Oh! the merry days,
The merry days, when we were young!

Sang the ladye fayre. I can hear the clear rich tones even now. Ah me! what days were those! Why will they not come back? We are scarcely of such hoar antiquity that we may not enjoy the present reasonably, when "gracieuses" dames and demoiselles look brightly on us with those haunting eyes of theirs. But, oh! the awakening at dawn, that is when we find the difference. How glorious was it to regain consciousness from out a realm of poet dreams, with the certainty of a day of stirring world-strife before us. At the réveille of that enchanted time, how gaily the knight donned harness and mounted steed, serenely conscious of his ability to perform his devoir "right manful under shield," confident of winning his guerdon, even, perchance, a smile from the Queen of Beauty herself.

Now, alas, the sky seems lowering and sad-coloured, the lines of the foe ever serried and close[Pg 188] ranked, the blows come shrewder and more difficult of parry. More than once has the knight been, by trusty squire or faithful friend,
Dragged from amid the horses' feet,
With dinted shield and helmet beat.

We were ever and anon minded to answer in the affirmative to the "rendez vous!" of Fate so persistently repeated. Yet will we forward still, parrying lance-thrust here, fending sword-play there. Many a trusty comrade is down; we miss the cheery tones of a voice that sounded never far from our right arm, in feast or in foray. Yet still en avant seems more natural than halt or retreat.

Ye gods! what a spring morning was that on which we hurled ourselves out of bed at Woodlands, with the full, absorbing, wildly-exciting knowledge, even in that first moment of consciousness, that The Steeplechase was to be run that day—an Olympic game in which we were to share. A truly classic conflict in which the competitors were mostly men of mark, where the spectators were friends, relatives, and sympathisers, and where divine personages in the shape of various ladies of the period, lovely and beloved, were to gaze upon our prowess, thrill at our daring, and "weep when a warrior nobly falls."

We had a warrior, Colonel Acland Anderson—poor fellow; we had four squatters, Molesworth and Rawdon Greene, Edmund M'Neill, and "the duffer who writes this" reminiscence. Last, not least, we had a Chief-Justice in posse. He wasn't Sir William in those days, only a hard-riding, hard-working, manifestly rising barrister, perhaps not inaptly[Pg 189] described by a maid-servant from the Emerald Isle, at a house where he had called, and who, in the fluster of the interview, had forgotten his name, as "a mighty plisant young man with foxy whiskers."

We were a goodly company, all staying at Woodlands for a week or two—have people leisure and inclination to do this sort of thing now?—and this steeplechase had been improvised to take place on the plain before Woodlands House, as an acceptable variation of the ordinary programme, which comprised other entertainments besides the orthodox dance which ended the day. Was there not also another legal celebrity not as yet graced with the accolade? Cheery, cultured, courteous Redmond Barry—did he not write a charade duly enacted by us youths and maidens, besides coaching us in "The Chough and Crow" and divers glees and part-songs?

In that Arcadian period what a nice place Woodlands was! Somehow one could afford to take life more easily in those days. The sons of the house were sometimes up the country at their stations, especially at shearing time, but managed to be a good deal at the old home. And when they were there the chatelaine wisely took heed to make home a pleasant place; to that end inviting friends and well-wishers, among whom I had the privilege to be inscribed. Great were the doings done, and very pleasant the days we spent there.

Thus Woodlands stands before me, looking back over those half-forgotten days, as "the country-house" par excellence of the period.

Neither a farm nor yet a large estate, it was something between the two, while the household and[Pg 190] the ménage generally were more in accordance with the habitudes of English country-house life than often obtains in Australia.

Mr. Pomeroy Greene, resolving to make Victoria his future home, had emigrated after a comprehensive fashion—not now so common. He brought with him, in addition to his large family, a house, with men-servants and maid-servants, horses and carriages, farm tools and implements, nearly everything which he could have needed had he proceeded to free-select an uninhabited island. Was there not "Rory O'More," a son of "Irish Birdcatcher"; "Nora Creina," dam by "Drone"; the graceful "Taglioni," and the hunter "Pickwick," a big, powerful, Galway-looking nag, up to any weight over any height, and not too refined to draw a cart or do a day's harrowing on a pinch? An exceedingly useful stamp of horse in a new country, most of us will admit, and quite worth his passage money.

Also, in this connection, came Tom Brannigan, an active, resolute, humorous young Irishman, with a decided family likeness to one Mickey Free about him. He was stud groom, and a model retainer during the first years of the settlement of Woodlands. Let me not forget Smith, the butler, a decorous, solemn personage of staid demeanour and faultless accuracy of get-up, an occasional twinkle of the eye only at times betraying that he belonged to the Milesian and not the Saxon branch of his widely-dispersed family and vocation.

Just thirteen miles from Melbourne, Woodlands was a pleasant morning or afternoon's ride—an easy drive. You left Melbourne by the Flemington road, traversed the Moonee Ponds, finally [Pg 191]debouching upon the plain, whence you saw the house, built bungalow fashion upon a wooded slope, with flanking wings and a courtyard, verandah-encircled likewise, facing eastward towards Sunbury, and on the west having an extensive outlook over plain and forest, with the sea in the distance. The landscape was extensive, "wide and wild, and open to the air," but sufficiently wooded to prevent the expression of bleakness. These thoughts possibly do not occur to me as I dress provisionally in shooting coat, slippers, etc., and rush out to the stables to look at the gallant steed that is to carry C?sar and his fortunes, a game-looking Arab grey, fast and a good fencer, the property of one John Fitzgerald Leslie Foster—a guest at the time, and lent to me for the occasion. Only been a few days off grass, though otherwise in good buckle. The certainty of his being short of condition does not weigh with me, however, so anxious am I to have a throw in and sport my tops and cords. Tom Brannigan thinks "he has a great spring in him entirely," and encourages me to hope that a lucky chance may land me a winner. He relates an anecdote of his brother Jim, a well-known steeplechase jock, in a race where the fences were terrific. One of the country people was heard to say, "Sure the most of them would break their necks, but Jim Brannigan and the ould mare would have a leg to spare, somehow or somehow." Much comforted by this apposite reference, I shut the door, and inspect the rest of the stable. It is not a very small one.

Having a look for the hundredth time at "Rory O'More"—a beautiful brown horse, showing great quality, with a strong likeness to "The Premier" in[Pg 192] more than one of his points, and glancing at a couple of yearlings—I betake myself to an inspection of the battle-steeds of the day.

They are a goodish lot, and in that state and condition of life which impress on me the idea that, unless under the favouring accident of a general bouleversement, my chance of winning is slender indeed. First of all stands an elegant blood-looking grey, the property of the heir-apparent, sheeted, hooded, and done up in great style. He is as "fit as a fiddle," and will have on his back an exceedingly cool and determined rider—who, like Mr. Stripes, "will not throw a chance away."

Next to him is a powerful, hunter-looking bay, an animal which would fetch about four hundred guineas in England. Let me describe him—remembering as I do every hair in his skin. I had ridden him more than once, and the reader, if he has been home lately, will note if I have overrated his price. A three-quarter or four-fifths bred horse, bay with black points, save one white hind leg. A light, well-shaped head, a good neck, and shoulders so oblique that it took the length of the snaffle bridle to pay out for rein; flat and clean bone under the knee, deep across the heart, powerful quarter, with muscular thighs and well-bent hocks. He would have been quite in the English fashion of the present day, as he had a shortish pulled tail. Height about fifteen hands three inches, on short legs.

This was "Thur'mpogue," the property of Edmund M'Neill, of the firm of Hall and M'Neill, near Daisy Hill. The portrait is that of a weight-carrier,[Pg 193] doubtless. And so he needed to be, the aforesaid Edmund being of the unusual height of six and a half feet. Though not particularly broad, it will be seen that he could not be a very light man. In another box stands a long, low, blood-like chestnut horse. He winces and lays back his ears after a fashion which indicates temper, as the boy pulls the sheet off at my instigation. The test is a true one. What little he has is proverbially bad, and............