only to Musters. After these men in the hunting world there are none other so experimentally scientific, and who combine so many qualities to make a professor in the kennel and in the field. The Wragley Woods and the Monson blood, beat them if you can. The merits of the country are various, and the sum total sets it at the top of the tree.

The merits of the Monson blood consisted in the stoutness of the animal. The Vernons looked larger, the bitches were larger, and the exterior was impressive; but they had a soft place, and tired when the Monsons went to the end, I shall never forget Osbaldeston's exclaiming, in the middle of a conversation which had nothing to do with hounds-"People say nothing is perfect; but my Vaulter is perfect, and never told a lie in his life. I'll believe the Monson sort before any man alive; aye, before my own eyes! and Clinker, too, is a real Monson!"

Mr. R. Lambton had a pack at Sedgefield of great merit; they would hunt, and run, were steady, and very stout; but whilst I put Musters and Ralph Lambton alone as sportsmen, I put down in the list three packs:-1. The Old Monson; 2. Lord Yarborough's; 3. Mr. R. Lambton's. For any of these in the Barton country, and a cottage, with two rooms furnished at Wickenby, I could give up any thing, every thing; but then-I'm fifty, and gouty, and finished.

However, here I am amidst a very different order of beings. My violoncello is in the corner of my room, and as long as the gout keeps away from the fingers I can amuse myself. A musical festival is like a Norfolk battue; a country con cert is like hare hunting; a bravura

air is like a coursing match; but a serious opera, well done in all its branches, is like a real good Lin colnshire run, with good Monson hounds, from Glentworth to Scot terthorpe, one hour and forty mi nutes, variety of pace and ground, interesting from first to last, and a tragical conclusion in the death of the animal. The audience worthy of such an opera should not be a flight of Hyde Park dandies or riding worthies of the New Light School, but men of sense and discernment-Musters, R. Lambton, C. Chaplin, Old Spooner, Lord De lamere, Colonel Lowther, Arkwright, Sir H. Peyton, Lord Jersey, and a select few from the Cheshire Hunt. Some of these latter men came one winter to Belvoir, and men more truly sportsmen, or better mounted, I never saw; they did credit to their education, and (as NIMROD would say) were an honour to their country.

Let me hear what is finally ar ranged for the Barton country; also what sport you have with the Quorn and the Duke; what Tom Hodgson is doing this year-you don't mention him-and believe me to remain yours faithfully,

AN OLD 'UN.

painted on SAM, a winner of the Derby, is considered perfect of its kind, and that picture undoubtedly one of Marshall's best performances. Numbers of painters, indeed nearly all who have made animal painting their profession, have tried their hand at this difficult face and striking figure; but none that I have hitherto seen at all equal that which you are about to present to your readers. Justice, however, demands that this cause of general failure should be explained; for though Chifney is a good sitter in the estimation of certain of his friends, yet artists, I hear, know to the contrary, to their great mortification.

Before I enter into particulars, I think it right to apologize to Mr. Chifney for thus " shewing him up" but if he will give himself the trouble to look round in the world, he will find that distinguished and celebrated characters have ever been liable to the same sort of criticism; and he will find, too (if he does not already know), that the more eminent, the more excellent, and the more exalted a man becomes, to a corresponding degree will envy, hatred, and malice, as well as the admiration of the amiable, honest, and good, encompass him the closer on every side. What would the Duke of Wellington have thought of the writers of the day, if they had suffered his glorious victories, his splendid and matchless exploits in the field, to have passed off unnoticed ? "What nonsense!" I think I hear the military exclaim, compare a General to a jockey?" -Yes; I do say, that if they are both the best in the world, which I really believe they are in their different ways, then there is a com

parison. Besides, the Whigs are ready to bear me out, that the Duke himself is no contemptible jockey, and that, should crossing and jostling again come into fashion, Chifney might then meet with a formidable rival in his Grace.

Before I proceed, it will not be amiss to look back a little into pedigree, as sporting subjects are nothing without it; not so much for the information of the experienced sportsman, who must know as much about it as I do; but to let the youthful, and those still to come, be apprised that the father of our hero was a jockey, ranking first in his profession, and a most beautiful rider; that he came from Norfolk early in life, and soon distinguished himself in the racing stables at Newmarket. Contemporary with him were Oakley, Hineley, John Arnul, Clift, Sam Arnul, and shortly after came Mr. Buckle; but none of them seemed to know all that belonged to the science equal to Chifney, who understood not only horses and their condition, but every thing connected with stable management and horse trappings. A particular bit bears his name to this day; and so successfully did he use it, that no horse ever attempted to break away with him a second time. In his "setting to," as it is called, he was remarkable for sitting very backward upon his horse, as represented by Stubbs in the painting of him upon Baronet, with an apparent slack rein-the manner and motive entirely his own. Not that these, though peculiarities, made him the rider he was; but a combination of things peculiar to his genius, discoverable only by his extensive practical knowledge-difficult to

be communicated, and still more so to understand-affording, how ever, one lesson to all his contemporaries, that the closer they imitated him the better they rode.

Mr. Chifney married a daughter of Smallman, a training groom, and sister of the present Smallman, also a trainer at Newmarket, whom he left at his death, struggling in not very easy circumstances, with six children. During the whole of his eventful life, he was remarkable for cleanliness in his person and notions, liberal in his principles, and affectionate to his children in the highest degree. It seemed as if he had given, and they had taken, the good old advice, “take heed that ye fall not out by the way;" for of all the families I have ever seen, I have not met with one so united, or so thoroughly fixed in the bonds of affection, as these Chifneys. To this I may also add, they are all blest with that noble attribute, openness of heart and liberality.

In height old Chifney was about five feet five inches, with beautiful symmetry; muscular, powerful, yet light; he was not wanting in personal courage, which made him perfect for his profession. The last race I saw him ride was on Knowsley, for the King's Plate, at Winchester, belonging to His present Majesty, then Prince of Wales, which he won. The King ever evinced kindness for Chifney, and with his usual goodness continues his notice of the family to the pre

sent moment.

The younger Chifney, the hero of our tale, began his career, I fear, almost thirty years ago. I say fear, because it is a pity that such a brilliant rider should ever grow old. It is true, and some consolation to know, that he was

a mere child when he first went the Welsh circuit with his uncle Smallman, who had the care and training of Lord Oxford's horses, consisting of Lily by Highflyer, Dart (afterwards His Lordship), Lady Jane, &c. Their training ground was near to his Lordship's house in Herefordshire. Sam, according to hunting terms, "entered very badly," as far as stable discipline went ; but made ample amends for it on the turf. He was, for all that, a source of great anxiety and trouble to his poor uncle, who could never teach him any thing, no not even the good old maxim, that "early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." A Frenchman, in the shape of a butler in the family, kindly undertook to teach it, aided by one of those nice little things which his pupil has since used so dextrously; but all would not do-he could never understand it, therefore did not improve. Out of gratitude, however, to his painstaking, and pain-giving preceptor, he taught his Gallican friend experimentally, that a pair of English shoes were harder than a pair of Frenchman's shins; and thus ended his studies in philosophy. Sam's notions on this topic were in accordance with the thrifty Irishman about breakfast, "which he always took over night." The wisest of the wise, however, are on his side, when they assert (and to which I bow), that it is not the time of going to bed, or getting up, we must look at, but the mode of spending our time when we are up. In the midst of one of these his days, when on his first Welsh tour, a friend of mine, a gentleman-jockey, asked him how he got on with Tom Carr and Dick Spencer (two of the best riders at that time in the West)?