XXIX.
That soul of wit and humour, the Recorder,
Who ne'er lets slip a chance to crack his jest,
No sooner heard his borough's sad disorder,
Than gravely thus his judgment he expressed:
"Since Mr. Mayor has launched within our border
This avalanche of glaziers, I suggest,
His venerable name we henceforth class
In borough records as our Mayor de glass!"*

MORAL.
Ye men of peace, who rule our country boroughs,
Dispensing homespun justice to the lieges,
Take warning by the Mayor of—- 's sorrows
(It wasn't Axminster, nor yet Lyme Regis),
Lest on your brows you grave untimely furrows;
But leaving playthings only fit for sieges
To the brave captains of our Piques and Shannons,
Stick to the laws—and let alone the cannons!

* Mer de glace!

THE TRAINING-STABLE.

A long ten miles at last from the bustle of
the Line, let us stay for a moment on the brow
of this next hill to enjoy in quiet the glorious
view that breaks before us. Ridged in on
one of the highest ranges of England, what an
undulating sweep of soft green sward now meets
the eye! There may be some further boundary,
but it is all illimitable in the horizon, and
the sweet springy down-land flows on in an
ocean of unbroken plain. Little care would the
husbandman seem to have hereabouts, although,
in that hollow to the left, you note the comfortable
well-to-do homestead of Thistley Grove.
Yet farther away to the right, buried in the
clump of trees from which it takes its title,
is Elm Down—the high home of the
gazehound—famous for the Ladies Sylvia, Aurora,
and Diana, who manage their prancing palfreys
so gracefully, and talk so learnedly to the admiring
crowd of " turn," "twist," and "go-by."
Let your glance rest under that narrow belt of
firs just rising from another dip of the wavy
open, and tell us what you see there.
Nothing but some sheep? Then the lambs can
scarcely keep themselves warm this nipping
March morning; for, look again, and there
are some half a dozen of them off, as hard
as they can go! A capital pace, too, for now
that orderly methodical line is lost. And
the lambs, as they draw towards us, while—
somewhat scared—we stand aside to make
way for them, gradually develop into a string
of long-striding, carefully-clothed horses, snorting
in all the glow of speed and health as
they rush past, and coping in their strength
with the tiny lads who sit them so close and
hold them so hard. They are stopping,
however, as they reach the rest of the flock again,
and the shepherd might, perhaps, be kind enough
to let us have a more composed look at them.
Mr. Shepherd, who, in his well-cut jacket and
rifleman leggings, might be a sporting farmer or
fox-hunter in mufti, will be " only too happy" to
show us and tell us all he can. There would really
seem to be no secret about it; and were the laird
himself down—the owner of these thirty or forty
thorough-breds—he would only join our Mentor
in calling them over to us. Let us begin with
that company of five—the little lot, by-the-by,
being worth at the very least some twenty thousand
pounds. Mark that lazy careless self-
satisfied looking "old horse," as they fondly
call him, which leads the string—see how the
boy has actually to kick him along in his lolloping
walk, or even to strike at him sharply through
the heavy clothing with his ashen plant. But the
chesnut, as he honours you with just one sagacious
glance through that plaided cowl, says, as
plainly as can be, that he knows this is all child's
play, and that he can go away when he is really
wanted to go. He speaks but the simple truth,
for Barnoldby is the champion of his order,
the best horse in the world at this moment, who
has done more, and has done it better, and has
worn longer than anything else we should see
were our pilgrimage on the Thistle Down to
reach on to its utmost limit. The Derby,
the Royal Cup, the Great Two-year-old—even
Mr. Shepherd can scarcely trust his memory
to tell of all that low lengthy animal has
achieved. So we come on to the next in
order to him. "A three-year-old colt, sir,
that we call Aristophanes," is the simple
introduction, given with an air of indifference,
which we attempt so indifferently to echo
as to bring up an involuntary smile on the
countenance of our guide. And this is
Aristophanes! This resolute powerful bay, who
follows on with something in his air and manner of
indolent hauteur, is the great favourite for the
great race of the year. This is the horse that the
papers write about, the clubs talk about, and the
sporting world perpetually thinks about. Should
he be heard to cough, it might make a difference
of thousands. Were he to spring a sinew, or
throw a curb, or even to turn up that haughty
nostril of his over the next feed of corn, the
knowledge of such a calamity would convulse the
market. There are great men who would give
much for the opportunity to see what we shall
now, as Mr. Shepherd sends the illustrious five
down to the other end of the plantation, with
orders to " come along at a pretty good pace."

Now keep your eyes open, as old Barnoldby
leads off, almost mechanically, with the lad
bustling and threatening to force him out. But
he has done his duty ably enough already, and
our gaze centres, some few lengths off, on his
successor. Mr. Shepherd can bear it. "The
crack" is going sweetly, and the more he extends
himself, the more determinedly he pulls at his
rider, the more you like him. There is the long
even stealthy almost slow-seeming stride, like the
steady stroke of the accomplished swimmer, and
yet with what liberty he strikes out, how well
his hind-legs come under him, and with what
courage he faces the hill, as old Barnoldby,
having made a pace at last, appears wickedly
inclined to find out what the young one can
do. Their Two Thousand nag is behind him, a
strong favourite for the Spring Handicap is
fourth, and a lop-eared colonist of high character