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conditions under which early shooting is carried out constitute a large part of its charm. There is no season that can compare with those crisp, brilliant days that almost invariably accompany the hunter's moon,' when beeches are reddening and the spindle berries flame from hedgerow and coppice. It is the month of months and few can resist its magic. Every man has his own idea of sport, and what constitutes 'good' partridge shooting. Many prefer the conventional drive, but give me good setter or pointer work. Shooting without a dog,' wrote Mr Hesketh Prichard, 'is like an egg without salt, an insipid business,' and I, for one, am entirely of his opinion. That is the worst of driving. There is no room for the dog, a retriever or spaniel well to heel being all that is required. To my mind, shooting over a good setter early or late in the season comes as near the ideal thing as could well be desired, and in no field of sport is there better scope for that perfect understanding between man and his canine ally, which is the delight of all dog-lovers.

The trick of setting or pointing is a remarkable instinct, and one frequently wonders how it was first acquired. Its origin is the harder to trace from the fact that, so far as one can see, the practice has no parallel in the wild. Wolves are natural retrievers, and will carry oddments for miles, with no other apparent motive than amusement. Foxes are natural markers, but where is Nature's pointer? He does not exist, for the simple reason that the trick serves no purpose from the animal's point of view.

The most remarkable setter I ever knew was a mongrel, with a strain of the spaniel somewhere in his make-up. This imparted a tendency to point a rabbit as readily as a bird-a distinctly inconvenient habit at times. If he winded a sitting rabbit in heavy cover nothing would shift him until the rabbit was 'hopped,' and as often as not it was a case of going in to find him or leaving him behind. For keenness of nose he was unrivalled. Another famous dog, for whom I can speak only from hearsay, having never witnessed his prowess, was 'Old Bang,' the property of a sporting farmer who had many tales to tell of his favourite's achievements. Upon one notable occasion he was returning from work

at dusk, accompanied by one of his employees, when the call-note of crouching partridges sounded ahead, and they had not proceeded far before the old dog, who was in attendance as a matter of course, drew to a point. The farmer at first contented himself with bemoaning his luck in having no gun, but, as the birds did not rise and the old dog still stood like a statue, a bright idea. occurred to him, and, remaining himself to hold the fort, he sent his companion home for gun and cartridges. This, however, proved a lengthy proceeding, and as time passed and the light rapidly failed, he began to despair of getting a shot. The partridges, meanwhile, had become fully alive to the situation. They displayed a tendency to rise, as was evident from the dog's frequent 'breakings' forward, and nothing but his wonderful steadiness kept them from taking wing. To cut a long story short, he held them for upwards of half an hour, until the gun at length arrived, when his master-more by good fortune than anything else, as it was nearly dark-secured his right and left.

It is a curious thing that even at night, when partridges are particularly wide awake, and for ever on the watch against their arch-enemy, the fox, and ready to take flight at his first approach, they will none the less stand to a dog for an indefinite period. The old-fashioned night poacher-now almost a forgotten quantity-was only too well aware of this, and turned the knowledge to ingenious if unscrupulous account. It was his favourite dodge to secure the services of some steady old setter or pointer, to whose collar a lantern was attached, so that the dog's movements could be followed even in pitch darkness. When the light became motionless, those in attendance knew that the game was located. The fatal net was silently and expeditiously spread, and so one more covey found its way to the poulterer.

Possibly the setter is not the most attractive of dogs. He lacks both the charm of the Labrador, and many of the Cocker spaniel's companionable qualities. Neither can he be described as an all-round dog. He can rarely be brought to retrieve-so far, at least, as my own experience goes-and he possesses the decided disadvantage of being a notorious sheep-worrier. Sport, however, makes strong friendship between man and dog, even as

between man and man, and the now almost too common red setter has figured in some of the most remarkable attachments of this kind with which I have become acquainted. A case in point was that of a dog just mentioned who held the birds while his master waited for gun and cartridges. He was literally his owner's last possession. The good man, so the story goes, died in the direst poverty, having parted with everything else that could be converted into the wherewithal to live, his case somewhat resembling that of Sir Percy Fitzpatrick's 'old mad Blake,' who 'moved on, and took his dogs with him,' his last act the shooting of a brace of partridges for a friend in hospital.

In this country partridges have comparatively few natural enemies. Clutches of eggs and very young birds have most to fear from crows and rats, while there is always danger from prowling foxes. The alarm call of an old bird after nightfall is a tolerably certain indication that a fox, or possibly a poaching cat, is on the war-path. The note of a partridge is capable of more than one interpretation, and conveys a world of meaning to a comprehending ear. In its general effect it curiously resembles the bird's old legendary name, perr-r-dix, perr-r-dix, being as realistic a rendering of the call as is possible upon paper. It has many variations, however, to distinguish which a sympathetic as well as a discriminating ear is necessary. It may be a challenge, a note of warning or alarm, but most frequently, I think, it takes the form of a rally-call, and there is at times something in it which goes to the heart with an accusing stab, when, returning at nightfall over the fields after a successful day, there sounds through the dusk the distressed and repeated calling of survivors, trying in vain to reunite the sadly depleted coveys. One is reminded of Mr Long's charming story, 'The Partridge's Roll-call,' in which he describes his own sensations when, in the twilight of a New Brunswick forest, he watched an old ruffled grouse calling for the birds who were at that moment stowed away in his shooting-coat pocket.

Partridges are great runners, and a prettier sight than a covey under full headway could scarcely be desired. They travel, like guinea-fowls, in Indian file, with wings slightly raised, uttering a little crooning note

I

which is very difficult to locate when they are running under cover. They appear to glide or to trickle along rather than to run, and from a little distance an approaching covey looks curiously like a long brown snake. Occasionally in the hush of a Midsummer sunrise one meets these quaint little processions in places where nobody would dream of seeing them, and in this connexion I first became aware of a peculiar habit of partridges about which very little has been written.

They are very fond of dust-baths, and to gratify this fancy they at times display a boldness which would astonish many naturalists. As a rule they can find plenty of suitable places in dry banks or hedgerows, and if one happens to know of a sandy hillock anywhere on a good partridge beat, at least one covey is tolerably certain to be there on almost any fine autumn morning. In certain seasons, however, when wild growth is unusually prolific, or when sheep and rabbits who usually keep such places open fail to do their part, the birds are compelled to seek their requirements farther afield, with the result that the early wayfarer, trudging along some quiet country road during that first still bright hour after sunrise, is more than slightly surprised to come upon a covey 'sunning itself by the roadside.'

And they can even do better. Looking out from the verandah about five o'clock one August morning, I was amazed to see a long string of partridges marching down the drive, heading apparently for the front door as though to call. On this occasion I spoiled the show by inadvertently disclosing my presence, and was entirely at a loss to account for the proceeding until a few mornings later, when looking out by chance about the same time, I scared them up from a large flower-bed in the centre of the lawn, where they had been enjoying a glorious bath to the detriment of sundry sweet-williams and carnations. Needless to say, they were more than welcome guests, and I am glad to be able to add that, to my knowledge, no shot was ever fired at that particular covey.

DOUGLAS GORDON.

Art. 4.-NEWMAN IN FETTERS.

ONCE in the Church of Rome, Newman yielded himself absolutely to his new masters. To obey became his glory, and Wiseman could say that a more docile convert had never been received. In the year 1846 he went to Rome to be told at the fountain-head of authority what he was to do. Despite his notable work at Oxford, he feels that his powers have not yet found their full scope. 'I have not yet been done justice to,' he writes, ... I have never been brought out prominently.'* But he appears to have believed that, with the burden of responsibility off his own shoulders and the authority of an infallible Church behind him, a great way of service would be opened to him, adequate to his talents. How vain was this hope, we can easily see. Newman was born to lead and, even more than other men, needed elbow-room. If he had not done his full work in the comparative freedom of the Church of England, he certainly would not in a communion where he must keep his eye nervously upon authority. But as yet this was hidden from him: it took him twenty years before the bitter fact was burnt into his mind. In 1846 he is still in the honeymoon period' of his new life and talks hopefully of his prospects. At Rome, however, he received an earnest of what was to follow. Here the finest intellect in Europe is put to school again, and attends daily lectures along with ignorant youths; at which we are not surprised to learn that he was tried. Next he displeased the Pope by a funeral sermon, which he unwillingly consented to preach; and he was (not indignant but) terribly frightened at the idea of his University sermons being brought before the Index. Meanwhile long negotiations were carried on concerning his future. His own idea was to be head of a theological school where he could train the minds of young men, but this did not commend itself to the powers. Various other plans were proposed, which Newman discusses in letters with an anxious minuteness ('almost tiresomely fussy' is Ward's phrase) that is of itself a mark of a certain unhealthiness of mind. At

* Ward, 1, 173.