some bruise lotion, will bear a lot of knocking about. Nobody cares much if he gets a purler, and, if of the right "grit," he less than anybody else. His bones are not sufficiently set to break, he falls light, and is accustomed, after the fashion of our English playing fields, to "rough and tumble." All lads, however, are not fashioned in the Spartan mould, many are nervous and timid, requiring gentle handling, constant encouragement, and every device that may inspire confidence. With such a one the lessons must be short and on the quietest of ponies, undue straining and fatigue being carefully avoided-in a word, he must be "coaxed" into the saddle. An over modest, retiring disposition is often mistaken for timidity, but by judicious management, confidence in himself and his powers may be established. Many a youngster, who in his early days has been known as a "sap" and a "muff," has developed into a good, if not first-class horseman, and in the sterner realities of war has won an enviable reputation at the cannon's mouth. In either case there is, happily for the instructor, nothing to be unlearned, no bad habits to eradicate.

In these days of ceaseless travel, colonization, restlessness, and general going to and fro, men cannot say when they may not be called upon to ride great distances on half-broken horses. They may unexpectedly find themselves mounted on an Australian buck-jumping Brumby, careering on the South African veldt, bestriding a freshcaught South American mustang, climbing Judah's hills on some sure-footed Syrian, scouring "Hagar's desert, Ishmael's plains," carried by a true-bred Khailan of the Anezeh, or taking "a breather" over the Toorkomán steppes, rejoicing in the untiring powers of a staunch little Bedevi, the pride of some Yomut nomad. We Britishers might aptly be claimed as "the tribe of the wandering foot," for the

migratory instinct is dominant in the race. seeking "fresh woods and pastures new.'

We are ever

For those whose

fortune it is to live at home in ease, riding may be regarded as a luxury, and not a necessity; but to others-military men, Indian and other civilians, whose lot is cast beyond these pleasant shores, and Colonials—it is a something that must be learnt as thoroughly as possible.

I conclude my "preliminary" by quoting from one of the most perfect horsemen of bygone times, His Grace of Newcastle: "Those things which to you, perhaps, seem not very concise, but too prolix, might if shorter have left you in darkness; whereas you (will) have now a full sunshine to look on you with the splendour of the knowledge of horsemanship. This art does not consist only in study and mental contemplation, but in bodily practice likewise. You ought to be well informed that the art of horsemanship cannot be collected together in a proverb, in a short aphorism, or reduced to a syllogism, or brought into a little compass as the poesy of a ring; nor can there be one universal lesson, as many desire this art. For my part, I am very sure there is nothing universal in horsemanship, nor in anything else I know."

CHAPTER II.

CHOICE OF A HORSE.

IF a man merely desires to ride for amusement, for air and exercise, or for the mere "pomp and circumstance" of the thing, he can, always providing he has a long purse and a thoroughly dependable, competent judge at his elbow,

generally mount himself to perfection. Despite the unequal distribution of capital in this little world of ours, the "honest broker,” the man with the special knowledge, who makes his friends' or employers' interests his own, is a rarer article than even the big available balance at the bankers'. Still, this rara avis is not yet so extinct as the dodo. Many of us, far too many, alas! though suffering keenly from that auri sacra fames which we are never able to satisfy or even to take the edge off, are blessed with more dimes than dollars. To those who cannot at any moment draw a big cheque at sight, and who, like myself, want a very good horse for very little money, I mainly address myself.

When writing of hacks I do not use the term as indicative of inferiority, nor do I refer to the wheel-like actioned hackneys or roadsters of Norfolk, Yorkshire, and often of somewhere else beyond the eastern shores of these islands -a blend of the true old Marshland Shales stock with a blend of the carty element, hardened by an occasional dash of the thoroughbred to "revivify the flame and bid it burn afresh." When freely fortified by blood, these hackneys, those bred in the East Riding of Yorkshire especially, make excellent hacks for heavy and elderly gentlemen, with whom a good, quiet, weight-carrying cob, incapable of tripping, and able to walk five miles an hour, fair "heel and toe," without suspicion of run or amble is a pearl of price. But it is the thoroughbred, or very nearly so, cantering and galloping hack, not this conglomerate, that I have in my mind's eye, and that I would put the reader on.

To enjoy one's self thoroughly one must study one's ease. Captain Percy Williams's "bone-setting," liver-shaking, stirrupless rides from Hounslow to Hyde Park Corner, to which I call attention hereafter (p. 52), were excellent in their way, and strongly to be recommended as a means to the end he

aimed at, but what's wanted in Rotten Row or elsewhere in a perfect riding horse are good looks, together with quality, manners, and smooth easy action. Nicely reined in, he should go neatly, lightly, and quite within himself. Such a horse is deceptive as to pace, and goes much faster than he appears to do, stealing over the ground apparently without an effort. Placing his fore legs well in front of him, without any rounding or climb of the knee, no "fighting the air," the racing-like sweep of his powerful well-gathered haunches gives him a stride and pace that smothers any plodding half-bred labouring by his side. I would, for my own riding, fix the standard of such a horse at fifteen hands, and certainly no more; but I stand barely five feet eight and a half inches under the standard.

The horse and his rider should be proportionate in height, conformation, and power one to the other. To my eye a little, stubby, thickset man perched, "like a tom-tit on a round of beef," on a sixteen hands animated clothes-horse sort of an animal is a very offensive object to contemplate. A long, lanky, spindle-shanked rider bestriding a podgy little hog-maned cob, his spur-garnished heels almost touching the ground, is another object I abhor. A big burly fellow crushing a light-framed blood "tit" under his elephantine proportions is enough to make an angel weep. Picture the Claimant on a Shetland or New Forest pony, or General Tom Thumb outside the stalwart Harold of Calwich and Islington fame. Such incongruities must be tabooed.

My horse should be neat and pretty rather than handsome and of grand physique, beautifully balanced and moulded, a patrician from head to heel. I would have him of the high caste Arabian type, his head the index of his blue blood, a level croup set off by a switch tail carried away from his buttocks with that arch peculiar to the azeel horse of the