Chapter VIII: Front Matter (8)

Since Captain Forester undertook the mastership last season, Harry has again, we understand, become a paid member of the staff as in Lord Lonsdale’s time. If the two men are not seen running with the Hunt on the same day, the one is pretty sure to be stopping earths in another district for next day.

A runner with the Cottesmore has to put a great deal of travelling into a day’s hunting when the fixture is wide of Oakham; on Mondays and Thursdays an average journey to the meet is from twelve to fifteen miles, with no chance of a lift by rail. Sellars, who has been runner for the best part of twenty seasons, tells us that he frequently starts from Oakham, with his terriers, at eight o’clock in the morning, to reach such fixtures as Castle Bytham, Holywell Hall, Stocken-Hall, or Clipsham, by eleven. Fortunately at the end of the day, hounds work back towards Oakham, so that when they whip off the runner is nearer his well-earned supper. Sellars is a well-set-up, active fellow, who relies on his own energies to carry him through, and where the heart is keen for sport it is astonishing what a man can accomplish. A younger runner to-day of shorter build lessens his labours by using a bicycle, which certainly gives him an advantage in districts where the roads serve. But Sellars has ridden to hounds in his time second horseman, as far back as when William Neil carried the horn, and he is hardly likely to adopt the “wheel.” In his cap, scarlet coat and leggings, he is the typical, sharp-featured runner, in hard condition to go all day, perfectly at home in the country, which he knows by heart.

With the respectful manner of one who has been in touch with hunting all his life, Sellars is not a great talker; he is a silent admirer of all connected with the Cottesmore Hunt, in which his sun rises and sets. During the hunting season there is plenty of work to be had between times in the shape of badger digging and earth stopping, besides taking a turn as beater when there is shooting going on in the district. The hay and corn harvest gives every available hand the chance of a fair day’s work for good pay, the farmers then finding the Hunt runners employment.

Sellars calls to mind the memories of a long succession of brilliant Cottesmore Hunt servants: mentioning William Neil and his famous first whip, Jimmy Goddard, who was the _beau ideal_ of a horseman, and hung a boot better than most. The long service of George Gillson, as huntsman for the best part of twenty years, was remarkable for consistent and good sport, very popular with the countryside. A whipper-in who had a long tenure of service at that time was George Jull, who remained on for a season or two under Arthur Thatcher, and then went to Ireland. Amongst the many occasions that Sellars has helped to extricate horse and rider after a fall, he calls to mind an incident when Jull came such a crumpler, that he had to be conveyed by the Hunt runner to the nearest farmhouse.

Sellars was one of those who rendered first aid when Colonel Little took a bad fall this season, his horse rolling over him with serious consequences. A runner, if he is worth his salt, must be ready for any emergency, from rendering “first aid” to handling a fox or leading an unwilling hound. Very often his duties are in the track of the hunt, shutting gates and collecting strayed stock, so that he must be included amongst those who further sport by repairing mistakes of the careless.

Oxford and Cheltenham Coach.

To some who have read and heard what a sight it was in the old days to witness the coaches—both mail and stage—coming into and leaving Cheltenham, it may be a matter of surprise to learn that as late as 1862 a mail coach was running daily between Oxford and Cheltenham, an illustration of which is given with this short article, this being taken from a water-colour drawing by Mr. Bayzand, of Oxford, who has very kindly given me some interesting particulars of the coach and those connected with it. And I am also indebted to the courtesy of my friend Mr. Hendy, of the G.P.O., for further information as to dates, &c., &c.

OXFORD AND CHELTENHAM COACH.
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It appears that the coach first commenced to run in 1846–7, and did not carry mails until 1848, from which time till October 1st, 1855, mails were carried by it free of charge, _i.e._, merely in consideration of freedom from tolls; but from the date mentioned the sum of £150 per annum was given to the proprietors in addition to this privilege. The original owners were Mr. Waddell and Mr. Dangerfield, of Oxford, but after three or four years the concern was taken over and worked by Isaac Day, the trainer, of Northleach (through which quaint, and to this day remote, little town the coach of course passed daily), John Mills, of Burford, and Daniel Blake, of Cheltenham; and a little later still the last named took it over entirely, ultimately disposing of the business to Messrs. Edward Allen and William Colee, of the George Hotel, Cheltenham. Mr. Allen died in 1854, and the coach was then run by William Colee himself till the summer of 1856, when Mr. Richard Glover took it over, Colee retiring. George Colee, brother to William, is the coachman shown in picture, he used to drive from Oxford half the journey, bringing the up coach back, it being a day coach leaving Oxford and Cheltenham respectively at 11 a.m. Though starting from the “Old Three Cups Hotel,” Oxford, the coach was kept and horses stabled at the “Lamb and Flag,” St. Giles; the horsekeeper’s name there was Morgan. I am told that two portraits in the picture are particularly good—that of George Colee, and the grey leader; this mare was bought by Mr. Blake from Isaac Day, and I fancy she must have been a real good animal, as it is still remembered and recorded that her name was “Skater,” and she was blind. Isaac Day, by the way, was noted for his liking for a good cob, and no doubt during his connection with the coach he horsed his stage, or stages, well. The old trainer died in 1859, just about three years before the coach ceased to run, as it made its last journey in January, 1862, in which month the Witney branch of railway was opened. Though a mail the coach was not a fast one, being timed at from seven to eight miles an hour. After it ceased to run George Colee, I understand, contracted for the Steventon Mail, and one or two others local to Oxford, in which city he died. To those among the readers of these lines who knew Oxford in the old days, it may be of interest to note that in the picture the coach is represented on the Botley Road, passing Morrell’s old rick yard and the path leading to Ferry Hincksey, now all built over.

S. A. KINGLAKE.

The Broads as a Sporting Centre.

To the greater bulk of the thousands who visit the Broads season after season the great water-ways of Norfolk and Suffolk are an attractive summer holiday resort—that and that only. The all-round excellence and great variety of sport obtainable throughout the year is known only to a comparatively small number, and is indulged in by but few even of those. Probably summer sailing will remain the principal pastime—it is possibly the most enjoyable—on these waters for all time. And with good reason. Granted some knowledge of sailing craft and decent care in navigation, absolute safety is assured for even the smallest craft. The numerous regattas offer opportunities for the more skilful to prove their skill in friendly competition before admiring associates. Scores of miles of rivers and acres upon acres of broads are open to all—expert and novice alike. Equally enjoyable, in the opinion of many, is a holiday spent on a wherry, and not a few parties “swear by” the keen pleasure associated with a holiday under canvas, “camping out.” Inseparable from all is angling. And what a variety of anglers one meets with on the Broads! They fish from wherries, from yachts, from boats, from the bank, and, indeed, from any and every point of vantage. They use all sorts of tackling, from the boy’s polished ash-wood rod and ready furnished line—evidently purchased merely for the holiday and the fun of the thing—to the perfectly tapered roach pole and line of gossamer fineness, greatly prized tackling handled by an expert, who means fishing in all seriousness. Not infrequently a young couple, “pegged down” in very close proximity and evidently preoccupied with some other matter nearer and dearer than angling, allow the rod at their feet to angle for itself—which is, perhaps, the very best thing they can do if they really wish to catch fish.

CASTING A NET FOR SMALL LINE BAIT.

_Photo by Clarke and Hyde._]
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The artist, the botanist, and entomologist are numbered among the holiday seekers; and the indolent individual, “come to do nothing but lazy around,” is also in evidence, of course. All alike are happy as the days come and go and the summer wears on. Not the least enjoyable time is the late evening, when the wherries and yachts are moored for the night and the canvas camps are lit up. The solemn quietude of Broadland reigns on all sides, and than Broadland at night, can anything be more quiet, more peaceful, more soothing? The distant barking of a dog, the sound of song or music floating on the air from some craft, the splash of oars as a belated boating party passes by on the smooth surface of the stream, the flop! of a big bream “priming”—all these only go to accentuate the actual and wonderful quiet. So quiet is it, indeed, that as our ardent angler, out fishing for the night, lights his pipe, the scratch of the match on the box may be heard for some considerable distance. Thus the summer wears away; the end of the holiday comes all too soon, and the Broads lie neglected—or nearly so.

Yet the opportunities for sport after the holiday folk have departed and before they return are many. Those sportsmen are not wanting who will tell you that they prefer the room of the holiday seekers to their company, and that “sport on the Broads has gone to the deuce since the advent of hordes of cheap trippers and big boys with boats.” This is, however, too severe an estimate of the character of those who frequent the Broads during the summer. Other and probably more sound reasons could be given for the falling off in sport of late years; although it must be acknowledged that the presence of large crowds through the summer must have a more or less bad effect on sport all the year round. That sport on the Broads has declined is, unfortunately, beyond doubt. Granted this, however, there still remains satisfying sport available if only the sportsman will adapt his methods to the altered condition of affairs.

A BROADLAND SPORTSMAN WITH HIS PUNT AND DOG.

_Photo by Clarke & Hyde._]
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Take, for instance, the rudd-fishing. The bags of these fish are considerably smaller now than they were ten, aye, even five years ago. It is quite possible that the crowds of summer holiday folk are partly responsible for this falling off; but is it not also probable that the gradual filling up of some parts of the Broads, mostly those parts where rudd do love to congregate, is by far the more important cause? Where the angler used to find the rudd in, say, two feet of water, there is now but a foot—in many cases barely that—yet the fish are still there. It is rather amusing than otherwise to watch the holiday folk going for these wary fish in such shallow water with the orthodox tackle of years gone by, _i.e._, a fine running line, float and shotted bottom; it is surprising to see a sportsman doing the same thing. Now, the rudd is essentially a summer-feeding fish, and what is more he is, when shoaling, a surface-feeding fish; therefore, even while the summer holiday folk are present, get you an eleven-foot fly rod, attach to the end of your taper line a two-yard fine taper gut cast, armed at the end with a fairly large crystal-bend hook; fill the hook with well-scoured gentles (half-a-dozen is not too many), and casting as you would with a fly, put this bait among the rudd that are shoaling in the shallow water, and see what will happen! The lid of your creel will constantly creak a welcome to a lusty specimen, and you will return to quarters with a heavy bag and a light heart, while the man with the float and shots will most probably return with a light bag, swearing at the decadence of sport on the Broads, and cursing the “cheap-tripper” as the cause of his non-success. So, too, with the bream-fishing. The day has gone by when you could pitch anywhere and make sure of a big bag of bream. This, also, is a summer-feeding fish, principally. Yet you have only to go about your work in a methodical and common-sense manner to command, at any rate, a respectable bag. Even while the crowd is in full evidence, look you for a quiet nook with a decent depth of water. You should have no difficulty in finding one; and having found it, nurse it even as a Thames or a Lea or a Trent angler nurses his swim. Bait it carefully, fish it as carefully with decent tackling, and success shall be yours clean in front of the man who, following the orthodox methods, follows also the “milky way” over the broad waters that are now continually disturbed by passing craft of all descriptions.

The best of the pike-fishing is to be had during the winter months, when the greater bulk of the weeds and rushes are rotted, and a keen frost is in the air. If you do not care to face the cold winds that sweep over Broadland at this time of year, then you must rest content with the comparatively indifferent sport with these fish obtainable in more genial weather conditions. But if you do not mind the cold, give the Broads a trial for pike during December, January or February. Certainly you will not be troubled with a crowd through the winter months! You will, as a matter of fact, have miles of river and acres of broad water to yourself. You can spin, paternoster or live-bait to your heart’s content, and you will catch fish that will handsomely reward you. No one who has only killed pike in Broadland during the late summer and early autumn months would credit the enormous increase in fighting power one’s quarry develops during the winter. The most successful tackling in the rivers is the paternoster, and for that matter it is the best on the Broads also. But spinning may be resorted to in the latter waters, and where a big fish is known to lie a live bait on snap tackle will most probably tempt him. You can catch your own baits from the rivers, but it is best to make sure of a supply from some fishing tackle dealer.

The ruthless destruction in the past of rare birds (and, by-the-by, the so-called “cheap-tripper” was not responsible for the unsportsmanlike slaughter) has rendered it necessary to protect many of them against utter extinction. The best of the wildfowling is strictly preserved. There is, however, some very good wildfowling to be had still from November until February. Here, again, the sportsman must not expect the bags obtainable years ago, but with careful stalking he should do fairly well. Some decent flight-shooting is also available. The three things absolutely necessary to success are, a handy punt, a hard-hitting gun, and a well-trained dog. The latter is the most important of all.

Notes and Sport of a Dry-Fly Purist.

THE TROUT SEASON, 1905.

Although at the present day, more than ever before, fishing in all its branches has an extensive literature of its own, there is, perhaps, no subject that requires more careful handling by an author anxious to interest his readers than dry-fly practice in general, and the sport obtained by his own rod in particular, during the long trout season. Nor is it easy to condense within the limit of a single article anything like full details of, and the actual incidents connected with, his captures—and also combine references to the delightful environment in which he is wont to pursue his fascinating art (the most humane of all sports where killing is concerned), and briefly to other matters, to embellish his descriptions. But I have done my best in what follows, and I hope the reader, all the better if he be an expert himself, will in imagination follow me through the verdant, flower-decked water meadows, and share the pleasures of an angler’s quest.

Long weeks before the first of April, which is the earliest date dry-fly sportsmen commence fishing in the Itchen, my preparations were completed—the eleven-foot “Perfection” split cane rod overhauled by its makers, and after many years’ hard work made to look like new (a trusty weapon as good as any angler need possess), was more than once taken from its case and within doors lovingly waved about as if casting a fly. An ample supply of well-tied flies was duly received, and on opening each small box the contents made one smile to look at because they would certainly be killers, i.e., red quills with gold tags, olives in three shades of colour as to wings, Englefield’s green quill-bodied flies with silver tags; gold-ribbed hare’s ear, and Wickham’s fancy, all dressed on sharp, full barbed, sneck-bend hooks in several sizes, and supplemented by old flies left over from previous seasons, which, when trout or grayling are well on the feed, are often accepted as readily as new ones—which would seem to prove that the fly is not of so much consequence as some people imagine. But beyond rod and flies, I attribute my success to always using a _fine_ dressed running line, and the finest of gut collars, prepared by myself thus: Four strands of 18-inch picked refina natural gut knotted smoothly together, and pointed with two strands of 18-inch 4x fine drawn gut, forming a length of 2¾ yards, finer all through than usually supplied from shops, and yet strong enough to hold and play to a finish any trout up to 4 lb. I mention all this for the benefit of some men who I am certain do not fish fine enough in the clear Itchen.

All through April the river had a winterly appearance, the fish were not in condition, the weather unpropitious, and those too ardent anglers who did try met with poor sport; nor were blank days unknown.

For these reasons I did not make a beginning until May 19th, and it will somewhat simplify the following details of my dry-fly sport, and save much unedifying repetition, if I state at the beginning that all of it was obtained on the prolific River Itchen (at present as much deserving to be called “the queen of Hampshire rivers” as was formerly the Test), namely, from two meadows on the east bank above Winchester, where I rent the exclusive right _ad medium flumen_, but by the usual tacit understanding between owners of opposite banks, casting all across was not interfered with; in fact, it happened that no other rod fished there. It is a great advantage having even a small length of well-stocked water all to one’s self, and to watch it closely for flies and fish rising during the morning or evening, and take the benefit of such knowledge by resuming the rod at the nick of time, thus avoiding over-fatigue, and perhaps disappointment, while waiting long hours by the river-side to no purpose.

And by favour, annually granted to me for many years past for a liberal number of days after June, I plied my rod in the three miles of the main river, mill, and side streams of the Abbot’s Barton fishery between Durngate Mill and Headbourne Worthy. Also I was courteously offered sport in the lower reaches at Twyford and Shawford.

On my opening day, May 19th, at Winnall, a leash of trout weighing 5 lb. 2 oz. was killed. The next time I tried was on June 3rd, for only a quarter of an hour after sunset, in the much overfished public water known as “The Weirs,” when a brace, 2 lb. 1 oz., came to hand. On the 13th a brace was caught before noon in my private fishing, weighing 2 lb. 15 oz., and on the 22nd six, scaling respectively in the order of capture—1 lb. 9 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 2¼ lb., 2 lb., and 1¼ lb.; aggregating 9 lb. 11 oz., and proving the best day’s sport of the season, although on one of its hottest days. Two days after, in an hour while the sunset glory was fading, a handsome brace weighing 3¼ lb. was brought to grass. And during July, in the same limited extent of water, nearly always about sundown, the following were creeled—_i.e._, on the 1st three fish, 4 lb. 2 oz.; on the 3rd two, 2 lb. 3 oz.; on the 14th one, 1 lb. 14 oz.; on the 18th one, 1 lb. 2 oz.; and on the 29th one, 1 lb. 14 oz. Also on August 5th one, 1 lb. 9 oz., and on the 8th one, 1 lb. 5 oz.

On July 21st an early train landed me at Shawford, and on entering the beautiful park where is the seat of Sir Charles E. F., Bart., I turned short off to the right, and through a tangled undergrowth of wild flowers, weeds, and nettles, prickly bramble bushes and the trailing branches of _Rosæ canina_, soon reached the back stream, only to find a large group of cattle standing in it, tormented by flies, and churning the water into the colour of milk all the way down, spoiling one’s chance of fishing. But at the lower boundary of the demesne, where the main river mingles, it was clear and a few flies floating on it. Directly I knelt in the sedge a brace of partridges sprang from it and whirred away. Rooks were noisy in the elms, and from trees on a small eyot stock-doves told their monotonously mournful tales. But my eyes were watching a trout under an overhanging branch opposite. At length he rose and took a small, pale-winged sub-imago fly, and while I tied on to my fine gut cast the nearest artificial I could select in size and colour to the natural flies on the water, he dimpled the surface several times, but at the first wave of the rod down he sank to the bottom. Nevertheless, after a pause I threw my lure well over him—a yard in front, so that he might see it. At the first cast he moved, at the second boldly came up and snapped at it; was well hooked, played, and netted out, not much disturbing other trout in view, one of which a few minutes after shared the same fate, the brace weighing over 2 lb. Large fish are scarce in this fishery at present.

As I crossed over to the lower reach of the chief stream, my steps were stayed to admire the surroundings: the various stately trees in full foliage in solitary grandeur, or in groups adorning the emerald sward, which was profusely embroidered with Flora’s gifts. And on the river banks were seen the familiar flowers an angler loves, amongst them “love’s gentle gem, the sweet forget-me-not,” tall, graceful willow herb, spiked purple loosestrife, meadow sweet, mimulus reflected in the glassy stream, yellow iris, hemp agrimony, and a crowd of others. The blazing sun was now near the zenith, and the morning rise of ephemeridæ at its best; fish were feasting on them freely, not only in their haunts at the sides, but on the middle, over thick beds of starwort and waving crowfoot. For two hours I was almost constantly at work hooking and returning some ten- to eleven-inch fish and killing a leash about a pound each. It was very warm, and as I neared the small waterfall a clear space on the hard chalky bottom hidden from view almost tempted me to bathe; but instead I wetted a leaf of butterbur, and folding it inside my cap to cool my head, laid the rod aside and quietly sat on a prostrate tree to rest awhile. But reflecting that I had done fairly well, and the 2.36 Great Western train was available, I hastily put my tackle together, interviewed the keeper to show the sport, shouldered the creel, and arrived at the station just in time.

On July 31st I again had the privilege of fishing in the park. A gentle wind stirred the leaves to whisper, and it was only pleasantly warm. While I sat in the garden reach making all ready to begin sport, the gurgle of the falling water through the six hatches had a soothing influence on one’s spirit, and taking Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” from my side pocket I read a few passages, but as that was hardly in form for a dry-fly fisherman with the clear stream at his feet and fish in view waiting to be caught, I soon went above the hatches, and from the cottage gardens on the east side by 11.30 a.m. managed to creel a brace, and above Shawford Bridge from the west bank, another brace by two o’clock. Then, as before, I went back by train, and resumed practice in the evening; but there was no rise until 7.45, when phryganidæ were on or hovering over the surface of the water, chiefly in mid-channel, and trout, also grayling, were eagerly on the feed, making a splash, sometimes “a boil,” as they seized a fly. For a full hour with little cessation I was casting over them, hooking, unhooking, killing two brace, or returning fish. Altogether it was a fairly successful and very enjoyable day; but the four brace scaled only 7¾ lb.

By the courtesy of Alexander P. R——, Esq., I had the choice of a day’s fishing in his Twyford preserves, and after waiting for a favourable forecast of the weather, a bright morning and a gentle wind from the south tempted me to try on August 17th. A survey of the water showed it to be choked with weeds, some in flower standing out above the surface or greenly covering the bottom, except in a few places where the force of the stream had cleared spaces between, showing the chalky bed. Many dry-fly fishermen dislike such a dense mass of weeds, because it is so difficult to draw a hooked fish through or over them; but for several reasons I much prefer a fishery where they are seldom cut to one where they are shaved close by the chain scythe or torn out by grappling hooks, leaving little or no cover for the piscine denizens, and destroying their food; for young weeds are the _habitat_ of larvæ, gammarus pulex, mollusca, &c., on which trout largely subsist. There are several inviting seats along the west bank on which one can rest at ease and watch for rises, or even cast one’s fly from, and also to admire the panoramic view along the bright water meadows stretching away to St. Cross, and beyond to historic Winchester, and shut in by undulating hilly downs on both sides, which ages long ago were probably the banks of a wide river, an estuary of the sea. Opposite is the church and pretty village of Twyford, where the remains of a Roman villa can be visited, and in the churchyard is a famous yew-tree.

From 9.30 a.m. until one o’clock I fished persistently, using small flies, but except one trout creeled weighing 1¼ lb., only undersized ones came to hand. There was no evening rise until 7.30, and very sparse then, but afterwards three trout were landed and put back, and one over a pound killed to make up a brace. The keeper then coming up to me, remarked that there had been no May-flies at Twyford this season.

On August 24th I made a good although delayed beginning on the Abbot’s Barton fishery. After stalking along the east bank from nine o’clock until nearly mid-day, and casting without once having a touch, hope waxed faint, and I thought I had made a mistake in choosing the day; but when the last meadow opposite the new gasworks was reached, a trout in position close under the sedge and sword-grass covered right bank on which I stood, was rising and sucking in large dark-winged olive duns as they floated toward him. I carefully drew back, and assuming the kneeling and crouching low down posture—also well hidden from view—I saw with satisfaction that I had not disturbed him from continuing his repast. But as I am not ambidextrous, it was difficult to place one’s fly by the right hand the proper distance before him. Trial after trial was made until he became suspicious and sank to the bottom, but was not scared away; I could see him plainly. Anon he rose again, but, fortunately for me, not so close to the sedge. To have made any bungle in casting now would have been fatal, therefore I felt it to be a crucial test of skill to place the lure just right. At the first presentation he took it, and by a gentle turn of the wrist, making a _draw_ rather than a strike (for my red quill fly was dressed on a 000 hook), he was firmly hooked, and instantly rushing up stream ran out ten or fifteen yards of line ere I durst attempt to restrain him. And when I did so, wound the line in, and played from the bowed rod, he turned and scurried down stream, leaping out once only, but flouncing several times on the surface, thus helping to exhaust himself. Now was the moment for masterful pressure to be put on him; accordingly, when I drew back the line by degrees, and he felt the strain, he turned and headed up stream in wild affright, and it seemed some minutes before his struggles were over and he was safely netted out, the gut cast several times twisted tightly round his gills. He was a splendid trout weighing 2 lb. 13 oz. Men from the adjacent gasworks during the latter part of their dinner-hour had been watching behind me, but I was quite unconscious of their presence until they called out: “That is a nice fish, Sir,” and crowded round to admire it. About three o’clock another chance offered lower down at the first wide bend. Two fish, both within reach of where I knelt, were rising, but only at long intervals—probably their feast on flies was nearly finished and they had become fastidious, for when, at the second throw my fly covered the nearest one, he quietly sidled off under horse-tail weeds. But the other fish was not so shy, and after casting over him several times he accepted the fateful fly, was hooked in the tongue, and immediately bolting up stream made fast, for an anxious minute, in a weed-bed of water celery, from whence, however he was drawn forth by taking the line in the left-hand fingers and using gentle but gradually increasing force, while the right hand held the rod sloping backward from the vertical position, ready to play him when released. An excellent plan, but not fully effectual until the unavoidably slack line could be reeled in, the quarry held taut from the bending rod and drawn gasping into the landing net—a well-conditioned fish scaling 2 lb. 5 oz. The brace weighing 5 lb. 2 oz. was shown to the head keeper on my way back. There was absolutely not a single rise afterwards that I noticed. And another rod had the same experience, but not the same sport.

I have been particular in describing some of the details of the foregoing captures, as they are typical instances of dry-fly practice, and therefore, and also because the space at my disposal is necessarily limited, I may be excused for shortening what follows.

On September 1st three trout were killed, weighing 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 9 oz., and 1 lb. 2 oz.

On the 4th two, weighing 1¾ lb. and 1 lb. 10 oz.

On the 11th the vane stood due west, the sky was lowering, and rain fell at intervals, but a straight stick umbrella sufficed to keep one dry, and tied to the landing net handle when not in use, is far more convenient to carry than heavy waterproofs, which at best are heating and uncomfortable. I recommend fly-fishers to try it. Above the G.W. railway arch, on the broad shallows and past the “plantation,” grayling (only in recent years introduced) seem at last to have made their headquarters, and from eleven o’clock to three p.m. three were unavoidably hooked and returned, for the lessee of the fishery, Mr. J. E. B. C——, wishes them not to be taken at present, so that they may live to increase and multiply. But a leash of trout were caught and creeled during the time. And as the morning rise was nearly over I slowly retraced my steps, observant of any break of the surface of the water; climbed the steep railway bank, crossed over the bridge, passed down the line for a long distance to the stile, and resumed the rod on the Winnall side, where, from the last meadow bounded by the ditch, two more trout were killed, making up 2½ brace, scaling 6 lb. 6 oz. On my way I noticed a profusion of the coral-like hips of the wild rose, haws on the hedges, scarlet viscid berries on yew-trees, and beautiful clusters or cymes of clear red berries like currants on the water elder; also amongst many other wild flowers, scabious, candy-tuft, corn cockle, yellow foxglove, clover, ragwort, &c., and, standing erect, _Lysimachia vulgaris_.

On the 16th a fine trout weighing 1 lb. 14 oz. was hooked and landed when it was almost too dark to see where one’s fly fell.

On the 19th the wind was northeast, and therefore unfavourable; added to which in the upper half of the water mudding out was being done by one man, while another, in a ballast boat, poled it up and down laden with chalk to repair the banks. This not only disturbed the stream, but coloured it, and I was about to forego fishing, in despair, when, looking back as far as I could see clearly, fish were rising. By a wide _détour_ I carefully got below them, and at once noticed that they were feeding on nymphæ and sub-imago flies, and the water there was less turbid, indeed during the men’s dinner-hour it cleared. By two o’clock two trout, weighing 2 lb. 1 oz. and 1 lb. 6 oz., were tempted to their fate by my red quill fly, and another soon after, 1½ lb. In the evening, after sunset, two more were killed, 1 lb. 7 oz. and 1 lb. 9 oz.

On the 27th five were drawn to net, and weighed by steelyard as soon as landed, and in the order of capture, 1 lb. 14 oz., 1 lb. 7 oz., 1 lb. 2 oz., 1 lb. 9 oz., and 1 lb. 5 oz. As the shadows made by the declining sun were lengthening swallows were congregating high in the air, looking like mere specks, and also many were swooping over the smooth river, snatching with unerring sight from its surface midges and black gnats; and yet not so later on at dusk, for a house-martin seized my artificial fly as it was being whirled in the air in the act of casting, and was fast hooked at the point of the beak, wildly fluttering in alarm until wound in to the top ring of the rod, there very tenderly handled, caressed, and released—not much pained or damaged.

On the 29th, after a stormy night, when a great number of eels were caught in the large iron grating trap at Durngate Mill, through which the main stream can be strained—a deadly device—I made no attempt to fish until after luncheon, when in no hopeful mood as to sport (for thunderclouds were gathering in the distance as black as ink, and a few premonitory big drops of rain were falling) I waited on the east bank watching for any movement. A trout rose under the opposite side and sucked in a natural fly. Many times my lure was presented, with occasional intervals between. At last he rose to it and fastened, fighting well, but a losing battle, and was soon brought to grass, weighing 1 lb. 7 oz. In the evening, when the weather had somewhat cleared, I went along the west side as far as the Spring Garden lower hatch, to make a last attempt to catch a goodly trout I had often observed and cast over. He fed close to a mass of green tussock grass overhanging the water, and under which was his haunt when idle. The set of the stream round the wide bend of the river brought floating ephemeridæ, trichoptera and nocturnal lepidoptera to the tussock, often touching and even clinging to its blades trailing on the surface; the wily fish therefore invariably took up one and the same position when hungry, opening his mouth wide to receive the tempting morsels. It was difficult for a dry fly to be placed in front of him by the most skilful angler, for his hook so often caught on the grass, which was tough, and in pulling the gut broke. I much coveted that fish, and did not like to be beaten. I had, therefore, a few days previously resorted to the expedient of having the huge tussock grubbed up and taken away entirely.

Approaching him now on tiptoe with the utmost circumspection, I knelt within a long casting distance of where he was rising, intently intercepting brown sedgeflies. I changed the small fly I had on for a red quill on No. 1 hook, and sent it forward over him in a line with the natural flies. No notice was taken of it; nor again and again, until, when a puff of wind diverted it to the right, he moved after it, and with an audible snap, and instant spring out of water, hooked himself. For several minutes an exciting time for me followed, and fatal for him, as he was netted out and killed—a beautifully marked fish, weighing 1 lb. 13 oz.

On the 30th, the last day of the trout season of 1905, an excellent finish was made in a few hours by the capture of three trout, weighing respectively 1½, 1¾ and 2¼ lb.

At foot is a concise statement of the above described sport—not so good as in many former seasons; but to kill an _excessive_ number of fish, especially on a private fishery, is no longer the object of a dry-fly purist and sportsman. And it will be noticed that on most days I have only fished for a few hours, yet quite enough for pastime and recreation, and the full enjoyment of Nature’s many attractions while wandering by the peaceful river.

Date. No. of trout. lb. oz.
May 19th 3 5 2
June 3rd 2 2 1
June 13th 2 2 15
June 22nd 6 9 11
July 1st 3 4 2
July 3rd 2 2 3
July 14th 1 1 14
July 18th 1 1 2
July 21st 5 5 0
July 29th 1 1 14
July 31st 8 7 12
Aug. 5th 1 1 9
Aug. 8th 1 1 5
Aug. 17th 2 2 6
Aug. 24th 2 5 2
Sept. 1st 3 4 0
Sept. 4th 2 3 6
Sept. 11th 5 6 6
Sept. 16th 1 1 14
Sept. 19th 5 7 15
Sept. 27th 5 7 5
Sept. 29th 2 3 4
Sept. 30th 3 5 8
—— —— ——
Total 65 93 12
== == ==

RED QUILL.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(FROM THE _SPORTING MAGAZINE_ OF 1806.)

WILTSHIRE HOUNDS.—Saturday, January 14th, a pack of foxhounds met at Horkwood, and soon after throwing in unkennelled a fox in the first stile. After trying the earths at Farmclose, Donhead, &c.—which had been previously stopped—he crossed the Salisbury Road, through Charlton; taking over Charlton fields he went for Melbury, over the heath, and then gallantly faced the hills, leaving Ashmoor close on the right and Ashcombe on the left; came into Cranbourne Chase; left Bussey Lodge far on the left, came to Chettle Down; leaving Chettle on the right, running nearly up to Handly, at which place he was headed; then running up to Critchell he was run into, attempting to cross the river by Horton Farm. This chase lasted an hour and thirty-five minutes, and the distance could not be less than twenty-five miles. It is supposed to have been the severest run ever remembered in this part of the country.

THORNVILLE ROYAL.

This magnificent seat of princely festivity and general hospitality, for so many years in the possession of Colonel Thornton, was on Monday, January 6th, surrendered to his successor, the present purchaser, Lord Stourton; but not until the Colonel who, determined never to violate the charter, had, according to annual custom, thrown his doors open, filled all his rooms and tables with his friends, during a whole month spent in unremitted cheerfulness and good humour, passing the days in various field sports, the evenings in convivial harmonious hilarity, inspired by the natural urbanity of the Colonel’s manners, and the choicest and oldest wines now in Great Britain. Perhaps a more splendid and brilliant Christmas was never witnessed in this country.

On New Year’s Day, the neighbourhood were indulged with the finest coursing possible in the park; after which a grand dinner, at which were wines—none under thirty years old, and many at the age of sixty. On this occasion the house and the Temple of Victory were illuminated in grateful remembrance of the soldiers of the York Militia.

After amusing the party and the rustics in the neighbourhood with seeing the upper lake let off, where pike from five to twenty pounds, carp from twelve to fifteen pounds, tench from four to six pounds, perch from two to three pounds, were discovered, to the great satisfaction of the curious in lake fish; a few were taken and one-half sent to the present owner, Lord Stourton.

The Colonel then, attended by his friends, proceeded to Falcover’s Hall, carrying with him the warmest wishes of all those who have so long and so often experienced the effects of his liberal disposition.

Thus terminated his residence at Thornville Royal, which for sixteen years has been the scene of every species of elegant mirth, wit and amusement, and where the prince and the peasant have been alike gratified by that benevolence and vivacity so peculiar to the character of Colonel Thornton.

A Farewell to a Hunter.

To no misfortune in the field
He bows, fit ending of the game;
No weight of years bids him to yield,
But swift disease that warps his frame.

So Mercy stepping in must break
The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,
And hand-in-hand we come to take
A look we know must be the last.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,
His keen bold spirit will have found
That refuge on the other side,
Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when
The last great leap is left behind,
And passing from the haunts of men,
By earthly limits unconfined,

You roam that strange mysterious land,
That vast beyond where travellers wait,
Where mortal foot may never stand,
Nor mortal vision penetrate,

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell
On joys by memory roused from rest,
When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,
And Fortune gave us of her best.

Recall the pageant of the meet,
The snug gorse covert on the hill,
The good sound turf beneath your feet,
The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Nor think as year by year decays
In robes of russet, red, and gold,
That wanting you, November days
Can be to us as days of old.

B.

The New Year at the Theatres.

After establishing “Lights Out” as a success at the Waldorf Theatre, Mr. H. B. Irving proceeded early in the New Year to produce “The Jury of Fate” at the Shaftesbury Theatre, the house, by the way, in which Mr. McLellan’s first great success was first seen in London, “The Belle of New York.”

“The Jury of Fate” is a lurid story told in seven tableaux, and its most obvious disability is that since each tableaux must of necessity be abbreviated, the story can only be told in a spasmodic series of impressions, and the players have but a poor chance of getting a hold of their audience. The theme of the play is undoubtedly a good one, that of the man who at the early end of a misspent career prays of the messenger of Death that he may be allowed to live another life on earth in which he shall atone for his follies and wickedness, and so gain a favourable verdict from “The Jury of Fate.”

This is the first tableau, and the second tableau shows us twenty-five years later René Delorme at his old game again, a voluptuary with a pretty talent for drinking, who loses no time in snatching from a most admirable young worker his affianced bride, the fair Yvonne.

A year later we find René with his wife in the garden of an inn near Paris; he has by this time become a successful playwright, an unfaithful husband, and an industrious drunkard, and after an unfriendly conversation with his wife, he proceeds to inaugurate an intrigue with the mistress of a friend of his, who is unfortunately lunching at the same inn.

This lady appears as a kind of Public Prosecutor of Fate, and openly sets to work to ruin and destroy the too impressionable René, and we are not surprised to find a year later in the dining-room of René’s house that her unkindly influence has materially assisted the _fine champagne_ in making a mess of the promising playwright.

This fourth tableau is perhaps the strongest of all, and it concludes with René, deserted by his friends and his wife, the author of a miserable failure just produced, confronted in his solitude by the ghostly figure of the stranger—Death.

Two years later we find René, at a low café in Paris, urging a mob of his discontented workmen to deeds of anarchy and pillage, and not even the dignified advice of David Martine, the workman of tableau two, and the respected and successful employer of labour in the subsequent tableaux, can save the degenerate from his degeneracy; for upon that self-same night René leads a disorderly attack upon the Martine Bridgeworks, and finding, as needs he must, his wife on the premises, most innocently conversing with Martine, a pistol shot makes him the murderer of his wife, according to the dictum, that “All men kill the thing they love.”

By this time “The Jury of Fate” have agreed upon their verdict, and it only remains for René to lose himself in a wood, accompanied only by a thunderstorm of portentous severity and ominous dread. To him arrives the Stranger with the sword, and, with only an unconvincing plea in mitigation of sentence, René falls prostrate before a very much misplaced crucifix, having done far more harm in his second effort than was the case in his previous conviction.

The part of René is in the very capable hands of Mr. H. B. Irving, and he plays it for all it is worth.

Another piece of fine acting is that of Mr. Matheson Lang, in the double part of Pierre and David Martine.

Miss Lillah McCarthy, whose work at the Court Theatre has given us so much pleasure, is excellent as Therese, the courtesan who causes René so much worry, and the part of the injured and slaughtered wife is well played by Miss Crystal Herne, a recruit from America.

The play is extremely well put on, and admirably acted, whilst the thunder and lightning and other meteorological effects are terrible in their perpetual and impressive reality.

At the Garrick Theatre, Mr. Arthur Bouchier had the courage to stem the prosperous tide of “The Walls of Jericho,” in order to produce “The Merchant of Venice” and the fine performances of himself as Shylock and Miss Violet Vanbrugh as Portia, with the environment of a beautiful production, have filled the Garrick for well over a hundred performances.

In our opinion Shylock is quite one of the best things Mr. Bouchier has done, most convincing in its masterly restraint and complex simplicity. And too much praise cannot be given to Miss Vanbrugh who is at her best in the trial scene, when the charm of her voice is heard to the utmost advantage. That experienced actor, Mr. Norman Forbes, affords a splendid study of Launcelot Gobbo, and is well supported by Mr. O. B. Clarence as Old Gobbo.

A happy memory of the early days of the O.U.D.C. is afforded by the fact that Mr. Alan Mackinnon supervised this production, and this carries our thoughts back to 1886, when Mr. Bouchier first dealt with Shylock at the then new theatre at Oxford.

The Vedrenne-Barker management at the Court Theatre continues to enjoy its well-earned prosperity. The plays are interesting and exceptionally well acted, and at present the name of Mr. Bernard Shaw is one to conjure with.

“Major Barbara” is his latest achievement, and if one confesses to a feeling of disappointment, the probable reason for it is that Mr. Shaw has led us to expect so much from him in the way of quality.

Mr. Shaw confesses in the prelude to one of his books, that by one of those little ironies of life which sometimes beset even such clever people as himself, he has only won the right to be listened to by the public after the vein of originality which was once so rich within him has been hopelessly worked out. Of the truth of this, there is in his new play, “Major Barbara,” very conspicuous evidence. The changes are once more rung upon the old theme which served Mr. Shaw in “Widower’s Houses,” and to a certain extent also in “Mrs. Warren’s Profession.” In “Widower’s Houses,” it is a man whose belief in his own honesty and usefulness is shattered by the sudden discovery that his income comes from a polluted source; in “Major Barbara,” the central figure, a woman, is by very much the same process suddenly thrust, as it were, into a moral _cul-de-sac_; that is to say, she is offered a sum of five thousand pounds which she would give her very soul to take, in order to save the lives of hundreds of starving folk, and at the same moment discovers that this money has been made by industries which cause the very starvation she is attempting to remedy. It is this situation which Mr. Shaw considers strong enough to justify him in putting into his heroine’s mouth some of the most sacred words which have ever been uttered—and it is at any rate a satisfaction to feel that his critics have for once drawn Mr. Shaw into the honest confession that he did himself consider that he had here created a serious and tragic situation. To be quite frank, there cannot be the faintest question but that the verdict in this little dispute must be against Mr. Shaw and with his critics. Mr. Shaw’s idea of a play seems to be that you can dive from the burlesque tosh of “Cholly” from the pantomime of the Greek Professor beating his drum straight into the sublimest realms of tragedy, much as a man can go straight out of the hot rooms into the plunge at a Turkish bath; but, as Dr. Johnson said of some contemporary writer who was at the moment attracting attention, “Sir, it does not do to be odd; you will not be read for long.”

At the Haymarket Theatre Mr. Charles Hawtrey is as delightfully vague as ever in “The Indecision of Mr. Kingsbury,” a play adapted from the French by Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox. Mr. Hawtrey is well supported by the author who plays the part of a full-blooded and voluble Frenchman; by Miss Fanny Brough as a distressed dowager; and Miss Nina Boucicault as a much maligned widow, who wins the hand of the undecided Mr. Kingsbury. The story is just strong enough to carry four acts, and there is plenty of fun in it, so that we may credit Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox with yet another success.