slip away unseen or unheard. Unfortunately, these are the more experienced members of the pack, which are able to hold to the line of the hunted hind amidst the many temptations to change which will meet them in the course of a winter’s day on the moor. Yet so staunch do the older hounds become, that I have known four couple of hounds to carry the line through Lord Lovelace’s coverts from Culbone Stables (one of the most hind-haunted places in Exmoor) and kill the hunted hind after all in one of the deep-cut combes many miles away. These hounds hunted themselves, but I had the luck to pick them up. Coming over some grass fields only one spoke at all; the same hound with a peculiar shrill note spoke again in the covert when they came out on the moor. The leading hound wasted no breath on talking, but just scoured away. The others whimpered eagerly, but none actually spoke till we touched the wooded side of the hill. In the valley where runs the stream to which two-thirds of the stags and hinds come to die, strangely enough hounds would not speak, though they were on moist grass and the hind was close in front. The leading hound plodded on, always on the line, solemn, intent, resolute, until we actually came up with the hind cowering under the bank by the bridge. She was crouched into so small a space that she was scarcely visible, and her coat harmonised with the brown stream, the dead foliage on the banks, but with the spirit of her race directly a hound bayed her she stood up and faced him as proudly as any stag could have done. The odd thing was how difficult it was to get the hounds to see her, and the old hound that had done all the work seemed to take very little interest in the subsequent proceedings. The rest of the work was done by a large black, tan and white hound, who bayed the hind, hunted her down the water, and was in at the death. The others may have done more, but the silence of staghounds inclines one to give them less than their due credit. The hound, like the man who talks much and loudly, gets the most credit, and in the case of the dog with justice.

If any one wishes to see this fine but little-known sport he cannot do better than go to Minehead, and find a judicious pilot; for it takes an apprenticeship to learn how to ride over the moor in winter. The main principles which experience has taught one, is that heather is reasonably safe going, and to be made the most of, and that in this as in other forms of hunting, the nearer you can keep to hounds the happier you will be.

A friend of mine who came down asked me once for advice, and the answer was: “never lose sight of the hounds if you can help it, and if you do, get back to them again as soon as you can.” A year later he told me, “I have done my best to carry out your advice, and have never seen reason to regret it.” The other matter to be borne in mind is that somehow or another you must go at a fair pace down hill, which to the new-comer looks a great deal more alarming than it really is when you become accustomed to the process. There is another point of view which may be touched on here, and that is that it is not an expensive form of hunting; three stout horses (any will do that are well bred, temperate, and have good shoulders) would afford four and a half days a week. Thus two would go out hind hunting on Tuesday and Friday. One would do a couple of days with foxhounds and harriers, and in most weeks one of the two hind-hunters would put in half a day with the harriers besides. The early spring, March and April, are good months, when the mild western climate will be appreciated. Hunting is slack at home, and we want something new. Well, you have heard of autumn stag-hunting, now try hind-hunting in the early spring.

FAMOUS LIVERPOOL RIDERS.

Famous Grand National Riders.

To design a picture, and then be able to write personally of the subjects contained therein, is certainly a pleasant phase of magazine work; at least, in illustrating this article and telling all I know of those who hold the best riding records in connection with the still greatest of all steeplechases, so I take it to be. Proud indeed am I to claim either a friendship or marked acquaintance with those gone to the great majority, as well as those remaining with us. The former in my picture consist of Tom Olliver, Mr. Alexander Goodman, George Stevens, and Mr. T. Beasley; of the latter I am pleased to think that Mr. Tom Pickernell, Mr. J. Maunsell Richardson, John Page, Mr. E. P. Wilson, and Arthur Nightingall are very much in the land of the living. I find that in riding in the National my nine friends or acquaintances can boast of accomplishing feats which have not fallen to the fortune of others engaged in the chase. Men like Lord Manners, Captain H. Coventry, and Mr. F. G. Hobson, it is true, were successful in their first and only mounts, a great thing to tell of; then Mr. J. Maunsell Richardson certainly goes one better in scoring two wins on Disturbance and Reugny in his only four efforts. But to stand by my picture. Besides Mr. Richardson, it contains men who have triumphed twice or more, and otherwise figuring at the head of the Liverpool riding records. In my table the amateur, it will be seen, has just a slight pull over the professional. There are five of the one and four of the other, but the professional really comes out on the top, for George Stevens out of fifteen mounts won five, was third once, and never met with a fall, while Tom Olliver and Arthur Nightingall, like Mr. Tom Pickernell and Mr. T. Beasley, have won it three times. It will be seen by the little tabulated figures that in attaining his three victories Olliver rode no less than nineteen times; that is in itself a record.

Won 2nd. 3rd. Unplaced Total of Mounts
G. Stevens 5 0 1 9 15
T. Olliver 3 3 1 12 19
Mr. Thomas 3 0 2 12 17
A. Nightingall 3 1 4 7 15
Mr. T. Beasley 3 2 1 6 12
Mr. Richardson 2 — — 2 4
Mr. E. P. Wilson 2 1 0 13 16
Mr. A. Goodman 2 1 1 7 11
J. Page 2 1 1 7 11

The space allotted to me for this article naturally compels omission of a wealth of detail I possess of these splendid records, either left by my father or since collected by myself; indeed, it was my father who introduced me to each of the three riders at the head of the table. Tom Olliver I never saw ride, but it was in the early sixties I first saw him at the side of Fairwater as the winner of the Worcestershire Stakes. He trained the mare, and the portrait here given of this hitherto famous horseman recalls indeed other happy times at Pitchcroft, and of those who then, summer and autumn, visited its races. Tom Olliver must have been a wonderful man. In 1839, the inauguration year of the Liverpool Steeplechase, he was second to Jem Mason on the famous Lottery, which belonged to Mr. Elmore, who likewise owned Gay Lad. The latter gave Olliver his first win in 1842, and the next season, the first year it was transformed into a handicap, he was on the back of the hero Vanguard. His third win, in 1852, was on Peter Simple, in the colours of Captain Little; and when the latter won the chase on Chandler in 1848, Olliver was second on The Curate, half a length dividing the pair. Another of his three seconds, St. Leger in 1847, was only beaten a length, but neither of his three victories, it seems, were close fighting. In his nineteen rides, he only came to grief three times. The result in one of these was a broken collar-bone. The late William Holman once told me that an arm in a sling in later times due to Olliver’s just-referred-to Liverpool fall, prevented his piloting Freetrader, the victor of 1856. Holman, who trained the winner, likewise gave me the information that in seeking a fresh jockey the late Fred Archer’s father was offered the ride, and it was his refusal that gave George Stevens the first of his five Liverpool wins. The last time Olliver, however, rode in the Liverpool was in 1859, so in one-and-twenty years he missed riding only twice. Claudian his final mount, was unplaced; Half Caste won. In or out of the saddle mirth and wit was characteristic of Black Tom, as Olliver was often termed. Indeed, many good stories of his private and public life are recorded in the earliest numbers of BAILY. To reproduce them here would fill pages.

It was at Worcester, as I have said, I made the acquaintance of Tom Olliver, so at the “faithful city” in those youthful days a friendly relationship sprang up in my home, and that which sheltered Edwin Weever at Bourton-on-the-Hill, and that of George Stevens and the Holmans at Cheltenham. Then again of my picture: among my father’s friends were Mr. Pickernell, more publicly known as Mr. Thomas, and Johnny Page. Mr. Alex. Goodman I never shook hands with until at a later period, the veteran then loving to chat of his recollections of Miss Mowbray and Salamander. That was in my early reporting days, which likewise brought me into contact with Mr. J. M. Richardson, at those University grinds some seasons before his most successful Disturbance and Reugny double was accomplished. He was always most kind in imparting information as to his race riding to me. The same I can say of Mr. E. P. Wilson, at a period when he was associated with now almost forgotten chasers bearing names like Starlight, Nebsworth, late Jacob, late Titterstone, and so forth, all before the great striding, but perhaps non-staying, Congress gave him his first four successive Grand National rides. Then of my two other portraits, associations remain of more than ordinary racecourse knowledge. Mr. Beasley is the one, and Arthur Nightingall the other. Indeed, I was pleased to see the last-mentioned put a cap and jacket on for the first time, I think, this season at a recent Kempton meeting. Nightingall, well aware of my being full of National records, jocularly reminded me of the fact that he was “still at it,” only, as he said, “to pass the winning score of Mr. Thomas, Tom Olliver, and Mr. Beasley,” even if he did not last long enough to catch up George Stevens’ five wins.

When George Stevens first won the Liverpool on Freetrader, he had only ridden once previously. That was on Royal Blue, who was unplaced in 1852, and in the three year interim he had no ride prior to his so-called chance winning mount. But of his other victories. When the Colonel won the last of the five, that was his hardest bit of riding, and the only time onlookers in the National saw him fight like grim death and by a neck dispose of his friend and saddle contemporary, George Holman, on The Doctor. On Freetrader I have heard it said he was lucky to win a length from Minerva, as the latter badly over-reached herself at the last jump. When he piloted The Colonel to victory the first time, he won by three lengths, a distance by which he, singularly enough, beat Arbury on Emblematic in 1864. Emblem’s success the year before was quite a runaway victory. Even with her 10 lb. penalty, Arbury there had less chance than with Emblematic. Stevens, of course, thought much of the great double he accomplished for Lord Coventry, but in later years I am inclined to think for “greatness” he leaned more to the side of The Colonel’s repetition. Be that as it may, he was naturally very proud of both, and unfortunately was not spared very long to enjoy a well-earned retirement. For Baron Oppenheim he tried to surpass his already earned record a third year on The Colonel. The weight, however, was too much, and in the position of sixth the second year The Lamb won Stevens rode his last National mount.

It was indeed only a few months after this that his life was cut short by a fall from his cob while riding to his cottage called Emblem, outside his birthplace, Cheltenham. Sad indeed is the story, too long to repeat here, but to commemorate his great Liverpool name and fame, there still exist of him at his native Cheltenham certain mementoes. The house he was born in I believe has vanished, but on the footway by the road-side where he met his death there is a little stone with the plain “G. S., 1871,” upon it to indicate the spot of so sad an end. Furthermore, there is another mark of esteem in the public cemetery. Here is a more conspicuous erection in the shape of a grey granite monument, included in the inscription on which are the names of the four horses upon which he triumphed at Aintree. He married the niece of Mr. Mat. Evans, once part owner of The Colonel. The widow is no more, but I believe the only son is alive and doing well at Derby in a very different calling from that of his father. Those who remember Stevens when he won the Liverpool twice for Lord Coventry, will recall his face beneath a cap he put on as a help to the artist who painted him on Emblem in Lord Coventry’s famous picture. The vignette I place in the centre of my group is, in fact, the original, and was kindly lent me by one of the deceased’s friends, Alfred Holman, who still keeps up the old family training traditions at Cheltenham.

When George Stevens was beaten on The Colonel in 1871, the year proved, perhaps, the most famous of Mr. Thomas’ three victories. It was The Lamb’s second success, and associated with this beautiful little chaser was the fact that Lord Poulett, his owner, had dreamt in the previous December he had seen his horse win with “Tommy,” as he called Mr. Pickernell, in the saddle: and he at once asked the pilot of a previous heroine, Anatis, to ride. The original letter making mention of this successful dream I have seen in Mr. Pickernell’s well-preserved scrap-book, containing much of his riding and other exploits. One of course there finds a deal about The Lamb. Besides the story of the dream, one can glean much of the many efforts of Anatis besides her win. There is plenty, too, of other sporting qualities of her owner, Mr. C. Capel, who, only about twelve months ago Mr. Pickernell followed to his last place of rest. I think Mr. Capel lies in the same cemetery as George Stevens. Now, concerning Mr. Thomas’ third successful ride in the National, well preserved in his book is yet another letter. This is not one of dreams; it is that of congratulation in the hours of Pathfinder’s glory, and is from the pen of none other than the late Admiral Rous. Mr. Pickernell once told me he had few keepsakes of his successful Nationals except those two letters, and to which he then added, “are _they_ not enough to be proud of.” Only twice in nineteen years did Mr. Thomas miss a ride in the Liverpool. His first mount was Anatis, the year before she won; his last occurred in 1877, when he was third to Austerlitz on The Liberator, two years before Mr. Garry Moore won on the last named. The years Mr. Thomas missed mounts in the Liverpool were when Emblem and Emblematic won; not through spills or broken bones, or anything of that sort. Just at that time he became a benedict, and it was family persuasion kept him out of the saddle. Not for long, however, for what he picked up from Tom Olliver was well in the flesh, and of one reception he met with on his return to the pigskin he is quite as fond of talking of as of his three Liverpool victories. And well he might be. The calendar records tell that in 1866 he won all the three steeplechases run at Aintree’s autumn meeting, and they, of course, included the Sefton on Sprite. Here, with a broken stirrup leather carried in his hand, by a neck he beat Stevens on Lord Coventry’s Balder amid great enthusiasm. Mr. Thomas, who lives at King’s Heath, near Birmingham, last September attained his seventy-first birthday, and although if now never seen on a racecourse, he enjoys fairly good health. He likes to compare the old with the new; he knows, too, in his retirement all about regulation obstacles. Did he not give up the official berth of inspector of fences before the National Hunt placed Mr. William Bevill in that position. Mr. Bevill never knew what it was to taste the sweets of a Grand National victory. He is, however, one of those named in its records in connection with many luckless efforts.

Pathfinder’s victory saw the final National ride of another of my subjects, Johnny Page. He there was on the back of Baron Finot’s La Veine, and the French Baron being offended with not a very pleasant greeting at Bristol, curiously enough never tried his luck in the National again. Page, back in England many years ago from France, and down Henley-in-Arden way, is still alive to tell of his experiences of the Liverpool Steeplechase. He won it on Cortolvin and Casse Tête, was second on the former to Salamander, and third, as already said, to Pathfinder. In 1871 he was fourth on Pearl Diver to The Lamb, and all in eleven rides. He had early tuition as a jockey on the flat, for as a lightweight he steered First Lord (5 st. 8 lb.) when he won the Northumberland Plate. This, no doubt, assisted him in being so fine a judge of pace between the flags, and likewise gave him the ability in a finish, so much feared by his pigskin contemporaries. For this most of them gave him praise. One of the number, however, is Mr. Richardson, who, with Capt. Machell, so well managed the Disturbance and Reugny Limber Magna coups. Indeed, at the quiet little Lincolnshire nook even their near neighbour, the late Sir John Astley, according to his own words, hardly reckoned on their achievement. He tells us so in his book, and if he did not participate very much in their sweets he got up a

DISTURBANCE AND NO ROW,

words “The Mate” had printed on the invitation tickets to the Grimsby Town Hall Dinner, prepared in honour of Mr. Richardson’s victory. After Reugny’s success the rider of the latter and Disturbance married the Countess of Yarborough; and, long since retired from the race saddle, now amuses himself at golf in the summer and hunting in the winter. He comes racing occasionally, and has for years had colours registered. They were of a different hue until the death of Capt. Machell, when the white and blue cap which he has on in my picture was substituted. The photo is a copy of a painting in oil, a presentation to Mr. Richardson after his two Liverpool wins.

In Mr. E. P. Wilson’s sixteen attempts to win the Grand National, he was very near the mark on Congress when Regal beat him by a neck in 1876. He travelled as far as 1884 before scoring his first win on Voluptuary and then followed it up the next season on the uncertain Roquefort, on which he would probably have won a second time had the horse not fallen over the rails in the straight, when Gamecock triumphed. At any rate, in his long career, which started in 1873 and terminated in 1890, he did remarkably well. Congress, as before said, was his first mount, Hettie the last, and it was on the latter mare, although unsuccessful, he had the honour of wearing the colours of the King. A portrait in the Royal racing livery would no doubt be more effective to my group, but is not available, so one in hunting costume, from a recent photo taken by Frost, of Loughboro’, takes its place. Mr. Wilson some time ago changed his home from Ilmington to Loughboro’, retiring first from race-riding and then from training. He has, however, started a new career. At Loughboro’ I hear that he makes a good host at the Bull’s Head Hotel; when away from home he sometimes is found wielding the flag and officially despatching the racer and steeplechaser he loved so well.

Mr. Beasley’s death some months ago, after retirement from riding between the flags, caused general regret, but yet recalled a splendid Liverpool career. His three winners, Empress, Woodbrook, and Frigate, were all praiseworthy triumphs, the last-named being the most difficult, but perhaps the most acceptable, as the old mare had previously tried there so often. But Mr. Beasley was not without his disappointment at Liverpool, for fresh in my memory is that of the 1882 defeat of Cyrus, when Lord Manners won on a former stable companion, Seaman. That defeat was a head, and on one other occasion only has the judge ever given a Liverpool by that distance. Spahi in 1887 was also a disappointment when he fell so early in the race. Of Mr. Gubbins’ horse much more was expected. Mr. Beasley, however, knew how to take failures as well as sweets. He came of a good riding family, as the National of 1879 corroborates. Neither was successful, but in connection with the chase I think it is a record to find Tommy, Harry, Willie, and Johnnie, four brothers, all in one Aintree battle. The Liberator won that year. It is Mr. Harry Beasley I have to thank for my portrait of the brother with such a splendid Liverpool score against his name. Mr. Harry’s record is not quite so good, but nevertheless will bear inspection. One win (Come Away) and three consecutive seconds and a third is certainly not so indifferent out of thirteen mounts.

And last, but not least, Arthur Nightingall is approached. He began to ride in the Liverpool in 1886 on Baron de Tuyll’s The Badger. He had no mount through a mishap to his horse at the eleventh hour last year, and as I have said earlier he quite expects to make another effort this season. Nightingall is of opinion that Ilex, the first winner he rode, was the best, and his subsequent running with such as Cloister, and Come Away under big weights corroborates the notion. His win on Ilex, however, was far more easily achieved than that on either Why Not or Grudon; in fact, when speaking of Why Not, Nightingall has been heard to say that he was glad when he lifted the horse over the last fence; furthermore, so beaten were his opponents at the finish that he thinks he could have won on either of the other three who followed him home. Why Not did fairly well in his hands again when Soarer scored.

Now I am at my journey’s end. Space has not permitted me to tell of the many riders of single winners, but before I stay my pen in this long story of National successes, I must, indeed, indulge in the old cry of “one for the losers.” Plenty of good men and true, if they have only ridden one winner, well know the difficulty of accomplishing success. In my researches I find at Aintree fine horsemen, professional or otherwise, like Mr. Arthur Yates, Mr. W. Bevill, Robert I. Anson, Richard Marsh, the King’s trainer, Mr. Gordon, Mr. W. R. Brockton, Capt. W. Hope, Johnstone, Ben Land, the Earl of Minto (then Mr. Rolly), the brothers Holman, James Jewitt, Mr. Lushington, Capt. Smith, Col. Harford, and many others I cannot now recall are of the number. Many of these, too, are still in the land of the living.

ARTHUR F. MEYRICK.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(FROM THE _SPORTING MAGAZINE_ OF 1806.)

A notorious deer stealer, of the name of Smith, was apprehended by Hamilton and Lovett, officers, on Thursday morning, January 30th, by virtue of a warrant issued by the magistrates of Northamptonshire, which was backed at Marlborough Street office. The charge against the prisoner was for deer stealing in the park of the Earl of Pomfret, in the county of Northampton, where depredations had been committed to a considerable extent, as well as in various other parks in that neighbourhood. It was stated that a white buck had been selected for Christmas dinner in Earl Pomfret’s park, but that he was discovered to have been stolen when the keepers sought to take him for slaughter. The prisoner was represented as belonging to a gang of offenders some of whom were in custody in the country. He was the _Robin Hood_ of the gang, and when committing depredations in the forests his bravado and fierceness of temper struck such terror into the minds of the keepers that when he was known to be poaching, even alone, no one dared to approach him. The prisoner, according to his own account, had carried on a successful trade in this way for many years with impunity. He did not consider deer stealing as any moral offence, but merely sporting, which he had been brought up to, and which he could never desist from. He was ordered to be committed to the county gaol of Northampton.

* * * * *

A match of pigeon-shooting took place at Heston on Thursday, February 13th, for twenty-five guineas, between J. Aaron, Esq., a gentleman of sporting celebrity, and Mr. Dunford, who was considered one of the first shots in Hampshire. Fifteen pigeons were allotted to each sportsman, and Mr. Dunford commenced the sport—which of these should produce most dead birds in fifteen shots. He killed the first nine, but hit the tenth bird without effect, and the eleventh he missed. The other four birds were despatched, making thirteen dead. Mr. Aaron followed, and killed eleven birds successively, when betting was seven to four on his performance. The twelfth and thirteenth birds were hit without effect, and the fourteenth he killed, and missed the fifteenth, by which he lost the wager.

* * * * *

Monday, the 10th, the stud of the late Premier, Mr. Pitt, consisting of nine saddle horses, was disposed of by public auction at Tattersall’s. The hon. gentleman was not distinguished for the excellence of his cattle, and in his carriage he actually drove job-horses. Of those brought to the hammer a bay gelding, six years old, by Pipator, fetched the greatest price, and sold for 130 guineas. It was put in at 40 guineas, and when it had reached 50 a person present, who had been in the employ of the late proprietor, bid at once 100 guineas, and it was ultimately knocked down to him. A gelding, by Grog, which Mr. Pitt used as a charger, fetched 72 guineas, and the whole 438 guineas.

The Sportsman’s Library.

The forty-third edition of John Wisden’s _Cricketers’ Almanack_[6] is a bigger thing than ever, and now the chronicle of the cricket of the year consists of over 700 pages, which fact demonstrates very forcibly how the popularity of cricket has increased since the first issue of Wisden in 1864, when 112 pages comprised the whole work.

Now that the other cricket annuals, the old green and red Lillywhites, no longer appear, the responsibility of chronicling the history of the game falls upon Mr. Sydney Pardon, the well-known journalist, who has now for some years so ably edited _Wisden_.

We agree with Mr. Pardon that the task of preparing _Wisden_ does not become easier with the lapse of years, so vast is the amount of interesting matter which has to be compressed into one volume. The five cricketers of the year, whose photographs form the frontispiece, are Joe Vine, that keenest of cricketers in Sussex, who seems to enjoy nothing in life more thoroughly than chasing the ball all over the field, and if required will cheerfully field in the country at both ends.

He is a very good batsman, as his many fine partnerships with C. B. Fry for the first wicket amply testify. But the most interesting feature of Vine’s cricket was his bowling, which for a year or two nonplussed the best batsmen. He was able to bowl the leg-twisting ball at a quicker pace, both through the air and off the pitch, than any other English bowler, and when he found his length he was very deadly, reminding one of the best ball of Mr. G. E. Palmer, the Australian.

It is an interesting enough historical fact with regard to the greatest leg-twist bowlers, that their careers have generally been extremely brief. Mr. Palmer seems to have lost his length owing to his cultivation of the leg-twist. Mr. R. C. Ramsay, in 1882, was for Cambridge University a terror for a few weeks, and Messrs. C. L. Townsend, the late E. A. Nepean, and the brothers Steel, have all had great successes by this method in their time, but, somehow, no cricketer seems to have succeeded in the craft of bowling leg-twisters for a very long time, with the notable exception of Mr. Warwick Armstrong, who, during the last Australian tour in this country, bowled no less than 1,027 overs, of which 308 were maiden overs.

Joe Vine can point to a couple of very fine bowling performances. In 1901 he took sixteen wickets at Nottingham—eight in each innings—for 161 runs, and so enabled Sussex to win at Trent Bridge for the first time for forty years. In 1902, at Hastings, against the Australians, he took 7 wickets for 31 runs; but sad to say, in 1905 the 21 wickets he captured for his county cost over 41 runs apiece!

Mr. L. G. Wright, the veteran Derbyshire cricketer, justly enough, is one of the selected five, and although he is now over 44 years of age, he is by common consent held to be the best “point” amongst first-class fieldsmen of to-day. He stands close up to the batsman, and his agility and quickness are quite astonishing, for of recent years perfect wickets and academic batsmanship have rendered the post of point proper all but obsolete.

An interesting feature of Mr. Wright’s cricket is, that like a good vintage wine, it appears to improve with age. He first played for Derbyshire in 1883, and since 1887 he has been a regular member of the team when he could play, and last year, in his twenty-second season, he came out easily top of the county averages, with an aggregate of 1,651 runs for 38 innings, giving an average of 43 runs per innings.

Amongst other big performances he scored a century in each innings against Warwickshire at Birmingham. He scored 176 out of 323 in the first innings and followed on with 122 out of 197, in first and out last.

We understand that a very influential committee has been formed to organise a testimonial, and we wish the scheme every success. Probably, Mr. Wright holds the record of having played upon the losing side in more county matches than any other cricketer, and so his sustained good play for Derbyshire is all the more commendable.

George Thompson is another star cricketer who has lent much importance to the doings of a weak team, and it is not too much to say that, but for Thompson, Northamptonshire could not have last year gained admission to the first class. Since his first appearance in 1895 he has put in consistently good work both with ball and bat, and, whether for his county, or for the Players, or the Marylebone Club, he is always one of the most useful men on a side, as he also proved himself to be when, with Mr. Warner’s team in New Zealand, he took 177 wickets at a cost of under seven runs a-piece, and, in the West Indies, with Lord Brackley’s team, he took 126 wickets for ten runs a-piece.