66 England, even it was the worst hunting country in the whole island. After dinner Mr. Warde asked me if I liked port-wine. Very much indeed," was the young-un's reply; "don't you ?" “Yes, I do," replied he. "Then why don't you drink it?" was the rejoinder. Why, I'll tell you why," replied mine host, still swigging away at a tumbler of gin-punch which he had been mixing from his old and well-known receipt; "because if I, like you, drink a bottle of wine to-night, I shall find it to-morrow morning in my head; but if I drink this gin-punch, by to-morrow morning I shall find it under the bed." There was another extraordinary character who was a constant attendant on Mr. Warde's hounds at the time I speak of, and that was the Rev. Fulwar Fowle, of Kintbury; his hospitality to me, as indeed to every one else who came in his way, was equal to anything of that kind I ever met with in my life. Mr. Fowle was an excellent sportsman as well as a good and hospitable neighbour, and a first-rate shot; and at one time, during the threatened invasion of the French, he commanded a volunteer troop of light cavalry, proving himself a true church militant, as well as a good hand over a country with hounds. Upon my recent visit to the Craven country I found all the old characters, with whom I had become familiarize upon my first début, had gradually, like a set of dissolving views, vanished from my sight; and that not only one, but almost two entire generations of hunting men had risen up and disappeared again since I first became acquainted with that part of Berkshire twenty years ago. Railroads and other innovations have considerably altered the face of this as well as most other hunting countries; still, if I were to live to be a hundred, and if I were induced hereafter to pay again other visits to this theatre of the sporting prowess of my youthful days, I should never cease to look upon my first essay in these parts as the most interesting to me, nor should I ever fail to recognize that fortnight in which I hunted from the Old Bear, at Hungerford, as one of the happiest periods of my existence. As I observed before, the preservation of game is carried on to a great extent in this part of the world, and not unfrequently the conflicts between keepers and poachers is of a nature the most desperate and appalling. It was only the other day, on my road to cover to meet Mr. Villebois' hounds at Froxfield, that I was shown the spot where, a few days before, a most determined and bloody engagement had taken place between some poachers and the keepers of the Marquis of Aylesbury; the blood was scarcely washed away from that portion of the road where they had been engaged in battle, by the heavy rains that had fallen, and it was still visible upon a gate where one of the wounded poachers had effected a retreat. The number of the combatants were equal, viz., three on either side; when, after a most murderous and sanguinary conflict with swingels and life preservers, or rather destroyers, one was killed and one taken alive, the third escaping; they fought like bricks for nearly an hour, and evinced a courage and determination well worthy of a more honourable cause. I left Berkshire about the 8th of December, and after spending a few days in London, where I had agreed to meet some old friends to go to the Smithfield Cattle Show and a few other places of equally refined amusement usually resorted to by our country cousins, I proceeded on my way for a second time into Dorsetshire, where I had received an invitation from an old friend to spend a week and enjoy some wild shooting, as well as for the purpose of seeing Mr. Farquharson's hounds kill a fox in the far-famed Vale of Blackmoor. Now this was a treat looked forward to by me with the very greatest anxiety; for I had constantly heard from several Dorsetshire sportsmen that the above-named celebrated valley was equal in point of scenting to any other district in the world, and that its attributes as a hunting country could not be surpassed by Northamptonshire, or even the Vale of Belvoir itself. I can always make any quantity of allowance for the fond partiality so frequently evinced by those who may be said to have grazed upon the same sweet herbage during the whole of their early existence, without having been either enticed or driven away by some cause or other, to try the variety of a more distant and extensive pasturage. But for any one to assert that the Vale of Blackmoor is worthy to be mentioned in the same week with the Pytchley country deserves to be smothered in one of its blackest bogs, or to be buried alive, if it were only for half an hour, horse and all, in one of the numerous saw-pit-like ditches which are so continually presenting themselves to the notice of the adventurous sportsman. Still, however, with all its drawbacks in point of bogs, water-meadows, large, double, and impracticable fences, the Vale of Blackmoor has much to recommend it as a good hunting country, especially in the midst of an extensive district which, according to my taste, is anything but favourable towards a pack of fox-hounds exhibiting themselves to advantage, or to a huntsman who may wish to chase his fox to death in good workmanlike style. Dorsetshire is a first-rate sporting county, take the whole catalogue of sports into consideration; for here a man may enjoy shooting in all its branches, fox-hunting, hare-hunting, good otter-hunting, and, in fact, every other sylvan amusement: but it is by no means a first-rate fox-hunting country, and, from the nature of its locality, never can be. Nevertheless, a sportsman may see a good deal of fun in it, if he is pretty well horsed; but I am thoroughly convinced that nothing but a good one can live through a run over the Vale of Blackmoor, if hounds go any pace, especially after such awful rains as the country has been visited with during the last three weeks, the ploughed land, and indeed the grass too, in many places, being nearly up to a horse's girths in slush. Another grand point must not be lost sight of when speaking of the advantages to be met with whilst hunting with Mr. Farquharson's hounds, and that is, the great plenty of foxes which are generally found in all his covers, whether in the Vale or any other part of his extensive country. These hounds seldom, if ever, have been known to have a blank day for years, and up to the 20th of the present month had killed forty brace of foxes. Few packs, I should imagine, could display so grand a show of noses on their kennel-door; nor do I think that any other establishment-even the Duke of Rutland's, in their most foxmurdering days, under the directorship of the late William Shaw-could surpass their average of deaths, which in some seasons have considerably exceeded seventy brace of foxes. With regard to the horses which compose Mr. Farquharson's kennelstud, there are certainly some neat and clever nags amongst the lot ridden by Treadwell; but, take them as a body, I should say, from mine own observation, that they are considerably below par both in breeding and power, as well as in condition. This may be attributed in some measure to Mr. Farquharson breeding so many horses, every one of which, if he can go at all, is, as soon as he is old enough, sent out hunting to carry the whippers-in, when, if he survives the first trials and seasoning, it is ten to one that he ends his days within a short distance of the place where his career commenced-namely, the boiling-housedoor. It is the opinion of many of the Dorsetshire sportsmen that a big horse is ill calculated to go to hounds in this country; for there are so many hilly districts, and everlasting dingles, and cramped places so continually presenting themselves, to the discomfiture of the "fastgoers," that a reachy, slashing sort of horse would beat himself in his long stride, especially amongst the numerous grips and ditches by which the water-meadows are intersected, to say nothing of low, compact horses living with hounds far better in a hilly country than big ones. There are a good many farmers who are in the habit of hunting with these hounds; but, although they seem good sportsmen, and as keen as ginger, view-hallooing and whipping-in whenever an opportunity presents itself, the nags they bestride are of a very moderate cast indeedin appearance rough, second-rate cover-hacks; and I am well convinced that no good horses, with the exception of now and then one, which may be looked on as a wonder, are ever bred in the Vale of Blackmoor. In fact, the well-known dealer, who keeps the Green Dragon, and who lives in the town of Dorchester, but I forget his name, told me that, taking the whole of the Vale of Blackmoor, or even Dorsetshire itself, it would be difficult to produce three young horses, bred in that country, which were worth a farthing to put to work as hunters, or that would ever fetch a price which could remunerate any one for the expense and trouble laid out in their rearing and education. Most of the gentlemen in that neighbourhood purchase their horses from this man, who brings them either direct from the northern counties, or from those dealers who procure them for him from the Yorkshire and Lincolnshire fairs. There was one most extraordinary feature belonging to the fences of Dorsetshire which most painfully attracted my observation, and that was the prevalence of iron hooping, which, when nailed to small posts, is in many places used as a protection to the young quick-hedges. This description of fence is more particularly made use of along the sides of roads, but you may also occasionally meet with it in those fences which divide the different fields. Only fancy a horse slipping, and dropping his hind-legs on one of these razors! If it did not entirely spoil him for ever as a hunter, I have no hesitation in saying that it would completely shave off the flesh, sinews and all, from his fetlock to his hock, to say nothing of the dangerous position a fall at such a demoniac barrier must necessarily expose his rider to. They have been introduced into the agricultural economy of this county about ten years; and as they are rather on the increase, I fear that, unless some less dangerous mode of dividing the fields is invented, a complete stop to all straight riding to hounds must necessarily be the result. The earth-stopping throughout the whole of the county of Dorset is a very heavy affair indeed. The main earths are so numerous, that the odds are you run to ground once, if not oftener, every day you go out with hounds. This drawback to good sport may be attributed to two First of all, the foxes are so well preserved that no man would ever think of digging out a for for the purpose of destroying the animal, nor of even disturbing the numerous breeding-earths which are dispersed all over the covers; and the nature of the soil being sandy and gravelly in causes. most of the hills, it is an easy matter for foxes to be continually forming new earths, which may escape the vigilance of the most attentive earthstopper. In the next place, the badgers, which in many covers are never even allowed to be disturbed, increase to such an extent, that it is next to an impossibility to keep the earths stopped, these indefatigable animals invariably drawing out the faggots and soil as soon as the earthstopper has closed them in the night. Where badgers abound, as they do in this county, they ought to be caught on a moonlight night, by placing large pursenets at the mouths of the earth where they inhabit, and not dug out, to the destruction of good main earths; or they may be driven from the main earths during winter by smoking, and dug from the smaller earths and rabbit-holes, in which they will invariably take shelter when effectually disturbed. A curious specimen of this animal was taken, about a year and a half since, at Came, near Dorchester, it being perfectly white, with pink eyes, like a ferret. The unfeeling brute who caught it had the cruelty to destroy it; and a stuffer of animals having purchased it, I obtained it from him, being fond of curious specimens of natural history; and I must say it is one of the greatest curiosities of the kind I ever possessed, or even saw. (To be continued.) SPORTING INCIDENTS AT HOME AND ABROAD. (From the MS. Life of the Hon. Percy Hamilton.) COMMUNICATED TO AND EDITED BY LORD WILLIAM LENNOX. CHAPTER IV. "Prime of life to go it, boys, where's a place like London ? "Peers mount the box." OLD SONG. The Four-in-hand Club-A Westminster Tandem-A Day on the Road-The Mails -An unexpected Visit-Prospect of my first Play-A practical Jest-The “silent Highway" as it was-The noisy River as it is. At this period" driving" was much in vogue, and the Whip Club were flourishing under their leader, Mr. Charles Buxton. As a matter of course, we Westminster youths were not behind the fashion; and, upon all half or whole holidays, every buggy, gig, or dog-cart that could be hired was put in requisition; nay, often, faute de mieux, a donkey chay, in Tothill Fields, furnished us an afternoon's drive. We were loud in our praises of charioteering, quoting its antiquity by referring to Homer, Virgil, and Horace, all of whom sang the praises and commemorated the honours of the " whips" of their day. Juvenal, too, the original Satirist," tells us of a Roman Consul who aspired to be 66 a "dragsman:" "volucri Carpento rapitur pinguis Damasippus; et ipse Upon one fine day in April, during the Easter holidays, my friend Kirkonnel, and two other boys of the fifth form and myself, having for some weeks clubbed all our money together for the purpose of having a drive to Cranford Bridge and back, started at an early hour from Queen Square, Westminster, in two tandems. Our horses were a sorry match. One dog-cart was horsed by a blind chesnut gelding at wheel, and a spiry looking grey mare as leader; while, in the tilbury I drove, I found a roarer in the shafts, and a kicker at the end of a fathom of long traces. "Only their way at starting," said the ostler; "a little frolicksome, or so, at first." Away we went, amidst the jeers of some butchers' boys, costermongers, knackers, and fish-women, who, seeing the equipages driven down Tothill Street, were attracted to the spot from whence we took our departure. I will not pause to describe the hair-breadth escapes we were subject to in our drive through Pimlico, nor mention the number of fruit-stalls our leaders would poke their noses into, nor allude to the sundry barrows of dog's meat, gingerbread nuts, and oranges that were capsized between Queen Square and Hammersmith turnpike. Suffice it to say, we arrived there in due time, and were about to pay the toll, when the keeper of the gate said, "Look alive, young gentlemen, the Whip Club are coming. We turned round, and saw a procession of four-in-hand carriages. To see this Club had been the height of our ambition, and to meet them when we ourselves were humble followers of theirs was an additional gratification. We threw down enough money to pay our tolls twice over, and, driving on, pulled up on the left side of the road. This attention was remarked by a gentleman who sat on the box of the leading "drag," and who made us a patronizing nod as he passed. No sooner had all the " teams" passed the gate, than they came to a stop, and a groom, who had jumped down from the leading coach, after receiving a message from his master, came up to us, and, touching his hat, gave my friend Kirkonnel a message, to the purport that Mr. Buxton, as president of the Whip Club, would be delighted if we would join them at dinner, at Salt Hill. "It's my uncle Sir Charles, on the box," said Kirkonnel. "I thought it was him as we passed; but he was so muffled up with that scarlet belcher that I scarcely knew him. What's to be done?" said he, turning to me; “my nags won't get farther than Cranford Bridge. "Had we not better see Sir Charles?" I responded. Upon which we descended from our carriages, not a little proud of our costume, which I omitted to say consisted of green cutaway coat, white cord trowsers, boots resplendent in all the brilliancy of Day and Martin, a blue bird's-eye neckcloth, ornamented with a pin of the bars in gold and coral, a yellow and black striped waistcoat, and a light drab great coat, with huge mother-of-pearl buttons. As we approached the leading coach, which was a barouche landau, with four beautiful bays, we were most kindly welcomed by Sir Charles, who introduced us as young Westminsters to Mr. Buxton. What! fresh from Dean's yard?" said the latter. We answered in the affirmative. "How get on the studies?" enquired the worthy baronet. "Pretty well," I responded; Kirkonnel quoting the following lines: "Sunt quos curriculo pulverum Olympicum, 66 "You've not forgot your Latin, my boy," said Sir Charles. why drive a tandem? it's a most dangerous affair." "But |