sidered desirable to issue a second volume, which must necessarily have been so largely made up of reprint, though a great part of the reprint is from rare and forgotten works which, in the ordinary course of events, not one reader in a thousand would ever have However, I must not say more or I shall seem to be trespassing into a sort of review; but so many years of my life have been devoted to the 'Badminton Library' that I could not resist these remarks on its completion in the pages of its direct offspring, the Badminton Magazine.

come across.

I am not certain that we hear quite as much about golf as was the case a year or two back. A probable explanation is that a certain and not inconsiderable section of the populace has come to regard the 'royal and ancient game' as a necessity of life, and so plays golf as a matter of course, just as people dine without discussing the practice. For that golfers remain keen and ardent there is no doubt. A short time ago two young gentlemen went travelling to see the world, and in due time they reached China. There they had the luck to know an English merchant, a particularly genial, kindly, and hospitable friend of mine, who, with characteristic amiability, set himself to provide entertainment for the visitors during the week they were to pass in the city where he dwelt. To-morrow,' he said, after dinner on the evening of their arrival, 'you will perhaps like to have a look round the town. Next day I should recommend you to go up the river-I'll see about a boat for you. Then on Thursday there are the races; they are sure to amuse you. On FridayHowever, for the other days of the projected stay varied and interesting programmes were arranged; but the guests displayed no enthusiasm, and looked so blank, indeed, that their host could not help observing it, and added: 'You know, I don't want you to follow my suggestions if you don't care about them. What would you like to do?' 'Well,' one of the pair answered, 'it's awfully good of you, old chap, of course; but we were wondering if we could have a game of golf?' Certainly, if you like!' the host replied. There is a links, of sorts. It seems a little odd to travel twelve or thirteen thousand miles and to play golf at the end of your journey instead of seeing something of the country; but just as you like!' So the two devotees were fitted out and taken to the links, and passed their time in getting into and out of Chinese bunkers, which more or less resemble those on Tooting Bec and elsewhere.

'Before racing begins next year I will have Loeffler in to look at all the horses, and I shall be guided by whatever he says,' a prominent owner remarked to me the other day; but the advice is never to be given, for poor Loeffler is dead. I wrote a Note about this marvellous man a few months ago, and have been vainly trying to get an article from a famous master of the racehorse, who could, if he only would, give numberless instances of Loeffler's amazing powers. Since my former Note was written I have personally known another example of the exercise of his gift. He was called in to look at the mouth of a two-year-old filly in a stable in which I take a very special interest. I am sure he did not know her name or anything about her-he could not have done so; but he put his hand into her mouth, and knew all about her in a moment. She is a useful little mare,' he said, 'but she won't do any good this year; and you will have to be careful of her, too. When she gets into one of her tantrums she would just as soon gallop into a brick wall as not.' This was her character exactly. It was perfectly well understood in the stable; but how could Loeffler tell by feeling her mouth? Of course, this is only one of a thousand similar cases that might be quoted. Every owner or trainer who was ever brought into contact with Loeffler could cap the story.

In a certain Newmarket stable there was a notorious savage. who would let no one go near him except his own boy-and he had to be particularly careful and observant. I knew that Loeffler was about the place when I was there one day to look at the horses, and I asked the trainer if Loeffler had seen this one. 'He's in the box with him now, I think,' was the quiet reply. 'Being eaten up alive?' I inquired. I should not think so,' the trainer answered; we'll go and see.' We went. Loeffler was. sitting on the ground in the corner of the box, and the horse, hist head loose, was affectionately rubbing his nose against this strange man's shoulder. The story has been told of how he asked to be allowed to take charge of the American importation, Eole, who could not be trained because he was absolutely unmanageable, and how, in the course of some couple of weeks, the mad horse,' without bit or bridle, was trotting about like a big dog behind Loeffler as he rode his pony. An adequate memoir of Loeffler would be an astonishing book, full of anecdotes which would excite the contemptuous ridicule of a great many readers who were not acquainted with him and had never had personal

experience of his achievements, but would be unquestioningly accepted as simple statements of fact by all who have seen much of him-by such men as Captain Machell, Jewitt, and others. Years ago I asked Loeffler what the nature of his mysterious secret was. I have no secret at all, sir,' he replied. The horses know I don't want to make fools of them, and they don't want to make a fool of me.' That was all he said, and he spoke with an air of the simplest sincerity.

I was reminded of poor Loeffler in reading a novel the other day, a curious book which is certain to create much interest. A puzzling advertisement was lately seen in the papers: simply the words The Chariot of the Flesh.' There was no key to the problem; but it appears that this is the title of a novel by Mr. Hedley Peek, author of the articles on Old Sporting Prints which have from time to time been published in this Magazine. The hero of this book is a most extraordinary-a supernatural-— personage, with various senses, faculties, powers, perceptions, and other attributes which unregenerated mankind does not possess. But he goes out hunting, and rides as straight as an average crow proverbially flies, the only reason why this is not entirely to his credit being that he hypnotises his horse-or, at any rate, obtains some occult power over the beast which ensures obedience, not only to his rider's hands and legs, including his armèd heels, but to his thoughts. A lady has a particularly ugly tumble at a post-and-rail fence with water beyond; her horse falls, gets entangled in the timber, and comes near to drowning his rider, who finds herself with her head in the ditch and the animal on top of it. At half a hint from his rider, however, the hero's hypnotised steed dashes up, kicks down the rail which has fixed the prostrate horse, and, after rearing and smashing more timber, releases the lady from her most perilous plight. The idea is fantastic, of course; but who shall assert that a man's will power cannot to any extent dominate a horse? It seems inconceivable ; but is our perception of hypnotism as practised on humanity so complete and exhaustive that we can say with perfect assurance where it begins and ends?

The thing that chiefly strikes me with regard to Lord Suffolk's suggestion that flat races over two-mile courses shall be run during the winter is surprise that such races were not legalised

by the Turf authorities long since. Why not? Everyone agrees that sport during the illegitimate season is frequently wretched, and I entirely fail to see why it should not be legitimatised a bit. A good steeplechase is a delightful spectacle, and a good hurdle race extremely picturesque and exciting, even if one admits that racing over the sticks' is not logically defensible, being neither one thing nor the other-sport neither for chasers' nor for racehorses proper. For reasons that need not be discussed at length 'National Hunt Flat Races' are frequently mere burlesques of sport, and, indeed, they are very seldom found in the programmes nowadays. There is no real excuse for such affairs. It is the business of a hunter to jump; we want to know whether he can do that, not whether he can merely gallop. Lord Suffolk's proposal would impart to cards an element of strength which they sorely need. It is a melancholy prospect, even for those of us who are keen about jumping, to think that if we go to meetings during the next three or four months, we shall see the too well-known forms of the wretched old crocks that have been knocking down hurdles and struggling over fences since, as it seems, we first 'went racing.' I do not say that these animals are valueless. As examples of how broken down and patched up a horse may be, of what shapeless and eccentric legs will sometimes carry a beast two miles, some of these veterans would be very valuable indeed to a veterinary college; but what is the interest in watching them trying to race?