TARTAR.

THE FAVOURITE SADDLE HORSE OF HER MAJESTY.

Engraved by J. W. ARCHER, from a Painting by S. PEARCE.

It is with sincere pleasure that we present a finished engraving from a charming picture of Her Majesty's honoured favourite, TARTAR. He certainly shows a consciousness of the royal favour conferred upon him,--both by his form and bearing; and, loyally and heartily, do we wish, that long may he proudly carry himself under the gracious sovereign,-who permits him to be her favourite horse. How perfect he is as a fine light compact graceful animal!-What beauty in his arched and crested neck!-What delicacy of head!—What armshocks and feet!-What beauty of back and quarters! Who would not rejoice at catching such a Tartar!

He is a dark brown horse, aged about ten years; in height 15 feet 1 inch. He is from "Erin's Green Isle,”—a land which never furnished a bad horse. Lord Crofton had the honour of being the breeder From his lordship's hands, he passed into those of the Marquis of Conyngham; who, discerning his fine powers and tractability,-and beauty; parted with him to those empowered to select for her Majesty's stable. He is now the Queen's petted saddle-horse; and his action is perfect!

Tartar is an educatel horse,-as all horses should be, that are admitted into such illustrious society. The position chosen in the picture, from which the engraving has been taken, is the Piafe. To those not versed in the exercises and spaces of the manége, we may be excused for mentioning that the Piafe is the raising alternately of the feet,— neither advancing nor retreating,-dancing, in fact, on one spot of ground; the purport of which is chiefly to throw the horse on his haunches, and to give suppleness of limb.

The back-ground is part of the interior of the Royal Riding House, at the Queen's Mews,-where that admirable and skilful horseman, Sir George Quentin, as equerry of the crown stable, prepares the horses for her Majesty's riding.

The well-formed and smartly, yet neatly appointed groom, is the portrait of that valuable yet scarce appendage to an establishment, a good servant. He will be recognised by those who know Her Majesty's out-riders.

APOLLO'S TOUT:

A PEEP AT TATTERSALL'S, AND THE DERBY HORSES.

EIGHT to one 'gainst Bay Middleton's Brother (the Muses
So chuse to record it) and no one refuses.

The death of poor Rat-trap to Boyce gives a damn'd blow,
For 'tis 15 to 1 against down-headed Flambeau !
John Scott with his lot (scot and lot) in dismay
Sees the wretched retreat of lame Erin-go-Bragh-
The retirement—a certain thing sooner or later,

Of that son of Velocipede, Accelerator;

And Zimmerman, liked it would seem all for fame's-sake,
Has gone into solitude, like his old namesake.

The Dey of Algiers is at 15 to one,

And promises well at less odds to be done!

Kremlin (who came in his carriage) at twenty,

Finds friends, aye and friends of some shrewdness, in plenty.

Of Westonian and Wapiti little is said,

They have legs, which the legs know of course by the head. And oh! who stands Lord Westminster? Don't they declare That a Hobler incessantly is the Lord Mayor !

(Pass'd-pass'd is that exquisite colt from Gulnare!)

Lord Albemarle's Tros would have seem'd a colt Liege ;
But I fear he can't stand (much less one) " ten years siege~"
Yet oh! were he well-were he right-I own I am
Inclin'd to risk something on this son of Priam!
Poor Bulwark, unless seven pounds are allow'd,
Would, instead of a conqueror, lurk in the crowd;
And Meunier, sore-throated, is scarce worth a verse,
With a mint of cash on him-he wins but a curse,
And Ferryman has cross'd the FORD-which is worse.
The Brother to Plenipo !-Poh! what's a brother,
Retaining no symptom of father or mother!

Oronoko or yet Chimborazo ?—is either

Worth a small bunch of thought? and can Echo name Æther? Thornhill's three fill with fav'ring winds all Hope's sails,

And Hugh Lupus asserts a high party in Wales!

From the east, from the west, from the south, from the north Come such well-train'd and exquisite blood-things of worth, That on the great day on the Downs, by the gods!

I expect to see changeable winds" in the odds!

MERCURY JUN.

THE HANDLEY CROSS HOUNDS.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Now, Pigg, let you and I have a quiet bye-day' to ourselves this afternoon, and give the 'ounds a good trashing in Newtimber-woodthere are lots of foxes, and if we can manage to kill or even chop one, it will do the 'ounds good and make them steady for to-morrow," observed our witty master, Mr. Jorrocks, to his border huntsman, on the morning of the of March.

"Yeas, sir," replied Pigg, always ready for a hunt.

"It's a fine morning," continued Mr. Jorrocks, turning his head thoughtfully towards the window, and looking at the sun brightening the leaves of a large Portugal laurel; "but, somehow or other," continued he with a shake of his head, "I doesn't know wot to say of the weather. Gabriel Junks seems ill at ease, and sore troubled in his spirit-quite unquiet in fact. He has been on the wall, and off the wall; then in the garden, then on the stable top; and, above all, he awoke me with a piercing and most momentous scream. I should'nt be surprised if we were going to have weather-wind, or rain, or snow, or sleet, or summut nasty, for Gabriel is werry cute, and my corns are on his side. Howsomever, if we gets an 'unt to-day it will always be so much out of the fire, and we shall owe ourselves less when we die."

A little after one o'clock Pigg and his master stole quietly out of Handley Cross by the back streets, telling those whose inquiries they deigned to answer, that they were merely going to exercise. Mr. Jorrocks of course rode first, mounted on Arterxerxes, and Pigg acted whipper-in on the road, riding young Hyson. Mr. Jorrocks's conversation was short and miscellaneous, divided between his servant and the hounds. "Go on, Rachael," said he; "you are always 'anging back-ware 'oss, I say! Pigg, did you tell Binjimin about my tops? Yooi, Warrior old Bouy, you'r the 'ound for a cold scent. Have you had a shy at the cold beef, Pigg? Now get on, H'affable.-Wonder when the butcher means to kill another calf. That Dexterous 'ound is lameshook in the shoulder, I thinks-should have been left at home Howsomever it can't be 'elped-and vot can't be cured must be endured. Now pay the gate. Who made those breeches ?"

A five miles' trot along the Penshurst road brought them to Windmill Hill, from whence a bridle road branches off to Newtimber-wood, a cover of some hundred and fifty acres, composed partly of old oak and partly of plantation and hazel copse. The afternoon was fine and mild-scarce a breath of air stirred the few straggling leaves that yet