At the end of the year I bought “Vagabond,” the best horse I ever possessed, from a farmer at Finglas, just outside Dublin. It had been sold within three weeks at varying prices, from £85 to £15. I saw the animal cross some apparently impossible fences, his rider wielding a heavy bludgeon with which he struck the horse violently over the head. Eventually I begged him to desist, for I was afraid he would either stun the horse or that it would break its legs, and I became its owner for £45, the farmer betting a friend £10 he would get it back in a week for £15. The certificate of the Veterinary surgeon, Mr. Ferguson, is worth quoting for young horse-owners: “I have examined the chestnut----. I regard it as unsound, and advise you to buy it.” Next day I called on Mr. Ferguson, and said, “Oh, I bought that horse, and here is your fee; and now will you tell me where he is unsound?” Said he, “Are you a busy man?” “Yes, I am, but I can listen to you for five minutes.” “But it will take me the forenoon to tell you all the places in which that horse is unsound.” The horse objecting to jump, gave me five severe falls the first day I rode him after the Ward Union Hounds. I cannot write _with_, for after the first fall, on which the farmers shouted, “Take that brute away, or he will kill you or some of us,” I never saw the hounds, but rode the line for 8 miles, crossing every fence. The same farmers came to me a fortnight later, wanting to know what drug I put up the horse’s nose to tame him, and it was some time before I could induce them to believe that I had improved the horse’s temper by consistent kindness. During thirteen seasons, while carrying my wife, my brother who rode it while I was in South Africa, or me to hounds, the horse never made a mistake. He was, however, a trial to one’s patience, for the first time I rode him from Stephen’s Green to my General’s house, about 4 miles, it took me over two hours, the horse walking about on his fore and hind legs alternately. I should have had a pleasant life in 1865–6 but that I suffered from continuous ill-health. I went to a famous physician in London, afterwards created a baronet for his devoted care of the Heir to the throne, and to many doctors of lesser note. The disease from which I was suffering was neuralgia of the nerves of the stomach, treatment for which presents but comparatively little difficulty now, but forty-five years ago it was not so. I managed to hunt, but occasionally suffered such acute pain as to be unable to sit in the saddle. On the 9th of February 1866 I received a telegram to the effect that my father was very dangerously ill at Belhus, and leaving Ireland that night I remained with him until he died, a fortnight later. [Illustration: VAGABOND HE FOLLOWED HOUNDS FOR THIRTEEN SEASONS WITHOUT MAKING A MISTAKE]