And of all the hardy winter sports snowshoeing is easily the first.

Tobogganing and skating rise in public estimation and decline, but

snowshoeing, like Tennyson’s “Brook,” “goes on forever,” and is

continually gaining ground, as any one who has been so fortunate as

to witness one of those unique winter carnivals in Montreal, and to

gaze upon the hosts of picturesquely clad athletic young “knights of

the shoe” in their attack upon the marvelously beautiful ice castle may

well believe.

[Illustration: _Old Time Rendezvous._]

In place of the one solitary club of twelve members in existence in

1840, Montreal may now boast of dozens. The old Tuque Bleue Club,

_alias_ the Montreal, has now a membership of 2,000. The St. George

has, perhaps, half that number; other principal organizations are the

Emerald, Argyle, Le Trappeur, Le Canadien, St. Charles, Maple Leaf,

Wolseley, Vandalia, Royal Scots, etc., while other Canadian cities are

not far behind.

Toronto, Ottawa, Quebec, St. Hyacinthe, Winnipeg, Brandor, Souris and

Portage la Prairie have all sent their representatives to the Montreal

Ice Carnivals, and now St. Paul and Minneapolis, those twin cities of

the American Northwest, have caught the fever and are enthusiastic in

their emulation of their Canadian brethren.

A snowshoe club is organized in much the same manner as other athletic

associations. It has its president, vice-president, secretary,

treasurer, and last, but by no means least, its entertainment

committee, whose pleasing duty it is to provide amusement for their

fellow-members at the club rendezvous when half the tramp is over and

the “boys” are resting previous to their return home.

The costume of the snowshoer is at once comfortable, singularly well

adapted to its purpose, and picturesque in the extreme. The head is

protected by a gaudy knitted woolen cap, with brilliant tassel, and

is called a _tuque_, in the Norman French of the Canadian habitant,

who used it first of all. Then there is a coat with capote, and

knickerbockers made usually of white blankets with many-hued border. Of

late years, however, colored blankets have come into favor and bid fair

to rival the white in popularity. Around the waist the coat is drawn

together by a sash; colored stockings and deerskin moccasins, and, of

course, snowshoes, complete the costume. Each club is distinguished

by some peculiarity in the uniform of its members; for example, the

Montreal club affects a blue _tuque_, red sash and red stockings; the

Knights of St. George, or the “Saints,” as they somewhat arrogantly

style themselves, a purple _tuque_ with white stripes, purple sash, and

stockings of Tyrian hue also. So with the other clubs.

[Illustration: _Rendezvous of To-day_]

An entire outfit, including complete costume and snowshoes, may be

procured for less than twenty-five dollars, and the suit under ordinary

circumstances will outlast several winters. Some of the boys who have

plenty of cash, or better opportunities of obtaining the articles than

the rest, invest in buckskin hunting shirts and fringed leggings. They

are made by Indians and half-breeds in Manitoba and the Northwest, and

are, of course, more expensive than the blanket suits.

In Montreal it is usual for each club to tramp out on one evening in

each week, and to take a more extended tour across country on Saturday

afternoons.

On the evening appointed for the tramp the boys meet at their

club-rooms; shoes are strapped on, the president leads the way, the

members follow in Indian file, and the whipper-in brings up the rear

to give the novice or the lazy a lift, and off they go. Let us suppose

we are taking the route usual for evening tramps, partially around and

up over a spur of Mount Royal, thence across country for about a mile

and a half to our rendezvous. The pace increases, and, excepting an

occasional nip at one’s ears, Jack Frost is forgotten as we warm to

our work. “Number off,” cries the president. “No. 1, No. 2,” and so on,

until the whipper-in responds, “No. 60; all up.”

What a pretty picture the long line of ghost-like shadows makes, as it

silently winds in and out in the light of the moon! Now they disappear

from view for a moment or so as they plunge through brushwood; they

race down gullies, clamber over fences and mount hills, until at last

the goal of their desire is reached at mine host Lumpkin’s, or at the

Athletic Club-house, where, after enjoying the programme provided by

the committee, and perhaps refreshing the inner man, we take up our

homeward march, and, our starting-point attained, separate for another

week, or until the following Saturday afternoon.

It is a popular though erroneous idea among the uninitiated that

snowshoeing in the night is done by torchlight. Torches are never used.

This notion probably owes its birth to the fact that at the various

carnivals snowshoers have used torches, purely, however, for effect,

and rather against their will.

A new member of the club or a distinguished visitor is generally

welcomed by his future comrades or his hosts by “bouncing” him.

The victim is seized by as many as can lay hold of him and is

unceremoniously flung skyward, or, more correctly, ceiling-ward, and on

his descent from on high he is caught again and the ceremony repeated

two or three times. He is not allowed to fall, however. He suffers only

in his wind and perhaps his nerves.

In snowshoeing the fatigue and consequent stiffness are great at first,

but with practice this soon wears off, and the motions become easy

and rapid. Of course, it is hardly possible to travel on snowshoes as

rapidly as afoot on dry ground, yet, nevertheless, the speed obtained

is not inconsiderable, as the records of snowshoe racing will show. For

the various distances these are as follows:

Min. Sec.

100 yards, 12

220 “ 26

440 “ 1 08

½ mile, 2 33

1 “ 5 42½

2 “ 11 52¾

3 “ 20 18½

5 “ 33 43

Mount Royal Steeplechase, distance about 2 miles, 500 yards, 17m. 20s.

The last record, as well as others, is held by Mr. James G. Ross,

perhaps the fastest all-round amateur who ever buckled on the

“raquette.”

It is not an uncommon thing, however, for clubs to traverse thirty, and

even eighty, miles across country in a tramp. A tramp from Montreal to

St. John’s is a regular annual event with the Tuque Bleues.

I will conclude by quoting the words of a well-known litterateur, who

had been induced by the genial president of a certain club to come out

for a tramp with his club:

“Thus briefly was I brought to know that our winter sports are a means

of health and good spirits to all who take part in them. They quicken

the circulation, clear the brain and lighten the heart. No such good

is got out of the formal drill of a gymnasium as there is out of a

snowshoe tramp or a toboggan slide, under the broad sky with pleasant

companionship. Men with kinky spines, sluggish livers and narrow

chests--get blanket suits, moccasins and snowshoes, and use them soon

and often. They will dispel your pains and aches and gloomy views of

life.”

[Illustration]

HOW TO CYCLE IN EUROPE.

BY JOSEPH PENNELL.

A desire for independent traveling is growing daily. The reasons for

this are various. It may be the person who wishes to indulge the desire

is eccentric and eager to make a show of himself. It may be economy

which prompts him to leave a railway carriage and foot it. It may be

because he imagines it to be “English, you know,” though let me assure

him that this is one of the many myths about the English. Englishmen as

a rule are not great cycling tourists. More Americans, comparatively,

have toured in England and on the Continent than Englishmen themselves,

and the number is increasing daily. Or it may be that the tourist

wishes to see the country in the only way it can be properly seen; and

this is probably why in the winter and the spring so many Americans

write to me, as the representative in England of the League of American

Wheelmen, and ask for information about roads and routes.

I presume this last to be the real reason for the growth of independent

traveling, and I leave out of consideration all walking tours, because,

after having walked in one year 500 miles and cycled nearly as many

thousand, I feel justified in saying that walking is not for a moment

to be compared with cycling. I may some day compare these two modes

of traveling, but just now this is not my purpose. What I say about

cycling applies equally well to riding and driving, though of course

you cannot ride or drive continuously the same number of miles you can

cycle. I can very well remember the state of dense ignorance concerning

the means of independent traveling in Europe, in which I was six

years ago, as well as the almost utter impossibility of obtaining any

definite information. Six years, every one of which has seen at least

one tour, have, however, given me some little experience.

If you are a rider of an American cycle, of course it will be necessary

to bring your machine with you. Ask the steamship authorities whether

to crate it or not. If it is a bicycle, and you carry it without

crating, they may charge nothing. There is no duty on entering England;

but if you ride an English machine, I should advise you to sell your

present mount and make arrangements, either with the dealer you know

in America or the firm itself in England, giving them three or four

months to get your machine ready and to have it awaiting you at their

agents in Liverpool, Southampton or Glasgow, or wherever you may land.

Tell the makers what sort of a tour you propose taking, and you will

probably find that they will understand your needs better than you. If,

however, you are confident you know exactly what you want, you may be

able to make suggestions.

Before leaving America--though I suppose what I say applies equally

well to Australians--join the Cyclists’ Touring Club. From their

offices you will receive a vast amount of useful information concerning

your tour. You can also obtain route-books, maps, guides, etc.

Americans should apply to F. W. Weston, Savin Hill, Boston, Mass.;

Canadians to H. S. Tibbs, 26 Union Avenue, Montreal; Australians and

Indians to S. A. Stead, 19 Tabley Road, Holloway, London, N. The

subscription is the equivalent of two shillings and sixpence, and

the entrance fee is another shilling. Any amateur cycler can become

a member without trouble. Another thing to be provided is a Baedeker

guidebook for the country over which you wish to tour. In it you

will find the rates of the various hotels, and of course you will

go to those which suit your pocket, remembering that now you are an

independent traveler, and that if you do not like the outside of an

hotel, there is no reason why you should go in. The C. T. C. hotels in

England are mainly respectable, and with the hand-book you know where

you are going. But the C. T. C. rates, except in the large towns, are

frequently an advance upon the ordinary rates. You will find it almost

impossible to obtain breakfast before eight o’clock in the morning, in

many places before nine, without considerable trouble. A breakfast will

cost from one to three shillings, according to the hotel: On leaving

the hotel it is necessary to fee the boots and the waiter, but sixpence

goes quite as far as half a crown.

In riding, keep to the left, Englishmen differing in this, as in

so many other respects, from all creation. Do not ride on the side

paths or you will be promptly arrested. It is useless to expect any

cycler you meet to be more civil to you than the driver of any other

conveyance. Cycling clubs in England are not what they are in America

or on the Continent. Therefore you need not look for any of those

attentions bestowed upon the touring cycler at home, though you may

encounter some very delightful fellows. Of course, it is a very good

thing to have letters of introduction.

At noon, in any save the large towns and on market days, you will not

be able to get a hot dinner without waiting a long time. But you will

probably find excellent cold roast beef, or you can eat a succession of

lunches of bread and cheese and drink a modicum of bitter ale, called

beer. My practice is never to eat much in the middle of the day when

touring. The succession of small lunches and short rests is better than

a single long one. Coffee taverns--that is, temperance houses--may be

found everywhere, but they range from very good to very bad, and you

had better investigate them before deciding to stay overnight. It is

unnecessary and quite useless to bargain for anything in England. Your

lunch will cost from sixpence to two shillings, and you should give the

waiter a penny for every shilling. You will have to order your dinner

in the evening in the majority of places, and in the small towns it is

wiser to have what is called a “meat tea,” that is, a chop or a steak,

one or two vegetables, jam and tea; or else a cold supper, that is,

cold meat or fowl, salad, a tart and cheese.

If you arrive wet, you will find it possible to have your clothes

dried, and very well too, as innkeepers in England rather expect

to have to perform this duty. In fact you may receive many little

attentions which are very pleasing, and there is a cozy, homelike

feeling about an English inn which one finds nowhere else. It is not

necessary to inflict the fact that you are an American upon everybody

you meet; they have seen Americans before, and they probably knew it

before you opened your mouth. I have seen it stated and hinted that one

can obtain a room in an English inn or hotel for sixpence or ninepence

a night. This is, of course, absurd. You can, if you go to a house

with the sign “Accommodation for Travelers; beds, sixpence a night.” In

the same way, in America, you can go to a station-house for nothing,

or to a tramps’ lodging-house for almost as little. It is necessary

to count upon spending about eight shillings or two dollars a day for

touring in England; but it is possible to do it for half that amount,

though not comfortably or decently. Even this is a moderate figure, and

is less than the C. T. C. rate.

In London I can recommend the Charing Cross Hotel, and, I believe,

Burr’s private hotel in Queen Square. There are thousands of hotels in

London, but both of these are central, and can be reached on the wheel.

London streets, however, require very careful riding, owing to the

rapid driving, and, to the American, the fact that everybody seems to

be on the wrong side of the road.

I have presumed that you are a practical cycler, and therefore that you

will carry whatever you are in the habit of taking with you at home, or

will send your baggage from one place to another as you do there. In

England it is wiser to use the Parcel’s Post, as the express is very

unreliable. Personally, I either ride a safety or a tandem tricycle,

and, whether alone or with my wife, always carry every thing we want on

the machine. We are consequently perfectly independent, and have been

out for six weeks at a time.

On leaving England for the Continent, unless money is absolutely no

object, you must go to France by Dieppe, Havre or St. Malo. By Calais

or Boulogne the charges are extortionate, and you will have to pay in

the custom-houses. The greater part of Belgium is paved with Belgian

blocks, over which you cannot ride. To Holland you can go by way of

Amsterdam, and I believe the riding is fairly good over the brick

roads, but I have never been there. The principal attractions in Norway

seem to be the cheapness and the scenery, and for both you have to walk

about as much as you ride, which is not my idea of cycling. Anyhow, it

cannot be compared to Switzerland, and the reason it is so much talked

about in English cycling papers is because it is a fine pot-hunting

ground for racing men.

Of Spain I am entirely ignorant, and the accounts of this country all

contradict each other with the most wonderful unanimity. No reliable

data of the roads have yet been obtained. I hope to go over them

myself before long. But in the first place, to visit any foreign

country you must understand something of the language, the more the

better.

The following, which is a portion of an article I contributed to the

_Pall Mall Gazette_ a short time since, contains all that need be

said on touring in France: “You must provide yourself with good road

maps, showing the main road, the _routes nationales_ and the _routes

départementales_. There are, of course, byroads all over France--that

is, _routes communales_ and _routes vicinales_--but it is never safe,

save in the south, to make short cuts or detours or to trust to these

byroads in any way. They are frequently as bad as the others are good.

Stick to the high-road. Work out on your map the route you wish to

follow. You can buy excellent road maps of Hachette or of Phillips. The

maps sold by the Cyclists’ Touring Club are not up to date, and you are

compelled to purchase four sheets when you may only need one. Recently

I was detained in Avignon for having these maps in my possession, being

told by the _préfet_ of the department of Vaucluse that it was illegal

to carry them, as in France they are made and sold for the private use

of the War Department. How true this is I do not know. I have usually

carried them, and never before had any trouble. However, they are

becoming rather out of date, and Hachette is bringing out new series

all the time.

“Supposing you land at Dieppe, your machine will be taken to the

custom-house, whither you should accompany it. If you can succeed in

satisfying the officials that you intend to leave the country with

your machine within three months, they will not charge you duty, and

will not, unless you ask for it, give you a receipt. If you do get a

receipt--this is, of course, the lawful method--you will be obliged to

deposit 50f., only two-thirds of which will probably be returned to

you when you leave the country. But the French Government has usually

been very accommodating in this matter, though at Calais the duty or

the deposit is nearly always demanded. If you wish to go by train from

Dieppe, have your cycle registered, for which you pay a penny if it

is under 56 lbs. Two people can take a tandem for the same money, if

it is under 112 lbs. But do not stand on your dignity, and write to

the papers, and make a frightful row, because the Swiss, German, and

Italian railways compel you to pay a big price whenever you carry a

cycle on their lines. Their rules are not those of France. In frontier

stations you need never be surprised at any regulations.

“But let us suppose that you intend to ride away from the station at

Dieppe. You are hungry, having been landed there at five o’clock in

the morning. Have your coffee in any café on the Place, or in the very

expensive one in the station. And this is the point where, if you want

to live inexpensively, you must remember the customs of the country.

In the station you never see a Frenchman, and on one occasion I paid

two francs and twenty-five centimes for the privilege of having a

pot of coffee and rolls and butter there. The next time, I went to a

café in the street leading from the pier to the Place. It was full of

townspeople, was more gorgeous, the coffee was equally good, and I paid

seventy-five centimes. Why I should pay a franc and a half for having

my coffee on the pier, I am unable to see. Cafés are always good, and

charge just about half the price of an hotel or a station restaurant,

and the French traveler, as a rule, does not take his coffee in the

hotel unless he is in a great hurry. He goes to the café across the

street, reads his morning paper, and pays half the price. The landlord

does not object; it is the custom of the country. For lunch, if I know

the town where I am going, I stop, not at the swellest restaurant on

the boulevard, nor at the dirty _estaminet_ of the workman--I object

to one as much as to the other--but at a decent, clean, middle-class

restaurant, where it is the exception if I do not fare very well at

the cost of about a franc and a half. And how do I find it? Either

by using my own eyes, or by asking the first decent-looking man who

comes along. If it is between half-past ten and one in the day he will

probably be on his way to or from his own breakfast, and will be only

too glad to show you the place. If you do not like the place, there is

no reason why you should go in. If it is good, and the people are jolly

and talkative, as they usually will be, ask them for a good hotel, of

the sort they, as Frenchmen, would go to, in the town where you purpose

to spend the night. They will tell you readily. It may be the first,

or more likely the last, on Baedeker’s list; it may not be there at

all. If it is a very swell place, don’t be afraid to go in if Frenchmen

have recommended it; if it is very disreputable on the outside, and the

proprietor in cook’s cap and apron rushes out to meet you, do not turn

away, for he will probably greet you as warmly and give you as good a

dinner as you have ever had in your life. You will find at the table a

lot of jolly commercial travelers, who will take pleasure in giving you

a list of hotels from one end of your route to the other. And what will

it cost you? The dinner will vary from two and a half to three and a

half francs, and your room from one and a half to two and a half, and

there will be no extras. Totting this up, we have eight francs fifty

for the day. Say you give the waiter half a franc. That makes nine.

“But the next night, being a touring cycler, you have not reached the

town where you intended to stay, owing to something of interest on the

road, or you have passed beyond it. You will stop in a decent, clean

_auberge_ by the roadside--and you will find many--or in the best inn

in the village, where your bill will be about four francs for lodging,

dinner and coffee. And so, in the course of two or three weeks, instead

of exceeding an average of seven francs a day, you will fall below it.

This is the way Frenchmen do. This is the way men like Louis Stevenson

have done. And this is the plan I like to follow; not to go to an hotel

where one has to pay for the dirty swallow-tail and bad English of the

waiter, the sham plate and the stupid _table d’hôte_; nor, on the other

hand, to stint one’s self and to glory in saving a sou here and doing a

man out of a franc there; but to quietly adapt yourself as much as you

possibly can to the habits and customs of the people, of the middle

and characteristic class, whose country you are visiting. If you do not

like to do this and cannot afford the swell hotels, you had better stay

at home.”

Very much the same conditions exist in Italy and Switzerland. In Italy,

however, you must bargain for everything; you must even know how much

your candle is going to cost you before you go to bed, and how much you

are to pay for the waiter and chambermaid. In Germany one lives more in

English style. The laws of the road are the same in all these countries

as in America.

Many of the hills on the Continent, owing to their S-shaped curves, are

very dangerous. In England one finds warnings everywhere for cyclers.

You can ride or be pulled or pushed up behind a diligence over every

pass in Switzerland that is used by vehicles. On the Continent you will

find yourself everywhere legally treated as the driver of a carriage.

Carry a passport, and do not regard all foreigners as fools and thereby

make a fool out of yourself. Do not regard yourself as the first man

who ever visited the place, and do not try to paint the town red. I

admit these foreigners do not understand our little ways.

As to touring singly or with a party, that is your own affair, not

mine; only I can warn you it is rather lonely work to cross a great

country by yourself. If there is anything I have not made clear, write

to me to the care of ~Outing~. I shall be only too glad to

answer your questions.

[Illustration]

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHY.

BY ELLERSLIE WALLACE.

When we come to criticise photographs _as pictures_, we find that one

great defect is to be found in their small size. It is true that the

perfection of detail and fine finish compound for this in a measure,

but it has often been said that one good print of 11 × 14 inches, or

larger, is worth dozens of the little scraps made on 5 × 4 and 4 × 3

inch plates. It has lately become too much the fashion to advise the

use of small sizes, and to depend upon some enlarging process when

a print of good size is wanted. The idea of making small negatives

and enlarging them afterwards seems fair enough, and it is, indeed,

successfully done in many cases; but if such a size as 10 × 12 were

settled upon, we should advise that the negatives be made direct, and

the prints not enlarged from, say, 5 × 7 or 5 × 4 inch negatives.

All experienced operators agree that the making of negatives for

enlargement requires great skill and care. Remembering how greatly the

cost of making photographs has been reduced, and what excellent outfits

can now be had for a moderate sum, we feel justified in advising those

who aim at good artistic results to begin boldly with plates of a fair

size--certainly not less than 8½ × 6½, or, better, 10 × 8 inches.

Now, since the first thing to be considered in the selection of a

photographic outfit is the size of picture desired, and the next the

character of work to be done, let us here say that the difficulties of

obtaining clean, good results increase with the increase of size to a

certain extent, and the expense of making the picture increases very

materially. Nevertheless, in spite of the various processes for making

large prints from small negatives--enlarging processes, as they are

technically termed--we repeat that we should not advise the purchase

of very small cameras, unless mere amusement is the only thing to be

considered. Plenty of fun can undoubtedly be had out of the little

“detective” cameras now so commonly used, but more satisfaction will be

felt in a nice collection of views or portraits on plates measuring,

say, five inches by eight or ten inches by eight, the camera for which

would be too large to be conveniently concealed as the smaller sizes

are:

Since the introduction of the gelatine dry plate, and the consequent

simplifying of the chemical part of the work, large-sized photographs

may be made with far greater ease than formerly, and to those of our

readers who have devoted any attention to art matters we will suggest

one of the larger-sized cameras for plates, say fourteen inches by

eleven, as offering more scope for the artistic treatment of fine

subjects, particularly landscapes.

The size of plate and camera being settled upon, the next thing is

to get a suitable lens, and this is often no easy matter. In most of

the detective cameras the lens is supplied as a part of the outfit,

but one intending to provide himself with a regular photographic

apparatus ought to have some knowledge of lenses before purchasing.

Without going into too great detail in the matter, we may say that

some general distinctions between the different varieties of lenses

should be borne in mind, as follows: (1) Lenses including an ordinary

angle or amount of subject, say forty to fifty-five degrees on the

base-line of the picture, and of tolerably long focus; and (2)

wide-angle lenses including eighty degrees, or even more, and of very

short focus. It would be natural for the purchaser to imagine that that

lens which included most subject would be best, but as a general rule

the contrary is true, namely, that the longer-focus lenses are the

more practically useful and give the more pleasing pictures. There is

another distinguishing characteristic between lenses that are “single”

or “doublet.” The former are cheaper, but quite good enough for

average landscape work, while the latter are indispensably necessary

for architectural subjects and the accurate copying of anything like

maps, plans, engravings, etc. To those who are disposed to be very

economical, we may say that the front lens of an opera-glass will make

excellent photographs. It should be unscrewed from the barrel, and

set in a short tube with its flat side facing the view; or, in other

words, it should have its position just reversed from what it was in

the opera-glass. A stop of suitable size is then set in front of it at

a distance equaling one-fifth of its burning focus.

It should be remembered that the _perspective of the photograph is

made by the lens_, and cannot be altered by the operator, except in so

far as he provides himself with a number of lenses of different focus

and angle, so as to be able to treat different subjects with lenses

suitable to their peculiarities, using each lens _pro re rata_, as the

doctors would say.

It may not be generally known that experienced outdoor operators are

pretty well agreed upon certain proportions between the focus of the

lens and the size of plate, as affording the most pleasing pictures,

and being most useful in the long run. We should thus choose an 11-inch

focus lens for the 8½ × 6½ plate, a 9-inch for the 8 × 5, etc., or,

in other words, _one whose equivalent focus was about equal to the

diagonal of the plate_.[5] But let us take this occasion to say that we

cannot too strongly insist upon the desirability of the photographer’s

having more than one lens irrespective of the size or style of his

pictures. We ourselves have worked with lenses of 11-inch, 7-inch, and

5½-inch focus on the 8½ × 6½ plate, and succeeded in a great variety

of subjects. The 11-inch was probably used five or six times where

the 7-inch was once, while the 5½-inch was only resorted to on rare

occasions where the peculiarities of the subject required a very wide

angle.

We enter into this matter at some length because the artistic qualities

in landscape photographs will be found to depend in great measure

upon the ability of the operator to include just the desired amount

of subject on his plate from any given point of view; for the latter

cannot always be changed so as to favor the lens. Then, also, it must

not be forgotten that every change in the position of the camera will

change something in the view; the whole character of the picture may

be altered by shifting the apparatus a little in one direction or the

other. A speaking proof of this is seen when examining the results

obtained by the members of photographic clubs and societies after

having been out for a field-day; here we often see two photographs of

the same subject, where the men have stood side by side, one being

complete as a picture, while the other fails in its effect simply

because the lens has been a few inches or a few feet farther to the

right or left, and has omitted or included some object which has been

the making or marring of the picture.

Another prominent defect in photographs, taken as a whole, is that they

are usually made in fixed sizes in spite of varieties or peculiarities

of subject. How unpleasant it is in the case of a fine panoramic view,

where the interest lies in the extended horizontal sweep rather than in

the sky or foreground, to see things forced into a nearly square plate,

say 10 × 8 inches, which gives entirely too much space above and below,

with insufficient length! On the other hand, how empty the ends of a

long, narrow 8 × 5-inch plate appear if some isolated and rather square

object, such as a villa or group of trees, occupies the centre! Many a

picturesque subject, dealing in high and narrow lines, will be utterly

ruined if crowded on a square-shaped plate--street views in cities,

for example, made near to churches with high steeples. Here we must

either have a long, narrow plate, or use a lens of short enough focus

to reduce the whole scale of the picture so that it can be afterwards

trimmed to suit the subject. Here we see an additional reason why the

plate should be of a good generous size to start with, and the outfit

of lenses complete. If we had only a small plate on which to make the

view, the trimming might make the finished print too small to be worth

anything.

Let us now consider the shape of the picture, or plate, together with

the proportions existing between its boundaries or sides, premising

that while here and there a print may be trimmed square, circular or

oval, to suit some particular subject, the oblong shape will be by far

the most generally useful.

If we compare two plates, one measuring 8½ × 6½ inches and the other

8 × 5, we find that the diagonal line connecting two opposite corners

is 1¼ inches longer in the former than in the latter. We also find that

the former has a clear space 1½ inches wider than the other, extending

over the whole of the long dimensions of the plate, together with

another space half an inch wide at the narrow end. To put it in other

words, the 8½ × 6½ plate differs from the 8 × 5 both in shape and in

size, but offers considerably more surface with but a slightly longer

diagonal. This latter has an important relationship to the covering or

defining powers of the lens, for, supposing we wanted a lens to just

cover the plate, we should have to select one the diameter of whose

field or circle of light was equal to the diagonal of the plate--_not_

to its base line, for in that case the plate would not be covered.

Again, if we desired a lens to give perfect sharpness up to the corners

of a given size of plate, we should reckon by the diagonal, and not by

the base line.

A little study of perspective is most highly to be recommended to those

who desire their pictures to be truthful and pleasing. Now, by this

we do not at all mean that our readers should wade through ponderous

volumes filled with mathematical problems and long equations, but that

they should, for instance, set themselves to consider such facts as the

following: If an empty box be set on the end of a long table with its

hollow facing the student, it will be observed that the bottom and the

sides are in a certain proportion to each other, and that the lines

of junction between them appear to recede at a certain angle. If the

box now be moved up to within twelve inches of the face, these lines

of junction will be seen to stand at much more obtuse angles, besides

which the sides will appear broader in proportion to their height

than when the box was at a distance. Let him now consider that the

principles here involved would hold true in the photographing of street

views, and many other subjects where both near and distant objects were

included. For if a wide-angle lens be employed, all the receding lines

in the picture, such as cornices of buildings, railroads, curbstones,

etc., etc., will stand at much more obtuse angles than when a

narrow-angle lens is used; the terms “wide-angle” or “short-focus,” on

the one hand, and “narrow-angle” or “long-focus,” on the other, being

indiscriminately used by the photographer.

This great obtuseness of angle in the perspective of pictures made

with wide-angle lenses, is sometimes the cause of most unsightly

and ridiculous pictorial failures. It will be seen at once that the

objection to using very wide-angle lenses is that, owing to this great

obtuseness of angle of the perspective lines, distant objects will

appear unnaturally dwarfed in size, while those near at hand will come

out immensely larger than they ought to. A few trials on street views

with a lens including, say, eighty degrees of angle, with prominent

objects close in the foreground, will soon prove the truth of what

we have been saying, and sometimes well-known localities will be so

changed in the photograph that no one would recognize them. We are

thus met by the paradox that the perspective of the photograph, while

mathematically correct, is false to the eye.

These ideas of perspective will be found very useful in photographing

architectural subjects, wide-angle lenses often being indispensable

here. Caution must be observed in using them on these subjects,

however, for if the buildings stand in confined positions, where

there is no room to move the camera backward, the picture will have

an unnatural effect, and might be compared to the eye of an observer

trying to see something that was too close for convenience.

In portraiture, the perspective will suffer very much if the distance

between the sitter and the lens be too small, and the lens of too wide

an angle. In this case, the cheeks will look too narrow in proportion

to the length of the face, while the hands and feet will be absurdly

larger than they ought to be if at all obtruded. The head, and indeed

the whole figure, will look more rotund and more life-like if a fair

distance--say twice the sitter’s height--is kept between the lens and

the sitter. If this should give too small a picture, a lens of longer

focus will have to be used. Objects look broader when taken near at

hand with wide-angle lenses. Interior views of buildings, halls, etc.,

where there is plenty of room to keep the camera well back, will not be

found difficult, but the interiors of small private houses and rooms

will often be very unsatisfactory subjects because there is not room

for the camera to be set well back and give a life-like, natural effect.

Photographs of long, narrow objects will be great failures in the

pictorial point of view if the camera be brought too close, and so that

the nearer portions are unduly magnified while the more distant become

dwarfed in size. Here we see one of the principal reasons why the

photographer should have lenses of different focus, so that if he is

compelled to take an unfavorable point of view he may not be confined

to one focus and angle.

To be continued.

[5] The equivalent focus of a compound lens is taken as equal to

the focus of a _single lens_ which would form an image of the

same size.

EVOLUTION OF FORM IN COLLEGE ROWING.

BY E. M. GARNETT.

I.--~The Harvard Stroke.~

~Scientific~ rowing may be properly called a modern luxury. It

may be said, with a moderate degree of certainty, that neither the

Greeks, the Romans, nor yet the early English, were in the habit of

pulling themselves about in ten-inch shells provided with anti-crab

swivel rowlocks and ball-bearing slides. Had any one of them been

caught in such an act he would have been condemned, in all probability,

to drink the hemlock, or worshipped as a wizard. Of course, from time

immemorial there have been certain vague principles regulating the

application of the weight of the body to the oar. But up to the time

when that eccentric genius lubricated the seat of his boat and the

seat of his trousers with some fatty substance, and slid his greasy

way to victory, rowing was much more a matter of brute strength

than of exquisite skill. And with the evolution of the sliding seat

from the crude but effective idea, possibilities were offered for

great improvements in the art of pulling an oar. During the last

twenty years new inventions and radical changes in the rigging of

boats have necessitated a departure, not only from former methods of

rowing, but also from its recognized tenets. The principles are not

immutable--as some would have us believe. For example, it is a physical

impossibility, with some styles of rigging, to apply much power at

the end of the stroke. Still, different systems have their ardent

supporters, and the superiority of one over another is apparently a

mooted question.

According to some aquatic enthusiasts, it is the best plan to let the

men get into a boat and pull: time and a little intelligence will

remedy their faults. Others urge that it is only necessary to master

“the few essential principles,” and, as Mr. Julian Hawthorne says, “the

refinements will take care of themselves.” Still others, who treat with

withering scorn the opponents of “form,” lay great stress upon the

absolute importance of sedulous attention to the minutest details.

In support of this first view, numerous instances have been cited of

rough, awkward professional crews “yanking” and “yawing” their way in

ahead of the best trained and disciplined amateur oarsmen, and, as one

writer upon rowing aptly says, “casting despite upon the traditions

of the art.” Indeed, until recent years it has been the current

belief that a good amateur crew was no match for a set of skilled

professionals. And the apparent truth of this opinion was never better

illustrated than by an impromptu race rowed on the Charles River in

’78 or ’79--I forget the exact date--between the famous Bancroft crew

and eight of the best oarsmen that could be gathered together from

the purlieus of Boston. It is true the professional crew was made

up of such celebrities as Ross, Plaisted, Gorkin, Faulkner, etc.,

but before that morning they had never sat together in a boat. Their

boat, by the way, differed utterly in rigging from those they had been

accustomed to, and, in fact, was the worst and most dilapidated the

Harvard Boat-house could afford. After a preliminary “paddle” down to

the starting-point--the Brookline Bridge--the race was rowed over the

regular two-mile course. Well, it is related--and I have it from one of

the victors--that by the time the celebrated Harvard crew reached the

Union Boat-house their untutored rivals had carried their boat into the

house and were nonchalantly wiping her off.

Now, why did this crew, composed as it was of the heaviest and

strongest men that had ever sat in a Harvard boat, who moreover, by

their irreproachable “form,” had crowned themselves with glory at New

London, allow themselves to be so lamentably defeated by a set of men

who labored under almost every possible disadvantage? Evidently there

was some potent influence at work. Although the hardy and callus-fisted

members of the professional crew gained a precarious livelihood in arts

which did not sap their physical vigor, yet the superior endurance

of the crew as a whole can hardly be urged as an excuse for such

an overwhelming defeat in a two-mile race. We are left the bitter

alternative, then, of shocking the æsthetic sensibilities of our

amateurs by the inevitable conclusion that the professionals possessed

superior skill.

Now, intelligent amateur, before turning away in disgust, reflect a

moment. What is skill? What is form? Are they synonymous?

Skill is that which in almost every sport--in sparring, in fencing,

in wrestling, in baseball, in tennis, etc., etc., other things being

equal--enables one to win. Like elegance in writing, it is “the

exquisite adaptation of means to ends.” In rowing it is that management

of the body and oar--other things being equal, of course--which is

conducive to the greatest speed of the boat.

“Form” in rowing is not so easily defined--for what would satisfy

the most rigid exactitude in one system would be found defective in

another. In general terms, however, it may be called, in crew rowing,

“the graceful and nice management of the body and oar which contributes

most to the appearance of similarity and uniformity throughout the

crew.”

Now, it is true the professionals did not row with backs as straight,

nor with a swing as even as the canons of good “form” call for, but

they possessed the all-important secret of economizing all their

strength and time. They not only knew how and when to apply their

weight to the oar, but were fully alive to the necessity of holding

the oar in the water no longer than it could do good, and in the air

as short a time as possible. These and other less perceptible virtues,

which such a constellation of aquatic lights will always possess, are

generally obscured by the rugged and uncouth appearance of their body

work.

But this body work, as far as the effect is concerned, though by no

means all that can be desired, is not so very bad after all, for the

swing of one man across the boat is counteracted by the swing of

another. This fact, coupled with the firm, strong, simultaneous finish

of the stroke, will effectually prevent the rolling of the boat.

On the other hand, the Harvard crew, whose “form” would have sent an

æsthete into rhapsodies of praise, were skillful enough in their own

peculiar way, but their rowing itself was unskillful because radically

wrong in principle. But didn’t it enable them to win at New London?

Yes, to be sure; but always against the same system or an inferior one.

The defeat of a well-trained amateur crew by a set of professionals

does not, then, necessarily bring the traditions of the art of rowing

into disrepute. “Form” without skill must always succumb to skill

without “form.” The combination of the two should be the goal of the

aquatic ambition. And the one need not be detrimental to the other. It

is all very well to scoff at “form” and rest placidly content to let

the refinements take care of themselves. They won’t, and the result

will be a lot of irremediable faults.

In sparring, or, still better, in fencing, what is called direction,

_i. e._, the precision of one’s aim, will be greatly affected by the

slightest deviation of the hand from its proper position. The man who

adheres to this principle through all the complications of attack and

defense will be indeed a formidable antagonist. A master must pay the

strictest attention to the details of his art. Then why not in rowing,

where the object is to get in ahead of your adversary, and where the

lightest touch of the flat of the blade to the water will add its

mite to diminish the speed of the boat? Besides, the acquirement of

the details will always add zest to one’s pleasure in the sport. Few

sensations, indeed, are more pleasing than that of shooting through

the water in a frail shell with a clean, strong sweep of the oars,

especially when that sensation is flavored by a consciousness of a

complete mastery over the situation.

To become an adept in the art of rowing does not demand the patience of

a Palissy, nor yet the sagacity of a Socrates. True, a certain class of

men of rare physical and intellectual torpidity will never master the

correct methods, but to a man moderately well endowed as to mind and

body, they are quite accessible.

Perhaps those practical gentlemen who scout the idea of “form,” and

seem to believe that by some secret process sufficient excellence will

be attained if the men get into a boat and pull, are like some of

George Eliot’s good people of Raveloe, who supposed “there was nothing

behind a barn door because they couldn’t see through it.”

Now, the essential thing is to first get hold of the correct principles

of rowing, and then apply the refinements to them. The result will be a

winning crew every time. And this happy combination and its inevitable

consequences were brought about for the first time in the history of

college boat-racing at Harvard in ’85. That is to say, the principles

involved in the stroke of that year are the best that have yet been

discovered. They, the principles, mind you, are identical with those

believed in by Hanlan, the father of them--Teemer, Gaudaur, O’Connor,

and all the crack scullers of the present day. And these principles,

the fruits of years of experience and unremitting toil in the

acquirement of a method that would enable men to win races and their

daily bread, it is natural to suppose, should be pretty nearly correct.

It is a great mistake to believe these men so deficient intellectually

that they are forced to rely principally upon brute strength to put

their boats through the water at the highest possible rate of speed.

Rowing is not such a subtle and complex thing as all that. Is it not,

to say the least, a bit of conceit on the part of amateurs to presume

that with all their transcendent intellect they can, by a few years of

intermittent devotion to a sport, acquire a more rational knowledge of

it than men like Hanlan, who give their lives to it?

It is the same with professionals in any sport--in sparring, in

fencing, in baseball, etc.--what amateurs can compete successfully with

them?

But let us see what prodigy was warmed into being by the genial light

of correct principle.

Until 1885, college boating-men had failed--inexplicable it almost

seems--to keep pace with the modern improvements in rigging and

consequent advance in the science of rowing, which professionals had

been for some years familiar with. They were under the able tuition

of Mr. Faulkner, the veteran but progressive coach and bow-oar of

both the champion “four” of America and of the champion “pair-oar” of

the world, and adopted “in toto” the rigging and system which had won

him such marked distinction. The result surpassed their most sanguine

expectations.

After the new stroke had been pretty well mastered, a series of

impromptu races with the best crew of professionals that could be

scraped from the Charles was gotten up. This crew was composed of

Hosmer, Faulkner, Gorkin, Casey, and others, including the burly Jake

Kilrain, an oarsman as well as pugilist, and now at the summit of his

fame. As they were given the _best_ shell in the boat-house, and _one

week_ in which to _rig_ it and “_get together_,” they were really

superior to the crew which so mercilessly defeated the Harvards in ’78.

Well, the Harvard crew not only forced them to take their back-wash

for two miles, but in a number of half-mile spurts cleared them each

and every time a full boat-length in the first quarter mile. Pretty

conclusive evidence, is it not, taken in connection with the unusually

light weight of the ’85 crew, and the comparatively _short time_ they

had _rowed together_ under the _new regime_, that the new system was

superior to the old?

It proves abundantly, also, that “form” and skill will triumph, even in

a spurt, over skill alone. Some one--that is, some one who _did not_

see these races--will say, perhaps, “Oh, the professionals allowed

themselves to be beaten!” For the benefit of the more skeptical, I will

say, that on one occasion, when the struggle of the professionals was

more than usually hopeless, I had the distinguished honor of occupying

a vicarious position in the bow of their boat. The genial Jake Kilrain,

who, by the way, oftentimes, in a spirit of jocose repartee, has beaten

me cruelly about the head, was, besides myself, the only amateur

(oarsman) in the boat. Spurred on by our frantic stroke’s disgusted and

unorthoepical plaint, “Aw, yoose amatoors don’t back me up!” we leaped

madly against the stretcher at the rate--it seemed to me--of about

fifty-five strokes to the minute. No! there was no lack of sincerity in

that boat.

Moreover, the pride of a professional is wounded to the quick when an

amateur happens to subvert the natural order of things by defeating

him. Indeed this particular set, in an ebullition of amazement,

admitted that the “amatoors” could show their rudder to the best

professional crew that ever sat in a boat. But so long as the

professionals, no matter what principles of rowing they may build their

faith upon, persist in sacrificing “form” to skill, so long must they

suffer defeat at the hands of a crew who preserve both these elements.

As the two leading universities, Harvard and Yale, have experimented

in the last five years with every recognizable system of rowing,

from the slow, stately and intensely amateurish English stroke to

a hideous exaggeration of the professional style, the history of

college boat-racing during this period will afford the best means of

illustrating and demonstrating the superiority of one method over

another. Let us gird on our polemical armor, then, and enter the lists.

There is probably no athletic event in America which excites such

universal interest and enthusiasm, among amateurs at least, as the

annual boat-race between Harvard and Yale, on the Thames.

Weeks before the “eventful day,” windy interviews with the Nestors of

the rowing world appear in the daily papers, rooms are engaged at the

hotels in and about New London, the enviable owners of yachts prepare

for the sail, and every one is speculating upon the chances of his

favorite college adding to its list of victories. “Straight tips” and

wiseacres are equally plentiful, and equally inefficient in increasing

one’s store of knowledge.

At the race the river is dotted with gayly bedecked steamboats,

yachts, and small craft of every description, the banks are lined with

people, and the observation train, which from a distance looks like

a huge colored snake, is a blue and crimson mass of bunting-waving,

horn-tooting, yelling, frenzied collegians. It is not an exaggeration

to say that fully fifteen thousand people annually witness the race.

Is it not strange that among all this crowd of intensely interested,

over-excited spectators it would be extremely difficult to find a

single person sufficiently informed to give one an adequate explanation

of the causes leading to the defeat of one crew by another? For,

especially when there is a great discrepancy in the times made by the

two crews, there is always a reason beyond the overstrained condition

of No.----, the slowness of the boat, or the eel-grass course, why one

crew should cross the finish line a quarter of a mile in the lead.

But no! the spectators, though their native fancy for mystification is

tickled by the triumph of skill and “form,” are quite impermeable to

their constituent elements. They seem to follow the principle laid down

in Hudibras, that

“Still the less they understand,

The more they admire the sleight of hand,”

for they certainly seem more delirious than their more experienced

fellow-men.

It is not remarkable that men who acquired their knowledge of rowing

when the art was in its infancy, and quite innocent of the time and

labor saving contrivances now in vogue, should allow their ideas

to grow rusty or fail to keep abreast of the times. It is rather

extraordinary, though, that many college boating-men of to-day, who

have had ample opportunity to study the principles involved in the

various strokes, should be unable to elucidate the reasons for their

particular styles of rowing. And this sad fact has been the indirect

cause of some of the most disheartening defeats at New London.

There has always been at college a sort of Bœotian haziness of ideas

regarding the merits of this or that way of pulling an oar. And

while the last few years--thanks to Mr. Storrow--have seen a certain

development in the inquisitive instincts of college boating-men,

indecision and uncertainty as to the virtues of the different systems

of rowing seem still to prevail at Harvard.

The mooted question of superiority is confined practically to the

English style of rowing; that introduced in ’85 by Mr. Storrow, and the

so-called Bob Cook stroke.

In the following brief sketch of what the last five years of college

boating can show, let it be borne in mind by those who see their

long-cherished convictions ruthlessly attacked, that all excuses for

the defeat of one crew by another must be considered as necessary

adjuncts to the attempted demonstration.

In 1883, Yale, under the tutelage of that aquatic Archimedes, Mike

Davis, made a radical departure from the stroke which had been brought

over from England some years previously by Mr. Cook, and introduced,

with slight modifications, at both Yale and Harvard.

Although this stroke, which had failed to bring victory to Yale in

’82, was almost the same in principle as that which defeated her, and,

therefore, could not be held responsible for the defeat, yet she saw

fit to discard it for the unique ideas of Mr. Davis.

The boat was made unusually long, to provide for a novel method of

seating the men in pairs, all of Mr. Davis’s latest inventions were

introduced, and phenomenal results were expected. Whatever good there

may have been in these inventions, the fact remains that in the race

Yale rowed a short, rapid, jerky stroke, while Harvard adhered to the

long, slow, English style, and won with comparative ease.

The experiment having failed, the next year Yale returned to her former

method of rowing. But, aided by her experience of the past, as well as

by a few valuable hints, it is said, from one of the famous Ward crew,

she had the rare good sense to improve upon her previous conception of

the English or Bob Cook stroke--for the sake of convenience, I shall

call it English at present. As to the exact share Mr. Ward had in the

amendment I do not speak with authority, but regarding the character of

the difference between the strokes rowed that year by Yale and Harvard

I speak whereof I know.

After the first two miles it was patent that Yale had the race well in

hand. Her oars were in the water longer and in the air a shorter time

than Harvard’s. Every man in her boat threw his weight more directly

against the stretcher, and instead of holding his slide on the recover

until his arms were straightened and the body was swung forward from

the waist, he diminished materially the time the oar would otherwise

have been in the air by starting his seat and shoulders immediately

after extending his arms. He used his legs more, and “hung” less at

both ends of the stroke. The slow, stately sweep of the Harvard crew

succeeded in bringing them in about fifteen lengths behind their happy

rivals.

It is true, the speed of the Harvard boat was affected by a number

of important changes which she was compelled to make, prior to

the race, in the composition and seating of the crew. But despite

this fact, which could not alone account for such an overwhelming

defeat--especially as the substitutes were good oars--she had the

strongest and heaviest crew that ever represented a college.

In 1885, as we have seen, there was a revolution in rowing at Harvard.

It was not until the early part of winter that Mr. Storrow, in the

face of a certain amount of passive opposition, took the rather

daring step, by engaging Mr. Faulkner as coach, of throwing overboard

all those principles which, it is supposed, had won Harvard many a

splendid victory. An entirely new system of rowing was inaugurated,

and there was much grumbling and dubious head-shaking at the issue.

Yale, on the contrary, was highly elated at Harvard’s adoption of the

“professional” stroke. Her crew, be it said, was deemed so strong as

to earn the appellation of the “Yale giants,” while Harvard’s was not

only unusually light, but, with two exceptions, was composed of men

who had never before sat in a ’Varsity boat. Save with the brave but

meagre minority who believed in the new régime, up to a week before

the race Yale’s success was a foregone conclusion. Well, the race, as

one disappointed wearer of the blue expressed it, was a “procession.”

Yale, vulgarly speaking, carried the bucket. Harvard jumped into

the lead the moment her oars struck the water, and though averaging

about thirty-four strokes to the minute after the first spurt, to

her opponent’s thirty-seven, increased her lead at every stroke. On

the last mile there were twenty-five boat lengths between the two

crews. Harvard’s rowing was remarked upon, though little understood,

by all who saw the race. So little effort was apparent in her style,

that the uninitiated were at a loss to account for the speed of her

boat. While it was manifest that the “Yale giants” were not as well

trained as the Harvard men, it was palpable to the merest tyro that the

immense distance between the two crews was due to causes other than

the physical condition of the rowers. Although, be it remembered, Yale

had _improved somewhat_ upon the English stroke, yet the laborious

wastefulness of her style was in sharp contrast to the _ease_ and

_dash_ of the Harvard stroke.

The moment Harvard’s blades gripped the water every man in the boat,

with a spring from the stretcher and simultaneous heave of the

shoulders, threw his whole weight into the oar, and kept it there

until the stroke was finished. The blades were covered throughout the

stroke, and remained in the air as short a time as was consistent

with the avoidance of “rushing” the slides. There was hardly the

slightest perceptible “hang” of shoulders or hands at either end of the

stroke. Although the body work was not all that could be desired, the

“watermanship” or action of the blades was as smooth as the stroke of a

piston-rod.

On the other hand, after making all due allowance for the air of

general wretchedness which always surrounds a defeated crew, and for

the halo of perfection about the victors, Yale’s rowing was really bad.

Before the last mile was reached the desperate tugging of her men, the

not infrequent splashing of her oars, and other symptoms of fatigue,

showed plainly that the pace was too hot for her labored style of

rowing. But her reputation for pluck and doggedness was never better

sustained. In spite of the conscious hopelessness of the struggle, her

efforts throughout the race were titanic.

After the race the usual exculpatory rumors developed the intelligence

that the stroke of the Yale crew had been lifted from a sick-bed, and

supported, tottering and nerveless, to his seat in the boat. Either

this was a laudable attempt to apotheosize Mr. Flanders, or else his

powers of recuperation must have been miraculous, for no man ever

pulled a pluckier and more apparently powerful oar.

The next year, 1886, Harvard went down to New London with her

crew of ’85, with a single exception, presumably strengthened by

an additional year’s experience. Yale, on the other hand, had a

comparatively new set of men. The race was the closest for several

years, but ended in the defeat of Harvard by about _five lengths_.

This may seem incomprehensible at first sight, but Harvard labored

under a combination of untoward circumstances, which alone were enough

to account for a defeat of _five lengths_. She was compelled by an

accident which happened to her shell prior to the Columbia race, to

row in an old class tub, which possessed the additional defect of

_shorter slides_ and _outriggers_ than her _style of rowing called

for_. The shorter stroke, which this change necessitated, was visible

to all who saw the race. Add to this the fact that, through Yale’s

aversion to rough water, the race was postponed and rowed up the river

in the evening; that Yale, who had the east side, where the swift

current which with the incoming tide flows up the course for a mile

and a half, was permitted to jump ahead at the start; that Harvard

had the dead water on the west side; that in spite of her rough water

and ill-rigged tub, after Yale had left her lively current, Harvard

gained four or five lengths upon her, and we have sufficient reasons to

account for a defeat of _five lengths_. Nor is this all. The hopes of

the advocates of the English or Bob Cook stroke, so-called, must fall

to the ground like wilted rose-leaves when it is considered that Yale

rowed as _nearly the same stroke_ as Harvard as close attention and the

exercise of some intelligence during a limited time could make it. If

the diligent reader of newspaper interviews doubts this truth he should

have been at the Thames during the race weeks of ’85 and ’86.

In noticeable contrast to her “watermanship” of previous years, and

in a laudable attempt to improve upon it, Yale exaggerated the rather

flat feather of the Harvard oars. But she had almost mastered the idea,

so conspicuously absent in the English stroke, of throwing the whole

weight of the body, the moment the oar gripped the water, directly

against the stretcher. Had the race been rowed in the rough water and

wind of the morning, the exaggerated feather, the noticeably longer

“hang” at both ends of the Yale stroke, and the weaker “finish”--which

last fault must always fail, against a strong wind, to keep the boat

jumping between the strokes--would have conspired to defeat her.

In 1887, Harvard, after winning an exciting victory from the fastest

crew Columbia ever sent out, and lowering the intercollegiate record,

was again defeated by Yale, this time by about seven lengths. Her twice

happy rivals deserved all the approbation showered upon them by their

overjoyed supporters, for their rowing was magnificent. They had almost

the same crew as in the previous year, and had still further modified

their style in conformity with the stroke rowed by Harvard in ’85.

Indeed, to connoisseurs the only perceptible differences between these

two strokes were the longer “hang” of the Yale oars before entering the

water, the slightly stronger “catch,” the slower start of the shoulders

on the “recover,” and the weaker finish. As the wind blew down the

course, these defects did not tell against her. As for her time, it

would have delighted the rhythmic sensibilities of a Wagnerian.

Harvard, on the contrary, through her inability throughout the year

to secure the regular services of a coach, and on account of her

comparatively raw crew, did not adhere as closely in practice as

in theory to the standards of ’85. After the first two miles, the

punishing work her rather young crew[6] had undergone _three days

previously_ in the Columbia race began to tell upon her. They began

to “clip” still more off their already short stroke, and their rowing

became slightly ragged.

These reasons will answer the question, “Why was Harvard defeated _by

seven lengths_?” and, taken in connection with the fact that Yale

rowed in a boat as similarly rigged as Harvard’s as a foot-rule and

the faculty of imitation could make it, will deal a death-blow at any

marked individuality which the Yale or Bob Cook system of rowing may

now be said to possess. Waters, of Troy, is the boat builder to both

colleges. The innuendo, I hope, is quite fathomable.

It is not my intention to cast any slur upon Yale. Indeed, her whole

progressive course under the skillful guidance of Mr. Cook, who knows

a good thing when he sees it, but is not the aquatic god some would

make him, has been marked by rare good judgment. I am merely marshaling

my evidence for a final onslaught upon the system of rowing in vogue

before ’85.

In 1888, a committee of four graduates, only one of whom had rowed

in recent years, was appointed to take charge of boating matters.

Naturally enough they strove to inculcate in the crew those principles

with which they were most familiar, viz., those which pertained to

the English or Bancroft system of rowing. Despite the fact that the

method introduced by Storrow had brought about the overwhelming defeat

of the Yale giants in ’85, despite the manifest adoption by Yale of

the essential features of this method, and her consequent successes,

and despite the marked improvement in the speed of the boat since ’85,

the crew of ’88, we are told, endeavored to “_unlearn the radically

wrong principles_” of the three previous years. The endeavor was

pre-eminently successful, and what was the result? A crushing defeat,

such as had never been seen upon the Thames. At one time in the race

there was almost half a mile between the two crews. Yale, naturally

enough, retained the principles, the efficacy of which she had tested,

and gave even a better exhibition of rowing than the Harvard crew of

’85.

My standpoint is well illustrated by a letter to the New York _Spirit

of the Times_ of September 29th, upon “Why Yale beats Harvard.” The

letter is written by a man “who has done for Harvard good work with

the oar.” Among other good things he says (the italics are my own):

“The Yale and Columbia crews of 1886 beat Harvard _after close races_

because they adopted to a considerable extent the _same system and

ideas_ that Storrow had taught Harvard the year before. Yale beat

Harvard again last year because she still believed in and practiced

the same system, while Harvard seemed to have _endeavored to forget

as much of it as possible_. The _contrast_ between the styles of

rowing of the Harvard and Yale crews in the race was _most striking_.

The Yale crew carefully covered their oars at the beginning of the

stroke, and kept them covered to the end, maintaining a firm pressure

throughout, the appearance of their oars in the water reminding the

observer of the Harvard crew of ’85, but otherwise their work was far

superior to the Storrow crew. The Harvard crew seemed to have forgotten

the accepted principles that govern the management of the oar in the

water; their blades made a _complete circle_, and but a _small arc_ of

its circumference entered the water, the oar being _fully covered but

an instant of time_. In their _body work they followed the principles

taught by Bancroft_, but did not attain the smoothness which Bancroft

himself, and his more skillful pupils acquired. In this respect they

_tried to follow the English system_, and seemed to _have adopted the

English style of rigging_, for their slides were noticeably shorter

than those of the Yale crew. The whole course of the committee clearly

showed their incompetency to direct the crew.” And again: “It is

reported that before coming to New London they rowed a series of races

with a scratch crew, composed of substitutes and old rowing-men about

Boston, and _were beaten again and again_, although the men in the

scratch crew _had never before sat together in a boat_.”

Rather a striking coincidence with the feat of the ’78 crew who rowed

the same stroke, is it not?

So much for what the history of college boating during the past five

years can show. The supporters of the English system of rowing are

welcome to any solace they may derive from a perusal of it.

It seems incredible that any doubt as to the superiority of one system

of rowing over the other should still linger in the minds of Harvard

men.

But the result of last year’s race leaves them, no doubt, “more

troubled than the Egyptians in a fog.”

To be continued.

[Illustration]

[6] The average age of the Harvard crew was about 21, the stroke

being 18; while Yale’s average was about 24, her stroke being

29.

[Illustration: STATE-COACH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH OF ENGLAND.]

COACHING AND COACHING CLUBS.

BY CHARLES S. PELHAM-CLINTON.

[Illustration]

In “Tom Brown’s Schooldays,” that ever-popular book, there is a sketch

of coaching which stands unequaled for concise and graphic description,

and which will bear repetition. Tom was starting for Rugby by the

coach, and his father is seeing him off. They hear the ring and rattle

of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to

the “Peacock.”

“‘Anything for us, Bob?’ says the burly guard, dropping down from

behind and slapping himself across the chest.

“‘Young gen’l’m’n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o’ game,

Rugby,’ answers the hostler.

“‘Tell young gent to look alive,’ says the guard, opening the hind-boot

and shooting in the parcels, after examining them by the lamps. ‘Here,

shove the portmanteau up atop--I’ll fasten him presently. Now then,

sir, jump up behind.’

“‘Good-bye, father--my love at home.’ A last shake of the hand. Up goes

Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while

with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! The

hostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and

away goes the ‘Tally-ho’ into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the

time they pulled up.”

Considerable more romance about this than a departure from the Grand

Central or Jersey City depots. There was much fun on the road in those

days, and the jehu generally had a stock of old jokes that he let off

at the box-seat passenger day after day. For instance, a crusty and

stingy old curmudgeon who had neglected to “dampen the whistle” of

the driver in the proper fashion, and who grumbled at the wet weather,

would be greeted with, “Why don’t you invest a penny in a Yarmouth

bloater? and you’ll be dry all day, I’ll warrant.” Things are more

staid now, and the Irish coachman who demanded “Shall I pay the ‘pike’

or drive at it?” is happily gathered to his fathers, and life and limb

are in the hands of a less humorous but more sober set of drivers.

From one source I learn coaches were first introduced into England in

1580 by Fitzallan, Earl of Arundel, before which time the customary

mode of travel was on horseback. The Queen used to ride on a pillion

behind her chamberlain. Another history says that in 1564, Booner, a

Dutchman, became Queen Elizabeth’s coachman, proving that she must have

had a coach. In 1619, however, things had so improved that Buckingham

drove a coach and six.

A very authentic history says that the first coach in England was built

in 1555, for the Earl of Rutland, by Walter Rippon. This maker must

have been the Brewster of his day, as he made a coach for Queen Mary,

and in 1564 built a state-coach for Queen Elizabeth, presumably the one

that the above Booner drove. Hackney-coaches came into vogue in 1605,

and in 1640 the stage-coach was first adopted. It was built to carry

six or eight persons, and was hung upon leather straps.

In 1662 six stage-coaches were running, and in 1673 stage communication

was started between Exeter and Chester and London. No less an authority

than Sir Walter Scott says that in 1755 the speed of a stage was

frequently but four miles an hour. A year previous to this, however,

steel springs had been invented, and in 1784 it is authentically

stated that the average speed was eight miles an hour. Prior to this

rapid increase of speed, the Lord Mayor of London’s state-coach

was built in 1757, and weighed the trifle of three tons, sixteen

hundred-weight. In 1762 a royal state-coach was built for George

III. which weighed four tons, and which is still used on full state

occasions, being drawn by eight cream-colored horses.

Through the efforts of Mr. John Palmer, M.P. for Bath, in 1784 the

mails were entrusted to the care of the coaches, the first mail-coach

leaving London on the 8th of August of that year. Until 1834 the

mail-coaches were not allowed to carry more than three outside

passengers, while the ordinary stages carried four inside and fourteen

outside.

[Illustration: STATE-COACH OF KING CHARLES II. OF ENGLAND.]

It was at this period that gentlemen began to “tool” not only their own

but public coaches, and the amusement, which in many cases combines

business with pleasure, has been continued ever since. Smedley, the

novelist, creates a character in “Frank Fairleigh,” under the name of

the Hon. George Lawless, who shows how thirty to fifty years ago this

fashion had come into vogue.

The spirit of the times was such that in 1807 the first club was

established, under the name of the Bensington (_Oxonicé_ Benson)

Driving Club, the number of members being limited to twenty-five. There

were four meets in a year--two at the White Hart, Bensington, near

Oxford, and two at the Black Dog, Bedfont, near Hounslow. There was no

annual subscription; but each member paid £10 on his election. After

the first sixteen years of the club’s life, the meetings were entirely

confined to Bedfont, as being more easy of access. Here it was that

the wine of the club was kept, and hence it was that, after dining,

the members “dashed home in a style of speed and splendor equal to the

spirit and judgment displayed by the noble, honorable, and respective

drivers.” Among these were the “Squire of Squerries,” the father of

fox-hunting; Sir Henry Peyton, who, like his descendant Sir Thomas,

drove grays, and introduced the second ferrule on the whip; the Marquis

of Worcester, Sir Bellingham Graham, Mr. Charles Jones, and Mr. John

Walker, who drove the Bognor coach.

[Illustration: COLONEL DELANCY KANE’S FOUR-IN-HAND.]

This was very quickly followed by the Four-Horse Club, founded in

1808 by Mr. Charles Buxton, which existed only about twenty years.

The members included Mr. Warde, Sir John Peyton, Lord Anson, the

Marquis of Worcester, Sir Bellingham Graham, Lord Sefton, and a host

of others. This body used to meet twice a month in Cavendish Square,

and its meetings, wrote “Nimrod,” were “perhaps objectionable as making

unnecessary parade.” What would he have said of the Magazine meets? The

Four-Horse Club was also known as the Barouche Club, and, according

to “Nimrod,” as the Whip Club; but Lord William Lennox would seem

to imply that the Whip Club was a distinct society, inasmuch as it

used to meet in Park Lane and drive to Harrow-on-the-Hill, instead

of meeting in Cavendish Square and driving to Salt Hill, as was the

custom of the Four-Horse members. In “Hit and Miss” Charles Mathews

caricatured the many-pocketed drab coat, with its buttons the size of

a crown piece; the blue waistcoat, with its inch-wide yellow stripes;

the plush breeches, and the three-and-a-half-inch hat, that formed the

club uniform; and the celebrated comedian offended many of the foremost

coaching men by the travesty. Joey Grimaldi also made capital out of

this somewhat startling dress. A drab coat was formed out of a blanket,

a purloined cabbage was used as a bouquet, plates formed the buttons of

the coat; the opportune appearance of a cradle and four cheeses enabled

a coach to be built, while a toy-shop furnished four blotting-paper

horses.

[Illustration: THE FOUR-IN-HANDS IN CENTRAL PARK.]

[Illustration: FAMILY TRAVELING COACH, 17TH CENTURY.]

About 1820 the Four-Horse Club came to an end, but was resuscitated

about two years later, only to be dissolved again.

The Bensington Driving Club kept on, and was joined, in 1838, by the

Richmond Driving Club, under the presidency of Lord Chesterfield.

The meets of this club took place at Chesterfield House, and the

destination of the club was Richmond. The R. D. C., however, only had

a short life, and the parent society, the B. D. C., was alone in its

glory till 1852, when it came to an end.

Then came an interregnum of about four years, until it occurred to

the late Mr. William Morritt, of roans and yellow coach celebrity, to

establish the Four-in-Hand Driving Club--this is its real name--of

which the Duke of Beaufort and the late Sir Watkin Wynn were original

members. In 1870 the Coaching Club was started, and this completes

the list of clubs--past and present--formed in England for the

encouragement of the difficult art of driving four-in-hand. On the

books of these societies are to be found the names of all the best

coachmen of the time; and it may be doubted whether the institutions

of the present day may not fairly anticipate a longer life than was

vouchsafed to their predecessors.

For some time it was a legitimate boast that no other country could

show a sight equal to the English coaching meets; but the monopoly in

that, as in other lines connected with sport and pastime, is at an end.

Sundry attempts, but wholly unsuccessful ones, have been made to

organize meets of other vehicles than coaches. Once there was a meet of

tandems in Hyde Park, but it was a sorry exhibition. Then a sleighing

meet was tried; but the only result of the venture was to show that

England is not quite the place for an experiment of that kind. Later

came the meet of trotters, a yet more ludicrous affair, so it is only

necessary for some one to organize a meet of “pickaxe” teams, to have

introduced to the British public every variety of driving not in common

use.

So much for coaching in England. In America its history does not

run back quite so far; but, in 1697, John Clapp, a New York Bowery

innkeeper, is recorded as having a hackney-coach built for him, and

must be booked as the first of the “cabbies” whose extortion give New

York such a name among travelers.

We hear of the first private carriage in 1745. In 1750, the Rev. Mr.

Burnaby, writing of New York, mentions Italian chaises as the proper

means of conveyance in his time, excepting in Virginia, where coaches

were used and required six horses to drag them. They require that

number now in most parts of that State, particularly in the winter and

spring.

Boston is said to have had a stage in 1661, and in the middle of the

eighteenth century a stage-line was established between that city and

New York. Stages were, however, very little in use until 1786, at which

time there were only three carriage builders in New York. The “boom”

must have commenced about then, as I learn from an article on coaching,

written by Miss Jennie J. Young some fifteen years ago, that during

the next three years the number had trebled, and that there were five

livery yards as well.

[Illustration: TRAVELING COACH, 18TH CENTURY.]

During the next two decades the number had grown to twenty-nine, which

would have been further increased had it not been for the enormous

cost of production, a complaint that prevails a hundred years later.

Most people, therefore, imported their coaches. Among these was

Washington. Mr. J. T. Watson describes his coach as follows: “It was

cream-colored, globular in its shape and capacious within, ornamented

in the French style with cupids supporting festoons and wreaths of

flowers emblematically arranged along the panel-work, the figures and

flowers beautifully covered with fine glass, very white and dazzling to

the eye of youth and simplicity in such matters. It was drawn sometimes

by four, but in common by two, very elegant Virginia bays, with long

switch tails and splendid harness, and driven by a German, tall and

muscular, possessing an aquiline nose.” A handsome vehicle in its time,

no doubt, but one that would appear as an advance guard of Barnum’s in

these days of workmanlike simplicity.

A less gorgeous vehicle, but equally curious, was lately, Miss Young

says, in the possession of Brewster, of Broome Street. “It was built

in 1801 by Leslie, of London, and was brought to this country on

the occasion of a matrimonial alliance between the families of Van

Rensselaer and of Vischer. The body is painted yellow, and on the

panels are the arms of both families. The lining is green. The wheels

are high, and the body, instead of being let down between them, is kept

as far from the ground as possible. The driver’s seat is also pushed up

to the highest possible altitude.”

At the commencement of this century three stages were enough for the

requirements of the travelers from and to this city. One of these ran

from the corner of Wall and New streets to Greenwich, and the other

ran from the Bull’s Head to Harlem and Manhattanville respectively.

Twenty-five years made a vast difference in the travel by road, and

the country roads being improved a large number of coaches left this

city daily, among them being daily mails to Albany, Philadelphia,

Westchester and Danbury; and there was a day mail between this city

and Boston. This did not last long, as the advent of steam-cars sent

the coaches to the rightabout, or relegated them to the interior where

steam had not penetrated.

Then came a long period before the time-honored sport was renewed.

It is said that in 1860 there was only one private four-in-hand in

the Union, which was of English build, and belonged to Mr. T. Bigelow

Lawrence, of Boston. It eventually passed, on his death, into the hands

of Brewster & Co. While in their hands it attracted the attention of

Col. William Jay and Mr. Thomas Newbold, and was purchased by them, the

copartnership being increased by Mr. Frederick Bronson and Mr. Kane.

Three years later, in 1863, Wood Brothers built a coach for Mr. Leonard

Jerome; Mr. August Belmont imported one from England, and during the

next decade coaches were imported by Mr. Bronson, Col. Delancy Kane,

and Mr. James Gordon Bennett, whose importation was afterward purchased

by Mr. William P. Douglas.

Curiously enough, the organization of the Coaching Club was started

abroad, several gentlemen, among whom were Col. Delancy Kane and Col.

W. Jay, being the prime movers in this idea. In 1875 the organization

was effected. The first parade was held in 1876, and six coaches made

their appearance. Many of the names that were included on the roll in

the first year are still represented on the box-seat; Mr. Frederick

Bronson and Col. William Jay were, however, the only two who put

in an appearance at the meet last May. The others are James Gordon

Bennett, William P. Douglas, Leonard Jerome, Delancy Kane, Nicholson

Kane, Thomas Newbold, and Mr. Thorndike Rice. This list was speedily

augmented, and included August Belmont, senior and junior, Hugo S.

Fritsch, George R. Fearing, Theodore A. Havemeyer, G. G. Haven,

Frederick Neilson, Fairman Rogers, Francis R. Rives, G. P. Wetmore,

Pierre Lorillard, Augustine Whiting, and Augustus Schermerhorn--all

names that are interesting to students of the history of the sports of

the past twenty-five years.

The membership was originally twenty-five, but so popular has the club

become that it has been deemed advisable to increase the number, and

the limit now stands at forty-five, with only one vacancy, and plenty

of applicants. The uniform consists of a dark green cut-away coat with

brass buttons, and a yellow striped waistcoat, the buttons bearing

the initials C. C., and having the bars as a design. The club only

comes before the public twice a year, one of these occasions being the

annual meet in the Park, and another being the annual drive to some

spot within about fifty miles of New York. At these times the club is

greeted by a large portion of the New York public, and when the weather

favors the annual meet it takes all the energies of the “sparrow

police” to keep the road clear for the coaches.

Very few of the members have ever driven public coaches, so the rule

that obliges members of the English coaching clubs to have previously

driven a public coach, would be prohibitory here. Col. Delancy Kane

is about the only member that has done so in England, and he was,

with Colonel Jay, Theodore Roosevelt and Frederick Bronson, the prime

mover in the “Tantivy” which ran for several seasons from the Hotel

Brunswick to the Country Club at Pelham. Last year Mr. Hugo Fritsch and

Mr. Frederick Bronson ran this venture, but I fancy that the returns

were by no means commensurate with the expenses, and that they lost

money. It seems a pity that no one is public-spirited enough to follow

in their footsteps, as after all the expense is not so very vast, and

it would give the prestige that many strive for in other ways. Colonel

William Jay was the first president of the club, and he still retains

that position, leading the van in the parades, and sits at the head of

the table at the dinner which follows.

The parades have been attended with very few accidents, and indeed the

whole history of amateur coaching in America is singularly devoid of

exciting incidents. The Central Park gates are wider than those of Hyde

Park, and the example of a noble lord who not very long since took a

wheel off and quietly “dumped” his load on the sidewalk, has not as yet

been emulated. I have heard of a case in which a four-in-hand and a

street-car tried conclusions to the detriment of the former, and one or

two of the starts at Jerome have been fraught with considerable peril

to those who were on the coach. Fortune favors the brave, however, and

Jerome luckily has not such a tremendous hill on the way home as has

Goodwood, the historic racecourse situated above the beautiful park of

the Duke of Richmond and Gordon. To this course some thirty private

four-in-hands make the trip from the different country houses and towns

in the neighborhood.

[Illustration: “THE CAMBRIDGE TELEGRAPH,” WHITE HORSE TAVERN, FETTER

LANE, LONDON.]

About ten years back, Lord Charles Beresford, of “Condor” fame, was

driving his coach home from these races; on the seat beside him was

Lady Folkestone, and another lady was among those behind. When a couple

of hundred yards through the park had been compassed, a sudden block

occurred on the road, and Lord Charles, to save running into some of

the carriages in front, swung off the road onto the grass. The jerk

broke the chain of the “skid,” and the coach ran away with the horses.

The hill at this point is very steep, and the pace was simply terrific.

The coach swayed from side to side, but did not turn over; the horses

were going at a mad gallop, and a stumble meant instant death to all.

Down the hill they plunged, Lady Folkestone never moving or saying a

word, and the rest of the party, with teeth set, grimly facing the

end that seemed inevitable. The bottom of the hill came at last, and

over the rolling sward tore the horses. Finally, about a mile and a

half from the bottom, they came to a stand, not a strap broken, and

no damage of any kind done. Lord Charles could not release his hands

from the reins, and they had to be forced from him. Since then he can

never depend on them, as any strain seems to paralyze him, and at one

or two meets of the Coaching Club he has been obliged to relinquish the

“ribbons” in consequence of the horses’ pulling. This all reads like

a traveler’s yarn to those who do not know the steepness of the hill;

but Lord Charles told it to me himself, and added that the only thing

lost was the whip. This could hardly occur at Jerome, as there are no

precipices to encounter.

The annual drive of the Coaching Club is quite a feature, and some very

charming trips have been made. Last year the chosen spot was “Idle

Hour,” the beautiful country seat of Mr. William K. Vanderbilt, at

Oakdale, L. I. The start was made on June 2, at 9.30 ~A. M.~,

from the Brunswick Hotel, Col. Jay “handling the ribbons.” Idle Hour

was reached by six ~P. M.~ Changes were made at Flushing,

Lakeville, Garden City, Belmore, Amityville, Bayshore, and Islip; the

different gentlemen horsing the coach and driving the several stages

being Messrs. F. A. Havemeyer, F. Bronson, A. Belmont, Jr., Delancy

Kane, and Prescott Lawrence. The return journey was made on Monday,

the changes being made at the same places, and at six o’clock, dusty

and thirsty, the members of the C. C. drew up at the door of the

Brunswick. It was the eleventh annual drive of the club, the other

places visited having been the country seats of A. J. Cassatt and of

Fairman Rogers, at Philadelphia; Mr. Frederick Bronson, at Greenwich

Hill, Conn.; Mr. Francis Rives, at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson; Col.

William Jay, at Bedford, N. J.; Theodore Havemeyer, at Mawah, N. J.;

Pierre Lorillard, at Rancocas, N. J.; Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, at Hyde

Park, and Mr. Schermerhorn, at Lenox, Mass. The trip made in 1878 to

Philadelphia was a long one, the entire ninety miles being accomplished

in about seven hours and a half. The route was divided into nine

stopping-places, these being Newark, Rahway, Signboard, Six Mile Run,

Princeton, Trenton, Hulmeville and Holmesburg--the drivers being Col.

Delancy Kane, F. R. Rives, P. Belmont, Jr., T. A. Havemeyer, G. P.

Wetmore, Hugo O. Fritsch, F. Bronson, G. R. Fearing, and Fairman Rogers.

The meets which take place on the last Saturday in May have for the

two past years been subject to atmospheric depression, which has had

a deteriorating effect on the attendance and on the spirits of those

present; but, rain or no rain, the meet takes place. Only seven coaches

were in line last year, which shows that, however much the “art” may be

appreciated in New York, the increase in the number of coaches during

the past decade has hardly kept up with the corresponding increase in

the membership of the club.

Colonel Jay drove a pair of useful golden chestnut wheelers and gray

and roan leaders to his red and yellow coach. His leaders were not

quite as showy as the gray and chestnut leaders that he had last year.

Dr. Seward Webb’s coach was black and yellow, his horses being four

well-matched chestnuts. Mr. Prescott Lawrence’s coach has a primrose

body with yellow carriage, and his cross-team of chestnut and brown

wheelers, with roan and gray leaders, were as good as any on the

ground. Mr. Fairman Rogers drove bays and grays, and Mr. Hugo Fritsch’s

coach was drawn by brown and bay wheelers and bay and roan leaders. Mr.

E. N. Padelford deserted the traditions of the club and brought a “stag

party” in his white and blue coach horsed by four bays. Mr. Frederick

Bronson had a useful pair of brown wheelers with chestnut and brown

leaders. Weather has a great deal to do with these parades, and there

seemed a lack of enthusiasm on the part of the spectators, and a lack

of the pleasurable animation on the part of those on the coaches, which

is necessary to make a meet of the Coaching Club a perfect success.

Let us hope, in the interest of this grand sport, that the sun may

shine very brightly on the last Saturday of next May, that the number

of coaches be quadrupled, and that all the beauty of New York occupy

the seats on the tops of the different drags.

SALMON FISHING ON LOCH TAY.

BY “ROCKWOOD.”

~Partridges~ and pheasants have just come under the protection

of the Close Time Act, and the gun has been laid in its old place

on the rack, there to remain till the 12th of August, when the

grouse-shooting opens; the greyhound courser is thinking of the near

approach of Waterloo, when, on the plains of Altcar, at Liverpool, the

Blue Riband of the Leash will be fought for amongst the cracks of the

“longtails;” the fox-hunters of the shires are hard at it and keen as

ever, though their horses are leg-weary and suffering from overreaching

and attendant sprains of the sinews, when we fly north from London by

the London and Northwestern Railway _en route_ to Loch Tay for the

early spring salmon fishing.

Every Scottish lake has had its poet. Scott and Christopher North have

in prose celebrated the praises of Loch Lomond. The Gaelic bards, like

Robb Donn Mackay, have sung of Loch Maree, the silent and majestic,

beloved of all the lakes by Her Majesty the Queen; but Loch Tay is

the loch of the angler and the sportsman. It is, _par excellence_,

_the lake home_ of the Scottish salmon, that fish which, viking-like,

cruises annually along the west side of the German Ocean, and with

health and vigor charges mill-lades, linns, weirs, and a hundred other

obstacles, with all the fury of a Highlandman on a battle-field,

and not a little of the Celt’s cunning in dodging round the ends of

stake-nets on his return to his native waters.

The Purdies and the Kers of the Border may swear by the superior charms

of killing “a guid Tweed fush.” On the Solway Dee they will contest

for the merits of their own waters, and where the Dee of Aberdeenshire

sweeps through the woods of Invercauld and down under the shadow of

the windows of Balmoral, the Farquharsons and the Gordons, adepts at

throwing a long fly, will hold in contempt the anglers of less favored

streams. Each riverman has his opinion, yet all are agreed that Loch

Tay is the premier fishing loch.

[Illustration: “FROM KENMORE TO KILLIN.”]

This magnificent sheet of water drains, by means of the rivers Dochart

and Lochy, the large range of hills which guard central Scotland from

the storms which sweep across the Atlantic past the North of Ireland,

and to whose accompaniment of heavy seas Mull, Skye, and other of the

Hebridean islands form a huge breakwater. Loch Awe takes the drainage

of the west water-shed, the river Awe carrying it through the Pass of

Brander to the Atlantic. Loch Tay gathers all on the east and north

and carries it by means of the silver Tay right across Scotland to the

German Ocean, through varied and unsurpassed scenes of beauty. Onward

the river flows, under the walls of stately mansions, once the homes of

fierce chieftains, now the residences of enthusiastic sportsmen. Among

these the most noted is Murthly Castle, where Sir John Millais every

year makes known to the salmon the lightness of the hand required to

successfully apply a brush to canvas.

[Illustration: THE BOATS STARTING--KILLIN.]

But the train whirls northward, through counties renowned in hunting

song, past old coaching “half-way” houses, famous in the history of

the English mail coach. Here the travelers of sixty years ago used to

hold merry jinks, whilst the coachman fretted and the guard shouted

and four good steeds pawed the sward, anxious to start on the next

stage. On between blazing furnaces, the coal ground of the iron horse,

past reeking coal pits. Descending those dark shafts and traveling

along every corner of the mine, you will find British sportsmen, each

as ready and as enthusiastic in backing a horse or a greyhound as his

master, the wealthy mine owner and member of the Jockey Club. Over

the Cumberland hills, where wrestling is still the favorite pastime,

as in days of yore, to merry Carlisle, that old English border-town

which was the scene of many a fierce battle between Scotch and English.

Skirting Gretna Green, where runaway couples were hitched tight by the

old blacksmith in the days when marriages were made more binding than

now, Bectloch summit is crossed, and soon the train crosses the Clyde

valley. At Stirling Junction carriages have to be changed, and while

the setting sun is gilding the western sky, we dip from Killin old

station, beyond Callande, down into the lovely valley of the Dochart,

to Killin, the capital of Breadalbane and the head fishing quarters

of Loch Tay; and this, too, only twelve hours after leaving Euston

Station, London.

All the time the talk has been of fish and fishing-rods, of big fish

that were caught and the far bigger fish that escaped. The angling

romancer has a special license as regards story-telling. Rarely,

indeed, does he fail to take full advantage of his privilege. But in

the journey up the talk has been all of the past; now it is all of the

future; the hope is of the morrow.

Stewart, the landlord of “The Royal,” is too busy looking to the

comfort of his guests to answer all the questions so eagerly put by

the new-comers; but the boatmen of the lake stand near, ready to shake

hands with old patrons and to tell them that in the late floods “the

fish have jist been literally croodin’ into the loch, till there’s

scarcely room for them unless they lie heids and thraws [head and foot]

like bairns in a bed.” The Scottish boatman does not promise so much

as his Irish brother, who said that the snipe in the bog were “jist

jostlin’ wan another, sir,” but he does not find it advantageous to

damp your spirits with prospects of indifferent sport. A shilling or

so will make them happy enough in the back bar of the hotel. There,

in Gaelic, they will hook and kill salmon which they gaffed long ago

for old sportsmen long since dead, for the ranks of _the_ opening-day

fishers of Loch Tay have of late been very much thinned of veterans.

Before breakfast the early-rising angler will have time to explore

Killin, which is beautifully situated within the peninsula formed

by the confluence of the rivers Dochart and Lochy. The great Dr.

McCulloch, most charming of all writers on Scottish landscape, says:

“Killin is the most extraordinary collection of extraordinary scenery

in all Scotland; unlike everything else in the country and perhaps on

earth, and a perfect picture gallery in itself, since you cannot move

three yards without meeting a new landscape. A busy artist might here

draw a month and not exhaust it. Fir-trees, rocks, torrents, mills,

bridges, houses--these produce the great bulk of the middle landscape,

under endless combinations; while the distances more constantly are

found in the surrounding hills, in their varied woods, in the bright

expanse of the lake and the minute ornaments of the distant valley, in

the rocks and bold summit of Craig-Cailliach, and in the lofty vision

of Ben Lawers, which towers like a huge giant in the clouds--monarch

of the scene.” This picture we can endorse, having seen Killin in all

seasons of the year, when the Dochart in spate was foaming and churning

among the rocks and the tree-roots of the numerous wooded islands;

where the bluebell and fox-glove bloomed bonnily on the banks of the

Lochy in early summer, and again where the red glow on the upper

mountain betokened that the grouse-hiding heather was in full bell. But

the angler loves it best when Ben Lawers has on his nightcap of snow.

No matter though a snow-shower sweeps like spin-drift before a squall

and makes him shiver as he watches the rods at the stern, if he have

the shelter of the bays and the “saumont” is in a taking mood.

But the “halesome parritch” is reeking on the breakfast table, and

every angler, be he Scotchman or not, will be wise if he puts the

contents of a “coggie” and some rich milk from a Highland cow within

him. They will keep heart in him and cold without all day, besides

“man,” as his boatman will tell him, “they mak’ gran’ bottoming for

the whisky ane maun keep drinking.” Breakfast over, the boats are soon

manned where they lie at the lochy a few minutes’ walk from the hotel

door. This leads to a description of the system of fishing which is

pursued on the lake.

Except the reserved water of the Marquis of Breadalbane, the

proprietor, who keeps a favorite portion for himself and his guests,

the rights belong to the hotel proprietors, whose houses are situated

on the lake. Kenmore Hotel has four boats and about eight miles of

water at the east end of the loch, and across its whole breadth. Killin

Hotel has six boats, and its beat extends to about eight miles, also

across the whole breadth. Bridge of Lochay Inn, with three boats, has

the same water as the Killin Hotel. Ardenaig Inn has two boats, and

Lawers Inn, at the foot of Ben Lawers, two boats. The regulations at

these hotels are the same, each boat being allowed to carry only two

rods at £5 per week, or 25 shillings a day; if two anglers are in one

boat, at 30 shillings a day, all fish caught to be the property of the

angler. Two boatmen are necessary, and these are paid 3s. 8d. per day,

the angler allowing them luncheon only when he feels so disposed. This,

no doubt, looks very costly, but when the sport obtained is considered,

in reality it seems very cheap. Take the following score made by Mr. I.

Watson Lyall, made through the favor of Lord Breadalbane a few years

ago:

Feb. 5.--Opening day, after two o’clock ~P. M.~,

8 salmon, 28, 23, 23, 21, 20, 19,

18 and 16 lbs. 168

Feb. 6.--6 salmon, 32, 20, 20, 18, 19, 17 lbs. 126

Feb. 7.--4 salmon, 20, 19, 23 and 18 lbs. 80

Feb. 8.--Weather too stormy for fishing. --

Feb. 9.--6 salmon, 32, 17, 22, 19, 21, 17 lbs. 128

Feb. 10.--Stopped at two o’clock, 2 salmon,

30 and 19 lbs. 49

---

Total for five days’ fishing, 26 salmon,

weight lbs. 551

Not bad fishing that, and far from costly when salmon is selling in

London at two shillings per pound.

[Illustration: “HE LOOPED THE LINE ONTO THE OTHER ROD.”]

The fish, which rarely weigh under twenty pounds, fight strongly,

and carry out as much as eighty yards of line at a single rush, so

that they always give magnificent sport before being landed. For

some reason or other which cannot be explained, they will not rise to

the fly. Phantom minnows of the ordinary form are used, with small

screw-propellers at the nose to make them spin, and the better they

spin the more likely is the angler to be successful. On arrival at the

fishing-ground, the rods, which as a rule are fourteen feet long, are

fixed in little forked rests and so made to point sternward at an angle

over the gunwale. Forty yards of line are let out to trail (some allow

as many as sixty yards), and a small stone is placed upon a part of

the line under each of the rods. When these stones are jerked off, the

watchful angler knows that he is fast in a fish. There are, of course,

certain favorite bits of water, and these the boatmen take the rods

over with great care.

[Illustration: “WAS OBLIGED TO SIT DOWN WITH SUCH A STORM ON.”]

The Loch Tay tackle has for some reason or other remained very heavy,

and so boats cannot be taken close inshore for fear of the lines

fouling the rocks or the weeds, which grow in many places in rich

profusion at the bottom. And yet in these waters, near the shore, the

most of the salmon are to be found lying in wait for food. Last year

the heaviest salmon of the year--a magnificent forty-pounder--was

caught with the lightest tackle and lightest rod ever used, and so

there is very likely to be a considerable reform in Loch Tay trolling

rods within the next few years. The capture of this fish is worth

relating.

Mr. Geen, of Richmond, Surrey, a famous angler of southern waters, had

determined to use the very finest tackle, notwithstanding remonstrances

from fellow-anglers and boatmen. He made up his mind that with lighter

tackle he could “troll” his phantom a few feet nearer the surface than

with heavy tackle, an undoubted advantage in the bays, and that with

a line less likely to be seen a fish was far more likely to take the

bait. A light rod, he moreover thought, would kill a fish once caught,

quicker than one which had neither spring nor balance, so he used

what might be classed as an ordinary fly trouting rod of cane, with

greenheart top. All the epithets of derision to be found in the Gaelic

dialect were hurled at this determined innovation. Mark the sequel, and

with it the adventure, one of the greatest feats of perseverance with a

salmon under difficulties ever known in any angling water.

One of those sudden squalls which come down on Loch Tay and raise lumpy

water in the centre came up. To seek shelter from it, he directed his

two Highland boatmen to keep as near the shore as possible, so as to

come circling round on the landward side of the fleet. This was close

to a bold bluff known as Fat Man’s Rock. It was well on to five o’clock

in the afternoon, and he had not struck a fish. Suddenly the stone

sprang off the line under his inner rod as the boat swept round, and

the reel began to run with a desperate speed and noise.

“We have got hold of the county,” said his boatmen--this being an

ironical way of saying that he had hooked the land.

“No, we’ve not; it’s a fish,” said Mr. Geen, seizing the rod.

A fish, and a good one it was, too, for away it went seaward for 100

yards with a rush which staggered the boat, and then, salmon-like,

jumped into the air. It was not long, however, before it returned to

the place it was hooked, and here it began to be most troublesome

among the rocks. These troubles, however, were small compared with

what were to follow. As they reached deeper water again, his holder

began to handle with much success, apparently, for he got him almost

within reach of the gaff. _Almost_, but unfortunately _not quite_.

James reached out, but miscalculated his distance, caught the line,

and Mr. Geen felt something slip. His heart fell. Was he free? No! for

immediately the music of the reel was heard again, and he was off, this

time right to the bottom, sunk like a newly harpooned whale. There he

assumed the customary sulky disposition. In vain they tried to drop

stones on him. He was fully sixty yards down, and the stones no doubt

never dropped near him. The weight of the rod was tried on him, with

the result that six feet broke off at the top.

[Illustration: “HE WAS CAUGHT IN THE BACK FIN.”]

Darkness was now gathering, and the boats were crowding down homeward

to Killin and the Lochy Hotel. There was little sympathy on the part of

boatmen and sportsmen for the gentleman with the light tackle and the

cane rod. Some said he had hold of “the county,” others that his fish

was a small one, too much for his rod, and some betted him two to one

that he would not get it. One gentleman hailed him and said: “I will

stand by you all night, and watch the result.” This gentleman, though

he had not touched a fish for three days, was rewarded in the next five

minutes by a salmon on his own line--the recompense of true sympathy

with a fellow sportsman.

But what was to be done, and how was the rod to be mended? “Row quietly

out, James, so that I may cut all my trolling line” (the line which is

used outside the boat), “and I will put him on the other rod.” This

was slowly done, till the line was fastened quietly on the second

rod; though for precaution it was still, for the time, kept fast on

the broken rod. The broken rod was then slipped by cutting off the

connection, and once more Mr. Geen was prepared to fight in earnest,

but this time against almost pitch darkness.

“We maun raise him, sir; he’s a deed fish,” said James; “he’s like a

stane at the bottom.”

Inch by inch for sixty yards of line did James draw him up. At last he

said: “I have come to the first swivel.” Still no fish showed the white

of its belly. Up and up an inch or two more, and then--

“She’s gone, James!” said the holder of the rod, breathless with

excitement, as the boatman made a lightning movement.

“Yes, sir. Give him the gaff!” and the next instant the magnificent

fish was in the boat. Yes, there he was, _hooked by the back fin_. No

wonder, indeed, that he was hard to lift. The reason that he had been

hooked foul was because he had somehow got a turn or two of the line

round his body, and while the hook had been jerked out of his mouth at

the first time of gaffing, it slipped round and fouled him.

It was eight o’clock when the boat got back to Killin, and the whole

village, man, woman and child, turned out to learn of this wonderful

exploit, which will long be talked of on Loch Tay side.

Because Mr. Geen fought and killed this salmon successfully, it would

be absurd to argue that all men who fish under the shadow of Ben Lawers

should follow his example and fish with tackle of the finest quality,

and rods as springy as a tandem whip. It will be argued by many that

the difficulties in landing the fish were partly his own creation,

_i. e._, the use of a rod which was not equal to the heaviest Loch Tay

fish. We have had the pleasure of handling the rod, which is one of

Canter’s best make. We have no hesitation in saying that though a lady

might handle it without fatigue, it would prove far more fatiguing to a

fish than the stiff rods at present in use on the lake. A salmon would

come quicker within reach of the gaff when such a rod were wielded by

good hands--and a man with bad hands will never make a good steersman

or a clever man on horseback.

An invention made by Mr. Geen we liked much. It is a telescopic extra

length of rod which drops off when the butt is seized and a fish is

about to be played. This arrangement permits the point of the rod, in

trolling, to be lowered, so that the angle between the phantom and the

point is made more oblique, and the more oblique the angle is made

the higher in the water will remain the lure. This is a matter of the

utmost importance with revolving baits, as the screw will not work

at times unless kept going almost parallel to the waterline, and the

illusion remains incomplete. If any one is exercised in his mind about

this, let him take a phantom and attach head and tail to something

which will whirl round at the rate of six or eight revolutions

per second, and he will understand the necessity. Hooks and all

disappear, and you see but a small fish, and so does the salmon. Stop

the revolutions and you see a fish with hooks, barbs, and everything

else. I believe the double-screw propeller, which I saw some years

ago, though not successful when applied to ships, would do well for

phantoms, as giving one extra spin. However, it might raise the Gaelic

bile to say too much, and when that is raised there are more than

broken rods flying about.

[Illustration: “THEY HEAVED HIM UP INCH BY INCH.”]

When the fishing on Loch Tay palls on the angler, he may have some

capital off-days in the neighborhood, a drive up Glenlocky being a

favorite. The hotel is noted for its good horses. Then one can have

a sail up the lake in these little fresh-water models of Atlantic

greyhounds, _The Lady of the Lake_, and _Alma Carlotta_, to Kenmore.

These pretty little steamers were designed by Mr. G. L. Watson, whose

name is so well known in the yachting world. At Kenmore the beautiful

grounds of Taymouth Castle may be visited, and they are well worthy

of it, as there is nothing to beat them in either the Highlands or

Lowlands of Scotland. Three miles beyond Kenmore is Abergeldy, where

are the celebrated Banks of Abergeldy, whose praises the poet Burns has

celebrated in undying song. The ascent of Ben Lawers may be made from

Ben Lawers Inn, and a grand view of the Taymouth district be obtained,

as it is the fourth highest mountain in Scotland.

As a rule, many of the off-days are spent nearer home, and a much

frequented spot is the old ruins of Finlarig Abbey, close to Killin,

and situated on the banks of the lake. One of the smoking-room stories

tells how on one occasion, before an off-day party had been arranged

by Stewart the landlord, a Macgregor had been bouncing about his

famous ancestor, Rob Roy, in a manner which would have astonished the

famous cateran himself. These, if not taken with a pinch of snuff,

would denote that the Macgregor was always jumping rivers at the

widest points, and playing at hop, step and jump from Ben Lomond to

the Cobbler, and from the Cobbler over to Ben Lawers. Common report

makes Rob out to have been a very clever gentleman cattle-lifter, but

when a Macgregor gets hold of a few southern anglers over a tumbler of

toddy in the smoking-room of a Scotch hotel, he is allowed to make him

execute performances worthy of Jupiter. And “ye must na’ doot the word

o’ a Macgregor, for ye ken it has aye been true, no like the word o’

the Cammells, which has never been kept.”

To get a joke out of a real genuine Macgregor was quietly suggested,

and next day it was fully carried out. In the large hotel drag the

Macgregor of the party was allowed to continue his marvelous sketches

of the old chief’s exploits.

“But,” said a Saxon of the party, “how does it happen that all the

places of interest connected with the Macgregor family are associated

with escape? In Loch Lomond you are pointed out his Cave of Refuge; on

the burn at Inversnead, the place he jumped when pursued, and the same

in the Lyon--all, too, when fleeing from a Campbell.”

“A Cammell, did you say? A Macgregor flee from a Cammell? Never! It

takes ten Cammells to make a Macgregor turn his back. Say a hundred

Cammells and you will be right. Rob Roy flee frae a Cammell? That’s

impossible! No; when his foot was on his native heath, and his good

broadsword in his hand, all the dead Cammells that are in the ill place

itself would never have made him run. Sir, you do not know the speerit

o’ the Macgregors!”

“But they were a lawless, useless lot,” was the interruption of another

knight of the rod, “and the country around here never did any good till

they got rid of them in the old-fashioned Scotch way.”

“What do you call the old-fashioned Scotch way?”

“Oh, the gallows; dancing Gillie Callum and the Highland fling from an

ash bush, with three feet of daylight below them.”

“And who dare do that with a Macgregor?” was the response, in tones of

thunder.

Fortunately the skirr of the brake on the wheels of the trap, as

Stewart took a pull at his horses, stopped the conversation. It

heralded, also, our arrival at the old castle gates. The castle

of Finlarig was in stormy times the residence of the Breadalbane

Campbells, and the “auld laird” who occupied it made short work of such

as were not Campbells who were found straying in the neighborhood.

As the party walked in quietly, Stewart whispered to Mrs. Campbell,

the guide, “When ye come to the hangman’s-tree ye maun say ‘saxty

Macgregors’, instead of sax.”

“Guid save us, Mr. Stewart! Saxty Macgregors!” was the astonished

reply, “that would be the hale clan o’ them!”

“Never mind; say saxty,” was the whispered answer.

The old ruins having been well explored--the Macgregor fuming all

the time because “Sassenach fushing-men” would persist in making

comparisons in its favor with the dirty old fox-kennel-like caves

in which Rob Roy used to live--the party was then shown the old

gallows-tree.

“Thet’s the plece,” said Mrs. Campbell, “where the auld laird hanged

saxty Macgregors one morning before his breakfast.”

“Gregarach, woman! ye dinna say sae. It could na be saxty Macgregors,”

was the indignant response of Rob Roy’s descendant.

“Saxty Macgregors, I say--saxty Highland vagabonds, if ye like; a

half-dizzen [dozen] at a time. And a bonnie braw mornin’s work, nae

doubt, it would be for the country side!”

“Saxty Macgregors allow themselves to be hanged! Hoots, woman, ye be

bletherin’; they could nae have been true Macgregors!”

“_True_ Macgregors? Weel, I’ll no say that; the Lord never made sich a

thing as a _true_ Macgregor.”

“And never anything but false Cammells. Saxty Macgregors!” and the

champion of the old clan fairly wept for his unfortunate countrymen.

Had the Maccalumore himself looked in and a claymore been handy, there

would have been more tragic narrative. Humbled before the Sassenachs,

he remained silent till the graves of Black Duncan and the old Campbell

chief were pointed out, and then he had his revenge.

Jumping into the vault, he shouted to the attendant piper to play up

“Macgregor’s March.” He then danced on the stones above the grave

till the sparks were flying from the hobnails of his heavy boots.

Ever and anon, as he wheeled and jumped, he uttered the words, “Saxty

Macgregors!--hang saxty Macgregors! the scoundrels! Blaw up, piper, a

guid auld Macgregor reel tune, Rothermurchis Rout, or anything with the

music o’ the deevil in it. I could dance over a Cammell’s bones for a

fortnicht!”

Mrs. Campbell possibly did not relish the performance as much as the

“Sassenach fushing-men,” but very wisely did not interfere. Had there

been a hatchet on the spot, the gallows-tree would soon have been

removed and flung into the vault or hollow. Fortunately there was

nothing better handy than the old headsman’s axe of the Stuart period

(James Rex) given in the picture.

The Macgregor told no stories in the smoking-room that night about the

feats of his ancestors, but if any “Bleck McFlea” roused him in the

night-time, he was heard murmuring “Saxty Macgregors!” and then letting

forth his opinions of the whole Clan Campbell in certain Gaelic words

which are forbidden to be used by the Free Kirk in preaching Gaelic

sermons. The little story of the gallows-tree at Finlarig Castle,

where he was fair effronted afore the “fusher’s folk,” still haunts

him, and he shows this by sudden fits of temper, which seemed to worry

him when on the streets. But the smoking-room at Killin reeks with

fishing stories and anecdotes of the kind, and more than one number of

~Outing~ would be required to give them as they are given, over

a tumbler of good Scotch whisky toddy, after a long day in the boats

when salmon fishing on Loch Tay.

[Illustration: “HE WAS SENT HOME TO BE STUFFED.”]

SONNET.

The moon shone full upon the tide,

On whose dark, heaving bosom wide

The white light broke, till far and near,

With dancing jewels, silver-clear,

The sullen waves were glorified.

We spoke no word--all beauties vied

To charm our souls; and, satisfied,

We felt no care, no doubt, no fear--

For there we vowed, in accents dear,

To walk life’s pathway side by side.

_Howell Stroud England._

WINTER SHOOTING IN FLORIDA.

BY F. CAMPBELL MOLLER.

With the middle of December the upland shooting in the Eastern States

comes virtually to an end. To be sure, a couple of weeks remain before

the curtain of legal protection descends over the game still to be

found in the dead fields and snow-whitened coppices on the first day of

the new year, but the remnants of the quail bevies are wild, and, in

much shot-over districts, begin to approach in their watchful behavior

and antics the typical wariness of the hawk. As for the ruffed-grouse,

one needs to be a thorough workman, both in shooting and stalking, to

render even a tolerable account of these birds. The last woodcock was

seen nearly a month ago, this mid December day, as one fired and missed

him among the black alders, and he is up and away on the next stage of

his journey to the swamp-lands of the Carolinas or the Mississippi.