modern fox-hunter. A bottle of port and a Cleveland Bay will stop in three fields! But we must not linger over our beau ideal of what a hunter ought to be, but rather trace back the noble animal to his earlier, and many will say his more legitimate profession of the turf. Three months must elapse before we can don the "Scarlet" again: in the mean time "Silk" is "your only wear ;" and the "Druid" very properly places that article and its concomitants immediately after Dick Christian's Lectures, and true to his recollections of celebrated huntsmen and anecdotes of famous hounds, "the Nestors of a sporting generation"—noblesse oblige, and the race-horse takes that precedence to which his birth entitles him. The opening chapter commences very appropriately with a poetical heading, in which he is not forgotten to whom racing men are so much indebted, and who scorned not to wear upon sweepstakes and handicaps the talents that made him afterwards one of the first statesmen of his day But whilst England has a race-course Lord George Bentinck will not be forgotten. The "Druid" then goes on to describe the glories of Knavesmire, some seventy years ago, and enumerates a host of names famous on that turf which has now closed over them for ever-the Prince of Wales, Peregrine Wentworth, Lenny Jewison, Cade in the "all white," Hutchinson, Sir Charles Turner, Bolton, Queensberry, Rockingham, Bedford, Grosvenor, Abingdon, Barrymore, and a thousand others, who were giants in their day, and whose race is now run for ever. His description reminds us of a picture by Stubbs, and takes us back at once to the days of kneebreeches, jewelled snuff boxes, powdered heads, heavy bets, and heavy evenings, in which bumper-toasts were not suffered to pass unpledged: an era when our aristocracy had superinduced on their own native energy some of the vices, but more of the polish and refinement of the old French school; a different type, indeed, from the brusque, closeshaved gaillard of modern France. As a specimen of what the reviewers are pleased to term "word-painting," in that conventional slang with which they furnish opinions ready-made for ready money, take the following: "A View of Noblemen's and Gentlemen's Trains of Running Horses, with the Grooms and Horses in their Full Liveries," was the popular print of 1790. The Warren Hill is the scene of the afternoon's revel. Quiet little Newmarket just peeps forth in the hollow, in the centre of that restless panorama; and in the far distance the Ely Minster turrets cut the cloudless sky, and struggle manfully for preeminence with Highflyer Hall. In the fore-ground is the Prince, by the grace of the artist a somewhat slim-looking buck, in a sort of Don Cæsar de Bazan beaver, standing up in his phaeton with four greys, and booking a bet with the shrivelled Duke of Orleans on horseback at his side. His brother "York" has alighted, and is gaily pointing out to a lady a long-sheeted string, which are, West Australian fashion, cutting down the Warren Hill like a seythe, in the direction of King Charles' Cupola chair. On the extreme left, the Countess of Barrymore, in the costume of "Those tea-cup days of hoop and hood, sits in the phaeton by the side of her eccentric liege lord (who was so soon to fall lifeless in her arms as his hand held the reins), and listens to the animated periods of Charles James Fox, as he exults in the coming laurels of his Seagull and his Put. John Duke of Bedford is also amid the throng; and so are Haggerston, George Hanger, Wyndham, Captain Grosvenor, and Bullock. That ancient oddity, Colonel Thornton, though not much of a racing man, has wandered off here as well, and Falconer's Hall-where his seventy hooded hawks were kept to complete the devastation among the Yorkshire Wold game, which his three 150-guinea guns, "Death," "Destruction," and "Fate," were unable to accomplish-is forgotten for the nonce in the prospect of the forthcoming Grosvenor Stakes." Opposite the likeness of Dick Christian, stands that of Jem Robinson, the jockey; and the Biography of the latter, from his stable-boy days-when he would promise another lad half his plum-pudding on Sunday to rack up his horse, that he might absent himself and see Frank Buckle ride, to his triumph with Dictator, and the same Frank on Merlin, and his victories on Lamplighter and Margrave-is told with the spirit and condensation which are so appropriate to all such narratives. Sam Chifney, George Edwards, the two Sam Days, Charles Marlow, Conolly, Pavis; veteran Tommy Lye; Bill Scott, of "strenuous speech' and energetic finish; Marson, Butler, and a host of other heroes of the weighing stand, find a place in the "Druid's" memory; and a powerful appeal in favour of their class concludes his elaborate list of the jockeys of England. A word on behalf of that hard-working profession. When we consider the severity of training they undergo, the risks they run-for it is, after all, no such simple matter to get up at short notice on some of our thorough-breds, and, despite of queer tempers and game legs, ride them honestly home-the competition with which they have to strive in a country where every stable-boy, like the French soldier who carries a marshal's baton in his knapsack, hopes in his day to ride a Derby winner; above all, the temptations to which they are subjected, it is to us matter of pride as well of surprise that their probity should so seldom be corrupted. As a body, they are certainly above suspicion, and we must take leave on one point to differ with our authority. We believe there is nearly as much riding talent in this present year of '59 as ever was in England; and we do not subscribe, however well it may be worded, to the spirit of the following lament: "When we mark the rare phalanx who went to scale for the Oaks of '44, and think that of those alone Sam Chifney, Robinson, John Day, jun., Chapple, Sam Darling, Frank Butler, and Job Marson will ride no more, we may well, in these latter days, when jockeys are so rife, and yet horsemen so rare, full often wish for them back." Amongst the noted stallions of this and former eras, Cruiser is not forgotten. Like Nero, his vices have made him famous; although, unlike the imperial tiger, he has been brought by certain trans-Atlantic "fixins" to see the error of his ways. It seems strange-though perhaps, on reflection, our wonder may disappear-that the highest-bred horses should thus show the extremes of good and evil disposition; but Cruiser is by no means a solitary sample of ferocity in these illustrious sires. Ardrossan, in his match with Abjer, tried to tear Robinson, who was riding the latter, out of the saddle; and Merlin, who became Lord Foley's property at two years old, in exchange for two thousand guineas, killed a man in his box, and was found two hours afterwards kneeling on his victim, and literally wallowing in his blood. We have already trespassed largely on the space allotted to a notice, even of such a work as the present. We cannot, however, bid its author farewell, without thanking him for a considerable store of information as regards hounds which he must have collected with indefati. gable perseverance and research. In speaking of a new arrival in the field, the late lamented Sir Richard Sutton* used to say good humouredly "Is he a houndsman too, or only a horseman?" and no master of hounds in England better appreciated the distinction. We must do the Druid the justice to dub him a houndsman at once. He is evidently not one of those gentlemen who are quite satisfied to gallop and jump, without any definite object save that of giving a hunter a certain quantum of work; but loves to see a fox fairly found, fairly burst, fairly hunted, fairly chased, and lastly, fairly run into by a level, well-ordered, welllooking pack of hounds. He has gone deep into the subject of blood, which, much as it may tell in men, horses, sheep, pigs, and cattle, is in no animal of such vital importance as in the hound. Not the inimitable Mr. Puffington in "Soapy Sponge" has a "warmer side to the Beaufort Justice;" and the number of names and pedigrees which he has introduced under the head of "Scarlet" argue such an intimacy with his subject as nothing but a labour of love can produce. Each stallion-hound of notoriety has his appropriate notice, and although Juvenal tells us that in horseflesh "Venale pecus Corithæ, posteritas et in the kennel we may pretty safely pin our faith to the old maxims, that "like begets like," and "what is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh." The often-agitated question, as to the respective merits of dog-and-bitch-packs, of big and little hounds, is too like the fable of the knights who fought about the gold and silver shield, to admit of a definite settlement. For our own part, with all due deference to the great authorities who have decided otherwise, we hold to the dogs for hunting and killing foxes, the bitches for racing and killing horses; and the size of our hounds, we opine, should depend much upon the nature of our country. Like horses, however, they should look less than they really are, even on the flags, until you put them between your knees. In the field the fastest of us have all seen them look small enough at the end of five-and-forty golden minutes over grass! Another of that popular baronet's apposite remarks is so suggestive that wo cannot forbear quoting it. On spying a bit of scarlet in the distance, a friend inquired if it was one of the field, or only an old woman in her marketing cloak. "It's a red coat, doubtless," quoth Sir Richard, "but it does not follow there's a man in Portraits of Tom Rance, Tom Sebright, and poor Will Goodall, deck the latter half of the volume. The two former are men well stricken in years, but still vigorous, and in the lusty health of manhood. The youngest of the three has been taken first, and in his prime; no more to see mellow autumn tinging the woods of princely Belvoir with its glowing hues; no more to cheer the deep-toned old favourite through the echoing glade, and mark the hopeful progeny emulating the mettle and sagacity of his sire; no more to return the cordial greeting of assembled sportsmen, and show them the shortest way to his cherished hounds over the vale keen, wary, dashing, and sagacious, patient on occasion, quick as lightning on necessity, the very type of all a huntsman should be in the field, an honest worthy man in the station Providence had appointed him to fill. No more-no more! When the wished-for season comes again, there will be a blank at the woodland side, a wistful expectant look on the old hounds' faces; for the soft November wind will stir the waving grass over Will Goodall's grave. Requiescat in pace. Men do not sleep G. W. M. for ever. FALCONRY AT HOME AND ABROAD. BY HOARY FROST. "What sluggard now would sink In beds of down? What miser would not leave His bags untold for this transporting scene? The vigorous hawk, exerting every nerve, There was a time when this sport ranked among the noblest and best in the land. No other pastime was half so popular, and none afforded so much excessive pleasure, combined with healthful and profitable exercise, in the open air. But at the present day, to sing of the joys of uch an old-fashioned and long-forgotten sport, may appear almost like singing a new song to an old tune. There are, however, few, if any, of our readers to whom a dissertation upon this peculiar recreation will not be acceptable; connected as it is in various ways with the history and records of good old English sports, it is a subject which merits more frequent discussion. There is not one of the sports of our forefathers so full of interesting anecdote and adventure as this ancient amusement. Although falconry may not now be so popular as many other recreations, yet numbers of sportsmen would delight in seeing it revived. Every one who understands its true spirit agrees that it is far preferable to the childish, vulgar, and ridiculous games of the present day. We have no intention of thrusting the old sport upon the notice of the public with a desire of reviving it, but merely purpose laying before our readers a few of the most amusing incidents connected with it at home and abroad; reviewing the subject, and bringing our remarks down the present date. If the sport were not popular, why should new books upon the subject be constantly brought out? Within the last few years there have been several works issued from the press upon this exclusive pastime, some of which we shall have occasion to allude to. One important fact should be borne in mind, viz., that the sport is to the present hour as popular as it ever was, and in as full practice in many foreign countries. According to Burton, the noble sport "flourishes in all its pristine glory" in some parts of India.* The author of the little work referred to remarks in his preface, in allusion to the past and present state of falconry in England-"The knight's lady, instead of mounting her fiery jennet, with Merlin clasping her embroidered glove, thinks a drive round Hyde Park, or a canter down Rotten-row, quite sufficient exercise in these times for her highly nervous and thoroughly civilized constitution." The sport is not absolutely extinct in this country-there are a few who still practise it: the diversion is also freely used in Norway, Germany, Holland, and other European countries, but not with that vigour and enthusiasm with which it is pursued in Eastern nations. Falconry-or hawking as it is sometimes termed, the two words being synonymous-is supposed to have originated about A.D. 450; when it afterwards gradually became a favourite recreation, as well as a useful means of capturing birds and animals feræ naturæ. It was afterwards cultivated as a liberal art, and was probably in its highest popu larity during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Ever since the invention of gunpowder, and the general use of "hand-guns," it has gradually declined as a recreation. In proof of the high character formerly attached to this diversion, we have only to allude to one or two historical facts connected with it to convince our readers of its importance. The salary attached to the office of Grand Falconer of England was £982 10s., with £30 per month besides, making £1,372 10s. per annum. This important office is hereditary in the Duke of St. Albans, and with it attaches the emoluments. It is still in existence, though shorn of some of its privileges, both pecuniary and otherwise. It is recorded in Daniel's "Rural Sports" that, among the twenty * Vide "Falconry in the Valley of the Indus," by R. F. Burton, 1852. |