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SKETCHES IN SCARLET.

(Continued)

BY GREY BEARD.

“ Nimium ne crede colori."

The fine horseman is, perhaps, the most disappointing of all those whom we are fain to watch with admiration, and from whose practice in riding over a country we hope to gain many a useful lesson and valuable wrinkle. He is easily distinguishable from the first moment we set eyes on him, by the beauty of his horse, the good taste of his appointments, and, above all, his extremely graceful and easy seat. He jumps an awkward “ double” into the covert, and his hands never stir from his horse's withers; the animal itself putting its feet in the exact spot intended by its rider, and alighting just where he means, short of a blind, grass-grown ditch and under a tree. He opens the hand-gate for us to emerge at the further end, and even in this trifling action we recognize the masterly equestrian. We often think there are few higher trials of what we should call riding-school horsemanship, than opening a gate. He does it so politely too! for no man, whatever be his station, ever becomes a really fine horseman, without attaining, at the same time, a certain gentlemanlike delicacy of manner. Perhaps the constant habit of controlling his own temper, and adapting himself to that of others (animals though they be), may have this polishing effect on the human organization ; but whatever be the cause, we fearlessly challenge denial as to the effect. We watch “ the fine horseman ” all the way to the next draw, and we confess to experiencing great gratification in the sight. How delicately he handles his horse at his leaps ! how he makes him “take off” (that most important consideration) at the right spot ! with what strength he holds him up to the very last stride, grasping him between his legs as if in a vice! what liberty he gives him during his effort, and how ready he is for him again when he lights in the next field; his hind-legs under him, his nose tucked nicely in, playing with his bit, and champing at it, till he froths, from mere pleasure at being so exquisitely handled! Then his canter across ridge and furrow is a master-piece of itself: standing well up over the withers, he steadies his horse with one hand, so as to yield the greatest possible amount of play in his own back and loins (nothing is more distressing to a horse than a “twelve thousand a-year” seat, as Mr. Jorrocks calls it, rolling and bucketing backwards and forwards over uneven ground), and makes him skim from ridge to ridge, smooth and easy as a bird upon the wing. See him waiting for his turn at a gap or narrow gateway; no swearing, or shoying, or “who-hoaing,” or begging this man's pardon whilst

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he jams the other man's knees against a stump or post-nothing of the kind; a turn of the wrist, a movement of the heel, places his horse at once in the exact position he desires, and he has glided through with a courteous smile, ere Messrs. Blunder and Fathead have done abusing each other like pickpockets, whilst they remain irrevocably fixed in the very thickest part of the throng. All the detail of riding he seems to have literally at his finger's ends, and yet, strange to say, “ the fine horseman ” usually fades away during a run. We can only account for this upon one principle : 'we once recommended an assistant to a keeper, himself of the very highest order, in a well-known poaching district, and anxious as to the success of our nomination, took the earliest opportunity of enquiring whether the man gave satisfaction; his character was excellent—sober, watchful, clean, goodtempered, civil, and up to all the ins-and-outs of trapping, rabbiting, and dog-breaking; he would have been the very thing, but for one drawback. “ He's a good man all over,” said the head-keeper, “and worth a dozen for work ; but he'll never do for us, sir, he ain't half blackguard enough!” So we conclude “ the fine horseman ” ”ain't half blackguard enough” for crossing a severe country. What with " arranging " his horse at his fences, making him go properly across his fields, and handling him delicately when in deep ground, the hounds manage to go three fields whilst our friend is going two, and ere long, the chase leaves him hopelessly in the rear, whilst Blunder and Fathead, who have no more idea of riding, properly so called, than a cow has of a cornopean, by dint of thrusting and screwing, and holding on by their nags' heads with iron fists and mischief-meaning energy, get well through the run in capital places, and witness the conclusion with no farther damage than broken hats, rasped faces, and a good deal of blood about their horses' mouths and curb-chains. One of the best heavy-weights we ever knew, used to remark, concerning delicate handling, “that it was all very well for the road, or the riding-school; but if you are to divide your reins, and put your middle finger here and your little finger there, your life will not be long enough for the operation. No,” said he, " I like to get them all together in a heap as short as I can, and then I hold them as hard as ever I am able, and never let 'em go till I've done with 'em !” Now without quite coming into this gentleman's energetic views, we cannot help acknowledging that manége-riding may very easily be carried too far in the hunting field, and that a good hold of their heads, a heart in the right place, and a sharp pair of spurs, are sometimes worth all the “ fingering" in the world. The great difficulty our “fine horseman " has, is to gallop; not that he is a slow man by any means-on the contrary, put him on a horse to ride a race, or try his speed in any way, and no one will acquit himself better, for he is not like the generality of sportsmen, who are mostly unable to gallop, and amongst whom a dozen will willingly jump a large place for one that can be found to get to it with tolerable dispatch; but our friend has his horses so bitted up “to his hand,” and is so anxious to “feel” and “humour " them every yard they go, that he unconsciously puts off those golden moments, which in hunting, as in everything else, when once lost are never to be regained ; so our “fine horseman" is forced to content himself with his fine horsemanship, and to take his account of the run on trust, from some bruising, butchering rider, with hands like sledge-hammers, and a seat like a sack, but who saw it nevertheless from end to end, and was “ with 'em every yard they

“ The Impostor” is another character by no means uncommon in these days of sporting fashion and popularity ; nor is he easily unmasked or identified, save by the actual ordeal of a quick thing over a strong country. “ The impostor” is decidedly a man of genius, and not only “gets up,” but dresses his part with a degree of histri. onic accuracy that is beyond all praise. His habits, startling as may be the assertion, are to a certain degree literary; and he reads Bell's Life, The Sporting Magazine, and other such works, with great avidity and strong powers of retention. “ The impostor" knows the history of every bunting country, its past and present masters, its honnds, horses, and system of kennel; can criticize the huntsman, and vote the whole thing slack and slow, or wild and ludicrous, with the most unblushing effrontery, and a power of deception that takes in even himself. He has seen most of the packs of hounds of the present day, and thinks them all capable of great improvement. Ask him what sport he has had, when he comes home, and dismounts, with a careful workmanlike air, from his untired horse? He shakes his head gravely, and informs you in the strictest confidence," he never saw a thing so 'bitched' in his life.” So it is with everything. Admire his horses, and he tells you they are “ fairish nags, but not quite up to his mark.” Talk about the “line we came”-a favourite topic with young gentlemen—and the severity of the fences negotiated ; "the impostor” smiles grimly, and implies that to him such obstacles are of small account-as indeed is the case, for he places a greater value on his neck than most of his acquaintances consider its real worth. But the time to see him at his best, is immediately after mounting at the covert-side, on a fine sunny morning, without much promise of scent; then indeed he is in his glory; he rides a capital horsemaye, and rides him well too ; at least, he would if he did not funk; the animal is handsome, quiet, well-bred, and up to weight, for “ the impostor,” whatever be his specific gravity, always dresses so as to look as heavy as possible, with due regard to a workmanlike appearance. His tackle is perfect ; if any. thing, a little too much like what is used in the hunt stables, but siill of the most irreproachable make and the best quality-open flapped saddle, heavy double-bridle, spare shoe, and wide stirrupirons, all complete; his own boots, breeches, coat, and hat, are exactly what you would describe, if asked to give a verbal sketch of a thorough sportsman. But of all things, the most characteristic item about him is his whip-no gate latch could possibly resist that long, strong, Crowther-looking handle; no hound in his senses would come within reach of that heavy thong and thick green-silk lash, which looks capable of raising the echoes with a report like a pistol-shot. He gets on his horse like a workman; he sits on him like a workman; he does all the little airs and affectations of the craft like a workman, from the atti. tude of respectful attention with which he greets the first opening note of a hound, to the sonorous “holloa” with which he salutes the fox, turning at the same time his horse's head across the ride, in the most