all, merely the Prose Essays of Horsemanship. The Poetry of it is only to be enjoyed in gallopping along, alone, without end, object, or aim, over Salisbury-Plain, or the Downs at Brighton.-I speak now with reference to us Europeans. To enjoy this poetry in its highest, and what must for ever remain to us its ideal state, his propably given to the wild Arab valone, when he is flying, without saddle or briddle, across his native Desert. I think Lord Byron somewhere mentions having met with an -Arab, who described this kind of feeling to him. By the bye, and the reader may probably consider this as one of the high-leaps at which I hinted in the beginning, perhaps the most satisfactory reason that can be given, why Lord Byron is the first of our English poets, may be found in the fact of his lordship being, like Major Sturgeon, "the only one in the corps who can ride."-If Mr. Wordsworth's Ex-cursion had been performed on horseback, as Mazeppa's was, he would have got over the same space in half the time; which is all that is wanting to make that work one of the > noblest productions of the English Muse. In fact, what is all poetry : but "Prose on horseback!" But my subject-(as my favourite mare sometimes does and I like her hthe better for it,)-is running away "with me.-As I intend to favour the reader with an interminable series of these articles, I had, perhaps, better sat once follow the Giant Molino's ad-vice-Il faut commencer au commence-ment. To go back, then, to the first year of my life-(for 1 date my life from the time when I began to ride, and am, therefore, at this present writing, about fifteen years of age)I shall never forget the feelings of tri--umphant delight which unexpectedly came over me, when, after I had had a few lessons, I found that I could put my hand into my pocket, and take out my handkercheif, without stopping my horse-which I had several times before attempted unsuccessfully! There is another event-not quite so pleasant, but not to be passed over, because associated with this delightful period. I was one day bending my body too forward, and the horse-as in duty bound-threw up his head in my face, and nearly dashed all my front teeth out. My riding-master-(It seems a thing of yesterday!)-instead of commiserating me-pitiable object as I was with the blood streaming through the fingers that I had clapt up to my mouth to keep my teeth in!. quietly observed, as he turned away to another scholar," that's just as it should be, Sir!-your head had no business there!'"-I have held it up ever since. One more anecdote connected with this period, and then I'll be a man, and put away childish things." The first time I ever rode out by myself was upon a cunning old mare, nearly double my own age, which had been lent me by a friend. She knew whom she had to deal with, and took her measures accordingly. I had ridden her several times before; but never alone. A superabundant gaiety of temperament was her foible; but that evening she chose to be particularly sedate; and this-together with the exultation arising from having been considered worthy to be trusted alone had raised my spirits and my confidence to an unusual height; and I generously determined, that the cause of all my delights should, at least, partake them with me.-So I stopped in a green lane, and stood by her side while she cropped the short sweet grass that grew at our feet.Little did I think, as she stood quietly munching, and at intervals looking about her, what wicked thoughts were working in her head. I kept hold of the bridle for the first minute, and then dropped it on her neckstill standing by her side. At length, betrayed by her cunning and my own confidence, I sauntered to a few yards distance, still keeping a wary eye upon her, though pretending, both to her and to myself, that I was quite careless and secure about her. The old jade-(I'm seldom tempted to call names-but I really think that such conduct deserves the utmost degree of reprobation-and moreover I'm satisfied that a young mare would have scorned to take such a mean advantage-to say nothing of the in gratitude!)—the old jade watched her opportunity, and all of a sudden, with an insolent toss of her head, For a minute or two I stood like one entranced; but when I recover-ed, the consternation that seized upon me as I saw her cantering away across the meadows, and the blank despair that came over me when she disappeared, are not to be described. My heart sinks within me even now, by the mere force of memory and imagination. It was nothing less than tragic. this most delightful of all talkers, living or dead-not excepting Mr. Coleridge, who is at present both.But Montaigne was a Frenchman, and consequently had no notion of what we call comfort. To live on horse-back, supposing it were practicable, would probably at once disprove the favourite axiom of all pedestrian sages from the beginning of the world up to the present daythat perfect happiness was not made for human beings. But even if it were practicable to live on horse-back, it would, perhaps, be wise to make a provision against dying there. To die in a hard gallop, or a swinging trot, precludes all idea of comfort, or even respectability. If, indeed, we could ride out of one world into the other, it would be different: but this does not seem feasible. And yet they say, that if you put a beggar on horse-back he'll ride to the devil." This proverb, though it probably somewhat exaggerates the fact, is highly characteristic of the state of feeling induced by riding. Think, too, of “riding to the devil!"-How much more satisfactory, and at the same time how much more safe, than going thither in Charon's steam-boat, lighted with sulphurated hydrogen gas! No circumstance of my life, either before or since, ever impressed itself upon my mind so vividly as this did and yet my life has been since then "a strange eventful history."-It is fifteen years ago; and yet I could at this moment go to the place, and fix my foot upon the very spot where she started from. I can see her now, in the very position in which she stood the moment before. The sequel of the story is not worth relating. She was brought to me, safe and sound, about an hour after, by some countrymen who had caught her. I was too delighted to ask how For where, but mounted and rode There is another opinion of Monhome, I verily believe without say-taigne's respecting riding, with which ing a cross word to her on the sub- I most unequivocally agree, viz. that -ject.-May I not claim a little credit those reflections are always the best for this placability of disposition?- which we make while on horse-back. for where is he, or even she, who In furtherance of this view-I have would have done the like?-But the been thinking, whether it would not culprit looked repentant; and that be possible to invent a pen that should was enough for me.-Pardon these write-as Packwood's razors will egotisms, gentle reader!-or rather shave--on horse-hack at full speed. If rider or rather both, (for I take it this were but practicable, oh what a for granted that you are both, or you set of Articles should these not be! It would not have accompanied me thus should go hard but I would "Witch far)--but when a man is talking about the world with noble horsemanship!" his boyhood-that part of his boy- And they should all appear in THE hood, too, which was spent on horse- LONDON MAGAZINE, if it were only back-what can be expected of him because the Editor of that Work is .but egotism? fond of riding." He too, is an Equestrian."* Indeed, one might swear he knows how to ride, by his style of writing. At least when he is writing con amore. Then, he goes as a horse does on turf-making every step tell, and leave its mark, as he bounds To take another wide leap, from the beginning of life to the end, Montaigne somewhere says, that he should like to die on horse-back much better than in bed. For once I am reluctantly compelled to differ from * I, too, was an Arcadian.-Greek Epitaph. 66 cur As I foresee that, in the said gentleman's Editorial discretion, he is very likely to strike out the foregoing passage; and as I should not like to see this Article in any respect tailed of its fair proportions;" I fairly warn him, that if he does strike it out, I shall consider that his fastidiousness arises more from the truth of the last sentence than from what he will be pleased to call the compliment of that which precedes it: for he would be more loath than any man I know to be thought capable of writing prose on horse-back" unintentionally. If I now abruptly terminate this first paper, it is not because either I or my steed-that is to say, my Article-require to take breath; but I think it likely that the readers of this hitherto Pedestrian Magazine, not having been accustomed to be carried along in a canter, may desire a relief of this kind. Neither do I think it needful to apologize for the excursive nature of the path-or rather, the no-path-which I have taken, or may take hereafter. I fairly warned the reader in the beginning what he had to expect. An iron-rail-way may have its advantages; but it is not exactly the place one would chuse for an afternoon's ride. It is a contrivance well calculated for the removal of heavy weights by the application of an inferior force; but it is too hard, level, and uniform to suit the disposition of a steed or rider of any taste and spirit. In a road of this kind an old brokendown hack may do the work of half a dozen young vigorous horses on a common-road. But then, what is the work when it is done, but the removal of so much stones and rubbish?-Shall I confess that I have often participated in the wicked satisfaction of a set of mischief-loving young urchins, whom I have seen clap a pebble in the wheel track of a road of this kind, and then get behind the hedge and watch the coming of the next cargo? At length it approaches, in a dozen little machines drawn by one great horse, and looking like the whole waggon-train of Lilliput, hooked together, and drawn along by Gulliver.-Mean while the giggles from behind the hedge are beginning to be audible. At last, the first waggon arrives at the fatal spot bump goes the wheel over the ledge which kept it in its track-the whole procession stops--peals of unrepressed laughter burst from the concealed group-and the lumbering waggoner growls out his indignation, without being within reach of the cause of it. Stay, I'll preach to thee !—Shakspeare. Thus are the schemes of science, the labours of industry, and the powers of brute strength, frustrated and brought to naught, by one little pebble, placed by the hand of one little boy!-and thus does the same event furnish at once reflection for the sage, amusement for the idler, and laughter for the child!! I recommend the above profound reflection as an admirable text for the first IRON-RAIL-WAY WRITER, who may happen to be at leisure to take it in hand. And I strongly recommend the worthy proprietors of this Magazine to purchase the fruit of the said text, (even though it should cost them twenty guineas a sheet)—and send it as a present to any rival work against which they may have a particular spite-if such there be. In the meantime, I bid the reader farewell till we meet again. MAZEPPA. THE SHIRT OF THE HAPPY MAN (Suggested by a Novella of Casti.) AN Eastern Prince, like Princes of the West, Abused his slaves, and tweaked the Eunuchs' noses, To kill ennui, which worst of mortal foes is; Grave was the question-how to save the state? Nothing was wanting but a little sense. This to supply they MIRTHVUN called,―rever'd He paus'd, while rose a deaf'ning cry of "Hear!" Amongst the remedies which the stars disclose Impell'd thereto solely by loyalty; And now I have the honour to suggest Th' expedient star-hinted as the best: Some difficulty, true, attends the plan, But zeal, like yours and mine, will never mind it,— "Tis this we want-pray who knows where to find it?" VOL. III. E Loud was the cheering when he clos'd his speech, At this loud laughing, mixed with cries of "Order!" (Unlike our honourables, who keep before 'em A wary member, bearing aspect meek, Cheers rose again, and "MIRTHVUN!" was the cry, Possess'd of magic ring, which age and youth Could he have cherish'd in our favour'd Europe?) And read the Zodiac like the Gazette: MIRTHVUN's long beard was by the pop'lace priz'd— Which these Court-scholars term'd a rara avis, The sage declar'd that he had found a wight, "Not got the Shirt!-by Heavens 'tis barefaced treason!" My loyal Lords," exclaim'd the smiling MIRTHVUN: |