"THE THORN.”

ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY W. SEXTIE.

The Royal Hunt furnishes the materials for the group so well employed by Mr. Sextie on the incident his picture illustrates. Harry King, with a favourite horse, "Sefton," and two couple of hounds, make up the scene, which tells its own story ably enough. A few particulars, however, of the several performers may not be out of order, and "by your leave" we proceed to give them.

In the first place, to prevent mistakes, or any unfair impressions being made, it is necessary to say that the portrait of King must not be strictly judged by its merits as a portrait. The artist had only the opportunity of sketching very slightly in so much of the face as is visible. The figure, on the other hand, is more finished, and good enough to stand without the aid of any apology from us. King himself, as we think we shall show, is famously bred for his business. His father, Charles King, a noted man in his day, served under the Dukes of Grafton and Beaufort, as well as under "old Mr. Ward," as the renowned John of Squerries was sometimes called. Charles King, though, is perhaps better known and remembered in Northamptonshire, where he hunted the Pytchley during the whole time they were in the management of the late Lord Spencer, or, as he was then, Lord Althorp. Charles King, in fact, was entered very early to hounds, his father before him having hunted the Marquis of Salisbury's for many seasons. With, then, a father and grandfather with horns at their saddles, it is not surprising to find another generation owning at once to the cheering note. At thirteen years of age Henry King came in from walk to " the Warwickshire," at that time (1828) hunted by the celebrated Jack Wood, who had for several years whipped-in to King's father in Northamptonshire. The young one's duties here were chiefly confined to the kennel work, varied occasionally with riding the huntsman's second horse when they went to the woodlands. After two seasons well spent in this manner, he had one with Mr. Drake, in Oxfordshire, leaving him in turn for the Atherstone, with which pack King remained for five years. At the close of this engagement, in 1836, he came direct to the royal kennels, where he has now been for over sixteen years a fact that speaks of itself for his value and conduct as a servant. There are few who hunt with " the royals" who will require to be told of King's ability as a horseman. He is not only a hard rider, but a very good one-and better still, perhaps, a very lucky one. During the whole of the time he has been in her Majesty's service, he has rarely met with an accident, or in any way injured his horses. Care instead of luck may, after all, be a more correct reading of his good fortune in the field. We have the best authority for what we say on this point, and with much pleasure avail ourselves of the following certificate forwarded to us :--

"Ascot Heath, Nov. 8th, 1852.-Henry King, as a horseman, is firstrate; and in crossing the miserable country in which her Majesty's hounds have the misfortune to be located is seldom out of his place, being ready to assist the huntsman upon all occasions. As an ardent

lover of hunting, he is indefatigable in the pursuit of it.-CHARLES DAVIS, Huntsman."

We think we need say no more as to King's character as a servant and a sportsman. The horse he has on his arm was introduced to "the miserable country" Mr. Davis speaks of, by the late George Lewis Ridehalgh, Esq., of Winkfield House, who brought him up from Cheshire, where "Sefton" had already arrived at some repute as a hunter. He was got by Taragon out of a mare by Sir Charles. Taragon as a race-horse was chiefly remarkable as being one of the four who contested an extraordinary handicap at Newcastle-under-Lyne ; whilst Sir Charles was a favourite hunter of Sir Bellingham Graham's during the time he hunted Shropshire. Than Sefton himself-says a gentleman who knew him well, and has obliged us with some particulars-“ a better hunter no man ever rode. He was quick, clever, fast, and stout; and, though to look at not very large-limbed, he had the power of going through dirt in a style that few horses possess." He stood about fifteen three, and was altogether a fine specimen of the modern hunter as we think the portrait, a very good one, will show of itself. Sefton's career was somewhat prematurely brought to a close, from his getting cast in the stable; in his struggles to free himself he so injured his sight as not to be trusted afterwards over a country.

To make our story complete, and leave the houndsman no cause for complaint, let us next draw out the two couple before us. The name of the one undergoing the operation is " Gadfly," by Romulus, now an eight-year-old hunter, according to the new list Mr. Davis has favoured us with. The looker-on at her stern is a half-sister, Rosalie, by Rallywood, in her sixth year; and the couple of dog-hounds further on, own brothers, Truant and Traveller, by Talisman: all four being out of the same mother, Goneril (by Governor out of Glow-worm), "one of the best and stoutest hounds that ever a man rode after." Goneril is still well represented in the royal kennels-another of her sons, Castor, being evidently a favourite stallion hound. But the visitor must not seek to identify Truant or Traveller, as they were both drafted at the close of last season.

It is not often that we have "horses, hounds, or men," that we can give a public introduction to with more pleasure than we do these; and though some of our friends may at first be inclined to think the Royal Hunt a little overworked, we don't fancy they will quarrel much with such a subject as "The Thorn."

*"To return for a moment to the effect of weight on the race-horse. Perhaps an instance of the most minute observation of this effect is to be found in a race at Newcastle-under-Lyne, some years back, between four horses handicapped by the celebrated Dr. Bellyse; namely, Sir John Egerton's Astbury, four years, 8st. 6lb.; Mr. Mytton's Handel, four years, 7st. 11lb.; Sir William Wynn's Taragon, four years, 8st.; Sir Thomas Stanley's Cedric, three years, 6st. 13lb. The following was the result. Of the first three heats there was no winner, Taragon and Handel being each time nose and nose; and although Astbury is stated to have been third the first heat, yet he was so nearly on a level with the others, that there was a difficulty in placing him as such. After the second heat, Mr. Lyttleton, who was steward, requested the Doctor and two other gentlemen to look stedfastly at the horses, and try to decide in favour of one of them; but it was impossible to do so. In the third dead heat Taragon and Handel had struggled with each other till they reeled about like drunken men, and could scarcely carry their riders to the scales. Astbury, who had laid by after the first heat, then came out and won; and it is generally believed the annals of the turf cannot produce such a contest as this."-The Turf, by NIMROD.

LETTERS FROM MY UNCLE SCRIBBLE.

MY DEAR NEPHEW,

You started well: the hounds broke close to their fox, and you were close to the hounds. Yet in the first field you made a sad mistake. You caught sight of a bridle-gate in one corner; and to get to it, you bent to your right, whilst your eyesight might have shown you that the hounds were bending to your left. The gateway was well filled with contending sportsmen, and it must have been clear that your chance was a remote one. Under most circumstances

a gate is preferable, when it can be had handy in the line; but mind. you are first at it. In a crowd 'tis worse than useless; and with hounds just broke, on a burning scent, 'tis nothing less than venatorial suicide. The fence looked like a big one, but it was nothing so tremendous when you were once well at it. Besides, you must have a start to ride a run. A start is a grand thing. Some men always get starts-others never. They always can be got, excepting in a woodland country; but it requires nerve, quickness, and, above all, decision. I rather think this last quality makes more difference between modern sportsmen than most men imagine. There are in most countries men with pluck and horseflesh; but decision is a rare quality, and a quick thing is counted by minutes. Once begin "Dash it! I think the gate's the best: no I don't-they are turning; I must have the rails in the corner-Whoay! you ugly brute! stand still! come along! 'tis the gate! they've turned up!" and 'tis all up with you. Foxhounds go roods whilst you are thinking. You are more likely to be right by going wrong at once, than by going right when too late to avail yourself of your wisdom.

Half-a-dozen men got away whilst you were sticking in the gatethe only place one ever hears bad language in out-hunting. You had better have a fall, for you can only quarrel with yourself in a ditch, and all your vituperations descend on your own pate. However, you have been kept long enough in the crowd, so come on. The hounds are getting on terms with their fox; and with a laudable anxiety to make up for lost time, you feel your way out of the muffs at last, and find yourself, to your own surprise, in a field alone. Plenty of men can ride second or third, but it requires a genius to lead; and when you got a cropper into the fallow beyond, I think you were heartily glad to have got rid of the awkwardness of your situation. Your case has parallels: a gentleman of my acquaintance this last September, not over pleased with the scarcity of birds and abundance of turnip-tops and clay, by the kindness of his friends was at last relieved of his Manton. He then began really to enjoy the shooting: "Thank God," said he, "I've got rid of that confounded gun! The Irishman in the sedan-chair with the bottom out, and Bob covered with mud, sitting on a gate, with a bridle in his hand, his unruly brute having left him "at last, the Lord be praised!" were happy emblems of your state of mind when somebody else took up

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