WOOD SHOOTERS.

Engraved by J. W. ARCHER, from a Painting by A. D. COOPER.

We present to our readers in this Number, a work of art, which, we think, does equal credit to the painter and engraver. There is the entrance to the wood given with all the shadowy depth of nature-and the out-look over the gate to the light and life of day shews the feeling which has inspired and warmed the efforts of the pencil. The rich and massive foliage-the coming in of the sunlight on the leaves-on the the sportsmen and the animals-the well-filled shooting-jacket pocketall shew that nature, and not the mere imitation of nature, has been resorted to. With town readers, this scene will carry a freshness into the sportsman's heart; and to our country friends, it will be welcomed as "a picture in little," of some favourite spot.

JOHN WARDE is dead!-The great and celebrated John Warde, long the father of fox-hunters, and boon companion of the table, is gathered to his ancestors at the advanced age of eight-six, a compliment to, and a proof of, the healthiness of field sports. He died on the 9th of December last, in Charles Street, Berkeley Square. With him expired about the last of the pure breed of " the good old English gentleman:" John Warde was a splendid specimen of that once noble race, and in person, manner, and appearance, presented the beau ideal of the caste. Fifty-six years experience as a master of fox-hounds, advanced and refined by an acute and intelligent mind, had long caused him to be regarded as the chief authority in all matters appertaining to the chase; and, in the choice and breeding of hounds, he was pre-eminently great. Nose and strength were his essentials, and the mania for flying packs met with no encouragement from him. He could truly say, "the old pleasures were good enough for him, so they would but last!" Northamptonshire, in the palmy days of the Pytchley, was the chief arena of his exploits, and his name and fame will be remembered there when greater men are forgotten. The last country he hunted was Craven, in Berks," (so called after a former Lord Craven, who had it), where he succeeded Colonel Stead, and when comparing it with Northamptonshire, Mr. Warde used pleasantly to observe, that he supposed

The

he had been condemned to hunt Berkshire for his sins, so unfavourable to sport did he consider the latter country. In 1825, he retired altogether from the list of masters of fox-hounds, selling his pack to Mr. Horlock for the then unexampled price of 2,000 guineas. This gentleman occupied the country two years and then took his present one. Indeed, Mr. Warde's blood has always been in the highest repute, scarcely a kennel in England, at this day, being without it.

Colonel Cook, himself a good sportsman, and for many years a master of hounds, dedicated his " Observations on Fox Hunting," published in 1826, to Mr. Warde, in the following terms;

"MY DEAR SIR,-It is now many years since I was first taught to look up to you with pleasure and respect, as the first sportsman of modern times, and the most cordial and enthusiastic supporter of the cause of fox-hunting; nor have these feelings diminished during the experience of so many seasons.

"Is it therefore to be wondered at, that, on the present occasion, I eagerly avail myself of the honour of placing these observations, imperfect as they are, under your protection, with anxious hope that though only the hasty production of the moment, they may not prove wholly unacceptable. "I remain, my dear Sir, Ever your's sincerely,

JOHN COOK."

This is written in good unaffected English, and does honour to the heart and the head of the gentleman and the sportsman.

An admirable portrait of Mr. Warde adorns the very first number of this Magazine, it being conceived by the proprietors that a work devoted to the record of rural sports, could not be ushered into the world under more becoming auspices than that of a man who has done so much for the advancement of the noblest of all amusements. It represents Mr. Warde on his famous horse Blue Ruin, with his hound Betsey by its side, and the engraving was taken from the same painting by Mr. Barraud that the large print was made from, and an original letter. from the master, descriptive of his horse, accompanies the letter-press -Mr. Warde had a good title to the name of Nimrod,—and we only wonder he did not eject the spurious possessor of the property. Independently of his prowess as a sportsman, Mr. Warde was a celebrated convivialist, and most delightful companion. His jests were racy and original, fresh from the mint of the mind, and not furnished by the clippers of the common place book. Many a man has gained credit for jokes of which Mr. Warde was the father.-In private life he was generous without ostentation-amiable without guile, and possessed of inflexible spirit and integrity. Few men have gone down to their grave with more friends, and more earnest and pure regret and respect, than John Warde.

THE HANDLEY CROSS HOUNDS.
CHAPTER XIII.

How pleasant it is to see great literary characters associating in harmonious unity!-To find the asperities of rivalship softened down into friendly emulation! Mr. Jorrocks's polite invitation to Nimrod, given in our last Number, was received in the spirit which prompted it, and the first Friday in January fixed for the visit of inspection of the Handley Cross Fox Hounds.

We need scarcely say that the interval was occupied in preparing things with a becoming respect for the scrutiny of the "mighty hunter;" for where is the master of hounds whose heart does not beat responsive to that of Mr. Jorrocks on this trying occasion? and where is the sportsman who does not know the importance of making a favourable appearance before one whose word is law, and from whose decision there is no appeal! Young Hyson, Xerxes, Arter Xerxes, and the horse that was to be called " Nimrod," were all put through an extra course of elbow-grease, the saddles were overhauled, and the fronts of the bridles wrapped with sky-blue and buff worsted.

Benjamin and James Pigg, the huntsman, were each rigged out in new scarlet frocks with blue collars, and Ben's brown paper tops were replaced by a pair that had been made for Mr. Jorrocks, but which being always rather tight, were now cut down to a very roomy fit for the boy. We must here introduce Pigg to our readers. He was one of those loose fish that are to be found in all hunting countries, who prefer dog-stealing, cat-skinning, poaching, with very little occasional work, to steady and constant employ. In the north of England, where a good many hounds are kept, he found summer occupation in travelling drafts from one kennel to another, and as winter approached, he was to be found in attendance upon some pack in the field, ready to catch a loose horse, pick up a rider, throw a gate off its hinges, take home a lame hound, or execute any of the little odd offices that sportsmen are generally in too great a hurry to perform for each other. In person he was what Nimrod would call a lankey, heron-gutted fellow, with a stoop that had been originally acquired from a too constant study of the ground in the enterprising pursuit of hare pricking, increased by occasional stone-breaking on the highways. His age might be any thing from thirty to fifty, for the hand of pinching want had drawn some furrowed wrinkles upon a sharp, keen, but expressive face, though the bright pierce of his twinkling black eyes had lost little of their original lustre and vivacity; long straggling black locks hung in ample profusion from the back of a well-formed head, very much in

the style of the huntsman on the wrapper of "The Splendid New Sporting Periodical," where, amidst chaos itself, an antediluvian-looking personage, in a bason and bed-gown, is represented riding a quadruped, formed by a junction of a dray-horse and a poney.

Pigg was a sportsman by nature, and knew the habits and characters of all wild animals, which if he pursued in an unsportsmanlike manner was more from necessity than choice. Distance was nothing to him, and weariness, when in pursuit of his favourite amusements, was a stranger to his frame; in short, he was a wiry, active, keen, determined fellow, and, as he said himself, "uncommon fond of hunting."

Certain indiscretions having rendered it advisable for Pigg to absent himself from the north, he had worked his way up in a collier to Deal, where, on landing, he found himself with his pocket full of ship-biscuits and some seven or eight shillings in cash. He had not been long on shore before he fell in with another of the dog-stealing tribe, who had just returned from Handley Cross, where he had been offering his services to Mr. Jorrocks, and had been rejected on the score of being too heavy for his horses. Hearing that the latter was still without a huntsman, and feeling that no similar objection could be taken to himself, Pigg very soon made up his mind to apply for the situation, and the five-and-twenty miles that lay between him and Handley Cross were soon traversed with his long, useful legs. The examination that took place, and the conversation that passed between Mr. Jorrocks and himself on the hiring, would furnish food for a chapter of itself; but we wish to present our readers with a view of the gentleman in a more ad vanced stage of the connection, and shall therefore premise that Pigg, having got the old green duck hunter, short waistcoat, dirty white cords, and drab gaiters, in which he appeared, exchanged for such a rig out of new clothes as he never knew in his life before, he was placed as huntsman over Benjamin, with the assurance from Mr. Jorrocks to his subscribers that he was a thorough "warmint." Hard and anxiously did Pigg work at both hounds and horses, and zealously and sedulously did he devote himself to the service, and Mr. Jorrocks congratulated himself upon at length having found a man as keen as himself.

A few days prior to Nimrod's visit the following dialogue took place in the kennel between the new huntsman and his master. Mr. Jorrocks was making his draft for the next day. "We must be uncommon particklar, Pigg," said he, putting back Rachel, because she was a little too low in condition, "take nothing out but wot's perfection, or as near perfection as possible-the mighty Nimrod is coming werry soon, and we shall be all in black and vite."

"Whe's he?" inquired Pigg, scratching his head.

"Vot! not know Nimrod!" exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks in astonishment-" you surely don't mean to say so!"

No, Oy's sure, Oy dinna ken him.”

“Dinna ken him," repeated Mr. Jorrocks, "dinna ken him—vot does that mean?"

"Whoy, I never see'd him."

"But surely you've heard of him-Nimrod! every body's heard of Nimrod-the mighty and immortal Nimrod !"

"Not Oy," replied Pigg. "Is he a skewlmaster?"

"No; he's a master of 'unting-not an M.F.H., or Master of Fox 'Ounds like me, mind, but a man wot makes obserwations on packs and their attendants, and writes in a printed book all that he sees, hears, or thinks about them."

Pigg "Ye dinna say se!"

"Quite true, I assure you," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "and if by any adwerse chance he should condemn a pack, or blame an 'untsman (not that he ever does though), it would be all dickey with them for ever, for no living man dare contradict him, and every body swears by wot he says."

"My!" replied Pigg, "we maun be uncommon kittle then, Oy guess." "You must exert your h'utmost powers to do the trick, for dash my vig, if we fail, I, even I-John Jorrocks himself-will go perfectly mad with wexation and disappointment."

"Does he ken all about the nags and dogs and huntin?" inquired Pigg in an evident state of uneasiness.

"Oh, yes!" replied Mr. Jorrocks, catching a little of Pigg's alarm, "all, all, every thing-at least he writes about them, and, right or wrong, nobody ever disputes the pint-Oh, dear! oh, dear! I've sometimes doubted whether the world would not have been 'appier without the mighty Nimrod. Butter, soap, sugar, all that sort of thing is werry pleasant to be sure; but then, oh, 'orror! to think of being rubbed the wrong way by Nimrod! Death itself would be better."

"Hout, tout," replied Pigg, cheering up his master, "I dare say there will be nowt to boggle a man after all. If Oi was ye, with all yee'r brass, Oi wad not care for nebody."

Jorrocks.-"Ah! but Pigg, remember fame !-think of hambition! -think of that something after life wot prompts men to great hactions. Here, for three-and-twenty years have I been a h'ardent follower of the chase-loved it, oh, 'eavens! for its own sake, and not for any longing after for h'mmortality; and now, ven greatness has been thrust upon me-ven I shines forth an M.F.H.-to think that before Friday night all-all-may be dashed away from me with one dash of Nimrod's pen, and instead of reigning King of 'Andley Cross-instead of being the great and illustrious John Jorrocks-I may be flung back to 'blivion! Oh! Pigg, h'ambition is a dreadful thing!"