342 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
(May 4, mt>. 
IP? Mprttemw §onrkt 
PORTAGE LAKE. 
Seeking new fields for sport, we had sent our Jackman, 
Maine, guides over the Canadian boundary to lccate a 
ramp near the head waters of the west branch of the 
Penobscot. They explored the region and settled on Por- 
tage Lake, in the Province of Quebec, close to the Maine 
boundary, for our camping place, and a fortunate location 
it proved to be. We went in there in September, 1890, 
my friend and I, with our two Jackman guides and one 
local guide. Here on a beautiful point of the shore, near 
where Portage brook joins the lake, we pitched our tent 
and passed lazy, happy days. Daily we saw deer feeding 
and playing along the shores. Two goodly Caribou bucks 
fell to our rifles. The waters of the lake and stream were 
full of trout, fine vigorous fellows, averaging a pound 
each in weight. "What more could we ask? 
These were then practically virgin waters. The woods- 
men had been accustomed to fish here, with their coarse 
tackle, but few and far between had been the sportsmen 
to visit this secluded resort. Our third and Canadian 
guide was Bob Elliott. This was almost his first experi- 
ence as a guide, but he had above any man I have ever 
met the qualities that make a satisfactory guide, and he 
has since built a camp on Portage Lake and taken a few 
parties there and elsewhere. He is very quiet and gentle 
in hiB ways, temperate and in every way reliable, with a 
thorough knowledge of woodcraft, and an intimate ac- 
quaintance with that region. Since the autumn days of 
1890 I have not seen Portage Lake; for I seek large game 
and that is more a fishing than a hunting country, but 
with Bob I have sought game along the boundary ..moun- 
tains and in the more remote St. John region, and would 
count a trip despoiled of half its pleasure were he not my 
guide. Bob Elliott lives at Armstrong, County Beauce, 
Quebec, 25 miles from Jackman, Me., and 9 miles from 
Portage Lake. He will never make much money as a 
guide, for most of the pay he receives is devoted to camps 
and outfit for the comfort of his parties. 
A few of the readers of Fohest and Steeam have been 
to Portage and they will, I feel sui - e, indorse all I have said, 
and each has in his mind a vivid picture of blue waters 
sparkling in the clear mountain air, circled with unbroken 
forests. Thirty miles from any railroad, and nine miles 
from any highway, no sound from the outer world dis- 
turbs the camper on Portage's beautiful shores. 
Feed. Talcott. 
Providence, E. I. 
SPORT IN IRELAND. 
III.— Hunting. 
An Irish way of doing business! In asking the attention 
of the gentle reader to reminiscences of sport in Ireland, 
to introduce him to what is well marked in history — the 
time being now far distant and the place remote. Time, 
the spring of 1865; place, the banks of the Potomac. A 
young British officer, desirous of improvement in the 
knowledge and practice of his profession by the best of all 
means — experience in actual warfare — armed with letters 
of introduction to the chief officials at Washington, pro- 
ceeded to that place in March, 1865, and applied to the 
War Department for authority to visit the army, then in 
front of Richmond and Petersburg, with headquarters at. 
City Point. 
This application was at first refused, as strict orders had 
been issued that no civilians should be allowed with the 
army at this critical moment, when business was the order 
of the day. 
On presenting a letter of introduction, however, to 
Mr. Sumner, a statesman and one of nature's noble- 
men, he at once telegraphed to General Grant and Presi- 
dent Lincoln, then at City Point, strongly presenting the 
case as one not of a civilian, but of a British soldier. 
The desired authority was not only granted, but free 
transport was everywhere given; and on arrival at head- 
quarters the young officer was placed, honorarily, on the 
headquarters staff, and all privileges. accruing to a dis- 
tinguished personage were granted to him, being a guest 
of the President and General Grant. Such an honor was 
as unexpected as it was appreciated, this being the most 
■ instructive period of the gigantic campaign. 
Commencing with the assault on Fort Steadman, March 
25, 1865, until the surrender of General Lee, April 9, there 
was a continuous roar of artillery fire. Then the great 
rebellion was ended, and Lee's army of splendid men were 
scattered to the winds. 
The writer of these notes is the fortunate, then young, 
man referred to; and I could fill many pages with accounts 
of courtesies received on all sides, from all sorts and con- 
ditions of men, from President Lincoln downward, as I 
could tell of valuable lessons learned and experiences 
gained such as fall to the lot of but few men. 
How intensely interesting the morning visit to Gen- 
eral Grant, the study of bis calm face, as unmoved he re- 
ceived telegrams from different parts of the long line of 
front; some containing accounts of success, others of fail- 
ure. His instructions, in reply to each telegram, were 
sent in the same cool manner, President Lincoln care- 
fully watching every move, as if engaged in a game of 
chess. 
Here, side by Eide, were the ideal and practical states- 
man, and the ideal and practical soldier, working together 
at a most important stage of the world's histoxy; such men 
as Generals Sherman, Sheridan and Meade, with other 
lesser lights, forming the background of the picture. 
It is, however, of a still lesser light— though not so in 
her own eyes — that I must now speak. 
I have already said that no civilian was allowed with 
the army. There was, I believe, but one exception to 
this rule in the person of the female cook of the head- 
quarter mess. Having a moment to spare, amid the 
"pomp and circumstance of war," I paid a visit to this 
lady. Yes. there she was, amid the pots and. pans of this 
troublesome world, the only civilian with the army; and 
she had only to open her mouth to inform her listeners that 
she came from "the sod." She had the most delicious 
Irish brogue. I soon found that she had been one of the 
large peasant family of bare-footed children then living 
near my old home, that delighted to put "one stone 
more" on the wall over which I practised my gray pony 
in boyhood days before the hunting morning "prelimin- 
ary canter;" and as she now took delight in being in the 
thick of the fight with the Army of the Potomac, so she 
then, in girlhood days, took chief delight in running with 
the hounds and watching the pony jump. 
Yes, on that pony I had my first lesson across country 
with the hounds; and now at this distance of time I can 
find no greater pleasure than to follow harriers or fox- 
hounds over a sporting country. 
Oh, for the easy flowing pen of Charles Kingsley to de- 
scribe the music of the hounds! Or that of Whyte-Mel- 
ville to point out the pleasures of the chase. 
What music! ' If you must have four parts, then 
there they are. Deep-mouthed bass, rolling along the 
ground; rich, joyful tenor; wild, wistful alto; and leap- 
ing up here and there above the throng of sounds, deli- 
cate treble shrieks and trills of trembling joy. I know 
not whether you can fit it into your la ws of music, any 
more than you can the song of that Ariel sprite who 
dwells in the iEolian harp, or the roar of the waves on the 
rock, or 
'Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, 
And murmur of innumerable bees,' 
"Ay, with all the fictitious excitement produced by the 
emulation of hunting, and the insatiable desire to be 
nearer and nearer still to that fleeting vision which, like 
happiness, is always just another stride beyond our reach; 
though the hounds are streaming silently away a field in 
front of us; though the good horse between our legs is 
fresh, ardent and experienced; though we have already 
disposed of our dearest friend on his best hunter, at that 
last 'double,' and are sanguine in our hopes of getting 
well over yonder strong rail, for which we are even now 
^hardening our heart' and shortening our stride; though 
we hope and trust we shall go triumphantly on from 
fence to fence, rejoicing, and at last see the good fox run 
intathe middle of a 50-acre grass field — yet for all this we 
cannot but feel that when we have traversed two or three 
miles of this style of country, without prostration or mis- 
hap, we have effected no contemptible feat of equitation; 
we have earned for the nonce a consciousness of thor- 
ough self-satisfaction intensely gratifying to the vanity of 
the human heart." And, if you are a student of human 
nature, a lover of the picturesque, where can your aspira- 
tions and desires better be satisfied than at "the meet?" 
Then come with me to the meet. 
That old gentleman of ninety years, sitting bolt upright 
in his saddle, is my father's nearest and dearest friend. 
That giant on the weight-carrier spread terror into the 
Russian ranks as he jumped into the Redan, armed only 
with a blackthorn stick, and received the Legion of Honor. 
That heavy-weight in frieze coat, on the game-looking 
cob, will lead the field to-day, for he knows every inch of 
country, and he knows what his cob can do. Yes, that 
semi-clerical looking man, with iron gray hair, is the par- 
son. Stick to his coat tails in the fastest run, and you'll 
not be "out of it;" an efficient pilot, for he can preach a 
good sermon on Sunday and show the way with hounds 
on Monday. 
Here I come on my gray pony. The huntsman takes 
off his hat with a "Good morning, Master ;" the 
whip gives me a friendly nod; the master asks whether 
poney is fit after that long run on Tuesday; I ride in and 
out among the throng of hunting men — and hunting 
women not a few — with a friendly greeting from each 
and all. 
Time's up! We move on at that peculiar "jog trot to 
covert." It's atypical hunting morning. "A southerly 
wind and cloudy sky," with just a dash of rain to keep the 
record of "moist weather." 
Old Jack, the huntsman, well knows the point of wind, 
and where to "throw" the hounds into the gorse covert. 
Hardly time to tighten the girths before there's a "view — 
halloo," followed by a madrigal of music. An old dog-fox 
slips out of the cover at the side opposite to that we have 
thrown in the hounds. There he goes, beside that 
bank, and across that field; there go the hounds 
after him. There's Jack, the huntsman, well over 
that first bank, and now he leads the hounds with 
horn and hand. And for us, it's "every man for himself." 
Even the women and children — am I among the latter? — 
are lost sight of at this critical moment. The banks and 
ditches are high and wide, but "funk" is an unknown 
quantity, and we're soon out of "this hole." 
The hounds settle down to their work; there is no look- 
ing out for "gaps;" you must "ride straight" if you mean 
to be "in it." There goes the parson, I'll keep his coat 
tails in view and follow him. Those tactics won't work; 
I find my eyes bunged with mud from his horse. I take 
my own line. We are now in a stone wall bit of country, 
having left banks and ditches behind. Over one of these 
I go, and into a drain at the landing goes pony; we have 
a roll, but no greater harm is done than a broken stirrup- 
leather and a muddy coat. I have learned to fall and not 
to quit hold of the reins; now I. have to put in practice an- 
other bit of training, viz., to balance the body and grip 
with both knees. 
On we go again; happily there's a check. A friendly 
farmer supplies a stirrup-leather and pony has time to 
breathe. A cast with the hounds is made, and we're off 
again. 
Another change of country. Now we're in low meadow 
land, and the boy on the pony has a pull over the heavy- 
weights; they sink in the deep land, while I gallop on as 
if on land with good footing. But here's more than a 
mere ditch — a chasm wide enough for a brook, deep 
enough for a ravine. The advice of my friendly instruc- 
tor, the parish horse-trainer, "Go hard at it, Master ," 
is in my mind, and so I do. Pony drops his hindlegs at 
the further bank; I there jump off and lead him up; with 
joy at finding that one well-mounted man at least is 
floundering in the brook, with mud enough to "improve 
the color" of his new scarlet coat. 
Again we're on the move; we're having "the run of the 
season;" we've gone ten Irish miles and now we're climb- 
ing the hillside to a well-known cover; some dismount 
and urge the tired nags up-hill as quickly as possible. The 
hounds are well on the fox, and as we reach the hill-top 
he is run into in the open before he can gain the friendly 
cover. 
There is a series of "who — whoops!" The whole scene 
is of such peculiar picturesqueness that no landscape 
painter has yet been able to do justice to it. 
The field, large at the meet, is reduced to six or seven 
good and true men at the death, besides one plucky girl 
(who gets the brush) and the boy on the pony, who has 
won fresh laurels on this red-letter day. Among those in 
at the death are our pilot, the parson, the man in gray, 
and the master of hounds; the pace was too good for the 
giant. 
My chief instructor, at this time, iu the noble art of 
"throwing a lep" on horseback, over stone wall, bank 
or water jump, was the parish horse-trainer. His in- 
structions were brief: "Clinch the reins, bend the back, 
grip with the knees;" no reference to hands or balance. 
My bosom friend, in the hour of need, when pony or 
horse suffered from "the ills that horsefiVsh is heir 
to," was the village blacksmith. It is needless to say 
that he had no certificate of qualification in vet&rinaria 
medicina. His advice, on consultation as to what was 
best to be done, given with the most serious face, was: 
"Treat him as you would a Christian." 
I have ridden many horses in many lands, from the 
buck-jumping bronco of the West to the wild Irish flyer 
of the East, from the yowl-necked barb of southern Spain 
to the well-trained hunter of "the Shires," and from none 
did I derive so much pleasure as from the gray pony, with 
my county hounds in Ireland. 
The gray pony's utility, however, was short-lived; he 
was hardly up to my weight; my purse, too, was slender. 
Happily an exchange ("swap") was arranged with a great 
admirer of the gray, by which I became possessed of a 
rough, uncared-for, uneducated plow-horse, and he the 
owner of the well-trained pony. 
I made many enemies by this exchange; my next of 
kin would scarcely speak to me; the blacksmith and 
horse-trainer would never more give me kindly instruc- 
tion; all were loth to lose the gray pony. 
The newly acquired horse proved a marvel in leaping 
powers; the clipping scissors did wonders in the improve- 
ment of his appearance, so that when I appeared in the 
hunting field even the horse-trainer wished me "good 
luck." 
On one memorable day he "beat the record" in a long 
jump. It came about as folio ws: The foxhounds met in 
a part of the country but little known to the members of 
the hunt. The Land Improvement Act had been in force 
in this locality with the result: wide drains and new stiff 
banks. These we looked at in despair. Inwardly we 
hoped that the fox would not take us through that bit of 
country. We "found" in a small gorse covert, and 
straight through this country went the fox. It was a 
question, "Take this big bank or go home." Uncertain 
at the time of the prowess of my unknown treasure, with 
fear and trembling (that peculiar trembling at the knee- 
joint), I tried to carry out the instructions, "Grip with 
your knees and go at it." At it I went; and, oh joy! on 
and off went my trained hunter, as if "to the manner 
born;" and henceforth he went by the name "Banker." 
After that on we sailed pleasantly, he with perfect con- 
fidence in his rider, I in perfect bliss at my "safe convey- 
ance," 
There were many empty saddles in that run; I was well 
to the front. The few forward men were in line, going 
at an apparently safe bank — all were going fast. I took 
the bank in my direct front, when, oh horror! there was 
a newly opened quarry at the opposite side of the bank. 
No time for reflection; but one course open — besides the 
open-mouthed quarry — with spur and voice not idle to 
"go." Could I but so nearly reach the edge of the quarry 
that I could escape without a broken collar bone? 
Poor "Banker's" newly developed life of usefulness 
must be suddenly cut short; when, joy of joys! 
voice and spur had done their work; "Banker's" jumping 
powers did the rest. He cleared the quarry with half an 
inch to spare, with space enough to change his feet and 
not drop in his hindlegs. My record in the country as a 
quarry jumper has not since been beat. 
My education in the knowledge of "the horse and his 
rider" had at that time to be replaced by the training for 
my military profession, "Banker" went to the hammer; 
my pocket was filled with pound notes; but his services 
can never be forgotten. 
The "Great Duke" has well pointed out how battles 
are lost and won in the hunting-field, the best field of 
training for the soldier; I therefore soon found myself 
again in the saddle, as a young soldier, with a trained 
hunter. A sudden call to active service, however, re- 
quired the speedy parting company with the trained 
hunter. I was at home on short leave of absence from 
my regiment, and during my walks abroad I met the 
village postmaster, an oddity of oddities, in his little ill- 
kept office. "The hounds are to meet to-morrow, and 
again this week, and you without a horse," saidhe, "this is 
a terrible catastrophe." After deep thought he brings 
forth the suggestion: "There's a herd of .gypsiesin a lane 
close by, they have a likely looking cob; give me £5, and 
I will buy him for you; you mind the shop." To all this 
I agreed, giving the postmaster's well-known answer to 
all inquiries for letters: "Not a word to-day," or if to a 
pretty girl: "He has not written to-day." 
The postmaster returned, leading a wretched specimen 
of the cob tribe; I had made my bed, I must lie on it. I 
led the animal home — not in triumph. Again I had "lost 
caste" among my kinsfolk and friends for dealing in 
horse flesh of the worst kind. Again the clippers were 
applied, and on the following morning I appeared at 
the meet, mounted, as of old, on "not a bad thing." 
Suffice it to say, that I had two good days' hunting on 
my £5 worth, and a day to spare for "one more jump," 
before my ship sailed. It was not a case of "my ship 
coming home" on that day; my gypsy cob landed on a 
rock at the off side of the fence; he was lame for life, 
and I sailed next day with my arm in a sling, having 
learned the lesson — avoid that "one more jump." 
Let us land for a while at Gibraltar, that 1 may intro- 
duce you to "Johnny," the huntsman of the Calpe 
hounds, who had hunted a pack of harriers for a relative 
of mine in the county of Cork, and in consequence takes 
pleasure and pride in being my pilot through the Cork 
woods and over the "rocks" at Algt-ziras. 
Johnny's boast is that his stentorian voice can be beard, 
as he cheers on thf hounds, from ihe Cork woods to the 
Rock — a matter of 12 miles! And this was before the 
days of telephone. In and out, among the palmettoes, 
the prickly pears and aloes, he leads, while 1, an unbe- 
liever in this sport, follow. 
Certainly there is ."the music of the hounds," but there's 
too much of Mr. Jorrocks's sort of hard riding. 
"Are you a hard rider?" asked an inquiring lady of Mr. 
Jorrocks. 
"The hardest in England!" answered that facetious 
worthy, adding to himself, "1 may say that, for I never 
goes off the 'ard road, if I can 'elp it!" 
About this time there was a sad downfall of pride on 
