A SPORTING BIOGRAPHY.* HE who from motives of curiosity or

of a love of know- ledge would know what manner of being was the early or the Mid-Victorian smart sporting cavalry soldier should look upon this book. He will certainly be delighted with its curious contents. This type of soldier (youth being one of its most essential characteristics) no longer exists, nor clinks its spurs upon any portion of "this globous earth." Yet the majority of mankind cannot help feeling an interest almost archaeological in its former habits. Obliquely, we gather many interesting particulars from Colonel St. Quintin's vivacious and amusing work, as in it he consciously or occasion-

• Chances of Sports of Sorts i Five Continents. By Col. T. A. St. Quintin. With Illustrations. London William Blackwood. [I6s. nat.]

ally unconsciously displays much of the habits of his coin. panions. For example, it is made clear of the Mid-Victorian hussar or lancer that he almost always rode remarkably straight; that of his very nature he was usually a first-class shot; that his intellect was often prone to appreciate the obvious; that he was an exquisite in nothing but costume ; and that even in this branch of the arts his taste tended to degenerate into a nice appreciation of riding breeches, but that nevertheless he was essentially an exceed- ingly gallant, likeable creature, and that his intellectual sim- plicity in no way detracted from his rather childlike charm. Chances of Sports of Sorts (this is indeed the title of the volume before us) is undoubtedly written in an unusually unaffected, charming, and readable manner. It is heralded by a remarkable Introduction—chiefly in verse—in which is set forth a curious social creed, perhaps peculiar to soldiers of the 'fifties and 'sixties : "Never to discuss at length—(1) Religion. (2) Politics." (We believe this second inter- dict to be peculiar to Colonel St. Quintin.) "(3) The Ladies," this last most emphatic. This creed is succeeded in the Introduction by some exceedingly sound advice in verse :—

"Man must make use of his senses

When thinking of taking a wife, Or he'll never get over the fences, Yet find himself saddled for life, Poor beggar !

Sweet

Maidens fair, I bid ye beware

Of perfidious youth and his guile ;

And youths, have a care, there's many a snare

Deep hid in a maiden's smile

Of innocence,"

The typographical display of the quotations is the author's, not ours. The Introduction apparently ends with the words-

" THE LADIES, God bless 'em!"

But, nevertheless, the reader does not immediately come to the first chapter entitled" Puppyhood?' There are two more pages, still headed by the word Introduction, though the Introduction proper has in reality ended, and that in the gallantest manner possible. The author thus addresses a beloved steeplechaser he once had, Ballyragget '

"I'm going to get on his back once more and see if he can help me. Come up, old man ; we must get forrard now that we've scrambled over that introductory fence. And it was a scramble. The starter is getting impatient, and we'd better get up to the post and harden our hearts and sit down and try to negotiate this difficult country (of literature) in front of us. Good fencer as you are in your own line, I'm afraid you'll bungle some of these, and if we get through without a fall we shall be lucky, though even so there'll be plenty ready to criticise your poor style and abuse my bad handling of you over what they would call an easy country, for most people look at a race through their own glasses from a stand from which the course seems to them easy and simple. I can ride like the devil myself over country from the railway train ! And now down goes the flag and we're away."

Colonel St. Quintin tells us how he won hunt cups, pig-

sticking cups, or steeplechases on one or another of the remarkably good horses which he possessed at various epochs, and these incidents and their kindred stories of big game are all told with that absolute modesty and good taste without which autobiographical writing becomes intolerable. Moreover, the whole book is packed with the most amusing type of sporting anecdote, and some of the remarks upon hunting, polo, shooting, &c., are of a really illuminating order. Colonel St. Quintin recalls a positively astounding number of first-class ponies (under 14.3) which he has known or has possessed, and any one who is interested in the controversy of "Horse v. Pony" should certainly read his fascinating accounts of 'Bobbery,' of Vivian,' or of Fop.'

Bobbery ' must, indeed, have been a most wonderful animal, and the present writer is fain to recall how he once owned a little black Welsh mare rather like him—but he dare not go on. " One Reminiscent very good business, two Reminiscents no good." Bobbery ' was 14 hands high, and Colonel St. Quintin got him for 221.

"I used to ride about 10st. 71b. at that time, and rode him for the whole season in Norfolk. He never put me down, and I stopped the whole field more than once over both water and timber with him. A snaffle bridle—and he hated even that—and ninety thousand miles an hour at his fences. I hacked and drove him all summer, and used to jump him over the tables at cricket matches with the white cloth and everything on the table, over iron railings, backwards and forwards over a single hurdle, and over an ordinary stick held up between two men. He delighted in a `lep. I had a little low trap built for him without a splash-board. He was the divvle in harness, but a picture to look at, when he would go, as he was a pacer with great action both before and behind; and to see the little fellow with his beautiful well-bred head carried high, his white mane—(he was a dark cream with a black muzzle and legs)—hanging below his neck, and white tail almost touching the ground, which he got over at the pace of an American trotter, was a sight. And ho was then a treat to drive; but when the spirit moved him, look out. He was a proper handful. He would start like a flash, go a hundred yards, stop like a flash, and up on his hind legs; and you had to jump out, lead him on, and jump in as he started."

Vivian, too, was a beautiful pony, a grey Arab 14 hands high, "whose coat threw back the rays of the sun like the scales of a fresh-killed fish, and, to my mind, . . . the hand- somest horse I have ever seen." Colonel St. Quintin had this pony in India for pig-sticking, of which latter sport he gives a fascinating account. Indeed, one of the most spirited set of galloping verses we have ever read is that which he quotes as having been written by "a friend of mine, Cruik- shank of the Bengal Civil Service."

"Over the valley, over the level, Through the dak jungle ride like the devil. Hark ! forrard a boar, and away we go ! Sit down and ride straight. Tally-ho !

The ditches and banks are wide and steep, The earth is rotten, the water deep : The boldest horseman holds his breath, But he'll have to cross it to see the death.

Over we go, the game's nearly done, The field are gaining, the race nearly won: An arm upraised, then a dash, a cheer, And the boar has felt the deadly spear.

See how he flashes his fiery eye, Ready to cut, to thrust, to die.

A boar that will charge like the Light Brigade Is the bravest brute God ever made."

It is of experiences such as these or of the hunting of

Himalayan sheep, of tigers, of kangaroo, or of foxes, of the playing of salmon, of tarpon, or of polo, of racing in India and

in Ireland, interspersed with vastly entertaining side views into the barrack life of his day, that Colonel St. Quintin has woven his most attractive and loquacious book. We have, in fact, but one fault to find : we wish that our author had shown us some of that serious side of his life which he himself confesses to have guarded jealously from the reader's eyes, or bad given even a hint of the part played in his life by " The Fair."

But, perhaps, upon reflection we would not have the book other than it is. We can, in truth, most cordially echo Colonel St. Quintin's own words, and can thank Mr. William Blackwood most heartily for having " given Colonel St. Quintin his head and allowed him to get over the country in his own way without a curb." The book has been allowed to glow in its own warm natural colours, and remains unmarred by one blot of literary artifice..