Ladies in the Field: Sketches of Sport Part 1

Ladies in the Field.

by Beatrice Violet Greville.

PREFACE.

It is scarcely necessary nowadays to offer an apology for sport, with its entrancing excitement, its infinite variety of joys and interests.

Women cheerfully share with men, hardships, toil and endurance, climb mountains, sail on the seas, face wind and rain and the chill gusts of winter, as unconcernedly as they once followed their quiet occupations by their firesides. The feverish life of cities too, with its enervating pleasures, is forgotten and neglected for the witchery of legitimate sport, which need not be slaughter or cruelty. Women who prefer exercise and liberty, who revel in the cool sea breeze, and love to feel the fresh mountain air fanning their cheeks, who are afraid neither of a little fatigue nor of a little exertion, are the better, the truer, and the healthier, and can yet remain essentially feminine in their thoughts and manners. They may even by their presence refine the coa.r.s.er ways of men, and contribute to the gradual disuse of bad language in the hunting field, and to the adoption of a habit of courtesy and kindness. The duties of the wife of the M. F. H. fully bear out this view.

When women prove bright and cheerful companions, they add to the man's enjoyment and to the enlarging of their own practical interests. When, in addition, they endeavour to love Nature in her serenest and grandest moods, to s.n.a.t.c.h from her mighty bosom some secrets of her being, to study sympathetically the habits of birds, beasts and flowers, and to practise patience, skill, ingenuity and self-reliance, they have learnt valuable lessons of life.

Lastly, in the words of a true lover of art: "The sportsman who walked through the turnip fields, thinking of nothing but his dog and his gun, has been drinking in the love of beauty at every pore of his invigorated frame, as, from each new tint of autumn, from every misty September morning, from each variety of fleeting cloud, each flash of light from distant spire or stream, the unnoticed influence stole over him like a breeze, bringing health from pleasant places, and made him capable of clearer thoughts and happier emotions."

VIOLET GREVILLE.

RIDING IN IRELAND AND INDIA.

BY THE LADY GREVILLE.

Of all the exercises indulged in by men and women, riding is perhaps the most productive of harmless pleasure. The healthful, exhilarating feeling caused by rapid motion through the air, and the sense of power conveyed by the easy gallop of a good horse, tends greatly to moral and physical well-being and satisfaction. Riding improves the temper, the spirits and the appet.i.te; black shadows and morbid fancies disappear from the mental horizon, and wretched indeed must he be who can preserve a gloomy or discontented frame of mind during a fine run in a gra.s.s country, or even in a sharp, brisk gallop over turfy downs. Such being the case, no wonder that the numbers of hors.e.m.e.n increase every day, and that the hunting field, from the select company of a few country squires and hard-riding young men, has developed into an unruly mob of people, who ride over the hounds, crush together in the gateways, and follow like a flock of sheep through the gaps and over the fences, negotiated by more skilful or courageous sportsmen. Women, too, have rushed in where their mothers feared to tread. Little girls on ponies may be seen holding their own n.o.bly out hunting, while Hyde Park, during the season, is filled with fair, fresh-looking girls in straw hats, covert coats and shirts, driving away the cobwebs of dissipation and the deleterious effects of hot rooms by a mild canter in the early morning. Unfortunately, though a woman never looks better than on horseback, _when she knows how to ride_, the specimens one often encounters riding crookedly, all one side, to the inevitable detriment of the horse's back, b.u.mping on the saddle like a sack of potatoes, or holding on with convulsive effort to the horse's mouth, are sufficient to create a holy horror in the minds of reasonable spectators. Park-riding is not difficult compared with cross-country riding, yet how seldom do you see it perfect? To begin with, a certain amount of horsemanship is absolutely necessary. There must be art, and the grace that conceals art; there must be self-possession, quiet, and a thorough knowledge of the horse you are riding. Take, for instance, a fresh young hunter into the park for the first time. He shies at the homely perambulator, starts at the sound of cantering hoofs, is terrified by a water-cart, maddened by the strains of the regimental band, or the firing of the guards at their matutinal drill, and finally attempts to bolt or turn round as other horses, careering along, meet and pa.s.s him in a straggling gallop. If he backs, rears, kicks, shies and stops short, or wheels round suddenly, with ears thrown back, his rider need not be surprised. Horses cantering in every direction disturb, distress and puzzle him. On which side are the hounds? he wonders. Why does not his rider extend him? Where are the fences, and when will the fun begin? These, no doubt, are some of the thoughts that pa.s.s through a well-bred hunter's mind, for that horses _do_ reason in their own peculiar fashion I am convinced, and that they fully recognise the touch and voice of the master, no one can doubt who has noticed the difference in the behaviour of a hunter when ridden by different persons. If the park rider wishes for a pleasant conveyance I should strongly recommend a hack, neither a polo pony nor a cob. But where, oh where, are perfect hacks to be found? They should be handsome, well-bred, not quite thorough-bred, about 153, with fine shoulders, good action, and, above all, perfect mouth and manners. No Irish horse has manners, as a rule, until he comes to England, or has the slightest idea of bending and holding himself, owing to the fact of his being usually broken and ridden in a snaffle bridle. This practice has its uses, notably in that it makes the horses bold fencers, and teaches them not to be afraid of facing the bit, but it is not conducive to the development of a park hack, which should be able to canter round a sixpence. I remember in my young days seeing Mr Mackenzie Greaves and Lord Cardigan riding in the park, the latter mounted on a beautiful chestnut horse, which cantered at the slowest and easiest of paces, the real proverbial arm-chair, with a beautifully arched neck, champing proudly at the bit, yet really guided as by a silken thread. _That_ was a perfect hack, and would probably fetch now-a-days four or five hundred guineas. No lady ought to ride (if she wishes to look well) on anything else. Men may bestride polo ponies, or clatter lumberingly along on chargers, or exercise steeple-chase horses with their heads in the air, yawing at a snaffle; but, if a woman wants to show off her figure and her seat she should have a perfect hack, not too small, with a good forehand, nice action, and, above all, a good walker, one that neither fidgets nor shuffles nor breaks into a trot.

Bitting is, as a rule, not sufficiently considered. In the park, a light, double bridle, or what they call in Ireland a Ward bit, is the best, and no martingale should be required. People often wonder why a horse does not carry his head in the right place. Generally, unless the horse is unfortunately shaped, this is the fault of the bit, sometimes it is too severe, or too narrow, which frets and irritates the horse's mouth. A horse with a very tender mouth will stand only the lightest of bits, and is what they call a snaffle bridle horse, not always the pleasantest of mouths, at least out hunting; for I cannot think that a lady can really ever hold a horse well together over a deep country, intersected by stiff fences, with a snaffle, especially if he is a big horse with somewhat rolling action. It has been said by a great authority on riding that no horse's mouth is good enough for a snaffle, and no man's hands good enough for a curb. I remember the late Lord Wilton, one of the finest cross-country riders, telling me to be sure never to ride my horse on the curb over a fence. But, as I suppose there is no absolute perfection in horse or man, each rider must, to a certain extent, judge for himself, and ride different horses in different ways. But you may be sure of this, that the bitting of grooms is generally too severe, and the hands of a man who rides all his horses in martingales, snaffles, and complicated arrangements of bit and bridle, are sure to be wrong. The matter practically resolves itself into hands. They, after all, are the chief essentials in riding.

The "Butcher" on horseback who tugs at his horse's head as if it were a bedpost, who loses his temper, who digs in the spurs incessantly, and generally has a fight with his horse over every fence, invariably possesses bad hands as well as a bad temper. I believe the reason that women who ride hard generally get fewer falls than men, is to be accounted for by the fact that they leave their horse's head alone, do not interfere with and bully him, and are generally on good terms with their mounts. For this reason I disapprove strongly of women riding with spurs, and think that in most cases _men_ would be better without them. I had a personal experience of this once, when I one day lent a very clever hunter, who had carried me perfectly, to the huntsman. He rode her with spurs, she went unkindly all day and refused several fences, a thing I had never known her do before. Many men are too fond of looking upon horses as machines, ignoring their wishes and peculiarities, whereas the true horseman is in thorough sympathy with the animal he bestrides, and contrives by some occult influence to inspire him with confidence and affection. A horse, bold as a lion with his master on his back, may very often refuse with a timid, nervous or weak rider. One man, like the late George Whyte Melville, can get the rawest of four-year-olds brilliantly over a country, while another finds difficulty even with an experienced hunter.

I believe thoroughly in kindness and gentleness in stable management. I would dismiss at once a groom or helper who hit, or swore at, or knocked about a horse. Horses are very nervous creatures, and keenly susceptible to affection. I had once a beautiful chestnut hunter, quite thorough-bred, and a perfect picture, with a small, beautifully-shaped head, and large, gentle eye. He had evidently been fearfully ill-treated, for, if anyone came near him he would shrink into the corner of his box, tremble violently, and put his ears back from sheer nervousness. After a bit, seeing he was kindly treated, he learnt to follow me like a dog. Another mare, who came with the reputation of a vicious animal, and was supposed to bite all those who approached her, used, after a time, to eat nicely from my hand, much to the astonishment of her late master, who saw me go freely into her box. No man can be a really good rider who is not fond of horses, and does not care to study their peculiarities and tempers, and govern them rather by kind determination than by sheer ill-treatment.

A lady rider should look to her bit before she starts, see that the curb chain is not too tight, and the bit in the proper position. She should visit her horse daily, and feed him in the stable till he knows her voice as well as one of mine did who, on hearing it, would rise up on his hind legs and try to turn himself round in his stall whinnying with pleasure. And, above all, she should study her saddle. Sore backs are the terrible curse of a hunting stable, and are generally produced by bad riding, hanging on to the stirrup, instead of rising when trotting, from the body, and sitting crooked on a badly-fitting saddle.

The woman's seat should be a perfectly straight one. She should look, as she sits, exactly between the horse's ears, and, with the third pommel to give her a.s.sistance, she ought to maintain a perfect balance.

Every lady's saddle should be made for her, as some women take longer saddles than others. The stuffing should be constantly seen to, and, while the girths are loosed, the saddle itself never taken off till the horse's back is cool. If it is a well-made saddle and does not come down too low on the withers, a horse should very rarely have a bad back. I have always preferred a saddle of which the seat was flat and in old days used to have mine stuffed a good deal at the back so as to prevent the feeling of riding uphill. Messrs Wilkinson & Champion now make saddles on that principle, on which one can sit most comfortably.

Numnahs I do not care for, or if they are used they should only be a thin leather panel, well oiled, and kept soft and pliable.

No lady should hunt till she can ride, by which I mean, till she can manage all sorts of horses, easy and difficult to ride, till she knows how to gallop, how to jump, and is capable of looking after herself.

Half the accidents in the hunting field occur from women, who can scarcely ride, being put upon a hunter, and, while still perfectly inexperienced, told to ride to hounds. They may have plenty of courage but no knowledge. Whyte Melville depicts pluck as "a moral quality, the result of education, natural self-respect and certain high aspirations of the intellect;" and nerve "as a gift of nature, dependent on the health, the circulation and the liver. As memory to imagination in the student, so is nerve to pluck in the horseman." Women are remarkable for nerve, men for pluck. Women who ride are generally young and healthy. Youth is bold and inconscient of its danger. Yet few men or women have the cool courage of Jim Mason, who was seen galloping down a steep hill in Leicestershire, the reins on his horse's neck, his knife in his mouth, mending the lash of his whip. In fact, a good deal of the hard riding one sees is often due to what is called "jumping powder,"

or the imbibing of liqueurs and spirits. For hard riding, it should never be forgotten, is essentially not good riding. The fine old sportsman, ripened by experience, who, while quietly weighing the chances against him, and perfectly aware of the risks he runs, is yet ready to face them boldly, with all the resources of a cool head and a wide knowledge, is on the high road to being a hero. These calm, una.s.suming, courageous men are those who make their mark on the field of battle, and to whom the great Duke of Wellington referred when he spoke of the hunting field being the best school of cavalry in the world.

Most of us want to fly before we can walk. This vaulting ambition accounts for the contemptible spectacles that occasionally meet our sight. A city man, who has had half-a-dozen riding lessons, an enriched tradesman, or an unsportmanlike foreigner, must needs start a stud of hunters. We all remember the immortal adventures of Jorrocks and Soapy Sponge, but how often do we see scenes quite as ludicrous as any depicted in Sartees' delightful volumes. Because everyone he knows goes across country, the novice believes fondly that he can do the same. He forgets that the real sportsman has ridden from earliest childhood; has taken his falls cheerfully off a pony; and learned how to ride without stirrups, often clinging on only bareback; has watched, while still a little chap in knickerbockers or white frocks, holding tight to the obliging nurse's hand, some of the mysteries of the stable; has seen the horses groomed and shod, physicked or saddled, with the keen curiosity and interest of childhood, and has grown up, as it were in the atmosphere of the stable. Every English boy, the son of a country gentleman, loves the scent of the hay, not perhaps poetically in the hay field, but practically in the manger. He knows the difference in the quality of oats, and the price of straw, the pedigree of the colts, and the performances of the mares, long before he has mastered the intricacies of Euclid, or the diction of Homer. To ride is to him as natural as to walk, and he acquires a seat and hands as unconsciously as the foals learn to trot and jump after their mother; and consequently, as riding is an art eminently necessary to be acquired in youth, everything is in his favour, when in after life the poor and plucky subaltern pits himself on his fifty-guinea screw against the city magnate riding his four-hundred-guinea hunter. Fortunately this is so, for riding, while entrancing to its votaries, is also an expensive amus.e.m.e.nt; yet so long as a man has a penny in his pocket that he can legitimately dispose of for amus.e.m.e.nt, so long would one wish him to spend it thus, for the moral qualities necessary to make a good rider are precisely those which have given England her superiority in the rank of nations. The Irish with their ardent and enthusiastic natures, are essentially lovers of horses; and an Irish hunter is without exception the cleverest in the world. He has generally a light mouth, always a leg to spare, and the nimbleness of a deer in leaping.

_Apropos_ of the latter quality, I remember the answer of an Irishman who was selling a horse, when asked if he could jump,--

"Is't lep, ye mane, yer honour? Well there never was a leper the likes of him!"

"Does he feed well?"

"Feed, yer honour? He'd fatten on a bowling alley!"

Hunting in Ireland, while rougher and more unconventional, is certainly safer than in England. The fences are big, but you do not as a rule ride so fast at them, and are therefore not so likely to get a bad fall; in addition, there is rarely if ever any timber to jump. But against that, there are a great many stone walls, and nasty big black ditches, called drains, which are boggy and unfathomable, and the banks of which are rotten; and there is no road riding possible, and few gates, while lanes are rare and far between. Nevertheless, I believe it is the best hunting country for ladies. It has no big hairy fences to scratch your face and tear your habit, and no ox-rails; the country is gra.s.s and beautiful going; you can ride a horse a stone lighter than in England, and on a good bold horse you can go pretty nearly straight.

The vexed question of habits appears now to be one of the most serious matters, in consequence of the many accidents that have happened to ladies. When I began riding, we wore habits that tore if they caught, and, consequently, no one was ever hung up or dragged. The strong melton cloth of the present day does not give at all, and therefore is a source of great danger if the habit catches on the pommel. None of the so-called safety habits up to the present seem to be absolutely satisfactory, nor any of the dodges of elastic or safety stirrups. Mr Scott, Jr., of South Molton Street, has invented the latest safety skirt, but this is in reality no habit at all, only an ap.r.o.n, and therefore can scarcely be called a skirt. One great security is to have no hem to the habit. Another is, to be a good rider (for the bad riders always fall on the off side, which is the reason their habit catches on the crutch). The third is to have a habit made of tearable material; and this, I believe, is the only solution of the question, unless ladies decide definitely to adopt a man's dress. Meanwhile, I would impress upon all women the great danger of hunting, unless they are fully capable of managing their horses, choosing their own place at a fence, omitting to ride over their pilot, or to gallop wildly with a loose rein, charging every obstacle in front of them, and finally, unless they have some experience in the art of horsemanship.

Military men possess great advantages in the hunting field. To begin with, they are taught to ride, and probably have pa.s.sed some years in India, where the exercise is commonly preferred to walking. Ladies of all ages and figures ride there, and, no doubt, in so doing, preserve their health and their looks. There is a peculiar charm in Indian riding. It is indulged in in the early morning, when the body is rested, the nerves strong, and the air brisk and fresh; or at eventide, when the heat of the day is over, and a canter in the cool breeze seems peculiarly acceptable. How delightful are those early morning rides, when, after partaking of the refreshing cup of tea or coffee, your "syce" or groom brings the pawing steed to your door, and once in the saddle, you wander for miles, with nothing to impede your progress but an occasional low mud wall, or bank and ditch, which your horse takes in his stride, or a th.o.r.n.y "nullah," up and down whose steep sides you scramble. There is something fascinating in the sense of s.p.a.ce and liberty, the feeling that you can gallop at your own sweet will across a wide plain, pulled up by no fear of trespa.s.sing, no gates nor fences nor unclosed pastures with carefully guarded sheep and cattle, no flowery cottage gardens; the wide expanse of cloudless sky above you, the golden plain with its sandy monotony stretched out in front, broken only by occasional clumps of mango trees, or tilled s.p.a.ces, where the crops grow, intersected by small ditches, cut for the purposes of irrigation--free as a bird, you lay the reins on your horse's neck, and go till he or you are tired. Or in northern India, on a real cold, nipping morning before sunrise, you gather at the accustomed trysting-place and hear the welcome sound of the hounds' voices. A scratch pack, they are, perhaps, even a "Bobbery" pack, as the name goes in India; but the old excitement is on you, the rush for a start, and the sense of triumphant exhilaration, as the hounds settle to their work, and the wretched little jackal, or better still, the wolf, takes his unchecked course over the sandy hillocks and the short gra.s.s. A twenty-minutes' run covers the horses with lather, and sets your pulses tingling. Presently the sun is high in the horizon, and its rays are beginning to make themselves felt. A few friendly good-byes, some parting words of mutual congratulation, and you turn to ride gently home, with a feeling of self-righteousness in your heart, as you greet the lazy sister, or wife, or brother, who stands in the verandah looking for your coming. A bath--that inestimable Indian luxury--a lingering toilette, and so to breakfast. And what a breakfast, with a lovely appet.i.te to eat it. Fish, beefsteaks, cutlets, the most savoury and delicate of curries, fruit and coffee, ought to satisfy a Sybarite.

After which a cigarette on a lounge in the verandah may be indulged in.

By this time the day is only just begun, and you are free to fill the remaining hours with work or the claims of society.

Most lovers of horseflesh, seizing their sun-hats from the peg, sally out into the "compound" (a kind of gra.s.s enclosure with a few mango or tamarisk trees planted in the middle, the low roofs of the stables and the native servants' dwellings forming a background to it), and talk that cheery rambling talk all true sportsmen delight in.

The horses, some in their stalls, some picketed outside under the trees, are munching large bundles of fresh green lucern (a kind of vetch, and a subst.i.tute for gra.s.s); while the ebon grooms, seated on their haunches on the ground, hold bits and bridles between their toes, and rub away at them with praiseworthy energy. On one side are the polo and harness ponies, the match pair which the lady shows you with pride; on the other, the pony unbroken and savage, just bought at a fair while beyond are two or three "whalers," fine sixteen-hand upstanding horses, all p.r.o.nounced excellent fencers and first-rate pig-stickers. The grey yonder, a compact, neat-looking animal, resembling an Irish hunter, was out this morning. Like most Australian horses, he is a great buck-jumper, and going to covert his master has some trouble in keeping a steady seat, but when settled down into his gallop, no mud wall is too high, no ditch too broad, and no day too long for him. Many are the prize spears he has won on hardly-contested pig-sticking expeditions.

Then on Sunday, the day voted to sport in India, merry paper chases fill an idle hour or two just before sunset. Any old screw, country-bred pony or short-shouldered Arab may be brought out on these occasions. The hard ground resounds with a noise like the distant roll of thunder, as the line of hors.e.m.e.n clatter along, raising a cloud of dust behind them. Falls abound, for the pace is good, and the leader of the chase well mounted.

The sugar canes rattle crisply like peas on a drum, as you push your way quickly through the tall gra.s.s crops, which, forced violently asunder by your horse's progress, fall together again, and leave no trace of your pa.s.sage. Down a soft, sandy lane, you canter, while your horse sinks in up to his fetlocks, past a dirty little native village, swarming with black children, where women in picturesque att.i.tudes lean and chatter by the shady well; then over a rough, stony plain, intersected by cracks and crevices in the hard gaping earth, where you must pick your way carefully, and hold your horse together lest he break his leg and your neck, for (drawback of all in India) the ground is dreadfully hard, and falls do hurt. At last the chase is over, and your wearied beast stands with legs apart and nostrils heaving, trying to get his wind. The sun has gone down in the sudden fashion peculiar to tropical climes. Gloaming there is none, but a lovely starlight, and the clear rays of the moon to guide you safely on your way home. Ruddy lights shine out from the native huts, sundry fires shed a wild l.u.s.tre, the faint, sickly odour of tobacco and opium fills the air, and the weird beating of a tom-tom is heard in the distance.

For those to whom such a wild hot scramble, or the long free gallop over the plains does not appeal, there is the pleasant ride along the mall under the flowering acacia trees, where friends meet you at every step, and your easily-cantering Arab, with flowing mane and tail, is in harmony with the picturesque Oriental scene. Everyone rides in India, for in many places it is the only means of transit. In a.s.sam and Central India, where roads are bad, or non-existent, and the railroads are many miles away, it is absolutely necessary for the tea-planter to reach his plantations on horseback, riding long distances over rough ground; while the commissioner or civilian making his judicial rounds, or the sportsman in search of big game, rides his twelve or fourteen miles a day, camping out in the jungle at night. The lowest subaltern owns a pony or two, and rides to and from his military duties, and the pony may be seen led up and down in front of the mess house, or standing playfully flicking the flies off with his tail, while the faithful syce, his lean brown limbs trained to exceeding fineness by the long distances he runs, squats meekly on the dusty ground, and calls his charge by all sorts of endearing names, which the animal seems perfectly to understand. Hand-rubbing, or what is vulgarly called "elbow grease," is much practised in India, and a groom attentive to his duties takes a pride in polishing a horse's coat till it is smooth and glistening as satin. Notwithstanding this personal care, however, Indian horses, especially country-breds, are not famed for the sweetness of their tempers, and generally disagreeably resent their masters' attempt to mount. This has accordingly to be done in the most agile manner. Animals may be seen kicking, biting, plunging and even flying at one another like savage dogs, with teeth exposed, lips drawn back, nostrils heaving and eyes flashing. Yet few people would exchange the wild, daring horsemanship of India with its pig-sticking and its wild game hunting, necessitating the utmost degree of nerve and determination, for the flat and unprofitable const.i.tutional in Rotten Row, the country ride along a road, or even the delights of fox-hunting in England.

Riding men, who love the sport for its own value, are usually sunny-tempered, kindly at heart, and generously disposed. Women, who ride, are easy to please and unaffected; in fact, what many men describe as "a good sort." In conclusion, my advice to girls is, to take a riding man for a husband, and to follow themselves as far as possible all out-door pursuits and amus.e.m.e.nts. Their moral qualities will not suffer from it, while their physique will gain considerably, for bright eyes, a clear complexion, and a slim figure are beauties never to be despised.

VIOLET GREVILLE.

HUNTING IN THE SHIRES.

"There are emotions deeply seated in the joy of exercise, when the body is brought into play, and ma.s.ses move in concert, of which the subject is but half conscious.

"Music and dance, and the delirium of battle or _the chase_ acts thus upon spontaneous natures.

"The mystery of rhythm and a.s.sociated energy and blood-tingling in sympathy is here. It lies at the root of man's most tyrannous instinctive impulses."

Considering that J. Addington Symonds was a permanent invalid, exiled to Davos by his health, he shows in this paragraph extraordinary understanding.

Fox-hunting is not merely an idle amus.e.m.e.nt; it is an outlet for man's natural instincts; a healthy way of making him active, and training his character. Whether it exercises his mental faculties in a like degree is another question. I do not think a man can be very stupid who rides well to hounds. The qualifying remark that "he is so perfectly mounted"

rather adds to his credit than otherwise, for, with unlimited means, and the best possible intention it is difficult in these days of compet.i.tion to get together a stud of hunters of the right stamp.

People vary considerably in their notions of the right stamp; but most men and women who know anything about horses look out for quality, good bone, loose elbows, active shoulders, strong back, clean hocks, and a head put on the right way; whether in a horse over sixteen-hands or a pony. A judge of horse flesh will never be mistaken about these qualifications, either in the meanest-looking cab horse or a rough brute in a farmyard.

Hunting people of long experience will tell us they have had one horse in their lives. One that suited their temperament, that they took greater liberties with, that gave them fewer falls, and showed them more sport than all the others. Whyte Melville says, "Forty minutes over an enclosed country establishes the partnership of man and beast in relation of confidence." The combination of pluck, decision and persuasion in a man, and nervous susceptibility in a horse, begets intimacy and mutual affection which many married couples might envy.

One horse may make a man's reputation, and pleasantly raise the average of an unequal, even shady, lot in his sale at Tattersall's.

I had a brown horse that did a great deal for me. He was nearly thorough-bred; by Lydon, dam by Pollard, 153, with beautiful limbs and freedom. He had poor ribs, rather a fractious mouth, and the courage of an army. I hunted him for six seasons; in Cheshire, Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Bedfordshire, Leicestershire, Buckinghamshire, and Northamptonshire, and he never gave me a fall.

I once fell off him. After an enormous jump over an average fence, prompted by a feeling of power and capacity, he gave a sort of skip on landing, and on this provocation I "cut a voluntary," to use a sporting phrase. He died of lockjaw, to my unceasing regret. I remember in 1885 being mounted on an extraordinary hunter. I had not gone ten strides before I knew I could not hold him. My patron, on receiving this information, said, "What does it matter! hounds are running--you surely don't want to stop?" "Oh, no!" I replied, "but I cannot guide him."

"That doesn't matter--they are running straight," so, stimulated by this obvious common sense, I went on in the delirium of the chase, till I had jumped so close to an innocent man that my habit skirt carried off his spur, and, in avoiding a collision at a ford, I jumped the widest brook I have ever seen jumped; and after that I got a pull at him. He could not put a foot wrong, and was perfectly unconscious of my wish to influence him.