Part 39

Another fine run was with the Cottesmore, when the hounds ran their fox without a check to mark him to ground in Horninghold Lordship, quite out of sight of the field. The earth being in the Quorn country, the fox had to be left.

When I lived in the Atherstone country I had a small stick covert at Bitteswell, a very sure find. Anstruther Thomson said I had made it too strong, but I told him it was my business to have a fox and his to get him out. As a matter of fact, foxes never hung there, though they seldom afforded good runs; the old foxes used to lie out in the hedgerows.

I told Jack that he would have better sport if he hunted the country thoroughly. He enquired what I considered would be “hunting it thoroughly,” and on my saying, “Drawing it blank,” he replied that he would draw me blank next season. I said I should be ready for him.

He came once a fortnight—no blanks.

The truth was, I had three earths, one natural and two artificial, and Jack never found out the latter. I always stopped the one most used, and put the others to in the morning. The last day of that season I stopped all three, which rather confused him and his hounds. This covert was very full of rabbits, which were caught in a pitfall, one side of it being wired in. I have known a fox to be caught in it.

One day, when hounds drew my stick covert, I lost my usual good start, as I was looking after the foot people. There was a good scent over the grass, and hounds ran hard, but being on a very fast horse I soon got up to them. Just in front of me a youth was going well till he came to a rough fence with daylight in only one place, where an ash tree had been cut down. His horse slipped on the roots and turned over into the ditch on the other side, heels uppermost. “For goodness sake,” he cried, when I asked him to let me come, “don’t ride over my horse.” There was no help for it; my horse cleared the inverted animal nicely, and I went on with hounds.

The young gentleman, however, thought he had a grievance, and, when the fox was killed, reported me to his uncle.

The uncle was a near neighbour of mine, and a good sportsman. He told me that his nephew over night had been “crabbing” the Atherstone men as the slowest set in all England, and thanked me for what I had done. “He will have a different tale to tell to-night,” he concluded.

In a run with the Pytchley a lady following me had a fall; hounds were running hard, but as she did not get out of the ditch I felt bound to go and help her. As I got near she jumped on to her horse, and I asked what she had been about. She said, “I don’t mind telling you, my hair came off.” She had beautiful hair of her own, and added the plaits which were commonly worn in those days.

In the Northampton race week there was a very early meet with the Pytchley at Cottesbrooke. The same lady came up to me and said, “I reckon you will get a good start this morning.” I said, “Yes, certainly,” and that with the wind where it was we should have to cross the stream, which was unjumpable. There was a bridle-gate in the middle of the ford, and I told her I meant to be in first, and if she was close up would hold the gate open for her. When we reached the gate I looked round; she was there, but without her hat. “Dear me, Mrs. A.,” I said, “What have you done with your hat?” “Lost it following you under that tree; and if this sort of thing goes on I shall soon lose my head,” she responded. The acting master, the Hon. C. Cust, made a turban for her out of his neck wrapper, and she hunted in it the rest of the day. The gate in the ford became blocked, and we had an enjoyable gallop.

If there was nice hunting weather at Assize time there was often difficulty in collecting a grand jury, and the judges threatened to fine us. Going to the meet one morning I fell in with a pompous old neighbour who was on his way to Assizes, and asked him, if my name should be called, to respectfully address the judge, and say that I regretted my non-attendance. “Some domestic affliction, no doubt,” said his lordship, and he passed me over, and fined several others.

One London season I took up a pretty young horse; he was always full of vitality and a pleasant mount in the country, but not suited to Rotten Row, as he used to strike with his fore-feet at other horses cantering towards him and frightened several young ladies. He seemed just the horse for a charger. I offered him to a vet, who had a commission to buy a chestnut horse for an officer, telling him he was more suited to a younger man than myself. He went on nicely for a while, and became the crack horse of the regiment. The day of inspection arrived. As he was passing the general at the head of his troop, with the view of making a proper display on the solemn occasion his rider touched him with the spur. He plunged violently, and hoisting his heels exuberantly, cast his rider at the feet of the general, amid the applause of the assembled multitude.

It was in 1831 that I bought the small pack of pure harriers kept at Shotesham. I hunted them for about twenty-five years at my own expense, and then sold them to the Earl of Albemarle and Colonel Unthank. The latter crossed the lot he purchased with the foxhound, and in my opinion spoilt them. I kept as clear of foxhound blood as I could, having only one or two old bitches from Sir Thomas Boughey all the time I hunted them. They were fast, but close hunters; mine was the silent system, rarely going to halloas, and the hounds were not too closely whipped in; extra work was the cure for unruly ones instead of whipcord. They were a capital working lot, and a good hare had not much chance if I wanted to kill her. The country is flat, consequently the hares made better points than they do where there are hills. They were scarce but stout, as only those that outstripped the greyhounds and lurchers were left alive in the greater part of my country.

At Sexton Wood, a fine covert hired by some farmers for shooting, a fox was constantly seen. One February, when the shooting season was over, I went to look for him. A large field was out, some in scarlet from Suffolk. I was a little chaffed, the men asking what I was going to do with the fox. I said I would make him ask for mercy before sunset, or, if the wind had anything to do with it, perhaps hunt him on to the top of one of their houses. As the wood was full of hares I had the fox driven out by men. He went away directly, but was headed back into the wood. I trotted to the other end at about the pace I thought he would travel, and he broke again near me. I got a good start with him up wind, and ran hard for a mile and a half, when he turned down wind; first check, thirty-five minutes. He ran down the middle ride of Earsham Wood with hares constantly crossing, but not a hound left the line. He crossed the river Waveney into Suffolk, was headed in Flixton Park, and turned back up wind over grass to the Waveney, fox and hounds all swimming the river together, and got into a boathouse. I waited till the field arrived, and they asked me if I had done with their fox. I told them to look in the boathouse, where the fox was hiding in the boat. They wanted me to kill him, but I refused, and had him turned into a coppice close by. After releasing the fox I asked the field to come and see hounds run a hare, as I must kill one to steady them for another day. They told me there was a splendid hare close by, often hunted by Mr. Chaston. As I was some miles out of my own country, I felt a difficulty about hunting her; but as they promised no harm should come of it, I gave way. As we entered the field she ran out at the far end; the hounds settled at once, and killed and ate her in twenty-one minutes. The field were well satisfied. They wanted me to keep some foxhounds, and I said I would if they would promise me foxes, which they failed to do.

I had several first-class gallops after outlying stags, almost always running up to them, but not trying to take them.

You ask about my shooting recollections. I have repeatedly killed 40, 50, and once over 60 couples of snipe on the Langley Marshes, by the side of the River Yare. In August, 1846, with Mr. Everard, of Gosberton, I killed 164 brace of grouse, and on the 27th of that month 103 brace by myself. As regards the match between Mr. Stirling Crawfurd and Mr. Osbaldeston, I “managed” for the former, Sir Richard Sutton performed the same office for the “Squire,” as he was called.

The match came off at Rufford Abbey, between the two Newmarket October meetings. Stirling Crawfurd gave him ten brace of partridges each day, on account of his being somewhat older. They shot two days, changing beats the second day. They tossed for choice of beats, both of which were good, but one not so good as the other. I won the toss and took the worst beat for the first day. Shooting began at eight o’clock, and the men shot till dark. We were beaten by a few brace on the first day, but on the second Crawfurd won the match by several brace to spare. Osbaldeston wanted to shoot it over again for a larger sum, on the condition they changed managers. Crawfurd was to walk all day, and Osbaldeston, if he liked, to ride; no driving. Sir Richard had some of the Duke of Rutland’s keepers, from Derbyshire, and some of his own keepers from Lynford, and his whippers-in from Quorn. He overdid it. I had only the head keeper’s son and walkers off the Rufford estate. Mr. Crawfurd gave the value of the stakes among them.

My pointers were bred from two animals given me when I was at college, by the then Lord Lonsdale, from his and another kennel, crossed with Mr. Moore’s, of Appleby. When I gave them up I sold every dog I had to the late Lord Wilton for £25 apiece.

Harking back to my athletic days when at college, I once jumped Mr. Rhodes, of Trinity, a match over water by the side of Trumpington Road and beat him. I believe, but am not quite sure, that my opponent was the father of the famous Cecil Rhodes.

When at Melton, years ago, Count Hugo Nostitz asked me to jump a match. Six jumps, each to choose three, and go first. If he did not clear it the other not to follow on. First jump both got over. I cleared all of Nostitz’s choosing. My second was the Melton Brook, with mud thrown out on the far side; I cleared brook and mud. Nostitz cleared the brook, but, to save falling back, had to put his arms up to his elbows in the black mud. My third pick was the brook again with a rail in front of it. The late Lord Lonsdale, mischievously inclined, told Nostitz to jump high enough (the worst advice he could give). He cleared the rail well, but alighted up to his armpits in the water.

Once he had rather a bad fall with hounds. We went to help him, as he did not get up, and asked him if he was much hurt. He said, “No, only a little more than usual.” He tried to get up, but could not for a while. He was as charming a young fellow as ever entered the town.

ROBERT FELLOWES.

In Memoriam. THE LATE CAPTAIN J. T. R. LANE FOX.

A sportsman has been taken from amongst us last month in the person of Captain J. T. R. Lane Fox, the Master of the Bramham Moor Hounds, who could ill be spared; and in whose memory it is fitting that a few words should be said in your pages.

Captain Lane Fox was the second son of the late Mr. George Lane Fox, for many years master of the Bramham Moor pack, whose strong personality gave him a foremost place in Yorkshire and throughout the world of sport, as well as among English country gentlemen. Captain Lane Fox had therefore handed down to him a heritage of no mean character, when he succeeded his father ten years ago.

Having acted as his father’s deputy in the hunting field for the last few seasons of the old Squire’s life, his transition to the mastership came almost as a matter of course, and was universally welcomed by the most loyal set of sportsmen that we are acquainted with. Few such elegant yet determined horsemen are to be found nowadays as was the late Dick Lane Fox (as his familiars delighted to call him). From the day he left Eton and joined the Grenadier Guards, serving in Canada and riding many races and steeplechases there, until, on his retirement from the army, he settled down, on his marriage, in the confines of Bramham Park as his father’s right-hand man, he was the idol of all his friends and neighbours.

Unfortunately, he had experienced a bad fall whilst in Canada, which told upon his health and constitution ever afterwards. Indeed, this would have been the cause of banishing many less ardent sportsmen altogether from the hunting field, yet with the subject of our memoir it was not so. There were times when I have witnessed with admiration the pluck with which he seemed to triumph over his constitutional weakness. It was then a treat to see him go to hounds; such a superb seat, hands, and judgment as his made him conspicuous even in a large hard-riding field like the Bramham, and demonstrated his superb talents as a sportsman. It may well be said of Dick Lane Fox that from old Eton days, when I first enjoyed his friendship, down to the sad event of last month, that he never made an enemy but cemented many a friendship. He had above all a natural aversion to obtrusiveness, which prevented him often from doing himself justice; yet the shrewd, true-hearted Yorkshiremen knew him too well not to appreciate him as a country gentleman as well as a sportsman. He lived to see his eldest son George take his place in the hunting field in a way that he could not fail to be proud of; the veritable likeness of his grandfather; and beyond this, in spite of one defeat, he rejoiced to see him elected as M.P. for the Barkston Division of Yorkshire, after as big a fight as ever aroused the political feelings of that district.

Mrs. Lane Fox was a Milmay, of excellent sporting blood, and a devoted wife, who survives him, so that on both sides of the family the present inheritor of Bramham (one of the finest estates in broad Yorkshire) combines the makings of all that is best in the life of a country gentleman and a sportsman.

Personally I mourn, in conjunction with innumerable others, over the loss of a life-long friend, yet our sadness is tempered by the glad reflection that such an unsullied name, such a bright example, and such an ennobling compeer, should have gone to his rest so peaceably, and have left behind him a splendid well cared-for estate, and a descendant in every way worthy of upholding the fame of Bramham and its famous “25 couple,” and likely to fill yet another niche in the temple of fame amongst Yorkshire worthies.

BORDERER.

Spring Trout and Spring Weather.

Surely the spring trout-fisher is the most hopeful of all the sanguine and long-suffering brotherhood! How many bitter disappointments and how much bitter weather is required to convince one spring fly-fisher that he had better defer his attempts at sport till the blizzards are over?

Last spring was no worse than usual, but the feel of that cutting east wind still haunts my dreams, and, worse than all, the trout taken were both fewer and smaller than in the previous July on the same water.

Two days only out of six were really good, and even then the trout, though numerous and lively, averaged but little over the quarter of a pound. Certainly they took the blue upright with a will, and did not require much stalking, and now and then a nice half-pounder gave a really satisfactory bit of sport.

I see by my diary that the “coch y bondu” was almost as successful as the “blue upright,” and that dry-fly fishing was nearly useless so early in the season, though fish could often be seen rising on the smooth glides. Sometimes not a fin could be stirred for hours, so that one had plenty of leisure to note the exceptional beauty of the budding woods, and to listen to all the love-notes of the birds. When sport is lively all these things are only dimly felt, as heightening enjoyment. When trout are sulky, then we feel the difference between the silence and comparative gloom of late summer woods, and the joyous choruses of early spring; and nowhere is this more marked than among the lovely sylvan scenes on the banks of Somerset streams.

Among other advantages, water is generally plentiful and not too clear. In the wild uplands on the borders of the moor the bushes and brambles which line the streams are not yet developed into the impenetrable thickets that bar one’s progress in the summer, and many a spot then unfishable, even with the aid of waders, can now be reached at small cost of scratches.

I must confess that these inner sanctuaries did not yield me many victims, my basket on the day I went up the hills being the lightest of the week, and the fish the smallest.

Nevertheless, I think the Horner Woods stream, near Porlock, a charming spot, and worth another trial; for adverse winds may have been responsible for the poor sport. It is easy, I believe, for the fly-fisher to get leave on this water, and it is within a mile or two of Porlock. I cycled from Washford, the other side of Minehead, and found it a delightful ride. I think all anglers will find a cycle convenient in this district, as roads are fairly good, and distances from stream to stream often considerable. It is rather monotonous to fish one stream continually, and the change of scene and novel exercise heighten one’s pleasure. It also enables the angler to choose more comfortable quarters than might always be obtainable close to the fishing; for a run of a mile or two is of hardly any consequence, and it is not always that such rooms as were secured for us (within the precincts of Cleve Abbey) can be had.

This old ruin is close to the stream, and can be examined by the wandering angler at very little cost either of time or money. It is well worth a visit. Washford is the station, but it is within an easy ride of Minehead, where comfortable rooms and good attendance can always be had, and from whence excursions, by coach and boat, are continually going on to many of the loveliest parts of Somerset and Devon.

One disappointment experienced during this spring visit was perhaps not due to the time of year. A large and deep pool, formed by the stream right down on the seashore, had sometimes yielded capital sport in July, fish being large and plentiful, though very shy. Some shifting of the sands had now greatly reduced its depth, and the trout had almost deserted it, only two half-pounders falling to my flies. Last year several of the fish taken here were ¾ lb. or more, and the novelty of landing good trout (and not sea-trout) on the sands added to the charm. I have only done so once before, and that was hundreds of miles away, at the mouth of Crocket’s celebrated “Skyreburn,” in the north.

As it is possible that this sea-pool may have improved again this spring, I advise any angler who finds himself near to give it a careful trial, especially if there is a strong wind blowing; for this greatly increases one’s chances. Curiously enough, a little black gnat is the best fly here, but it is worth while to try larger flies if weather is rough. I think that many of the mouths of trout-streams might be fished carefully with good effect, the trout being often larger and better fed than those in the stream itself. Probably they often go a little way out to sea, and get shrimps, &c., in certain states of the tide. At the worst it is a pleasant change to cast a long line over broad water, after being somewhat cramped and hampered in a narrow and much bushed stream. It must be remembered that permission is required from the local landowners for these parts of the streams, as well as for the upper waters.

J. PAUL TAYLOR.

The Towered Bird.

For upwards of twenty years it has been asserted that no towered bird has been hit only in the head. It has become quite an article of faith with some people that every towered bird is stifled by wounds or blood in the organs of respiration. Quite lately it has been stated that it has often been said that towering has been caused by a shot on the head, but that this is never the case.

The writer has often fallen into this supposed error himself, and has gone very fully into the subject. It is not only a very interesting question in itself, but one that sportsmen should not be misled about. At the last retriever trials there was reported to be a “towered bird,” and upon the dog being sent for it a field away he found it quickly, but the towered bird rose again and flew away, followed by the keeper’s remark, that it was “a very lively dead bird.”

This shows that not all keepers are aware that towerers are not always dead birds when they fall; for this keeper was surprised when the towerer rose again; but I noticed that the judges were quite satisfied that the escaped partridge was identical with “the towerer.” They did not set the dog to hunt again, but turned their backs on the scene of

## action, and credited the dog (which happened to win the stake) with the

find.