IRIS,

A PRIZE HUNTER, THE PROPERTY OF MR. ANSTRUTHER THOMPSON, MASTER OF THE PYTCHLEY.

ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY E. CORBET.

"Spratton! Spratton!" shouts the man in possession of a crossing on the level-one of those combinations of the rail and the road, the turnpike-gate and the railway station-and out we bundle traps and all, having heard from head quarters that it is the nearest station to the kennels at Brixworth. Not a very lively look out for a stranger has Spratton Station; with nothing to be seen but the large undulating pastures of Northamptonshire. No sign of a village spire, not a hovel, hut, nor even a human being, excepting the collector; and as for a 'bus, the hotel keepers of Brixworth have not even dreamt of such a thing. Truly rural is the scene, too rural by far for us with our trapswhat an auctioneer would, call a very useful job lot-but we live on in hopes, and out of the train bounds a drover's dog, followed by his owner and a sweep. No time to be lost, and we think by crossing the hand of the drover with a bit of silver we may turn him into a good Samaritan, and get him to lend us a hand. But, alas! vain hope; he is two hours overdue for an appointment, in quite an opposite direction, to meet some fat friend, fit for the butcher. Then we have a look at the sweep, a Grand Master from Northampton, as we afterwards learn; but it is no go, for he is of far too aristocratic bearing for us to think of converting, and we fear he may return the compliment by making us an offer to carry his bag; so we see nothing for it but to take up our traps and trudge.

"How far to Brixworth, collector?" sigh we, wishing, like the foreigner who paid us an international visit, we had made a portmanteau of our hat, by tucking a shirt collar inside the lining.

"What part, sir?"

"Kennels."

"Just over the hill, and as I am going into the village, I will lend you a hand."

"The very, thing, kind, considerate, good Mr. Collector, but you are the very last person on earth we should have thought of asking.'

Directing his mate to give a look out and shift the signal, he-if we will allow him will lead the way, over the hill by the footpath, instead of the road, and by that means avoid the kennel paddocks as he is not over and above fond of " them dogs," and has no particular wish to lose that portion of his dress that covers the most defenceless part of him, Mayne or Muzzle Law not having been proclaimed at Brixworth. We rise the hill, with some far-famed coverts, and a fine hunting country behind; while before us in the dip, we almost drop on the neat hunting box of the Master of the Pytchley, with the masons adding another

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wing; as looming above, overlooking all, is the grand old English mansion of the Squire (Mr. Bevan), a fine horseman and good sportsman of many years' standing. To the left, a little way up in the village, are the kennels and the stables. The former are nicely situate on the slope, while the latter, exceedingly snug, roomy, sweet, and comfortable, appear to have been metamorphosed out of some old farm buildings. Here we find John Pye, the Captain's stud groom, who has been with him ten years, and "in all that time Mr. Thompson has never changed his name,' as Pye quaintly put it. This speaks more than volumes for master and man, and is well worthy of the consideration of those gentlemen who denominate their servants by everything but what they were christened. The nags were in capital fettle, and everything is as it should be, whilst peace and goodwill reign throughout the yard, both with helps and horses. Not a semblance of an oath or any angry word is there, nor is there any occasion for it, as John Pye informs us they won't hurt us as long as we are kind with them, which the grand old Rainbow playfully laying his ears and showing his teeth, corroborates as we go up to him-his eye as plain as the writing on the wall, saying, "How are you? still setting our heads and tails on? Ay? Do anything you like with us, old fellow, put us on our legs, or hold our heads up, but mind, gently does it, for we are high-couraged horses, and if you ruffle our tempers, we don't readily forget it." And this 66 gently does it," backed as it is by nerve, is the grand secret of the Pytchley stables. Captain Anstruther Thompson and his aidecamp have turned many untractable horses into tractable ones in this way, as some have entered with characters for anything but obliging dispositions, or agreeable tempers. In the same stable is the Captain's old favourite mare Valeria, looking as fresh as ever; the well-known hardy-looking Borderer; the blood-like Fountain, with a beauiful forehand, who has never given the Captain a fall, but once left him hung up in a bullfinch, the horse getting well through himself; as well as three or four more grand weight-carriers, including Iris, the champion prize hunter of last year. Iris has never been shown but twice. At Peterborough, when he took the first prize, beating Lady Derwent and others; and at Wetherby, when he took the first prize of his class and the President's Cup as the best of all the hunters, against Lady Derwent, Mountain Dew, Brigadier, Borderer, and all the famous show horses of the day.

Here are horses for Mr. Thompson's own riding, whlie the men taking their weight into consideration, are equally well mounted. Mr. Thompson is at Houghton during the repairs of his house, but his heart is with his horses and hounds, and seldom is there a day passes without his making his ap pearance. Just as we have heard so much, in he comes on one of the neatest of hacks, Needlewoman, with a "glad to see you." Although we knew it was a very busy time-the first week of advertising-as beyond this, it is the show day, or private view of the cub-hunters, with some rare-framed ones among them, which are to be knocked down on the morrow to the highest bidder; but we are assured that we are not all in the way, and that the clock work of the yard will turn on as true as ever. More than this, if we like we can have a mount to see them throw off, and if we will, as Mr,

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Thompson has half-an-hour to spare, he will draw two couple of hounds for us. We cross the road for that purpose, and on entering the gate a pitiable object catches our eye. He is on patrole, having the run of the paddock and precincts of the kennel; but he confines himself to the flags, tottering feebly up and down from the flesh-house to the entrance, as if crossed in love, or ruminating over a bad book on the Chester Cup; wasted and weakened, both in head and body, he heareth not, neither doth he see. That poor unsightly scarecrow is all that hungry scourge the distemper has left of a very promising puppy. Poor fellow! no pranks, now, a climax has soon been put to your youthful crimes. Those happy days, when you were at walk at Farmer Hedger's. No more shall you run off with the sporting paper, and make shreds of it before your guardian had read the last good thing with the Pytchley. No more have you the appetite, either to eat half of one of his new pair of top-boots just arrived from Northampton, or to swallow Mrs. Hedger's chignon, and cause her to stay away from church. No! nor are you equal to playing bouncing Molly, the dairy-maid, a practical joke, by bolting with the top of the churn while she is having a squint inside to see if the butter's coming. Ah! but every dog has his Day-" and Martin, too," as Molly said when she caught you that cropper with the blacking-bottle. But here we the door of the boiling-house, covered as it is with the snout of many a gallant one, over whom Whoo Whoop! has been sung as a requiem -even the coverts that held him, and the old homesteads that he has paid nocturnal visits to, joining in a rattling chorus, and sending the Whoo-o-o-o-whoop! resounding to and fro, again and again, o'er the sweet-going pastures of Northamptonshire. Now, we are in the midst of the pack, quite big enough in bone, very evenly matched, nicely pied, and looking all over like pace. But some are getting very inquisitive-rudely so, poking their noses here, there, and everywhere, like custom-house officers, as if we should be guilty of smuggling anything in. Get away, do! And "get away, do!" we shout again, as one plants his paws on our chest, and tries to give us a kiss, whilst others from behind keep giving us strong reminders of the collector's opinion of them in the morning, so that we can't say we are sorry when we have passed the ordeal, and are in the paddock. Governess, a stout, good-boned old bitch, is the first drawn, and was the first to speak to, and the last to leave the fox on the great Waterloo day. She is a varmint-looking, knowing old lady, and it is quite amusing to note the contempt with which she looks at some of the youngsters when they are trying to do something clever in the field. Sepoy, the next, a very fine lengthy hound, with a noble head, was shown at Wetherby, his companion, Damon, a lathy, racing-like hound, being the third best there. Columbine, the other out is a young bitch that was awarded the prize as the best-looking youngster in the pack, and if she is only half as good as she is handsome, the Captain will have nothing to complain of.

Let us now return to the stable and to Iris, who is a light bay, standing within a fraction sixteen hands two inches high, although he does not really look more than sixteen. He has a good head and neck, with strong shoulders, is deep in his rib, has capital loins and powerful droop

ing quarters, with very muscular arms and thighs. He is short from the knee to the ground, and with a capital inclination of the hocks. It is not, however, as a standstill horse that Iris is seen to advantage, but when going, under weight. It is then that his strong springy hind-leg action tells-say, with something more than fifteen stone on his back; in fact, with Mr. Thompson on him, without a particle of lumber about horse or rider, but all genuine bone and muscle. It is then-after seeing and hearing of Derby fields and Derby winners and great jockeys, ad nauseam-in a field of men and horses that can carry them, as the pair come bounding by you, making the earth quiver again, that you exclaim, "There's man and horse, if you like," and proclaim them on the spot the very King of the Centaurs. Mr. Thompson, over six feet, is a fine powerful horseman, with the best of hands; consequently, making horses with the best of mouths. He rides short, setting well back on his horse; and in the costume of the Pytchley, with a cap (not too high, like many) well on his head, and a capitally-cut, long-waisted scarlet coat, rather short in the skirt, he looks very varmint, and all over like going, but withal the gentleman. A grand turn-out is the Pytchley, as we saw it in the first advertised week of last November, with the Master on Iris in the midst of two-and-twenty couple of hounds, backed by Rook and Freeman as whips, and with Morris and a neat lad on Rainbow and Valeria as the Captain's second horsemen; all are in scarlet, with the white collar, the second horsemen having stirrup leathers, worn like shot-belts, over the shoulder, to distinguish them from the whips, a style that put us in mind of the yeoman prickers in the paintings of George the Third's time. We cannot call to mind the meet by name; but it was in the park before the mansion of a baronet not far from Brixworth. And right noble did it look; for certainly nothing adds more to the grandeur of our old country-houses than a well-appointed pack of foxhounds on parade in front. It is all so thoroughly English, and in keeping with the country-even to the barrel of home-brewed under yonder tree-that the lads from the neighbouring village and the grooms are swarming round. And may the day be far distant that our country gentry shall discontinue to vie with each other in spending their money like gentlemen, in supporting and cherishing so glorious, beneficial, and manly a pursuit. Time is up! and off they trot to draw the first covert, and no sooner are the hounds thrown in, than two-and-a-half brace of foxes fly in every direction. The Captain and his men having collected their forces in quick time are on to the one who has chosen the best line, and away they go. And long may Mr. Thompson continue to be with them; for thorough sportsman as he is, with a good word for everybody, we are sure there are hundreds who will join us in saying that no one would be more missed than the gallant Master of the Pytchley.

And alas! he will be missed. This sketch, it will be seen, wa written early in November, and our only postscript is not of so cheering a character. In consequence of the delicate health of Mrs. Anstruther Thompson the Pytchley will be in want of a Master at the end of this season. Mr. Thompson has shown some brilliant sport with them, and well earned the testimonial portrait with which it is the intention of his country to present him,