of me, "that a matter of twelve visits
would make me caper up and down the
Row with the best on 'em."

I am naturally gratified at this splendid
vision, and begin the labour which is to
realise it, there and then. We are in a
barn-like structure opposite that portion
of the Hyde Park drive to which Mr.
Layard granted a supplementary road for
riding this summer. I am taught to mount,
a mild and worn-looking animal, grey, as
if from extreme age, being brought into
the centre of the barn for that purpose.
"Left foot first, sir, please, and always
see as your horse's head is to your left—
it prevents confusion as to the side you
put up on. Now then, left foot being
in the stirrup, a heasy swaying of the
body, first putting the bridle through the
fingers of the left hand, and a grasping the
hanimal's mane with the right, then a heasy
swaying upwards, bringing the right leg
quickly round as you come hup, and you fall
naterally into your seat. Object of having
your bridle fixed in left hand is that if
horse moves you have him in check; object
of right hand fast in his mane is that it
gives you purchase and assists you in
getting up. Now then, let's see you without
sterrups—sterrups, mind you, ain't nateral
things with orses, and every one should be
able to do without them. Now, then"
(in a voice of thunder to the horse),
"Walk!" I am on my way round before
I know it, and it reminds me of the camel-
ride I once had for twopence when visiting
the travelling menagerie from school. I
hear "Trot!" on other days, and "Canter!"
later, the stentorian tones in which both are
said being obeyed with embarrassing quickness
by the drilled steed; but though both
are terrifying, the first walk round remains
fixed on my memory. I hope meekly that my
liver will be frightened, and give up its
tormenting habits by the horror this walk
inspires. I am on all sides of the horse at once,
my knees come up, my head is on his head,
my arms are round his neck, my body
wriggles as if I were an uneasy-conscienced
snake. The sawdust floor bobs up and down
as if it were at sea, and the rough walls
seem to close in as if we were in the terrible
compressible prison-house and tomb
described by Edgar Poe. But I persevere
and have more lessons. "I must have them
stomachs in!" was one gallant tutor's
favourite mode of protesting against the
attitude assumed on horseback by another
stout pupil and myself; and the position of
elbows (I always seemed trying to scratch
my head with the back of mine), the grip
of knees, the pointing of toes—"drop a
bullet from a rider's hear, and it ought to
catch the hend of his boot, plumb!"—the
holding of bridles, the mounting and
dismounting, the stopping of runaways, were
all drummed into me by degrees. I took
the deepest interest in the last
accomplishment, for I foresaw being run away
with whenever I was alone, and devoted
two lessons to acquiring the art of "giving
him his head at first, and then pulling the
bit backards and forards like a saw;"
and parted with my friend the corporal
certificated as "only wanting a little
practice to ride first-rate!"

My horse bought, and a livery-stable
chosen, I became a Frankenstein in the
possession of a monster. Nominally his
owner, I was actually his slave. He was
the destined avenger of my sins. He
haunted me at unseasonable hours. He
was brought to the door with relentless
punctuality whenever my work made his
presence an intrusion and a reproach; and
he was tired or ill when I could have used
him profitably. He was always taking
balls, or developing strains, or requiring
embrocations. His pasterns, his fetlocks,
or what the groom called horribly his
"whirlbones" and "coffin-joints," were
out of order on an average three days a
week.

The riding trousers, cut so tight to
the leg, that I looked like a drab acrobat
from the waist downward, and which, on
the advice of another friend, I had been
measured for at the famous Gammon's—an
artist who constructs nothing else, and the
walls of whose studio are adorned with
sheaves of brown-paper trophies, showing
the shape of a great variety of royal and
noble legs, and each labelled "Tudor," or
"Plantagenet," or "Montmorency," in
black characters, and with the thick
upstroke Lord Palmerston desiderated for
the Civil Service, and showing, mind you,
how essential Gammon's cut in riding-
trousers is to people of blue blood—these
nether garments became tortures by
reason of my own engagements and my
horse's capricious health. Whenever I put
them on, something happened, requiring
me to appear anomalously in the haunts of
men.

This painful state of things could not last.
So far from my liver succumbing, it
became worse, and my spirits went down to
zero. At last I plucked up courage, and
sold my fatal steed for a fourth of his