The sportsman resident of the country may at this season of the year

have an occasional sun-gilded winter’s day with the setters, when the

breeze comes warm from the south. But more often will he be listening

to the tinkling, musical notes of his beagles as the brown hare leads

them a circling chase through the brier-fields, or the deeper notes of

the fox-hounds will strike upon his ear as they echo among the gray

cliffs of the brown-treed mountain-side.

Yes, it may not seem to be quite the correct thing to my English

readers, but we shoot foxes from a “runaway” in the rough, wooded,

hilly country of the Eastern States, where it would be impossible to

ride to hounds, and gladly do we accept this chance to rid our farmers

of this destroyer of game and poultry.

After the 1st of January, comes the exodus of fashion, sport and

ill-health from the rigors and blizzards of a Northern winter, and many

are the queries from brethren of the gun, visiting for the first time

the land of Spanish-moss and palm-trees, to those who have shot quail

among the wild violets and sweet jessamine in the Carolinas during

early springtime, or “plugged” alligators in some muddy “backout” of

the Upper St. John.

No matter whether he knows how to use a gun or not, nearly every man

off for an outing in the South thinks it necessary to take with him

some such weapon for the destruction of animal life. This fact, in

brief, is sufficient reason for the scarcity of game along the shore

and in the waters of the traveled portion of the St. John’s River.

Continual bombarding has driven the denizens of flood and field to

remoter districts, and if one wishes really good sport, he must

literally hunt for it.

The majority of men going South solely for sport take the Charleston,

Savannah or Fernandina steamers, continuing by rail, if necessary, to

their destination, which is certainly the most economical procedure,

especially if one’s dogs be taken. This should always be done, if

possible, as a dog fit for a sportsman to shoot over can rarely be

hired or even bought in Florida until the end of the season.

If quail-shooting be the expressed desideratum, one had better confine

one’s self to the Carolinas or to Georgia, both for quantity and proper

ground to shoot over. But if he desires a variety, such as snipe, deer,

’gator and quail shooting, all on diverse grounds, lying, however, in

the sweep of a short radius from the spot he makes his headquarters,

Florida must needs be his objective.

If one is not going below the Carolinas, a rifle will be an unnecessary

encumbrance. Bird-shooting alone will be obtainable unless you visit

the wild mountainous country far from the paths of the Northern

tourist. Here the shotgun and buckshot are the chief agents used in

killing deer, and, in this sport as practiced in that section of the

wildwoods, one must nearly always be able to ride well; and unless one

is shooting on some friend’s invitation, he must also pay well for the

auxiliaries necessary to secure a shot at the denizens of the woods.

The same directions will apply to “jumping” deer with dogs from among

the stunted scrub covers of the Florida brakes. One generally shoots

from horseback at the small deer of this region, because the saddle

affords a much better opportunity of seeing over the clumps of dwarf

oaks or palmettos than would be obtained on foot.

For alligator shooting a heavy bored rifle--especially an express--will

be indispensable. A forty-four calibre repeater will, however, be

found to answer very well for all-round work on the river. And here,

let me at once dissipate any tyro’s fallacious belief regarding the

invulnerability of the American saurian, save in the eye. I have

known them--aye, big ones at that--to be killed with buckshot from

a close-carrying shotgun, at a distance of thirty-five yards by

planting a few pellets behind the fore-shoulder, and in the thinner

skin of the lateral abdominal walls. Frequently a second or even a

third shot at close range will be necessary to finish them as they lie

floundering in the shoal and blood-stained shore-waters by the side of

a half-submerged old tree-trunk. But more of ’gator shooting anon.

Tweed clothes of light color and loosely woven texture should be worn

for Florida sporting, as it is warm shooting there even in midwinter.

When shooting or outing generally, it is much better to increase the

thickness and warmth of the underclothing as the coolness of weather

renders such advisable, than to encumber one’s movements by heavy coats

and trousers. A pair of thick, oil-tanned grained-leather knee-boots

with legs made as narrow as permissible, to be worn with thick-ribbed,

long hose, will be found the best shoeing to be used in the Florida

bottoms. The long boots, coming over the buttonings of the snug-fitting

knee-breeches of whipcord--not knickerbockers, mind you--where they

fasten just above the swell of the calf, will be found the most

comfortable and consistent rig, whether splashing through the sloppy

prairies, along the river after snipe, or tramping the waste fields in

the clearings between the pine woods. Should you wear ankle-boots and

the baggy knickerbockers, always don a pair of thick leathern leggings

as an indispensable precaution against the musical and larksome rattler.

Along the St. John’s, from Magnolia to Enterprise, increasing

proportionately as one nears the latter place, fair sport may be had

with all the before-mentioned varieties of game by driving or boating

far enough into the recesses of the back country, away from the spots

easily reached by the average hotel lounger. But for really good

shooting one must get over into the Indian River region, or, better

still, the Hummocks on the Gulf coast, and especially about Homassassa,

if he wants good accommodation and an abundance of deer, quail, and

snipe as well as bass fishing. Below Lake Georges and extending toward

the Everglades is an immense breadth of country, comparatively unknown,

rich in sport and adventure to the exploring tourist who is willing to

endure much rough travel by canoe and portage, and to pitch his tent o’

nights in the great dense swamp-lands.

In Florida, quail are mostly shot in the open of the stubble fields

or clearings, or in the slight cover underlying the tall, shadowy

pine-lands, for the simple reason that the “thickets” in the far South

are almost impassable. I remember once following a bevy of quail,

flushed from an old maize field, into a bordering covert of prickly

plum, cactus and palmetto, with the same indifference with which I

generally plunge into the many-stemmed alder-brake or waist-high

cat-briers at home. I shall never do it again. Let the bevy go! Start

up a fresh one, and trust to your skill in “driving” them into lyings

more favorable for your purposes, if not for theirs.

For shooting in the country back from one’s hotel a wagon and pair

will be needed, and, unless you are well acquainted with the region,

a driver and guide combined, be he “Cracker,” “Nigger” or Indian. As

most of these gentry do a little pot-shooting themselves, in season and

out, they will generally insure you good sport, particularly if the man

is made to understand that an extra “tip” may be forthcoming, when you

return in the evening, proportionate with the amount of game found.

A deal of shooting is done driving through the rough country, among

the pine woods, leaving at times the sandy road for miles together,

provided the undergrowth be not too dense. And with the dogs quartering

on each side of the wagon, one has but to get out and shoot when a

point is obtained.

I find No. 10 shot, backed by a heavy charge of powder, the best size

for shooting Southern quail, which, by the way, are a trifle smaller

than the Northern bird, although identical in all other respects. No.

10 shot is also the proper size for snipe. Some capital bags of these

migratory birds may be obtained even on the meadows--or prairies as

they are called in Florida--suburban to Jacksonville.

But quail and snipe shooting in the South, with trifling differences

as to covert, haunt and lyings, inseparable from the richness of the

tropical setting and coloring, will be found so analogous to the same

sport in the North that further comment is unnecessary. However, it

will prove a new and delightful experience to the Northern sportsman

to flush birds, as is frequently done, in the scent-laden atmosphere

amid the glorious coppery splashes of color of an orange grove, and see

through the tree-stems the blue St. John’s flashing its sapphire width

in the warmth of golden sunlight, and the solitary giant palm rising

here and there along the far, sandy shore.

A day with the alligators is not bad sport when properly undertaken and

provided for; and the hide, teeth and feet will put you in possession

of much valuable material to be made into bags, leggings, slippers,

shoes, whistles, and gun-racks. But since the utility of the ’gator’s

hide has been discovered, they, too, are fast disappearing from the

places wherein they formerly abounded.

This sort of sport does not demand an early morning start. The best

time to approach within easy range of the alligators is while they are

taking their siesta at midday or early afternoon, sunning themselves

on the bog burrocks, which, in lieu of a beach, mark the line of

demarcation between the waters of the bayou and the swampy forest

bottoms.

Your skiff and man--who, by the way, should be a good paddler and

familiar with the haunts of the quarry you intend pursuing--having

been engaged over-night, you may breakfast as late and as leisurely as

you will, provided you have not too far to row to your proposed ground

before high noon. So, enjoy your repast of fresh fish and game of the

region, after having previously coolingly and deliciously prepared

your palate with a goblet full of pure orange juice from fruit plucked

that morning. Your sable attendant is waiting outside in the warm,

genial sunshine, in which all of his color love to work for periods

almost indefinite, and relieves your waiter first of all, because to

him the most important, of the luncheon hamper, grinning the while,

and giving a soft “chaw! chaw!” as he hefts its portentous weight and

eyes the claret and beer bottles protruding from one of the partly

raised lids. This all being to his entire satisfaction, he will pick up

your macintosh coat and shotgun and precede the way to his boat. You

take a gun as well as a rifle, as doubtless you will get some shots at

ducks and shore-birds as you row to the creek and back, especially the

latter, because the evening flight will then be on.

Your man may have pulled you for nearly an hour, and as you near a

bay which marks the outlet of a creek leading to the lagoon where you

intend paddling for ’gators, an object well out from shore attracts

attention. It looks like a water-logged dead branch floating under

water, save for three knotty protuberances rising above the placid

surface. It is the snout, orbital bone and topmost spinal joint of a

’gator, at least eight feet in length, judging the distances between

the slightly exposed portions of his scaly frame. No use firing at him;

even if one did hit the small mark he gives at 200 yards, he would

only be lost, for a dead or wounded alligator will always sink to the

bottom, and there, where that old chap is floating in silent content,

the water is much too deep to use the long boat-hook or the grapnel to

fetch his body to the surface.

Entering the bayou, the darky exchanges the oars for a thing he calls

a paddle. Not as delicately shaped is it as are those you have used

about Bar Harbor or on the Adirondack lakes, but it will answer the

purpose admirably. You seat yourself in the bow of the boat with your

repeater across your knees. There is a fascination in this coasting

along the weird, shadowy banks of the tropical creek, with its wealth

of beautifully and vividly colored birds. Rounding into the entrance of

the lagoon one sees a flock of white heron with wings glistening and

flashing in the sunlight as they fly over yonder moss-hung headland;

and the brilliant flamingo dyes with a gliding streak of salmon-pink

his reflected flight in the shaded, still waters underlying the wild

tangle of the wooded shore along which your boat is silently creeping.

The skiff rounds the headland.

“Look yaar, sah! Dere he be--ole ’gator on a lorg.”

“Where? where?” is hastily whispered, as you anxiously scan the

shore-line for a hundred yards ahead. Nothing, however, meets the

inexperienced eye but a wild reach of water-grass, rushes, bog-burrocks

and partly submerged fallen tree-trunks.

“Dar, sah! under dat big cypress, ’bout ten rod ahead, and lying on de

lorg on de show. Shoot, or he’ll be orf next minit,” hurriedly whispers

your “gillie.”

“Ah! there he is.” One holds just back of the fore-shoulder. Bang!

“He’s hit!” Then his tail wildly beats the air, and he rolls into the

water, which just covers but does not conceal his frantic contortions,

only to expose himself to a second shot as he flounders up on some

sunken logs. The man has grasped the oars after the first shot, and is

rowing rapidly to the spot where the mud and spray are being whirled

vigorously about.

“Give him a shot in the neck.” Missed! but no matter.

Now we’re within twenty yards of him. “Stop, Joe; don’t row up any

farther. Keep well out of the reach of his tail.” Now, pump another

ball at his head or neck to break his cervical vertebræ. “Good!” He

rolls off the log, but “rolled off dead, shoo,” says woolly-head,

showing his ivories, and getting the long-pointed hook ready for use

when the blood-stained waters shall have cleared away.

While the darky busies himself with removing the alligator’s skin, you

start off for a shot at a flock of teal which has come dangerously

near, and perhaps you also secure some plover. There is every reason to

be satisfied as you turn your boat down stream for home. The waters are

aglow in the evening sun; not a breath of air is stirring; everywhere

calm and quiet. You puff away at your pipe, and as you gaze at the

’gator skin in the bottom of your skiff, you find a use for every tooth

and every inch of hide, and you picture to yourself the pleasure you

are going to give to numerous friends. It is well to dispose of your

cargo in this way before you make your landing, for there at the wharf

you will find assembled the usual contingent of pretty girls waiting

for the evening steamer and the return of the different boating and

shooting parties. Hard-hearted will you have to be to withstand the

pleadings for mementos, etc., and there is every probability that when

you reach your hotel all that you have left will be the memory of a

pleasant afternoon with a ’gator.

THE CRUISE OF THE FROLIC.

BY S. G. W. BENJAMIN.

There is no cruising-ground on the coast of the United States equal

to that around Massachusetts Bay, and north as far as Portsmouth. The

ports are frequent and generally easy of access, and the variety of

scenery, the picturesque nature of the coast, the sea flavor about

the character of the people, and the quaintness of the towns of that

region invest it with singular raciness and an endless variety of

charm. Our yachtsmen are fast finding this out, although I think one

can better enjoy and appreciate these attractions when cruising in a

small five-tonner than in a large yacht, or in the company of a fleet,

for there are many curious nooks which only such a wee ship, off on a

roving commission by itself, would think of visiting. And it is this

very dodging among these odd corners of our coast that adds especial

zest to the enjoyments of your cruising yachtsman.

So much by way of preface to the statement that a lot of jolly sons of

Gotham made up their minds, on a certain summer in the eighties, to fly

the hurry of Wall Street and the temptations of a sinful metropolis for

the pure breezes of ocean, following in the wake of the sea serpent and

of the Pilgrim discoverers.

No seaport in America offers so many small craft handy for inexpensive

cruising as Boston. And hither Benton, our Corinthian skipper, and

the writer of this log hied in search of a suitable sloop or schooner

obtainable at a reasonable sum. The keel sloop _Frolic_ was finally

selected, and put into proper condition by the addition of fresh paint,

new cushions and curtains, a yawl, and the like. Charts and compass,

lead and fishing-lines, a new cable, and a stock of provisions,

including a supply of fluids, were also put on board; the rigging

was set up anew, and last, but not least, the crew was engaged. It

consisted of one pock-marked, grizzly-bearded mariner, whose appearance

was not altogether in his favor. But he came well recommended; had been

mate of a brig, it was stated, and had also sailed in many yachts.

He declared himself able and willing to pilot us into every port as

far as Eastport, to do “light cooking,” to serve as steward, and bear

a hand in working the sloop; he was, in fact, a paragon of nautical

excellences. My experience has led me to doubt those who lay claim to

such versatility and virtue, whether on land or sea, whether in matters

horsey or matters marine. But Mr. Brown was the best who offered, and

was therefore regularly enrolled on the ship’s list of the _Frolic_.

Scarcely was everything in readiness when Will Hallett and Frank Weller

arrived from New York, and made signals from the wharf that they

desired to be taken on board with their traps. For them the proposed

cruise was one of unusual interest, as they were novices in cruising,

although not altogether ignorant on the score of boat sailing. They

anticipated no end of fun, far more, doubtless, than is generally found

in these summer wanderings along the coast, which are sources rather

of quiet, healthy relaxation than of stirring adventure, and we older

hands thought it unwise to quench their young ardor.

There was little wind, but the weather was fine, and it was hoped

that with the sunset a breeze might come up that would float us down

to Marblehead before midnight. While Brown was loosening the sails a

propitiatory libation was offered to Neptune or his representative

in those waters. All hands then fell to and set the mainsail and

gaff-topsail, and got up the anchor. It was two hours yet until the

turn of the tide, and with this to aid the sloop we might easily drop

down past the islands, and the moon would light the night watches. But

as evening drew on the light westerly air entirely died away, followed

shortly after by signs of a fog from the bay.

Under the circumstances the sloop was headed toward Long Wharf, and

anchored, amid a cluster of yachts and coasters, south of the main

channel. About midnight, the night being very still and ghostly, and

a heavy, dripping fog lying on the water, through which the moon and

the nearer anchor-lights were barely visible, Benton was aroused by a

steady thump, thump, thump. He recognized the sound at once. A large

schooner, swinging with the tide, was bearing down on the sloop,

threatening to carry away her main-boom. For Benton and Brown to rush

from the cuddy in _vestibus naturalibus_, bestride the damp boom and

jump into the boat and pull the stern of the sloop out of the way, was

but the work of an instant. But, as everything was dripping with fog,

the Spartan simplicity of the costume produced a chill which it was

thought best to modify without delay by a searching prescription of rye.

The following day opened windless and foggy. In the middle of the

forenoon the fog lifted and showed a sullen, ominous offing. By noon a

breeze set in from the northeast.

“Let’s get up the mainsail,” said Benton.

“You ain’t agoin’ to sea to-day, be you?” asked Brown.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see the wind’s dead ahead? We’ll have a dead beat of it down

to Marblehead, and if it comes on to blow I guess we’ll get caught out

and have to run for a lee, and the fog on the coast just as thick as

mud.”

“Oh, I guess not. At any rate, there’s a breeze, and we’ll try it!

We’ve got a chart and compass, and if it don’t blow harder than this

we’re sure to fetch up inside of Marblehead Light before dark.”

Reaching down to Apple Island, through the main channel, the _Frolic_

fetched a tack up to Shirley Gut, a tortuous channel between Deer

Island and Point Shirley, which is impassable except for small vessels.

The tide was running out, while the long swell was rolling in. The two

meeting on the bar made a mass of boiling foam that looked a great

deal more savage than it was in reality, if met with a steady eye and

a firm hand at the helm. The tacks here were short, and the _Frolic_,

carrying a stiff weather helm, and buoyant as a duck, rapidly and

gracefully shivered her sails. and fell off on the other tack every

time, flinging the spray aft in sheets. But we were soon clear of this

and riding on a green swell enveloped by a mizzling fog. Now and again

a coaster suddenly loomed out of the mist and hailed the yacht to learn

the bearings of the land. The bold red cliffs of Nahant and Egg Rock

were successively passed. Ram Island, off Swampscott, and Roaring Bull,

off Marblehead Neck, were gradually seen, or rather the cold white

foam that beat against their faint coast line; then the cruel ledge

called Tom Moore’s Reef, which the sloop passed with a rush, glad to be

clear of such a dread foe under the lee beam. Soon after, Marblehead

lighthouse was hailed with satisfaction, for the rising sea and strong

gusts coming with growing frequency, made it desirable to reach a safe

anchorage before nightfall, now rapidly approaching with the settled

foreboding gloom of a gathering storm. Moll Pitcher, the presiding

witch of those shores, was evidently brewing foul weather.

Rounding the Light, and easing off the mainsheet, the _Frolic_ flew

down the little port and took a snug berth near the quarters of the

Eastern Yacht Club. That night it blew great guns, and rained in

torrents; but with both anchors down and plenty of scope, in one of the

snuggest harbors in the world, we realized that there is nothing more

cozy under such circumstances than the cuddy of a trim yacht, with a

warm supper and a jolly game of whist.

The _Frolic_ was not much to boast of in the way of size or splendor,

but she was comfortable, and that is the chief thing. She was

thirty-two feet long over all, and twelve feet beam, and, of course,

a keel boat. A centerboard box so reduces the space in the cabin of

a small cruising yacht that it should be avoided. A small stove was

placed in the forepeak, leaving a narrow transom for the sleeping

quarters of the crew. The skipper and friends entirely occupied the

main cabin, as it was called with a certain grim humor, where we had

just five feet of head-room.

The day broke pleasantly, contrary to expectation, the blow being

merely a summer storm. It was Sunday morning, and all hands except

Brown went ashore to buy beans and bread for breakfast. That meal

over, we turned out for a quiet smoke, when Brown followed instead

of remaining below to wash the dishes, a homely but necessary duty

which falls on the crew in small yachts. If there be no crew, strictly

speaking, the passengers are naturally expected to contribute their

labors toward the domestic duties of running a sloop down the coast.

It was evident from the look and manner of the aforesaid Brown that

trouble was brewing in the forecastle.

“It looks like good weather for running down to Gloucester, Mr. Brown,”

said Skipper Benton; “how soon do you think you’ll be cleared up below?”

“I guess you’ll have to go without me,” replied Brown, gruffly.

“How so? What’s up now?”

“Wall, you see, this ’ere job ain’t what I calkilated on. ’Tain’t for

me, who’ve been mate of a brig, to be washing of dishes and cooking of

food. ’Twan’t so understood when I agreed to go in this ’ere sloop.

I’m willin’ for to steer my trick and bear a hand in making sail and

the like o’ that; but I understood I was to be skipper aboard, and not

steward. I ain’t goin’ on no such job as you are givin’ me; you’ll have

to find somebody else in my place.”

“But you understood perfectly well what we expected you to do, and I

can bring witnesses to prove it. What you are after is perfectly plain;

you want to get an increase in the wages I agreed to give you.”

“Well, and what if I do? You don’t expect me to keep on with you at a

dollar and a half a day, and work in this blamed fashion?”

“I certainly did, and I could hold you to your bargain. But we’d rather

have you go at once, without another word. We’ll put you ashore, and

the sooner you clear out the better. We want no lily-fingered hands on

this sloop.”

Brown growled and grumbled, evidently disappointed at the result of the

mutiny, but Benton was firm.

The boat was hauled alongside, and the mutinous crew was rowed to the

nearest wharf. Lest he should poison the loafers on the wharf against

us, one of the party kept within earshot of him, while another went in

search of a man to take his place, which was by no means an easy thing

to accomplish under the circumstances. Happily Benton had acquaintances

among the sea-folk of Marblehead, and by their aid was soon able to

engage Uncle Joe, who came on board the _Frolic_ immediately after

bidding his wife good-bye. His only fault was his age. He was really

too old for service, having passed a good part of a long and well-spent

life on the Banks. In other respects he was an admirable specimen of

a Marblehead sailor; a clear, honest blue eye gleamed under a broad

brow, frosted with white, and a thick snowy beard fringed the lower

part of his bluff yet kindly features. He had seen seventy winters,

yet stood erect and firm as when he first walked a schooner’s deck;

his conversation was a racy combination of simplicity and shrewdness.

Uncle Joe’s outfit for the trip was comprehended within a cotton

handkerchief. He was a steady smoker of the pipe, but had sworn off

from anything stronger than tea and coffee.

Ten minutes after he came aboard, the _Frolic_ was under weigh and

bowling across Salem Bay with a stiff westerly breeze abeam. There

is not a finer yachting port in America than Salem Bay, with its

cluster of islets protecting it from easterly gales, and the group of

little harbors--Marblehead, Salem, Beverly, Manchester, and the Misery

diverging like the fingers on a hand. For sea picnics in which ladies

and children can join, there is no water safer, and at the same time

more attractive on our coast.

The _Frolic_ stowed her jib at Misery Island, and came to anchor in its

little port, where a boat may make a landing on its miniature beach

in all weathers. A quiet night was passed there, and in the morning,

while some of our party were bathing, Benton strolled over to the

east side of the Misery and painted the beautifully colored rocks of

House Island, close at hand. We hasten to add that he did not actually

paint the rocks themselves, but made a sketch of them on canvas. This

explanation is given because many on that coast would not so understand

the phrase. A friend of mine went down to Salem from Boston to take

studies of old schooners. Seeing a rusty, picturesque craft lying at

Derby Wharf, he said to the old skipper:

“How long are you going to be here, for I should like to paint your

schooner?”

“You needn’t bother yourself about a paintin’ of her. I guess I can do

all the paintin’ she needs,” replied that ancient worthy, squirting out

the tobacco juice, and not condescending to look up from the sail he

was mending.

There was to be a yacht race that day at Marblehead, and toward noon

the _Frolic_ stood out toward Halfway Rock to see the racers on the

home-stretch. The wind was sou’west, a green hump of a sea was heaving

up foam to the southward, and the sky looked very hazy to windward. In

other words, it was blowing a smoky sou’wester.

Glancing often and anxiously toward that quarter, Benton said:

“I don’t altogether like the look of things to windward; it’s going to

blow, and I’m thinking we had better be making tracks for port.”

“I don’t think it’ll amount to anything; it’ll go down with the sun;

don’t you think so, Uncle Joe?” asked Frank.

Thus appealed to, the old salt, puffing vigorously on his pipe, closely

scanned the offing, and said, “I don’t know about that; it looks kinder

measly to windward; one can’t tell much about these sou’westers; they

don’t never tell what they’re goin’ to do; but I guess ’twon’t be no

harm done if we stand in and smoothen the water a mite afore it comes

on to blow. I’m thinkin’, too, we’d better haul the topsail while we

can.”

“Aye, aye, take her in, Uncle Joe,” replied Benton, as a smart

puff laid the _Frolic_ down to her trunk. Scarcely was the topsail

stowed than it became necessary to take a reef in the mainsail as a

precautionary measure. The sloop was headed for the Marblehead shore in

order to have a lee if the breeze should develop into a heavy squall,

as now looked more than probable. The racing yachts were now sweeping

by, burying their lee rails and reefing down for the coming blow.

All went well, however, until we came abreast of Marblehead harbor.

One glance at that port was enough. The water, an inky black, was

furrowed and lashed to foam by a furious squall that was advancing with

frightful rapidity. I have never seen the surface of the sea look more

wicked.

“Now, boys, be lively! Let go all!” cried Benton, grasping the tiller

with both hands and bracing his feet for a good hold.

Frank sprang to the jib downhaul, while the others let go the mainsail

halliards, just as the squall struck the yacht. The jib went down on

the run, but the throat halliards jammed, and the pressure on the

canvas was such that the sloop failed to fall off with the helm hard

up. She lay over on her side, half buried in the water, and in the most

imminent peril. Springing up the mast and hanging to the hoops, Frank

started the gaff. As soon as this was done she began to pay off before

the wind. But for the mainsail being reefed the _Frolic_ would have

gone down; as it was, her standing room and cuddy were half full of

water when she righted.

Brought down to balance-reefed mainsail, the _Frolic_ was steered

handsomely under the lee of Peach’s Point and came to anchor in

Doliber’s Cove. During this exciting episode a small schooner, caught

as we had been, capsized and went down in shoal water, and the crew

clung to the mastheads until picked up, while in every direction

vessels were seen carrying away spars and sails, and running for a lee.

The squall proved short as it was violent. In two hours everything was

balmy and serene, and we decided to steal across the bar by moonlight,

leaving it to circumstances to guide us. The idle wind of evening

wafted us to the entrance of Manchester port, and under the jib we let

the sloop drift until she brought up in the mud and eel-grass, for it

was ebb tide. We lay half dozing and dreaming on deck until the turning

tide lifted the yacht, and a light air from the southward coyly filled

the jib. Thus we glided until fairly among the wharves of a wee little

haven inclosed by hills, houses and thickets. The mud-hook was dropped,

and with every prospect of a good night’s rest after the vicissitudes

of an exciting day, we all turned in, but, as it proved, alas, not to

sleep.

The quiet of the cuddy was suddenly broken by a strong English

monosyllabic exclamation. Then Frank was heard to give his cheek a

smart slap; expressions more or less desperate were now heard from

every quarter of the cuddy with alarming frequency and distinctness. It

was too true--the ubiquitous, merciless and innumerable musquito had

invaded the _Frolic_. He came attended by ten billions of miniature

demons thirsting for blood and buzzing a song of triumph, like the

distant tuning up of an orchestra of bagpipes in an approaching

thunder-storm: these atmospheric sharks drove us pell-mell on deck,

but there they seemed not less numerous and infuriating. At length,

as a relief, the dingey was drawn alongside, and leaving Uncle Joe to

look out for the yacht, the rest of us slowly paddled about the little

port. There was no fault to find with the night. It was absolutely

serene. The sky’s fathomless purple was without a cloud, spanned by

the Galaxy’s illimitable train of mystic splendor reaching up from the

south. The moon was at the full, and its argent light turned the little

fishing haven into a cave in the land of dreams; by that magical glow

old farmhouses and barns were transformed into fairy pavilions, and

the fireflies darting hither and thither appeared like the flicker of

torches lighting phantom halls. A weather-worn schooner leaning against

a barnacled wharf might have passed for Cleopatra’s barge, as she

lifted her moon-silvered masts against the stars, her maintruck jeweled

by a planet. The stillness was almost awful. “Dear God, the very

houses seemed asleep!” At intervals only a melancholy whippoorwill in

a distant thicket dared to utter its complaint on this perfect summer

night.

Toward dawn the tide began to slacken, and with a line attached to the

end of the bowsprit we towed the _Frolic_ to the mouth of Manchester

port. Finding no mosquitoes there, and no likelihood of a breeze to

disturb us for some hours, we again dropped anchor and enjoyed a

delicious slumber until the noisy cocks on the neighboring shores

insisted that we awake and see the dawn.

What can equal the solemn splendor of a summer dawn in such a spot!

A gradual glow deepened in the cloudless east, and the morning star

shimmered on the brow of the coming day, casting a quivering trail of

silver on the pale, glassy surface of the ocean. The shores of islet

and mainland were thinly veiled by a gray gauze of mist, and the songs

of awakening birds came from far and near. The metallic beat of oars

on the tholes, heard faintly in the distance, announced that the early

fisherman was going forth to catch the early fish. Benton, who had been

quietly feasting his artistic eye with this enchanting scene for some

time, when the vane of the Manchester-by-the-Sea church caught the

first flash from the sun bursting above the sea, put his head down the

companion-way and shouted:

“Come, boys, come! Turn out! Sun’s up, and we’ve no time to lose if we

are going to get to the Shoals to-day!”

“Oh, pshaw! why not let a fellow sleep awhile?” yawned Hallett; but

the discipline of the ship, or rather the delicious fragrance of the

morning air, could not be resisted, and ere long the seductive aroma

of coffee was noticed stealing from the cuddy. Breakfast dispatched,

all sail was made, and before long the _Frolic_ was abreast of Kettle

Cove and the pretty settlement of Magnolia. After passing the Cove the

breeze freshened, and when off Gloucester harbor the kites were taken

in, as the puffs off the land were fresh and frequent. Standing across

Milk Island Channel, then impassable owing to the tide, we sailed

around Thatcher’s Island, whose trim granite lighthouses, 130 feet

high, towered grandly above us. The wind here was very fresh, and the

_Frolic_ fairly scooted. To make it easier going we took the dingey on

board, laying it across the cabin trunk. The day was fine, and many

sails were seen, including those of a number of yachts. Having safely

passed Hallibut Point, as the day was warm notwithstanding the breeze,

it was deemed prudent to go below and partake of what Dick Swiveller

called a “modest quencher.”

Uncle Joe being weary, and Frank being willing to show his seamanship,

he was left for a few moments in charge of the tiller, the sloop being

under mainsail and jib, and the wind on the port quarter. He knew how

to steer reasonably well, and we never knew exactly how it happened

that at the precise moment that Benton declared the lemonade to be

exactly right the _Frolic_ gybed her main-boom and went over almost

on her beam ends. We were all thrown together in a heap; and as for

the lemonade--well, the less said about it the better, for it mingled

with the flood of water that deluged the cuddy. Puffing and blowing we

scrambled on deck, where, happily, nothing had been carried away, but

we had a close squeak of it.

After this drenching we found the sloop was just abreast of the

entrance to Essex. As we were off on a cruise to nowhither except the

land of fun, it suddenly occurred to us that none of us had ever been

to Essex. Why not put in there and take a look at things? Out came

the chart, which showed a clear but narrow channel hedged by shifting

shoals, and with sandbars on each side. The weather being fine, we

were soon inside the snow-white sand-hills of the bar, and came to an

anchor, as the channel thence to Essex is tortuous, beset with rocks

and impassable, except with a favoring tide.

The sunset came on serenely, the golden glow tingeing the white

sand-dunes where lay an old wreck. The plaintive wail of the sandpipers

hopping on the sand gave an indescribable effect to the quietude of

the scene. How pleasant was our long chat that evening with our pipes!

Sometimes one spun a yarn of the sea, and then followed an interlude of

silence, or a bit of humor that elicited a genial laugh. The stars were

thick that night and the dews heavy when we turned in to enjoy a night

of calm repose, after voting that there is no out-of-door sport that

offers more charms than cruising in a yacht.

The _Frolic_ was left in charge of Uncle Joe the next day. There was

a dead calm and promise of a continuance of the same for a day or

two, so we started for Essex in the dingey. It was a pull of five or

six miles along a winding channel, but we proceeded in a leisurely

manner, stopping at various attractive spots on the way. One of these

was Cross’ Island, in mid-channel, a hilly islet containing a clump of

trees to relieve its bareness. A few shanties were scattered along its

slopes, of which the oldest were thrown up years ago for the gentlemen

who were in the habit of spending a week or two in October shooting in

the neighborhood for water-fowl. One of these shanties was on a rock

at the water’s edge, having bunks built into the sides as in a ship.

On our return from Essex, two of our party passed the night there, and

the sound of the tide rushing under the shanty as one lay in his bunk

conveyed the impression of being at sea.

We found Essex a quiet, old-fashioned village of two or three thousand

people, offering no special attractions beyond the stock of provisions

we obtained there. It was formerly one of the chief ship-building

ports of New England; but now one sees only here and there a fishing

schooner or coaster on the stocks. The most striking characteristic of

the population of that worthy burg is, that the people belong mostly to

three families: the Burnhams, Storys and Choates. If one should throw

a stone in the streets of Essex, the chances are three to one that it

would hit some one bearing one of those names. It is evident that, as

in Plymouth, the people are still largely of the old New England stock,

a hard-headed, sturdy, close-mouthed, shrewd, sensible, conservative

race, not easily swayed, not given to sentiment, but liable to

occasional impulses of popular feeling that surprise one who would

not look for it in that quarter. During the period of the witchcraft

delusions, the people of Essex yielded to the notion that the devil was

marching on their place with a legion of evil spirits.

Leaving Frank and Will at Cross’ Island, Benton and the writer returned

to the _Frolic_ towards evening. Uncle Joe was seen quietly smoking

his pipe on deck, and was rejoiced to see us back. The position of the

sloop was exposed, and he was old, and did not care to be in charge

alone all night. The boys promised to be back in good season the

following morning, hoping to come off in a passing dory. But either

they failed to get such conveyance as early as expected, or they found

life on the island too agreeable, for they did not put in an appearance

until afternoon. The breeze was then too light to reach any place

before night, and we were forced to lie at Essex until another day.

The sky looked hazy at sunset, the sun was yellow, and the surf had a

deep hollow roar on the bar, all signs indicating a gathering storm of

some duration. We therefore moved the _Frolic_ a little north of the

berth where she was lying, and kept a watch on deck all night, lest

it should come on to blow before dawn. I do not know of a more wild

and desolate scene on our coast than where the _Frolic_ was anchored,

especially at low tide; on all sides white sands and dunes, or gray

sands reaching miles and miles, and the air filled with the spray from

the ever-rolling surf, beating on the bar from age to age.

It was scarcely dawn when the writer, the watch on deck having fallen

asleep, was awaked by a cold sensation on his side exactly like a snake

creeping up his leg. That it must be a slimy reptile was the first

thought that flashed across my mind, the more naturally, perhaps,

because I once had a centipede leisurely creep on the bare skin from

the ankle to the knee. But as soon as I was wide awake, I realized that

the _Frolic_ was lying aground on her bilge, and that the bilge-water

was pouring into the lee bunks. Either she had not been pumped dry the

night before, or her garboard had opened with the strain of lying high

and dry. That we should be left by the tide in such a position was due

to the extreme low ebb, and the fact that the boat had swung out of the

channel. In any case there was nothing to be done but await the course

of events.

The sun arose out of a cloud-bank, and the weather looked threatening,

but while we were waiting, two of the party walked off across the

sands to obtain fresh milk from the house where Rufus Choate was born,

which was in plain sight of the bar. While they were gone we put our

oil-stove into the dory alongside, and put the kettle on. The crabs

were running out to sea by the myriad, and when the water was boiling

we picked them out of the water and tossed them into the kettle. It is

needless to say that that portion of our breakfast that morning was

fresh and appetizing.

By the time the breakfast was eaten it became evident that the sooner

we found another port the better, as the wind was piping up out of

the northeast and the sea was rising so fast it would drive us ashore

when the _Frolic_ floated. But as the tide rose we saw to our surprise

that the _Frolic_ did not rise with it, but had settled and lay on the

sand like lead, while the water flooded her lee decks. There was not

a moment to be lost. Unshipping the block from the jaws of the gaff

we attached it to one end of a hawser, at the other end of which was

an anchor. This we carried out into deep water in the dingey; then,

bowsing on the throat halliards, we brought the _Frolic_ upon an even

keel, when she floated. In ten minutes we were under mainsail and jib

and beating out to sea. The _Frolic_ staggered under that canvas, but

was forced to carry it in order to meet the heavy sea and tide and

hold her own in the quick, short tacks in a narrow channel, hedged by

sand-shoals white with breakers.

Fairly past that danger, we had to face the question as to the course

to be followed. To beat up to the Isles of Shoals or Portsmouth against

a freshening northeaster on a lee shore, seemed foolhardy unless for a

good reason. We had to choose between running for Cape Ann and a lee,

or heading for Newburyport, by way of Plum Island Channel, Ipswich

Bay, its entrance being on our lee beam. This being a _terra_ or _aqua

incognita_ to us all, offered the zest of novelty. We decided in its

favor _nem. con._ The helm was put up and the sheets eased away, and

the _Frolic_ galloped over the high seas like a racehorse. The channel

here follows the southern shore of the bay past the light-house. That

was the only course for us to take, but under the exhilaration of

the sea wind we recklessly headed directly over the bar, a piece of

folly to which I now look back with amazement, as it was absolutely

unnecessary. The _Frolic_ steered rather wildly with a quartering sea,

and the swell rose steep, hollow and furious as we approached the bar,

which had been bare and above water two hours before. Happily for us,

the _Frolic_ whooped over the bar on the top of a great roller, and a

moment after we were gliding in smooth water. Had the sloop gone in on

the fall of the sea she would have left her bones there, and perhaps

her crew as well.

It was a short run from the turning-point to Grape Island, a section

of the long, low breakwater called Plum Island which has been thrown

up in the course of ages to protect the pastoral shores between Essex

and Newburyport, and offer a hunting-ground for sportsmen. Plover,

sand-pipers, rail and duck abound there, and the hummocky character

of the surface of the island, tufted with sedge and salt grass, and

intersected with creeks, offers fine opportunities for stalking the

game. Many a rare spirit has found solace on those lonely island moors

in the fall of the year in times past, and the region is haunted by

legends of wrecks and sporting characters, who have made it a “happy

hunting-ground.” One story may not be generally known concerning a

certain well-known worthy of thirty years ago, remembered for handling

the long-bow as well as the rifle.

“Sand-peeps?” said he to one, who was asking about game on Plum

Island--“sand-peeps? why, bless you, there’s millions of them! I

crossed over to the island one afternoon in October, and left the dory

in a creek. Then I just clamb a little hill and up flew an all-fired

big flock of sand-peeps. I up and let fly both barrels at them, but I

aimed a leetle too low and they all flew away; but just to show you how

thick they are, I picked up a bushel-basket full of legs! A fact!”

There was a cheap hostel, a sort of fifth-rate saloon “for transients,”

on Grape Island. The piazza overlooking the sea had a certain

attraction, and we decided to try our luck there for a chowder.

A clam-chowder was what we got, served without any assumptions

of cleanliness. We were waited on by a tall, slender woman, dark

complexioned and wearing large yellow earrings. She had been handsome

once, but now wore that spiritless, faded look one sees so often in

our seaport towns down east, as if hardship, disappointment and a diet

of saleratus biscuit had filled life with a general disgust. She was

evidently of the mixed race one sees in that region, formed by Pilgrim

stock intermarrying with the Portuguese who settled at Marblehead and

Cape Ann. The chowder was poor and the beer very small beer indeed, but

I look back with intense pleasure to the hours idly passed that summer

afternoon on the porch of the inn, quietly smoking and gazing over

the green slopes of Ipswich dotted with peaceful farms, the winding

steel-gray waters of the channel, the russet moors of the island, and

the vast expanse of ocean deeply blue and flashing with white crests.

The storm we had expected seemed deferred to another day, for the sun

set clear and took away the wind with it. In the twilight a little

whiffling air came up from the sea, and we concluded to run up to

Ipswich. But the wind died away, and at ten o’clock we were merely

drifting with the tide, under the jib. The sky was clear, but the moon

was still not risen, and it was exceedingly dark. It was a weird night,

whose silence was only broken by the sudden, startling scream of a

seabird, the distant boom of the surf and the swash of the tide on the

shallows and against the bow of the yacht. We became aware, at last,

that the hills were closing in around us, and the anchor was dropped

within a few yards of the shore.

We were awakened by the low of cattle, apparently not a dozen yards

from the sloop, and the rumble of a wagon over a bridge. But on putting

our heads above the companionway we could see nothing, the fog was so

dense, excepting here and there the faint ghostlike form of a tree.

There was nothing until the dripping mist thinned out for a moment and

enabled us to discover that we had run up the Parker River, and were

anchored within a stone’s-throw of Oldtown Bridge, a venerable stone

structure erected in 1718. If we had continued 100 yards farther than

we did in the dark, the _Frolic_ would have carried away her mast

against the bridge.

The tide left us this time flat on the ooze of the river bed; there was

nothing to be done but go on a foraging expedition after milk, eggs,

fresh bread and meat, all of which provisions were now scant in our

lockers. The village seemed to number about a dozen houses and as many

barns, and the people appeared to have been born and brought up in a

fog, to judge from the obfuscation of their faculties. They acted as if

they had been asleep since the days when pirates made descents on the

coasts, robbed henroosts, cast sheep’s-eyes at the women folks and hid

treasure in caves. The good people glared at us as if they had never

seen respectable men in sea-boots, blue-flannel shirts and sea-caps.

The young girls peeked at us through cracks behind the doors, giggling

in a most entertaining manner. We little thought when we set sail

that we were destined to give as much pleasure to these simple-minded

rustics of Newbury Oldtown as an Italian with a barrel-organ and

monkey, nor that we should be the cause of such breaking of the tenth

commandment on their part. The barnyards were well stocked with cows,

and healthy brahmas were cackling before every door; but at every house

we were told in the most emphatic manner that milk and eggs were not

to be found in Oldtown at that particular time. One man plucked up

courage to answer a few of our questions, but like the rest, his cows

were short of milk and his fowls did not lay enough eggs to pay for

their keeping. To take these people at their word, Oldtown was the

most godforsaken spot on the globe. One dried-up specimen of womanhood

was hanging out her clothes on the line when we appeared at her gate:

hearing the latch click, she looked around sharply and received a

shock that must have shortened her days. Exclaiming, “Sakes alive!”

she dropped the garment from her hand, rushed into the house and

slammed and bolted the door in our faces. It was useless to apply for

provisions there.

Finally, at the very last house in the village we found a family who

actually asked us to walk in, offered us seats and a drink of milk,

and supplied us with fresh eggs, milk and buns for a reasonable price.

Their hospitality was thoroughly appreciated and is not forgotten.

When the fog rose the wind rose also, a regular stiffener out of the

northeast. The little _Frolic_ beat up the exceedingly narrow and

winding channel under a press of sail, working beautifully in the

short tacks with her lee rail buried half the time. When we reached

Newburyport the drawbridge flew up, and dashing through we anchored

in the Merrimac, near the railroad-bridge, at three ~P. M.~,

just as it began to screech out of the northeast; and howl it did for

two days, while the rain fell in torrents. The _Frolic_ hung on, with

both anchors down, and a long scope of cable. But when the wind backed

into the nor’west the second night for an hour or two, and blew down

the swollen river, which ran like a mill-race, it looked as if the

yacht would drag her anchors and be blown on Plum Island or out to

sea. Luckily everything held, and the wind was soon back in the old

quarter. We had a fine period of leisure during the gale for sleeping,

reading up all the old novels on board, and living like fighting-cocks

on shore, where we found a fine old negro, whose thrifty wife has no

superior on that coast for roasting chickens and cooking coffee.

It came out fine after the gale, the wind soft and bland and the sea

as enchanting as if it had not been doing its level best to shift the

sands of Newburyport bar and strew the coast with wrecks. We hung out

all the muslin and stood over to the Isles of Shoals. After dining at

the Appledore, we started for Portsmouth. The glow of a superb sunset

suffused land and sea and sky as we slid past the Whaleback Light and

anchored in the Piscataqua, off Newcastle.

The following morning, when the flood-tide set in, we ran up past

Pull-and-be-dam Point, and the other intricacies which render the

approach to Portsmouth a matter of care and patience, and anchored

in a creek opposite the Navy Yard. Here we were detained for nearly

four days by a dense fog, sometimes accompanied by rain, which made

it inexpedient to run along the coast. While lying at Portsmouth we

repeatedly availed ourselves of the hospitalities of the Rockingham

House, a small but admirable hotel. Finally the fog cleared away,

and, in company with several other yachts detained like the _Frolic_,

we were able to put to sea. Our long detention at the last two ports

made it necessary to head for home. We passed the first night of our

return voyage at Pigeon Cove. The entrance is only wide enough to admit

the passage of one ship. The following day we towed the _Frolic_ out

in a calm, and took a breeze off Straitmouth Channel. The tide being

well up, we concluded to try this hazardous passage, which is only

reasonably safe at high tide with a leading wind. We were bowling along

quietly and comfortably, when in a most unexpected manner the _Frolic_

landed on the top of a rock scarce four feet below the surface. She

was caught only by the stern-post and the bow lay loose. The rock was

evidently steep and pointed, for the yacht rocked dangerously from side

to side and threatened to capsize. We all ran forward to the bow, and

our weight depressed the bow and caused the stern to float. Our escape

was such a relief that we felt it essential to offer a libation to

Bacchus.

Once through the channel, we took a staving nor’west breeze, which

swept us down to Point Shirley by four o’clock. By careful manœuvring

we succeeded in bringing the _Frolic_ safely back to her berth opposite

Long Wharf in time to go on shore and take a bath, followed by a jolly

dinner at one of the excellent restaurants with which Boston is better

supplied now than it was only a few years ago.

Thus ended a cruise which was attended by no remarkable adventures

nor extended over much time, but was none the less attended by much

pleasure as well as decided advantages to the health of all concerned.

We earnestly recommend a similar experience to the reader, simply

adding that cruising on that coast requires experience in things

nautical, and is sufficiently hazardous not to be trifled with by those

who are ignorant of seamanship and boat-sailing. Before closing, the

writer would suggest that for cruising and dodging from port to port, I

find the schooner rig preferable to that of the sloop, and should not

again select a sloop for such a purpose. Small schooners of the size

of the _Frolic_ are much more common in New England than New York. But

such are the advantages of this rig that it is singular it is not more

the fashion for cruising in an inexpensive manner.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Editor’s Open ~Window~.]

FOR VOLUME XIV.

~Outing~ closes its thirteenth volume with this issue. The

many readers that have come to us since we began the volume last

October furnish an unmistakable evidence that ~Outing~ has

given great satisfaction to the lovers of sport. Slowly and steadily

~Outing~ has improved. But the changes hitherto made have not

been so marked as those about to be made.

The success of ~Outing~ has been brought about by striving to

present, in the most attractive dress, both artistic and literary,

only such subjects as appeal, directly and closely, to the tastes and

proclivities of the ever-increasing army of genuine lovers of sport and

recreation.

In the fourteenth volume of ~Outing~, the best literature,

descriptive of every phase of legitimate sport as participated in by

ladies and gentlemen, will predominate.

In the hands of such mighty hunters as the late Gen. R. B. Marcy,

Lieutenant Robertson, Mr. G. O. Shields and Capt. Jack Crawford, the

crack of the rifle will be heard in the pages of ~Outing~. The

almost inaccessible fastnesses of the gigantic mountain chains which

traverse America and provide a very paradise for the lover of the

biggest kind of game hunting will be penetrated, and the thrilling

scenes and exciting adventures of following the elk, moose, bear, deer

and other game will be presented to our readers.

The streams, rivers and lakes of this continent afford finer fishing

than any other quarter of the globe. The salmon of the St. Lawrence

and Saskatchewan, the lordly muskallonge of the Nor’west, the bass and

trout of a thousand streams from Maine to California offer such sport

as is not to be mentioned in the same breath with what one gets on the

fly-whipped waters of Scotland, Ireland and Norway; and ~Outing~

will present to its readers authentic records of the experiences of the

best known adepts of this most fascinating sport.

Nothing is more remarkable in the general athletic revival of to-day

than the great attention that is given to the physical recreation and

development of the fair sex. This good work ~Outing~ has always

fostered, and to lead our gentle sisters into the joyous sports afield,

we will offer them articles on camping, rowing and swimming, and also

practical hints for horsemanship and fishing.

Recognizing that the dog is the sportsman’s best friend and most

constant companion, ~Outing~ is ready with a series of papers

on the breeding, breaking and training of the different breeds of dogs

used in the chase. Mr. Mercer will treat of Clumber Spaniels, Mr.

Anthony of Pointers, and other writers will write of setters and hounds

for deer-coursing, hunting, etc.

For the sportsman who, over lea and bracken and swamp and meadow

and upland, follows the partridge, the quail and the woodcock,

~Outing~, in the coming volume, will have a rich treasure of

useful as well as interesting reading. We have reminiscences of duck

shooting in Canada, California, Oregon and other celebrated haunts, not

forgetting, of course, the pleasures of Chesapeake Bay and the delights

of the Carolinas and Florida.

In the field of general athletics, ~Outing~ may justly claim to

have done much; and the appreciation already manifested in our Club

and College articles by all classes of readers has determined us to

give this branch of our work its full share of prominence in the coming

volume.

Summer field sports will, of course, find ample representation in

~Outing~. Mr. H. J. Slocum, Jr., Mr. Taylor, and other prominent

players and writers on Lawn Tennis, will fully describe the interest

taken in this widely popular game. Articles will appear on tennis on

the Pacific slope, the South, and the more brilliant achievements

at Newport, Staten Island, Orange, and other fashionable centres of

the game. Cricket in England, Australia and America will be fully

discussed, while Baseball, Lacrosse, and the popular pastime of Lawn

Bowls, will be the themes of handsomely illustrated articles.

Rowing has at all times been a most popular exercise among college and

club men, and ~Outing~ will publish a very valuable series of

papers on the ~Evolution of Form in College and Amateur Rowing~.

The recognized leading authorities on this subject have prepared these

articles, and they will be one of the most attractive features of the

coming numbers. While properly representing the brethren of the oar,

~Outing~ has by no means forgotten the wielders of the paddle,

and canoeists will find many a pleasant sketch of cruising and camping

in the summer pages of ~Outing~.

In Yachting matters ~Outing~ has always led the van, and we

propose to present to our aquatic friends a fine galaxy of yachting

literature during the coming season. The Larchmont Club will open the

ball, and this article will be followed by others on the Seawanhaka,

Eastern, and other prominent organizations. The illustrations for

these articles will embrace reproductions from photographs of the

leading flyers and “cracks” in each fleet, and the whole will be a most

valuable collection of modern boats.

The marvelous results that can be obtained by the modern instantaneous

camera, and the comparatively little trouble given by adding an outfit

to one’s camp or field kit, makes photography a prominent feature in

any expedition nowadays. In fact, photography may be aptly called a

picture diary, which chronicles scenes and episodes more vividly and

graphically than the most brilliant and epigrammatic collection of

notes. ~Outing~ will, therefore, furnish a series of short,

pithy papers on photography, and Mr. Ellerslie Wallace, who writes the

articles, is an instructor from whom all will be proud to learn.

Continent may differ from continent, nation from nation, in language,

religion, and government, but sport is cosmopolitan, its literature is

universal, its followers are brothers all the world over. Thus we find

sportsmen in Europe are just as eager to read the doings by “flood and

field” in America as Americans are interested in all that appertains

to sport across the sea. ~Outing~, then, must of necessity be

international, and with this idea in view the Editor and Manager of

~Outing~ went to Europe recently to look over the field in

England and on the continent, and returned bringing many MSS. and

illustrations with him in his portmanteau, and his pockets lined with

contracts for articles that will make the fourteenth volume an evidence

of a good work done.

“Plantagenet,” whose name is familiar wherever English sport is known,

will contribute regularly hereafter, and his introduction in this issue

is sufficient to acquaint those who never read his writings with the

great gain this connection brings to ~Outing~ in the department

of hunting and racing on British soil.

“Rockwood,” who has heretofore occasionally written for our pages, will

hereafter address us at frequent intervals on sport with the _Rod and

Gun_. “Redspinner,” than whom none writes better of the pleasures of

Walton’s disciples, will contribute a series of papers. Mr. Dalziel,

who has become one of the best living authorities on the _Kennel_, has

taken in hand the kennel interests in Great Britain; and Mr. R. H.

Moore, the clever English dog-artist, will furnish the illustrations,

so that ere Vol. 14 closes the friends of the Kennel will have secured

with its six numbers a pretty good history on matters canine in

England and America. Lady Arnold has contributed a series of articles

on _Yachting_, to be followed by valuable papers on this subject from

other writers. A special correspondent has been sent by ~Outing~

to the Mediterranean, and Yachting in Southern Europe will be the topic

of a series of valuable papers to our yachtsmen.

Friends of the wheel have been specially cared for, and Mr. Joseph

Pennell, who needs no introduction to cyclers, is now engaged on a

series of articles and illustrations that will give ~Outing~ a

new look altogether. But, aside from these and other valuable papers,

we have the pleasure of announcing the return of Mr. Howarth from the

Azores, whither he was sent by ~Outing~, at great expense, with

cycle, gun, and camera, to explore the islands of the sea; and the

articles on _Cycling in Mid-Atlantic_, illustrated by Harry Fenn and

Joseph Pennell, will prove one of the greatest attractions that any

magazine ever offered to its readers. Lady Brierly will contribute

papers on the horse; and last, but not least, the greatest of sporting

writers, Capt. Hawley Smart, is now completing a sporting novel for

~Outing~ that will run through at least six numbers, and be one

of the best stories ever given to magazine pages.

~Outing~ has spared no pains to secure the best artists to

illustrate its excellent literary material, and with such a staff at

our command as Harry Fenn, Henry Sandham, A. C. Corbould, Joseph

Pennell, M. J. Burns, R. H. Moore, J. W. Fosdick, Marie Guise, Eugene

Bauer, and others of minor note, the readers may look forward to seeing

each subject that is illustrated done ample justice to.

~Outing~ having thus an international field to work in, the

American editors have called to their assistance a thoroughly competent

English editor, whose authority and reputation on all sporting topics

is admitted on both sides of the Atlantic. For this most important

position we are happy in obtaining the services of no less a light than

the world-renowned “Borderer,” who for the past decade has been one of

the leading contributors to every publication of reputation in England,

and whose knowledge and judgment in sporting matters is second to none.

He needs no further introduction from us; let him speak for himself.

* * * * *

INTRODUCING OUR ENGLISH EDITOR.

I cannot outdo the Ethiopian in changing the color of my skin--even

in putting on a new coat, the color must be the same. The question of

its fitting is a serious one, and you know, readers, how uneasy and

uncomfortable a thing it is to wear a new garment for the first time.

You feel like a marked man. When a schoolboy you were pinched by all

the other boys in commemoration of the event, and however proud you may

have been of the fit, it took the edge considerably off your conceit to

be asked, “Who’s your tailor?”

And now that my old garment--the delight of many a play hour, the

warm friend of my youth, the custodian of my body in many a sport,

the well-worn aid to health and strength--has been thrown aside and

taken to the old-clothes shop to be refitted, I find myself very like

the nervous schoolboy about to run the gauntlet of fresh critics, and

perhaps ruthless ones; critics who know not the Borderer of old; who

have not followed his rambling prose through many years, and caught the

drift of his sporting thoughts; critics, too, whose tastes may not be

so thoroughly in harmony with his as those of yore. And yet, perhaps

the fear is greater than the reason for it, and on the score of plenary

indulgence at starting, I shall try to make my new garment, the English

editorship of ~Outing~, as appreciable as possible to my new

acquaintances. Would that I could say with Oliver Goldsmith--

“He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.”

~Outing~ is now our pet. Through it Borderer can speak to the

world of sport.

What makes Jack a dull boy? The lack of ~Outing~.

“Funny name, that,” exclaimed a friend of mine the other day, “but,

after all, very expressive.”

How we all look forward to our ~Outing~! Even those who have

little chance of enjoying it. Do not they also count the days of its

possible coming? Every one to his taste. We are off, like greyhounds

from the slips, eager for sport, recreation or travel. Here still

oftener, and for a modest sixpence, is ~Outing~, to make you

learned in sport all the world over, and more worthy of your real

happy outing when it comes. As money and modes of locomotion increase

and multiply, so will ~Outing~ flourish until it spreads its

happy pages, like eagles’ wings, throughout the world. Neither sea nor

land will stop the echo and re-echo of its outspoken thoughts, and

proportionately great will be the responsibility of its utterances, as

well as of those in whom it will confide as authors. To be a sportsman

is one thing--to write of sport is another. “I must be cruel only to

be kind,” says Shakespeare. So truth, honesty and uprightness shall be

our leading characteristics. A true sportsman should be bold as a lion,

steady as a rock, quick as an arrow, ’cute as a coon, cautious as a

man, hard as nails, sober as a judge, with the temper of an angel, the

eve of a lynx, the voice of a siren, and the nerve of a hero.

Taking these mighty attributes with us, my readers, let us launch our

good ship on its transatlantic voyage. Let us fancy ourselves like

bold Æneas of old, about to venture on new scenes, and interview the

grandees of far-off countries, carrying with us the dauntless standard

of sport. Ever foremost in the fray, ever aloft as the acme of delight,

ever where virtue and destiny call--then Borderer’s reward will be

signaled by the boundless success of his new venture--

~Outing~.

~Borderer.~

* * * * *

DOG CHAT.

Negotiations are now in progress between the presidents of the National

Dog Club of America and the American Kennel Club, with the object of

bringing about some amicable arrangement between factions, and it is

quite on the cards that ere this is read they will have amalgamated,

the members of the N. D. C., in all probability joining as associate

members of the A. K. C. The objectionable feature of the “associate”

scheme, insufficient representation, has been eliminated. Every 100

members will be privileged to elect a representative who will be on the

same footing as the delegates of the kennel clubs. This should prove an

eminently satisfactory arrangement.

It has been made evident that public sentiment leans to the elder

organization (another demonstration of the incomprehensibility of _vox

populi_), and kennel matters, to all appearance, will be best advanced

by every one’s falling into line, and thereby securing a voice in the

government of dogdom. The A. K. C. makes fair promises, which, if

fulfilled, should satisfy all. If they fail, why, the traces can be

again kicked over.

This will be a busy season in dogdom, as an important show is

scheduled-for each week from January to the end of April, and others,

not as yet announced, will probably run well on into the month of May.

Truly may it be said that dog shows are advancing in public favor when

such can be the case.

The four important Field Trial meetings (those of the Indiana, Eastern,

Southern and American F. T. clubs) are now things of the past, and

taking them as a whole they have not received the liberal patronage of

former years. As usual, the Memphis and Avent Kennel of Tennessee has

swept everything before it, and equally, of course, the blood of old

“Count Noble” is again to the front.

The Hempstead fox-terrier coursing has caused a considerable stir

of late. While I am not in sympathy with the proceedings of the

“Alphabetical” Society in this matter, I cannot make out just where

the “sport” comes in in seeing a benumbed and scared “bunny” chased

and killed by terriers. We are told that the “course” frequently takes

less than thirty seconds’ time to decide, and that the rabbit _never

escapes_. Now this, to my way of thinking, damns it as a field sport,

the fascination in which is the element of uncertainty it contains;

the knowledge that your skill and training, or your dog’s, is pitted

against the natural cunning and quickness of the beast or bird pursued,

and in the knowledge that the quarry has a chance for its life. Take

away this and I am sure field sports will lose many of those who are

at present devoted to them. Give the rabbits fair “law,” a chance for

their lives, then it will be a legitimate sport.

An extraordinarily high-priced lot of greyhounds recently changed hands

under the hammer in London. They were the property of Mr. Dent, who has

given up coursing for the present. The puppy Fullerton was sold at 850

guineas to Colonel North, while Bit o’ Fashion was bought by the same

purchaser for 200 guineas, also Miss Glendyne for 510 guineas. Huic

Holloa fetched 350 guineas, and Jester 190 guineas. The prices paid

throughout were high.

The English St. Bernard, Prince Battenberg, who once beat Plinlimmon,

is for sale. His owner, Mr. King-Patten, announces that he has received

an offer of 2,000 guineas for the dog, from an American. I fear some

one has been “pulling his leg.”

~Dogwhip.~

* * * * *

COLLEGE SPORTS.

Exceptionally fine weather, October temperature, has made it possible

for active college youths to practice various pastimes which are

usually relegated to obscurity or the gymnasium during the cold winter

months. Games of ball, lacrosse and tennis have been played in the open

air, and in some places crews have been out in their frail shells. That

boating will be very popular this spring seems assured if the interest

shown by Yale, Harvard, Columbia, Cornell, and the University of

Pennsylvania in the doings of their respective crews is any indication.

With the return to college from the Christmas vacation the serious

work of training conscientiously and intelligently began, and now the

weeding-out process will soon begin. Harvard naturally expects great

things from the tank. In January, the crew was able to do some rowing

on the Charles, which, with work in the gymnasium and in the tank has

given the crew a very good send-off. At no time previous has there

been so wide-spread an interest in correct, scientific rowing as at

present, and every effort is made by the captain to get the most out

of his crew, not as one ordinarily would suppose, by getting his men

to develop muscle and pull for all there was in them, but by studying

the possibilities of each member and so combining them according to

scientific principles as to yield the best results. This method is in

vogue at Harvard and at Yale, where Bob Cook and prominent graduates,

members of former crews, for months before the great race, consult and

figure upon the material at hand, and endeavor to get it into shape.

The other sports, baseball and track athletics, are not being neglected

by their admirers. The fleetfooted sprinters have been taking part in

the several meetings of the Amateur Union and the National Association,

and are consequently in comparatively good trim. With this attention to

sport which the majority of college youths give, even in the many small

institutions which can not boast of possessing well-equipped gymnasiums

and track facilities, there is fast growing up a race which will be as

superior to the men of to-day as the present generation of young men is

superior to those of twenty years ago.

~J. C. Gerndt.~

[Illustration: ~THE OUTING CLUB.~]

WHAT YACHTING COSTS.

What does yachting cost? That to be able to own and properly maintain a

large yacht a man must have a good solid bank account to draw upon, is

a truth; but that one in very moderate circumstances may enjoy all the

pleasures of yachting is also true. Where there is one man who is able

to own and run an _Electra_ or a _Volunteer_, there are hundreds of

Corinthian yachtsmen who have “fun alive” with boats of from fifteen to

forty feet in length.

To state exactly, or even approximately, what yachting costs is

well-nigh as difficult as to guess the correct number of hairs on a

man’s head. But a very good general idea may be obtained by drawing

deductions from well-known data.

If old Commodore John C. Stevens, the first flag-officer of the New

York Yacht Club, were alive to-day, he would be surprised as well as

delighted to observe the wonderful growth and improvement yachting has

made since his time, nearly half a century ago, and no doubt he would

hold up his hands in amazement at the increase in the luxuriousness of

the appointments of a yacht during the same period.

The New York Yacht Club was organized in 1844, by Mr. Stevens and

others, and was the outcome of the first organized effort ever made

in this country to popularize yachting. The yachts of those days were

few in number, and of small tonnage, The _Maria_, Commodore Stevens’

last yacht, though in her time a giant among her sister yachts, would

be rated as only of average size compared with the larger pleasure

craft of to-day. Her appointments, too, though far superior to those of

her contemporaries, were very commonplace and inexpensive as compared

with the palatial luxuriance of the interior fittings of any of the

large yachts now afloat. To spend $20,000 at that time in building and

equipping a yacht was considered extraordinary, if not a financial

impossibility, for any man except Commodore Stevens, who, as the owner

of nearly all of Hoboken and Weehawken, was estimated to be about the

wealthiest man in America.

Since the organization of the New York Yacht Club, however, and

especially since the success of the yacht _America_ in England, each

succeeding year has witnessed a multiplication of yachts, an increase

in their size, and especially an augmentation of the luxuriance of

their furnishings that have excited the wonder and admiration of the

yachting world.

The yachts _America_, _Julia_, _Una_, and _Widgeon_, of the early

period of American yachting history, were prodigies of their day and

generation in respect to speed and size. All four were productions

of that famous designer, George Steers, and were invincible against

vessels built by other designers of the period. In this respect

Edward Burgess, of Boston, concededly holds to-day the place occupied

by George Steers thirty-five years ago; and the former designer’s

_Puritan_, _Mayflower_, _Sachem_, and _Volunteer_ have to-day a

relative standing among yachts very much like that which George

Steers’ productions enjoyed in their generation.

The total cost of all the yachts of forty years ago was less than

that of Mr. William K. Vanderbilt’s yacht _Alva_ alone. Two hundred

thousand dollars would have been sufficient to buy the entire fleet.

Year by year the amount of money expended for yachts has kept pace with

the steady increase of the wealth of the country, till now it exceeds

several millions of dollars annually. What the magnificent fleet of

vessels which constitute the squadron of the New York Yacht Club to-day

cost to build, rig, spar and furnish, represents an outlay of more than

$3,500,000. The yachts at present enrolled in the New York Yacht Club

number 184. Of these sixty-seven are schooners, sixty-five sloops,

cutters and yawls, forty-six steamers and six launches. The tonnage

of these 184 vessels aggregates 18,000 tons. The very best estimate

obtainable from figures shows that it costs $200 per ton to build, rig,

and fully furnish the average American yacht ready for cruising.

Instead of the one yacht club of 1844, there were on May 1, 1888, 101

incorporated yacht clubs in America. Of the yachting associations not

yet advanced to the dignity of incorporated bodies, there are doubtless

from two to three times as many more. These clubs are to be found in

almost every harbor on the great lakes, and on every bay, lake, river

and creek from one end of the land to the other. In fact, wherever

there is a sufficient body of water to sail some kind of a boat

upon, there will surely be found some sort of an association for the

promotion of yachting. From very careful estimates made from records

of yacht building, rigging and furnishing, which have been kept for

years, the total tonnage of all sailing or steam vessels owned and

run exclusively for purposes of pleasure in this country, on May 1,

1888, was 203,575, representing an aggregate money-value investment of

$40,715,000. In view of these large figures, and they are increasing

every year, the widespread and increasing interest taken in yachting

events is hardly to be wondered at. The money estimate must be more

than doubled, too, when “running expenses” are considered.

It is with a yacht very much as it is with a horse--it is not so much

the buying as the keeping that makes the money go. The first cost

of a yacht is, of course, very heavy, and it is estimated that this

outlay, with the money spent in keeping the boats and running them,

annually puts in circulation millions of dollars. The greatest item

of expense in running a yacht is the pay of the crew. A vessel like

the _Volunteer_, for example, gives employment for six months of the

year to fifteen men. Mr. Vanderbilt’s steam-yacht _Alva_ carries a

crew of 100 men, and the smaller of the cabin-yachts, say of about

twenty-five tons, require, to properly handle them, a sailing-master,

cook, and three men before the mast. All told, the yachts of the New

York Yacht Club furnish employment of this kind to more than 2,500

men, to whom the yacht owners pay not less than $125,000 per month

for six months of each year, or $750,000 for the six months. As the

average number of yachts belonging to each of the 101 yacht-clubs of

the country is thirty-three, the result shows that there is, or was

on May 1, 1888, a total of 3,333 yachts enrolled in the incorporated

yacht clubs of the United States; and carrying out the extensions

as based upon the estimate of the New York Yacht Club, the results

show that these 3,333 yachts give employment to 45,289 men, to whom

wages amounting to $2,264,450 are paid monthly, or the enormous sum

of $13,586,700 for a season of six months. It may be not altogether

proper to base the number and pay of crews for the yachts of the whole

country upon figures of the New York Yacht Club, for the vessels of

that club undoubtedly ton higher on the average than the vessels of

the less prominent clubs; but it must be remembered that in getting at

these figures only the incorporated associations have been considered,

and the hundreds and even thousands of yachts belonging to minor

associations, and the many yachts which fly the flag of no club at all,

have not been taken into the calculation. From this point of view, the

figures for crews and their salaries as given above furnish about as

good an idea of the totals as it is possible to obtain.

Again, a yacht which is kept up in good shape has to have her rigging

renewed constantly, and then there are the items of new sails,

repainting and overhauling on the dry dock. These expenses cannot be

estimated, and it is simply impossible to make a respectable guess, but

it amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars each year.

One of the largest, and in some respects the largest, item of expense

in running a yacht is the steward’s department, but it is impossible

even to approximately estimate what is annually spent in this very

important department. One yacht owner may spend $15,000 a year

entertaining a great number of guests at his table, while another man,

with the same yacht may find one-third of that amount ample for the

same purpose; but the sum of money put in circulation for ship stores

and table furnishings may safely be put down as double the sum per

month paid to the crew and officers in wages, or $1,500,000 for the

yachting season of six months of the fleet of the New York Yacht Club

alone. Thus the total amount of money put in circulation in one season

by the yacht owners of this one club will not fall short of $3,500,000.

If the expenditure for maintaining the 184 yachts of the New York Yacht

Club is $3,500,000 a year, it is not improbable that not less than

$7,000,000 is spent on the 3,333 pleasure and racing craft of the 101

yacht clubs of the entire country for a like period of time.

There are other expenses which can be neither classified nor estimated,

such as, for instance, the hiring of extra men for races; the payment

of prize money to the crews of race-winners; repairs following

collisions, running ashore, carrying away of sails and spars, and a

thousand-and-one other things. Altogether, it is not overestimating the

case to say that American yacht owners put $7,000,000 into the hands of

workmen and tradesmen last year, and this amount bids fair to increase

annually. That which is put into new boats is not included in this

calculation at all, and easily amounted to $1,000,000 more.

The steamers and the large sloops built of recent years have tended to

very greatly augment the expenditure of money on yachts. The steamers,

especially, are a very expensive luxury. With them the coal bill is an

additional and large item.

Some very wild estimates have been made as to what it costs to run one

of the largest steam-yachts. It has been said that it costs Jay Gould

$3,000 a day to run the _Atalanta_. This is absurd. Vice-Commodore

E. A. Bateman, of the American Yacht Club, who owns the steam-yacht

_Meteor_, once was heard to say that he ran her at an expense of $35

a day; and several years ago, when Mr. James Gordon Bennett owned the

_Dauntless_, and was commodore of the New York Yacht Club, he is said

to have remarked that it cost him $25,000 a year to entertain his

guests alone. Probably the most expensively run yacht to-day is the

_Electra_, the flagship of the New York Yacht Club. It is said that she

costs Commodore Gerry $35,000 a year. But a yacht of fifty tons, if

economy be practiced, and she be not raced, may be run at a very modest

cost.

Many thousands of men enjoy all the sport to be had out of

pleasure-sailing in a craft whose first cost, completely equipped, was

but $1,000 or less. Such a yacht can be run at a very slight expense.

Craft of this kind are called “single-handers,” from the fact that

it requires but one man to handle them. Their number is large at

present, and they are rapidly growing in popular favor. If the cost of

such vessels, of yachts which are not enrolled in any club, and the

boats of the numerous canoe-clubs, were added to the figures given as

representing the amount invested in the pleasure vessels of the United

States, the aggregate would be something enormous.

~ROBERT DILLON.~

HOW’S THIS FOR BASS?

There are odd places in and around the waters of New York where the

enthusiastic fisherman can find plenty of sport at his favorite

pastime. One day, toward the close of September, W. E. Sibley, of this

city, an angler of some repute, and a companion, Mr. Del. Ruch, of

Clifford’s, Staten Island, set out to troll for striped bass in the

Great Kills. After they had trolled for some time, and had landed only

a few one and two pounders, the sport grew tame, and Del. Ruch left

Sibley’s boat and joined another fisherman to change his luck. Instead

of Ruch finding luck it came to Sibley. In a few minutes after Ruch

had left, Sibley’s troll was seized, and he found himself struggling

with a bass of more than ordinary fight. A lively tussle took place.

The fish had no idea of surrendering, and for half an hour the fish and

the fisherman had a nip-and-tuck time of it. Finally the bass, wearied

and worn out, yielded slowly, and when it was brought alongside of the

boat it showed up magnificently. It was a monster. Though conquered,

the fish was not captured. A difficulty arose regarding the ways and

means about getting it into the boat. There was no gaff-hook handy. Mr.

Sibley was perplexed. The thought of losing that bass, when it was so

near and yet so far, nearly unnerved him. He was equal to the occasion,

however. Holding the line stiff, Sibley ran his hand along the fish,

slipped it in beneath the immense gill covering, and lugged the big

fellow into the boat after a great effort. When measured and weighed,

it lacked just half an inch of three feet, and tipped the scale at

eighteen pounds. It is said to be the largest striped bass on record

caught within twenty miles of New York.

OUR THEATRICAL PLAYGROUND.

“THE PLAYERS.”

Perhaps the most notable event in the players’ world, with which the

new year was ushered in, was the presentation by Edwin Booth to the

organization of leading actors known as “The Players,” of a magnificent

club-house in Grammercy Park. As the old year drew to a close there

assembled a brilliant audience of players and guests, and at the

stroke of twelve Mr. Booth handed over the deed to the property to Mr.

Augustin Daly, of “The Players.” Mr. Booth closed his presentation

speech in the following happy manner: “Though somewhat past the season,

let us now fire the Yule-log, with the request that it be burnt as

an offering of ‘love, peace and good-will to The Players.’ While

it burns, let us drink from this loving cup, bequeathed by William

Warren of loved and honored memory to our no less valued Jefferson,

and by him presented to us; from this cup and this souvenir of long

ago--my father’s flagon--let us now, beneath his portrait and on the

anniversaries of this occupation, drink: To the Players’ Perpetual

Prosperity.”

Mr. Daly responded appropriately in behalf of the club, and after a

general grasping of hands, all adjourned to feast around the generous

board. In every way this new home is most complete, and the decorations

are handsome and solid. In the lounging room are two oil paintings by

Joseph Jefferson. Beside them hangs Sir Joshua Reynolds’ celebrated

portrait of David Garrick. There is also a Gainsborough, and a portrait

of John Gilbert by J. Alden Weir. A goodly collection of dramatic

literature fills the library on the second floor, Mr. Booth having

presented 1,200 volumes, and Mr. Lawrence Barrett 2,000, besides a

large number of rare works from Augustin Daly, T. B. Aldrich, Stanford

White and others. An excellent maxim is found directly above the great

seal of the order, which is inserted in the ornamental brickwork under

the mantelpiece. It reads thus:

“Good friends, for friendship’s sake forbeare

To utter what is gossip heare

In social chatt, lest unawares

Thy tongue offende thy fellow-plaiers.”

OLD ENGLISH COMEDY.

For his annual comedy revival Mr. Daly has chosen Capt. George

Farquhar’s “The Inconstant; or, the Way to Win Him.” This play has not

been seen in this city since 1873, and in Mr. Daly’s hands the somewhat

doubtful _morale_ of the play has been improved, and thus the revival

was practically a first performance of the play. The change to suit

modern ideas has been admirably effected, though possibly the fifth

act might have been subjected to closer censorship. It is needless to

say that Mr. Daly’s band of players acted their parts well. The public

has come to accept that as almost a foregone conclusion. Miss Rehan as

_Oriana_ is the same person that has pleased us so long, but in the mad

scene she strikes a key that is almost pathetic. The “Inconstant” may

be looked upon as a success.

SHAKESPEARE AT PALMER’S.

Play-goers in New York have no reason to feel dissatisfied with

the feast spread before them this season. Shakespeare has not been

neglected for the newer generation of writers. Rarely has a play,

however, been put on the stage in a more complete way, with greater

magnificence and attention to details, than “Antony and Cleopatra.”

Mr. Abbey has spared no expense, and surely it would be difficult to

find an actress to look the part better than Mrs. James Brown Potter.

Whatever may be her faults, she has succeeded in ridding herself of

some of them, and in gesture, walk and pose this improvement is most

marked. She still lacks facility in expressive speaking. Thus the

presentation is of a spectacular sort, and on that fact will have to

depend success or failure. The single scene which perhaps impresses the

interested spectator most is revealed in the entrance of _Cleopatra’s_

barge--“a bizarre painting of Egypt’s historical convoy, with its

flowing sails of magenta, its glittering front and sides, its silver

oars, its fawning slaves, and, over all, the tinkle of drowsy music.”

The acting version of the play is by Mr. Kyrle Bellew, who himself

assumes the character of _Antony_. He is not a roystering old ruffian;

one does not behold scarred limbs and grizzled locks. The _Antony_ of

Kyrle Bellew is tender in speech, soft in action, and ever the lover.

The play is scheduled for an extended run, and will doubtless receive a

generous share of attention.

MACBETH.

At the Fifth Avenue Theater Mrs. Langtry has been acting _Lady

Macbeth_, and has won a good measure of success, which deserves

recognition for the reason that her conception of the part differs from

that acceptable to most Americans. Charlotte Cushman’s _Lady Macbeth_

was a grim, imperious virago, and we have accepted that version as

the true one. In Irving’s celebrated revival of the play, Ellen Terry

presents a coaxing, loving, charming contradiction to the Cushman

model. Mrs. Langtry has chosen a middle path. While not wholly able to

cope successfully with the part, she gives a thoroughly interesting

portrayal. In the sleep-walk scene she is bravely original. Utterly

sacrificing her comeliness, she comes out from her bedroom like a

veritable corpse from a tomb, a figure to shudder at in a theatre

and to fly from if met near a churchyard. While her reading of this

particular scene will call forth some condemnation perhaps, considerate

judgment must also accord praise.

The _Macbeth_ of Mr. Charles Coghlan was thoughtful, but hardly

satisfactory. It lacks the fire and passion which make the character

such a strong one in the hands of some actors. Mr. Joseph Wheelock,

as _Macduff_, was as successful as that conscientious actor usually

is in all he undertakes, and he called forth the enthusiasm of all by

his painstaking work. On the whole the venture may be looked upon as a

success.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: ~Among the Books~]

“~The~ Harvard Index” for 1888-89 is a very complete directory

of the students and the various literary and sporting organizations in

college. A valuable feature is the list of best-on-record performances,

both collegiate and other, for America and England.

* * * * *

~One~ of the best and most artistic college annuals is the

Princeton, 90, “Bric-à-Brac.” Some of the drawings are quite elaborate,

and very much to the point. The records of the doings of the different

associations, and the list of students, are as complete as it was

possible to make them.

* * * * *

~A series~ of interesting books is issued by the well-known

house of Lee & Shepard, under the general title of “Good Company.”

The name is well bestowed, and the thoughtful reader will find, as he

becomes acquainted with the various members of the company, that there

is much which he can note with profit. Not only is the company good,

but the dress is neat and inviting. The books before us are: “The

Lover,” by Steele; “The Wishing-Cap Papers,” by Leigh Hunt; “Fireside

Saints,” by Douglas Jerrold; “Dream Thorpe,” by Alexander Smith; “A

Physician’s Problems,” by Charles Elam; “Broken Lights,” by Frances

Power Cobbe, and “Religious Duties,” by the same author.

The same publishing house has issued a new edition of Rev. P. C.

Headley’s biography of “Fighting Phil.” This book, intended for young

readers, well describes the life of the dashing general, and at this

time, when his personal memoirs are receiving such marked attention,

the simpler story of Rev. Mr. Headley will be widely read by boys.

* * * * *

~An~ excellent library of sports and pastimes, the Badminton,

is being issued by Longmans, Green & Co. Those who are seeking for

knowledge on any of the subjects dealt with will find the results of

many years’ experience written by men who are in every case adepts at

the sport of which they write. There have already appeared, “Hunting,”

“Fishing,” “Racing and Steeple-chasing,” “Cycling,” “Athletics and

Football.” The latest additions to the library are “Boating” and

“Cricket.” The former volume is by W. B. Woodgate, a veteran oarsman;

the latter by A. G. Steel and the Hon. R. H. Lyttelton. The text is

handsomely illustrated, and in every respect are the volumes to be

recommended. Every sportsman should have a complete set of this series

of books; they are an ornament to any library, and the information

contained in them such as can not readily be obtained in other books on

sports.

* * * * *

“~Cruisings~ in the Cascades,” by the well-known author G. O.

Shields, is in the press of Rand, McNally & Co., of Chicago. It is a

record of an extended hunting tour, made by the author in the Cascade

Mountains in Oregon, Washington Territory, and British Columbia. The

work is handsomely illustrated from drawings and from instantaneous

photographs taken by Mr. Shields.

* * * * *

~An~ entertaining work, not only for grown people, but also for

boys, is John Augustus O’Shea’s “Military Mosaics.” The author has

tried to be faithful to truth, and the language used is as close an

approach to that which men would speak under the circumstances as can

well be given in print. This effort on the part of the author is to be

heartily commended, since boys are naturally anxious to know if things

are what they seem. In the author’s words, “There is not an event set

down which did not happen, or might not have happened, and to the

soldier’s life, as to all others, there is a seamy side.” Thus we are

told of hardships, fatiguing marches, exposure to all sorts of weather,

and are impressed with the fact that the chief pleasures of warfare are

those of memory. Messrs. W. H. Allen & Co., London, are the publishers.

The same firm has brought out “Orient and Occident,” a journey east

from Lahore to Liverpool, by Major-General R. C. W. Reveley Mitford.

It is a description of a home-coming by routes little traveled. China,

Japan and the United States are successively visited, and as the

author drifts from place to place he rather pleasantly gives us his

impressions. The text is embellished with illustrations from sketches

by the author.

A useful book for the yachtsmen who wish to spend some time cruising in

the Mediterranean is “Shooting and Yachting in the Mediterranean,” by

A. G. Bagot. Of course the yachtsman always provides himself with guns,

and is ever ready to “pepper away.” However, it is rather the rule that

he fails to bag his game. In “Shooting and Yachting” he will find much

useful information on this point, as well as learn of localities to be

visited, dangers to be avoided, etc. Not the least valuable part of

Mr. Bagot’s work are the practical hints to yachtsmen, and the list of

yacht-clubs with which the book closes. Allen & Co., London, are the

publishers.

* * * * *

~The~ author of the “Book of the Black Bass” has issued through

the press of Robert Clarke & Co., Cincinnati, a supplement, which he

calls very happily “More About the Black Bass.” In it he presents the

latest developments in the scientific and life history of this best

of American game fishes, and describes the most recent improvements

in tools, tackle and implements. The little work appears at a most

opportune time.

* * * * *

~In~ his “Hunting Notes” “Borderer” gives a valuable resumé of

the season’s work. While of no direct interest to the American reader,

these notes present an admirable picture of the way hunting is done in

Old England, and to those who follow the hounds in this country, and

their number is increasing from year to year, a perusal of “Hunting

Notes” will be profitable and entertaining. The publishers are A. H.

Baily & Co., London.

[Illustration: AMENITIES]

I’M SINGLE NO LONGER, YOU KNOW.

’Twas while kneeling at beauty’s fair shrine,

In the years that I fain would regain,

Spinster Fate drugged my vintage of wine,

And entangled me fast in her skein.

In the days ere my star’s sudden wane,

I was thought a most handsome young beau,

But I’m now called “decidedly plain,”

For I’m single no longer, you know!

Edith said that my eyes were divine

As we strolled thro’ the green country lane--

That the girls thought my figure was fine,

I discovered from sweet Mary Jane;

But alas for a once happy swain,

With the virtues of one year ago!

I am met with a haughty disdain,

For I’m single no longer, you know!

Tho’ these ballades and rondeaux of mine

Had the verdict of “quite in the vein,”

They say now I am shunned by the _Nine_,

And my verses are ruthlessly slain.

Tho’ by courtesy we are called twain,

’Tis my wife that comprises the Co.,

And of course I’ve no right to complain,

For I’m single no longer, you know!

* * * * *

In a word, to conclude the refrain,

I have hung up my fiddle and bow,

I have mortgaged my castles in Spain,

For I’m single no longer, you know!

_Sanborn Gove Tenney._

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FOR A PRESENT WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN A SUBSCRIPTION?

[Illustration: SCRIBNER’S MAGAZINE]

Among the Artists represented are:

ELIHU VEDDER.

J. ALDEN WEIR.

J. W. TWACHTMAN.

M. J. BURNS.

WILLIAM HOLE.

GEORGE HITCHCOCK.

J. FRANCIS MURPHY.

WILL H. LOW.

W. H. GIBSON.

J. D. WOODWARD.

ROBERT BLUM.

C. JAY TAYLOR.

ALFRED KAPPES.

ELBRIDGE KINGSLEY.

BRUCE CRANE.

WALTER L. PALMER.

SCRIBNER’S MAGAZINE.

_Christmas Number Now Ready._

The completion of the second year of ~Scribner’s Magazine~

will be signalized by the publication of a remarkably beautiful and

interesting =Christmas Number=. There will be about _sixty

illustrations_, one-third of them full-pages of rich design.

=ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON= will contribute a second instalment

of his romantic novel, “_The Master of Ballantrae_,” strikingly

illustrated by William Hole.

=H. C. BUNNER’S= “_Squire Five Fathom_” is a delicate and finely

imagined story. C. Jay Taylor of _Puck_, will fully illustrate it.

=REBECCA HARDING DAVIS= will tell a story of life at a wayside

station in the North Carolina mountains. Illustrations by Alfred Kappes.

=W. M. TABER= will contribute an unusually ingenious tale of a

mystery entitled “_Three Bad Men_,” with illustrations by Francis Day

and M. J. Burns.

=JOHN J. à BECKETT= will tell the story of a sentiment. Its title

is “_The Roses of the Señor_,” and it will be illustrated by Robert

Blum.

=WILL H. LOW=, the artist, will describe the origin and rapid

growth in the United States of the art of making stained-glass windows;

with beautiful reproductions of windows by La Farge, Armstrong, Tiffany

and Lathrop.

=WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS= will be picturesquely described by

Hamilton Wright Mabie, and elaborately illustrated by W. Hamilton

Gibson, Bruce Crane, J. Francis Murphy, and J. D. Woodward.

=LESTER WALLACK’S= Reminiscences will be concluded; fully

illustrated with portraits--one, taken last summer, representing Mr.

Wallack at his country home, with his favorite dog at his feet.

=GEORGE HITCHCOCK=, the artist, will write of Botticelli.

Illustrations from drawings by the author.

=ILLUSTRATED POEMS= will be a feature of the number, one of them,

“~The Lion of the Nile~,” containing four pictures by ~Elihu

Vedder~.

=MR. STEVENSON= concludes for this year his series of monthly

papers with “_A Christmas Sermon_.”

The publishers of ~Scribner’s Magazine~ aim to make it

the most popular and enterprising of periodicals, while at all

times preserving its high literary character. 25,000 new readers

have been drawn to it during the past six months by the increased

excellence of its contents (notably the Railway articles), and it

closes its second year with a new impetus and an assured success.

The illustrations will show some new effects, and nothing to make

~Scribner’s Magazine~ attractive and interesting will be

neglected.

Price, 25 Cents a Number; $3.00 a Year.

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, 743-745 Broadway, N. Y.

FRAUDS IN POROUS PLASTERS.

Those who cannot originate, =imitate=, and all so-called Porous

Plasters are only fraudulent imitations of =ALLCOCK’S=. If you

want the genuine article, be certain not only to ask for

“=ALLCOCK’S=,”

but look well at the plaster and see that this

=Trade=

[Illustration]

=Mark=

is on every one. None are genuine without it.

ROYAL

[Illustration: FULL WEIGHT

ROYAL BAKING POWDER

ABSOLUTELY PURE

TRADE MARK

ROYAL

BAKING POWDER

ROYAL REGISTE]

BAKING

POWDER

Absolutely Pure.

This powder never varies. A marvel of purity, strength and

wholesomeness. More economical than the ordinary kinds, and cannot be

sold in competition with the multitude of low test, short weight, alum

or phosphate powders. _Sold only in cans._ ~Royal Baking Powder

Co.~, 106 Wall St., N.Y.

GOLD MEDAL, PARIS, 1878.

=BAKER’S=

Breakfast Cocoa.

[Illustration]

Warranted =_absolutely pure Cocoa_=, from which the excess of

Oil has been removed. It has _more than three times the strength_

of Cocoa mixed with Starch Arrowroot or Sugar, and is therefore far

more economical, _costing less than one cent a cup_. It is delicious,

nourishing, strengthening, easily digested, and admirably adapted for

invalids as well as for persons in health.

* * * * *

=Sold by Grocers everywhere.=

* * * * *

W. BAKER & CO., Dorchester, Mass.

GOLD MEDAL, PARIS, 1878.

=BAKER’S=

Vanilla Chocolate

[Illustration]

Like all our chocolates, is prepared with the greatest care, and

consists of a superior quality of cocoa and sugar, flavored with pure

vanilla bean. Served as a drink, or eaten dry as confectionery, it is a

delicious article, and is highly recommended by tourists.

* * * * *

=Sold by Grocers everywhere.=

W. BAKER & CO., Dorchester, Mass.

UNITED STATES

~Government~

AND OTHER DESIRABLE

~Securities~

FOR

INVESTORS

Harvey Fisk & Sons,

BANKERS,

28 Nassau Street, New York.

J. & W. TOLLEY’S “PARAGON”

HAMMERLESS GUN.

[Illustration]

=AFTER ELEVEN YEARS’ TRIAL= in every sporting country, now stands

unequalled for SAFETY, DURABILITY, EASE OF MANIPULATION and GENERAL

EFFICIENCY.

Prices, $79, $100, $125, $150, $175.

The Highest Possible

Excellence.

The Most Elegant

English Guns.

LONG RANGE WILDFOWL GUNS.

[Illustration]

Guaranteed performance of 10-bore at 100 yds.; 8-bore at 120 yds.;

4-bore at 150 yds.

Shooting certificate accompanies each gun. Full particulars in detailed

catalogue mailed free.

=AMERICANS= wishing a perfect gun should call to be accurately

measured, and we will build gun while they are in Europe.

1 CONDUIT STREET, REGENT STREET, LONDON.

LORENZ REICH,

IMPORTER OF THE CHOICEST AND PUREST

HUNGARIAN WINES,

Commended by the most Eminent Medical Men

of this Country.

[Illustration: UNGAR-WEIN. NULLUM VINUM NISI HUNGARICUM Tokayer

Ausbruch REGISTERED 1872]

THIS IS TO CERTIFY that I have examined Mr. Reich’s ~Tokayer Ausbruch~,

~Tokayer Maslas~, and ~Budai Imp.~ I take great pleasure in commending

these wines to the medical profession because of their _purity_.

R. OGDEN DOREMUS, M.D., LL.D.,

_Prof. of Chemistry and Toxicology, Bellevue Hospital Med. Coll., and

Prof. of Chemistry and Physics, Coll. City of N. Y._

Tokayer Ausbruch and Tokayer Maslas, Vintage of 1874.

=Somlayai Imp.= (White Wine), and =Budai Imp.= (Red Wine),

=Vintage of 1874.=

SLIVOVITZ (Prune Brandy), 1868.

Sherries from the Vineyards of J. J. V. VEGAS, Frontera, Spain.

RAYAS, PALO CORTADO, AMONTILLADO PASADO, SANTO TOMAS.

ALSO, SOLE AGENT U. S. A. AND CANADA, FOR THE FOLLOWING BRANDS

CHAMPAGNE:

MOIGNEAUX PERE ET FILS, DIZY, CUREE DE RESERVE, TRES SEC, PRES

EPERNAY.

LORENZ REICH, The Cambridge, 334 Fifth Avenue, New York.

Branch Office, 70 State St., Chicago, Ill. Telephone Call,

318--39th St.

_All orders promptly filled and shipped to any part of the United

States. Beware of Impositions, as unscrupulous dealers are buying up my

empty bottles._

The Kodak Camera

Anybody can use the ~Kodak~ without learning anything about

photography, further than the mere operation of pointing the

camera and ~PRESSING A BUTTON~. No dark rooms or chemicals

necessary. The camera is loaded for =100= pictures.

~The Kodak System~ is a ~DIVISION OF LABOR~ whereby

all the work of finishing the pictures is done at the factory,

where the camera is sent by mail to be reloaded, and is available

for those who have no time, inclination or facilities for learning

photography.

Any Amateur can, of course, finish his own pictures if desirable.

If you want to know more about the Kodak, send for a copy of the

Kodak Primer: a beautiful illustrated pamphlet containing Kodak

photograph, free, by mail.

The Eastman Dry Plate and Film Co.,

PRICE, $25.00. ~Rochester, N. Y.~

_For sale by all Photo. Stock Dealers._

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