pleased if he could persuade the Lord of Ranston to let his deeptoned hounds try conclusions with the King of the West,' and, due permission gained, give us a bye-day with one of those outlying stags we often hear of.

Ah! we should know that voice still harping on my daughter,' or rather, as usual, giving a covert-side lecture on the noble science,' and rejoice to see that Mr. Froude Bellew can spare time from drilling his new pack in the wilds of Harmer Wood or Beauty's Brake, to join the stag-hunting, in which he was once such an enthusiastic adept. Would we could still see him on old Rook, the best of West-country greys; but time has told out the old wonder at last. Hard by is his brother-in-law, Mr. Frank Simson, equally well known in the Shires, on Exmoor, or pig-sticking in India. Nor must their ladies be forgotten, for better never went to hounds; and two or three years ago, few saw more of the sport than the daughters of the Rev. Henry Taylor. However, Mrs. Bellew and Mrs. Simson are still in the field, the former attended by the patriarch of stag-hunting, little Jack Babbage,' as henchman, who wears the smallest hat (save the brim) and the biggest boots of any man we ever saw on horseback. It does one good to see his little russet-red face and cheery smile again, and note that he can still ride a young one, though past the allotted threescore years and ten. He was a fine huntsman in his day, never yet was seen out of temper, and never killed a horse in his life, severe as were some of the runs he rode through. During a quick burst, Jack was once taking a judicious pull, and, as an overeager observer thought, letting his pack run away from him.

Ah, Jack!' he said, 'you ain't very forward."

'No, sir,' said Babbage, smiling, 'not quite so forward as I could 'wish. To tell you the truth, my horse ain't so fresh as I should C like.' But he nursed him to the end.

On another occasion, Jack had been to Dulverton, where a friend treated him, 'not wisely, but too well,' and his head is not of the strongest, so that John was a little unsteady when he reached home. Why, Jack, you are drunk,' said his then master.

'Yes, sir-very drunk,' replied Jack, smiling and good-tempered as usual.

'How came you to get like that.'

'Mr. -, sir, treated me, sir-brandy-and-water, sir. Couldn't help it, sir, please,' was the imperturbable answer.

Perhaps Jack's greatest feat was when he went to London, in order that Carter might take his portrait for Mr. Bisset's testimonial picture, and his good old wife, Jean, made him have a pair of trousers, his first and last, 'to look respectable in,' as she said. Either her vanity or his own prompted him to sport the unusual garments to church the next Sunday, on his return; and dire was his humiliation when Mr. Bellew met him, and asked him who he was? Your old 'servant, sir-little Jack Babbage, sir,' mildly as it was brought forth, by no means assuaged the sarcasm of the reproof on his folly in dressing himself in newfangled garments; and Jack's trousers were

discarded from that hour. Never lived there a servant with fewer faults than Jack Babbage. A real sportsman at heart, he is simple as a child, truthful as one of his own hounds, and looks on his master's interests as he would do on his own.

Again the notes of the tufters are ringing in our ears, and this time the view holloa of Mr. Nicholas Snow of Oare, whose ancestors have been stag-hunters for generations, proclaims that the right animal is on foot, and, as they press him up the valley towards Pool Bridge, all are anxious for a view. Three on top one side, and two 'on the other,' says Mr. W. Halse, who has come all the way from the Molland side of the country, as, shading his eyes with his hand, he just catches a view as the deer rises on to the sky-line for a moment on Leigh Hill, and then being 'blanched' by George, returning with a couple of tufters that had gone off on a young male deer, he once more sinks the valley, and we see Arthur going best pace along the top, to head them ere they break on to the moor.

*

Then there is mounting in hot haste the steed,' and the field, hitherto spread about, concentrates round the Cloutsham homestead. We run against Mr. Peter' Dene, just dropped into the saddle of his wonderful little long-maned cob, by Durham out of an Exmoor mare, that can and will go as fast and forward as anything while deer lasts and hounds run. Of course, his rider is full of chaff, as usual, and all his friends expect a shot in passing; but you may lay your life, if there is a stranger in the field, he'll do his best to put him in a good position for a start and keep him out of mischief. Next him is the Rev. Tom Hole, who, although he too often says this season that he has married a wife, and therefore cannot come, yet must perforce take an occasional look at them. It is not so long ago that, with four as good horses as any man in England, like Don Juan and Lord Chesterfield, he rode beyond all price,' so that Heal said of him, 'He's about the best companion I've got when hounds run;' and so taken was he with the wildness of the sport, that he fairly confessed to us that the notes of the descendants of Cromwell and the Cotswold beauties fell dead on his ears afterwards in the Cheltenham country. We were sorry to see him parting with Nimrod (gone to the jolly Master of the Berkhampstead Staghounds) and the big bay and brown during the summer, and trust that the chestnut who once cast all his hoofs, from working when out of condition, ' retained until further orders,' is but the nucleus of another stud. The field can ill spare such a man, the beau ideal of a country gentleman, full of mirth and wit, and genial as the sun at midsummer. We shall never forget a stranger saying to us, after a day's hunting, in which he had chatted with both the Rev. J. Russell and the Rev. T. Hole, 'Well, if these are specimens of the cloth

* When this article was put in type the Author had not heard of the death of Mr. Henry Dene of Lee House, to whom he was indebted for many kindnesses during his trips into Devonshire, and of whom he may say, that to know him was to esteem him; for in those wild regions he was truly the stranger's friend.

in Devonshire, I can only say they breed a rare good sort down ' here.'

There is another man of mark we must by no means pass over, just changing from the neat little grey-herself a veritable wonder with hounds, though bought for a song, and the dam of another as good-to a white-legged chestnut, full of quality; and well she may be, for she is as thoroughbred as Eclipse, and owns the paternity of no less distinguished a sire than Blair Athol. She came to her present owner as a gift, and has already bred him one clipper ere feeling the hunting-saddle and snaffle. Good as she is, her rider is still more worthy of notice; for there is no keener sportsman in the West than Captain, better known as Charlie, Williams, who can ride now with one hand straighter than most men can with two, and, we believe, has never trusted to a stronger bit than a plain snaffle over this rough country in his life. At any rate, we never saw him with any thing else in his horse's mouth. He is good all round, and, before his sad accident, would do more work digging a badger than two navvies. If you doubt our word, ask that stout farmer on the whitelegged bay, Mr. Lyddon, from Winsford, who can tell you all about him, and he's no mean judge of a sportsman. You would little think it, but that good yeoman dates his lineage far back into the days of the Plantagenets, and from their time till now the land he owns has never been out of the family; so he has every right to be a sportsman, and he is. He once bred up a red-deer calf who would walk round his dining-table when a good big stag, and eat from a fork, though he was rather particular as to his viands, and always eschewed either beef or mutton, we forget which, though he would eat the other readily. He died early from some cause or was put away at last, and, as his fond mistress owned to us, 'all for the best, 'or he would have killed some one to a certainty.' Another good one-armed man we must not forget is Mr. Pugsley, who rides all the way from Wilveliscombe to meet these hounds, and goes well when he gets there, as you will see; for Arthur has returned for the pack, and we shall soon be up and doing. Mr. Chorley's old dark bay mare's switch tail is going in a way that tells she anticipates a hint or two if she cannot occupy her usual front-rank place over the moor. She'll scarcely need it; for time falls lightly on her head, though age and a big knee do handicap them when pace is in question; and we fancy her rider, though judicious and bold as ever, is no lighter than he was a few years ago. Chatting with him, as they follow the pack closely for a start, is the Dulverton Doctor, on his grey, whose loose seat would scarcely give you the idea of his being reared by a man who wrote the history of Wild Red Deer-hunting in Devon and Somerset ;' however, he can hold his own. Then we note Mr. T. Carew, a rare welter-weight, the worthy Secretary, Mr. Warren, and Mr. Hole, who has as neat a pack of beagles as any man in England. Nor must we pass over Dr. Basset, quaint as ever, and still able to run uphill, active as a boy to ease his cob. course there are a lot of strangers, though we have scarcely room to

Of

notice them. Mr. Glass, from Dunster, looking happy as a schoolboy himself, and busy training a youngster or two in the way they 'should go, so that when they are old they may not depart from it;' and with him a fellow sojourner at Dunster, Mr. George Brooks, well known with the Vine, looking equally happy in the possession of his lengthy, blood-like bay mare, though the olive branches are wanting; and with them Mr. Kendall, on his black. Then we have Mr. Johns, from the Anstey side, and with him the little lady who rode from Slough to Devonshire, mounted on her wonderful pony, which can go to the front either here or with the Queen's.

The signal is given. The pack, with a sweep like a hurricane and a burst of wild music, which will soon subside to a light ripple of sound, like the laughter of merry girls, as they race across the moor, throw themselves on the line. The heather blossom is crushed out and scattered by the hoofs of three hundred horses, and we are left wondering in the distance where they will take him. Ay, where will it be? The tail lengthens as the shadow of Dunkerry falls more faintly on panting horse and eager rider, and each one asks the question, 'Shall I be there to see?' It may be he will try for the sea at Lynmouth, or turn for the death-struggle amidst the roaring streams of Waters Meet. We have heard the mort' sounded at each place. Wherever he is killed, of one thing we are certain, which is, that all those we have endeavoured to introduce to our readers will be there to see the end. And so, wishing them a good run, we say farewell.

N.

HOW TO RESTORE COUNTY ELEVENS.

How comes it to pass, at a time when on every village green and in every public school in England you find hundreds of boys and young men who play as good cricket, qua batting and fielding, as a large number of those who appear in county matches, that it is a rarity to see a real fine county eleven in England all present at once? It is an indisputable fact that it is easier now for a county to send out four or five elevens on any day in the year than it was for a county to find one really fine eleven thirty or forty years ago. Locomotion in those days was slow, comparatively speaking; scores were seldom published; schools, universities, and clubs seldom, if ever, had a resident professional; and the promoters of matches had to make their bricks with very little straw; but rare good bricks they made.

I am not going now to declaim on the glories of the past, but to consider the question calmly how it is that, when one sees two elevens on paper nowadays, it is easy in many cases to foresee the result beforehand, for the performers are in many counties so seldom changed. Any impartial person will say that, to take them all through, Nottingham and Yorkshire are the two strongest counties. in England, as a rule. How is this to be accounted for? My solution of the question is, first, because they are so well backed;

and

secondly, because they have amongst their own countymen, at home and abroad, the most critical ring of spectators of any counties in England. He would be a bold man in either of those counties, before the Sheffield or Nottingham ring, who craned at a ball, or tried—at a possible catch-to drop back and take it first bound, or show funk in any way. Nine-tenths of those looking on know every move in the game, and everything which a man can do, and which he ought to try; and no class of spectators are more forgiving if a thing does not come off, or more demonstrative in their opinion if a player has turned white-livered.'

It has often been, and, I trust, will be again, a great pleasure to me to watch the Nottingham or Yorkshire corner, as the case may be, on any of the great London grounds. It is always a bright corner; for many of the soldiers in London, horse and foot, are from the Northern and Midland Counties, and make a good show. I like to get near them, and to hear their remarks, particularly if it is at the beginning of a match. They settle themselves down quietly and almost breathlessly, and you hear the remarks occasionally, "Now 'they're off.' 'Bless us! there is a hot un.' 'Jem's on the spot.' How did you like that, Jupp?' And then comes a deep sigh of relief and a general chorus, ' Maiden over;' just as, when anything comes off in their favour, you hear, Didn't I say he would hold her?" "Ay, isn't he A 1, Bill?' And, moreover, they are very generous towards their opponents, whose collapse they are hoping for. a brilliant cut be made through the slips off their favourite bowler, and you can hear the buzz of admiration for the man who made it.

As a rule, Nottingham and Yorkshire seldom play amateurs, and their cricket is gate-money cricket entirely; and there is no reason why it should not be, as it is exclusively supported by the crowds who frequent public grounds, who delight in the game, and who pour forth from factory or workshop every afternoon, and follow their favourites whenever and wherever they can. To a certain extent the eleven are ruled by their own public, who would not hesitate to express their opinion in the broadest Anglo-Saxon if they suspected favouritism in making up the eleven. It does seem that in those counties the young blood comes to the front at once, and the players spare no pains to seek out young aspirants, as evidenced by the excitement caused by the Nottingham Colts' matches twice in the year.

I remember perfectly well at the Oval, when Yorkshire played Surrey, Hill, a very young man indeed, was put on to bowl immediately, and great execution he did; and, if I remember_rightly, he was fatal to Mr. Gilbert Grace oftener than most men. I remember also, as the reverse of this, that a young bowler in a southern county was taken twice (I think) out into other counties, and was never put on to bowl; and eventually, in his third match, when the bowling had broken down, and he had been bustled about all over the field, he was allowed to make his maiden effort against two very