Another year has flitted by, and we are taking leave of, and are about to part with our old friend 1851. How true is it, "fugit irreparabile tempus;" this last year has not passed without its troubles and its changes in the hunting world, and most devoutly is it to be wished that all animosities and ill-feeling would take their departure with the now fast departing year. Many of these troubles have arisen from disputes. about country-it seems to be the fashion of the day that controversy in some shape or other should be brought before the public-I only wish that the boundaries of hunting countries could be ridden once in five years or so, in the same manner as the boundaries of parishes in towns are walked every year. All disputes about country must be a subject of sincere regret to every lover of the chase: they come almost like death-blows to fox-hunting, in the countries where they unfortunately exist.

It is now time that I draw this paper to a close, and, in doing so, I wish all the readers of this magazine a happy new year, and many of them, and to the old year I

say

ENGRAVED BY J. B. HUNT, FROM A PAINTING BY HARRY HALL.

Here comes Chapple on one of Sir Gilbert's !-another Amato, perhaps, or something more fancied, but less fit.

Here is the quiet, careful, peculiar phiz of "old Jemmy," safe enough! and we might make a very wide cast amongst his fellows of the cap and jacket before we hit off one more worthy of a place amongst the crack riders of this century. He has earned his name and rank by no brilliant coup, may-be, but rather by a long course of earnestness and honesty, backed by much ability and judgment. In a calling proverbial for the opprobrium and abuse to which its followers are more or less exposed, none have gone on so long and so entirely unscathed-seldom or ever making even a mistake, and never in a life of hard duty giving the slightest opening for any graver charge. We think we might stop here with our reasons for giving the portrait of Chapple as a good specimen of the English jockey.

It is difficult indeed to make up the memoirs of some of our British worthies; and the subject of our notice would himself, we believe, be quite content to let the sporting public know that he first saw the light some fifty odd years since at Exeter. We are able, however, to gather further that he made his first introduction to the racehorse in the stables of old Frank Neale, at Newmarket. Of Chapple's conduct,

here, we can vouch for nothing more than that it was sufficiently good and promising to obtain him a mount in public-his first essay being at Beccles in Suffolk, and his next at the metropolis of the turf; from which occasion we may date the opening of his life as a jockey, extending over a period of more than thirty years.

From our own experience and observation-and this is what we have chiefly to rely on-we should look at Chapple's career as at two different eras. In the first of these we have him on very active service, but more aз a provincial than as a Newmarket man. These were the "Day, Dilly, Sadler" times, when he was riding race after race, and heat after heat over Cheltenham, Oxford, Abingdon, Hereford, Egham, and so forth. When Old Jocko used to run away with the King's Plates one after another, and the Deceitfuls, Delightfuls, Designfuls, and a whole string of the invincible Delta, were gladdening the heart of Isaac Sadler, and making the fame of his stallion Defence. When Sam Darling used to wink his eye and go to work, and poor Arthur Paris show himself and his horse off to the countrymen; while Mr. Peyton stood by in full bloom, waiting for his turn on Don Juan or Glove-cutter-the most perfect make-up of the gentleman-jockey ever seen.

This was about Chapple's best day, after all, when he would pull the well-worn, not over-white body and red sleeves over his head, and at it again in the purple and orange for Mr. Peel, or the "mazarine" blue of good Squire West, of Alscot, who now and then would try what a real jockey could do for him. No man, then, more relied on, and no one more sought after than Jim Chapple, with his long head and careful, tender way of bringing the delicate-dispositioned home; and no one, again, more becoming or respectful in his manner; as sober and as serious as business could wish while business lasted, and the merriest-hearted, “upto-anything" little gentleman alive when it was over. Who like him in the chair at the evening assembly, when "the winning money" was brought in, and a strange antic or clever practical joke just in cue for the company and the occasion?

for

Chapple's country connection commenced, as far as we can gather, with Mr. Bodenham, of Stapleton Castle, Herefordshire, Mr. Territt, and the elder Sadler, from whom he worked on to the son Isaac, as already referred to. During this engagement his success was very great, winning, in addition to a long series of good things in the country, the Derby in 1833 on Dangerous, and the Oaks the same year Sir Mark Wood on Vespa-both at very long odds; the former at 30, and the filly at 50 to 1 at starting The Oaks race was a remarkably close one-in Chapple's own opinion one of the severest struggles and best finishes he ever rode-John Day, as his opponent on Octave, being beaten a very short head.

In the second era of our life of a jockey, we see the Stockbridge stable going rapidly out of fashion, and Chapple's now grey locks peeping out under the smart grey cap of Sir Gilbert, as they lead him up on another outsider for another Derby. There are few of the great races more vividly impressed upon us than Amato's Derby in 1838. The style in which Chapple took the length of his horses after rounding the turn; the judgment with which he pulled his own back again; and the shout which assured us that he had landed him, and "Sir Gilbert wins!"-it was altogether a bit of perfection in its way; and long

will it be before Epsom, or her visitors, forget it. Chapple himself had a high opinion of his horse's powers, as he also had of Akbar-another of Sir Gilbert's Derby nags, and one of the best he ever saw tried. His chance in the race, however, was destroyed by the worthy baronet's own orders" to go to the front, and keep there"'-a command which compelled some hopeless racing with the four-year-old Maccabæus, alias Running Rein, and the yet more aged and unfortunate Leander.

During this period Chapple had been gradually reducing his extent of riding-not from any lack of patronage, but solely at his own discretion, and for the very good reason that he did not want it. Indeed, for the last few years he was seldom seen, except in Sir Gilbert Heathcote's colours, until the memorable October Meetings of 'Fifty, when he came out once more in his best form, winning both the great handicaps-the Cesarewitch for Mr. Payne, on Glauca; and the Cambridgeshire for Mr. Gratwicke, on Landgrave. Glauca was quite a chance mount, the mare being out of the betting, and Nat-Mr. Payne's own jockeygetting permission to ride Backbiter instead of her. For the Cambridgeshire, however, Chapple was specially retained; and ample justice did he afford to his employers, gratifying the whole body of spectators, winners and losers, with one of the finest displays of brilliant, patient riding ever seen. Our friend, the Druid, makes honourable mention of it in one of his agreeable Turf Miscellanies, published early in the past year. He is instancing it as one of the great feats of the season, and thus goes on to graphically describe it:"The beauty of the riding seemed to us to consist in Chapple's keeping his great horse well together, and then making his effort at the right place to an inch. It was positively painful to watch the patience with which the veteran rode. Ninety-nine jockeys out of a hundred would have rallied on their horses some three lengths further away from the chair; and beaten as Landgrave was, he would in all human probability have headed Bordeaux for an instant, and suffered defeat in the last three or four strides. 'Old Jemmy' knew better than to do that: he kept steadying him; and just as we could have taken a pistol out and shot the reins in two, he up with his hands from his horse's withers, and with a vigorous effort just threw him in first by a head."

"Ah! all very fine!" as "the Veteran" himself would comment on it" because I happen to win a race like this, every one says 'how well he rode !' Why, I've ridden quite as well many times bebut none of you had the sense to see it!"

fore,

We have since, though; and his riding Ariosto for the same stake last season, when he did not win, has been almost equally admired by those best qualified to judge. It was another fine exhibition of the strong point in Chapple's riding-the care and patience with which he can nurse a beaten horse. Others, perhaps, may excel him in power for a finish, and some few for more perfect elegance of seat and manner; but for a knowledge of pace, a fineness of hand, and a most exquisite judgment as to what his horse can do, and when he can do it, we are bold to say Chapple has no superior.

From this innate perception of the race-horse's powers, coupled with his tender style of handling him, Chapple has been in much request for trials, although we believe he has now nearly declined riding altogether. He still resides, however, at Newmarket, where, with the