Patagonia Bookshelf

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I am going to try to write, for you my dear children, an account of some of my life, which has now extended to a length of sixty five years.

I was born at Hobgreen, Markington, near Ripon, on May 6th. 1845. Hobgreen has belonged to the Reynard family for very many generations, but did not belong to my father Charles Reynard, who rented it from his eldest brother Edward Horner Reynard, who lived at Sunderlandwick near Driffield, Yorks. Sunderlandwick came into the Reynard family through the marriage of, I think, your great great grandfather to a Miss Horner, a daughter of a Hull merchant; I believe there are monuments in the Holy Trinity Church, Hull, to some of the Horners.

I give you the above particulars to show you that you come of a good stock; for, to my mind, clean family traditions behind you are a help in the guidance of your lives.

There is one thing which has often struck me as peculiar in the annals of the family - and that is that, 'though for centuries the head of the house has been, each in his time, a landowner on a moderate scale, so far as I know the family has not produced a member distinguished in religion, science, politics or art. I once went to see a man of the same name as myself, a tenant of Mr Travis the clergyman at Ripley, and in the course of conversation his mother, a stately handsome old lady said to me - "I don't know, Mr Reynard if my late husband's family and yours are related, but

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this I do know, that he came of honest folk who always paid their debts"; this record my dear children, is not a bad pedigree for any family, and I have no doubt that her husband's family and ours were branches of the same stock, for both had come out of the Bedale country.

My father married a Miss Higgens, a daughter of a Hampshire squire of Irish descent who lived at Fairfield, Hambledon, and of this marriage there were eight children. Two died young; the eldest, William, who became a parson and died at Willingham near Gainsboro', had certainly the brains of the family, but some wild strain in his character made it impossible for him to submit to control, and there was not a single school he was sent to from which he did not run away. He was a good scholar, mastering with the greatest care any task he set his mind to - a keen good horseman, fair shot, good oar and swimmer and a capital man with his hands - in fact a good all round man, with an extraordinary influence over women, which he used somewhat unscrupulously during the earlier years of his manhood. Your other uncle and aunts you have known personally and realised their kindness and goodness.

When I was between four and five years of age, my father left Hobgreen and went to live at Norwood House, Beverley, then the property of an old Miss Broadley, an immensely wealthy old lady who lived at Welton near Hull. When she died, Norwood House and all or nearly all her other property went to William Harrison, one of her nephews, who then took the name of Broadley - this Mr Harrison Broadley was an old

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Oxford friend of my father's and a very perfect gentleman. As a boy I saw a great deal of him, as he often came to my father's house and used to take me fishing with him. On one of these excursions when I was, I suppose, about eleven years old, we left early in the morning to go to Driffield; I, at the ticket office, being just behind him, he looked over his shoulder and said to me "Hang it Harry, we may just as well go third". As you may suppose, to me it did not matter one bit so long as I went. I should say Mr Harrison, as he then was, had a very good income - I daresay between £15,000 and £20,000 a year, and in those days only the poor travelled third class, for indeed, the bare wooden carriages and seats were not conducive to comfort; however, to continue my story - we got into our third class carriage and just as the train moved off, a sweep, fresh from a morning task, got in and sat down near Mr Harrison, who said "are you allowed here?". Mr Harrison, when he went fishing, wore beautifully white woollen cords. Said the sweep " well sir, I've paid my fare, so I reckon I have a right to travel". I nearly exploded. During the day, Mr Harrison said to me " you must not say anything about that sweep to your father"; however, young imp that I was, I had been anticipating the treat of telling my father and so I betrayed my patron, and a good deal of good humoured banter he had to suffer in consequence.

The first years of my education were at the hands of my sister's governess, but when I was nine or ten I was sent

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to a school at Eltham in Kent, kept by a Mr Hopkirk. This man had been commander of merchant vessels, and I honestly think that no man could have been more unsuited to have boys under his charge; he was a good astronomer and mathematician, but of ungovernable temper, and always treated boys as if they were all liars, and so ferocious was he in his manners that I think many a timid boy was made a liar by him. His idea of maintain(ing) discipline consisted in the freest use of the cane, which, owing to his evil temper, he often used unmercifully. Two of his assistant masters dwell in my memory as gentlemen - they were a Mr Burgess and a Mr Prout, who believed a boy until they proved him a liar and did something in consequence to mitigate some of the evil of Mr Hopkirk's system.

Before I left this school, a Mr Heath, a parson, entered into partnership with Mr Hopkirk. Mr Heath was a gentle man, but unfortunately I had not much to do with him. In spite of Mr Hopkirk's system the school turned out some good men. It was chiefly a preparatory school for Woolwich, Sandhurst and Addiscombe. The late General Gatacre was one of my schoolfellows, and a pal of mine - a real good fellow and sportsman and even in those days, a perfect demon to walk. Many and many a truant walk we had together. I think Hopkirk licked me into such a state that I didn't care a nary so long as I could just scrape along with my work. A continual feeling of antagonism to your teacher does not encourage ambition. I am of the opinion, in spite of my own school experiences, that licking, in moderation, is a good thing for boys.

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After leaving Eltham I was at home for a spell at Beverley, chiefly spending my time in riding my father's young horses; he usually had four or five in training and I used to ride them at exercise. One good thing about this work was that it entailed early rising, but the bad side was that it brought me into constant communication with a low class of racing men, for not one of the horses my father owned was even a fair race horse, and in consequence they were only fitted to run in poor company. In bringing up my own boys I have endeavoured to put them at schools where there were good men as head masters, and have never willingly brought them into contact with the class of men that in those days and, I think, also at the present time, hang around fifth class race meetings. There were many more of them in the fifties and sixties of the last century than there are to-day, and the scenes of drunkenness and ruffianism, especially at the metropolitan meetings 'round London, were a disgrace to the century.

I do not pretend to know if we are really better today than when I was a young man, but there is no doubt that a greater vigilance is shown in preventing disorder and compelling decent behaviour, and this certainly tends to the general good. There is certainly much less drinking to excess, and in my own class of life men have become much more abstemious; today it is quite common to find men drinking water, etc. only, but when I was young, had a man drunk only non-alcoholic drink at a friend's house, I much doubt if he would have been again

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invited; his host would have deemed his cellar insulted. " Other times other customs " - and to insult a gentleman's cellar was an almost unforgivable offence.

While I was at Eltham, two events of public importance occurred which still dwell in my memory - one was the building and launching of the "Great Eastern" the giant steamship, built before her time - for the marine engine was not then sufficiently developed for the propulsion of such a huge vessel. She had both paddle wheels and propeller, and I don't recollect how many masts; she laid the first successful Atlantic cable, and this union of the two great English-speaking nations would probably have been delayed for a considerable time but for her existence. I think, in other respects, she was a failure, and she finally came into the ship-breakers' hands somewhere about 1890. She was an extraordinarily strongly built ship; she was built on the Thames, broadside on to the river, and two attempts to launch her, failed - then the services of the great engineer Brunel were called for by the builders and he launched her by means of hydraulic presses.

In the late fifties and early sixties, I remember (age 16 - 18) a racing money lender named Padwick used to come occasionally to stay with my father. In those days Padwick was a very well-known and little esteemed man in sporting circles. I remember one night he, your grandfather, my father my uncle George Reynard Cookson and a fourth I don't remember who, had been playing whist. Padwick went to bed earlier than the others and just as he closed the door, my uncle said

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to my father "Charles, that man makes me believe in hell". George Reynard Cookson was twin brother to my uncle Robert Reynard who was Aunt Mary's husband. Both were very kind hearted men, given unfortunately to the bottle. Uncle George took the name of Cookson when his wife, who was a Miss Augusta Cookson came into the property of Whitehill near Chester le Street, Co Durham. They had two sons, John and Lutwidge, both of whom inherited their father's failing and died young men, and one daughter who married Mr Pryce Hamilton and they had one son. Uncle Robert was a soldier, first, in a Cavalry Regiment, and then in the Rifle Brigade. He, as a young man, was a most extraordinarily active and powerful man. Many tales were told of him, how he could jump the mess table fully set for dinner. In Ireland, on one occasion, some brother officers locked him into his barrack room on the third story, knowing that his dog cart was waiting for him and that he was most anxious to keep some appointment he had made; they then drove his cart under the window, shouted to him and jeered at him. There was a spout near the window - he got on to the ledge, got hold with one hand, swung himself on to the spout and came down hand over hand. This was told me by the doctor of his regiment at the time, who, curiously enough, examined me for my medical when I went up for Woolwich. He was a very keen sportsman at all sports, racing, chasing, cricket, fighting, cock-fighting, fishing, shooting, hunting, and good at them all. When I remember him, he had given up riding, but loved all sport just the same. There used to be many small steeplechase meetings in Yorkshire in those days, and on one occasion, when staying

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with my uncle Edward at Sunderlandwick, he drove me over to one in Holderness; one of the races did not fill - I think there had to be four entries or no race. Post entries were allowed, so he said "hang it - must have the race you know; here William, unhitch 'Billy-go-by-em'" - his dog-cart horse, a great upstanding powerful beast about 7/8 bred and as hard as nails. So "Billy-go-by-em" was entered - a lad found to ride him (lads for such a job were always to be found) and Billy won - owing, I believe, to the best horse falling; anyway, Uncle Robert drove him back with the stakes, £30, and £15 he won in bets; as he said to William, " a very useful beast, William". There used to be racing at Harrogate, and one of Uncle Robert's horses just got beat; he had then an Irish training groom who had been celebrating the prospective victory of the horse and got pretty drunk; "Sure" he said, "it's the Captain's fault; he would not let me give him enough work, bigorrah I'll bate the big Captain". He seized a pitch fork and rushed at Uncle Robert, who fended off the thrust, got him by the neck and the seat of his breeches and hove him over the paddock rails.

It is not possible for any children to have had kinder uncle and aunt than your aunties Tom and Mab, and I, had in Uncle Robert and Aunt Mary; many happy days they gave us, when our own home was none too happy owing to the disagreements between my father and mother. I had a second home at Fairfield, Hambledon, Hants, with my uncle William, who was always kindness itself and always managed to find me something to

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ride with the Hambledon, at that time mastered by Lord Paulett whose nephew was heir to the title. This nephew was a wild devil and the story goes that after a heavy night at cards he bet in the early morning as the party broke up that he would propose marriage to the first girl he met and if she accepted him he would marry her. The story goes that he met a good-looking fisherman's daughter, proposed and was accepted and married her. However, it turned out that she was enceinte at the time of the marriage and in due time a boy was born and the nephew went to visit the uncle and consult as to what should be done. The old lord, who was a humorous genial old soul, condoled a bit with him and then clapped him on the back and said "well, never mind my boy, what does it matter - he'll make just as good a lord as you or me".

Another genial member of the hunt was Sir Jervoise Jervoise who, I don't know why, often spoke to me. He had received some port wine from the great wine merchants Hedges and Butler, and one of the partners asked him how he liked it. Said old Sir Jervoise - "I should like it more if it tasted less of the Hedges and more of the Butler" - which was what you might call "one in the eye".

I should mention that the boy I referred to above in the Paulett case, attracted some press notice a few years ago - I write in 1911 - as the organ-grinding peer; some arrangement was made which established his illegitimacy and he could not succeed to the title.

It was during my visits to Hambledon that the years of pleasant friendships began with your cousins and mine, Dora

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Charlie, Toby and Edie Higgins and Alice, Edward, and Arthur. Edward still lives - he went to Australia, as did Arthur who broke his wrist hurdle racing in N.S.W. [New South Wales] and died of lockjaw. Alice has two children, Buzz and Bunny Scott; Edward, two daughters; Charli, one daughter, and Jamie, who was much younger, has children, as has Willie, the eldest of the boys.

I have mentioned having met, in my youth, a good many men connected with low class racing; among them was a Mr Tom Price, a very fine horseman. He owned a mare named "Princess", good enough to win many small races. She used to be in charge of a very nice lad who loved her better than himself. She was a very game willing mare and easy to ride. At a little meeting at Beverley she ran for a plate worth some £30, but was not quite fast enough to win; the jockey who rode her was a brute and punished the game mare with both whip and spur, shamefully. As he came into the paddock, the lad by her side, crying with grief and rage, he said to the jockey "oh you brute, you brute, you're not fit to come on to a race course in a dung cart", and I believe, afterwards, he got that jockey and nearly hammered the life out of him with a club. I sympathized with the lad, and liked both him and his mare.

At this same meeting my father had a horse called "Harbinger" running. I had broken him, and in this race I rode him. The only horse I thought could beat me was a very good-looking one described as "Alive Oh"; there was some very queer betting, layers only wanting to be "first past the post" meaning that any disqualification of the first horse went for nothing.

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"Alive Oh" beat me easily - meanwhile, enquiries had been made and it was found that "Alive Oh" was a very good horse of another name out of the South of England. My father made a protest to the stewards and they would not pay the stakes. I went home when the day's racing was over and shortly afterwards my father sent for me to his dressing room and said to me - "those d--d scoundrels won't get the stakes; we shall get them. Do you know where they are staying with the horse?" I said " yes, at the "Rose and Crown". He said "take a good thick stick and go and see if you can't pick a quarrel with the trainer who has charge of her and give him a good welting". I was a bit startled, however, away I went, but when I got to the "Rose and Crown" which was some distance away, I found men and horse had cleared out. The gang got broken out for a time, but, I expect, got together again. There were plenty of blackguards of the same stamp - a bad crowd.

A bit before this, I rode a steeplechase at Howden on a horse called "Blue Ruin" - a very good looking but surly hocked horse with an awfully hot temper - not a wicked temper. There were some fourteen or fifteen runners - a large field for a country steeplechase. The stake was a good one. The first fence was a very big strong post and rails, which put down four of the runners. After the first mile (it was a three mile race) "Blue Ruin" settled down and was travelling well; the water jump was an artificial one; I was fifth - three horses in front of me fell and one of the jockeys, in scrambling to his feet, was knocked down by the horse in front of me,

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and as he was just getting up again my horse struck him and knocked him down again. This jump had to be jumped twice - the second time, my father's trainer was standing alongside and "Blue Ruin" jumped so big that he measured the jump and told me it was just under thirteen yards. I knew he took off a good bit from it and cleared everything. Two fences from home, I thought I had a very good chance - my leader swerved across me and threw my horse out of his stride - a strong fence with a deep wide ditch beyond. "Blue Ruin" jumped a bit short in consequence and came down, rolling into the ditch - a bit of very bad luck. Curiously enough, the jockey who was twice knocked down at the water jump was not hurt to speak of.

At one time we had a fair good horse, blind of one eye, called "Drogheda" - a rouser; a tremendous big horse of immense power, he could get a mile, but had very tender feet. My father got the celebrated old Job Marson to train him - Marson had given up training then, but he and my father were very good friends. I was sent away with him, and a boy, George Fordham, one of the very best jockeys, was to ride him. The lad and I took him to Nottingham and won a good race there; then to Stamford and won two races with him there, and then went on to Derby. At Derby my father joined us and he said to me - "why, you have not had him plated" meaning I had not had light racing plates put on. I said "no, he's tender footed, you know, so I run him in his shoes". He said "we must have him plated". I begged him not to and got Fordham to tell him how well the horse had run, but it was no use -

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plated he was, and lost the race. Fordham said he did not run like the same horse and he felt sure that had he been as good at Derby as at Nottingham and Stamford, he would have won easily; he was in beautiful condition, the races just having been enough galloping to keep him at his best. He was a very hard puller but a fine generous horse to ride. My father sold him to a Captain Starkey, a Wiltshire man; at his place he put the boy down who was riding him and came at him. The boy picked up flint and threw it at "Drogheda" and struck him on the good eye and he went blind in that eye too. At the stud he got a few good winners - he was by "Mountain Dan" - "Juanita Perez".

Once staying in Lincolnshire with Mr Sam Welfit, a large farmer and chasing horse-dealer I rode over those great wold fields his two celebrated chasers "Rock the Gardener" and "Creole". The former was a bit of a slug at exercise, but fine to ride and a beautiful fencer; but never have I ridden such a one as "Creole" - most beautiful manners and temper and a most perfect jumper. He so loved jumping that if you took his rugs off and stretched them out one side of his very big box he would go 'round his box and jump over them.

On one occasion, staying with Welfit, Jem Mason, who was, I think the finest horseman I ever saw, came to buy a lot of hunters; he was then hunting in Leicestershire. Jem Mason had been a very celebrated steeplechase jockey - never have I seen such seat and hands on a horse - he really formed part of his horse. That day he rode some fifteen or more horses and I watched with delight such a perfect Master of Horse.

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Returning to the "Creole", he afterwards was running for Liverpool - George Waddington up. Some horse cannoned into the "Creole", George fell off, and the "Creole" went 'round the course with the other horses on his lonesome without a mistake.

I must love horses - I have always loved them, 'specially clean bred ones.

One more yarn - My father had a steeple chaser named "Cheery Chap"   [see the following handwritten note on reverse side of page]  a beautiful little black horse ticked with a few gray hairs - a lovely compact little beast with the temper of a fiend. I often rode him hunting and when he was in the humour to go he was a perfect mount; no fence too big, no day too long, and the cleanest winded horse I ever rode; no galloping, no matter how deep the ground, ever seemed to make him blow, but if anything upset him he would sulk and not jump a clean fence three feet high. The second season I rode him, he was going beautifully, giving very little trouble, and your Aunty Mab was just wild to have a day on him. I was much against it, but at last she persuaded Father to let her ride him. I was to ride him to the meet and change there. She rode a good honest little chaser called "Crookshanks" owing to his crooked fore legs. I changed the saddles and put her up - a good scenting day and "Cheery Chap" evidently keen to go. I got a splendid start and sailed away on "Crookshanks". I heard a rush behind me, and "Cheery Chap" passed with, as I thought, your aunty on the off side hung by the stirrup. As he got well past me I saw it was only her habit, but I tell you, for those three or four

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S. A. Slingsby writing to R.F.R. [Robert F. Reynard, brother of Henry L. Reynard] 19th Aug. 1922 says: “ "Cheery Chap" by "Voltigeur" was a little devil & would stand for ages, when he was wanted to move on, & then bolt. He once ran away with dear Aunty Mab into a farm pond - she used to ride him & Tem & Harry. He was sold I think to a man called Harland a very good steeplechase rider who lived on South [?] Island. ”

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seconds I knew what fear is, and it nearly made me sick. "Cheery Chap" had got a bit out of hand in galloping across the plough, had put both fore feet into a newly-filled drain, came down, and your aunty's habit had got torn off and hung on the off pummel - in those days ladies' saddles were made with three pummels - I turned 'round and galloped back to her. She was no worse, and somebody caught "Cheery Chap" and brought him back. We made the best job we could of the habit - she wanted to mount "Cheery Chap" again but I would not let her, and shifted the saddles. I could see that the black's temper was upset - when I got on him he went most unwillingly and in the middle of the third field, suddenly stopped, lashed out fiercely three or four times at nothing and then started rearing. Neither whip nor spur would induce him to go on, when "Crookshanks" came anywhere near him he just lashed out savagely. I don't know how long we were there, but eventually, to my grief, he beat me and I got him into a road and got him home - but oh dear! what a dream he was to ride when in a going humour; at big fences you felt him gather himself until he was like whalebone under you, jump like a cricket ball, drop like a bird perching, and away; you hardly knew whether he was jumping or had touched earth again. Oh the demon, how I loved him! He was by "Chanticleer" - "Mabella". Eventually my father sold him for a little money and a groom came to take him away by road to his new home, about twenty five miles away. He was found four hours afterwards, about twelve miles on his road, sitting on a stone heap with the reins in his hands, and "Cheery

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Chap" looking at him, I believe, with a grin. The groom said the horse had put him down three times and that he would neither ride nor lead - he did get there eventually, but his new owner, a Mr George Harland, a tremendous hard, resolute, powerful horseman, could make nothing of him, and how the dear little beast ended his days, I never heard.

No record of my life could be complete without my mentioning the many many happy days I spent at Noblethorpe, close to Silkstone, near Bernsley. Noblethorpe belonged to your Uncle Bob Clarke, husband to your Aunty Tom, and now belongs to your cousin Mabby (Clarke) Fullerton. There, I got a good deal of hunting and shooting, including grouse, for your uncle had a very good, 'though not large, moor above Holmfirth - It was there I became acquainted with Mr (afterwards Sir) Walter Stanhope and his brother Rodham, both fine sterling good men - the latter was a clever oil painter. I also knew Hole, the dead-game painter, a very pleasant simple minded man. The dead grouse that I have at "Hillside" is one of his paintings - it was a special order and I gave him £16 for it.

I left my Eltham school, the end of 1860, and a good deal of what I have written occurred between 1860 and 1862.

I had long wished to be a soldier, and in '62, managed to induce my father to send me to a crammer's at Battersea, a Mr Sherrat, a most charming gentleman, a very fine fellow and scholar, and a most painstaking tutor. I was with him, eighteen months, and went up for Woolwich, Royal Academy, but

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did not succeed in passing, although fairly well up on the list - there were 220 candidates and only 22 vacancies. I had one more chance and then I was over the age, so I asked Mr Sherrat if he thought I could get through in another six months. He said "what you know, you know well, but with the heavy competition I don't think you learn quick enough to get through". I could have gone into a line regiment but I had not enough money to live in one and knew that my father was not to be depended on for an allowance. So I returned to my home at Beverley, and some of my experiences already mentioned took place about this time.

I soon saw that my father was content to let me stay at home and be a sort of head stable boy, but I soon realized that this was no life for me. I tried to get in to a great tea house and go out to China, but ran up against the fact that a premium was wanted, which my father could not pay - he had lost heavily, racing, and was always hard up, but somehow always had a lot of horses, of sorts. I tried to get on a gold mine in Peru, and this led to a rather funny interview with the man who was promoting the Company. He said he would like to see my father, so I got the latter to come with me one day to interview him. After a bit of beating about the bush, he said he would like to explain to my father what a magnificent speculation this mine was, and he drew a lovely picture of the profit that would be made and the advantages that would be accrued to me, as one of the first employees on the ground - he soaped his own hands, so to speak, all the time, and finally proposed

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that my father should take five hundred £1 shares. I sat and listened, and the longer he spoke the more suspicious I became of his plausibility, and when he left I said "well Father if my getting the billet is dependent on your having to invest £500 in anything connected with that chap, I'll go without the billet." The Co. was called the "Frontino and Bolivia Gold Mining Co." - it bust up, was reconstructed, bust again, reconstructed, again, and is now working, I believe, fairly successfully.

Then I tried for a billet in Price's Patent Candle Co. and made other attempts. I soon saw England was no place for me, and, always on the look-out, I one day met at Kingston on Thames, at the house of old Dr Roots, a Mr Talbot, brother or cousin, I forget which, of the then Earl of Shrewsbury. His two sons had just left the army and gone to Buenos Aires one had been a cavalry man, the other in a line regiment. Mr Talbot was a good kind man and he gave me what information he could about the Argentine, and I thought I saw my chance. I had about £350 coming to me from a legacy, so I fitted myself out and started a few days after I came of age in 1866. Mr Talbot kindly gave me a letter to his sons.

Shortly after my arrival, I heard of some land for sale in the province of Santa Fe, went to see it and found it well grassed and watered and invested my money in it. I had not capital to do anything with it, but I was sure it was cheap and would not hurt by keeping. I went back to Rosario, after seeing and buying the land, and the first work I got was at

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carting hay - then I did anything which came along; worked a bit in a livery stable - the I ran across Charley Talbot, the elder of the two brothers. They had bought some land near the Córdoba and San Luis frontier and wanted a man to help one they had on it. I had a good character as a worker, from all who had employed me, so they engaged me at about £3 a month, and found beef, yerba, salt, and occasional biscuit - a roomy house with a beautiful roof, the camp and the sky; a troop of horses and a herd of cattle to tend and heft, and very glad I was of a billet better than casual labour.

When I arrived in Buenos Aires, the ships lay so far out that one could only just see the tops of the churches - one went ashore in a sailing boat, was transferred, with one's belongings, to a cart, and finally dumped on the beach, where a crowd of changadores (porters) took one's baggage to the customs, and other changadores took it to where one was going to stay, charging so much, I forget how much, per square per package. I went to the old Provence Hotel, where the sanitary arrangements nearly made me sick, but on that occasion I only stayed a very short time in Buenos Aires.

There were three short railways running out of Buenos Aires - the Buenos Aires and Great Southern, which had reached, or nearly reached, Chascomús, the Western, which ran nearly to Chivilcoy, and the Northern, which went to El Tigre. River boats for up river went from the Tigre, and it was not 'till many years passed that there was rail communication between Buenos Aires and Rosario.

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I left Liverpool in a vessel called the "Cordova" a heavily sparred barque-rigged auxiliary screw, which could be lifted in a sort of well when we wanted to sail - and she could sail with a strong wind. We did part of the voyage under sail, and got out in 29 or 30 days - it was thought a good passage in those days. One of my fellow-passengers, Bob Traill, has remained my life long friend - His sons are well known all through Argentine and England as first class polo players.

The Great Central Argentine Railway was constructing its first section of twelve miles when I arrived in Rosario, which had, I think, then, about 22,000 inhabitants, but was increasing rapidly. If one wanted to borrow money from a bank one paid anything from 15% to 24% per annum, and I have borrowed at the latter rate and made money on the transaction. I knew a good many of the men engaged on the construction of the Central Argentine Railway, from good old Mr Wheelwright, the founder of the P. S. N. Co. [Pacific Steam Navigation Company], downwards. Mr Wheelwright was the representative of the great contracting firm Brassey, Wythes, and Wheelwright - he and his good wife were very kindly people, but rather painfully pious, but not canting. The Central Argentine was constructed at a great pace - the only engineering work of any importance for a very long stretch being a bridge over the Carcanal River [?].

Returning to my voyage out - I soon made friends with the sailors and often sat on deck and in the forecastle with them. One old shellback, an ancient hoary mariner with a bowed back like a turtle, (hence the name "shellback") delighted

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in spinning yarns; two dwell in my memory still.

"It wur off t'Horn - terrible bad weather ..... ship - full rigged she wur - outward bound to Valparaiso. She got dismasted, decks busted in, sinking fast she wur; we got into her boats - I wur in mates boat - and drifted to Eastward in that b....y cold weather; got very short of grub - one day, saw what we thought was a derelic'; got alongside; found it war b....y great whale, dead as a doornail; got aboard her and made boat fast; dug a hole in her with our knives and lived on the blubber; made a fire in the hole - used to cook the blubber. By God, one night b....y whale took fire - burnt us poor .... out of house and home; had to take to boat in a hurry - picked up few days after by ship outward bound to 'Frisco; short handed she wur - made us poor .... work, you bet, for our passage".

The same hoary old Munchausen thus described one of his experiences in Canada - which of course, some fifty or more years ago was not like the Canada of to-day.

"I wur in Canada one spell, for three or four years; had to do anything which came along; in winter went trapping away in the woods. In those days we used flint and steel guns and powder horn and bullets with patches - I wur away looking at the traps - bloody bad luck too, and no tracks of nothing - I wur taken a bit short like, and propped up my gun against a tree and hung powder horn over the muzzle and went a bit off to do a job for my sen [myself] - and just as I wur making fast my pants I steps on one side and sees a mighty big grey wolf against my gun; he'd got hold of horn, and chewed at it; he pulled

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gun and horn over and kept on chewing at t'powder horn; presently he busted horn and powder got in his mouth. I'm .... if I knowed what to do, but I picks a spare flint out of my pouch and hove it as hard as I could at him on the big tooth, struck fire and blow the .... head off."

I have often thought that this story showed a real genius for fiction. Oh! he was a delightful old mariner. I have known many sailormen since, and have heard queer yarns from them, but that old salt is still a green spot in my memory.

Some time before I left for South America my home was a very unhappy one owing to the continual quarreling of my father and mother. The causes were complicated, and what I write about them, I write in hopes that such causes may be avoided by you. Your grandfather you hardly have known, but your grandmother you will, I daresay, remember pretty well. Your grandfather was a very keen sportsman, a most popular man amongst men, a very handsome man, and much run after by women, and quite willing to stay and be caught by them. He was no man of business, and what with racing and other expenses, got heavily in debt, and in consequence, money troubles were one of the causes of discord.

Your grandmother was a brilliantly clever woman, very handsome and beautiful figure, very much admired and fond of admiration, but a thoroughly straight woman. There were endless recriminations, jealousies, bickerings, and naturally we children suffered; finally my parents separated, somewhere about '67 or '68, and remained separated for the

/p.23/

rest of their lives.

In the days of which I write, the county magistrates used to look after the main roads. Your great-uncle Edward Reynard of Sunderlandwick was on the East Riding bench. One day on the roads he met a tramp, who said he was hungry and wanted work, so your grand-uncle sent him to the house, where he had a good meal, and when he returned, gave him a job to break stones. In the afternoon he went to see how his friend was getting on - no tramp visible; hammer-haft lying on the stone heap, but no hammer head.

One of the most notable figures in the East Riding was old Sir Tatten Sykes, whose father, Sir Mark, was one of the first to enclose the great Yorkshire Wolds, which, up to that time, had been open sheep walk. This work was continued by Sit Tatten.

Very many good stories were told of Sir Tatten. He was a very tall spare but muscular man, and, like many of his day, a very good man with his hands, but the most peaceful, quiet gentleman. He was a great sheep breeder, and bought many sheep in Lincolnshire. He would ride down into Lincolnshire, choose the sheep he wanted and drive them to the Humber on to the ferry boat and then go home to Sledmere. One day, driving his sheep, he pulled up at a wayside inn for a pint of ale and some bread and cheese; in the tap-room were three navvies, and when Sir Tatten's ale came, one of them took the pot and drank it. Sir Tatten only said "Landlord, another pint" - "Ay! let John hev one noo" said the navvy, when the second pint came; however, John did not touch it.

/p.24/

Sir Tatten drank his ale, ate his bread and cheese, got up, tapped the navvy on the shoulder and said "Friend, I should like to talk to you outside, and Mr Landlord will see fair". The navvy was taken aback, but could not well refuse. Sir Tatten took off his long skirted coat and waistcoat and politely asked his opponent if he was ready, and then dressed him down in the most scientific manner, stretched him out and asked his friends if they would like a little turn up also; but there were no takers.

Sir Tatten at one time lived at Westow, where we lived; Sir Tatten lived at the old Hall and his old friend, a Mr Bethell often came to see him there. Sir Tatten had two sons, Tatten and Christopher, and Mr Bethell, several daughters but no son. After dinner, the two friends sitting together, Bethell said "those are two fine lads of yours - mine are all lassies - how do you manage?" "Oh" said Sir Tatten, "that`s all right. When you and Mrs Bethell are having your dinner, say to her 'now my dear, have a glass of this nice wine', and at dessert 'now my dear, do try a glass or two of this excellent port'" - and then Sir Tatten said no more, and was going to speak of other things when Bethell said "and then, Tatten?" - "Oh! and then send for me" .........

On one occasion, Sir Tatten was doing a bit of hedging on one of his fences near Sledmere, and a poor man came and sat down and began asking him if he thought any work could be got on the Estate. Sir Tatten said "well, maybe, but if you go to the house they'll give you something to eat and maybe a trifle, and you can come back and tell me how you get on",

/p.25/

adding "you look pretty well clemmed (hungry)". He sent the poor man 'round by the lodge entrance, slipped up to the home and told the butler to give the man some bread and cheese and a glass of beer and four shillings, and then went back to his hedging. After a time the man came back and said "that's a rare sort of gentleman as lives up there - his man gave me a glass of ale and some bread and cheese, and two shillings, and if thou's got sixpence I'll gis thee sixpence o't". Said Sir Tatten - "did he gie ye no more?". "Noa, why would he gie me more?". After considerable persuasion, Sir Tatten got the man to go to Sledmere with him, walked up to his own front door and called the butler, who at once betrayed his dishonesty, whereupon Sir Tatten literally kicked him out on to the drive and the man lived for many years in Sir Tatten's employment.

When this good old Yorkshire worthy died at the age of eighty one, all Yorkshire, as the saying goes, went to his funeral, and some time afterwards all his horses were sold - 316 thoroughbreds, besides carriage horses and hunters - the bulk of them were brood mares which ran in a semi-wild state in the great Sledmere park. Your Uncle Bob Clarke bought a four year old Rifleman mare - I broke her at Beverley and rode her across into the West Riding to Noblethorpe in the day - a winter's day too - a distance of about seventy miles. She was pretty well baked at the end of the day. I did the same journey's on "Blue Ruin", the horse I mentioned before, and at his journey's end he was as keen and restless as at the beginning

/p.26/

of the day. He was about the same age too. The mare made only a moderate hunter, but was fairly fast to hounds.

I think the bulk of the thoroughbred stock sold at Sir Tatten's sale did not turn out very well, and many ascribed this to the animals not having been handled until four years old. I think a good many had not even been handled 'till just before the sale. There were two stallions - Colsterdale and Fandango - the latter a very beautiful elegant horse; the former was a most tremendous kicker, and queer to handle about his hind feet, and curiously enough, many of his stock inherited this peculiarity.

In the second and third quarters of the last century the East Riding had many sterling quaint characters - Sir Tatten Sykes, Sir Clifford Constable, Lord Horrics, James Hall of Scarboro', your great-uncle Edward Reynard, Admirals Duncombe and Mitford, Captain Watt, old Squire Watt the Captain's father, and a very large number of well-to-do farmers who were amongst the keenest sportsmen in the Kingdom.

An immense number of very good hunters were bred in the Holderness country by the Danbys, Lees, Smiths, Lambert of Wandby, Dugglebys, Hopper of Driffield, Greets, Simpsons, Harrisons, Harland, Botterills and others whose names have escaped my memory.

The farming throughout the East Riding was on a very high scale and these keen sportsmen were most excellent men of business and skilful in their profession, raising the best of stock, cattle, sheep, pigs and shire horses, nag, or as now called, hackney horses, and Yorkshire coaching horses.

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The East Riding hackney horse has become the most fashionable type of carriage horse, showing more quality than the Norfolk breed, although before my time I think many Norfolk stallions have been used, but I believe that a thoroughbred cross was put into the East Riding blood by a stallion named "D.O.", which belonged to a man who lived near Nafferton - his name I cannot now recall. The Yorkshire hackney eventually carried all before him, and enormous prices were given for the best mares and stallions, the very pick being bred within a radius of twenty miles of Driffield.

The late and present Lords Middleton of Birdsall, near Hatton, have always taken the greatest interest in agriculture, and have been, like most of the great East Riding landowners, the best and most generous landlords. The farms descended, in most cases, from father to son and the names of the tenants to-day are in a vast number of cases the same as they were eighty or a hundred years ago, and this, in spite of the critical times through which farming has passed. In the Northern part of Lincolnshire, much the same state of affairs has prevailed.

Returning to the hackney, not only is he full of style, action and quality, but he is a very staunch true hearted worker, and many drivers of summer coaches have told me that their best horses were the pure bred or nearly pure bred hackneys - as it has been put to me more than once "the nearer they are to the pure blood, the better they are."

The great breeders of thoroughbred stock in the East

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Riding, were Sir Tatten Sykes, Lord Londesborough who for a time had the celebrated "Stockwell", a most prepotent sire - the Rawcliffe Stud, Crowther Harrison, H. Thompson, Sir George Cholmondley, and Lord Middleton, and many farmers kept a thoroughbred mare or two; Constable of Wassand always had a thoroughbred stallion or two, and many good horses travelled the country. Leicester and Lincoln sheep were the breeds used in the country - the shorthorn cattle, and the large white Yorkshire pigs. As a great portion of the East Riding is Wold country - i.e. a thinnish soil on chalk - it is eminently suited to sheep, and very great pride in their flocks was taken by the farmers, and to-day I think, the same interest is taken and care exercised in breeding good stocks, as ever there was.

Well, I lived on at home for about two years, not doing much good, my time chiefly taken up by handling and riding young racehorses, going with them to third rate meetings, and occasionally riding in flat races and steeplechases - a pleasant enough existence which took me into very bad company, and which has caused me in later life, not to encourage you, my dear sons, in attending race meetings. The men I met and often associated with were in many cases unmitigated rascals, often enough hard drinkers and utterly unscrupulous; the low type of racing man who is much the same to-day, but, I think, a bit more under police control.

I was, I suppose, wise enough to see that such a life could lead to no good end, and made up my mind to get away from it as soon as I could. I knew that it was no use asking my father to assist me; if he had had any money - ready

/p.29/

money I mean, he would have much preferred spending it on a fifth or sixth rate race horse, or putting it on to something and probably losing it. He did enjoy having a good stake on, and was a first rate loser. I saw him once at Doncaster, with a heavy stake on, by which he stood to win some £7000 - it was the Leger, and we were both watching the field through our glasses - the horses were the home side of the Red House when his fancy was beat. He took his glasses from his eyes, and all he said was "there's my horse cracked" - put them up again and watched the race with apparently as much interest as ever. Yes, he was a real good sportsman - a very keen hard rider to hounds, a real good shot, a good boxer and fond of sport generally. A big powerful man - I once saw him have a set-to with a big butcher at an election row in Beverley - the butcher suffered severely, but made quite an interesting fight of it, for a few minutes, when the crowd separated them. Beverley was a frightfully rowdy borough at election time, though ordinarily a quiet immoral little town.

Buenos Aires, when I arrived there in 1866, was a city of about 120,000 to 130,000 inhabitants, and had, as I have said before, no docks. When the great range of docks which now exist, and where are beautiful gardens and walks of the Paseo Nueve de Julio, was a low flat beach with a long disreputable wooden passenger mole which ended in about two feet of water. On the beach, the washerwomen washed the clothes. There were always pools of water in the hollows of the tosca (indurated clay), the washerwomen had a board, a basket or two and a short flat beater; they soaped one's clothes,

/p.30/

put them on the board and beat them vigourously with the beater. I have wondered sometimes which muscular female was manipulating my shirts.

The city had no waterworks - drinking water was brought 'round by men on horseback with a long keg on each side of the horse, and sold in tin jars like milk is to-day. Every house had an aljibe (tank) supposed to be watertight; into this tank was collected all the rain water from the roofs - the closets were simply holes dug in the ground and occasionally cleaned out, and too often there was infiltration between closet and aljibe. But a day of reckoning came - yellow fever and cholera attacked the city and swept out over 30,000 people - the scenes which took place in the city were a reflection of those described by Defoe in his fascinating history of the plague in London. Drunken carters singing out "now then, bring out your corpses" etc. etc. and alas! often there was no one to bring out the dead. Registrars died, doctors died, and so very many deaths escaped registration altogether. The country was panic stricken, and cholera found its way into the camp, and on isolated estancias deaths occurred. I remember well one of these - I rode up one afternoon to a friend's and found a man had died of cholera about an hour before. The peons fled, and the owner asked me to help him - there was one Irish workman left on the place - he went out and dug a shallow grave, the owner and I sewed the body into a damp mare skin and we dragged it to the grave with a lasso to the cincha [strap] of a horse and happed [wrapped] it up; there were many similar cases.

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The frightful epidemics made the authorities bestir themselves, and the present admirable systems of water supply and sewage were commenced; but long before they were finished there was a second outbreak of yellow fever which, 'though severe, was not so bad as the first.

During this second outbreak there was a curious kind of low malarial fever very prevalent all over the country, and this I caught. I was driving a troop of mares and horses from the South of the Province of Buenos Aires into Santa Fe, when I was taken ill. I arrived at Rosario, and outside, got a paddock for my animals, and rode into the town. I used often to stay at the rooms of a friend named Fea; I carried my horse gear to his rooms, flung it down in his lobby and just dropped into it. He was then engaged to be married, and his fiancée and her father were paying him an evening visit - they heard me, and she told me afterwards about it. "Jack, there's someone in the lobby - go and see who it is" she said. Fea returned saying "it's Reynard stretched out on his horse gear, and he looks as if he might be dead." They made me as comfortable on my gear as they could, but this I know nothing about.

I got a day's rest next day, but I was still two and a half days ride from my destination; I got through, I don't remember how, but without losing any animals, which indeed, for want of food and water, were nearly as beat as I was. I was in bed about a week, I think, and then got fairly right again, but after that the summer heats made me bad, and a medical friend said "you'd better get out of this country."

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That, I think, was in 1870 or '69 - probably the latter; it was a year of drought over a wide tract of country.

In those days, only the most central streets of Buenos Aires, 'round the Plaza de Mayo, were paved, and very badly paved at that. Down to the Paseo 9 de Julio, all except a few streets were just dirt roads, and in times of heavy rains the water poured down in torrents washing out deep channels. But little planting had been done in the outskirts of the town and there were hardly any suburbs. Belgrano was quite isolated by road, but the Tigre Railway, now forming part of the Central Argentine system, and Palermo were on the line, had stations and were beginning to spring into residential places, as was also Flores and one or two places on the Great Southern Railway.

Buenos Aires was in consequence practically unprotected by trees on all sides, and in times of drought the dust storms used to be absolutely terrific; a dense almost black cloud of earthy dust would sweep down, making a sort of twilight and rendering everything outside and inside the houses unspeakably dirty and horrid to handle - these storms were generally followed by violent rain, so you can imagine the state of discomfort which at times existed.

There were fairly good restaurants, but not what we should call to-day a fairly decent hotel. Food, however, was fairly good and compared to to-day, very cheap. The whole style of living was more simple, 'though there were very many well furnished houses. Shops, of course, were small and mean

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compared with to-day's, but even then, Calle Florida possessed some good jewellers' and milliners' shops.

In this same Calle Florida, I got a lesson. I was with another Englishman, and a very beautiful girl passed by, with another not so good looking. I said to my companion "my word, what a beautiful girl" - she looked over her shoulder and said in excellent English "thank you for the compliment". I was careful ever after of the personal remarks I might make.

I became slightly acquainted with one or two native families, and received kindly welcome and hospitality from them. The afternoons in these families seemed devoted mostly to sucking mate, gossip, and an occasional paseo [stroll / outing] in Calle Florida. No large number of carriages were kept, and their general turn-out was not remarkable for style, 'though there were some very beautiful French carriages gorgeous with plated mountings, etc. Roads were so bad that carriages were really not of much use; but luxury was already creeping into society pretty quickly, and then, as probably now it still is, Buenos Aires was one of the most immoral corrupt cities.

Estancias were of enormous extent and the cattle were of a very common quality, 'though I have seen them very fat. The great cattle business was the Saladero, where cattle were killed, the meat made into charqui, which was exported to Brazil and Cuba, the hides salted and exported to Europe, and the tallow also; little or no use was made of any by-product - the sheep were simply melted down for their tallow and mares were killed for their hides and grease.

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Not enough wheat was grown for home consumption, or barely enough, although in 1866 agriculture was taking great steps in advance and the Province of Santa Fe had the colonies of San Carlos, Esperanza the most advanced, and one or two smaller ones struggling into life under great difficulties of transport, attacks from Indians, and unfriendly feelings on the part of their immediate stockraising neighbours.

In an extraordinarily short time the advance of the Central Argentine into the fertile provinces of Santa Fe and Cordova altered all this, and wheat growing took its place as one of the foremost industries of the country. To the West of Buenos Aires, at Chivilcoy there was a small colony of Scotchmen who were following the plough and doing well.

The Paraguayan War - Paraguay versus Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay, was in full swing when I arrived and the demand for supplies for the troops had encouraged the growth of maize and other crops - there was a great demand for horses for the troops, the Brazilians being the best buyers, and I, as soon as I knew a bit of the language, entered into this and did well. The horses had to be examined by Brazilian experts, and I usually had some six or ten real toppers; of these about half were taken by the experts and not ever paid for, and the others fetched real good prices. I bought with care the general mob and rarely had one refused. I also made little speculations in maize and forage, and so great was the demand that one could hardly go wrong - the difficulty being often to find transport to get the stuff to port of shipment -

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generally Rosario or San Nicolas; all went up the Paraná.

However, these good times did not last very long - Poor Paraguay was at last completely exhausted, losing all her male population except the very old men and very young boys, and many of the women were also killed in fighting - it became a country peopled almost entirely by women, and remained so for many years. The little I ever knew of the Paraguayan people, I liked - they seemed a quiet courteous pleasant people, but then one may say there were no men to know. López, the Paraguayan Dictator, if my memory serves me right, committed suicide, and his mistress Mme Lynch, who was one of the chief spurs to his ambition, was allowed to leave the country with, I believe, much wealth - what eventually became of her I do not know.

Although the war ended more than forty five years ago, I do not think Paraguay has even yet recovered from the effects of the ambition of a fierce tyrant and a bad woman. It is a melancholy page of South American history. Before this great national disaster took place, Paraguay was making considerable progress, 'though still in a backward state compared with its neighbours, which are more accessible to Europe. It occurred to me to look up the population of Paraguay before the war and after, and I find that before, there were about one and a quarter million, and two years after, about one quarter million, - so you can form some idea of the devastation the war caused - it lasted some four years.

I mentioned the Talbots a few pages back, and after

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I had been some months in the country, I went to work for them as I described, but we could not do much, as the Indians were constantly invading that part of the country, and cleaned out all the cattle twice. We built a fort, i.e., a quadrangle surrounded by a deep ditch with a draw-bridge, and in this at night, slept, and kept our best horses. The place was called Monte del Maíz, why I know not, as there was no maize grown; it was close to the Saladillo River, in Córdoba, and the river formed a boundary. It was a fine cattle country, but we had to abandon it as we could get no assistance from the Government and were not strong enough to resist the Indians, who got worse and worse. There were forts on the frontier just outside of us, but the garrisons were so weak that they could do nothing. We killed one Indian in a raid they made, but that did not mend matters.

When the Talbots asked me what I thought about the matter, I said I did not believe it was any use re-stocking simply for the benefit of the Indians. Inside of Monte del Maíz wheat growing and maize growing were increasing, but we were too far out to enable us to do much in that way. These fine camps remained unstocked for some years after this, and the Indian raids continued right down to Bahía Blanca - even right into the province of Buenos Aires they came, and I think it was in [blank space] right into the Partido 25 de Mayo, and swept out over 125,000 head of horned stock and mares and sheep besides. This was the last great raid, as soon afterwards General Roca made his great campaign and subdued them finally,

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'though many petty raids such as we suffered from 1867 and '68, continued to be made for some years afterwards, but only on the extreme outside settlements. Among the Indians were a good many so-called "Cristianos" - runaway criminals, deserters from the forts, who were generally criminals serving their sentences as soldiers, and subject very often to a discipline to which hell was preferable.

It was while living on the Indian frontier that a rather queer thing happened. There were great numbers, at times, of stray cattle about - some would be left by the Indian raiders, others had strayed out from inside estancias, some were marked, some not - and when we wanted meat or hides we killed almost anything we came across which was suitable. A fellow-countryman had killed a good many in this way, and was hauled before a local comisario [chief of police], who sent him in a chained gang to the nearest judge - the gang had to go on foot, and one night some of them attempted to escape - the guard just banged away at anything he thought was moving, and my friend said "I lay down as flat as I could and tried to make myself small". The next day the gang was all marshalled and one of them who had attempted to escape had been lightly wounded in one leg and had been caught. He was at the moment tied up to a tree, and had with difficulty rolled himself a cigarette. He said to one of the guards as he went by "give me a light". "Yes" said the guard "I will give you a light" and he just took that prisoner by the beard and passed his knife through his throat as one would kill a sheep, saying "you won't try

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to escape again". Two or three had got away, and I suppose this fellow had been rowed by the commander of the guard.

A bit outside, i.e., more into the Indian territory, was a frontier fort with a garrison largely composed of convicted criminals. One day a boy came up to the chanty [shanty / shack?] and said "there's a dead man lying on the opposite bank of the river". We went down across the river to him and found he was not dead, but seemed pretty near it - the only stitch of clothing he had on him was a bit of handkerchief tied 'round his head, and his back and body had recently healed scars on it. We got him up on to a horse and took him to the chanty and after a few days careful feeding he was all right again. He said he had been a soldier at the fort, and had stolen a horse and cleared out as he could not stand the treatment any longer - however, the next day the soldiers caught him, and he was condemned to run the gauntlet - hence the scars. He said as soon as he got better he stole the comandante's [commander's] best race-horse and got away, but the Indians were inside the fort making a corrida [surprise raid] in the camp, and they shut him in it and caught him. They took the horse and every rag he had on him except the bit of handkerchief. He said he saw the chanty two days before he got to the river, but was so weak from thirst and hunger he thought he could never reach it, and "when I did get to the river I drank 'till the water ran out of my ears". We rigged him out and gave him an old horse, and I never saw him again, but I think it must have been he who sent us a warning once to keep our horses shut in on a certain day.

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The man who brought the message would not say who sent it, or where he came from.

It was generally easy to tell when Indians were in the neighbourhood, for one would see the ostriches and guanaco and wild mare very much on the move, although one might not see the Indians - indeed, after killing the one I mentioned, they never came very near to the settlement. However, the Indians twice cleared out the stock put on the camp, and as I said before, when the Talbots asked me what I thought about re-stocking, I said I did not think it would be any use, as there did not appear to be any probability of the Government preventing further raids, and indeed there were continued for several years after this, which would be in 1867. My patrons then determined to abandon the settlement, and I found myself out of a job, and it was then my dealings for the Brazilian army began. I kept on at this work for some time, and only gave it up because so many engaged in it that the profits dwindled away. I then did all sorts of work, driving cattle, mares, and occasionally, but very rarely, sheep. I broke harness horses, worked in a livery stable, in fact anything which came along. The Talbots bought some land in Santa Fe, out towards the Cañada San Antonio, and asked me if I would go on to it and begin the settlement of it. I was glad to have a permanent job again; there was absolutely nothing on the land, and for many weeks I slept in the open, keeping a few things dry in wet weather, under mares' skins.

About six leagues away, some time after I went up

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there, another settler began to poblar [populate], and during a very severe thunder storm the people at work, two men and one woman were sitting sheltering under a mare's skin stretched on some canes - one of the men was killed by lightning, and the other man and the woman were unhurt. This was the only case I knew of anyone being killed by lightning during the time I lived on the pampas, 'though I sometimes heard of animals being struck.

On one occasion I was long way from home looking for mares and it came on very foggy. I was in a long shallow depression and hunting several little mulitas (small armadillos). I had killed three, and after cleaning them and tying them on to my saddle gear, I got up on my horse, and then realised that I did not know which side of the depression I had come in on. It was no joke to be lost on that pampa, as there was no water for leagues, that I knew of, and I did not know the direction of the water - in fact I was completely lost. I felt rather queer, and galloped on for a bit, but then realised that I had not the faintest idea of my direction, so I stopped at the first well-grassed spot I came to, got off, and prepared to wait 'till the mist cleared away, which it did not do 'till the following afternoon, and then I could tell East from West, and got an idea of my direction and eventually fetched up home the third day, pretty thirsty but all right. My word! a drink of water is something after you have been two days in hot weather without any.

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