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Updated: July 4, 2025
Not an immensely large, or unusually powerful horse, but with race in every line of him; steel-gray in color, darkening well at all points, shining and soft as satin, with the firm muscles quivering beneath at the first touch of excitement to the high mettle and finely-strung organization; the head small, lean, racer-like, "blood" all over; with the delicate taper ears, almost transparent in full light; well ribbed-up, fine shoulders, admirable girth and loins; legs clean, slender, firm, promising splendid knee action; sixteen hands high, and up to thirteen stone; clever enough for anything, trained to close and open country, a perfect brook jumper, a clipper at fencing; taking a great deal of riding, as anyone could tell by the set-on of his neck, but docile as a child to a well-known hand such was Forest King with his English and Eastern strains, winner at Chertsey, Croydon, the National, the Granby, the Belvoir Castle, the Curragh, and all the gentleman-rider steeple-chases and military sweepstakes in the kingdom, and entered now, with tremendous bets on him, for the Gilt Vase.
Pointing to one disreputable-looking ruffian about to mount, he observed: 'That fellow has no pretensions to be a gentleman-rider. The farmer caught him by the collar of his coat and the seat of his breeches, and shook him as a mastiff would a rat. 'Mind yourself, small man, said he, 'that's a recognised gentleman in these parts.
Murmuring which multiplicity of directions, for Rake to catch as he could, in the softest and sleepiest of tones, Bertie Cecil drank a glass of Curacoa, put his tall, lithe limbs indolently off his sofa, and surrendered himself to the martyrdom of cuirass and gorget, standing six feet one without his spurred jacks, but light-built and full of grace as a deer, or his weight would not have been what it was in gentleman-rider races from the Hunt steeple-chase at La Marche to the Grand National in the Shires.
To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left.
The King chafed under the taste of that "painted quid"; he felt a nausea as he swallowed, and he turned his handsome head with a strange, pathetic astonishment in his glance. At that moment a familiar hand stroked his mane, a familiar foot was put into his stirrup, Bertie threw himself into saddle; the lightest weight that ever gentleman-rider rode, despite his six-foot length of limb.
Did you ever go to a gentleman-rider race where the jocks were not at least an hour behind time, and considered themselves, on the whole, very tolerably punctual?
The victorious gentleman-rider was, strange to say, an officer of infantry an unprecedented thing in the annals of this sport.
The victorious gentleman-rider was, strange to say, an officer of infantry an unprecedented thing in the annals of this sport.
The victorious gentleman-rider was, strange to say, an officer of infantry an unprecedented thing in the annals of this sport.
Though the gentleman-rider in the picture may be touchingly fond of his steeplechase horse, it is unpardonably bad form for him to make an exhibition of his affection while going over the brush in plain view of numbers of total strangers.
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