Part 19

On the 29th, after a stormy night, when a great number of eels were caught in the large iron grating trap at Durngate Mill, through which the main stream can be strained—a deadly device—I made no attempt to fish until after luncheon, when in no hopeful mood as to sport (for thunderclouds were gathering in the distance as black as ink, and a few premonitory big drops of rain were falling) I waited on the east bank watching for any movement. A trout rose under the opposite side and sucked in a natural fly. Many times my lure was presented, with occasional intervals between. At last he rose to it and fastened, fighting well, but a losing battle, and was soon brought to grass, weighing 1 lb. 7 oz. In the evening, when the weather had somewhat cleared, I went along the west side as far as the Spring Garden lower hatch, to make a last attempt to catch a goodly trout I had often observed and cast over. He fed close to a mass of green tussock grass overhanging the water, and under which was his haunt when idle. The set of the stream round the wide bend of the river brought floating ephemeridæ, trichoptera and nocturnal lepidoptera to the tussock, often touching and even clinging to its blades trailing on the surface; the wily fish therefore invariably took up one and the same position when hungry, opening his mouth wide to receive the tempting morsels. It was difficult for a dry fly to be placed in front of him by the most skilful angler, for his hook so often caught on the grass, which was tough, and in pulling the gut broke. I much coveted that fish, and did not like to be beaten. I had, therefore, a few days previously resorted to the expedient of having the huge tussock grubbed up and taken away entirely.

Approaching him now on tiptoe with the utmost circumspection, I knelt within a long casting distance of where he was rising, intently intercepting brown sedgeflies. I changed the small fly I had on for a red quill on No. 1 hook, and sent it forward over him in a line with the natural flies. No notice was taken of it; nor again and again, until, when a puff of wind diverted it to the right, he moved after it, and with an audible snap, and instant spring out of water, hooked himself. For several minutes an exciting time for me followed, and fatal for him, as he was netted out and killed—a beautifully marked fish, weighing 1 lb. 13 oz.

On the 30th, the last day of the trout season of 1905, an excellent finish was made in a few hours by the capture of three trout, weighing respectively 1½, 1¾ and 2¼ lb.

At foot is a concise statement of the above described sport—not so good as in many former seasons; but to kill an _excessive_ number of fish, especially on a private fishery, is no longer the object of a dry-fly purist and sportsman. And it will be noticed that on most days I have only fished for a few hours, yet quite enough for pastime and recreation, and the full enjoyment of Nature’s many attractions while wandering by the peaceful river.

Date. No. of trout. lb. oz. May 19th 3 5 2 June 3rd 2 2 1 June 13th 2 2 15 June 22nd 6 9 11 July 1st 3 4 2 July 3rd 2 2 3 July 14th 1 1 14 July 18th 1 1 2 July 21st 5 5 0 July 29th 1 1 14 July 31st 8 7 12 Aug. 5th 1 1 9 Aug. 8th 1 1 5 Aug. 17th 2 2 6 Aug. 24th 2 5 2 Sept. 1st 3 4 0 Sept. 4th 2 3 6 Sept. 11th 5 6 6 Sept. 16th 1 1 14 Sept. 19th 5 7 15 Sept. 27th 5 7 5 Sept. 29th 2 3 4 Sept. 30th 3 5 8 —— —— —— Total 65 93 12 == == ==

RED QUILL.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(FROM THE _SPORTING MAGAZINE_ OF 1806.)

WILTSHIRE HOUNDS.—Saturday, January 14th, a pack of foxhounds met at Horkwood, and soon after throwing in unkennelled a fox in the first stile. After trying the earths at Farmclose, Donhead, &c.—which had been previously stopped—he crossed the Salisbury Road, through Charlton; taking over Charlton fields he went for Melbury, over the heath, and then gallantly faced the hills, leaving Ashmoor close on the right and Ashcombe on the left; came into Cranbourne Chase; left Bussey Lodge far on the left, came to Chettle Down; leaving Chettle on the right, running nearly up to Handly, at which place he was headed; then running up to Critchell he was run into, attempting to cross the river by Horton Farm. This chase lasted an hour and thirty-five minutes, and the distance could not be less than twenty-five miles. It is supposed to have been the severest run ever remembered in this part of the country.

THORNVILLE ROYAL.

This magnificent seat of princely festivity and general hospitality, for so many years in the possession of Colonel Thornton, was on Monday, January 6th, surrendered to his successor, the present purchaser, Lord Stourton; but not until the Colonel who, determined never to violate the charter, had, according to annual custom, thrown his doors open, filled all his rooms and tables with his friends, during a whole month spent in unremitted cheerfulness and good humour, passing the days in various field sports, the evenings in convivial harmonious hilarity, inspired by the natural urbanity of the Colonel’s manners, and the choicest and oldest wines now in Great Britain. Perhaps a more splendid and brilliant Christmas was never witnessed in this country.

On New Year’s Day, the neighbourhood were indulged with the finest coursing possible in the park; after which a grand dinner, at which were wines—none under thirty years old, and many at the age of sixty. On this occasion the house and the Temple of Victory were illuminated in grateful remembrance of the soldiers of the York Militia.

After amusing the party and the rustics in the neighbourhood with seeing the upper lake let off, where pike from five to twenty pounds, carp from twelve to fifteen pounds, tench from four to six pounds, perch from two to three pounds, were discovered, to the great satisfaction of the curious in lake fish; a few were taken and one-half sent to the present owner, Lord Stourton.

The Colonel then, attended by his friends, proceeded to Falcover’s Hall, carrying with him the warmest wishes of all those who have so long and so often experienced the effects of his liberal disposition.

Thus terminated his residence at Thornville Royal, which for sixteen years has been the scene of every species of elegant mirth, wit and amusement, and where the prince and the peasant have been alike gratified by that benevolence and vivacity so peculiar to the character of Colonel Thornton.

A Farewell to a Hunter.

To no misfortune in the field He bows, fit ending of the game; No weight of years bids him to yield, But swift disease that warps his frame.

So Mercy stepping in must break The bonds that Love would fain hold fast, And hand-in-hand we come to take A look we know must be the last.

For ere to-morrow’s sun has died, His keen bold spirit will have found That refuge on the other side, Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.

Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when The last great leap is left behind, And passing from the haunts of men, By earthly limits unconfined,

You roam that strange mysterious land, That vast beyond where travellers wait, Where mortal foot may never stand, Nor mortal vision penetrate,

Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell On joys by memory roused from rest, When scent was keen, when hounds ran well, And Fortune gave us of her best.

Recall the pageant of the meet, The snug gorse covert on the hill, The good sound turf beneath your feet, The glorious run, the glorious kill.

Nor think as year by year decays In robes of russet, red, and gold, That wanting you, November days Can be to us as days of old.

B.

The New Year at the Theatres.

After establishing “Lights Out” as a success at the Waldorf Theatre, Mr. H. B. Irving proceeded early in the New Year to produce “The Jury of Fate” at the Shaftesbury Theatre, the house, by the way, in which Mr. McLellan’s first great success was first seen in London, “The Belle of New York.”

“The Jury of Fate” is a lurid story told in seven tableaux, and its most obvious disability is that since each tableaux must of necessity be abbreviated, the story can only be told in a spasmodic series of impressions, and the players have but a poor chance of getting a hold of their audience. The theme of the play is undoubtedly a good one, that of the man who at the early end of a misspent career prays of the messenger of Death that he may be allowed to live another life on earth in which he shall atone for his follies and wickedness, and so gain a favourable verdict from “The Jury of Fate.”

This is the first tableau, and the second tableau shows us twenty-five years later René Delorme at his old game again, a voluptuary with a pretty talent for drinking, who loses no time in snatching from a most admirable young worker his affianced bride, the fair Yvonne.

A year later we find René with his wife in the garden of an inn near Paris; he has by this time become a successful playwright, an unfaithful husband, and an industrious drunkard, and after an unfriendly conversation with his wife, he proceeds to inaugurate an intrigue with the mistress of a friend of his, who is unfortunately lunching at the same inn.

This lady appears as a kind of Public Prosecutor of Fate, and openly sets to work to ruin and destroy the too impressionable René, and we are not surprised to find a year later in the dining-room of René’s house that her unkindly influence has materially assisted the _fine champagne_ in making a mess of the promising playwright.

This fourth tableau is perhaps the strongest of all, and it concludes with René, deserted by his friends and his wife, the author of a miserable failure just produced, confronted in his solitude by the ghostly figure of the stranger—Death.

Two years later we find René, at a low café in Paris, urging a mob of his discontented workmen to deeds of anarchy and pillage, and not even the dignified advice of David Martine, the workman of tableau two, and the respected and successful employer of labour in the subsequent tableaux, can save the degenerate from his degeneracy; for upon that self-same night René leads a disorderly attack upon the Martine Bridgeworks, and finding, as needs he must, his wife on the premises, most innocently conversing with Martine, a pistol shot makes him the murderer of his wife, according to the dictum, that “All men kill the thing they love.”

By this time “The Jury of Fate” have agreed upon their verdict, and it only remains for René to lose himself in a wood, accompanied only by a thunderstorm of portentous severity and ominous dread. To him arrives the Stranger with the sword, and, with only an unconvincing plea in mitigation of sentence, René falls prostrate before a very much misplaced crucifix, having done far more harm in his second effort than was the case in his previous conviction.

The part of René is in the very capable hands of Mr. H. B. Irving, and he plays it for all it is worth.

Another piece of fine acting is that of Mr. Matheson Lang, in the double part of Pierre and David Martine.

Miss Lillah McCarthy, whose work at the Court Theatre has given us so much pleasure, is excellent as Therese, the courtesan who causes René so much worry, and the part of the injured and slaughtered wife is well played by Miss Crystal Herne, a recruit from America.

The play is extremely well put on, and admirably acted, whilst the thunder and lightning and other meteorological effects are terrible in their perpetual and impressive reality.

At the Garrick Theatre, Mr. Arthur Bouchier had the courage to stem the prosperous tide of “The Walls of Jericho,” in order to produce “The Merchant of Venice” and the fine performances of himself as Shylock and Miss Violet Vanbrugh as Portia, with the environment of a beautiful production, have filled the Garrick for well over a hundred performances.

In our opinion Shylock is quite one of the best things Mr. Bouchier has done, most convincing in its masterly restraint and complex simplicity. And too much praise cannot be given to Miss Vanbrugh who is at her best in the trial scene, when the charm of her voice is heard to the utmost advantage. That experienced actor, Mr. Norman Forbes, affords a splendid study of Launcelot Gobbo, and is well supported by Mr. O. B. Clarence as Old Gobbo.

A happy memory of the early days of the O.U.D.C. is afforded by the fact that Mr. Alan Mackinnon supervised this production, and this carries our thoughts back to 1886, when Mr. Bouchier first dealt with Shylock at the then new theatre at Oxford.

The Vedrenne-Barker management at the Court Theatre continues to enjoy its well-earned prosperity. The plays are interesting and exceptionally well acted, and at present the name of Mr. Bernard Shaw is one to conjure with.

“Major Barbara” is his latest achievement, and if one confesses to a feeling of disappointment, the probable reason for it is that Mr. Shaw has led us to expect so much from him in the way of quality.

Mr. Shaw confesses in the prelude to one of his books, that by one of those little ironies of life which sometimes beset even such clever people as himself, he has only won the right to be listened to by the public after the vein of originality which was once so rich within him has been hopelessly worked out. Of the truth of this, there is in his new play, “Major Barbara,” very conspicuous evidence. The changes are once more rung upon the old theme which served Mr. Shaw in “Widower’s Houses,” and to a certain extent also in “Mrs. Warren’s Profession.” In “Widower’s Houses,” it is a man whose belief in his own honesty and usefulness is shattered by the sudden discovery that his income comes from a polluted source; in “Major Barbara,” the central figure, a woman, is by very much the same process suddenly thrust, as it were, into a moral _cul-de-sac_; that is to say, she is offered a sum of five thousand pounds which she would give her very soul to take, in order to save the lives of hundreds of starving folk, and at the same moment discovers that this money has been made by industries which cause the very starvation she is attempting to remedy. It is this situation which Mr. Shaw considers strong enough to justify him in putting into his heroine’s mouth some of the most sacred words which have ever been uttered—and it is at any rate a satisfaction to feel that his critics have for once drawn Mr. Shaw into the honest confession that he did himself consider that he had here created a serious and tragic situation. To be quite frank, there cannot be the faintest question but that the verdict in this little dispute must be against Mr. Shaw and with his critics. Mr. Shaw’s idea of a play seems to be that you can dive from the burlesque tosh of “Cholly” from the pantomime of the Greek Professor beating his drum straight into the sublimest realms of tragedy, much as a man can go straight out of the hot rooms into the plunge at a Turkish bath; but, as Dr. Johnson said of some contemporary writer who was at the moment attracting attention, “Sir, it does not do to be odd; you will not be read for long.”

At the Haymarket Theatre Mr. Charles Hawtrey is as delightfully vague as ever in “The Indecision of Mr. Kingsbury,” a play adapted from the French by Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox. Mr. Hawtrey is well supported by the author who plays the part of a full-blooded and voluble Frenchman; by Miss Fanny Brough as a distressed dowager; and Miss Nina Boucicault as a much maligned widow, who wins the hand of the undecided Mr. Kingsbury. The story is just strong enough to carry four acts, and there is plenty of fun in it, so that we may credit Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox with yet another success.

At the Imperial Theatre Mr. Lewis Waller has replaced “The Perfect Lover” by “The Harlequin King,” a costume play of mediæval romance, in which Harlequin, having in a fit of jealousy killed the heir apparent, proceeds immediately to occupy the throne.

It is a very confiding court in this eccentric kingdom, and the only person who discovers the imposture is a blind old lady, the Queen Mother, who at once finds it out, but for the good of the country consents to crown the Harlequin. As a reigning monarch Harlequin cuts a poor enough figure, and to us it is a great relief when in due course the time comes for him, in order to save his skin, to confess his fraud, and fly the country. Mr. Lewis Waller does the best that can be done for the wretched Harlequin, and Miss Millard is good as Columbina, but perhaps the best performance of all is that of Miss Mary Rorke as the blind Queen: as an example of quiet dignity and perfect elocution her performance is most valuable.

We could wish that Mr. Waller would once more produce a really good play; he and his company are well qualified to do full justice to a good play, and it seems a thousand pities that their abilities and enthusiasm should be devoted to nothing better than the “Perfect Lover” and this most recent production which, by the way, is styled “A Masquerade in four acts, by Rudolf Lothar, adapted by Louis N. Parker and Selwyn Brinton.”

The opening of the new Aldwych Theatre fitly enough signalised the return to London of Miss Ellaline Terriss and Mr. Seymour Hicks, after their triumphant tour in the provinces. “Bluebell in Fairyland,” that very successful Christmas piece which, two or three years ago, ran well into the late summer months, was the play selected for the opening, on December 23rd, of Mr. Hicks’ beautiful new playhouse. With the advantage of a large stage and every latest modern appliance, Mr. Hicks has been able to amplify and develop his production to a degree which was impossible at the Vaudeville Theatre. There are some two hundred performers engaged in this musical dream play, which is in two acts, of six and seven scenes respectively.

Miss Ellaline Terriss is Bluebell, as charming as ever, and one can utter no higher praise than that.

Mr. Seymour Hicks again doubles the parts of Dicky, the Shoeblack, and the Sleepy King, and infuses marvellous vitality into all that he does, even into the snores and grotesque clumsinesses of the Sleepy King.

There are many new-comers, prominent among them being Miss Sydney Fairbrother and Miss Maude Darrell, whilst one of the hits of the entertainment is the song of Miss Barbara Deane, in which she reproduces popular comic songs of the day with the method of a ballad-singer. Miss Barbara Deane has a charming voice, and as she has youth on her side, she should have a very distinguished future before her. Miss Dorothy Frostick—now almost “a grown-up”—and Miss Topsy Linden do some pretty dancing.

It was a marvellous _tour de force_ on the part of Mr. Seymour Hicks, after less than a fortnight for rehearsal, and with no dress rehearsal at all, to have presented such a gigantic production, without a hitch, upon the very night which he had promised some months ago.

“Bluebell” is a delightful play, and the Aldwych is a beautiful theatre, and if Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks gain half the success which they deserve, they should have a signal triumph.

At the Royalty Theatre, that delightful artiste, Mme. Réjane and M. De Ferandy have been giving a series of French plays, prominent among them being “Les Affaires sont les Affaires,” which Mr. Beerbohm Tree has shown us under the title of “Business is Business,” and “Décoré,” the amusing comedy of M. H. Meilhac.

For Christmas Mr. Beerbohm Tree deserted the popular “Oliver Twist,” and put up a revival of “The Tempest,” followed in January by “Twelfth Night,” which is to be supplanted, shortly before these lines attain the dignity of print, by one of the colossal productions for which His Majesty’s Theatre has become so renowned. Probably by the time these lines are read the version of “Nero,” by Mr. Stephen Phillips, will be the talk of the town.

QUID.

Racing at Gibraltar, in 1905.

BY AN OWNER.

The Gibraltar racing season has now come to an end, and but for a probable Sky meeting the first week or so in January, 1906, no more racing will be held here till March. In this article it is the endeavour of the writer to say a few words of interest regarding the general racing on the “Rock” and concerning the meetings during the present year. On the whole, the racing during the year has been very satisfactory; more meetings have been held and more patronage, both by owners and the general public, afforded to them than has been the case for some time. A certain portion of residents on the Rock always keep racers. The success, however, of “Gib.” racing is, in the main, dependent on the sport afforded to it by the officers, naval and military, of the garrison. This year there has happily been no lack of support, and a considerable number of officers of the Gunners and of the three line regiments stationed here own racers. A few lines may be with advantage devoted in explaining how the racing is carried on in the fortress.

The racer at “Gib.” is rather hard to define. Owing to the paucity of animals running in comparison with the number of races, it is impossible to have open events for the ordinary animals here, and the only method which has been found to answer is to have a system of classes. There are no less than four of these classes at present, and there is a rumour to the effect that a fifth class may shortly be formed. The classes are as follows:—

Class I.—Thoroughbreds. Any animal may, however, run in this class if the owner so wishes.

Classes II., III., IV.—Those animals classified as such by the Classification Committee consisting of six elected members of the various clubs. In Class II. one generally finds half-breds, English galloways, and ponies. Classes III. and IV. are confined to Barbs and Arabs. In Class III. animals which have been reduced from the second class are often running, and also those horses promoted by the above Committee from the fourth class.