(not all cubs), and run two to ground; and they had some very pretty gallops. They are a most capital pack of hounds; and Alfred Summers is such a determined enemy to a fox, that the animal is never safe till Summers and his clever pack are in the kennels. There is not much to record of the Hambledon; they have killed one cub. The moment hounds got upon him he went to ground in a rabbit-burrow, and was soon got out, and given to the hounds. Had the foolish cub only kept above ground, he would have had a very good chance of his life. Lord Portsmouth was obliged to pass sentence on old Vengeance a short time since on account of an accident in his box. He was a good horse, Vengeance, though not always in good hands, for when called The Chicken he belonged to the poisoner Palmer, but was renamed when he changed hands and came into Lord Edward Russell's possession. His best performance was as a four-year old, and carrying 7st. 7lb., winning the Cesarewitch very easily, and Harlock said that next to Stockwell he was the best horse he ever trained. From very few mares he got several winners, principally for Lord Portsmouth, who, we believe, only gave 300l. for him, and Sydmenton and Whalebone were the best of them. Lord Portsmouth has also lost The Chase (the dam of Robin Hood, who beat Student for the July), who was shot at Hurstbourne the other day, leaving behind a yearling, FitzJames, that fetched 800 guineas at Lord Portsmouth's last sale. The Chase was little thought of till Buccaneer became famous, and when Lord Portsmouth, anxious to get hold of a strain of the blood, found her somewhere in Wales, he bought her of a farmer there for a ten-pound note! The Brighton coach finished its season on the 21st; and on the 23rd some of the regulars met at The Chequers at Horley to say good-bye, and to instal Tedder there as mine host. The Chequers is a nice snug little old country inn, not far from the Horley Station, where a sportsman can send his horse on, which will be well looked after, and where one is sure of a comfortable bed and everything in a clean, homely way. We wish Tedder every success, as, bar none, he is the civilest man we know. Poor Frank Goodall has had another very bad fall from his horse putting his foot in a hole and rolling over him when hunting Mr. Tailby's hounds at Wistow on the 25th. He has broken his collar-bone and two ribs. He had only just recovered the bad fall he had last season. We are sorry to announce the very sudden death of Mr. William Rigden, while out hunting, on Monday the 23rd, at the good old age of seventy-nine. His horse put his foot into a drain, and threw him violently on his head, and dislocated his neck, and his death was instantaneous. Kent never produced a better sportsman. For about thirty-five years he had been Master and Manager of the Tickham Hounds. The death of Mr. Clough Newcome, of Feltwell Hall, took place on Friday, 22nd inst. There are few who frequent Newmarket but will recollect him. The head of an old county family, he passed his life more like a squire of old than those of the present day. He was remarkable as a falconer, a shot, and a British ornithologist, of whom he leaves in Mr. Alfred Newton a pupil who does him honour. His private worth was best known to a host of friends, who will lament him doubly as a man whose place cannot be filled. And John Scott is gone. At a ripe age, full of venerable years and the honours that from no condition rise,' the second Wizard of the North disappears from the busy scene, and the last links that connected us with a past generation are severed by his death. To speak of him and his career from the time he quitted his father's roof in Oxford to tempt fortune on his own account is beyond our purpose. Not only has it been done by abler hands than oursand the repetition is therefore needless but our pen, to tell the truth, falters in touching upon a memoir which Argus,' if he had been alive, would have made his own. No one knew the old Yorkshire trainer better, few men more intimate or more welcome at Whitewall than our lamented friend. His memory was a storehouse of Whitewall sayings and doings, which, until illness struck him down, was always open for the inspection of his intimates. Indeed, he once thought of writing for the pages of Baily Whitewall 'Papers;' but the pressure of other work prevented this being done, and no doubt we are the losers thereby. There was a good deal at Whitewall besides the horses in the stables. We all know about them, the heroes and heroines of the past, whose plates' are on the box doors, and their pictures in the snug dining-room-Matilde, The Colonel, Cyprian, Newminster-the long roll of noble names down to those of later times-we have heard and read the story of their lives until it is a thrice-told tale. But John Scott himself was a study; and though his life is in a great measure the life of Derby and Leger winners, yet he and Whitewall had a separate existence and character all their own. He was in some sort a representative man, living at his home in almost patriarchal state, with fat beeves and golden corn, with bread and meat for the many mouths dependent on him, making the earth yield her increase; and, with the exception of the Cyprian port and the famous whisky, all was of home manufacture. What a cheery sight was the dining-room on a bright, sharp morning-say about this time of year-with its blazing fire and well-spread board, old John himself ready equipped for the wold, and his great anxiety that his guest should make a good breakfast before starting. What a kindly hostess, too, was there; and but this is a digression-have you, gentle reader, ever eaten hashed mutton? You will, of course-admitting that you are acquainted with so homely a dish-declare you have done so; but, believe it not, unless you have been a guest at Whitewall. To resume:—how pleasant and cheery, too, as the November evening drew on, and after the early dinner, we discussed the Cyprian port and cracked our walnuts, talked racing talk, with a little of the talk of Pall Mall thrown in, told our kind host the last conundrum, and (for age has its weaknesses, and returns to the muttons of its childhood) the last nursery rhyme.' Quite au courant of what was going on in the outer world was John; and the records of the Old Bailey and the Divorce Court, the last murder, and the last scandal, were the subjects of much pungent remark. We chanced to hear his opinion on a recent cause célèbre that engrossed the attention of the fashionable world a short time since; and we only wish the Court and our readers could have heard them too. It was rather a difficult matter, by-the-way, to tell John anything new, he was kept so well posted up by his many friends; and the bon mot that first saw the light on the shady side of Pall Mall would be chuckled over in the brougham on Langton Wold a morning or two after. His hospitality was boundless to the poor and to the rich. How many Christmas hampers went forth annually from Whitewall-how many turkeys, hams, pheasants, and hares came, with Mr. John Scott's compliments,' to how many recipients, would be difficult to say. These kindly remembrances will be missed by many this year; and the poor around Malton hereafter will think of the neighbourly hand that ministered to their necessities so liberally. Peace to him! His memory will be green by Yorkshire firesides for many a long day; and a coming generation in that sporting shire will be taught the past glories of Whitewall. |