berry, of Curragh-bridge, near Adare, who brings the urbanity of a gentleman and the skill and experience of an old sportsman to bear upon the management, with what success I need scarcely add. The kennel, however, is at some distance from his residence, being near Croom; but the hounds lose nothing by not being under the immediate eye of their master, for the huntsman (right honest Pat Connell) is one of the most excellent and careful servants possible. For a great number of years has he discharged the duties of his station with the most exemplary honesty and attention, and fully merits the feelings of respect and regard which are entertained towards him by every member of the hunt. He was a pupil of that Jerry Mullane, of whom I made some mention in the paper that treats of the Dhuhallows, and that circumstance alone would be sufficient to account for his thorough knowledge of his business in the field and kennel. Every person or thing associated with the memory of poor Jerry is hallowed with me, so strongly do the recollections of those we loved in happy sunny youth cling to us, even when time has almost run his course, and the last few sands are hurrying through the glass. But enough; such reminiscences are saddening, we will dismiss them. The Limericks hunt twice a week, and for the most part enjoy capital sport. They own an immense extent of country, with plenty of wild foxes and coverts far asunder. The pack consists of about 40 couple of handsome, well-shaped, and well-bred hounds; and are generally followed by a numerous field of as wellmounted, forward, sporting fellows, as Nimrod himself, were he alive, could wish to ride against. The county of Limerick is most admirably adapted for hunting over, being dry and fertile, which latter insures a good scent, and is intersected with very large, high fences, with wide gripes filled with water at both sides, but their being rather broad on the top removes, in some measure, the danger with which their size would otherwise be attended. But little does danger enter into the calculations of the boys of Garry Owen; and awful must be the rasper from which John Westroop, of Attyflin, would turn his nose, with his brave nag "Comte de Paris" beneath him, and the "sweet cry of hounds" before him. Oh, the heavies ! how some of them do ride! It has often been quite refreshing to me to behold his large muscular frame, tooling along a horse fully adequate to carry it, at a pace that would do honour to nine stone and a thorough-bred. I have invariably remarked, and I hardly know how to account for it, that in long and desperate runs the heavy men are sure to be more fairly carried throughout, and better placed at the finish, than their less bulky competitors. The only reason that I can assign for this somewhat of an anomaly is, that weight-carrying hunters are generally a most superior class of horses, purchased at very long prices on account of their excellence in every requisite and independent of this, their riders knowing the disadvantage which their steeds labour under, do not take any liberties with them, or make them undergo any of that extra and unnecessary work which the others are so addicted to. If this reason does not satisfy, I am very sorry for it, as I can offer no better; but if any one doubts the fact which I have stated, he had better come and see the above-named gentleman ride his well-known steeple-chase mare Charming Julia," and get rid of his hardness of belief. It will do our sceptic good to view his cousin and namesake mounted on "Erin," one of the most favourite and promising steeple-chasers in Ireland. This splendid horse commenced operations in 1843, by beating a field of eight, in Clare. He then ran second to Regulator (who subsequently broke his back at Kilrue), for the Munster Grand National-won a similar race at Limerick, beating that horse and several others-was entered for the Liverpool Grand National for this year, but was unable to go over. He, however, came to the post at Mallow, where his price was high in the betting; was ridden by his owner, but getting a very severe fall, early in the race, his chance was up. He is a chestnut horse, five years old, of fine shape, and in the possession of one who will not allow the grass to grow beneath his feet, whether following the hounds, or running under silk. Then he surely could not overlook the "Mashter" and his extraordinary little nag Tom Tit, as surprising an animal of his inches as was ever "lapped in leather." No hunt could possibly be too long, or any fence so large as to pound him, for if he could not jump it, he would scale it, or discover some way of arriving at the other side in safety. But softly; here comes the object of the greatest interest; the father of the hunt, the Nestor of the chase, the man of many runs. He is (and who is the Limerick man that knows it not at first sight?) Captain Hugh Massy, who now, at a period of life when other men are wont to retire to the enjoyment of reminiscences and rheumatism, an easy chair and a pony-carriage, still takes to the field with all the ardour of eighteen, and preserves his customary place in the van of the first flight. It is but a short year or two ago since, at a private steeple-chase, got up as a Christmas amusement by the guests staying at a country mansion, where the fair hand of beauty distributed the prizes, and bright smiles from "witching eyes" urged the competitors to "do or die," that he bore off the palm from seven juvenile rivals, who, in their self-sufficiency, fondly deemed that the "old'un" could not go the pace. But, alas, for their ignorance! had they remembered their classics they would have known, from the shewing of Virgil, that the recollection of its pristine glories and past successes can stir up the slow blood of age to a lightning circulation, and that the desire to maintain untarnished the fame of past victories is even more exciting than the wild throbbing aspirations of youth. For the proof of this see his description of the "set-to," in his fifth book of the Æneid. Most delightful and cheering, and fraught with the most agreeable associations, it is to see the captain at a covert side, his stalwart form so upright, and his seat so easy and firm; to watch his child-like eagerness for a find, his gallant rush to free himself from the crowd, and to get well away with his hounds; and to mark the nerve and coolness with which he works along his high-bred and high-spirited horse, "Jack Straw," at a top pace. Nor is the [sight without its moral, for nothing is more calculated to imprint on the mind of the youthful beholder the benefits of temper ance than the consideration of the fact, that it was the strictest observance of its rules that obtained for him that inestimable blessing, a virida senectus. One living example of the effects of such a system is of more avail than all the lectures of the divine, or essays of the moralist; and the author of the apophthegm which says, "What the eye sees not, the heart feels not," must have been thoroughly convinced of this when he sent it forth upon the world. There are very few either "wise saws or modern instances" that bear the test better than this; for the sight of a pickpocket out at the elbows, is wont to excite our organ of benevolence more than the most moving Bonstreet picture of distress that ever came to our notice, through the columns of an evening paper. But revenons à nos moutons. To him are all disputed points in the noble science referred, and from his decision there is no appeal. In all matters connected with sporting, his "ipse dixit" is considered as binding as an act of parliament, and vain must the junior be who would oppose the experience which half a century has given. Upon the merits of him and various other members of the Limerick hunt I could dilate, did I possess but the ability of their own inimitable Shamrock, who was taken away so suddenly from the scene of his victories, both with the snaffle and the pen, mourned by friends and regretted by readers. And, alas! "misfortunes never come single" 'tis said, and in this case it has been verified, for to the loss of their historian has latterly been added that of their poet laureate. I feel that I cannot better finish this paper than by making a short notice of one who has just gone to his long home, and who was possessed of every attribute which could render life desirable or honourable-I allude to poor George Leake, and at the mention of his name the tear will start to the eye of full many a one who either loved or admired his rare qualities both of head and heart. To him might well be applied the lines "A man so varied that he seemed to be for to the stature and strength of a Hercules, he added the inoffensiveness of a maiden; to the lightsome gaiety of the reveller, the ardent nature of a genius. Nothing could come amiss to him; at one moment deep in the composition of a chanson à boire, at the next in a ditty to his mistress; now proposing a toast, immediately discussing divinity, and doing all in a manner which few could equal. But the versatility of his mental powers were only commensurate with his bodily ones. He was a pedestrian who thought nothing of fifty miles at a stretch; a rider and winner of steeple-chases; a most unequalled shot, and, strange to say, although a right-handed man, he always fired from the left shoulder; this was owing to some defect in the vision of his right eye, but it interfered not at all with the certainty of his aim. Add to all this that he was particularly handsome, a skilful musician, and possessed of a fine, rich, cultivated voice, which he would accompany with the guitar, and then I fear not that the reader will be unwilling to agree with me when I say that he was calculated to win "woman's love and man's esteem." Let his memory be ever green, and flourish when all else are forgotten; and may the recollection of his virtues be as enduring as is the sorrow of his friend Venator bitter, for the loss of one of whom he may well say "Take him all in all, We shall ne'er look upon his like again." THE RACE FOR THE DERBY. They wait for the signal to fly o'er the ground, Fly on in the van, there! away like the wind! How gaily, how gracefully speeds he along, As many fall back on the now beaten throng! "O, softly, my beauty!" he whispers with pride, On thunder the three! eager glances are thrown That the laurel of triumph will fall to the grey. Head and head they are striving; some seconds have flown, For his rider looks back with a sneer on the bay. There's a hush in the crowd; eager glances are bent, They're yet locked together-they're almost at home, How splendid his action! how mighty his stride! And he springs from the brown like the flash from the gun, |