that no one supposed could ever be able to run at all, being believed to be, what is called, ricked (strained) in the back. But I will describe him. He was a slapping four-year-old colt, by Belisarius (I forget the dam), with great bone, good legs, open feet, head and neck excellent; but, in his walk, he had every appearance of being injured in his spine, his hinder quarters reeling towards one side or the other; and which was, also, the case in a very slow trot. In fact, his feet followed each other, in these slow paces, much like those of a dog in his trot, the hinder ones falling quite on the outside of the fore ones. Price, with this deformity, twenty-five guineas ! "Don't buy him," said one. "He's not worth twenty-five shillings," observed another. "Let me get on his back," was my reply; and, giving him a rattling gallop, I soon lugged out the stumpy, and he was mine. Suffice it to add, that this horse was the cock of our walk. I rode him six times for sweepstakes and matches; and he was never beat, till, running a heavy match at Chester, with six to four on him, he was made safe, and, of course, I paid the piper. Both jockeys are now in their graves, so no more need be said; but a cleaner throw-over don't often happen, even in these slippery times. Now, then, for the finish. I sold him to the celebrated Colonel Wardle, for eighty guineas, for a hunter; who, by having him castrated immediately, and without a proper preparation, lost him, the second day after the operation, from hemorrhage. Thus ended Belisarius, as honest a bit of horse-flesh as was ever enclosed in a hide, and I doubt not his having made a capital hunter, as he could go well through dirt; which would be very little suspected in a horse, whose action, in his walk, resembled that of a drunken man.

In looking back, as I often do, to these memorable days, old Murphy, my Irish training groom (for I had another horse that could run a little), and some of his odd sayings and doings are still fresh in my recollection. He had lived nearly all his life, up to this time, with the late Duke of Leinster, and was a thorough specimen of the Irish servant of that day-respectful in the extreme, but unable to refrain from now and then hazarding his joke, with that significant nod of the head which an Irishman only can give. His instructions to myself, on jockeyship, would be well worth repeating, could I recollect them; but time has nearly effaced them. A compliment, however, was, for the most part, mingled with them. For example :-" Your honor would make an illigant rider," said he to me one day in the stable, "if you would but hould your horse a bit faster by the head, and sit closer to your saddle, in your turns;"-a civil way of telling me I was a very bad jockey. "Hould him hard, my jewel!" roared he to me once, as I passed him, within a quarter of a mile of home, in a race," and it's all Dublin to a tatur garden!" On our passage to England, we were caught in a violent gale of wind, which drove three of our transports on shore, but myself and my stud were in a Liverpool packet, and in a most ticklish condition under the Hill of Howth: "Christ Jasus receive my sowl now!" exclaimed Murphy, as a sea broke over the deck, and left us knee deep below, "but we are lost. Oh! that I should ever have left ould Ireland to come to this!"-the little Curragh boy who rode exercise, clinging to his knees at the time. Now, mark the difference between this good old Catholic, and my soldier-groom, in what each must have

considered likely to be the last hour of his life. "Hold your Irish bother!" said he; "why, d-n your eyes! you arn't no worse off than we are, are you? Stand fast by the horses, you old fool!" Poor Murphy, however, afterwards declared that, once back in Ireland, he'd like to see the gentleman that would make him leave it again in a ship, -into which, I believe, he had never before set foot.

What

I have one anecdote more to relate touching this horse. On the evening of a day on which he had won a match over the Curragh, a challenge was given me at the mess, to run another horse, also in training there, provided the race took place on the morrow. cared I for time or distance in those days? Accompanied by two dragoons (commanding officers were not particular in those times, when a bit of fun was going on), a friend of the owner of the other horse, and myself, started for the scene of action, about nine o'clock, and arrived there at midnight. Will it be credited, that, although it was between the Curragh meetings, the door of the stable in which my horse stood, with six or seven others, was unlocked, and I could have poisoned every horse in it, before a little urchin popped his head out of a hay-bin, and exclaimed, "Blood and ounds, gentlemen! and what do ye want here?" "What do I want?" I said; "why, I want your master." "Sure, my master is in bed, and he's drunk," replied the lad. Drunk enough he was; and, had I not stopped his doing it, he would have put the setting muzzle on another person's horse! So much for Irish trainers in those days; which were the days of Honest Ralph, Lady Sarah, Bob Booty, and other eminent horses: but it is clear there were no Dawsons, or others of his kidney, which have left such a stain on the English turf.

I had in the Liverpool packet-over and above old Murphy and Beggerman, and two hampers of Sneyd's claret, well covered over and concealed by regimental saddles and bridles-two thorough-bred entire horses, called Milksop and Bibo; but as the latter shewed as much dislike as Murphy did to quit his native country, and, in consequence, got his knees broke in being put into the packet, and the other was rather deficient in substance for a hunter, I was obliged to be satisfied with a saving price from Sir Richard Puleston, for the two, to carry his first whipper-in-and Bibo made a very pretty hunter. But I must hark back a little, and not quit Paddy-land just yet. There were some harriers in the neighbourhood of our last quarters-Athy, county of Kildare-where we remained twelve months and a day. Indeed, a few of our officers, at an out-quarter, in a capital country, had a pack of their own, their huntsman being put every night, before hunting, into the guard-house, to ensure his turning out sober. Of course, then, I had an Irish hunter or two, as our English horses were not "fly" to the fences. But I only remember two at all worthy of notice; one, an extraordinary little animal, which I purchased of a squire in the neighbourhood, whose claret I often drank, but whose name-how grateful!-I cannot remember; and which I was soft enough to present to a lady I met at the Black Rock table d'hote, receiving a diamond ring in return; which, of course, I was ashamed to wear. But the history of the other horse is a remarkable one. I purchased him of the Rev. Arthur Weldon, one of the best riders in Kildare, for twenty-five pounds, when only six years old; and yet, so good was he, that no man in the county could beat him with the parson on his back. But he was ugliness personified-the very picture of the Irish garron; and still with beautiful points. For instance, an immense head, with cropped ears, on a stag neck; shoulders very deep, but very little thicker than two deal boards; carcass very light, goose-rumped; awful string-halt in both hind legs; and a tail, full of white hairs, cocked nearly over his croupe, by the help of three deep gashes, and some weeks in the pulleys. Colour, light chestnut, with white hairs in his face and mane; and he never would carry any flesh. Now, reader, Rosinante must have been a beauty to him; but, observe! he had the legs and feet of a wagon-horse, the wind of a race-horse, the spring of a deer; and I rode him, after he was thirty years old, in the possession of a Welch squire (my own brother-in-law), to whom I sold him, without a windgall on his legs, much less a speck on his knees; and this, after having been applied to all sorts of purposes, from the favourite hackney of the squire and his lady, to the drudge of their servants; and, finally, the bearer of the post-office bag, and the "saddle-bags mawr," * as his owner used to call them, over the Welch mountains, where no carriage could travel. Here, Mr. Editor, was a twenty-five pounder! and I have no hesitation in saying, that Arthur --for such was his name, and well known was he-would have made a very respectable figure over any country in England, with eleven stone weight on his back. His height was fifteen hands two inches.

I had a driving mania for the two first years after my return from Ireland, and did not hunt much. I had one or two horses, however, that require to be noticed, as connected with other matters. I gave £100 for a clever brown gelding called Morey, so called from having been purchased by Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, from the late Lord Kilmorey. I drove him in harness; but he was an excellent hunter, and would have distinguished himself in Warwickshire-to which county I was, at that period, a stranger. But it was on Morey that I first had the pleasure of seeing the noted Jerry Hawkins with hounds (Major Bland's), then hunting Worcestershire, and thereon hangs a tale. The meet was Corse Lawn, between Ledbury and Gloucester, where Jerry appeared on his grey stallion, and in the pride and vigour of manhood; regarded by myself with the profoundest respect, not so much as a sportsman, but (what was then more thought of by me) as having the character of a very desperate man over a country. The result, however, disappointed me, and somewhat lowered the said Jerry in my eyes. Crossing Highnam Park (General Sir John Guise's), with a burning scent, we were stopped by a gate, quite high enough of itself, but rendered still more formidable by the addition of a strong oaken slab nailed above the top bar. My brother, on Hermit, never pulled his horse out of his stroke, and I followed him on Morey, with my heart in my mouth; but we saw no more of Jerry Hawkins and Co., till the fun was over. Of course, I was cock-a-hoop on the occasion, and, getting drunk at night (in those days the general finish to a good day's sport) with a large party of brother sportsmen, at the King's Head, in Gloucester, offered a bet, that I would ride the same horse the next morning, over the same gate, bare-backed, and in a halter. Luckily for me, or, perhaps, in compassion to my infirmity,

* Mawr is the Welch for large.

the proffered bet was not taken, for the "morning and evening song" would by no means have tallied.

In one of these years (1801, I believe) I have something to notice, from which young sportsmen may take warning. During the Shrewsbury Hunt week, we had a capital run with Sir Richard Puleston's hounds, the fox taking us over the base of the Wrekin mountain-as distressing a country for horses as, I believe, is to be found anywhere. There was a very large field, and I had two horses out a mare, called Barmaid, which I rode myself; and my groom rode a six-year-old gelding that I had lately purchased of a Shropshire dealer. Of course, he did not see the end of the run-nor, indeed, did more than half-adozen; but he was seen in such a piteous state by some gentlemen who passed him on their road home, that I offered him, that evening, for ten pounds. The next morning, however, he came home, and fed well; so, thinking him a soft one, I gave fifteen pounds to the dealer (the well-known George Underhill) to take him back. I should now know better than to act thus. This horse was not at all fit to go; and the violent beating of the heart, described to me as such-which could be heard at a considerable distance from the stable in which he was putwas nothing more than violent action of the abdominal muscles, produced by temporary distress. He proved a very useful hunter, being a season or two in the stable of Mr. Lloyd Williams, of Penglan, the best mounted man in that part of the country; and afterwards carried Ned Bates, Sir Richard Puleston's huntsman, many seasons, by the name of Ragged Jack.

The history of Barmaid is also worthy of record, as her end was a lamentable one, and also the result of improper stable management. Very few saw the end of this fine run; but it established esta the fame of Barmaid, and Sir Richard bought her to carry his huntsman. A season or two afterwards she met with her death, from the following cause : -There had been a six weeks' frost; at the breaking up of which, this mare, a very hard feeder, was killed by galloping up and down that infernal cover for horses, called Apley Terrace, near Bridgenorth, with a dodging fox which never once left it. She was one of the finest timber-jumpers I ever had; and so fresh was she at the end of this tiring run, that she cleared a flight of high rails not five minutes before the fox died. What murder, to take such a mare to Apley Terrace, a place that hounds should never go near if it could be avoided! Too much of the picturesque about it for fox-hunting.*

In 1803 and 1804, I was in Leicestershire, for the first time, but cannot recollect all the horses I had, neither would it be worth while to mention them, for they were but a seedy lot. My judgment in horseflesh, indeed, seemed once more to retrograde, for I had, among others, two or three weedy thorough-bred ones, such as Joy, brother to Lure, by Young Eclipse out of Mourpoult, and a roan horse by Admiral, just out of training, and not worth two rows of gingerbread; which, after

* I fear I shall be accused of boasting; but it is impossible to separate myself from my horses, which, if I had not ridden up to hounds, would not have been sold for the prices they fetched, of which an account will by and by be given: God knows it was not their beauty that sold them; for some of them might have won a prize by their ugliness. The run I am now speaking of, was alluded to by me in one of my first papers in the Old Magazine, in which I mentioned the fact of the dying fox beating off a young hound, which attempted to seize him, which gave him a few minutes' respite for his lite.

finding them to be absolute failures, and without any mercy for my life or limbs, I sent to London, to be sold for what they would fetch. I had, also, an out-and-out brute, in the form of a Young Morwick ball horse, which cut a sad figure after the first ten minutes, rolling about like a ship in a swell. I had, however, one good hunter, a cropped horse, I bought of Mr. Baysand, and a very clever thorough-bred one, by Revenge, out of Mira, by Young Woodpecker, who died in my possession fifteen years afterwards all the time kept at house, and was a model of condition when I shot him. I was offered 200 guineas for this horse (after a famous run with George the Third's staghounds) to carry the Princess Amelia; and a promise of his being returned to me, if I wished it, when he was past his work. It appears but yesterday that George Gosden, then one of the yeomen prickers, came to examine him in the stable of the Crown Inn, Sloughkept, at that period, by old Baldwin, and a favourite place of sojourn with me, when under the tuition of Jack Bailey, on the old Prince of Wales Birmingham coach, the famed preceptor of the best gentlemencoachmen of my day. I am sorry, however, to reflect that, in one of my visits to this place, I was the cause of a relation of my own being expelled Eton for taking a lesson from Jack, it not having been his first offence. But he made an excellent coachman; as, indeed, did most of the pupils of that very able professor.

In 1804 or 1805, I commenced my residence in Warwickshire, when it was in all its glory-the days of John Corbet, of Sundorne, one of the most popular masters of foxhounds England has ever been blessed with. Dick Bradley, the horse-dealer, was also then in the zenith of his glory, although his was not exactly the shop for me, his prices being high; but he gave high prices, and, of course, had a right to demand them. My memory does not come to my aid here so well as I expected it would; and I unfortunately destroyed the greater part of my hunting-books, in which the various day's sport I saw, and the different horses I saw them upon, were as regularly entered as they occurred. But I had, at this time, a most excellent groom, who lived nine years with me (the well-known Edward Brainsford, brought up by John Lockley, and afterwards many years landlord of the head inn at Painswick, between Cheltenham and Bath), and who could put a polish upon a nag in less time, by nearly one half, than I have ever had it done in since; and I well remember his buying a little mare for me at this time, for twenty pounds, at Tattersall's, whither I sent him with a horse for sale; which, with a few weeks of his elbow-grease, was so metamorphosed in her appearance that I sold her to Mr. Shugborough, of Bourton, near Dunchurch, for sixty guineas. But, to return to my own purchases: -The first deal I had with Bradley was very near being a grand coup: I gave him £190 for two horses, -a grey and a chestnut; calling the former Caravan, and the latter Snuffbox. Snuffbox fell a victim to Mr. Warde's famous Winnick Warren run, in Northamptonshire; but Caravan carried me delightfully for two seasons; when I sold him for 200 guineas to Mr. Roynon Jones-the gentleman who purchased Hermit of my brother, and sold him for 700 guineas to Sir Horace St. Paul. Caravan did an extraordinary day's work with me, which sold him. Those who know the county of Warwick will follow me, and see what an extent of