Racehorses in Australia

by Unknown

THE RACEHORSE IN AUSTRALIA

By Dr. W. H. LANG.

Chapter I.
The Pre-historic Days.

The History of the Racehorse in Australia is such a short one that you might, with reason, imagine that the entire narrative could be condensed into a very small space when committed to print. But you would be utterly wrong. On the contrary, an historian, with his heart in the business, could reel off a number of fair-sized volumes, and still his work would not be fulfilled to his entire satisfaction. A little ancient history may be useful to us before we commence to study the subject. As you know, there was no trace of the genus horse on our island continent before the coming of the white man. In America, on the other hand, although there was no horse as we know him, before the advent of the Conqueror Cortez, in 1518, yet the fossilised remains of the Eohippus, the Protohippus and Hipparion are so numerous and well distributed on the great American continents that these wide lands seem to have been the most favoured home of the great race of equidae, in the far-off days before the ice.

The whole species was then cut off, to a horse, possibly by an epidemic, or by the ravages, more probably, of some insect or microbe, and its history in that quarter of the globe recommenced with the Conquest. In vivid contrast the tale of our own Australian horse, and all our other domestic animals, begins as late as the 10th day of January, 1788. Governor Phillip brought with him from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had called to obtain supplies on his voyage hither with his first fleet of convicts, a stallion and three mares with foals at foot, a few cattle, and in all 500 head of live stock, but which consisted for the most part of poultry.

The new Colony had a good deal of bad luck at this time. The four-footed animals, owing to the negligence of a convict herdsman, strayed away, and although one has reason to believe that the horses were recovered, there is no certainty on that head. With the cattle there is a different story to tell, and on the very day upon which I am writing this, I read, in “The English Sporting Magazine” of 1797, the story of their loss and recovery. A boat’s crew sought a bay on the coast whilst searching for fresh water. At the spot where the men landed they fell in with a convict who had escaped five years before, and who had joined the blacks. This man showed them where the lost cattle had made their home, deep in some fertile valley, and in the course of their nine years of liberty they had increased in numbers to sixty-one head. It was a valuable find for the struggling colonists, who, from drought and flood, had lost a large portion of their property.

In the very early years of “the Colony” there was exceedingly little need for the assistance of light horses in the daily work of the place, whilst the desire to possess an animal more speedy than that owned by a neighbour had not yet arisen at all. You will, perhaps, recollect that, until the year 1813 or thereabouts, the only portion of our vast continent which was being made use of by white men was a little strip of soil between the Blue Mountains and the sea, some forty miles by eighty, and the few horses which had now been brought over from the Cape, or out from the Old Country, were simply beasts of burden, or, at the best, perhaps, hacks and harness horses.

It was on the 31st day of May of that year that Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson burst their way through the hitherto impenetrable ranges and scrub into the limitless lands beyond, and it was upon that same day that the use for a swift and long-enduring saddle horse was discovered by the inhabitants who followed in the tracks of these explorers, and the first real need of the thoroughbred as a sire found its way into Australia.

Yet, though there seems to have been such a limited demand for the thoroughbred steed in these very early days, there were, at least, three importations before the transit of the Blue Mountains had been accomplished, and you cannot help wondering what was the inducement which tempted the importers to take the risk.

A mist floats over the particulars of these first arrivals. In the closing years of the eighteenth century there is on record that a blood horse, Rockingham by name, was shipped to Australia from the Cape of Good Hope. It was at the end of the seventeen nineties, and the only other authentic fact which I can ascertain concerning him is that he subsequently became known as “Young Rockingham.” There is no trace of anything which he may have left behind him in the way of progeny. He was probably by Rockingham, a stallion which was covering in England about this period, but not the Rockingham, of course, by Humphrey Clinker, who appears in the pedigree of Doncaster. The day of that sire had not yet dawned.

A blood horse called Washington is said to have been imported from America in 1802. The first volume of the “Australian Stud Book” simply mentions the fact, and adds that he was “said to have been a very handsome horse,” and there it ends. But Mr. T. Merry, in his book on the American horse, states that he was by Timoleon, and that he was not sent to Australia until 1825. The third importation before the transit was of one whose name is still alive, and that is “Old” Hector, or simply Hector. The exact year of his arrival here is uncertain. A correspondent in a weekly paper some months ago gives it with confidence as 1803, and states that the horse died in 1821. The first volume of the “Stud Book” quotes it as 1810, but refers to him as a “Persian.” Hector was a favourite name amongst horse-masters, and there were as many Hectors in Australia as there were King Harrys on the field of Shrewsbury. The thoroughbred Hector is described as “a very fine, commanding horse. The gameness of his stock proves that he was not an Indian horse.” The second volume corrects the dates, and believes that Hector was imported in 1806, whilst the seventh volume adds that Hector went to Tasmania from New South Wales in 1820. In a Tasmanian advertisement he is described as “by Hector, probably Hector by Trentham,” the property of the Iron Duke. All this is not only of interest, but it is of a certain value to studmasters, for the blood of Old Hector survives in some force to-day through the descendants of his daughter Old Betty. But, as that famous mare, the ancestress of such a very numerous and worthy family, was not foaled until 1829, we are left in a deep quagmire of doubt as to what her real pedigree can possibly have been. The “Stud Book,” however, accepts the mare as being by Hector.

And, to close these very early, almost prehistoric data, a bay stallion, named The Governor, was imported about 1817. He was by Walton from Enchantress, by Volunteer, from a mare by Mambrino, but I can find no mention whatsoever of this horse’s services, nor of his progeny. That, indeed, was inevitable, for until this period no race mare with a clean pedigree had ever come to our shores. Our country at that time was no land of promise, so hopelessly far away was it from the Old World, and from civilisation, over seas very dangerous, not only on account of the smallness of the vessels employed in transport, but also from the unceasing violence of the enemy.

Chapter II.
The First Race Mare.

But now, after Waterloo, with the seemingly interminable wars and tumults lulled into peace and calm at last, things were beginning to shape themselves in the Colony. Evans had explored the country a hundred miles or so farther out than that point to which Blaxland’s little company had penetrated, and he had discovered the Macquarie River, and named it. Oxley had already condemned as useless almost all the fertile land of the Southern Riverina, although, at any rate, he had thrown it open, and in 1824 Hamilton Hume had walked with his few followers, and with Hovell, an old ship’s captain with whom he continually fought, from Lake George to Port Phillip Bay. Cattle and sheep had increased enormously, the country over which they depastured seemed to be without end, but markets were few and far apart. Horses of stamina, and therefore of the best blood were urgently required in order to round up the mobs of bullocks and cows which roamed the unfenced plains, and to accomplish the long journeys to the distant towns.

And thus it was that our best early stallions, and some of our mares which still, through their descendants, carry on their lines, were brought to Australia. Steeltrap, in 1823, was the first of the successful stallions to land. His was valuable blood. He was by Scud, and Scud sired two Derby winners, the first, Sam, bred in 1815, the very year in which Steeltrap was foaled, and the second, Sailor, in 1817. The Oaks winner of 1819, Shoveler, was also a Scud filly, and therefore it is perfectly evident that Steeltrap came from the most fashionable blood of his day, and must have been worth a great deal of money. His dam was by Sorcerer out of Pamella, by Whiskey from Lais. He was a chestnut, and “sired very game horses.” Their gameness, no doubt, was exhibited during the long and tiring journeys after cattle, for contests must have been rare in which they could have had opportunities of proving their mettle on the racecourse. Steeltrap remains with us still in the persons of the descendants of “The Steeltrap mare.” There were several matrons identified by the same cognomen, but this particular representative of the clan was out of “a Government mare,” presumably clean bred, and she left two daughters, Beeswing and Marchioness, both by The Marquis, a son of Dover.

Zulu, the winner of the great Melbourne Cup in 1881, came from this line, as well as Bylong, Stanley, Sweetmeat and Tridentate, while around Wagga numbers of the same breed are still alive through the medium of the mares Lady Cameron, Lady Phoebe, Latona and Antonia.

In the same year, 1824, which brought us Steeltrap, there also came to our shores Bay Camerton, or Old Camerton, or simply Camerton. He was known by each and all of these names from time to time. He was by Camerton, from Waltonia, by Walton, and quickly ran out, on his dam’s side, to the very famous Burton Barb mare, which is now so readily identified as the tap-root of the exceptionally high qualitied No. 2 family. Bay Camerton survives through the line of Camilla, a daughter of his when mated with Old Betty. But now, in the following year, 1825, arrived the first of all the race mares that have made Australian Turf story. This was Manto. It was indeed a happy day for our Turf when she, then a three-year-old, landed in New South Wales. She was bred in England in 1822, was bought by Mr. Icely, Coombing Park, and imported to Australia in 1825. I can find no description of the colour of Manto, as, curiously, she does not appear in the “General Stud Book.” The omission came about probably in this manner: In 1780 the Duke of Cumberland, “the Butcher” of Culloden, bred a mare named Rose, by Sweet Briar out of Merliton, by Snap. She passed through several hands, but ultimately ended up in the ownership of old Dick Goodisson, an eccentric fellow, and the favourite jockey, as well as companion of the Marquis of Queensberry, better known as “old Q.,” and worse known in the lines of the Poet Wordsworth as “Degenerate Douglas.” Dick Goodisson bred a filly by Buzzard from Rose in 1800, a full brother to the same-named Lyncaeus, and two more sisters, one in 1802, and another in 1803. These mares were simply known, after the slack method of the time, as “sisters to Lyncaeus.” The last foal of one of these same sisters to Lyncaeus, by Soothsayer, the individual dropped in 1802, was this Manto of ours, and Mr. Wanklyn, the erudite keeper of the “New Zealand Stud Book,” and a prolific author in the matter of “Stud Book” lore, believes that it was the fact that she was the youngest born foal of her mother, and that she was sold as a youngster to go abroad, which accounted for the non-appearance of her name in the recognised official records of the day.

Before leaving England, Manto had been served by Young Grasshopper, by Grasshopper, who was by Windle, a son of Beningborough, by King Fergus, by Eclipse. Young Grasshopper’s dam was a daughter of Sorcerer, and as Manto was by Soothsayer, by Sorcerer, we have an early illustration of the value of close in-breeding. Manto dropped her foal a few days after setting her feet on Australian soil, and the little thing was christened Cornelia. Unfortunately, Mr. Icely, unappreciative of the excellence and value of his importations, failed to keep anything like accurate records of his stud. He did not even take a note of the colour of his foals. We do know, however, that Manto, subsequent to the birth of Cornelia, also foaled Chancellor, to Steeltrap, Lady Godiva to Rous’ Emigrant, Lycurgus to Whisker, and Emilius to Operator.

She also produced a colt named Jupiter, which was sent to South Australia, but he is returned without the name of his sire attached. It is to Cornelia that we must look for the tap-root from which nearly one thousand racehorses in Australia have traced their origin. She threw a colt named Emancipation, by Toss, a bold experiment in still more extensive in-breeding to Sorcerer—a filly, Lady Flora, by Whisker, a full sister to her, named Besom, a colt, Euclid, by Operator, a filly, Old Moonshine, by Rous’ Emigrant, and Flora McIvor, also by Emigrant. Moonshine’s name still crops up through Coquette, Speculation and Progress—Grand Flaneur’s understudy, but Flora McIvor had an enormous family. For Mr. Icely she threw the fillies Fatima, Florence, Faultless, Emily, Zoe, Flora and Chloe, and five colts, Figaro, Cossack, Nutwith, The Chevalier and Bay Middleton. Mr. Icely then disposed of the old mare to Mr. Redwood, of Nelson, New Zealand, and for him she produced at the age of 26 and 28, or possibly, for Mr. Icely’s lack of stud records causes much uncertainty, at 27 and 29. Io and Waimea, Flora McIvor’s pair of New Zealand children, and her children’s children, from these two famous mares, rose up and called her blessed. Io and Waimea were dropped in 1855 and ’57, and then, full of years and honours, and with no further offspring, the grand old mare died in 1861. The list of great racehorses which claim her for their ancestress is too long to quote, but the names of even a few of these will tell you what a very cornerstone of our pastime Flora McIvor has proved herself to be. There was Bloodshot. I can see him in the Cup chasing Newhaven home now, when my eyes are closed. And then there were Chicago, Churchill, Circe, Cissy, Cremorne, Cuirassier, Euroclydon, Frailty, The Gem, Havoc, Manuka, Newmaster, Niagara, Nonsense, Oudeis, Parthian, Progress, Siege Gun, Trenton, Wakatipu, Wild Rose, Zalinski, Beauford and Zoe, whilst the brood mares that trace to the same source run into hundreds.

Chapter III.
The ’Thirties.

There were very few clean bred horses imported to Australia between the arrival of Manto and the ’thirties of the last century. Such as they were, these are not only very interesting, but several of them proved themselves to be extremely valuable, and we have their representatives racing with credit on our courses to this day. Thus, in 1826, The Cressey Company brought to Tasmania the chestnut horse Buffalo, by Fyldener, a great grandson of Herod, from Roxana, a granddaughter, on both sides of the house, of the immortal Eclipse. It is a little surprising to find a commercial company in those far-off days selecting a stallion of such superlative blood lines for the purpose of producing utility horses in this distant land, for the racehorse can scarcely yet have entered into its calculations when the company made its purchases. We may be very certain that the managers had very wise heads upon their shoulders. By the same ship they also imported the stallion Bolivar, and the chestnut mare who became so famous in after days, Edella. The latter produced three chestnuts to her fellow traveller Buffalo, the colts Liberty and Fyldener, and the filly Curiosity. Edella was by Warrior, a great grandson of Herod, from Risk, a great, great, granddaughter of Herod from a Precipitate mare, and Precipitate was a granddaughter of Eclipse. You can thus see how tremendously closely our ancestors bred in and in to Herod and O’Kelly’s mighty nonpareil Eclipse. Curiosity, the in-bred daughter of Buffalo and Edella, was put to Peter Finn, a horse by Whalebone from a Delpini mare, brought to Tasmania in 1826, in the brig “Anne,” and the result was the bay filly Diana. This mare became the property of Mr. Field, of Tasmania, and his family has religiously cherished her descendants ever since. Mr. Field put Diana to Bay Middleton, a son of imported Jersey, who was by Buzzard, a son of Blacklock from Cobweb, the great Bay Middleton’s dam. The result of the union was the filly Resistance, who, when her time came, was sent to Peter Wilkins, a brown horse by The Flying Dutchman from Boarding School Miss. A daughter of hers was christened Edella, after her great-great-grand dam. One wishes that those forebears of ours had had more ingenuity in their choice of names. Edellas, Curiosities, Camillas, Violets and Cobwebs fly in clouds through the earlier stud books. However that may be, this particular Edella threw two great colts, Stockwell, by St. Albans, and Bagot, by the same sire. Stockwell, after showing that he was a first-class racehorse, unfortunately died, and Bagot, when his name had been changed to Malua, was the greatest horse of his day, and founder of his family. This history of the introduction of the horse into Australasia is an engrossing theme, but if we gave way to our desires and followed each and all of them up through the century we would run into many volumes. Skeleton was the only new arrival during 1827, and his name has, but for Woorak’s successes, nearly died out from our modern pedigrees. I, however, possess several letters from the Marquis of Sligo to Mr. W. Reilly, Skeleton’s importer, concerning him, and pointing out to Mr. Reilly the horse’s many qualities.

As a piece of contemporary history, one of these letters is worthy of reproduction in a history of the Racehorse in Australia:—

“Mansfield Street,

“London,

“30th March, 1832.

“My Dear Sir,—

“In reply to your note requesting me to give my opinion of Skeleton, who formerly belonged to me, and whom you have sent to New South Wales, I have much pleasure in confirming the representation of my cousin, Captain Browne, relative to his performance and character; indeed, I can go much farther, in consequence of what has occurred since his statement was made. Every one of Skeleton’s brothers have since distinguished themselves in the highest degree, so much so that, when I wished to purchase another brother on account of my knowledge of the good qualities of two former ones, I was asked 500 guineas for him, though only a yearling. One of his brothers (not the same) was since sold for 700 guineas, a three-year-old, and that in Ireland, where money is scarce.

“My conviction is that, had he been fairly treated by my trainer, he would have found himself one of the best horses in England. Indeed, his public as well as his private trials warrant me in saying so. The proof of my opinion was my seeking to re-purchase his sire (Master Robert), and purchasing his brother.

“Were Skeleton now in this country, I would not hesitate to adopt him into my stud, which is pretty numerous and of some value, as may be proved by my selling last year a two-year-old, Fang, a relative, too, of Skeleton, for the enormous sum of 3,300 guineas money, and contingencies worth at market 500 more, making by £100 the greatest price ever given for a two-year-old. Mr. Western’s opinion of him is, I think, quite correct, and I know no stallion more likely to effect an important improvement in the breed of horses in Australia.”

“(Signed) SLIGO.”

You see what an alteration in values has taken place during the ninety years since the Marquis penned these lines. Three thousand guineas was an “enormous sum” for a horse, and seven hundred a great price for a three-year-old in Ireland, “where money is scarce.” Times have changed, indeed, with a vengeance. The Captain Browne mentioned in the letter was the father of our very familiar old friend, Rolf Boldrewood, and Skeleton has left behind him a deep mark in the Malvolio and Woorak family, through Madcap, Giovani, Lady Laurestina, and finally Latona, by Skeleton out of Miss Lane.

Chapter IV.
The Foundation Stallions of Australia.

All told, there were forty-seven blood stallions imported into Australia between the beginning of things and the end of 1838, and, considering what state the world had been in, politically and socially, during a great part of that period, and remembering the weary length of the voyage, the risk of capture by the French, and all the dangers incident to a sea voyage of some twelve thousand miles in small vessels, ships which could only be described as cockleshells, we did not do so very badly after all. It is interesting, and valuable, too, to mark the chronological order of the advent of such of these as have left a name behind them, in spite of the great gulf of time and all the tremendous events which have taken place on the earth since their brief day.

Blood Stallions of Note That Were Imported Between 1799 and 1838.

1799. Young Rockingham, by Rockingham. 1810. Hector, or Old Hector. 1817. The Governor. 1822. Stride, still alive through Princess, by Gratis from Roan Kit, by Stride out of a daughter of Camerton, from Cleodora, by Hector. 1824. Camerton. (No. 2.) Steeltrap (chestnut), by Scud—Prophetess. Sire of Jorrock’s dam. Satellite (a bay Arab); got great weight carriers and police horses. 1826. Buffalo (chestnut), by Fyldener—Roxana. (No. 13.) Peter Fin (bay), by Whalebone—Scotina. 1827. Skeleton (grey), by Master Robert—Drone’s dam. (No. 2.) 1828. Emigrant (Rous’) (brown), by Pioneer—Ringtail. (No. 4.) Theorem (chestnut), by Merlin—Pawn. (No. 1.) 1829. Toss (bay), by Bourbon—Tramp’s dam. (No. 3.) 1830. Romeo (chestnut), by Partisan—Vice. (No. 1.) 1831. Wanderer (bay), by Wanderer—Ogress. (No. 2.) 1832. Little John (bay), by Little John—Anna. (No. 11.) 1835. Gratis (bay), by Middleton—Lamia. (No. 42.) 1836. Dover (bay), by Patron—Maid of Kent. (No. 15.) 1837. Operator (chestnut), by Emilius—Worthless. (No. 11.) 1838. Lawson’s Emigrant (brown), by Tramp—dam by Blucher. Rubens (chestnut), by Priam—Sister to Portrait. 1838 or 9. Cap-a-pie (bay), by The Colonel—Sister to Cactus. (No. 5.)

Emigrant was the king of them all. If ever you run out the pedigree of an Australian-bred horse of to-day, whose ancestors have dwelt for some generations in Australia, there crops up the name of Rous’ Emigrant. It forms a memorial, far more enduring than brass or iron, to that very gallant sailor and splendid judge of all things connected with the racehorse, the Hon. H. J. Rous, “The Admiral.”

Rous’ Emigrant was a black brown, according to one who actually saw him, although some authorities, including the General Stud Book, describe him as having been a bay. In my own eyes I always frame a mental picture of a rich, glowing, mahogany brown horse, with a bold, generous, manly head, a great full eye, a noble crest, deep, fine shoulders, a barrel as round as any cask, and a tremendous loin. “He carries his flag like a Russian duke” of the olden time, and his quarters and gaskins are immense, with hocks straight, flat and strong. Old Mr. Gosper, of Windsor, N.S.W., is reported to have given the following verdict concerning Emigrant, and in the vernacular, “I never seed an ’orse that I liked better than Rous’ Emigrant. ’Is ’oofs looked as though they war made o’ granite, and at eighteen there wasn’t a blemish of no sort on ’is legs.” A rare horse.

But if the tide of emigration had been a somewhat weak one up to 1839, something had evidently occurred in the history of the colony, or in the world’s politics, so as to entirely alter that state of affairs, and I am not quite sure what that something might have been. The prosperity of Australia about this period was not very startling. The price of cattle was low, the population was not increasing in a satisfactory manner, “boiling-down” had already been resorted to, and yet, between 1839 and the commencement of 1844, fifty-three blood stallions were brought into the country. And the bustle and boom of the gold rush was still in the womb of futurity.

Chapter V.
The Foundation Brood Mares of Australia.

We have examined the foundation stones of our thoroughbred horse, so far as the sires are concerned, and now it is necessary to look at that even more important element in the building up of our racing stock, the early brood mares. We have already noted the arrival of Manto and the birth of Cornelia, the most important events which ever occurred in the chronicles of our Australian turf. None of the mares that followed, between 1825 and the early ’forties of the last century, were nearly so potent for good, although the influence of one or two of these has been sufficiently great.

Here is a brief list of those worthy matrons:—

1825. Manto, by Soothsayer—sister to Lyncaeus. (No. 18.) Cornelia, by Young Grasshopper—Manto. (No. 18.) 1826. Edella, by Warrior—Risk. (No. 3.) Cutty Sark (chestnut), probably by Soothsayer, but pedigree never authenticated. Spaewife (chestnut), by Soothsayer—Rous’ Emigrant’s dam. (No. 4.) 1828. Whizgig (bay), by Whalebone—dam by Canopus. (No. 3.) Lorina, by Smolensko—dam by Whiskey—Hoity Toity. (No. 26.) Dam of Alice Hawthorne. 1830. Lady Emily, by Manfred—dam by Cossack. (No. 29.) Gulnare (grey), by Young Gohanna—Ultima. (No. 17.) 1831. Merino, by Whalebone—Vicarage. (No. 3.) The Cape mare, said to have been by Driver. (No. 24.) Fairy, by Catton—Voltaire’s dam. (No. 12.) Octavia, by Whalebone—Blacking. (No. 5.) 1834. Penelope, by Phantom—dam by Woful. (No. 26.) 1839. Georgiana (Kater’s), by Waverly—sister to Corduroy. (No. 5.) Persiani, by The Colonel—dam by Reveller. (No. 12.)

And then, during the ’forties, there came Falklandina, Quadroon, Paraguay, Nora Creina, Miss Lane, Splendora and the Giggler. A few others there were, but their sun has waned, their glory is faded, already they have slipped over the horizon of time, and are out of sight. Of the early arrivals, apart from Manto and Cornelia, Edella has handed down to us such horses as Caramut, Malua, Mozart, Rapidity, Glenloth, Sheet Anchor, and numerous matrons which may, at any moment, teem, once more, with winners as of old. Spaewife lives through David, a Debutant winner, Finland, Fishery, and all that Fishwife family which brings back so vividly the name of that excellent old sportsman, Mr. John Turnbull. Quambone, Fucile, Tim Whiffler and Troubadour spring from the same root. Whizgig is responsible for Blink Bonny, Coronet, Meteor, Prodigal, Ringwood, Rufus, Strop and Tim Swiveller.

Most of this little troupe came over to the mainland from Tasmania in order to earn their fame.

Lady Emily is the founder of the tribe of Beaumont, The Bohemian, Lady Betty, The Nun, Pardon, Picture and Reprieve, but Gulnare, who was imported in the same year as Lady Emily, has left a much more indelible mark on our records than any other of the pioneers, with the exception of Manto.

That very remarkable man, Captain John Macarthur, who, I believe, did more for young Australia than any other individual, imported this mare. She was a grey, but her colour character seems to have been lost during the gulf of years between us and them. Sappho retains her ghostly influence over her descendants much more markedly than does Gulnare. Yattendon was the great exponent of the family, but many good horses came from the same line, such as Camden, Cassandra, Dainty Ariel, Survivor, and so on, and there are a goodly number of mares still with us from one of which the ancient glories of the house may readily be revived. Merino, Fairy and Octavia are practically dead, but the Cape mare, through Moss Rose, had many good descendants in the early days, and she may yet again come to the front.

There is a very grave doubt, however, what the ultimate origin of this useful mare might have been, for the Cape mare was thirty years old when she is said to have dropped Moss Rose, and this is a very unusual, if not unprecedented, age at which a clean bred mare could drop a foal. Of those mares imported in the ’forties, Falklandina still exists. Ritualist, the sire of some useful jumpers of to-day, comes from her, and Maddelina, Torah, Terlinga and Monastery each claim her as their ancestress. It is a South Australian family. Quadroon was a live wire until of recent years, when she seems to have weakened considerably. Chuckster, Grey Gown, Hyacinth, Kit Nubbles, Metford, Oreillet, Riverton, Swiveller and Trenchant are amongst the best moderns who run back straight to this old dame.

Paraguay, with a very limited list of foalings to her name, will probably live for ever in Australian turf lore, as, of her two sons, Whalebone and Sir Hercules, the latter has made a very deep mark in the honour list. Miss Lane we have seen as the founder of the Madcap clan. She was incestuously bred, her sire, Rector, a son of Muley, having produced her from a Muley mare. The Giggler was at one time full of promise, but with the failure of Menschikoff at the stud she seems to be fading into oblivion. And the last of the 1840 to 1850 immigrants which we will mention here is Nora Creina. Our reason for paying particular attention to her is that we have authentic notes concerning her journey hither, and as one voyage is not unlike another, we may, from this one example, receive a general idea of the difficulties and pleasures of transportation at that time from the Old Country. Mr. William Pomeroy Green, in the year 1842, chartered a ship from Plymouth, and brought his whole family, and all his household goods, along with him to this new land. I do not know whether the vessel was a brig, a barque, or a ship—most probably a barque—but, at all events, she was only of 500 tons register.

Into this little thing was squeezed a family consisting of the father and mother, six sons, one daughter, a governess, a butler, a carpenter, with his family, the head groom, a second groom, a herdsman, a “useful boy,” a gardener, a laundress, a man cook, with his wife, a housemaid, and a nurse, a young and inexperienced surgeon, two young friends of the family named Richard Singleton and James Ellis, Mr. Walker, a Sydney merchant and his sister, a Mr. Wray from Devonshire—an invalid—Mr. William Stawell, afterwards famous as Sir William Stawell, Chief Justice of Victoria, as well as all the crew and live stock.

The latter consisted of two thoroughbreds, Rory O’More, by Birdcatcher out of Nora Creina’s dam, Nora Creina herself, by Sir Edward Codrington from a mare by Drone, her dam Mary Anne, by Waxy Pope out of Witch, by Sorcerer; a hunter named Pickwick; a favourite mare of Mr. Green’s Taglioni; a Durham cow christened “Sarah”—and Mr. Stawell took out two bulls.

Here was prospective romance for you, and as much of it as you please. Mr. Stawell, of course, married Miss Green, and their sons are amongst the best-known, most trusted and well-liked of all Victorians of the present day. The patriarchs of old, the Swiss Family Robinson of our childhood, were never in it for the enterprise and romance of the whole affair. They sailed on August 8th, 1842. The ship “Sarah” was not very seaworthy—indeed, she was lost on the return voyage—but although there were several gales experienced on the passage, and parts of the bulwarks were washed away, they all arrived in safety at Port Phillip on the first day of December. “Mr. Stawell swam his bulls ashore, but our horses were taken in a horse box on a launch.”

In his diary, Mr. Green, under a September entry, says:—“My horses are doing well. I take them to the main hatch every day that is fine, and give them the height of grooming and salt water washing.” Mr. Green was a man of method, and he kept accurate records of his stud doings. There is no lack of particulars with regard to Norah Creina’s foalings, and the only thing about it which we can complain of is, that he put her to her near relative, Rory O’More, for all the first seven seasons. She had slipped a foal, however, on board the “Sarah,” to an English horse. I have no doubt he could not well do otherwise, there probably being no other available stallion within reach. The old mare had fourteen foals. Of these, the most famous were Tricolor (V.R.C. Derby), Oriflamme (Derby and Leger), Royal Irishman (Adelaide Leger), Norma (Australian and Adelaide Cups), Dolphin (Adelaide Cup), Pollio (Australia Cup), Quality (V.R.C. Oaks), Spark (the Hobart and Launceston Cups), and Garryowen, a lesser light. Such races, no doubt, were easier to win then than they are now, but it was a creditable record.

Taglioni, the “favourite mare,” although with no given pedigree, has rendered herself more or less immortal, in that Explosion, an Ascot Vale winner, Pegasus, a Hawkes Bay Guineas winner, Volume (New Zealand St. Leger), and some others trace to her.

So now we have taken a rapid and somewhat bird’s-eye view of the thoroughbred arrivals in the Colony down to the beginning of the fifties of the nineteenth century, and we shall now endeavour to take a like bird’s-eye photograph of what these same horses came out to do, and what racing was like in their day.

Chapter VI.
Racing in Victoria, From the Beginning.

Horse racing in Sydney, of course, commenced some years earlier than it did in the Port Phillip division of the Colony, settlement in the north there having an advantage of nearly forty years over the south. I find in a copy of the first Melbourne “Argus” ever printed, on June 2nd, 1846, the entries for a race meeting at Homebush. Amongst these appear the names of Alice Hawthorn and Gulnare. They are somewhat puzzling at that date, as Macarthur’s Gulnare was three and twenty years old in ’46, whilst her daughter, also named Gulnare, was still breeding in ’83, a fact which apparently puts her also out of court. The name seems to have been a popular one, for some reason or another. There was also a mob of Alice Hawthorns, and this particular individual was most probably the mare by Operator from Lorina (imp.), a bay foaled about 1840.

But it is Victorian racing to which we are for the most part going to direct our attention at present. In January, 1803, a survey party had examined the site of the present Melbourne. Collins had formed a convict settlement during the same year at Sorrento, down close to the Heads, but had quickly abandoned the enterprise. Hume, as we have seen, had reached the neighbourhood of Geelong in ’24; Captain Wishart, in his cutter, “Fairy,” had entered and named Port Fairy after his little craft in ’27; Dutton, on a sealing expedition, had built a house at Portland in 1829, and Mr. Henty had made a permanent settlement there in ’34. In May, ’35, Batman entered Port Phillip Bay in a schooner from Tasmania, and Fawkner’s schooner “Enterprise” navigated the lower reaches of the Yarra in August of that year. He was the son of a convict who had been in Collins’ Sorrento picnic party, and was attracted back by his favourable recollections of the place.

In 1836 the blacks came down from the Goulburn and committed murder, somewhere near to the Werribee. In ’37 Messrs. Gellibrand and Hesse, exploring beyond Geelong, were lost, and killed by the aborigines, and life was very unsettled and wild. But now mobs of cattle had commenced to be driven over from Botany Bay to the new settlement, and white men, with the restlessness and energy of our race, were arriving with frequency, for reports concerning the place were distinctly good, and in 1838, so numerous were the inhabitants of Port Phillip, that they decided that the time was ripe in which to inaugurate a race meeting. We are a strange nation; a peculiar people. March 6th was the great day, just eighty-three years ago. There were five hundred spectators present, and four races took place for their edification. Two were won by a mare named Mountain Maid, and two by a gelding, Postboy. Four starters constituted the largest field of the day. The course was right handed, one mile round the she-oak clad Batman’s Hill, a rising ground between the present Spencer Street Railway Station and the gasworks. The starting post was at the site of the North Melbourne Railway Station. As you enter the city from Sydney, you can, if you care to, recall the scene. The scrub was thick between the hill and the surrounding country. It was cut by winding, deeply-indented waggon tracks, for the ground was soft and boggy. Two carts, sheltered from the sun by old sails, performed the functions of publicans’ booths.

It was a two-days’ meeting, but the second helping, like so many second helpings of other things than race days, was a failure, or even, indeed, an utter fiasco. In 1839 there was again a two-days’ gathering on the slopes of Batman’s Hill. The racing was poor, Postboy and Mountain Maid again being strongly in evidence, but the attendance was so large that it was generally agreed that the population must have doubled since the previous year. But now the turf world fairly began to hum, and Batman’s Hill was no longer considered suitable for the purposes of racing. The experienced eye of someone had “spotted” the flats by the Salt Water River as being made to order for the sport, and on the 3rd of March, 1840, the first race meeting at Flemington was successfully carried through. It was a three-days’ affair, and for the first time in Port Phillip the riders sported colours. The quality of the competitors must have been very poor, for, if you look up the arrivals, in their chronological order on a previous page, you will see that few, if any, of their stock can have been taking part in the contests, and, therefore, most of them must have been nothing better than half-bred hacks. But the spirit of emulation had now caught fire, and all through the country owners were making matches one with another, and metropolitan racing was booming to such an extent that a ruling body called “The Port Phillip Turf Club” was called into existence. To the deliberations of this body, and their resulting actions, we owe the fact that horses in Victoria now take their ages from the first day of August in each year.

And now the course itself, at Flemington, became firmly and thoroughly established when, in 1844, plans were submitted to the Town Council, and that body approving of them, the place was declared to be a reserve for the purposes of racing. Five trustees were appointed, in whose name the ground was held, these including the Crown Commissioner of the day, the Surveyor-in-Charge, Mr. J. C. Riddel, Mr. Dalmahoy Campbell and Mr. William J. Stawell. Shortly afterwards the Superintendent of Port Phillip declared this transaction not to be legal, and a new grant was completed on October 22nd, 1847. The land included those portions of the Parish of Doutta Galla from 23 to 28 inclusive, beside the Saltwater or Maribyrnong River, the trustees being Mr. Riddel, Mr. Stawell, Mr. Dalmahoy Campbell again, and Mr. Colin Campbell. The term of years was subsequently increased from ten to twenty-one, which, on the latest renewal of the compact, was finally extended to ninety-nine, at the rent of one peppercorn per annum. The spot was then known to the inhabitants as “The Racecourse,” but a little village now began to grow up in the neighbourhood, and this was soon christened “Flemington,” in honour of a genial butcher who supplied meat to the hamlet, and whose name was Bob Fleming. In those early days everyone went to the races, and the route to and from the course was either by river-steamer or by road. The boats left the wharves at eleven o’clock and returned at sunset, and you may be sure there were hot times in the town o’ nights after the races. Bands and Christy minstrels enlivened the voyage by water. Passengers on the trip home not infrequently toppled overboard, and one or two were actually drowned. Accidents by road were common. At one meeting alone three men were killed, two being run over by vehicles, and one by a runaway horse. Assaults were common, and fighting very popular. Mr. O’Shanassy—who afterwards became Sir John—was attacked whilst taking a meditative canter round the course, and struck over the head very viciously by a ruffian armed with a heavy hunting crop. It was proved to have been a premeditated crime. Not being disabled by his injuries, and being a man of much determination and courage, O’Shanassy turned upon his assailant, pursued and captured him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him receive a sentence of six months’ imprisonment.

The winning post stood alongside the river bank somewhere between the present mile and seven furlong barriers. It was a handy spot at which the steamers could tie up to gum trees on the banks, and could disembark their passengers, but it had the disadvantage of being a considerable distance from the top of the steep, rising ground which soon became known as Picnic Hill. It was not, however, until the sport had been in existence for some twenty years that it was found advisable to change the winning post to its present site, thus converting the Hill into a permanent, convenient and commodious stand. By the year 1846 racing had taken a very firm hold of the light-hearted community, and already a public idol had been discovered and worshipped, spoken about and written about, much in the same way as the public and the press magnify our idols the Carbines, the Poitrels, the Artillerymen, and the Eurythmics of our own times. This golden image which the folk had set up on the Flemington Flats was a dark chestnut horse called Petrel. The reports concerning his paternity and his adventures before he became a racehorse varied considerably. By some he was considered to be by Rous’ Emigrant, whilst a sporting writer of the period maintained that he was “by Operator or Theorem from a Steeltrap mare.” The most authentic story concerning his origin seems to have been that, in 1841, an overlander between Sydney and Adelaide arrived at a station near the Grampians, bringing along with him two well-bred looking mares. Both were heavy in foal, and it was believed that they had been stolen. The overlander found employment on the station of a Mr. Riley, and here the foals, both of them colts, were dropped. One of these was Petrel.

At two years old the colts were sold to the overseer of a Dr. Martin for thirty-six pounds the pair, and the future champion commenced his education as a stock horse. Mr. Colin Campbell soon heard that Petrel had shown wonderful speed after cattle and emus, and you may be pretty sure that the stockmen had also discovered on their homeward way of an evening, that “the big chestnut beggar could gallop like fun.” Mr. Campbell swopped a mare worth twenty pounds for him, and his racing career then began. He was the undoubted champion of Victoria, and was then despatched, per sailing ship, to Botany Bay, to “take the Sydney-siders down.” But the voyage over was long and rough, he had no time before the races in which to recover himself, and he was very well beaten. The excitement in Sydney was tremendous, and the description of the event reminds one somewhat of a latter day happening when the Victorian, Artilleryman, was unexpectedly defeated by the New South Wales representative, Millieme, in the St. Leger.

It is pleasant to know that the old champion ultimately fell into the hands of Mr. James Austin, in whose possession he lived a life of ease, “roaming the flats by the homestead creek,” until, at the ripe age of twenty-five, he passed in his checks.

And during the Petrel fever days, one is glad to notice that at length the winners in the metropolitan areas were beginning to come from horses which were eligible for, and ultimately were entered in the Stud Books of Australia, and were now repaying their enterprising owners for their extensive outlay and boldness. Thus, when Petrel was carrying off the champion prizes at Flemington, Garryowen, the second living son of our old friend Nora Creina, was winning Town Plates and Publicans’ Purses, whilst Paul Jones, a colonial-bred colt, foaled in ’41, by imported Besborough out of imported Octavia, threw down his Van Diemonian gauntlet to Petrel, and on one occasion, to the wild delight of the Tasmanians present, actually finished ahead of him in a heat. But while these exciting happenings were taking place in the centres of population, racing was also catching a hold on the dwellers in the wild bush. Thus you will find, if you read the works of the late Revd. John Dunmore Lang, that in 1846 this distinguished divine made the overland journey from Sydney to Port Phillip, during which he kept an extensive diary of events.

On his arrival at Albury, he relates how he discovered the inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood, “on the Christian Sabbath Day,” indulging in the excitement of their annual races. So shocked was the minister that he broke into the Latin tongue:

“Quadrupedente patrem sonitu quatit ungula campum,”

which, in the words of “Young Lochinvar,” he aptly and freely translates as:

“There was racing and chasing on Albury Lea.”

“The respectable publican of the place, one Brown, told me that he was, with great reluctance, compelled to serve out rum in pailfuls to his customers who were attending the races.” And all over the huge colony of New South Wales we find at this time, and during the succeeding few years, that racing was becoming the favourite pastime of the people. There was a meeting at Maitland in ’46, where Jorrocks beat Emerald, and the event was considered so important that it is immortalised in the calendar for 1867 printed in the first Australasian Turf Register. There was a two day gathering at Yass in ’47, a Geelong Steeplechase in ’45, a Colac Hurdle in ’46, a Launceston Derby and Town Plate in ’43, a Mount Gambier Town Plate in ’48, a Brighton Derby and St. Kilda Cup in ’49, and a meeting even at far-off Portland in ’48. Yes! We are a peculiar, a very peculiar, people!

Chapter VII.
The Early Records.

Of course, there was no Turf Register in these very far-off days, and for some time the newspapers of Port Phillip were very few and far between. Just a couple of months prior to the running of that first race around Batman’s Hill, John Pascoe Fawkner had published “a rag,” a veritable “rag,” “The Port Phillip Advertiser.” It was in manuscript, and its “days were few, and full of woe.” Indeed, it was all but stillborn. There are no race records contained in its thin leaves. From January, 1838, until 1846 there was a succession of news sheets, “Port Phillip Gazettes,” “Patriots,” “Heralds,” “Figaros,” and what not, all of them weekly and weakly, squabbling, screaming, quarrelsome, puny infants, finding early deaths. The “Argus” was founded in 1846, and on June 2nd of that year its first number was printed. The racing news reported during the early years of its existence was meagre in the extreme, and was occasionally printed under the heading of “Domestic Intelligence.” But so mushroom-like was the growth of population in the later ’forties—and very much more so in the early ’fifties—that not only had a daily paper become a very flourishing concern, but the want of a weekly publication, of a purely sporting character, became so urgent that Bell’s “Life in Victoria” was established somewhere about 1855, and continued to exist until, in 1866, “The Australasian” came along with its sails bellying before a favourable breeze, and swept it out of sight. From 1860 until its disappearance, “Bell” had brought forth a little annual volume containing a list of all the principal race meetings of the past year, and “The Australasian” continued the publication under the title of “The Australasian Turf Register.” This was a thin little volume bound in red cloth, but nearly double the size of its diminutive predecessor. It has continued in an unbroken succession ever since.

The production of 1866–67 ran to two hundred and twenty-three pages. The stout, good-looking, substantial volume of 1920, with its blue boards and letters of gold, contains twelve hundred and thirty. And so, in proportion, has our racing and our horse flesh waxed mightily and increased in volume. Has the quality of our sport, and the excellence of our racehorse, grown during the fleeting years to as marked an extent? We will talk about that ere we wind up the clue of the argument.

But now the gold rush was affecting every portion of inhabited Australia, and the entire country was in a fever. People were too busy endeavouring to become rich quick to trouble very much about the importation of fresh blood stock, so that the list of arrivals between 1850 and 1860 was not nearly so extensive an one as might have been thought or desired. For 1851 was the “annus mirabilis” of Victoria. A Golden Age had dawned. On February 12th of that year Hargraves had washed his first shovelful of dirt near Bathurst, and had found gold in extremely payable quantities. The discovery had stimulated the early prospectors of Port Phillip, and the metal was soon being extracted from the earth by the ton at Clunes, Buninyong, Warrenheip and Ballarat. In September Her Majesty Queen Victoria had signified her assent to the Bill which granted separation of Port Phillip from New South Wales, and the province had now entered upon her career as a separate State. The only skeleton at the feast was the recollection of that dreadful day at the commencement of the year, when the world seemed to be on fire, and the end of all things might possibly be at hand. Black Thursday, February 6th, was a day ever to be remembered.

But when the first outburst of the gold fever had somewhat subsided, racing soon began to be more popular than ever before. With quantities of money and loose nuggets to fling about, with a well-developed and constantly indulged in itch for gambling, and with a natural sporting instinct, the diggers soon made things hum in the horse racing line. And now it was that there grew up the absolute necessity for keeping stud records. We have already noticed how inefficiently the stud careers of great mares such as Manto, Cornelia and others had been noted, and how, at this particular period in the history of the turf, it was more urgent than ever that a system should be adopted for preserving all information concerning each brood mare and her progeny, and of maintaining the breed as pure as it was possible to do under the peculiar conditions inseparable from a new country. For things were still what we, in our modern parlance, would call “pretty mixed.” The horse was the main means of progression, railways were short in their mileage, and their branches were scattered and few. The stage coach, buggies and horseback were practically the only means by which the country was traversed, and stock were of necessity still to be driven immense distances to market. With horses in profusion, with paddocks extremely large, with population scattered over a tremendous breadth of lonely country, horse “duffing” was a very tempting proposition to those people whose notions of “meum and tuum” were inclined to be careless and slack. To pick up a good-looking brood mare, in foal or with foal at foot, for nothing, was a temptation impossible to be resisted by many with such a weakness, as they travelled on horseback through the wild, outback places, behind their mobs of cattle and droves of sheep. The bushrangers, those unfortunate “gentlemen of the road,” too, required a constant supply of horse flesh, and the better looking, and the better bred, their cattle were, so much the more advantageous it was for them.

Troubadour, Mr. C. M. Lloyd’s well-known racing stallion, is reported to have been stolen by Ben Hall on three separate occasions, but was always recaptured. So many skirmishes had the old horse been in when ridden by Hall that, on the death of the horse, a post mortem was held, when seven bullets were discovered in various portions of his frame. Everyone has read Rolf Boldrewood’s inimitable book “Robbery Under Arms.” The story of horse stealing and cattle duffings is splendidly told in its pages, and the description of the stock concealed in “The Hollow” by Starlight and his gang is well calculated to make the mouths of all thoroughbred enthusiasts water, and almost to cause the best of us to covet our neighbour’s horse. Sappho, the greatest and most successful colonial-born brood mare that has ever been seen, was “lifted,” I have been informed, on at least three occasions, and Mr. George Lee had many long, weary rides whilst tracking the footprints of those that led her captive. Some of the most distinguished matrons of our stud book were either stolen or strayed mares whose owners never recovered them, and whose new masters, as a matter of course, dared not acknowledge their pedigrees, even if they had them. There was “Black Swan, by Yattendon from Maid of the Lake (bred by Captain Russell, of Ravensworth, but whose pedigree cannot be ascertained).” Her stock, inasmuch as they can win at all distances, at weight-for-age, and can stay, are palpably from no half-bred strain. There was Dinah, bought, it is believed, out of a travelling mob by the late Mr. James Wilson, of Victoria, and certainly as clean bred as Eclipse. Her descendants include, in a long list, Musidora, Newhaven, G’naroo and Briseis. There was Mr. C. Smith’s Gipsy, said to have been by Rous’ Emigrant, but whose dam was never identified. There was Lilla, whose granddam was a mare by Toss, “bred by the Rev. W. Walker, near Bathurst,” and there was Sappho herself, “by Marquis, her dam a grey mare by Zohrab, granddam a brown mare of unknown pedigree.” And then, too, there was Old Betty. Breeders would give untold sums of money to discover, with no possibility of error, the blood lines of these famous mares. It is to be feared, however, that it is an impossibility in each of these cases cited here, and every year that glides past adds to the apparently insurmountable difficulties which lie in the way. But it was to prevent such occurrences in the future that the first volumes of the Victorian, the New South Wales and the New Zealand Stud Books were compiled. Mr. William Levy essayed the task in Victoria in 1859. In N.S.W. the first production saw daylight at about the same time, and in New Zealand, breeders followed suit.

Mr. Levy’s volume ran to 40 pages, all told. There were one hundred and thirteen mares whose produce he recorded, and of these twenty-eight were owned, or partly owned, by Mr. Hector Norman Simson, of Tatong, near Benalla.

The second volume of the Victorian Stud Book, also edited by Mr. Levy, was published in 1865, and was even more meagre in its information than its predecessor, but volume three, compiled by William Yuille, junior, in 1871, was a much more ambitious effort, and volume four, the last of the series, was also edited by him. After this the need of an Australian Stud Book, apart from a mere provincial work, was so apparent, that Mr. William C. Yuille, the father of the Editor of the third and fourth Victorian records, and who had, unfortunately, died in the meantime, took over the great task. This first volume represents an enormous amount of work and of research. It is peculiarly interesting to the student of breeding, and is only surpassed in value by the second volume of 1882, a huge tome for those days, of over five hundred pages, a work which was undertaken by Mr. Archibald Yuille, assisted by his friend Mr. Francis F. Dakin. It was a splendid achievement. Thereafter, volume after volume was produced at fairly regular intervals, for many years, by these two enthusiastic experts, and after Mr. Dakin’s sudden death, in Sydney, by Mr. Archibald Yuille and his brother Albert. In 1913, however, the tenth volume was “compiled and published under the direction of the Australian Jockey Club, and the Victorian Racing Club.” It is a great work. The twelfth volume, published in 1919, runs to over nine hundred pages, and the information contained therein is complete and entirely satisfactory. The present Keeper of the Stud Book is Mr. Leslie Rouse, a member of a very old house which has been intimately connected with Australian racing and horse breeding, with all its traditions, ever since the beginning. Nothing has been left undone in order to place the Australian Stud Book on the same high pedestal of completeness and accuracy which distinguishes its great prototype, “The General Stud Book.”

Chapter VIII.
The V.R.C. and other Racing Clubs.

Racing, always a peculiarly popular sport the world over, but more particularly so in Australia, was fairly on its legs in the new country by the time that Stud Books and Turf Registers had been established. A little snowball had been formed, and from this time onwards it continued to accumulate in bulk, until to-day, the quantity of racing, in proportion to the population, is simply extraordinary, and the snowball has grown to be an avalanche.

Between 1850 and 1864 the destinies of the Victorian Turf were guided by two sporting bodies, the Victoria Jockey Club and the Victoria Turf Club. Both associations held their races over Flemington, and although each was managed by a high-class Committee and Stewards, they were ever at war one with the other, so, naturally, the house divided against itself came to the usual termination, and neither of them could stand. In 1864 it was found that neither the Victoria Jockey Club nor the Victoria Turf Club were sound financially, and that racing was not progressing under their management as it ought to have been doing. A meeting of those interested was therefore held, and this conference resulted in the formation of the Victoria Racing Club, which newly risen body declared itself willing to take on the liabilities of the others, provided that they, in their turn, were willing to dissolve. This was agreed to, and the V.R.C. has, from that moment, governed all Victorian racing, and ruled it extremely well. Mr. Henry Creswick was its first chairman. Immediately after its inauguration a Secretary was appointed at a salary of One hundred and fifty pounds per annum, and Mr. R. C. Bagot was chosen to fill the position. The Club has been miraculously lucky, in that, from 1864 until this year of grace, 1921, there has only once been a change of hand at the wheel. Mr. Bagot worked strenuously, enthusiastically, and with knowledge, until his death in 1881, when Mr. Byron Moore succeeded him, and he is still working with all the old fire which distinguished his efforts of forty years ago. The fact that he applied for the position at all seems to have been one of those freaks of fortune, or dispensations of Providence, which sometimes work out for the greatest good. Mr. Byron Moore was not a racing man. He knew little about the sport, and cared less. But he had known Mr. Bagot, and was well aware of his aspirations in connection with the Club. When Mr. Bagot died, his widow urged upon Mr. Moore the advisability of his applying for the position, and, more to please her than for any other reason, he hastily wrote an application, briefly submitting his name as a candidate, but sending no credentials, and giving the matter no further thought. Indeed, the circumstance had passed from his mind until, meeting the Ranger of the Course, the well-known and faithful Jonathan, in the street one day, that official stopped him and immediately gave him the information—“Well, they’ve guv it ye.” “Guv what?” “The Secretaryship.” And Mr. Byron Moore has been installed there ever since. Here, there, and everywhere, never absent from his post, always courteous, bland, obliging, yet inflexibly business-like and punctilious, he has been, and is “the most precise of business men.” And so the Victorian Racing Club has had, probably, the unique advantage of having been managed by only a couple of Secretaries during nearly sixty years.

So soon as Mr. Bagot undertook the management of its affairs, so soon as the two contending bodies agreed to cease operations, so soon, too, did the affairs of the Victorian Turf enter into a period of wonderful prosperity and vigorous growth. Indeed, with the exception of short intervals, now and again, during which the whole prosperity of the country, or of the world, has been depressed, the story of the Turf, not only of Victoria, but of Australia, has been one of continuous growth and advance, and that upon the most solid lines.

The Melbourne Cup itself, one of the most famous races contested in the world to-day, is a barometer of the financial welfare and general prosperity of the community at large.

It was a very small affair for the first few years after it had been launched upon the sea of time. The race was run under the auspices of the Victoria Turf Club, the Derby and Oaks under the aegis of the Victoria Jockey Club.

The stake for the great Cup was of the value of two hundred pounds, and it was won, for the first couple of years after its inception, in 1861, by Mr. E. De Mestre’s Archer. This was a fine horse by William Tell (imported), a bay son of Touchstone from Miss Bowe, by Catton from Tranby’s dam, by Orville. There seems to be some doubt about Archer’s dam, but Mr. Wanklyn states that she descended through Bonnie Lass (by Bachelor (imp.)), to Cutty Sark, whilst the first and second volumes of the Stud Book give his dam as Maid of the Oaks, by Vagabond from Mr. Charles Smith’s mare by Zohrab. In 1869 the stake was increased to £300. In 1876 the value had mounted to £500, a sum which had already been far surpassed by the Tasmanians as a prize for their championship at Launceston. This was already worth one thousand. The thousand limit in the Cup was reached in ’83 for the first time, Martini Henry being the winner for the Hon. Mr. James White. After this prize-money ascended in leaps. In ’86 there was £2,000 of added money; it jumped to £2,500 in the following year; £3,000 in ’88; £5,000 in ’89; and £10,000 in 1890. It was the summit, the “suprema dies,” the grand climax of all things. This year compressed all the bests on record imaginable into its calendar.

There was a record sum of money added to the race, a record field (thirty-nine starters), a record weight was carried by the winner (ten stone five), and the time for the race (3 minutes 28¼ seconds) was another best ever seen up to that time. That has since, however, been far surpassed, Artilleryman, in 1919, having smashed up a great collection of good horses in most decisive fashion by very many lengths in 3.24½. And the winner of 1890 was undoubtedly a record horse—the brave, consistent, staying, immortal Carbine.

In the three following Cups, Malvolio, Glenloth and Tarcoola each swept in ten thousand sovereigns for their owners, but in Auraria’s year, and when Gaulus, Newhaven and The Grafter won, racing affairs had met with “an air pocket,” and had consequently suffered a heavy “bump.” The added money fell to three thousand pounds. The depression, however, during the seasons following the collapse of the land boom, did not last long, and ere the war drums boomed across a horrified world in 1914, the prize had once more risen to upwards of seven thousand pounds. Even whilst the struggle for life and death was progressing, the V.R.C. and the A.J.C. both strove nobly to maintain racing on the highest possible plane in every way, and the value of the great Cup never fell much short of five thousand pounds. And this, too, in face of the fact that the Committee of the V.R.C. presented to the numerous Patriotic War Funds the magnificent sum of over one hundred and two thousand pounds.

Since the early days of the V.R.C. other clubs have arisen in great numbers. For many years, all through the country districts, no township was too small to hold a race meeting. Even country public houses far outback could manage to give away sums of money, and gather a crowd of people for the benefit of boniface under the pretence of a day’s horse racing. But now, under the wise hands of the ruling body, “sport” of that nature is severely restricted, and the formation of District Associations, working under the V.R.C. is doing immense good in improving the whole thing, and in seeing to it that racing is carried on in the cleanest and fairest manner possible. There are many excellent up-country gatherings throughout the State. Warrnambool, with its annual Steeplechase, is splendid. Wangaratta and Benalla, where they have raced since before the flood, both provide capital sport. Ballarat, once second only in importance to metropolitan headquarters, is perhaps not the force that it used to be in the old days when mining was flourishing, and was one of the most prosperous industries in the country. But it is once more on the up-grade, and is well managed. Bendigo has always maintained a high standard. Camperdown is good, as is Colac, while Geelong, after suffering a partial eclipse, is also again climbing the ladder. And in the metropolitan area there are several clubs that have done, and are doing, a great deal for the sport. The Victorian Amateur Turf Club is in the foremost rank, and is only second to the V.R.C. in influence and importance. The Caulfield Cup has been in existence since 1879, when two hundred sovereigns was the amount of its prize-money. In 1920 this was represented by £6,500, and a gold cup valued at £100.

The V.A.T.C. was originally formed in 1876 by a number of enthusiastic riders and owners, whose opportunities for amateur jockeyship were too restricted for their vaulting ambitions. The promoters were the Messrs. Hector, Norman and Arthur Wilson, J. O. Inglis, Herbert and Robert Power, and others, and so well have their affairs prospered on that beautiful course at Caulfield that the original object of the Club has been entirely lost sight of long ago. It is a splendid institution.

Then there is the seaside racecourse at Williamstown, which has had a long and creditable history. The course is a fine one, and is being improved yearly and the annual Cup is now worth between two and three thousand pounds. Moonee Valley is possibly the most popular of all the suburban turf resorts. Its affairs are splendidly administered by Mr. A. V. Hiskins and an influential Committee. It is so close to the General Post Office that anyone now finds it an easy journey to the entrance gates. The course is a good one, well kept, and the prizes are liberal throughout the year. The Committee is entirely up to date, and this Club, like the V.A.T.C. and Williamstown, are not only steadily increasing their prize-monies, but each and all of them gave with ready and overflowing hands to the patriotic funds. There are other and numerous—too numerous—courses within reach of the metropolis. Epsom, situated close to Mordialloc, is also a club, and its affairs are ably controlled, but Mentone, Aspendale and Sandown Park are of the nature of proprietary concerns whose surplus funds revert to the pockets of the promoters, and no doubt pay ample dividends. But with these, so far as the actual history and welfare of the Racehorse in Australia is concerned, we have nothing to do.

Chapter IX.
The Great Men of Old.

And now that we have these accurate records to our hands of all our turf history since 1865, and with the Stud Book giving us the family tree of our thoroughbreds, so far as it can be obtained, from the present day back to the times of King Charles the Second, we can so easily, from that high perch of knowledge, take a quick, bird’s-eye view of the happenings of our own brief days in Australia. Shortly before this era of historical accuracy dawned upon our thoroughbred history, certain importations of blood stock took place which have left a deeper mark upon our annals than any other events since the arrival of the mare Manto.

It was in 1860 that Mr. Hurtle Fisher procured, from England, a stallion and several brood mares, and formed a breeding establishment at Maribyrnong. This is an estate composed of flats and rising ground, hill and dale, on the banks of the Saltwater River, within an easy morning’s ride from the main streets of the Victorian capital. Here Mr. Fisher built, high up upon a convenient and commanding eminence, excellent stabling for his valuable imported stud, and a house for his manager. It was an ideal spot, beautifully laid out, and so substantial that the main buildings stand to-day with every appearance of having only been erected yesterday. The mares which Mr. Fisher imported were from the bluest blood of the day, carefully chosen, with the soundest judgment, and regardless of expense. His stallion was one of the best-known horses in England, a mighty winner, a great stayer. This was Fisherman, a brown horse, by Heron out of Mainbrace, by Sheet Anchor out of a Bay Middleton mare. He had won upwards of sixty races, most of them over a distance of ground, and although, when you trace his blood lines carefully out, you might be led to believe that they are scarcely those of a stayer, yet he undoubtedly did possess that quality in a marked degree, and so, too, did the stock which he left behind him.

The names of the mares which accompanied Fisherman on his long voyage conjure up to every turfite a vision of romance, recall the time when our best turf traditions were in the making, and bring back to the memory hundreds of races lost and won. Gildermire, Marchioness, Juliet, her daughter Chrysolite (foaled after landing), Rose de Florence, Coquette, Cerva, Nightlight, Gaslight, Omen and Sweetheart formed the kernel of the stud. The lastnamed mare, by the way, was dropped in Victoria, her dam, Melesina, having been imported by Mr. Rawdon Green, who sold her to Mr. Fisher. She was but a short time in the possession of the latter, but it was whilst the mare was at Maribyrnong that she produced Mermaid to Fisherman, and Mermaid was the dam of Melody, the dam of Melodious, the mother of the immortal Wallace. Unfortunately, times then became bad for Mr. Hurtle and his brother, Mr. C. B. Fisher. Many people were speculating heavily in land during the ’sixties, and, as is usual in all booms, the few who were lucky became rich very quickly, whilst the great majority whom fortune did not favour went to the wall.

The entire Maribyrnong Stud came to the hammer on April 10th, 1866, the sale realising nearly £28,000. Prices were considered high, but were such lots with the same reputation put up to auction to-day, say, by the Messrs. Tattersall at Newmarket, England, probably a couple of them alone would bring in that sum. As it was, the two-year-old Fishhook fell for three thousand six hundred guineas, Seagull for nineteen hundred, and Lady Heron for fourteen hundred. But prior to the great sale the name of Fisher had, in conjunction with one or two others, dominated the turf.

And we find during the five decades or so that have elapsed since then, that but a few owners, a few breeds of horses, stand in the limelight during each period, and leave their influence for good or ill for all time.

Contemporary with the Fishers, however, there was quite an abundance of sportsmen whose names, even after the lapse of all those years, seem to be as familiar to us as are those of the magnates of their day in the Old Country, the Merrys, Graftons, Albemarles, Falmouths, Hastings, Westminsters, Portlands, Bowes and Peels. Listen to them as they are told, and see if they do not stir a chord within you, awakening afresh dear and stirring memories of the olden time, of those days gone by in which we fondly believe that there were many giants.

Andrew Town, John Lee and his brothers, C. Baldwin, John Tait (“Honest John”), the Rouse family, T. Ivory, E. De Mestre, P. Dowling, Hector Norman Simson, James Wilson, William Pearson, W. C. Yuille, H. J. Bowler, Rawdon Greene, F. Tozer, and George Watson. What teams the Fishers had, as well as old John Tait!

From Maribyrnong’s massive gateway there used to emerge each morning to their work, a string containing Angler, Fishhook, Rose of Denmark, The Sign, Lady Heron, Kerosene, Smuggler, Sea Gull, Bude Light, Sour Grapes, Ragpicker, The Fly, and for a brief day only, the beautiful Maribyrnong.

This colt, who afterwards took his sire’s place, fractured his near foreleg in the Derby, his only contest. His life was spared, however, and he made an enduring name at the stud.

John Tait was a worthy rival of the Fishers. We see him, in ’66, winning with the mighty Barb, then a three-year-old. Mr. John Daly, until of late the handicapper to the A.J.C., a man of the soundest judgment, and with a prolonged experience, asserts with confidence that this black Sir Hercules colt was the superior even of our more modern Champion of Champions, Carbine. Volunteer, a brown horse by New Warrior, was a big winner for Mr. Tait, and ran a dead heat with Tarragon in the three-mile championship. They ran it off, and Tarragon won. Fireworks, a very great horse, and one with the curious distinction of being the Victorian Derby winner of 1867, as well as of the same race in 1868, was another of Mr. Tait’s winners whose name lives for ever. Honest John did not keep his horses to look at. Fireworks won the Derby on November 1st, and ran second to Mr. Fisher’s two-year-old Fenella on November 2nd—beaten a head. On November 30th he was third to Mr. De Mestre’s Tim Whiffler in the Duke of Edinburgh Stakes, 1½ miles, at the Complimentary Meeting. Later in the day he came out again and won the Galatea Stakes, two miles, beating Glencoe and a fine field of horses. Tim Whiffler ran, but smashed into a post, and was pulled up. On New Year’s Day Fireworks again won the Derby, and was saddled up for the very next race, the Midsummer Stakes, one mile and three-quarters. His starting price was even money, and he won easily by two lengths from ten opponents. In February Fireworks crossed the Straits and won the Launceston Champion Cup, pulling double, from Tim Whiffler, Strop, The Barb and two others. Next day he walked in for the Tasmanian Leger, and in March did the same in the V.R.C. race of that name at Flemington. At Randwick Glencoe beat him in the A.J.C. St. Leger, but both horses were in the one ownership, and Mr. Tait declared to win with Glencoe. At the same meeting, however, this great son of Kelpie took the All-Aged Stakes, one mile, the Autumn Stakes, and the Randwick Handicap, each a mile and a quarter. Races certainly were not run out from pillar to post in the ’sixties as they are to-day, and it would be not only impolitic, but impossible, to race a three-year-old in 1922 as John Tait used his Fireworks. Nevertheless, the three-year-old career of the colt must for all time be considered a very marvellous one. In the Cup of ’69 The Barb was allotted the handsome weight of eleven stone seven, his stable mate (Glencoe) was eleven stone, Mr. Fisher’s Ragpicker was set to carry seven seven, whilst the minimum of the handicap was his filly, The Fly, with five stone seven. The handicappers of the day were Captain Standish, Mr. William Leonard and Mr. Hurtle Fisher himself. This could not occur to-day. If it were possible, and the handicapper’s horse came home a winner, the vast crowd in its indignation would throw down everything and would not leave one stone standing upon another. But the circumstance remains an everlasting memorial to the unimpeachable integrity of the gentlemen who officiated in an honorary capacity in those times.

Of the three, Mr. William Leonard is still with us, and still continues to watch a race with the enthusiasm of youth. But this ancient history is altogether too absorbing. Were our pen to have its head, it would most assuredly bolt with us, and we would career round the course until sundown, and therefore we must pick up our reins and proceed more steadily upon our way. We were arguing that the different decades were dominated by groups of sportsmen, certain breeds of horses, and we have not yet definitely left the starting barrier of ’66.

From 1866 until well into the ’seventies, the same group of sportsmen were still ruling the roost, the same breeds of horses were carrying on their respective lines. The stock of Fisherman, through Maribyrnong, of Sir Hercules, through Yattendon, and of Kelpie, through Fireworks, were even yet the mainstay of the breed. But fresh names, both of men and steeds, were, of course, creeping in. Old Mr. James Wilson, with his Dinah and Musidora lot, came, held sway for many years, and is succeeded by his son, young James. The Chirnsides, too, stepped forward, and did an immense deal for the turf when they brought out three shiploads of blue-blooded mares and young ones, straight from the breaking-up sale of old Sir Tatton Sykes’ stud at Sledmere. Many of the mares are landmarks in the modern stud book, but the purchases of Mr. Tom Chirnside might have even been more successful had they been effected at another time. Old Sir Tatton had his own ideas on breeding, and he indulged more in the rearing of the thoroughbred horse itself than in the racehorse pure and simple. The comments of the Press of the day, made upon the arrival of the ships bearing their precious burdens, inferred that the mares landed were very good-looking indeed, but that most of them were more like weight-carrying hunters than racers. Unconsciously, the critic was paying them the highest compliment which was possible. The blue jacket and black cap of the house of Chirnside are still carried to victory every now and again by the horses owned, and, for the most part, bred by Mr. Andrew. The colours are a symbol of everything that is fair and square. The period extending between 1875 and the early ’nineties is brilliantly illuminated by the name of the Hon. James White.

No one in Australia has ever carried on his racing business with the same amount of success. He was a keen student of breeding. He gave his stud his personal supervision. He was served by trainers of the greatest ability and integrity, and his head jockey was second to none. Mr. White was almost invincible in the great two-year-old and classic races of his day, and many of the great handicaps also fell to his string. You have only to read the long roll of names in order to have the glories of the blue and white banner of Kirkham brought vividly to your mind. Chester, Martini Henry, Nordenfeldt, Trident, Ensign, Dreadnought, Palmyra, Segenhoe, Iolanthe, Acme, Sapphire, Uralla, Cranbrook, Bargo, Volley, Spice, Titan, Carlyon, Morpeth, Matchlock, Abercorn, Volley, Victor Hugo, Rudolph, Singapore and Democrat. After his death, which came all too soon, so long as his own blood remained unsullied by other hands, the stock which he left behind him continued to win great events. But Fennelly, his first trainer, died before his time; Tom Hales, his great rider, did not long survive his master; but Tom Payten, who succeeded Fennelly, only went West during the last twelve months.

Mr. White stuck to the old Sir Hercules blood and Fisherman as long as he lived, although he was wise enough also to come in on the flood when the strain of Musket first began to make its appearance; and he was such an exceedingly acute judge that he always took advantage of any other lines that he believed would suit his individual mares. Chester was a Yattendon (Sir Hercules). Mr. White bred from him Dreadnought, Abercorn, Cranbrook, Carlyon, Uralla, Titan, Acme, Victor Hugo and Spice. From Fisherman (Maribyrnong) came Palmyra, Segenhoe, Bargo, Iolanthe, and Trident was from the same horse through Robinson Crusoe and Angler. Ensign (Derby) was by Grandmaster, a son of Gladiateur; Democrat was a Gemma di Vergy, Sapphire a Drummer, and the remainder of White’s famous winners were all from Musket or his sons, and included Martini Henry, Nordenfeldt, Volley, Matchlock, Rudolph, Singapore, whilst Morpeth was his single well-known winner by Goldsbrough.

Chapter X.
The Great Armada and the Contre Coup.

When the Hon. James White was at the zenith of his racing fortunes, he conceived the noble ambition to bring the English Derby to Australia, and accordingly bred from several of his best mares to English time. It was a great adventure. La Princess, a mare by Cathedral from Princess of Wales, by Stockwell, produced for him a chestnut colt to Chester, appropriately named Kirkham. Chester himself was from a Stockwell mare, and the cross was therefore a strong one. From La Princess he also bred Martindale, by Martini Henry, in the following year. On the same blood lines he bred the chestnut colt Narellan, by Chester from Princess Maud, by Adventurer out of Princess of Wales, by Stockwell, as well as a full brother to Dreadnought, by Chester out of Trafalgar, by Blair Athol from a sister to Musket, which was christened Wentworth; and the last, a full sister to Singapore, by Martini Henry out of Malacca, by King of the Forest from Catinka, by Paul Jones, named Mons Meg. This little string was duly despatched to the Old Country and placed under the care of the greatest trainer in England, old Mathew Dawson. But the invading expedition was not a success. The colts seemed to lose their action on the voyage; or it might have been that virtue had gone out of La Princess and Princess Maud after their several successive matings with Chester, and it had not yet come home to Mr. White that Martini Henry was doomed to be a comparative failure at the stud. Possibly the line of Whisker, from which Chester sprang, and which had practically died out in England, was simply not good enough to hold its own with the descendants of Whalebone, Whisker’s full brother, which it was destined to meet. It is hard to say. But Mons Meg was the most successful of the mob, and that was not saying very much. She won the Gold Vase at Ascot, and certainly seemed to stay. But she failed at the stud, and although Kirkham sired a winner of the Grand National Steeplechase, it was the best that any of the colts could do, and the great Armada deserved a better fate.

During James White’s career there were no stars of heaven which approached him in magnitude, although Sir Thomas Elder with his Gang Forward and Neckersgat blood, E. K. Cox with his Yattendons, Andrew Town with the Maribyrnongs, and Mr. Frank Reynolds with the Goldsbroughs, did much for the Australian horse. And in good truth the star of the lastnamed family never seems to set, although its racing fortunes may rise and fall with the tide.

And now, when the great constellation was near the setting, others commenced to rise. There was Mr. Donald Wallace, a generous and successful owner, and one whose name has been rendered altogether deathless through the peerless Carbine. He did not, however, breed the great horse himself, but bought him for what was considered a very large sum, three thousand guineas. Before Mr. Wallace died, unfortunately at a comparatively early age, Mr. W. R. Wilson appeared on the scene. He bought the St. Albans Estate, in the neighbourhood of Geelong, collected a stud of the very highest class of brood mares, and, by the aid of the Musket blood, principally through Trenton, and the St. Simon strain, through Bill of Portland, he experienced a succession of successful years, during which he stood at the head of the list of winning owners. It was in his reign that the first importations of the Galopin-St. Simon stock found their way into Australia, the effect of which has revolutionised the whole of the horse-breeding industry of our great island continent. Indeed, from Mr. W. R. Wilson’s time the aspect of everything has changed. We have become so intensely democratic in our notions that we do not seem to be able to suffer a king to live, not even in our pastimes. The prize-money has become much more evenly distributed, which, perhaps, is all the better for the prosperity of the turf, and we do not seem to be able to breed racehorses without importing a constant stream of sires from Europe. And for the greater part these importations have been scions of the Eclipse-Blacklock house through St. Simon and his great sire, Galopin. It was with the closing years of the nineteenth century that the last of the great dominating owners disappeared from the scene, and the days of the turf democracy commenced. Since the new century began there have been many good owners, many fine men, good sportsmen, but none who have held their place year in, year out, in the old-fashioned way. Mr. L. K. S. Mackinnon, the present Chairman of the V.R.C., has owned in his time many horses, and some good ones, amongst them Woorak, a great sprinter. Mr. E. E. D. Clarke, with his Welkins, is also constantly on the long roll. No one in Australia races in quite the same princely style as does Mr. Clarke. He breeds his own stock, employs the best of trainers, is faithfully served by Robert Lewis as his first jockey, and he races for the sport alone. Mr. Agar Wynne is seldom absent from the yearly roll call, and Mr. S. A. Rawdon never seems disheartened by cycles of bad years. Mr. A. T. Creswick races lavishly, and, winning or losing, retains an imperturbable countenance. Mr. Hawker, from South Australia, sticks nobly to the great game, and Mr. N. Falkiner, with his magnificent stud farm, and his high-class stallions and carefully selected mares, looks like emulating the deeds of those of old time. And then there is a long list of professionals and semiprofessionals whose names appear with a fair amount of regularity. But times have altered, and manners and peoples have changed with them since the decades sacred to the Taits and the Fishers, and the horse, and his rider, too, are not the same. The old blood which we cherished some sixty years ago has disappeared, and we wonder if it is for the better.

Sir Hercules, Yattendon, Chester, The Barb, Kelpie, Fireworks, Tim Whiffler, Fisherman, Angler, Maribyrnong, Kingston, The Marquis, Newminster, of all those heroes of old not a trace, on the male side of the house, is left behind. With the opening century commenced the invasion of English sires, and in the same fashion as the Norway rat of old ate up and exterminated his brown English cousin, so has the imported blood from England exterminated our old-time Australian horse. To-day, in the list of winning sires, the first sixteen are imported horses, and out of the first hundred, seventy-eight were foaled in the British Isles. Of the two and twenty that were dropped in Australia, many came from English parents, and each one at least owns to an English grandsire.

In the entire long list there are but a couple of the descendants of Chester that claim any winners at all, and these, sons of Carlyon, are lower than the two hundredth place. But that we are still capable of rearing dominant and pre-potent blood sires in our climate, and nourished on Australian pasture, is evident from the fact that, within recent years, Malster, Bobadil and Wallace have been powerful factors in the production of our winners, and this gallant trio, one or other of them, have headed the poll, and that many times. But they are dropping out, those three, and ere another generation has passed away, practically every winning sire will be an importation.

Even the very foundation stones of our studs have been turned topsy turvy and thrown away, since the days of Macarthur, Icely, the Fishers and Tait. In their eras the blood of Herod was in the forefront of the battle, although, as time went on, Birdcatcher, and from him Stockwell, encroached upon his domain, and finally settled the house of Eclipse on his unshakeable throne. The advent of Musket brought Touchstone to the front, and still further strengthened the Eclipse blood. But the greatest revolution of all was accomplished when Bill of Portland, a son of St. Simon, of the tribe of Blacklock, of the house of Eclipse, landed in Australia. So tremendous was the success of the sons and daughters of the brown horse, more especially when mated with Musket mares, that no newly imported sire seemed to have a chance of success unless he were imbued with that same St. Simon strain. The effect is still in the strongest evidence to-day.

If you scan the latest list of winning sires to hand, that for 1920 to 1921, you will find the following results: The first hundred and three places are occupied by sires of the following lines of descent: The direct descendants, in tail male, of St. Simon and Galopin number thirty-five; whilst three trace to Speculum, son of Vedette. Fourteen are Stockwells, through the medium of Bend Or, and eight through other branches. Birdcatcher claims other winning stallions, apart from the Stockwells, through Isonomy, the great son of Sterling, and for the most part by virtue of Isonomy’s chestnut son, Gallinule.

Touchstone boasts of twelve Musket sires to his credit, twelve Hamptons, and but a single Hermit. To-day there is not a single representative of the house of Herod in the first hundred on the roll. But Matchem, by the aid of that grand horse, Barcaldine, is represented by six living sires. This brief summary tells us exactly how the barometer is behaving. In Australia Eclipse is paramount, and that for the most part through the influence of Blacklock. Musket, who did such wonders for our breed forty years ago, is sick, almost to Doomsday with Eclipse. Hermit, as a male influence, is dead. Barcaldine is moribund, and it is perfectly evident that before another twenty years have passed, on the male side of the house, at least, it will be Eclipse first and the rest nowhere. Within the last ten years there have been, in the Old Country, symptoms of a revival of the blood of Herod through Roi Herode, and his speedy grey son, The Tetrarch. For the moment, the courses are flooded with them, and every field is flashing with greys. It seemed, for a lustrum, that Herod and Tartar were once more destined to become a vital force, but the zenith was reached ere many days. Even now this Herod star, or comet, which appeared in the heavens and rushed onwards as though determined to carry everything in front of it, has been observed to change its direction, and it is rapidly speeding away from the sun on its outward course. We in Australia have followed the fashion, and Herod, with Menin, Chrysolaus and Sarchedon, will enjoy popularity and a considerable measure of success, but the march of events here will certainly follow those in the old world, and the grey blood will, in a little time, weaken and fade away.

Eclipse must eventually reign absolute. Yet these importations of other families are immensely valuable. We must have out crosses for our perpetual blood of Eclipse, and the Barcaldines, the Roi Herodes, and The Tetrarchs are inestimable for such a purpose. And the greater their success in the early days of their stud life here, the better for the ultimate good of our thoroughbred horse.

Chapter XI.
How to Breed an Australian Horse.

It is a well-known fact all the world over that every country must, perforce, keep on renewing its blood stock supply from the British Isles, but we in Australia have, to quote a modern expressive piece of slang, “gone over the odds” altogether. We are breeding, as we have seen in the previous chapter, scarcely any sires at all. This, somehow seems to be wrong. Australia contains magnificent country, and portions of it are blessed with a climate which is ideal for the purpose of breeding and rearing horseflesh. The conditions which we possess here, and which I designate as ideal are the following: We have still land procurable at not too extravagant a price. We can obtain it in comparatively large areas. The soil is suitable, in many localities, for the purpose. The climate is excellent. With these advantages at our doors, there are three methods of raising racehorses. The first is, whilst using very large areas of country, to leave everything to Nature. Reverse Cato’s maxim, “Laudito ingentia rura. Exiguum colito” (“Praise up big areas. Use small ones”). Whilst pursuing this method, the horse owner must make up his mind that he is unlikely to win two-year-old races, and therefore he must have no intention of breeding horses for the annual yearling sales. What he rears must be for his own use, and he must be exceedingly patient. I do not know anyone who follows the business on these lines, but the man who could afford to wait, and was willing to wait, would probably find himself, in a few years, the owner of several weight-for-age, sound-limbed, sound-jointed, clear-winded racers.

The second plan is to have a run of only a limited acreage, and to force the youngsters from the moment they are dropped.

And the third method is a combination of the two. To follow ideal lines, I think the following points are essential to insure the greatest amount of success which it is possible for sinful man to attain:—

Firstly: A sufficient area of suitable land. The locality is immaterial provided that there is an abundance of feed in favourable seasons, and plenty of limestone in the soil. I should have no enclosure, apart from yards, under a hundred acres, and the fencing, which is an expensive item these days, must be of post and rails. The contour of the ground should vary, and the soil must not be too rich. Hill and dale, upland and meadow, river flats, an occasional swamp, are each of them desirable commodities in the way of land, to be made use of in due season. The feet of the youngsters are fashioned by the country they run on. One of the most knowledgeable of all Australian trainers, a breeder himself, Mr. Joe Burton, it was who first impressed this fact upon my mind. Some readers may remember what a number of Gozo horses suffered from bad feet. “They are not Gozo feet,” Mr. Burton used to tell me; “they are Tucka Tucka feet.” I believe he was perfectly right.

Horses require frequent change. After a while they may be doing badly in a paddock showing a rare sward of grass, but will suddenly make gigantic strides in growth and welfare when shifted to a worse pasture. They do not appreciate rough, coarse, over-grown grasses. Therefore, bullocks must be used to keep the exuberance of a bountiful nature in rigid check. Their pasturage must be kept clean from the soiling of their own droppings. Chain and brush harrows break this up well, and scatter it over the soil, but unrotted horse manure puts very little back to the earth that has been taken out, and to seek the pitch of perfection the droppings should all be raked together and carted away to a receptacle where it can rot and be used for the garden or the cultivated fields.

Sheep and horses are like oil and water. They will not mix. You may run your mobs with sheep even amidst abundance, and yet they will be poverty stricken, covered with lice and ticks, unwholesome, and never “growthy.” So much shortly, then, for the land.

Secondly, Shelter: In the Old Country, where housing must be resorted to for a very great portion of the year, this is really not so important as in Australia. “The cold winds of winter blow mournfully here,” as the song says, and these are searching beyond belief in Australia. Every paddock must have efficient shelters. Plantations, close-growing hedges, clumps of native pines, groups of box or gum trees, are essentials for the well-being of all horses. The hedges and pines make excellent wind breaks, but shade from the sun in summer is equally a necessity. I like open sheds, thickly thatched, no corrugated iron, please, fairly high in the roof, and far removed from trees. Horses cannot stand the noise of wind-swung boughs on roofing. They, as a rule, believe in ghosts. The flies are a terrible infliction in the spring and early summer. I should like to house my young ones, during the worst months, in dark, but sweet, stables throughout the long, scorching summer days, and turn them out in the paddocks during the grateful coolness of the nights.

Thirdly, Artificial Feeding: In the average seasons mares carrying their foals require nothing in the way of artificial food, when once the winter has passed away. The grass supplies them with an abundance of good milk, and their offspring are the better for their natural sustenance, unaffected by overstimulating oats and chaff. Besides, some matrons have a tendency to wax over gross, and when this occurs, it is astonishing to see how little milk they manage to manufacture for their foal. During the spring and early summer, and whilst the grass seeds are still present in abundance, I believe that artificial food is thrown away. But each mare and foal should be watched as a cat watches a mouse. Neither must be suffered to endure the slightest check for a single day—no, not for one hour. The careful, experienced horse master can tell at a glance as soon as one of his charges is showing the smallest symptom of “going back,” and he must begin feeding instantly. If he has not postponed too long, it is surprising how little it takes in the way of oats and chaff and bran to keep your mares and foals in the best order imaginable. A few handfuls of good, sweet, oaten chaff, a couple of pints of coarse bran, always moistened, a pint or two of well-crushed oats, will be found more than a sufficiency until well into the autumn. But see that every mare and foal receives what you have apportioned them. I fall out with many of my friends in this item of stud management. Most people feed their mares together, perhaps in a number of different mangers, but yet not separated one from the other. I maintain that this is wrong. You cannot tell what each receives, and their appetite varies to a wonderful degree. I say that you should yard your mares and foals, and stall each of them within the yard, with their own separate manger, until the mob have finished their meal. Twice a day is quite enough, but feed as early in the morning as possible, and not too late in the afternoon.

In the winter the oats and chaff are increased, perhaps to five pints of oats for each mare and foal, a kerosene tinful of chaff, and three or four pints of bran. That is on an average, but we know that some will take more, and a few less. In the really cold weather, a couple of double handfuls of boiled barley, night and morning, is not only very pleasant, but it is a capital supplier of “caloric,” and the appetite is sharpened by the addition of a handful of brown sugar. In the cold, frosty nights, or still more so in the wet, windy ones of winter, mares and foals need something extra in the way of heat producers. The mares, if past the first blush of their youth, should be rugged. I have heard some stud masters decry boiled barley as anathema. I would agree with them if they fed their stock upon such a food, and used nothing else. But as an adjunct to their habitual oats and chaff and bran, it is magnificent. You cannot have too much change, and anything is wholesome for them, in well-regulated quantities, which horses will readily eat. We are careless of details in Australia, and only a few studs are worked by the owner in person. And it is the personal attention to minutiæ which is the main factor in winning success. There is no industry in the world in which loving care does so much good, in which carelessness and indifference so quickly spell ruin.

You may have a hundred stud grooms ere you drop onto the individual who has knowledge, honesty, industry and enthusiasm combined. Therefore, there are only a very few stud farms which are managed as they should be. And one of the most flagrant of faults in management is this: Let us imagine that you have decided upon sending your best couple of mares to a certain horse, away from home. Theoretically his blood suits that which flows in a purple stream through the veins of your mares. Both mares are in foal, and you truck them, and, perhaps, accompany them yourself, to the desired haven and harem some two hundred miles away. They are in rare condition. You hear by letter that they are safely over their foaling, and before the new year they are returned home. They arrive in miserable condition. The season has not been a very good one. They have not been fed. They have fallen away to shadows. Being good mothers, they have given of their substance to their foals until they have nothing more to give. Their ribs are sticking through their skin. Their coat is dry and rusty, and emits a disagreeable smell. The foal is in no better case. He looks wretched. Mare and foal, and the embryo in utero, have received such a check that they will never make up the ground they have lost. It is a handicap on their backs for the rest of their lives. So you have practically lost two seasons with your two best mares, and have paid a couple of hundred guineas for the experience. I have a grievance against very many stallion masters over this bone which I am endeavouring to pick with them, and I bring it forward here in an earnest endeavour to draw the attention of owners to the matter. Many of them are unaware of the facts of the case, and the sooner they learn them the better. In this ideal country of ours we ought to be able to breed the best racehorses in the whole wide world, and we should certainly be able to rear our own sires, with the assistance of occasional infusions of English blood. Search the columns of the weekly sporting press and scan the advertisements of “Sires of the Season.” In one paper I see close on eighty blood stallions advertised. With the exception of about half a dozen these are all imported. In another publication there are seventy, and the same proportion of country breeds stands to the imported stuff. And yet, what strains we have owned in the days that have gone by! Sound, stout, masculine, running strains. But they have run out, and they are vanished away. And it must be confessed with the deepest regret that a great number of the army of blood sires which we have been importing for the last twenty years are not sound, are not stout, are the reverse of masculine, although they do possess some of the greatest running blood in all the earth. My own deliberate opinion is that, for a decade, at least, we should drop this extravagant importation, put our own house in better order, and show the world once more what we can do in the way of producing our own sound, stout, fleet and staying, high-couraged but sensible Australian horse.

Chapter XII.
Great Australian Horses.
The Barb v. Carbine.

For we did produce, once upon a time, animals fit to take their places in the ranks against the greatest that the world could bring. Although the Hon. James White failed in his patriotic invasion, many individual racers reached the shores of Great Britain and showed the racing world what we are really capable of.

To begin with, there was Merman. This horse was bred by Mr. W. R. Wilson when his St. Albans Stud was in the zenith of its fortunes. He was a chestnut colt, foaled in 1892, by Grand Flaneur, who, great horse as he himself was, was not an unqualified success at the stud, from Seaweed, by Coltness out of Surf (imported). He showed some fair form in Australia, winning a couple of two-year-old handicaps in his first season out of half a dozen starts; the July Handicap, at a mile, in nine attempts as a three-year-old, and the Armadale Handicap, one mile, the Rosstown Plate, 5½ furlongs, the Yan Yean Stakes, a mile, and the Williamstown Cup, one mile and three furlongs, out of seven efforts, as a four-year-old. That erudite judge, Mr. William Allison, then purchased him on behalf of Mrs. Langtry, and in England he proved himself a stayer of the very first water by winning the Ascot Gold Cup, 2¼ miles, the Cesarewitch, 2¼ miles, the Goodwood Cup and the Goodwood Stakes at two and a half miles each. This was the highest form imaginable, and was an excellent advertisement for the Australian horse.

Newhaven, our Cup and Derby winner, won the City and Suburban Handicap at Epsom, a race which the fiddle-headed old gelding, The Grafter, also appropriated, while Maluma, the sister to Malvolio, won races. Aurum, a son of Trenton, was, without doubt, the best representative we ever sent to the Old Country, but, unfortunately, he went wrong and never had a chance. He was the greatest three-year-old I ever saw, and at three years old ran third to The Grafter and Gaulus in the Melbourne Cup, two miles, at the beginning of November. This was such a good performance that I must append the weights, so that you can thoroughly appreciate the magnitude of the effort:—

Gaulus, 6 years	7.8 (1)
The Grafter, 4 years	7.0 (2)
Aurum, 3 years	8.6 (3)

Had they been meeting at weight-for-age, their respective imposts would have been:—

Gaulus, ch. h., 6 yrs.	9.6.
The Grafter, b. g., 4 yrs.	8.11.
Aurum, br. c., 3 yrs.	7.6.

It will thus be seen that this three-year-old was asked to give The Grafter, a horse capable of winning a City and Suburban, no less than thirty-nine pounds, calculated on the weight-for-age basis, and Gaulus forty pounds. It was no less than astounding.

A New Zealand colt, Noctuiform, perhaps almost as good a colt in his three-year-old days as Aurum, also travelled to the Old Country, but went all to pieces, and was a complete failure. That was the fortune of war, but the Dominion avenged herself when Mr. S. H. Gollan took a steeplechaser, Moifaa, across the wide seas to Liverpool, and put down all England, aye, and Ireland, too, over that unique and difficult course. Yes, I assure you we can breed the best in the world here, if we would but take the greatest pains. That is where we fail, and fail badly. English stud management can give us a couple of stone and a handsome beating.

We often hear men arguing on the subject of “Which was the best horse ever bred in Australasia?”

The subject is an interesting, if a somewhat profitless one for discussion. It is impossible to decide the point, for the horses of old had perforce to contend with conditions which their more pampered brethren of to-day are never called upon to meet. But I should say that the champion laurels hover between the brows of Carbine and The Barb. The time occupied by each in running the Cup, two miles, can scarcely be compared. The old-timer won, as a three-year-old, carrying six stone eleven, in three minutes and forty-three seconds. Carbine, a five-year-old, with ten five up, finished in three minutes twenty-eight and a quarter seconds. The pace in The Barb’s year was probably not fully on until approaching the Abattoirs, when the winner and Exile came away from the field and, locked together, they fought out every inch of the last hundred yards. In Carbine’s year they hopped off with a full head of steam on, and the last five furlongs were covered at the tremendous speed of one minute and two seconds. But the going in The Barb’s race, no doubt, could not be compared with what it is in our day, although we must remember that, after all, there was only an interval of twenty-four years between the two eras. It will be interesting to briefly run over the careers of the rivals.

As a two-year-old The Barb only competed twice. In April Fishhook and Budelight, two Fisherman colts belonging to Mr. H. Fisher, beat him in The Australian Jockey Club’s Two Years’ Stakes. The Barb ran green. A week afterwards Fishhook attempted to give the black colt a stone, at six furlongs, in The Nursery, but was beaten easily by two lengths.

Then followed the Australian Derby in September. The Barb won with the greatest ease by two lengths, Bylong, a chestnut Sir Hercules colt belonging to Mr. John Lee, running second, and Fishhook third. On September sixth, The Barb, still entitled to run in “A Maiden at entry” event, was beaten by a Pitsford horse, Bulgimbar, in the Spring Metropolitan Maiden Stakes, after a fine race, by half a length. Truly the ways of our ancestors were not our ways. Next day at weight-for-age, but carrying his seven-pound Derby penalty, he smothered Fishhook very easily by three lengths at a mile, run in 1.50. Dead slow! Then came the great Melbourne Cup on November 1st, 1886. The Barb won by a short head. Time, 3.43. All-Aged Stakes. One mile. Special weights. Sour Grapes (Mr. C. B. Fisher’s) br. f., 2 years, first. The Barb second. The latter was left at the post. Won by 2 lengths. Time, 1.50.

Twelfth Champion Race. 1,000 sovereigns. Weight-for-age. Three miles. The Barb first, Mr. Tait’s Volunteer second. Cowra, Sea Gull and Fishhook also ran, but Fishhook bolted. Won very easily. Time, 5 min. 38 sec. “Quickest on record in Australia.”

The Homebush Maiden Plate. One mile and a half. For Maidens at time of entry. (The race was run on April 22nd, and so The Barb’s claim to maidenhood would not hold good to-day.) Mr. E. Lee’s Phoebe was the only other starter. “Won in a trot. Time, 3 min. 9¾ sec. The Barb ran in his shoes.”

The Australian St. Leger. At Randwick, May 4th.

Mr. C. B. Fisher’s Fishhook	1
Mr. T. Ivory’s Blair Athol	2
Mr. J. Lee’s Bylong	3

Mr. J. Tait’s The Barb, Old England and Sir John also ran. “Fishhook and The Barb went off with the lead, and raced at a tremendous pace for a mile, when The Barb was beaten.” What the explanation of this debacle might have been, I cannot say, but I am told by one who lived at that time that Fishhook simply “burst him up.”

During the next season The Barb’s career was an uninterrupted triumphal procession. The Metropolitan, the Craven Plate, the Randwick Plate, the Royal Park Stakes at Flemington, the Port Phillip Stakes, the Sydney Cup, and the Queen’s Plate at Randwick, all came his way without much effort. The Royal Park Stakes was a walk-over, and in the Randwick Plate he had only Warwick, a stable companion, to canter along with him. But in the other events he beat Tim Whiffler, Fireworks (not, however, the Fireworks of his three-year-old days), Coquette, Gulnare, Glencoe and Gasworks. He was invincible, and there, at the height of his fortunes, his racing career terminated.

Now let us sum up Carbine as quickly as possible. As a two-year-old he appeared on the course five times, and on each occasion won his race against the best that New Zealand could produce of the same age, and in the Challenge Stakes he also beat Russley, a six-year-old, and Silvermark, a three-year-old.

After arriving in Australia, he was beaten—the most palpable fluke—in the Derby at Flemington by Mr. White’s Ensign. Hales on Ensign won the race; Derrit on Carbine lost it. The latter rider struck his mount (Carbine) with his whip on a tender spot, and paralysed him for the moment.

The Flying Stakes (seven furlongs), the Foal Stakes (a mile and a quarter), beating Melos and Wycombe, fell to him at the same Spring Meeting at Flemington. Then followed a couple of defeats. Carbine, now the property of Mr. Donald Wallace, ran third in the Newmarket, carrying eight stone twelve, to Sedition, a six-year-old mare with seven three on her back, and Lochiel, an aged horse, with nine four. Mick O’Brien always maintained that he should have won this race upon Carbine. It was well known that O’Brien was a partner in another of the runners (Tradition), and he was fancied. Carbine’s jockey was determined that he would beat his own horse at all costs—otherwise, what would the mob say?—and kept the big bay well shepherded. When Tradition was palpably unable to come along, O’Brien clapped on full sail, and came too late. “I should be punished, flogged,” he confessed, after weighing in. In the Australian Cup, Lochiel, giving in actual weight a pound, got home from the three-year-old by three parts of a neck. At weight-for-age Carbine would have received eighteen pounds. The colt now won the Champion Stakes, three miles, in a very slow run race, from Abercorn, Melos, Volley, Lonsdale and Cyclops. Next day he secured, very easily indeed, the All-Aged Stakes at a mile, and, on the same day, the Loch Plate, two miles, by half a head from Lochiel and Carlyon, Carbine carrying a fourteen pound penalty.

In Sydney, at the Autumn Meeting, in glorious weather, Abercorn beat the champion in the Autumn Stakes, a mile and a half, and The Australian Peer, Lochiel and Cranbrook were behind the pair. Next day, in the Sydney Cup, two miles, Carbine, nine stone, won by a head from Melos, eight stone two, with Abercorn third, nine four, two lengths away, and Lochiel, nine two, eighth. “At the half-mile post Lady Lyon somewhat interfered with Carbine, causing him to drop back last. Time, 3 min. 31 sec.”

Next day Carbine won the All-Aged (a mile) from Rudolph, Russley, Lochiel and Melos, and later in the afternoon beat Lochiel in the Cumberland Stakes, two miles, with Abercorn third. Carbine won by half a head, as you will see if you turn up the Turf Register of the day. What that useful work does not tell you, however, is this: Five furlongs from home the race looked a gift for Carbine, and all the books were laying “ten to one Lochiel.” At this moment Carbine nearly fell, and dropped astern a prodigious long way. Old Mr. Sam Cook, the owner of The Admiral, hearing the fielders still calling “ten to one Lochiel,” dashed in and took all the hundreds to ten he could gather. Running back to the Lawn again he came in sight of the winning post just in time to see Carbine put in the most paralysing run perhaps ever seen, and just catch the leader on the post. One who was down the running tells how, sweeping round the bend, Carbine was literally “ventre a terre,” his belly almost touching the grass. The last half was run under 48 seconds. It was a falsely run race, the two miles taking them five minutes and three seconds. On the last day of the meeting, Mr. Wallace’s colt again beat Abercorn—half a length—Melos, Lochiel, Volley and Bluenose, in the Australian Jockey Club Plate, three miles.

And so ended his three-year-old career. The next season opened for him in the Spring with the Caulfield Stakes. Mr. James White’s three-year-old Dreadnought beat him two lengths over the mile and a furlong, and Mr. White with Abercorn, and Mr. Gannon, by the aid of Melos, stood in Carbine’s way in the Melbourne Stakes. But only a short head and half a neck separated the three. Ah! there was racing in the days of these mighty giants. In the Melbourne Cup, Carbine was set to carry ten stone. Bravo, a six-year-old son of Grand Flaneur, who had been much fancied, went lame a few days before the race, was eased in his work, and went back in the betting to pretty hopeless odds. Recovering, however, and most probably all the better for the let-up, he won fairly easily from Carbine, with the consistent Melos third, carrying eight twelve.

When Carbine was saddled up for the Canterbury Plate on the last day of the meeting, he had one of his fore feet quartered, and consequently he was unable to show his best form, and for once in a way he was beaten out of a place by Abercorn, Sinecure and Melos. His revenge came in the autumn. In the Essendon Stakes he beat Singapore, Melos, Bravo and Chintz, although Melos and Dreadnought finished ahead of him in a slow run Championship. However, on the fourth day of the meeting he made ample amends by taking the All-Aged Stakes, at a mile, from five two-year-olds, and the Loch Plate, over two miles, from Singapore and Fishwife. “Three to one on Carbine.” Then came the Autumn Randwick Meeting. Here, in the Autumn Stakes, Melos once more ran second to the great horse, with Dreadnought third. Chintz, Antaeus and Federation also ran. The Sydney Cup, two miles, came on the second day, and Carbine won easily. He carried nine stone nine, and Melos, nine five, was out of a place. He ended his four-year-old efforts with the All-Aged Stakes, the Cumberland Stakes—both on the same day—and the A.J.C. Plate, three miles, in the last race beating Melos and Dreadnought. The time occupied in running the distance was six minutes and seven seconds, which, of course, was terribly slow. Carbine’s last season was almost, though unfortunately not quite, an unblemished blaze of glory. Briefly, here is the list of his triumphs: The Spring Stakes, Randwick, beating Melos and seven others; the Craven Plate, with Megaphone and Cuirassier behind him. The time for the mile and a quarter was 2 min. 7 sec., a record at that period. The Melbourne Stakes from a large field, including Melos, who must have been heartily sick of the sight of his enemy’s tail. The aforementioned Melbourne Cup—the record Cup; the Essendon Stakes; the Champion Stakes, beating on this occasion the risen sun amongst the three-year-olds, The Admiral; the All-Aged Stakes; the Autumn Stakes, with only Highborn in opposition at weight-for-age. In the great Melbourne race you must remember that Highborn had carried six stone eight to the champion’s ten five. On the second day of this Randwick meeting, Highborn came out and won the Sydney Cup, carrying nine stone three. This is perhaps the most convincing proof that Carbine was very close akin to the super equine. But on the third day of the gathering Carbine made his unlucky “lapsus pedis.” In the All-Aged Stakes, in slippery going, that very great miler, Marvel, beat him easily by four lengths, at his favourite distance. Carbine was extremely disgusted. His faithful and splendidly knowledgeable trainer, Walter Hickenbotham, had sent him out that day without shoes, and he did not seem able to act. When the clerk of the course rode up, as is the fashion in Australia, to escort Marvel into the enclosure, Carbine “went for him” with open mouth. Revenge is sweet indeed. Nor was it long delayed. In the second last race of the same afternoon the pair again met at two miles, when, suitably shod, and with seven to four betted on him, Carbine came home seven lengths to the good. There had been considerable excitement and applause when the black horse downed the great gun at the mile, but when old Carbine fairly vindicated himself in such smashing style, a generous and sporting public went wild with enthusiasm. Hats, umbrellas, even field glasses, were thrown into the air, and the shouts were deafening. Emotion like this, when money is not the incentive, is good. And—last scene of all which closed this strange, eventful history—in the A.J.C. Plate, on the fourth day, at three miles, and with the bookmakers asking ten to one, the great horse cantered home from Correze and Greygown. The curtain had fallen. The racecourse saw the familiar figure no more.

Which champion, then, shall be dubbed “The Champion of Champions?” Men, and good judges, who have seen The Barb, tell us that, as a horse, he was magnificent. Lengthy, but beautifully ribbed up, immense loins, great powerful, muscular quarters, perfect shoulders, the best of legs, and altogether a noble-looking animal. Carbine was scarcely that. He possessed grand staying points, of course. “A loin and a back that would carry a house, and quarters to lift you slap over the town.” His barrel was all that it ought to be, deep, but not cumbersome. His shoulders were excellent, his rein long. But, in proportion to the rest of his frame, he was light in the gaskin, not great in the forearm, small—7¾ inches—and inclined to be round and long in his canon bones. Neither a “pretty” nor a perfect animal. Both horses possessed the temperament that heroes are made of. Courage, coolness, sagacity were theirs. Carbine ran his own race. He seized his own opportunities, and took an opening on his own initiative, when he saw it, through which he might thread his way in a big field. And he recognised the winning post as well as he knew his manger. He was determined to win, and he was perfectly well aware when a supreme effort was necessary. One might almost say, too, that he had the saving gift of humour. As he emerged from the enclosure in order to take his breather before a race, he almost invariably indulged in a little pantomime of his own, partly for his own edification, and partly for the amusement of his friends, the crowd. When he stepped on to the course from the enclosure, he would “gammon” that he saw something up the running which attracted his attention, and he would stand with his ears at full cock, gazing as at an apparition. No effort on the part of his jockey could induce him to walk forwards. Then Walter Hickenbotham appeared from the wings, as it were, and endeavoured to “shoo” him on. No result. Now Walter would flap his handkerchief at him, and the old fellow might walk a few paces, and then take fresh stock of the imaginary object in the distance. Another full stop. Then came the moment when Walter resorted to his ace of trumps. This was an umbrella, kept evidently for the purpose, which was opened and shut rapidly, as near as was consistent with safety to the horse’s heels. This usually produced the desired effect, and Carbine would then proceed far enough up the running to enable his jockey to invite him to turn round and sweep down the course in his preliminary. It was a curious and somewhat entertaining performance, but what the horse thought about it all it is difficult to say. But now, to sum up and deliver a verdict on the question of the merits of Carbine and The Barb. It is possible that The Barb was the better horse, and he was, most probably, the better looking of the two. Yet I fancy I know full well what the verdict of posterity will be. When a statue to Carbine has been erected in Olympia future generations will read in large letters on its plinth, “C.O.M.,” and archæologists of a later age will interpret this to mean: “Carbine, Optimus, Maximus” (“Carbine, Best and Greatest”).

Chapter XIII.
Other Great Horses.

There have been numerous other great horses in our country, some of them standing on a high pedestal, but none of them on quite such a lofty one as that supporting Carbine or The Barb. Some may worship the memory of one, some that of another. It is a case of “laudabunt alii” (each man to his own choice). But we should like to recall a few of those celebrities, some of them dead and gone, a few still in the land of the living. Chester and First King were good, possibly even great horses. As two-year-olds they never met, but both were champions, First King winning all his three engagements, and Chester four out of five. The latter was beaten a head in his initiatory effort by Sir Hercules Robinson’s Viscount—an evident fluke. As three-year-olds there was a battle royal between the two. The Derby, Chester won easily by half a length. In the Mares’ Produce, a mile and a quarter Mr. White’s colt repeated the dose. But in the Championship, over three miles, First King won by four lengths, and he beat the New South Welshman, but only by a short head, in the Leger. Chester had no engagement in the Australian Cup, which First King won, and in the Town Plate, two miles, Chester had no difficulty in putting the King down by two lengths. It is possible that Mr. Wilson’s colt was a little stale after the Australian Cup. They never crossed swords again, and although Chester won seven out of his eleven engagements as a four-year-old, I question if he was ever so good again as he was at three. Horses like Warlock, Melita and Cap-a-pie beat him at weight-for-age, which, had he been at his best, could never have occurred. First King did not appear as a four-year-old, but at five years he was only beaten once, and that was by the Derby winner, the beautiful, shapely, grey, Snowden colt, Suwarrow, in the Canterbury Plate, two miles and a quarter. But in his winning efforts he had no really great horses to conquer, although one or two of his opponents were good, Richmond—past his zenith—Wellington and Swiveller being the best of them. On paper, the honours are pretty evenly divided between Chester and First King, and I daresay old-time racing men could argue with some gusto after dinner in favour of their particular fancy, and might finally have to rise from the table unconvinced, or, if convinced against their will—well, holding the same opinion still.

Grand Flaneur was the next public idol. He was never beaten, and how good he was it is difficult to say. This great colt only ran once in his first season, when he won the Normanby Stakes at the Flemington New Year Day Meeting. Palmyra and Cinnamon were in the field, the former being favourite at even money. At three years Grand Flaneur commenced with the A.J.C. Derby, and then went through an unbroken sequence of victories in the Mares’ Produce, the Victoria Derby, the Melbourne Cup, the V.R.C. Mares’ Produce, the Champion, the Leger and the Town Plate.

Grand Flaneur may have been lucky in racing during a rather lean year, but over and over again he cantered home from the Angler colt Progress, who, when the big fellow was not present, invariably smothered the opposition in the most convincing manner possible, and there is no doubt whatsoever that Mr. W. A. Long’s colt was really and truly “great.” He ran no more after his three-year-old career terminated.

Malua was better than simply a “good horse.” One that could win, in his four-year-old season, a Newmarket Handicap, six furlongs, the Oakleigh Plate, five and a half furlongs, and the Adelaide Cup, a mile and five, was something of a genius. And as a five-year-old he graduated in the weight-for-age class, taking the Spring Stakes, a mile and a half, the Melbourne Stakes, a mile and a quarter, and the Melbourne Cup, two miles, carrying nine stone nine, his rival, Commotion, being half a length off second, with his nine twelve up. As a six-year-old, with nine nine, the Australian Cup, two and a quarter miles, fell to Malua, and then, as an eight-year-old stallion, he won the Grand National Hurdle Race easily, carrying his owner, Mr. J. O. Inglis, who was a very fine horseman. It must be confessed that Malua was wonderfully favourably handicapped for a winner of his great class, as his weight was only eleven stone seven. Twelve seven would have been a more reasonable impost. Malua may not have been quite up to the pitch of a “great” horse, but he was terribly near it, and his brilliant and determined run over the last two furlongs may have been electrifying enough to have defeated even the best. And in estimating his merit, we must take into account his unusual versatility. Of course, Abercorn was a “great” horse. His was that great light which caused the greater light of Carbine to burn with such dazzling brilliancy. The great, slapping, lengthy chestnut won for Mr. White twenty races, all of them against the highest class of horse, out of a total of thirty-four starts. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek when Abercorn, Australian Peer, Carbine and Melos threw down their gauntlets.

Australian Peer scored many points, but undoubtedly Abercorn won the rubber. A great racehorse, he was promising at the stud, and gave us a stayer in Cobbity, another lovely mover and good winner in Coil, and a Derby horse in Cocos. All the three, by the way, were out of the one mare, Copra. Abercorn was bought to go to Ireland, and there he did very little good. Had he remained behind in Australia, and continued to produce horses of like merit with the three mentioned, there might have been a different tale to tell. As it was, with him the blood of Whisker seemed to peter out.

Wallace was in the “great” class, and was certainly a very great sire. His two-year-old career was not so promising in public as it was in private, for, although backed well upon many occasions, he only secured a single bracket out of eight attempts. As a three-year-old he commenced with a second in the Spring Stakes to Hova, and then went from strength to strength, taking the Guineas, the Derby, and the C. B. Fisher Plate. In the Leger something happened which fairly made me groan with anguish, as I sat there watching a good horse being beaten by a comparative commoner. Mr. H. Oxenham had two representatives, Cabin Boy and Waterfall, in the race. The latter was a pretty good horse, and Gough, on Wallace, galloped along beside him, the only competitor whom he thought was likely to offer any dangerous opposition whatever. Delaney, Cabin Boy’s rider, meanwhile, in the guise of making the running for his companion, shot away, secured a tremendous lead, and Wallace could never quite get up. Next day Idolator, a six-year-old, with seven three on his back, just got home from Wallace, in the Australian Cup, carrying eight ten. It seemed to me that Wallace winced in the last few strides as though he had been struck with the whip on a painful spot, but I never heard until lately whether this was the case or not. Mr. Phillip Russell, the owner of Idolater, says “No.” The verdict was half a head. Next day Mr. James Wilson, Junr.’s beautiful Trenton mare, Quiver, ran a dead heat with Wallace in the three-mile championship, and they completed the distance in the then record time of 5 min. 23¼ sec. It has only once been beaten since, by three-quarters of a second, when Radnor won, and it will never be equalled again, as the race has since been abolished. In the autumn, at Randwick, Wallace won the Leger, the Sydney Cup, with eight twelve, the Cumberland Stakes, but, probably stale, lost the three-mile A.J.C. Plate to a couple of moderates like The Harvester and Fort. This practically closed the son of Carbine’s racing career, as he only once more faced the barrier, in the following spring. At the stud he has earned imperishable renown. There is, unfortunately, just a shadow of doubt as to whether or not he is going to be a proven sire of sires. So far we have seen no son of his who appears to be destined to carry on the line in tail male. But with Wallace Isinglass, Patrobas, Wolowa and Trafalgar, there is certainly a distinct hope. As the sire of great brood mares there is not the slightest anxiety as to his future fame, for that is established already.

Newhaven followed fast on Wallace’s footsteps, for he won the V.R.C. Derby the very year after the Carbine colt. As a two-year-old he took, amongst other races, the Maribyrnong Plate and the Ascot Vale Stakes, carrying the full penalty. His three-year-old performances quite entitled him to take his place among the “greats,” and although, perhaps, a horse of moods, or more likely an animal easily affected by what might have been a trifle to some of his peers built in a coarser mould, he was really awfully good. One can never forget how, after having won the Derby in smashing style, he came out in the Cup, and with the substantial burden of seven thirteen on his three-year-old back, seven pounds over weight-for-age, he took the lead before passing the judge’s box the first time round, never relinquished his advantage, and finally strode home half a dozen lengths to the good. Some of us, whilst taking a walk round the course on the evening before the great race, were talking “Cup” all the time. Mr. W. E. Dakin, a keen judge of racing and of a horse, pulled up at the five furlong post from home, and with a wave of his stick, oracularly decided that “here Newhaven will begin to come back to them.” I had the privilege of sitting beside Mr. Dakin during the race, and, just at the point which he had indicated, the chestnut colt seemed to take a fresh lease of life and shot out with an even more substantial lead than before. I could not refrain from nudging my friend’s knee and saying: “How about Newhaven coming back to them now?”

After a very successful three-year-old career, his victories including the Championship, the Loch Plate, the A.J.C. St. Leger and the A.J.C. Plate, Mr.—afterwards Sir William—Cooper took him to England. He was a very free, loose galloper, with a curious amount of knee action, a style which caused one to be rather doubtful of his staying powers until he had unmistakably refuted all suspicions by his deeds. Newhaven was by Newminster from Oceana, by St. Albans (son of Blair Athol), her dam, Idalia, by Tim Whiffler (imp.) from Musidora, by The Premier—Dinah, by Gratis from an unknown mare. Hers is one of those pedigrees which one would give worlds to fathom to the very depths.

Maltster, great as his success afterwards was at the stud, can scarcely be catalogued amongst the great. He was good, and had he had the opportunity, might possibly have been promoted to this, the seventh heaven, but, as it was, his working days were over by the autumn of his three-year-old career, and he had the fortune to come in a rather lean year, when no giants as of old were stalking upon the earth.

Poseidon, a failure at the stud, was, on the racecourse, great. He commenced his career so modestly that no one would have suspected that a bright sun had arisen in the morning skies. He won a Nursery at the A.J.C. January Meeting, and was allotted six stone eight in the Melbourne Cup.

Early in the following spring he was still, apparently, without any ambition towards higher things. He commenced by winning a welter at the Sydney Tatt.’s Club gathering in September, and followed it up with a victory in the Spring Handicap at Hawkesbury. Then, with odds of seven to one against him, he was proclaimed the A.J.C. Derby winner, beating Collarit, Antonious, Iolaire and a couple more. With his penalty he was beaten next day by Solution in the Metropolitan. Then came triumphs in the Eclipse Stakes at Caulfield, the Caulfield Cup, with a fourteen-pound penalty, the Victoria Derby, the Melbourne Cup, the St. Helier Stakes at Caulfield in February, the St. Leger at Flemington, and the Loch Plate, two miles, beating Dividend. Then he was checked in this triumphal progress. Dividend took down his number in the Champion, and again in the Cumberland Stakes at Randwick. Meanwhile, however, Poseidon had won what was practically a bloodless victory in the A.J.C. St. Leger.

At four years Poseidon still retained his form, and was successful seven times, the Spring Stakes, the Eclipse, the Caulfield Cup, with nine stone three up, the Melbourne Stakes, the Rawson Stakes, the Cumberland Stakes, and the A.J.C. Plate falling to his lot. Mountain King, however, who might have been a great horse but for wind troubles, beat him in the Rawson Stakes in spring, the Craven and the C. B. Fisher Plate. Poseidon was unplaced (eighth) in the Melbourne Cup that year, carrying ten stone three, including a penalty, and he did but little more. Had Alawa depended upon his three-year-old record, he might have been included in the Roll of Honour, but his star had reached its zenith by his three-year-old autumn, and those greater suns, Comedy King and Trafalgar, obscured his lesser light until it finally sank beneath the horizon. There was a rich vintage just at this period of our history: Trafalgar, Alawa, Comedy King, Prince Foote. It was when Comedy King was a four-year-old and Trafalgar a five-year-old that the real fun began. The latter was a chestnut horse by Wallace from Grand Canary, by Splendor from a Lapidist mare, and to see him walking out for his afternoon exercise, or lagging along in the saddling paddock, you would never, as a casual spectator, have taken him for anything but a rather lazy, spiritless, washy old gelding. He was sleepy, indifferent to his surroundings, careless of the calls of love, or of what the next hour might bring in the shape of a tussle with some worthy foe.

Comedy King, a rich brown, with fire in his eye, and in his every movement, with a skin like satin, showing every vein as he paced along, was the very antithesis of his great rival. He had been imported by Mr. Sol. Green, at his mother’s side, and he was by King Edward’s horse Persimmon, out of Tragedy Queen, a Gallinule mare.

Prince Foote was a great three-year-old. But his nine victories at that age left their effects upon him, and he only started three times as a four-year-old, winning the Chelmsford and running second in the A.J.C. Spring Stakes to Comedy King, beating Trafalgar, Pendil, etc. The Chelmsford came early in the spring, and here, with the exception of Maltine, he had not much to beat. As a three-year-old, however, he won the Chelmsford again, against a large field, including that great miler, Malt King; the A.J.C. Derby, from Patronatus and Danilo; the V.R.C. Derby, the Melbourne Cup, carrying two pounds over weight-for-age; the V.R.C. Leger; the Champion Stakes from Pendil; the A.J.C. Leger; the A.J.C. Plate, from Pendil and Trafalgar; and the Cumberland Stakes, two miles, from the same couple. Yes, he was a “great” three-year-old.

Between Trafalgar and Comedy King it was a case of “pull devil, pull baker,” so long as they were running at a distance not beyond a mile and a half. After that Trafalgar was the master. For, although Comedy King beat the chestnut in the Cup, the latter was giving weight, and I do not think that many people, with the exception of Comedy King’s backers, were altogether satisfied that Trafalgar had had a clear run. The black horse, at three years, won the Futurity at Caulfield, with a twenty-one pound allowance; as a four-year-old he took the Cup, the St. George’s Stakes, the Essendon Stakes, the All-Aged Stakes, and the Autumn Stakes. And at five years the Eclipse again fell to him, after which he retired. But Trafalgar, his arch enemy, secured twenty-four high-class races, and raced on until he was seven years old. He won at distances varying between nine furlongs and three miles, but the farther he went the better he liked it, and, strangely enough, he appeared to be gaining in speed as he grew older. And he never left an oat in his manger, and would clean up everything that was offered him, even when undergoing a course of physic, while his legs were of iron. I would not have liked to go into his box by myself, nor without his boy at his head. He was a sour old dog, and did not like to be disturbed in his castle. I have seen him “round” on his trainer and eject him without much ceremony from his box when in an ill humour. But I have no doubt that after he went out of training, and had liberty, and not too much strapping, he became the mildest mannered horse that ever won a race or cut a rival’s throat. I fear, however, that he is not a success at the stud, although a sure foal-getter. Comedy King, on the other hand, sires innumerable gallopers, from hurdle jumpers up to the winners of the greatest prizes to be gained on the turf to-day. And I think you would have anticipated the destiny of the pair had you seen them often in their daily lives.

Of the horses of the last lustrum it is difficult to speak, and, indeed, before history has had time to give her verdict, it might be injudicious to open one’s mouth. But I can safely say this: I never saw a performance in my life which equalled that of Artilleryman in the Melbourne Cup of 1919. He had been a somewhat uncertain performer in his two-year-old days. As a three-year-old he had run Richmond Main, a very good colt, a dead heat in the A.J.C. Derby, and had been well beaten by the same horse in the V.R.C. classic event, a few weeks after. But there were extenuating circumstances, I admit, in the latter race. In the Cup, three days later, running next the rails, and in a fair, but not a too flattering position as the field streamed to the bend, Lewis, his rider, perceiving a clear space ahead of him, shot his colt through, and in a very few seconds the contest was all over. Artilleryman, with his weight-for-age on his back, simply squandered the field. The official verdict was six lengths. The photographers made it at least a dozen. The eyesight of the excited spectators pronounced the gap between the winner and Richmond Main, the second horse, at anything varying between a hundred yards and a quarter of a mile. From a coign of vantage, unhampered by the crowd, and in a semi-official capacity, I judged the brown horse to be over ten lengths to the good as he passed the winning post. This great colt won his autumn engagements at Flemington, although to the professional eye there was something not quite all right about his physical state at that time. Nevertheless, he travelled on to Sydney, where he was badly beaten in all his engagements. It then transpired that all was not well with him. A swelling had made its appearance both on the outside and on the inside of his near thigh, and his near hock was enlarged. Unfortunately, the trouble went on from bad to worse, and in a few months this great son of Comedy King succumbed, dying, strange to say, within a few hours of Mr. Alec Murphy, who was a partner in the horse with his friend Sir Samuel Hordern.

The verdict, as I write, has not yet been pronounced upon the risen sun of to-day, Eurythmic. That he is a very good horse indeed, there can be little doubt. That he is a really great one is not yet quite certain. The best of judges point out that Eurythmic has been tremendously lucky; that he has never met anything which can be called great, with the exception of Poitrel, who undoubtedly was a very excellent stayer indeed. At a mile, and, perhaps, at a mile and a half, Eurythmic was superior to game little Poitrel, but we only once saw them meet over a distance of ground, and that was in the Melbourne Cup. Here, giving ten pounds, Poitrel won cleverly, with Eurythmic a good fourth. At weight-for-age, Poitrel would have been giving his rival only six pounds. So that it certainly looks as though the Poitrels “had it on the voices.” But there is just a lingering feeling in the mind that Eurythmic had not yet quite come to his own on that fine spring day when the Cup was decided, and his subsequent form showed very distinct improvement. We shall see. But the name of Poitrel is assuredly one of those “that glow from yonder brass.”

Chapter XIV.
Queens of the Turf.

Of course, there have been infinitely fewer great mares on the turf than there have been famous and great horses. And this is peculiarly noticeable in Australia, for what reason I am unable to say. Thus, since the St. Leger was first instituted in this country until to-day, a mare has only won the race six times. In England, on the other hand, during the same span, a mare has been hailed the winner on fourteen occasions. Perhaps it is for this reason that, when a mare does stamp herself as the best of the year, and perhaps of her generation, she catches the affection of the public even more firmly than does some great horse hero of the course. It may be, too, that there is more sympathy felt by everyone for the weaker vessel, and that naturally, for the crowd, who are composed more of men than of women, it is easier to love anything female as opposed to male. Whatever may be the cause, there it is, anyhow. If you let your mind run back during the last sixty years or so to the racing in the Old Country, the love manifested by the mob for Regalia, Achievement, Caller Ou, Formosa, Hannah, Apology, La Fleche, Sceptre and Pretty Polly was far more firm and enthusiastic than for all the Ormondes, Isonomys, Donovans, Robert the Devils and Persimmons, no matter what their achievements have been. And when it has come to a contest between a colt and a filly in a classic race, the hearts of the people have always seemed to go out to the mare. One can never forget that year, perhaps the most sensational in the history of the turf, when Hermit won the Derby. Whilst this great colt was making romance and story, there was a beautiful mare, Achievement, who was gripping the hearts of everyone interested in the sport of horse racing. She had not had a career of uninterrupted success. And this fact, in a mare, in no way alienates the affection of the people. On the contrary, sympathy flows out to the defeated filly. During the autumn, in the Doncaster St. Leger, she and the Derby winner were destined to meet. I cannot recall a year in which such universal interest was taken in a race. My own household were on tip-toe, and we awaited the result with bated breaths. We were all for “the mare.” There was no rapid dissemination of news in those days such as we “suffer under” to-day. Indeed, we were lucky, or thought ourselves lucky, if we happened to hear a result before the delivery of the morning papers at about ten o’clock next day. We were all at tea on the evening of the great event. It was one of those quiet, warm, brooding days of early autumn, when sounds travel to a great distance. Suddenly we heard the crunching of feet far off, marching up the carriage drive and, we all—“just a wheen callants,” you know—cocked our ears. Was it the news? The footsteps halted at the open front door, and the voice of a neighbour called out loudly, “The mare won by three lengths.” And then, what a cheer burst from us! I should like to hear the same again, in some modern household to-day. But this is but “an old song that sung itself to me, sweet in a boy’s day dream,” and we will pass to a consideration of the few Queens of the Turf in Australia since the beginning of things. We need not revert to the Bessy Bedlams of the early ’forties of the last century, nor the Alice Hawthorns of before the flood. Worthy mares, no doubt, and reverenced by their worshippers, but probably slow gallopers compared to the fliers of to-day.

Only six mares have won the Championship, and one of these took the race twice. This was Ladybird, who was a New Zealander, and who was victorious when that race was contested over in the Dominion. She was successful in 1863, as a five-year-old, and in 1865. She was not a “Queen.” Not another mare left her name on the champion roll until Quiver, in 1896, when that fine four-year-old dead heated with Wallace. Quiver was a very lengthy bay mare by Trenton from Tremulous, by Maribyrnong out of Agitation (imp.) by Orest. As a two-year-old she did not greatly distinguish herself, winning, out of three attempts, a Nursery at Flemington. At three years she also earned but one bracket, but, starting a hot odds-on favourite for the Oaks, she turned round when the barrier flew up, and took no part in the race. That was the first year of the starting gate, and the Derby, won by The Harvester, was the earliest classic race in which the invention was made use of. Horses were unused to the ropes in those days, and I can see now the look of rather sulky surprise upon the mare’s countenance at what she, no doubt, took for an abominable thing, dangled in the air beside her nose. The field, without her, went off at a slow canter, and had Moore, the jockey, set Quiver going, and followed the others, he would have had no difficulty in catching them in the first half-mile, and it is certain that Quiver would have won. As it was, the whole thing was a novelty, and Moore seemed to lose his head, and to fall into a dream. But there was a great outcry, and the “flatites” reckoned that they had been taken down. Of course, there was nothing in it.

It was as a four-year-old, however, that Quiver earned her title. She commenced with the Spring Stakes at Randwick, and she followed this up with the Randwick Plate over those three long, tiring miles, beating Portsea, amongst others. Tattersall’s Club Cup, two miles, with nine stone two up, came next, and then the Essendon Stakes at Flemington, when she put down Hova, Havoc, Preston and Auraria. And the crown was finally put upon her head when the famous dead heat took place for the Championship with Wallace. The mare was sold and went to India, shortly afterwards, and there she gained further laurels.

I am not just absolutely clear in my mind that Quiver ought to be included in the list of great Queens, but she was the first actually to win an open Championship, for Ladybird only met New Zealanders and does not count, and the finish with Wallace proclaimed the Trenton mare to be a stayer, and a game one to boot. This was a period in our story when good mares flourished. For Lady Trenton, the winner of the Sydney Cup, was a contemporary of Quiver, although she cannot be included amongst the Queens. She was a graceful, beautiful mover, a thorough Trenton, but a handicap mare only. Her pedigree is interesting, in that her dam was the famous Black Swan, by Yattendon from Maid of the Lake, “whose pedigree,” says the Stud Book, “cannot be ascertained.” As Lady Trenton was foaled as lately as 1889, it is a little curious that her grand dam’s pedigree should be wrapped in mystery.

Sir Rupert Clarke’s La Carabine was the Champion winner in 1901 and 1902. She is pronounced unhesitatingly “a Queen.” Her first season did not appear to hold out much hope of mighty deeds in the future; at least, to those who were not acquainted with her domestic history. She was a chestnut, foaled in 1894, by Carbine out of imported Oratava, by Barcaldine, from Tullia, by Petrarch, her dam Chevisaunce, by Stockwell out of Paradigm, by Paragone from Ellen Horne, the maternal ancestress of Bend Or. Her breeder was Mr. O’Shanassy, but it was in the nomination of Mr. Herbert Power that she was launched upon her career as a two-year-old. She was an exceedingly mean-looking creature during her first season.

Being much enamoured of her pedigree, I undertook the long journey to Melbourne from the Murray in order that I might see her perform. I was standing in the saddling enclosure looking out for the filly, when there passed me a mean, ragged-looking, little thing, with a mournful cast of countenance, and she knuckled over on both her hind fetlocks at each step. “What on earth is that miserable little brute?” I inquired from a knowledgeable friend at my side. “Oh! that’s a two-year-old in Jimmy Wilson’s stable. La Carabine they call her.” This was a great shock, and her running that season did not bewray the great possibilities that lay beneath her rather washy chestnut hide. She was successful in a Nursery at Randwick in the autumn, carrying seven stone seven, but beating nothing of any great account, and she was absolutely unsuccessful as a three-year-old. At four years she managed to dead heat at Flemington with Dreamland, who, however, beat her in the run off, at a mile and a half. But for this faint silver lining to her cloud, everything was still in darkness. But I knew that she could beat Key, one of the greyhounds of the turf, at anything beyond half a mile, and that she could stay. Therefore, Hope was not yet altogether dead.

Ere the next season had dawned, however, La Carabine had passed into the hands of Mr. W. R. Wilson, of St. Albans, whose manager, Mr. Leslie McDonald, was certainly second to none as a trainer and stud master, if, indeed, he was not facile princeps of all his contemporaries, or of all those who had gone before him. And it may be that he will retain his invincibility in his own line for all time. The only man whom I can ever think of as being his “marrow” is Mr. J. E. Brewer. Under Mr. McDonald’s fostering care the little mare won the Stand Handicap at the Flemington October Meeting, and, after an interval of non-success, she was returned as winner of the Australian Cup, run over two miles and a quarter. She had now discovered her metier, for in Sydney, during April, the Cup fell to her at two miles, she carrying eight stone two. Two days after she beat Merriwee, weight-for-age, at three miles in the A.J.C. Plate, and travelling on to Adelaide, she smashed the opposition in the Alderman Cup, a mile and three-quarters, carrying the substantial impost of nine seven. Now a six-year-old, and in the ownership of Sir Rupert Clarke, after failing in the Melbourne Cup with nine seven, she gained a bracket in the V.R.C. Handicap, carrying the same weight as in the Cup, and in the autumn, the Essendon Stakes, and the Champion Stakes fell to her. In Sydney the Cumberland Stakes (2 miles), and the A.J.C. Plate (3 miles) were hers, and she completed her triumphs with a couple of victories in Adelaide, the last of which was the S.A.J.C. Handicap, carrying ten stone six. She ran but four times as a seven-year-old, and her one achievement was once more winning the Championship, on this occasion beating another reigning Queen, the peerless Wakeful. She was retired to the stud in the following spring. It is seldom indeed that one sees a great race mare vindicate herself in the paddock as well as upon the racecourse, and La Carabine has been no exception to the rule. It is true that her mates were chosen somewhat unfortunately, but it is doubtful whether a mare who was what may be termed “trained to rags” could ever have produced anything approaching herself in racing merit. Her quality may yet be kept alive by one of her daughters, for her pedigree is unsurpassable. And now we have arrived at the undoubted, undisputed Queen of the Turf. You can call her the Empress of mares, a worthy consort to occupy the throne alongside of Carbine himself. This is Wakeful.

A bay filly, she was dropped in 1896 at St. Albans, and her breeder was Mr. W. R. Wilson, whose racing career was then at its zenith. She was by Trenton, the sire of Quiver, from Insomnia, by Robinson Crusoe, her dam Nightmare, by Panic from Evening Star (imp.), the dam also of that fine stayer Commotion. The nomenclature, you will observe, is distinctly good, being suggestive of at least one of the parents all through, and yet each name is simple, and there is no straining after effect.

As a two-year-old, Wakeful, who was a great thriver, and who laid on condition very rapidly, was given a “rough up” across the common at St. Albans, with several others of the same age as herself. Revenue, a subsequent winner of the Melbourne Cup, was one of them, but the little mare ran right away from them all. It was noticeable, and was the cause of some mirth in the stable, that Wakeful’s rider on that occasion had never been guilty before of winning a race either in public or in private, and I believe he has never since equalled his performance of that morning. This is manifest proof of the tremendous superiority of the mare. Unfortunately, or fortunately, whichever way you like to take it, Wakeful went lame after the gallop, somewhere in her quarters, and it was deemed advisable to turn her out. A great difficulty, however presented itself to her owner, in that she was such a contented, good-constitutioned little thing that she would grow as fat as butter upon the “smell of an oiled rag.” And meanwhile Mr. W. R. Wilson passed out Westwards, and the stud being disposed of, the bay fell into the possession of Mr. Leslie McDonald. Mr. McDonald made no attempt to get her fit until she had passed her fourth birthday, and then she made her debut in the Doona Trial Stakes at Caulfield, in September. Quite unexpectedly, and with no money invested upon her, she ran second, and a week or two later, she was unplaced in the Paddock Handicap at Flemington. She was now most judiciously laid by until the Autumn, when, in a field of twenty-one sprinters, and first favourite, at fours to one, she finished four lengths ahead of anything in the Oakleigh Plate, five furlongs and a half. At Flemington, three weeks subsequent to this triumph, and carrying a ten-pound penalty, with only five to two betted against her, she won the Newmarket from a field of eighteen—six furlongs. From this time onwards her light burned with a steady luminosity to the very end. In all, she took part in thirty-five races, of which she actually won twenty-two, was second in nine, third in three, and was unplaced on but two occasions. She was not placed, as we have noticed, on her second appearance in public, in the Paddock Handicap, and she was fifth in the Melbourne Cup, which was won by her stable companion, Revenue, a good five-year-old gelding who was unsound, and had been resuscitated, and carried but seven stone ten. Wakeful, a five-year-old mare at the time, had eight stone ten. We need not tabulate the wins of this truly marvellous mare, but here is a list of her principal victories:—The Oakleigh Plate (5½ furs.), The Newmarket Handicap (6 furs.), The Doncaster Handicap (1 mile), The Caulfield Stakes (9 furs.), The Melbourne Stakes (1¼ miles), The St. George’s Stakes (1 mile), The Essendon Stakes (1½ miles), The All-Aged Stakes (1 mile), The Autumn Stakes, Randwick (1½ miles), The Sydney Cup—carrying 9 st. 7 lbs.—(2 miles), The All-Aged Stakes (1 mile), The A.J.C. Plate (3 miles), The Spring Stakes, Randwick (1½ miles), The Craven Plate (1¼ miles), The Randwick Plate (2 miles), The Caulfield Stakes (9 furs.), The Eclipse Stakes (1 mile 3 furs.), The Melbourne Stakes (1¼ miles), The C. B. Fisher Plate (1½ miles), The St. Helier Stakes (1 mile), The Essendon Stakes (1½ miles), The Champion (3 miles). The merit of any victory depends, of course, not upon the race won, but on the quality of the field in opposition, but you cannot find Wakeful wanting in this respect. She beat, and habitually beat, all the best performers of her day, and over their own distances, were they five furlongs and a half or three miles, Hymettus, La Carabine—who, however, did once put her down at three miles—Ibex, a mighty sprinter, Bonnie Chiel, Great Scot, Brakpan, Abundance, Air Motor, The Victory, Footbolt, Sojourner, Lord Cardigan, and all the crowd of handicap horses which she so often met at enormous disadvantages in weight. And some of her defeats were scarcely less full of merit than her wins. The Melbourne Cup is a good example of this. Here Lord Cardigan, a really high-class three-year-old, and the winner of the Sydney Cup with eight stone seven up in the following autumn, only just got home from Wakeful. The three-year-old was handicapped at six stone eight, the mare at ten stone. In the spring, the colt’s weight-for-age would have been seven six, and the mare’s weight-for-age and sex, nine one. She was actually giving him twenty-five pounds more than her weight-for-age demanded, and she was horribly ridden. All through her racing Wakeful suffered from this extra handicap. Dunn, who usually rode her, was an indifferent horseman, but Mr. McDonald preferred to trust to his unimpeachable honesty rather than risk a more brilliant rider of whose integrity he was not absolutely sure. Owners who have been in a like dilemma will sympathise with him. Wakeful has not been a bright success at the stud, but she cannot be set down as a failure altogether. She is the dam of Night Watch, a Melbourne Cup winner—under a light impost, it is true, but you must be good to win a Cup even with the minimum to carry. Another son, Baverstock, has sired a good colt in David, and was a winner himself. She also threw a very speedy horse in Blairgour, and this year, after missing for some three or four seasons, she is due to foal as I write. As her years now number twenty-six, it is unlikely that the produce will be a champion, but in a good season, and with the care which will be lavished upon her and her offspring, we can, at least hope.

Auraria, yet another Trenton mare, from Aura, by Richmond out of Instep, by Lord Clifden from Sandal; Carlita, by Charlemagne II. from Couronne, by Gipsy Grand—a New Zealand family—and Briseis, by Tim Whiffler out of Musidora, winner of Derby, Oaks and Cup, might almost claim Queenship. But none can come near Wakeful, and leaving her in undisturbed possession of her throne, we will pass on to other things.

Chapter XV.
The Influence of Australian Racing.

Racing is a conservative pastime. Necessarily this is so, for, as everyone knows, it is the “Sport of Kings.” But when this huge continent, this “giant Ocean Isle,” was first thrown open for colonisation, the most independent, the most adventurous, the most audacious, and those most full of initiative, left their homes for the yet unknown lands across the seas, and their characters came with them. And the colonists’ manner of life tended to foster the proclivities which Nature had implanted in their hearts. The wide, open spaces; the long distances between town and town, neighbour and neighbour; the free, healthy, open air, stimulating to body and soul; necessity, and the desire to help oneself—all these factors moulded our Australian character, and forced us not to be satisfied with the things which were good enough for our forefathers, but to develop, improve, and sometimes to strike out on new lines altogether. Therefore in all our work, and perhaps more so in our play, when something obviously required change, we did it without hesitation, and we are continuing to do so to this day.

And that is how we have introduced some reforms into our horse racing which, after having been tested here, and found good, have penetrated into the older countries, and have ultimately been adopted there. “The Gate” is one of these changes which has revolutionised the whole art of starting. It used to be a pretty, yea, verily, a wonderful sight, to watch old Mr. George Watson despatching a big Cup field. Mr. Watson was a genius, and he was possibly the most efficient starter that ever held a flag. But, in spite of him, delays occurred nearly every day, horses went mad with the fret and turmoil of it all, and false starts were horribly frequent. It was neither good for man nor beast. Then someone thought of a barrier, behind which the field had to stand. Previous to this, there had sometimes been an imaginary obstacle in the shape of a white chalk line painted across the course, but if horses did not ignore this, they often jumped it as they galloped past the different starting places during the course of a race, and that was no good. The Romans, however, had started their chariot races during the Empire from behind barriers, and the knowledge of this may have given the hint to Mr. Poulain, who, I think, first brought into notice a workable machine which would fly out of the way on the official starter pulling a lever. After numerous private trials, Poulain’s machine was adopted for the first time, I believe, on The Harvester’s Derby day. It was a magnificent success, and I remember being so impressed with the idea that I at once dashed off home to the country, and induced the Racing Club, of which I had the honour to be the Honorary Secretary, to adopt the affair. There had been a few fiascos on the Metropolitan courses, and one or two races had to be run twice over in consequence. Sternchaser’s Winter Handicap at Caulfield was one of the cases which comes back to the mind most vividly. The “Register” remarks that “This race was run twice. On the first occasion the barrier went up of its own accord, and all the horses, with the exception of Sternchaser, ran the full course (a mile). The stewards declared the event no race, and the horses returned at once to the starting post.” Sternchaser, a New Zealand colt, the property of Mr. Spencer Gollan, by Nordenfeldt out of Crinoline, had no difficulty in winning the run off.

We had several misadventures in the country when we first took up the notion, and of course there was an outcry from the public, and from owners, jockeys, and trainers. In the Old Country the barrier met with strenuous opposition for a long time, and literally, gallons of printer’s ink must have been used in condemning or upholding the “machine.”

But it all came right in the end, and anyone advocating a return to the days of the flag would now be “locked up” right away. Long delays at the post, and false starts, are no longer seen, and every field of horses is sent on its momentous journey within a minute, or at the outside, a couple of minutes of the advertised time of starting. Of course a great deal of this punctuality and good starting is due to the splendid officials whom our leading clubs employ. For a starter must have a particular temperament in order that he may be perfectly fitted for the job. The present V.R.C. official, Mr. Rupert Green, is very nearly an ideal starter. He knows the game thoroughly, he is almost uncannily quick at seizing the first opportunity, and in that lies the mainspring of his splendid efficiency. If you fail to take your first opportunity, you are lost, at this business. He has the complete confidence of the boys, and these, as a general rule, are masters of their mounts. Everyone, of course, must have a bad start occasionally, but the majority of these are due to the horses themselves. Some are naturally slower than others in finding their feet, and do what you please, a certain number of them, out of hundreds, will misbehave themselves in some way or another after the ropes have flown up. But in the course of several years, during which I have witnessed many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of starts, I cannot recall more than, at the outside, half a dozen where there has been anything to complain of so far as the human element of the transaction was concerned. The late Mr. Godfrey Watson was regarded as the Prince of Starters, in the same way as his father, Mr. George Watson, was acknowledged to be the King. But I have not seen anything in these two which is not at least emulated by our official of the present day. Nor indeed is Mr. Norman Wood, who officiates at most of the down-the-line meetings, and at innumerable country gatherings in Victoria, out of the running. And I have no doubt that there are other admirable officers over on the other side, whom it has not been my fortune to witness handling the big fields that assemble behind the barriers at the many suburban and outside meetings near Sydney. At any rate, “The Gate” has completely altered the whole aspect of the racing, and especially of the sprint racing of to-day.

The numbered saddle-cloth is another strictly Australian innovation. It is such an obvious improvement on the old state of affairs that one wonders how the Jockey Club in England has never adopted the idea. The use of the cloths is meant only for the convenience of the general public, be it understood, and not for the use of the judge or other official. To these, of course, the different colours are so familiar, that I do not suppose they ever notice that the numbers are there. But I confess that, for myself, I occasionally find them extremely handy. Where there is a large field, and two or three, perhaps, of the jackets are new to me, I often refer to the numbered cloth, which, with powerful glasses you can read from almost any point on our largest course, and I acknowledge the convenience.

When I was last at Newmarket, in England, I saw a device which we might do well to copy. At the July Meeting at Newmarket, the horses, instead of being in stalls or in boxes awaiting their race, parade round paths cut through the Plantation. It is very delightful, on a hot summer’s day, to sit on a comfortable garden seat, and take stock of the high-bred animals strolling round through the chequered light and shade, whilst the spectators, many of them also highly bred, from His Majesty the King downwards, watch them in luxury and ease. Each boy in charge of a horse has, bound on his right arm, a brass badge showing the number of the race on the card in which his horse is entered, and his number on the card. It is an ingenious and simple “dodge,” and not one of a costly nature, which we might well make use of in Australia. Of course, whilst standing in their stalls, the names of the competitors in this country are blazoned on one of the posts, but whilst parading round the enclosure it would be a very useful adjunct to our arrangements, which we so earnestly desire to see made perfect.

Another Australian innovation is the “Bruce Lowe Figure System.” This, too, has been the motive force of endless ink slinging. But, like the starting gate, it has come to stay. It is extremely simple. For a great number of years in the history of the Turf, breeders, with the exception of a few genuine enthusiasts, paid little attention to the family lines of their mares. They were aware that their stallion was an Eclipse horse, and was by so and so from so and so, but the dam, although a good one, did not trouble them much, on her dam’s side, so long as she was clean bred. I remember a discussion which took place long ago, instigated, I think, by the “Sportsman,” on “How to Breed a Good Racehorse.” I believe, but am not quite sure whether I am right, that it was the late General Peel who promulgated the appallingly simple doctrine to “put a winner of the Oaks to the winner of the Leger, and there you are, don’t you know.” But of later years, and before Mr. Bruce Lowe had published his “system,” men were beginning to waken up to the supreme importance of the dam, and her family, and the revised edition of the first volume of the “General Stud Book” was an incentive to the seekers after truth to persevere in their studies. Bruce Lowe was struck with the fact that descendants of certain of the old “Royal” and other mares—the “tap-roots,” as he called them—in tail female, of our “Stud Book,” were infinitely more successful than the descendants of other tap-root mares. Mr. Bruce Lowe, and his friend, Mr. Frank Reynolds, had noticed the same peculiarity in their Shorthorn herds of cattle, namely, that the produce of certain cows from some particular old original matron of the herd, continued to be superior to the produce of others. And this animal they called No. 1. Mr. Lowe then went into an exhaustive analysis of the winning families of the British thoroughbred racer, and he took, as a standard of excellence, the winning of the great classic three-year-old events which have been in existence for so many years, and a record of which is easily found and referred to. After tabulating these, and running them all out to the original tap-root mare, he discovered that more Derbies, Legers, and Oaks had been won by the descendants, in tail female, of Tregonwell’s Natural Barb mare, than by the offspring, in direct female line, of any other original mare in the “General Stud Book.” The same standard placed Burton’s Barb mare second, and Dam of the Two True Blues third. There are some fifty of these mares contained in the sacred pages of Volume I., and Bruce Lowe identified them by the figure denoting the place they held in his standard of Derby, Leger, and Oaks wins. Thirty-eight of them are responsible for classic winners, and after No. 38, the remainder have been given a figure in an arbitrary manner purely, until Miss Euston is reached, who is No. 50. It is a little peculiar that the last of these mares to figure as the ancestress of a classic winner is Thwaite’s Dun mare, No. 38, to whom traces Pot–8–Os (a son of Eclipse), whose own son was Waxy, sire of Whalebone, to whom, in tail male, run all the famous horses of to-day, which come from the Birdcatcher and Touchstone tribes, and they are legion. These are two of the great pillars of the temple of Eclipse, the third and, perhaps, central support, being Blacklock.

That then, is the main object of Bruce Lowe’s “Figure System”—to identify each of the fifty original mares in a simple and handy manner. And this has been done. Mr. Lowe claimed that his system would “revolutionise our methods of mating the thoroughbred horse.” I think that it has done so. Few people care to publish, or peruse, a tabulated pedigree nowadays without the figures being appended to each horse in the table. And I can scarcely think it possible that every racing man of to-day does not see, in his mind’s eye, the name of each horse of whose pedigree he is thinking, without also visualising its appended number. When you mention St. Simon, for instance, you immediately know that his family number is 11, and that therefore, on the dam’s side, he runs to the Sedbury Royal mare. Stockwell’s name at once calls up No. 3, and you understand in a moment that his tap-root is Dam of the Two True Blues. And so on, throughout all the names in any given pedigree. At a glance you know to what family you are in-breeding, and, therefore, how to outcross, if you so desire. Mr. Lowe had numerous side issues to his system, and with these you may, or you may not, agree. He propounded the theory that horses received certain qualities direct from the female side of their house, as, for instance, that prepotency which goes far to ensure that a horse will develop into a sire. That may or may not be true. Personally, I am sure, so far as one can be certain of anything, that it is. He put a hall-mark upon such horses by printing their family figure in thick type. Thus, in a tabulated pedigree, you will always notice the numbers 3, 8, 11, 12, and 14 printed after that particular style, and then in a moment you understand that these, according to Lowe, possessed “sire characteristics.” He believed in the theory of “Saturation,” at least to some extent, and wrote about it in his book. But that is beyond our scope in this volume, and we shall not discuss it here. He also wrote, instructively, upon how to breed “Great Stake Horses,” and “How Great Fillies are mostly Bred,” the “Breeding of Sprinters,” and an excellent chapter on “Phenomenal Racehorses,” and you will find much to make you think if you peruse these. Mr. Bruce Lowe’s influence has been very great in the Thoroughbred Turf world, and he has been much assisted by the erudition and enthusiasm of his Editor, Mr. William Allison, of the English “Sportsman,” and the owner and manager of the Cobham Stud. For, unfortunately, Mr. Lowe was in very bad health when his book was approaching completion, and he travelled to London in order to supervise its publication. Here, all too soon, and before the proofs had reached his hands, he died. From his literary style you would scarcely call up to your imagination a picture of what the man actually was like. For Mr. Lowe certainly wrote somewhat dogmatically, as indeed anyone with pronounced views upon a subject next his heart must perforce do. It may be, too, that his editor has assisted in strengthening such an impression. For Mr. Allison has a happy knack of raising discussion on some equine subject, and then, after controversy, he proceeds to “make his enemies his footstool.” But here, from the hand of Mr. R. H. Dangar, Lowe’s close friend, is a little picture on the converse side of that which we draw for ourselves from his writings. Mr. Dangar, of Neotsfield, writes:—

“I do not know much of Bruce Lowe’s earlier history, but understand he commenced making out his figures in his spare time when inspector of Government lands out back in Queensland. Later, he and Frank Reynolds worked together, or perhaps it would be more correct to say compared notes, as I think they worked independently, and discussed the question together afterwards.

“In appearance he was very tall and thin, with brownish grey hair, a very gentle nature, with a quiet voice, and altogether, as I knew him, a most lovable man. He had indifferent health for some years latterly in his life, and eventually died in London, whither he had gone to finish his book and get it published. He had a small connection as a stud stock agent in Sydney, and we, amongst others, used to send him our yearlings, and it was a treat to hear him reel off yards of stuff for T. S. Clibborn to repeat from the box. Lowe had no voice for selling, and he told me once he did not think he could get up and harangue the crowd—so he got Mr. Clibborn to sell for him, and used to prompt him as if he were reading out of a book, with never a note to help him—and catalogues in those days were not the elaborate productions of to-day. As to his character—well, I cannot believe he knew how to do a dirty action, and I would simply not believe anyone who might say anything against him.”

So you have here an authentic sketch of this quiet, upright, gentle man, whom you may have misjudged somewhat from his writings, and from the acrimonious discussions which his antagonists and his disciples have raised over his grave, from time to time. For myself, I somehow have always looked upon him as an example of that “Justum et tenacem propositi virum” whom nothing could turn aside from the goal which he saw before him, and which he desired to reach. One who, no matter what occurred, you were quite certain that—to once more quote the lines of the long dead Roman poet—

“Si fractus illabitur orbis

Impavidum ferient ruinae.”

“If the shattered world falls, the wreck may crush him, but still undismayed.” “The gentlest are always the bravest; the bravest are always the best.”

Chapter XVI.
The Gist of it all.

And now we draw to the close this thesis on the racehorse in Australia. We have been, after all, but wandering upon the outskirts of a very vast subject, and were we proposing to indite a work for the use of experts—breeders, owners, trainers, even, let us add, punters—our thesis would swell into a large volume, our large volume into an encyclopaedia, and our encyclopaedia into a library. And the gist of it all? Is the entire business, with all its branches and ramifications, with all the employment offered by it to thousands of people, with all the land now in use for breeding, with all those beautiful parks reserved for racing purposes, in and near the great cities, is it all designed simply to furnish an Australian holiday? I do assure you that there is involved something a very great deal deeper than that. It is the horse, the whole future and welfare of the horse, that is the great stake for which we are playing, most of us unconsciously. The day of the noble animal is not over, and its future spells infinitely more than the mere fact of whether he can run a mile in a minute and 36 seconds, or whether he can cover three miles in 5.23. During the Boer War, such a short time since, but which seems to our children, perhaps, to have been waged centuries ago, we expended an enormous amount of horse life in a country where soldiers had perforce to be carried on horseback, and where all the supplies for an army were dragged upon wheels, and when motor power had not yet come into its own. And in the last great death grapple, with all the petrol which was exploded, with all the motor traction used, with all the amount of transport, and of scouting by air, we still required a larger horse supply than ever before. We cannot see so clearly into the future as did the poet Tennyson, when he wrote Locksley Hall. That wonderful seer, you may remember, wrote his poem in the early ’forties of the last century, and he predicted, as plainly as words could tell, the advent of the flying machine, for use both in commerce and in war, and “all the wonders that would be.” It is not given to many to possess the true prophetic vision, but it is a simple task to foretell that war has not yet ceased upon the earth, and that we have not even begun to make reaping hooks of our spears, or spades and ploughs and harrows of our guns. It is the improvement of our horse, for general utility purposes, and for war, that is really the motive which ought to promote this racing of ours, but which poor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in a fatuous moment, has lately dubbed “the curse of the country.”

If the supply of horseflesh is to be maintained, if we are not prepared to let the breed die out altogether, then horse racing is the only method whereby the standard can be preserved at a proper and efficient level. Shows, agricultural and otherwise, are powerless in their endeavour to accomplish this end. Magnificent looking creatures bred for the ring, only too surely and quickly prove themselves to be abject failures when tested on the course or in the field. Vitality, stamina, courage, soundness, are the qualities which we desire to perpetuate in our breeds. The show ring does not test a single one of these. The winning post must be our only guide.

Is it doing its duty in the matter? This might be a matter for endless debate, but it is safe to say that it is not doing that duty nearly so well as it might. For in our play we are so apt to forget that, after all, it is not only sport that we are following, but that perhaps the safety of our Australian nation lies in the qualities of endurance and of speed in those beautiful creatures which we are looking upon as our playthings of to-day. One’s mind invariably flies, whilst thinking over these matters, to a future and a possible “War of Defence.” Britain, let us imagine, is hampered with a Continental foe. America is on her back, and fighting for her life upon the seas. And we are lying here in the sunshine, a beautiful woman without means of defence, without oil for our motors, without ammunition for our guns, without horses for our men. With ammunition, and with half a million of splendid horses, and even more splendid men, we might do wonders, even without oil, until help could arrive. Without horses and ammunition we would be immediately destroyed. And we are not taking the trouble to breed chargers and transport horses for the purposes of war. Indian buyers, private dealers, your own eyesight, will tell you that we are not producing the quantity, nor the quality which we were so proud of fifty, forty, aye, even thirty years ago. We have become careless. Our young men do not desire the glorious companionship which their fathers enjoyed, that loving friendship between horse and man. They fizz through their stations now in a motor car, or possibly they even fly through the air to the back of the run, and are home for luncheon. Their sires and their grand-sires on these distant excursions camped out for nights, their saddle for a pillow, their horses, in hobbles, not far distant from their side. My young gentleman of to-day could do it all if he tried, but he does not care to ride, and hunting is a bore. But what will his son be? It is the old, old story. Read your Gibbon, study your Grote.

“All Empires tumble, Rome and Greece,

Their swords are rust, their altars cold.”

You know the old and sacred saying, “At sunset, when the sky is red, you know that the weather will be fine,” and also, “When the fig tree putteth forth her leaves, ye know that summer is nigh.” And Rome and Greece fell because they would not take the trouble to see that the sky was red, or that the fig tree was putting forth her leaves. And we are travelling on exactly the same road. Not many people care to read about the “Buried Cities of Crete.” The story carries a tremendous lesson. The ancient Cretans, whose women wore high-heeled shoes, and hobble skirts, and other abominations of civilisation, were so strong in their sea power that they neglected the means of defence on land. Ruins, buried deep beneath the soil, tell us the sad story to-day. A foreign power, despised perhaps, but now grown strong, sprang at their throats so suddenly that it took the Islanders completely by surprise. The blackened walls, the charred rafters, thirty feet below ground, preach their sermon to those who care to read. Neither does one ever forget what took place at the great conference at Vienna between the Powers when Napoleon had at length been chained and was languishing in his little island kingdom and prison of Elba. There had been much discussion, bitter wrangling, but matters were at length approaching a more or less satisfactory conclusion. Then, unheralded, there burst into that august assembly a messenger, “bloody with spurring, fiery with hot haste.” “Napoleon has escaped and has landed in France.” A moment’s silence, and the ambassadors with one accord fell a-laughing. After all their grave debates, with the waste of so many millions of words, the whole edifice of their deliberations was thrown to the ground by one sweep of the hand. So may it be to-morrow. A League of Nations may meet and deliberate. The representatives, perhaps, will disagree. Ere they can turn round, one Power, which is, may be, the best prepared, declares war. Necessity, when nations are in dire distress, choking for air and starving for their daily bread, knows no law. Will we never learn our lesson not to put our trust in Princes, no, nor in the children of men? Therefore, let us foster our horses by every means in our power, and place our dependence rather upon them. And let us remember that the race course, the hunting-field, and the polo grounds are the nurseries and gymnasiums of the breeds both of horse and man. The thoroughbred is the keystone of the arch, the cornerstone of the building.

And yet one knows so well that prophecy is all in vain, that our rulers only smile and imagine a vain thing, and that no seer has any honour in his own country, until the words are proven to be true, and then it is all too late. Bitter was the fate of Cassandra, that ancient prophetess of Troy, whom no man could believe, and bitter still the lot of anyone who tries once more to read the writing on the wall, and give it voice.

“Then like a raven on the wind of night

The wild Cassandra flitted far and near,

Still crying, ‘Gather, gather for the fight,

And brace the helmet on and grasp the spear,

For lo, the legions of the night are here!’

So shriek’d the dreadful prophetess divine;

But all men mock’d and were of merry cheer;

Safe as the Gods they deem’d them, o’er their wine.”

But, with the tremendous importance of the end in view, the improvement of the thoroughbred horse, is our sport sufficiently fulfilling that end? That is a question which is indeed a hard one to determine, and one great camp may give its voices to the “Ayes,” and one may roar in unison for “No.”

There is one thing, and perhaps only one thing, quite certain. Our horse has increased in size. The fifteen-hands-two of the great winners of a hundred years ago have swollen in their average dimensions somewhere in the neighbourhood of sixteen-two. This may not, however, indicate allround improvement. A good big one, we know, is better than a good little one on the course, but I question if the rule holds good, either in the battle or the hunting-field. Ormonde beat The Bard because he outstrode him down the Epsom hill, but The Bard might have carried his master, with his twelve stone ten, had he had the opportunity, more safely and more speedily to the end of a forty minutes run, than his great conqueror on the race course over the mile and a half of Epsom Downs.

And we have gained in speed. There can be little doubt of that. If the inexorable test of the “Winning Post” has not compelled us to breed from our best, and if, in the course of the flying centuries, the result has not been a march upwards, then Heaven help us and our methods. But do you think that stamina and soundness have improved along with our size and our speed? That, too, is hard to tell. And yet it is probable that it is so. Races now are real tests of the stayer. In the days of Fisherman, and Voltigeur, The Flying Dutchman, Plenipotentiary, Bay Middleton, and before their time, races were not run in a manner to prove stamina. More frequently there was much loitering on the way in the two, three, and four mile bouts between the steeds of our ancestors. To-day we run the two miles all the way from pillar to post, and Archer’s three minutes and fifty-two seconds for the Melbourne Cup has dwindled to the three twenty-four and a half claimed by Artilleryman. Twenty-seven seconds difference means at least two furlongs, and that takes catching. Well, admitting that we have marched forwards in the matter of both speed and stamina, surely there is much more unsoundness to-day than there was one hundred years ago, or even fifty years since. At the first blush one would say “Yes.” But on second thoughts one does not feel quite so sure. Herod was “a bleeder,” and bleeding has been not uncommon in his descendants. It is one hundred and sixty-four years ago since Herod was foaled. We rear regiments of racers now, where our forebears bred squadrons. And yet “bleeding” is not so very rife after all. But we hear more about it, with an active press focussing its microscope on every individual racer in the land. And roaring, you ask? Well, Pocahontas roared, and Prince Charlie made a fearful noise, and Belladrum was indistinguishable from a fog-horn, and Ormonde did more than whistle, but in Australia, at least, this is a defect, an actual unsoundness, which we do not so very often see—or hear. But we are breeding bad knees, bad feet, and round joints, and with the extra weight of the enlarged frames, ligaments and muscles cannot bear the strain. Yet this was always so. Bay Middleton had a mysterious foot and leg, Whalebone’s near fore-foot was contracted, and all were “pumiced”—whatever that might mean. He was “the most double-jointed horse I ever saw in my life,” was the verdict of that celebrity’s groom. Whitelock was “a naggish horse with a big, coarse head and plumb forelegs.” Flat, thin-soled feet were the “bane of lazy Lanercost,” Rataplan “always went proppy on his long fore pasterns,” and “Dundee’s suspensory ligament went so badly in the Derby that after that race his fetlock nearly touched the ground.” Partisan had a “clubby foot.” Touchstone had “very fleshy legs,” and his “near fore ankle was never very good.” And so on we could go, from the Adam of horses to our own most rapid, modern times, which these grandchildren of ours will shortly call “the old times.” But I cannot say if the “Sport” is improving; I fancy not. I was talking to Walter Hickenbotham the other day, the doyen of the profession of trainers, or at least one running in double harness in that capacity with old Harry Rayner, of Randwick. Walter was recalling the “old days” of his youth. Meetings were fewer then, and railways were a comparative rarity where his paths led him. Mr. C. M. Lloyd was his “boss.” Riding a mare and leading Swiveller, Walter would leave the station on one of those beautiful, bright, health-giving mornings of the late summer or early autumn, with just a touch of frost in the clear air. The boy, with the buggy and the gear, the feed, and all the other necessaries, had gone on before. From station to station, ’twixt sunrise and sundown, the little cavalcade would press steadily on. Mr. Lloyd, no doubt, would follow in a few days with his tandem or the four-in-hand. And so from meeting to meeting they would go. Round Wagga, Hay, Bathurst, Deniliquin, Gundagai, Goulburn, a great circuit, would they wander, taking with them the romance and glamour of the Turf in their train. You can imagine the stir and enthusiasm at the stations as they came. Nothing was too good for them, either for man or beast. Everyone welcomed them, and the old greybeards, in the evenings, beneath the big gum tree, while the boxes were being done out, and the horses meanwhile were held in the shade, would talk horse, and nothing but horse, by the yard. Some might even remember having seen Rous’ Emigrant or Manto, and another might have come from Yorkshire, and had known all about Sledmere and Sir Tatton Sykes. And the racing was more for the fun of the thing then, and the owners betted more like gentlemen between themselves. And ere the country circuit was completed, horse and man had travelled almost a thousand miles, and had won many a Cup, and much fine gold. And then, calling in at the station to drop their burdens, they would be off to the Metropolis to take down the numbers of the swells which trained there, ere settling down for the short, dark winter days at home. Good days those, jolly days, grand days! And is it not so good now? No? Alas! I fear that it is not in the sport, not in the horses, not in the world at large, that we find changes for the worse. All things are developing, evolving, marching upwards. It is in us, the individual men, to whom we must look to find “the weary change.” And yet even we must take comfort.

“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved heaven and earth; that which we are we are.”

PAINTINGS OF RACEHORSES

BY MARTIN STAINFORTH

The figures in brackets are the Bruce Lowe family numbers of each horse. (†) signifies no family number.

PLATE 2.
MUSKET (3) imp. Brown Horse, 1867, by Toxophilite—half sister to Gen. Peel’s dam. Winner of the Ascot Stakes, and 9 of his 11 last races. Imported to New Zealand in 1878. Sire of Carbine, Trenton, Hotchkiss, Nordenfeldt, Maxim, Martini-Henri, etc. Died 1885. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 18 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 3.
CARBINE (2). Bay Horse, 1885, by Musket (imp.)—Mersey (imp.). Winner of £29,626. Sire in Australia of Wallace, La Carabine, etc. Exported to England in 1895, where he sired Spearmint, Greatorex, Fowling Piece, etc. Died 1914 at Welbeck, England. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 6 years, in the possession of Mr. F. G. White.

PLATE 4.
TRENTON (18). Brown Horse, 1881, by Musket (imp.)—Frailty. Winner of good races in N.Z. and Australia, and sire of Wakeful, Aurum, Revenue, Auraria, etc. Exported to England in 1895, where he sired Torpoint, etc. Died 1905. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 14 years, presented to the A.J.C. by Sir William Cooper.

PLATE 5.
CROSS BATTERY (7). Brn. Mare, 1902, by Stepniak—Firecross. Dam of Artilleryman (Melb. Cup), and ALEXANDRA (13) imp., Bay Mare, 1904. Dam of Kingsburgh (Melb. Cup), by Persimmon—Ambleside. With foals at foot by All Black (imp. sire of Desert Gold, etc.). The property of Mr. Norman Falkiner, Noorilim, Victoria. From a painting of the mares, at the ages of 18 and 16 years respectively, in the possession of Mr. Falkiner.

PLATE 6.
THE FINISH FOR THE V.R.C. FLYING STAKES, 1902, 7 furlongs, Flemington, Victoria. Ibex, ridden by Jas. Barden, steals the race from the great Wakeful. From a painting in the possession of Jas. Barden.

PLATE 7.
MALTSTER (21). Brown Horse, 1897, by Bill of Portland (imp.)—Barley (imp.). Winner of the A.J.C. and V.R.C. Derbies, etc. Premier sire of Australia on five different occasions, among his progeny being Alawa, Malt King, Desert Rose, Popinjay, Maltine, etc. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 23 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 8.
WALLACE (3). Ches. Horse, 1892, by Carbine—Melodious. Winner of £6,116, including V.R.C. Derby, Sydney Cup, etc. Sire of winners of over £250,000, including Trafalgar, Aurous, Emir, Mountain King, etc. Died in 1917. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 12 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 9.
LANIUS (7) imp. Brown Horse, 1911, by Llangibby—Mesange. Winner in England of the Rous Memorial Stakes, Jockey Club Stakes, and £11,406. Imported to Australia in 1917 and won A.J.C. Plate, Cumberland Stakes, etc., before retiring to the stud in 1919. The property of Dr. Syme, Victoria. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 8 years, in the possession of Mr. Ken Austin.

PLATE 10.
LINACRE (8 imp.). Bay Horse, 1904, by Wolf’s Crag—Lismaine. Winner Champion Breeders’ Foal Stakes, Atlantic Stakes, etc. One of the leading sires of Australia; his progeny include Dame Acre, Mistico, Tangalooma, Panacre, Lordacre, etc. The property of Messrs. A. W. and A. E. Thompson, Widden Stud, N.S.W. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 17 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 11.
YIPPINGALE (1) imp. Bay Mare, 1909, half sister to Traquair (imp.), by William the Third—Chelandry. With foal at foot by Comedy King (imp.). The property of Mr. Norman Falkiner, Noorilim, Victoria. From a painting of the mare, at the age of 11 years, in the possession of Mr. Falkiner.

PLATE 12.
TRAFALGAR (4*). Ches. Horse, 1905, by Wallace—Grand Canary. Winner of £22,111, and a high-class stayer. Now at the stud in N.S.W. Sire of Visibility, Heart of Oak, Annexit, etc. Owned by the Executors of the late Walter Mitchell, N.S.W. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 7 years, in the possession of Dr. Stewart McKay.

PLATE 13.
BRATTLE (1). Brown Mare, 1910, by Maltster—Astron. Winner V.A.T.C. Oakleigh Plate, etc. Owned by Mr. W. Booth, N.S.W. From a painting of the mare, at the age of 4 years, in the possession of Dr. Stewart McKay.

PLATE 14.
POITREL (3). Ches. Horse, 1914, by St. Alwyne (imp.)—Poinard. Winner of £26,919, including Melbourne Cup carrying 10 st., and all the principal long-distance weight-for-age races of Australia. A very high-class stayer. Retired to his owners’ (Messrs. W. and F. A. Moses) stud in 1921. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 6 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 15.
GLOAMING (26). Bay Gelding, 1915, by The Welkin (imp.)—Light (imp.). Winner of 43 races out of 46 starts to date of publication, and £28,443. One of the most brilliant horses bred in Australia. Owned by Mr. G. D. Greenwood, N.Z. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 6 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 16.
ARTILLERYMAN (7). Brown Horse, 1916, by Comedy King (imp.)—Cross Battery. Winner V.R.C. Melbourne Cup, dead-heated A.J.C. Derby, etc. Died in 1920. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 4 years, presented to the A.J.C. by Sir Samuel Hordern.

PLATE 17.
TRIPTYCH. Cross Battery, with Artilleryman as a foal at foot in 1916. Comedy King (imp.) the sire of Artilleryman. Artilleryman, winner of the V.R.C. Melbourne Cup, 1919. From a painting in the possession of Sir Samuel Hordern.

PLATE 18.
CETIGNE (29). Bay Horse, 1912, by Grafton (imp.)—Pretty Nell. Winner of £27,216, and second on the list of winning Australian racehorses. Retired to the stud in 1921. Owned by Mr. T. A. Stirton, Dunlop Stud, N.S.W. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 7 years.

PLATE 19.
KENNAQUHAIR (2). Ches. Horse, 1914, by Kenilworth (imp. Fr.)—Calluna. Winner of £17,126, and a very fine individual and stayer. Retired to the Mungie Bundie Stud in 1922. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 6 years, in the possession of Mr. W. M. Borthwick.

PLATE 20.
COMEDY KING (7) imp. Black Horse, 1907, by Persimmon—Tragedy Queen. Winner of the Melbourne Cup, V.R.C. All-Aged Stakes, etc., and £12,945. One of the most successful stallions in Australia, having sired Artilleryman, Biplane, Fiscom, Folly Queen, etc. The property of Mr. Norman Falkiner, Noorilim Stud, Victoria. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 13 years, in the possession of Mr. Ken. Austin.

PLATE 21.
WOORAK (31). Ches. Horse, 1911, by Traquair (imp.)—Madam. Winner of £17,000, and the most brilliant horse of his time. Retired to the stud in 1917 and a very successful stallion. Sire of Soorak, Salrak, Yanda, etc. Raced by Mr. L. K. S. Mackinnon, Victoria. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 5 years, in the possession of Dr. Stewart McKay.

PLATE 22.
PANACRE (†). Brn. Horse, 1912, by Linacre (imp.)—Panara. Winner of the A.J.C. Epsom Hcap., etc. Retired to his owner’s (Mr. J. C. Wood) stud in 1921. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 5 years, in the possession of Mr. J. Campbell Wood.

PLATE 23.
EURYTHMIC (5). Ches. Horse, 1916, by Eudorus (imp.)—Bob Cherry. The largest stake winner of Australia, having won £33,066, including the Sydney Cup with 9 st. 8 lbs. Owned by Mr. E. Lee Steere, W.A. From a painting of the horse, at the age of 5 years, in the possession of the artist.

PLATE 24.
THE FINISH FOR THE A.J.C. CRAVEN PLATE, 1918, 1¼ miles, Randwick, N.S.W. Reading from the rails: Cetigne (A. Wood) first, Desert Gold (fourth), Wolaroi (second), Estland (third). From a painting in the possession of Mr. W. A. Crowle.