Transcriber's Note: The 15 pages of advertisements preceding the title page have been moved to the end of this book.

LADIES ON HORSEBACK.

LEARNING, PARK-RIDING, AND HUNTING, WITH HINTS UPON COSTUME,
AND NUMEROUS ANECDOTES.

BY

MRS. POWER O'DONOGHUE
(Nannie Lambert).

AUTHORESS OF "THE KNAVE OF CLUBS,"
"HORSES AND HORSEMEN," "GRANDFATHER'S HUNTER,"
"ONE IN TEN THOUSAND," "SPRING LEAVES,"
"THOUGHTS ON THE TALMUD," ETC., ETC.

LONDON:
W. H. ALLEN & CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.

1881.

[All rights reserved.]

LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. H. ALLEN AND CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.

TO MY FRIEND
ALFRED E. T. WATSON, ESQ.,
AUTHOR OF "SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD," ETC.,
TO WHOM I OWE
MUCH OF MY SUCCESS AS A WRITER,
THESE PAGES
ARE GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED.

INTRODUCTION.

In preparing this work for the press, I may state that it is composed chiefly of a series of papers on horses and their riders, which appeared a short time since in the columns of The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News. How they originally came to be written and published may not prove uninteresting.

One day, in the middle of February 1880, a goodly company, comprising many thousands of persons, assembled upon the lawn of a nobleman's residence in the vicinity of Dublin; ostensibly for the purpose of hunting, but in reality to gaze at and chronicle the doings of a very distinguished foreign lady, who had lately come to our shores. I was there, of course; and whilst we waited for the Imperial party, I amused myself by watching the moving panorama, and taking notes of costume and effect. Everybody who could procure anything upon which to ride, from a racehorse to a donkey, was there that day, and vehicles of all descriptions blocked up every available inch of the lordly avenues and well-kept carriage-drives.

There is for me so great an attraction in a number of "ladies on horseback" that I looked at them, and at them alone. One sees gentlemen riders every hour in the day, but ladies comparatively seldom; every hunting morning finds about a hundred and fifty mounted males ready for the start, and only on an average about six mounted females, of whom probably not more than the half will ride to hounds. This being the case, I always look most particularly at that which is the greater novelty, nor am I by any means singular in doing so.

On the day of which I write, however, ladies on horseback were by no means uncommon: I should say there were at least two hundred present upon the lawn. Some rode so well, and were so beautifully turned out, that the most hypercritical could find no fault; but of the majority—what can I say? Alas! nothing that would sound at all favourable. Such horses, such saddles, such rusty bridles, such riding-habits, such hats, whips, and gloves; and, above all, such coiffures! My very soul was sorry. I could not laugh, as some others were doing. I felt too melancholy for mirth. It seemed to me most grievous that my own sex (many of them so young and beautiful) should be thus held up to ridicule. I asked myself was it thus in other places; and I came to London in the spring, and walked in the Row, and gazed, and took notes, and was not satisfied. Perhaps I was too critical. There was very much to praise, certainly, but there was also much wherewith to find fault. The style of riding was bad; the style of dressing was incomparably worse. The well-got-up only threw into darker shadow the notable defects visible in the forms and trappings of their less fortunate sisterhood. I questioned myself as to how this could be best remedied. Remonstrance was impossible—advice equally so. Why could not somebody write a book for lady equestrians, or a series of papers which might appear in the pages of some fashionable magazine or journal, patronised and read by them? The idea seemed a good one, but I lacked time to carry it out, and so it rested in embryo for many months. Last June, whilst recovering from serious illness, my cherished project returned to my mind. Forbidden to write, and too weak to hold a pen, I strove feebly with a pencil to trace my thoughts upon odd scraps of paper, which I thrust away in my desk without any definite idea as to what should eventually become of them. In July, whilst staying at a country house near Shrewsbury, I one day came upon these shorthand jottings, and, having leisure-time upon my hands, set to work and put them into form. A line to the Editor of The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, with whom, I may state, I had had no previous acquaintance, brought an immediate reply, to send my work for consideration. I did so; called upon him by appointment when I came a few days later to London; made all arrangements in a three-minutes interview; and the first of my series of papers appeared shortly after. That they were successful, far beyond their deserts, is to me a proud boast. On their conclusion numerous firms negotiated with me for the copyright: with what result is known; and here to my publishers I tender my best thanks.

In arranging now these writings—put together and brought before the public at a time when I had apparently many years of active life before me—it is to me a melancholy reflection that the things of which they treat are gone from my eyes,—for alas! I can ride no more. Never again may my heart be gladdened with the music of the hounds, or my frame invigorated by the exercise which I so dearly loved. An accident, sudden and unexpected, has deprived me of my strength, and left me to speak in mournful whispers of what was for long my happiest theme. Yet why repine where so much is left? It is but another chapter in our life's history! We love and cling to one pursuit—and it passes from us; then another absorbs our attention,—it, too, vanishes; and so on—perhaps midway to the end—until the "looking back" becomes so filled with saddened memories, that the "looking forward" is alone left. And so we turn our wistful eyes where they might never have been directed, had the prospect behind us been less dark.

A few more words, and I close my preliminary observations and commence my subject. I cannot but be aware, from the nature of the correspondence which has flowed in upon me, that although far the greater number of my readers have agreed with me and entirely coincided in my views, not a few have been found to cavil. Let not such think that I am oblivious of their good intentions because I remain unconvinced by their arguments, and still prefer to maintain my own opinions, which I have not ventured to set forth without mature deliberation, and the most substantial reasons for holding them in fixity of tenure. I have spent some considerable time in turning over in my mind the advisability, or otherwise, of publishing, as a sort of appendix to this volume, a selection from the letters which were printed in The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News with reference to my writings in that journal. After much deliberation I have decided upon suffering the entire number, with a few trifling exceptions, to appear. They only form a very small proportion of the voluminous correspondence with which the Editor and myself were favoured; but, such as they are, I give them—together with my replies,—not merely because they set forth the views and impressions of various persons upon topics of universal interest, but because I conceive that a large amount of useful information may be gleaned from them, and they may also serve to amuse my lady readers, who will doubtless be interested in the numerous queries which I was called upon to answer. Whether or not I have been able to fight my battles and maintain my cause, must be for others to determine.

I likewise subjoin a little paper on "Hunting in Ireland"—also already published—which brought me many letters: some of them from persons whose word should carry undoubted weight, fully coinciding in and substantiating my views with regard to the cutting up of grass-lands; whilst further on will be found my article entitled "Hunting in America," originally published in Life, and copied from that journal into so many papers throughout the kingdom, and abroad, that it is now universally known, and cannot be here presented in the form of a novelty,—but is given for the benefit of those who may not have chanced to meet with it, and for whom the subject of American sports and pastimes may happen to possess interest.

N. P. O'D.

CONTENTS.

LADIES ON HORSEBACK.

PART I.

LEARNING.

CHAPTER I.

A POPULAR ERROR.‌—‌EXCELLENCE IN RIDING ATTAINABLE WITHOUT ANY YOUTHFUL KNOWLEDGE OF THE ART.‌—‌THE EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA.‌—‌HER PROFICIENCY.‌—‌HER PALACE.‌—‌HER OCCUPATIONS.‌—‌HER DISPOSITION.‌—‌HER THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS. ‌—‌THE AGE AT WHICH TO LEARN.‌—‌COURAGE INDISPENSABLE.‌—‌TASTE A NECESSITY.

It is my belief that hints to ladies from a lady, upon a subject which now so universally occupies the female mind—hints, not offered in any cavilling nor carping spirit, but with an affectionate and sisterly regard for the interests of those addressed—cannot fail to be appreciated, and must become popular. Men write very well for men, but in writing for us ladies they cannot, however willing, enter into all the little delicacies and minutiæ of our tastes and feelings, and so half the effect is lost.

I do not purpose entering upon any discussion, nor, indeed, touching more than very lightly upon the treatment and management of the horse. A subject so exhaustive lies totally outside the limits of my pen, and has, moreover, been so ably treated by men of knowledge and experience, as to render one word further respecting the matter almost superfluous. I shall therefore content myself with surmising that the horses with which we may have to do throughout these remarks—be they school-horses, roadsters, or hunters—are at least sound, good-tempered, and properly trained. Their beauty and other attributes we shall take for granted, and not trouble ourselves about.

And now, in addressing my readers, I shall endeavour to do so as though I spoke to each separately, and so shall adopt the term "you," as being at once friendly and concise.

My subject shall be divided into three heads. First the acquirement of the equestrian art; second, road and park riding; third, hunting; with a few hints upon the costume, &c. required for each, and a slight sprinkling of anecdote here and there to enliven the whole.

I shall commence by saying that it is a mistake to imagine that riding, in order to be properly learnt, must be begun in youth: that nobody can excel as a horsewoman who has not accustomed herself to the saddle from a mere child. On the contrary some of the finest équestriennes the world has ever produced have known little or nothing of the art until the spring-time of their life was past. Her Imperial Majesty the Empress of Austria, and likewise her sister the ex-Queen of Naples, cared nothing about riding until comparatively late in life. I know little, except through hearsay, of the last-named lady's proficiency in the saddle, but having frequently witnessed that of the former, and having also been favoured with a personal introduction at the gracious request of the Empress, I can unhesitatingly say that anything more superb than her style of riding it would be impossible to conceive. The manner in which she mounts her horse, sits him, manages him, and bears him safely through a difficult run, is something which must be seen to be understood. Her courage is amazing. Indeed, I have been informed that she finds as little difficulty in standing upon a bare-backed steed and driving four others in long reins, as in sitting quietly in one of Kreutzman's saddles. In the circus attached to her palace at Vienna she almost daily performs these feats, and encourages by prizes and evidences of personal favour many of the Viennese ladies who seek to emulate her example. There has been considerable discussion respecting the question of the Empress's womanliness, and the reverse. Ladies have averred—oh, jealous ladies!—that she is not womanly; that her style of dressing is objectionable, and that she has "no business to ride without her husband!" These sayings are all open to but one interpretation; ladies are ever envious of each other, more especially of those who excel. The Empress is not only a perfect woman, but an angel of light and goodness. Nor do I say this from any toadyism, nor yet from the gratitude which I must feel for her kindly favour toward myself. I speak as I think and believe. Blessed with a beauty rarely given to mortal, she combines with it a sweetness of character and disposition, a womanly tenderness, and a thoughtful and untiring charity, which deserve to gain for her—as they have gained—the hearts as well as the loving respect and reverence of all with whom she has come in contact.

I was pleased to find, whilst conversing with her, that many of my views about riding were hers also, and that she considered it a pity—as I likewise do—that so many lady riders are utterly spoilt by pernicious and ignorant teaching. I myself am of opinion that childhood is not the best time to acquire the art of riding. The muscles are too young, and the back too weak. The spine is apt to grow crooked, unless a second saddle be adopted, which enables the learner to sit on alternate days upon the off-side of the horse; and to this there are many objections. The best time to learn to ride is about the age of sixteen. All the delicacy to which the female frame is subject during the period from the thirteenth to the fifteenth year has then passed away, and the form is vigorous and strong, and capable of enduring fatigue.

I know it to be a generally accepted idea that riding is like music and literature—the earlier it is learnt the better for the learner, and the more certain the proficiency desired to be attained. This is an entirely erroneous opinion, and one which should be at once discarded. I object, as a rule, to children riding. They cannot do so with any safety, unless put upon horses and ponies which are sheep-like in their demeanour; and from being accustomed to such, and to none other, they are nervous and frightened when mounted upon spirited animals which they feel they have not the strength nor the art to manage, and, being unused to the science of controlling, they suffer themselves to be controlled, and thus extinguish their chance of becoming accomplished horsewomen. I know ladies, certainly, who ride with a great show of boldness, and tear wildly across country after hounds, averring that they never knew what fear meant: why should they—having ridden from the time they were five years old? Very probably, but the bravery of the few is nothing by which to judge of a system which is, on the whole, pernicious. It is less objectionable for boys, because their shoulders are not apt to grow awry by sitting sideways, as little girls' do; nor are they liable to hang over upon one side; nor have they such delicate frames and weakly fingers to bring to the front. Moreover, if they tumble off, what matter? It does them all the good in the world. A little sticking-plaister and shaking together, and they are all right again. But I confess I don't like to see a girl come off. Less than a year ago a sweet little blue-eyed damsel who was prattling by my side as she rode her grey pony along with me, was thrown suddenly and without warning upon the road. The animal stumbled—her tiny hands lacked the strength to pull him together—she was too childish and inexperienced to know the art of retaining her seat. She fell! and the remembrance of uplifting her, and carrying her little hurt form before me upon my saddle to her parents' house, is not amongst the brightest of my memories.

We will assume, then, that you are a young lady in your sixteenth year, possessed of the desire to acquire the art of riding, and the necessary amount of courage to enable you to do so. This latter attribute is an absolute and positive necessity, for a coward will never make a horsewoman. If you are a coward, your horse will soon find it out, and will laugh at you; for horses can and do laugh when they what is usually termed "gammon" their riders. Nobody who does not possess unlimited confidence and a determination to know no fear, has any business aspiring to the art. Courage is indispensable, and must be there from the outset. All other difficulties may be got over, but a natural timidity is an insurmountable obstacle.

A cowardly rider labours under a two-fold disadvantage, for she not only suffers from her own cowardice, but actually imparts it to her horse. An animal's keen instinct tells him at once whether his master or his servant is upon his back. The moment your hands touch the reins the horse knows what your courage is, and usually acts accordingly.

No girl should be taught to ride who has not a taste, and a most decided one, for the art. Yet I preach this doctrine in vain; for, all over the world, young persons are forced by injudicious guardians to acquire various accomplishments for which they have no calling, and at which they can never excel. It is just as unwise to compel a girl to mount and manage a horse against her inclination, as it is to force young persons who have no taste for music to sit for hours daily at a piano, or thrust pencils and brushes into hands unwilling to use them. A love for horses, and an earnest desire to acquire the art of riding, are alike necessary to success. An unwilling learner will have a bad seat, a bad method, and clumsy hands upon the reins; whereas an enthusiast will seem to have an innate facility and power to conquer difficulties, and will possess that magic sense of touch, and facile delicacy of manipulation, which go so far toward making what are termed "good hands,"—a necessity without which nobody can claim to be a rider.

CHAPTER II.

LEARNER'S COSTUME.‌—‌THE BEST TEACHER.‌—‌YOUR BRIDLE.‌—‌YOUR SADDLE.‌—‌ YOUR STIRRUP.‌—‌DANGER FROM "SAFETY-STIRRUP."‌—‌A TERRIBLE SITUATION. ‌—‌LEARNING TO RIDE WITHOUT ANY SUPPORT FOR THE FOOT.

Having now discussed your age, your nerve, and your taste, we shall say a few words about your costume as a learner. Put on a pair of strong well-made boots; heels are not objectionable, but buttons are decidedly so, as they are apt to catch in the stirrup and cause trouble. Strong chamois riding-trousers, cloth from the hip down, with straps to fasten under the boots, and soft padding under the right knee and over the left, to prevent the friction of the pommels, which, to a beginner, generally causes much pain and uneasiness. A plain skirt of brown holland, and any sort of dark jacket, will suit your purpose quite well, for you are only going to learn; not to show off—yet. Your hat—any kind will do—must be securely fastened on, and your hair left flowing, for no matter how well you may fancy you have it fastened, the motion of the horse will shake it and make it feel unsteady, and the very first hairpin that drops out, up will go your hand to replace it, and your reins will be forgotten. As soon as you have put on a pair of strong loose gloves, and taken a little switch in your hand, you are ready to mount.

The nicest place in which you can learn is a well-tanned riding-school or large green paddock, and the nicest person to teach you is a lady or gentleman friend, who will have the knowledge and the patience to instruct you. Heaven help the learner who is handed over to the tender mercies of John, the coachman, or Jem, the groom! Servants are rarely able to ride a yard themselves, and their attempt at teaching is proportionately lame. Your horse having been led out, your attendant looks to his girthing, &c., as stable servants are not always too particular respecting these necessary matters.

The pleasantest bridle in which to ride is a plain ring-snaffle. Few horses will go in it; but, remember, I am surmising that yours has been properly trained. By riding in this bridle you have complete control over the movements of your horse—can, in fact, manage him with one hand, and you have the additional advantage of having fewer leathers to encumber and embarrass your fingers. A beginner is frequently puzzled to distinguish between the curb and the snaffle when riding with a double rein, and mistaking one for the other, or pulling equally at both, is apt to cause the horse much unnecessary irritation. It is lamentable to see the manner in which grown men and women, who ought to know so much better, tug and strain at their horses' mouths with an equal pull upon both reins, when riding, as is the custom, in a bit and bridoon. Perhaps of the two they draw the curb the tighter. It is not meant for cruelty—they do not appear to be aware that it is cruel: but there is no greater sign of utter ignorance. Horses are not naturally vicious, and very few of them who have had any sort of fair-play in training, really require a curb, or will go as well or pleasantly upon it as if ridden in a snaffle-bridle.

Your saddle is another most important point. Never commence, be your age ever so tender, by riding upon a pad. Accustom yourself from the beginning to the use of a properly constructed saddle, made as straight as a board, seat perfectly level, and scarcely any appearance of a pommel upon the off-side. A leaping-head, or what is commonly termed a third crutch, is, in my opinion, indispensable. To procure a saddle such as I describe you must have it made to order, for those of the present day are all made with something of a dip, which is most objectionable. I do not like the appearance of much stitching about a saddle. It has always appeared to me absurd to see the amount of elaborate embroidery which every old-fashioned saddle carries upon the near flap. Nothing could be more unnecessary than an outlay of labour upon a portion of the article which is always concealed beneath the rider's right leg. There might be some sense, although very little, in decorating the off-side and imparting to it something of an ornamental appearance; but in my opinion there cannot be too much simplicity about everything connected with riding appointments. A plainness, amounting even to severity, is to be preferred before any outward show. Ribbons, and coloured veils, and yellow gloves, and showy flowers are alike objectionable. A gaudy "get up" (to make use of an expressive common-place) is highly to be condemned, and at once stamps the wearer as a person of inferior taste. Therefore avoid it. Let your saddle be, like your personal attire, remarkable only for its perfect freedom from ornament or display. Have it made to suit yourself—neither too weighty, nor yet too small—and if you want to ride with grace and comfort, desire that it be constructed without one particle of the objectionable dip. There is a very old-established and world-noted firm in Piccadilly—Peat & Co.—where you can obtain an article such as I describe, properly made, and of durable materials, at quite a moderate cost. I can say, speaking from experience, that no trouble will be spared to afford you satisfaction, and that the workmanship will be not only lasting, but characterised by that neatness for which I am so strong an advocate. You should ride on your saddle, not in it, and you must learn to ride from balance or you will never excel, and this you can only do by the use of the level seat. A small pocket on the off-side, and a neat cross strap to support a waterproof, are of course necessary items.

Your stirrup is the next important matter. I strongly disapprove of the old-fashioned slipper, as also of the so-called "safety" stirrup, which is, in my opinion, the fruitful source of many accidents. Half the lamentable mischances with which our ears are from time to time shocked, are due to the pertinacity with which ladies will cling to this murderous safety stirrup. So long as they will persist in doing so, casualties must be looked for and must occur. The padding over the instep causes the foot to become firmly imbedded, and in the event of an accident the consequences are dire, for the mechanism of the stirrup is almost invariably stiff or out of order, or otherwise refuses to act. Mr. Oldacre was, I believe, the inventor of the padded stirrup, and for this we owe him or his memory little thanks, although the gratitude of all lady riders is undoubtedly due to him for his admirable invention and patenting of the third crutch, without which our seat in the saddle would be far less comfortable and less secure.

I dare say that I shall have a large section of aggrieved stirrup-makers coming down upon me with the phials of their wrath for giving publicity to this opinion, but in writing as I have done I merely state my own views, which I deem we are all at liberty to do; and looking upon my readers as friends, I warn them against an article of which I myself have had woful experience. I once purchased a safety stirrup at one of the best houses, and made by one of the best makers. The shopman showed it off to me in gallant style, expatiating upon its many excellencies, and adroitly managing the stiff machinery with his deft fingers, until I was fairly deceived, and gave him a handful of money for what subsequently proved a cause of trouble. I lost more than one good run with hounds through the breaking of this dearly-bought stirrup, having upon one occasion to ride quite a long distance away from the hunt to seek out a forge at which I might undergo repairs. Nor was this the worst, for one day, having incautiously plunged into a bog in my anxiety to be in at the death, my horse got stuck and began to sink, and of course I sought to release myself from him at once; but no, my foot was locked fast in that terrible stirrup, and I could not stir. My position was dreadful, for I had outridden my pilot, my struggling steed was momentarily sinking lower, and the shades of evening were fast closing in. I shudder to think what might have been my fate and that of my gallant horse had not the fox happily turned and led the hunt back along the skirts of the bog, thus enabling my cries for help to be heard by one or two brave spirits who came gallantly to my rescue. I have more than once since then been caught in a treacherous bog when following the chase, but never have I found any difficulty in jumping from my horse's back and helping him to struggle gamely on to the dry land, for I have never since ridden in a safety-stirrup, nor shall I ever be likely to do so again. It may be said, and probably with truth, that my servant had neglected to clean it properly from day to day, and that consequently the spring had got rusted and refused to act. Such may possibly have been the case, but might not the same thing occur to anyone, or at any time? Servants are the same all over the world, and yet you must either trust to them or spend half your time overlooking them in the stable and harness-room, which for a lady is neither agreeable nor correct.

There is nothing so pleasant to ride in as a plain little racing-stirrup, from which the foot is in an instant freed. I have not for a long while back used anything else myself, nor has my foot ever remained caught, even in the most dangerous falls.

I conceive it to be an admirable plan to learn to ride without a stirrup at all. Of course I do not mean by this that a lady should ever go out park-riding or hunting sans the aid of such an appendage, but she should be taught the necessity of dispensing with it in case of emergency. The benefits arising from such training are manifold. First, it imparts a freedom and independence which cannot otherwise be acquired; secondly, it gives an admirable and sure seat over fences; thirdly, it is an excellent means of learning how to ride from balance; and fourthly, in spite of its apparent difficulties, it is in the end a mighty simplifier, inasmuch as, when the use of the stirrup is again permitted, all seems such marvellously plain sailing, that every obstacle appears to vanish from the learner's path. In short, a lady who can ride fairly well without a support for her foot, must, when such is added, be indeed an accomplished horsewoman. I knew a lady who never made use of a stirrup throughout the whole course of an unusually long life, and who rode most brilliantly to hounds. Few, however, could do this, nor is it by any means advisable, but to be able occasionally to dispense with the support is doubtless of decided benefit.

I have often found my training in this respect stand me in good stead, for it has more than once happened that in jumping a stiff fence, or struggling in a heavy fall, my stirrup-leather has given way, and I have had not alone to finish the run without it, but to ride many miles of a journey homeward.

Nothing could be more wearisome to an untutored horsewoman than a long ride without a stirrup. The weight of her suspended limb becomes after a moment or two most inconvenient and even painful, whilst the trot of the horse occasions her to bump continuously in the saddle,—for the power of rising without artificial aid would appear a sheer impossibility to an ordinary rider whose teaching had been entrusted to an ordinary teacher. I would have you then bear in mind that although I advocate practising without the assistance of a stirrup, I am totally against your setting out beyond the limits of your own lawn or paddock without this necessary support.

CHAPTER III.

MOUNTING.‌—‌HOLDING THE REINS.‌—‌POSITION IN THE SADDLE.‌—‌USE OF THE WHIP.‌—‌TROTTING.‌—‌CANTERING.‌—‌RIDING FROM BALANCE.‌—‌USE OF THE STIRRUP. ‌—‌LEAPING.‌—‌WHYTE MELVILLE'S OPINION.

Having now seen that your bridle, saddle, and stirrup are in proper order, you prepare to mount, and this will probably take you some time and practice to accomplish gracefully, being quite an art in itself. Nothing is more atrocious than to see a lady require a chair to mount her animal, or hang midway against the side of the saddle when her cavalier gives her the helping hand. Lay your right hand firmly upon the pommel of your saddle, and the left upon the shoulder of your attendant, in whose hand you place your left foot. Have ready some signal sentence, as "Make ready, go!" or "one, two, three!" Immediately upon pronouncing the last syllable make your spring, and if your attendant does his duty properly you will find yourself seated deftly upon your saddle.

As I have already stated, this requires practice, and you must not be disappointed if a week or so of failure ensues between trial and success.

As soon as you are firmly seated, take your rein (which, as I have said, should be a single one) and adjust it thus. Place the near side under the little finger of your left hand, and the off one between your first and second fingers, bringing both in front toward the right hand, and holding them securely in their place with the pressure of your thumb. This is merely a hint as to the simplest method for a beginner to adopt, for there is really no fixed rule for holding reins, nor must you at all times hold them in one hand only, but frequently—and always when hunting—put both hands firmly to your bridle. Anything stiff or stereotyped is to be avoided. A good rider, such as we hope you will soon become, will change her reins about, and move her position upon the saddle, so as to be able to watch the surrounding scenery—always moving gracefully, and without any abrupt or spasmodic jerkings, which are just as objectionable as the poker-like rigidity which I wish you to avoid. How common it is to see ladies on horseback sitting as though they were afraid to budge a hair, with pinioned elbows and straightly-staring eyes. This is most objectionable; in fact, nothing can be more unsightly. A graceful, easy seat, is a good horsewoman's chief characteristic. She is not afraid of tumbling off, and so she does not look as though she were so; moreover, she has been properly taught in the commencement, and all such defects have been rectified by a careful supervision.

With regard to your whip, it must be held point downwards, and if you have occasion to touch your horse, give it to him down the shoulder, but always with temperance and kindly judgment. I once had a riding-master who desired me to hold my whip balanced in three fingers of my right hand, point upwards, the hand itself being absurdly bowed and the little finger stuck straight out like a wooden projection. My natural good sense induced me to rebel against anything so completely ridiculous, and I quietly asked my teacher why I was to carry my whip in that particular position. His answer was—"Oh, that you may have it ready to strike your horse on the neck." Shades of Diana! this is the way our daughters are taught in schools, and we marvel that they show so little for the heaps of money which we hopefully expend upon them.

Being then fairly seated upon your saddle, your skirt drawn down and arranged by your attendant, your reins in your hand and your whip arranged, you must proceed to walk your horse quietly around the enclosure, having first gently drawn your bridle through his mouth. You will feel very strange at first: much as though you were on the back of a dromedary and were completely at his mercy. Sit perfectly straight and erect, but without stiffness. Be careful not to hang over upon either side, and, above all things, avoid the pernicious habit of clutching nervously with the right hand at the off pommel to save yourself from some imaginary danger. So much does this unsightly habit grow upon beginners, that, unless checked, it will follow them through life. I know grown women who ride every day, and the very moment their horse breaks into a canter or a trot they lay a grim grip upon the pommel, and hold firmly on to it until the animal again lapses into a walk. And this they do unconsciously. The habit, given way to in childhood, has grown so much into second nature that to tell them of it would amaze them. I once ventured to offer a gentle remonstrance upon the subject to a lady with whom I was extremely intimate, and she was not only astonished, but so displeased with me for noticing it, that she was never quite the same to me afterwards; and so salutary was the lesson which I then received that I have since gone upon the principle of complete non-interference, and if I saw my fellow équestriennes riding gravely upon their horses' heads I would not suggest the rationality of transferring their weight to the saddle. And this theory is a good one, or at least a wise one; for humanity is so inordinately conceited that it will never take a hint kindly, unless asked for; and not always even then.

To sit erect upon your saddle is a point of great importance; if you acquire a habit of stooping it will grow upon you, and it is not only a great disfigurement, but not unfrequently a cause of serious accident, for if your horse suddenly throws up his head, he hits you upon the nose, and deprives you of more blood than you may be able to replace in a good while.

As soon as you can feel yourself quite at home upon your mount, and have become accustomed to its walking motion, your attendant will urge him into a gentle trot. And now prepare yourself for the beginning of sorrows. Your first sensation will be that of being shaken to pieces. You are, of course, yet quite ignorant of the art of rising in your saddle, and the trot of the horse fairly churns you. Your hat shakes, your hair flaps, your elbows bang to your sides, you are altogether miserable. Still, you hold on bravely, though you are ready to cry from the horrors of the situation.

Your attendant, by way of relieving you, changes the trot to a canter, and then you are suddenly transported to Elysium. The motion is heavenly. You have nothing to do but sit close to your saddle, and you are borne delightfully along. It is too ecstatic to last. Alas! it will never teach you to ride, and so you return to the trot and the shaking and the jogging, the horrors of which are worse than anything you have ever previously experienced. You try vainly to give yourself some ease, but fail utterly, and at length dismount—hot, tired, and disheartened.

But against this latter you must resolutely fight. Remember that nothing can be learned without trouble, and by-and-by you will be repaid. It is not everybody who has the gift of perseverance, and it is an invaluable attribute. It is a fact frequently commented upon, not alone by me but by many others also, that if you go for the hiring of a horse to any London livery-stable you will be sent a good-looking beast enough, but he will not be able to trot a yard. Canter, canter, is all that he can do. And why? He is kept for the express purpose of carrying young ladies in the Row, and these young ladies have never learnt to trot. They can dress themselves as vanity suggests in fashionably-cut habits, suffer themselves to be lifted to the saddle, and sit there, looking elegant and pretty, whilst their horse canters gaily down the long ride; but were the animal to break into a trot (which he is far too well tutored to attempt to do), they would soon present the same shaken, dilapidated, dishevelled, and utterly miserable appearance which you yourself do after your first experience of the difficulties which a learner has to encounter.

The art of rising in the saddle is said to have been invented by one Dan Seffert, a very famous steeplechase jockey, who had, I believe, been a riding-master in the days of his youth. If this be true—which there is no reason to doubt—we have certainly to thank him, for it is a vast improvement upon the jog-trot adopted by the cavalry, which, however well it may suit them and impart uniformity of motion to their "line-riding," is not by any means suited to a lady, either for appearances or for purposes of health.

You come up for your next day's lesson in a very solemn mood. You are, in fact, considerably sobered. You had thought it was all plain sailing: it looked so easy. You had seen hundreds of persons riding, trotting, and even setting off to hunt, and had never dreamed that there had been any trouble in learning. Now you know the difficulties and what is before you.

You recall your sufferings during your first days upon the ice, or on the rink. How utterly impossible it seemed that you could ever excel; how you tumbled about; how miserably helpless you felt, and how many heavy falls you got! Yet you conquered in the end, and so you will again.

You take courage and mount your steed. First you walk him a little, as yesterday; and then the jolting begins again. How are you ever to get into that rise and fall which you have seen with others, and so much covet? How are you to accomplish it? Only by doing as I tell you, and persevering in it. As your horse throws out his near foreleg press your foot upon your stirrup, in time to lift yourself slightly as his off foreleg is next thrown out. Watch the motion of his legs, press your foot, and at the same time slightly lift yourself from your saddle. For a long while, many days perhaps, it will seem to be all wrong; you have not got into it one bit; you are just as far from it apparently as when you commenced. You are hot and vexed, and you, perhaps, cry with mortification and disappointment, as I have seen many a young beginner do; bitterly worried and disheartened you are, and ready to give up, when, lo! quite suddenly, as though it had come to you by magic and not through your own steady perseverance, you find yourself rising and falling with the trot of the horse, and your labours are rewarded.

After this your lessons are a source of delight. You no longer come from them flushed and worried, but joyous and exultant and impatient for the next. You have begun to feel quite brave, and to throw out hints that you are longing for a good ride on the road. You now know how to make your horse trot and canter; the first by a light touch of your whip and a gentle movement of your bridle through his mouth; the second by a slight bearing of the rein upon the near side of his mouth, so as to make him go off upon the right leg, and a little warning touch of your heel. You fancy, in fact, that you are quite a horsewoman, and have already rolled up your hair into a neat knot, and hinted to papa that you should greatly like a habit. But, alas! you have plenty of trouble yet before you, plenty to learn, plenty of falls to get and to bear. At present you can ride fairly well on the straight; but you know nothing of keeping your balance in time of danger. Your horse is very quiet, but if he chanced to put back his ears you would be off.

You are taught to maintain your balance in the following way:—

Your attendant waits until your horse is cantering pretty briskly in a circle from left to right, when he suddenly cracks his whip close to the animal's heels, who immediately swerves and turns the other way. You have had no warning of the movement, and consequently you tumble off, and are put up again, feeling a little shaken and a good deal crestfallen. Most likely you will fall again and again, until you have thoroughly mastered the art of riding from balance.

This is a method I have seen adopted, especially in schools, with considerable success, but it is certainly attended with inconvenience to the learner, and with a goodly portion of the risk from falls which all who ride must of necessity run. To ride well from balance is not a thing which can be accomplished in a day, nor a month, nor perhaps a year. Many pass a life-time without practically comprehending the meaning of the term. They ride every day, hold on to the bridle, guide their horses, and trust to chance for the rest; but this is not true horsemanship. It could no more be called riding than could a piece of mechanical pianoforte-playing be termed music. When you have, after much difficulty and delay, mastered the obstacles which marred your progress, you will then have the happy consciousness of feeling that however your horse may shy or swerve, or otherwise depart from his good manners, you can sit him with the ease and closeness of a young centaur.

This art of riding from balance is not half sufficiently known. It is one most difficult to acquire, but the study is worth the labour. Nine-tenths of the lady equestrians, and perhaps even a greater number of gentlemen, ride from the horse's head; a detestable practice which cannot be too highly condemned. I must also warn you against placing too much stress upon the stirrup when your horse is trotting. You must bear in mind that the stirrup is intended for a support for the foot—not to be ridden from. By placing your right leg firmly around the up-pommel, and pressing the left knee against the leaping-head, you can accomplish the rise in your saddle with slight assistance from the stirrup; and this is the proper way to ride. The lazy, careless habit into which many women fall, of resting the entire weight of the body upon the stirrup, not only frequently causes the leathers to snap at most inconvenient times, but is the lamentable cause of half the sore backs and ugly galls from which poor horses suffer so severely.

Having at length perfected yourself in walking, trotting, cantering, and riding from balance, you have only to acquire the art of leaping—and then you will be finished, so far as teaching can make you so. Experience must do the rest.

It is a good thing, when learning, to mount as many different horses as you possibly can; always, of course, taking care that they are sufficiently trained not to endeavour to master you. Horses vary immensely in their action and gait of going: so much so, that if you do not accustom yourself to a variety you will take your ideas from one alone, and will, when put upon a strange animal, find yourself completely at sea.

Do not suffer anything to induce you to take your first leap over a bar or pole similar to those used in schools. The horse sees the daylight under it, knows well that it is a sham, goes at it unwillingly, does not half rise to it, drops his heels when in the air, and knocks it down with a crash,—only to do the same thing a second time, and a third, and a fourth also, if urged to do that which he despises.

Choose a nice little hurdle about two feet high, well interwoven with gorse; trot your horse gently up to it, and let him see what it is; then, turn him back and send him at it, sitting close glued to your saddle, with a firm but gentle grip of your reins, and your hands held low. To throw up the hands is a habit with all beginners, and should at once be checked. Fifty to one you will stick on all right, and, if you come off, why it's many a good man's case, and you must regard it as one of the chances of war.

The next day you may have the gorse raised another half-foot above the hurdle, and so on by degrees, until you can sit with ease over a jump of five feet. Always bear in mind to keep your hands quite down upon your horse's withers, and never interfere with his mouth. Sit well back, leave him his head, and he will not make a mistake. Of course, I am again surmising that he has been properly trained, and that you alone are the novice. To put a learner upon an untrained animal would be a piece of folly, not to say of wickedness, of which we hope nobody in this age of enlightenment would dream of being guilty. In jumping a fence or hurdle do not leave your reins quite slack; hold them lightly but firmly, as your horse should jump against his bridle, but do not pull him. A gentle support is alone necessary.

That absurd and vulgar theory about "lifting a horse at his fences," so freely affected by the ignorant youth of the present day, cannot be too strongly deprecated. That same "lifting" has broken more horses' shoulders and more asses' necks than anything else on record. A good hunter with a bad rider upon his back will actually shake his head free on coming up to a fence. He knows that he cannot do what is expected of him if his mouth is to be chucked and worried, any more than you or I could under similar circumstances, and so he asserts his liberty. How often, in a steeplechase, one horse early deprived of his rider will voluntarily go the whole course and jump every obstacle in perfect safety, even with the reins dangling about his legs, yet never make a mistake; whilst a score or so of compeers will be tumbling at every fence. And why? The answer is plain and simple. The free horse has his head, and his instinct tells him where to put his feet; whereas the animals with riders upon their backs are dragged and pulled and sawn at, until irritation deprives them of sense and sight, and, rushing wildly at their fences (probably getting another tug at the moment of rising), they fall, and so extinguish their chance of a win.

I do not, of course, in saying this, mean for a moment to question the judgment and horsemanship of very many excellent jockeys, whose ability is beyond comment and their riding without reproach. I speak of the rule, not of the few exceptions.

Half the horses who fall in the hunting-field are thrown down by their riders; this is a fact too obvious to be contradicted. Men over-riding their horses, treating them with needless cruelty, riding them when already beaten: these are the fruitful causes of falls in the field, together with that most objectionable practice of striving to "lift" an animal who knows his duties far better than the man upon his back. It is a pity, and my heart has often bled to see how the noblest of God's created things is ill-treated and abused by the human brute who styles himself the master. It is, indeed, a disgrace to our humanity that this priceless creature, given to a man with a mind highly wrought, sensitive, yearning for kindness, and capable of appreciating each word and look of the being whose willing slave it is, should be treated with cruelty, and in too many cases regarded but as a sort of machine to do the master's bidding. Who has not seen, and mourned to see, the tired, patient horse, spurred and dragged at by a remorseless rider, struggling gamely forward in the hunting-field, with bleeding mouth and heaving, bloody flanks, to enable a cruel task-master to see the end of a second run, and even of a third, after having carried him gallantly through a long and intricate first? It is a piece of inhumanity which all humane riders see and deplore every day throughout the hunting season. We cannot stop it, but we can speak against it and write it down, and discountenance it in every possible way, as we are all bound to do. Why will not men be brought to see that in abusing their horses they are compassing their own loss? that in taxing the powers of a beaten animal they are riding for a fall, and are consequently endangering the life which God has given them?

There is much to be learnt in the art of fencing besides hurdle-leaping. A good timber-jumper will often take a ditch or drain in a very indifferent manner. I have seen a horse jump a five-barred gate in magnificent style, yet fall short into a comparatively narrow ditch; and vice versâ; therefore, various kinds of jumps must be kept up, persevered in, and kept constantly in practice. Two things must always be preserved in view; never sit loosely in your saddle, and always ride well from balance, never from your horse's head. In taking an up jump leave him abundance of head-room, and sit well back, lest in his effort he knock you in the face. If the jump is a down one—what is known as an "ugly drop"—follow the same rules; but, when your horse is landing, give him good support from the bridle, as, should the ground be at all soft or marshy, he might be apt to peck, and so give you an ugly fall.

It is a disputed point whether or not horses like jumping. I am inclined to coincide in poor Whyte-Melville's opinion that they do not. He was a good authority upon most subjects connected with equine matters, and so he ought to know; but of one thing I am positively certain: they abhor schooling. However a horse may tolerate or even enjoy a good fast scurry with hounds, there can be no doubt that he greatly dislikes being brought to his fences in cold blood. He has not, when schooling, the impetus which sends him along, nor the example or excitement to be met with in the hunting-field. The horse is naturally a timid animal, and this is why he so frequently stops short at his fences when schooling. He mistrusts his own powers. When running with hounds he is borne along by speed and by excitement, and so goes skying over obstacles which appal him when trotted quietly to them on a schooling day. It is just the difference which an actor feels between a chilling rehearsal and the night performance, when the theatre is crowded and the clapping of hands and the shouting of approving voices lend life and spirit to the part he plays.

You will probably get more falls whilst schooling than ever you will get in the hunting-field, but a few weeks' steady practice over good artificial fences or a nice natural country, will give you a firm seat and an amount of confidence which will stand to you as friends.

PART II.

PARK AND ROAD RIDING.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW TO DRESS.‌—‌A COUNTRY-GIRL'S IDEAS UPON THE SUBJECT.‌—‌HOW TO PUT ON YOUR RIDING-GEAR.‌—‌HOW TO PRESERVE IT.‌—‌FIRST ROAD-RIDE.‌—‌BACKING. ‌—‌REARING, AND HOW TO PREVENT IT.

Having now mastered the art of riding, you will of course be desirous of appearing in the parks and on the public roadways, and exhibiting the prowess which it has cost you so much to gain.

For your outfit you will require, in addition to the articles already in your possession, a nice well-made habit of dark cloth. If you are a very young girl, grey will be the most suitable; if not, dark blue. If you live in London, pay a visit to Mayfair, and get Mr. Wolmershausen to make it for you; if in Dublin, Mr. Scott, of Sackville Street, will do equally well; indeed, for any sort of riding-gear, ladies' or gentlemen's, he is not to be excelled. If you are not within easy distance of a city, go to the best tailor you can, and give him directions, which he must not be above taking. Skirt to reach six inches below the foot, well shaped for the knee, and neatly shotted at end of hem just below the right foot; elastic band upon inner side, to catch the left toe, and to retain the skirt in its place. It should be made tight and spare, without one inch of superfluous cloth; jacket close-fitting, but sufficiently easy to avoid even the suspicion of being squeezed; sleeves perfectly tight, except at the setting on, where a slight puffiness over the shoulder should give the appearance of increased width of chest. No braiding nor ornamentation of any sort to appear. A small neat linen collar, upright shape, with cuffs to correspond, should be worn with the habit, no frilling nor fancy work being admissible—the collar to be fastened with a plain gold or silver stud.

The nicest hat to ride in is an ordinary silk one, much lower than they are usually made, and generally requiring to be manufactured purposely to fit and suit the head. Of course, if you are a young girl, the melon shape will not be unsuitable, but the other is more in keeping, more becoming, and vastly more economical in the end, although few can be induced to believe this. It is the custom in many households to purchase articles for their cheapness, without any regard to quality or durability, and this you should endeavour to avoid. Speaking from experience, the best things are always the cheapest. I pay from a guinea to a guinea and a half for a good silk hat, and find that it wears out four felt ones of the quality usually sold at ten and sixpence. There is no London house at which you can procure better articles or better value than at Lincoln, Bennett, & Co., Sackville Street, Piccadilly. For nearly half a century they have been the possessors of an admirable contrivance, which should be seen to be appreciated, by which not alone is the size of the head ascertained, but its precise shape is definitely marked and suited, thus avoiding all possibility of that distressing pressure upon the temples, which is a fruitful source of headache and discomfort to so many riders. Hats made at this firm require no elastics—if it be considered desirable to dispense with such—as the fit is guaranteed. Never wear a veil on horseback, except it be a black one, and nothing with a border looks well. A plain band of spotted net, just reaching below the nostrils, and gathered away into a neat knot behind, is the most distingué. Do not wear anything sufficiently long to cover the mouth, or it will cause you inconvenience on wet and frosty days. For dusty roads a black gauze veil will be found useful, but avoid, as you would poison, every temptation to wear even the faintest scrap of colour on horseback. All such atrocities as blue and green veils have happily long since vanished, but, even still, a red bow, a gaudy flower stuck in the button-hole, and, oh, horror of horrors! a pocket handkerchief appearing at an opening in the bosom, looking like a miniature fomentation—these still occasionally shock the eyes of sensitive persons, and cause us to marvel at the wearer's bad taste.

I was once asked to take a young lady with me for a ride in the park, to witness a field-day, or polo match, or something or another of especial interest which happened to be going forward. I would generally prefer being asked to face a battery of Zulus rather than act as chaperone to young lady équestriennes, who are usually ignorant of riding, and insufferably badly turned out. However, upon this occasion I could not refuse. The lady's parents were kind, amiable country folks, who had invested a portion of their wealth in sending their daughter up to town to get lessons from a fashionable riding-master, and to ride out with whomsoever might be induced to take her.

Well, the young lady's horse was the first arrival: a hired hack—usual style; bones protruding—knees well over—rusty bridle—greasy reins—dirty girths—and dilapidated saddle, indifferently polished up for the occasion.

The young lady herself came next, stepping daintily out of a cab, as though she were quite mistress of the situation. Ye gods! What a get up! I was positively electrified. Her habit—certainly well made—was of bright blue cloth, with worked frills at the throat and wrists. She wore a brilliant knot of scarlet ribbon at her neck, and a huge bouquet in her button-hole. Her hat was a silk one, set right on the back of her head, with a velvet rosettte and steel buckle in front, and a long veil of grey gauze streaming out behind. When we add orange gloves, and a riding-whip with a gaudy tassel appended to it, you have the details of a costume at once singular and unique.

I did not at first know whether to get a sudden attack of the measles or the toothache, and send her out with my groom to escort her, but discarding the thought as ill-natured, I compromised matters by bringing her to my own room, and effecting alterations in her toilet which soon gave her a more civilised appearance. I set the hat straight upon her head, and bound it securely in its place, removed from it the gauze and buckle, and tied on one of my own plain black veils of simple spotted net. I could not do away with the frillings, for they were stitched on as though they were never meant to come off; but the red bow I replaced with a silver arrow, threw away the flowers, removed the whip-tassel, and substituted a pair of my own gloves for the cherished orange kid. Then we set out.

I wanted to go a quiet way to the park, so as to avoid the streets of the town, but she would not have it. Nothing would do that girl but to go bang through the most crowded parts of the city, the hired hack sliding over the asphalte, and the rider (all unconscious of her danger) bowing delightedly to her acquaintances as she passed along. Poor girl! that first day out of the riding-school was a gala day for her.

The nicest gloves for riding are pale cream leather, worked thickly on the backs with black. A few pairs of these will keep you going, for they clean beautifully. A plain riding-whip without a tassel, and a second habit of dark holland if you live in the country, will complete your necessary outfit.

I shall now give you a few hints as to the best method of putting on your riding gear, and of preserving the same after rain or hard weather. Your habit-maker will, of course, put large hooks around the waist of your bodice, and eyes of corresponding size attached to the skirt, so that both may be kept in their place, but if you have been obliged to entrust your cloth to a country practitioner, who has neglected these minor necessaries, be sure you look to them yourself, or you will some day find that the opening of your skirt is right at your back, and that the place shaped out for your knee has twisted round until it hangs in unsightly crookedness in front of the buttons of your bodice.

Let it be a rule with you to avoid using any pins. Put two or three neat stitches in the back of your collar, so as to affix it to your jacket, having first measured to see that the ends shall meet exactly evenly in front, where you will fasten them neatly with a stud. The ordinary system of placing one pin at the back of the collar and one at either end is much to be deprecated. Frequently one of these pins becomes undone, and then the discomfort is incalculable, especially if, as often occurs, you are out for a long day, and nobody happens to be able to accommodate you with another.

Pinning cuffs is also a reprehensible habit, for the reason just stated. Two or three little stitches where they will not show, upon the inner side of the sleeve, will hold the cuff securely in its place and prevent it turning round or slipping up or down, any of which will be calculated to cause discomfort to the rider.

It is not a bad method, either, to stitch a small button at the back of the neck of the jacket, upon the inner side, upon which the collar can be secured, fastening the cuffs in the same manner to buttons attached to the inner portion of each sleeve. In short, anything in the shape of a device which will check the unseemly habit of using a multiplicity of pins, may be regarded as a welcome innovation, and at once adopted.

It is a good plan, when you undress from your ride, to ascertain whether your collar and cuffs are sufficiently clean to serve you another day, and if they are not, replace them at once by fresh ones; for it may happen that when you go to attire yourself for your next ride, you may he too hurried to look after what should always be a positive necessity, namely, perfectly spotless linen.

There is a material, invented in America and as yet but little known amongst us here, which is invaluable to all who ride. It is called Celluloid, and from it collars, cuffs, and shirt-fronts are manufactured which resemble the finest and whitest linen, yet which never spot, never crush, never become limp, and never require washing, save as one would wash a china saucer, in a basin of clear water, using a fine soft towel for the drying process. I do not know the nature of the composition, but I can certainly bear testimony to its worth, and being inexpensive as well as convenient, it cannot fail, when known, to become highly popular.

The adjusting of your hat is another important item. Stitch a piece of black elastic (the single-cord round kind is the best) from one side—the inner one of course—to the other, of just sufficient length to catch well beneath your hair. This elastic you can stretch over the leaf of your hat at the back, and then, when the hat is on and nicely adjusted to your taste in front, you have only to put back your hand and bring the band of elastic deftly under your hair. The hat will then be immovable, and the elastic will not show. In fastening your veil, a short steel pin with a round black head is the best. The steel slips easily through the leaf of the hat, and the head, being glossy and large, is easily found without groping or delay, whenever you may desire to divest yourself of it.

I shall now tell you how to proceed with the various items of your toilet on coming home, after being overtaken by stress of weather. No matter how wealthy you may be, or how many servants you may be entitled to keep, always look after these things yourself.

Hang the skirt of your habit upon a clothes-horse, with a stick placed across inside to extend it fully. Leave it until thoroughly dry, and then brush carefully. The bodice must be hung in a cool dry place, but never placed near the fire, or the cloth will shrink, and probably discolour.

Dip your veil into clear cold water, give it one or two gentle squeezes, shake it out, and hang it on a line, spreading it neatly with your fingers, so that it may take no fold in the drying.

Your hat comes next. Dip a fine small Turkey sponge, kept for the purpose and freed from sand, into a basin of lukewarm water, and draw it carefully around the hat. Repeat the process, going over every portion of it, until crown, leaf, and all are thoroughly cleansed; then hang in a cool, airy place to dry. In the morning take a soft brush, which use gently over the entire surface, and you will have a perfectly new hat. No matter how shabby may have been your headpiece, it will be quite restored, and will look all the better for its washing. This is one of the chief advantages of silk hats. Do not omit to brush after the washing and drying process, or your hat will have that unsightly appearance of having been ironed, which is so frequently seen in the hunting-field, because gentlemen who are valeted on returning from their sport care nothing about the management of their gear, but leave it all to the valet, who gives the hat the necessary washing, but is too lazy or too careless to brush it next day, and his master takes it from his hand and puts it on without ever noticing its unsightliness. Sometimes it is the master himself whose clumsy handiwork is to blame; but be it master or servant, the result is too often the same.

Should your gloves be thoroughly, or even slightly wetted, stretch them upon a pair of wooden hands kept for the purpose, and if they are the kind which I have recommended to you—I mean the best quality of double-stitched cream leather—they will be little the worse.

Having now, I think, exhausted the subject of your clothing, and given you all the friendly hints in my power, I am ready to accompany you upon your first road ride.

Go out with every confidence, accompanied of course by a companion or attendant, and make up your mind never to be caught napping, but to be ever on the alert. You must not lose sight of the fact that a bird flitting suddenly across, a donkey's head laid without warning against a gate, a goat's horns appearing over a wall, or even a piece of paper blown along upon the ground, may cause your horse to shy, and if you are not sitting close at the time, woe betide you! Always remember the rule of the road, keep to your left-hand side, and if you have to pass a vehicle going your way, do so on the right of it. Never neglect this axiom, no matter how lonely and deserted the highway may appear, for recollect that if you fail to comply with it, and that any accident chances to occur, you will get all the blame, and receive no compensation.

Never trot your horse upon a hard road when you have a bit of grass at the side on which you can canter him. Even if there are only a few blades it will be sufficient to take the jar off his feet.

If you meet with a hill or high bridge, trot him up and walk him quietly down the other side. If going down a steep decline, sit well back and leave him his head, at the same time keeping a watchful hand upon the rein for fear he should chance to make a false step, that you may be able to pull him up; but do not hold him tightly in, as many timid riders are apt to do, thus hobbling his movements and preventing him seeing where he is to put his feet. If he has to clamber a steep hill with you, leave him unlimited head-room, for it is a great ease to a horse to be able to stretch his neck, instead of being held tightly in by nervous hands, which is frequently the occasion of his stumbling.

Should your horse show temper and attempt to back with you, leave him the rein, touch him lightly with your heel, and speak encouragingly to him; should he persist, your attendant must look to the matter; but a horse who possesses this dangerous vice should never be ridden by a lady. I have surmised that yours has been properly trained, and doubtless you might ride for the greater portion of a lifetime without having to encounter a decided jibber, but it is as well to be prepared for all emergencies. Should a horse at any time rear with you, throw the rein loose, sit close, and bring your whip sharply across his flank. If this is not effectual, you may give him the butt-end of it between the ears, which will be pretty sure to bring him down. This is a point, however, upon which I write with considerable reserve, for many really excellent riders find fault with the theory set forth and adopted by me. One old sportsman in particular shows practically how seriously he objects to it by suffering himself to be tumbled back upon almost daily by a vicious animal, in preference to adopting coercive measures for his own safety.

My reasons for striking a rearing horse are set forth with tolerable clearness in one of the letters which form an appendix to this volume; but, although I do it myself, I do not undertake the responsibility of advising others to do likewise, especially if a nervous timidity form a portion of their nature. I am strongly of opinion, however, that decisive measures are at times an absolute necessity, and that the most effectual remedy for an evil is invariably the best to adopt. I have heard it said by two very eminent horsemen that to break a bottle of water between the ears of a rearing animal is an excellent and effectual cure. Perhaps it may be—and, on such authority, we must suppose that it is—but I should not care to be the one to try it, although I consider no preventive measure too strong to adopt when dealing with so dangerous a vice. A horse may be guilty of jibbing, bolting, kicking, or almost any other fault, through nervousness or timidity, but rearing is a vicious trick, and must be treated with prompt determination. It would be useless to speak encouragingly to a rearer; he is vexing you from vice, not from nervousness, and so he needs no reassurance—do not waste words upon him, but bring him to his senses with promptitude, or whilst you are dallying he may tumble back upon you, and put remonstrance out of your power for some time to come, if not for ever. In striking him, if you do so, do not indulge in the belief that you are safe because he drops quickly upon his fore-legs, but on the contrary, be fully prepared for the kick or buck which will be pretty sure to follow, and which (unless watched for) will be likely to unseat even a most skilful rider. Both rearing and plunging may, however, be effectually prevented by using the circular bit and martingale, procurable at Messrs. Davis, saddlers, 14, Strand, London. This admirable contrivance should be fitted above the mouthpiece of an ordinary snaffle or Pelham bridle. It is infinitely before any other which I have seen used for the same purpose, has quite a separate headstall, and should be put on and arranged before the addition of the customary bridle. Being secured to the breastplate by a standing martingale, it requires no reins.

CHAPTER V.

RUNNING AWAY.‌—‌THREE DANGEROUS ADVENTURES.‌—‌HOW TO ACT WHEN PLACED IN CIRCUMSTANCES OF PERIL.‌—‌HOW TO RIDE A PULLER.‌—‌THROUGH THE CITY.‌—‌TO A MEET OF HOUNDS.‌—‌BOASTFUL LADIES.‌—‌A BRAGGART'S RESOURCE.

In the event of a horse running away, you must of course be guided by circumstances and surroundings, but my advice always is, if you have a fair road before you, let him go. Do not attempt to hold him in, for the support which you afford him with the bridle only helps the mischief. Leave his head quite loose, and when you feel him beginning to tire—which he will soon do without the support of the rein—flog him until he is ready to stand still. I warrant that a horse treated thus, especially if you can breast him up hill, will rarely run away a second time. He never forgets his punishment, nor seeks to put himself in for a repetition of it.

I have been run away with three times in my life, but never a second time by the same horse. It may amuse you to hear how I escaped upon each occasion.

The first time, I was riding a beautiful little thoroughbred mare, which a dear lady friend—now, alas! dead—had asked me to try for her. The mare had been a flat-racer, and, having broken down in one of her trials, had been purchased at a cheap rate, being still possessed of beauty and a considerable turn of speed.

Well, we got on splendidly together for an hour or so on the fifteen acres, Phœnix Park, but, when returning homewards, some boys who were playing close by struck her with a ball on the leg. In a second she was off like the wind, tearing down the long road which leads from the Phœnix to the gates. She had the bit between her teeth, and held it like a vice. My only fear was lest she should lose her footing and fall, for the roadway was covered from edge to edge with new shingle. On she went in her mad career, amidst the shrieks of thousands, for the day was Easter Monday, and the park was crowded. Soldiers, civilians, lines of policemen strove to form a barrier for her arrest. In vain! She knocked down some, fled past others, and continued her headlong course.

All this time I was sitting as if glued to my saddle. At the mare's first starting I had endeavoured to pull her up, but finding that this was hopeless, I left the rein loose upon her neck. Having then no support for her head, she soon tired, and the instant I felt her speed relaxing I took up my whip and punished her within an inch of her life. I made her go when she wanted to stop, and only suffered her to pull up just within the gates, where she stood covered with foam and trembling in every limb.

Her owner subsequently told me that during the three years which she afterwards kept her she never rode so biddable a mare.

I must not forget to mention the comic side of the adventure as well as the more serious. It struck me as being particularly ludicrous upon that memorable occasion that an old gentleman, crimson with wrath, actually attacked my servant in the most irate manner because he had not clattered after me during the progress of the mare's wild career. "How dare you, sir," cried this irascible old gentleman, "how dare you attempt to neglect your young lady in this cowardly manner?" Nor was his anger at all appeased when informed that I as a matron was my own care-taker, and that my attendant had strict injunctions not to follow me in the event of my horse being startled or running away.

My next adventure was much more serious, and occurred also within the gates of the Phœnix Park.

Some troops were going through a variety of manœuvres preparing for a field-day, and a knot of them had been posted behind and around a large tree with fixed bayonets in their hands. Suddenly they got the order to move, and at the same instant the sun shone out and glinted brilliantly upon the glittering steel. I was riding a horse which had lately been given me; a fine, raking chestnut, with a temper of his own to manage. He turned like a shot, and sped away at untold speed. I had no open space before me; therefore I durst not let him go. It was an enclosed portion of the park, thickly studded with knots of trees, and I knew that if he bore me through one of these my earthly career would most probably be ended. I strove with all the strength and all the art which I possessed to pull him up. It was of no use. I might as well have been pulling at an oak-tree; it only made him go the faster.

Happily my presence of mind remained. I saw at once that my only chance was to breast him against the rails of the cricket-ground, and for these I made straight, prepared for the shock and for the turn over which I knew must inevitably follow. He dashed up to the rails, and when within a couple of inches of them he swerved with an awful suddenness, which, only that I was accustomed to ride from balance, must have at once unseated me, and darted away at greater speed than ever. Right before me was a tree, one heavy bough of which hung very low—and straight for this he made, nor could I turn his course. I knew my fate, and bent on a level with my saddle, but not low enough, for the branch caught me in the forehead and sent me reeling senseless to the ground.

I soon got over the shock, although my arm (which was badly torn by a projecting branch) gave me some trouble after; but the bough was cut down the next day by order of the Lord Lieutenant, and the park-rangers still point out the spot as the place where "the lady was nearly killed."

My third runaway was a hunting adventure, and occurred only a few months since.

I had a letter one morning from an old friend, informing me that a drag-hunt was to take place about thirty miles from Dublin to finish the season with the county harriers, and that he, my friend, wished very much that I would come down in my habit by the mid-day train and ride a big bay horse of his, respecting which he was desirous of obtaining my opinion. I never take long to make up my mind, so, after a glance at my tablets, which showed me that I was free for the day, I donned my habit, and caught the specified train.

At the station at the end of my journey I found the big bay saddled and awaiting me, and having mounted him I set off for the kennels, from a field near which the drag was to be run. I took the huntsman for a pilot, knowing that the servant, who was my attendant, was rather a duffer at the chase.

The instant that the hounds were laid on and the hunt started, my big mount commenced to pull hard, and by the time the first fence was reached his superior strength had completely mastered mine. He was pulling like a steam-engine, head down, ears laid backward, neck set like iron. My blistered hands were powerless to hold him. He rushed wildly at the fence, and striking the horse of a lady who was just landing over it, turned him and his rider a complete somersault! I subsequently learned that the lady escaped unhurt, but I could not at the moment pause to inquire, for my huge mount, clearing the jump and ten feet beyond it, completely took head, and bore me away from the field

Over park, over pale,

Through bush, through briar,

until my head fairly reeled, and I felt that some terrible calamity must ensue.

Happily he was a glorious fencer, or I must have perished, for he jumped every obstacle with a rush; staked fences, wide ditches—so wide that he landed over them on his belly—tangled gorse, and branches of rivers swollen by recent rains; he flew them all. At length, when my strength was quite exhausted and my dizzy brain utterly powerless and confused, I beheld before me a stone wall, a high one, with heavy coping-stones upon the top. At this I resolved to breast him, and run my chance for life or death in the turn over, which, from the pace at which we were approaching it, I knew must be a mighty one. In a moment we were up to it and, with a cry to heaven for mercy, I dug him with my spur and sent him at it. To my utter astonishment, for the wall was six and a half feet high, he put down his head, rushed at it, cleared it without ever laying a shoe upon the topmost stones, and landed with a frightful slip and clatter, but still safely on his feet—where? in the midst of a farm-yard.

Were it not that this adventure actually occurred to myself, I should be strongly tempted to question its authenticity. That there are horses—especially Irish ones—quite capable of compassing such a jump, there cannot be the slightest doubt; but I have never before or since seen one who could do it without being steadied as he approached the obstacle. In the ordinary course of events a runaway steed would strike it with his head and turn over,—which was what I expected and desired—but no such thing occurred, and to the latest hour of my life it must remain a mystery to me that upon the momentous occasion in question neither horse nor rider was injured, nor did any accident ensue. Nothing more disastrous than a considerable disturbance in the farm-yard actually occurred; but it was indeed a mighty one.

Such a commotion amongst fowls was surely never witnessed; the ducks quacked, the turkeys screeched, the hens ran hither and thither; two pigs, eating from a trough close by, set up a most terrific squalling, dogs barked, and two or three women, who were spreading clothes upon a line, added to the general confusion by flinging down the garments with which they had been busy and taking to their heels, shrieking vociferously. In the meantime the big bay, perceiving that he had run to the end of his tether, stood snorting and foaming, looking hither and thither in helpless amazement and dismay; whilst I, relieved at length of my anxiety, burst first into tears, and then into shouts of hearty laughter, as I fully took in the absurdity of the situation.

After a considerable delay one of the women was induced to come forward and listen to a recital of my adventure; and the others, being assured that "the baste" would not actually devour them, came near me also, and we held an amicable council as to the possibility of my ever getting out, for the gates were locked, and the owner of the property was away at a fair in the neighbouring town and had the key stowed away in his pocket. To jump the wall again was impracticable. No horse that ever was foaled could do it in cool blood; nor was I willing to risk the experiment, even if my steed made no objection.

At length we decided upon the only plan. I dismounted, and, taking the rein over my arm, led my mighty hunter across the yard, induced him to stoop his head to enter by a back door through a passage in the farmhouse, and from thence through the kitchen and front door, out on to the road. I have a cheerful recollection of an old woman, who was knitting in the chimney-corner, going off into screams and hysterics as I and my big steed walked in upon her solitude, a loose shoe and a very audible blowing making the entrance of my equine companion even more prononcé than it would otherwise have been. The poor old creature flung down her needles, together with the cat which had been quietly reposing in her lap, and kicking up her feet yelled and bellowed at the top of a very discordant voice. It took the combined efforts of all four women to pacify her, and she was still shrieking long after I had mounted the big bay and ridden him back to inform his owner of how charmingly he had behaved.

I have now told you three anecdotes, partly for your amusement and partly for your instruction; but I would not have you think that it would be at all times and under all circumstances a wise thing to ride a runaway horse against so formidable an obstacle as a stone wall. Mine was, I hope, an exceptional case. When the animal was led down to meet me at the station, I saw, not without misgiving, that I was destined to ride in a so-called "safety-stirrup," and at the time when he took head with me my foot was fixed as in a vice in this dangerous and horrible trap, from which I could not succeed in releasing it. Feeling that my brain was whirling, and that I could not longer maintain my seat in the saddle, I rode for an overthrow, which I deemed infinitely better than being dragged by the foot over an intricate country, and most probably having my brains scattered by a pair of crashing heels. If a horse should at any time run away with you, keep your seat whilst you can do so, and whilst you have anything of a fair road before you; but if there is any danger of your being thrown or losing your seat whilst your foot is caught, then by all means ride for a fall; put your horse at something that will bring him down, and when he is down struggle on to his head, that he may not rise until somebody has come to your assistance. Of course the experiment is fraught with excessive danger, but it is not certain death, as the other alternative must undoubtedly be. I cannot, however, wish you better than to hope most fervently that you may never be placed in a position which would necessitate your making a choice between two such mighty evils. Avoid riding strange horses. No matter how accomplished a horsewoman you may become, do not be too ready to comply with the request to try this or that unknown mount. I have done it myself, often, and probably shall again;[ [1] but my experience prompts me to warn others against a practice which is frequently fraught with danger to a lady. A horse knows quite well when a strange or timid rider gets upon his back, and if he does not kill you outright, he will probably make such a "hare" of you as will not be at all agreeable, either for yourself or for the lookers-on.

Whenever you take a young horse upon grass, whether he be a stranger to you or otherwise, be prepared for a certain show of friskiness which he does not usually exhibit upon the road. The soft springy turf beneath his feet imbues him with feelings of hilarity which he finds himself powerless to resist, and so you, his rider, must prepare for his little vagaries. He will, most probably, in the first place try a succession of bucks, and for these you must prepare by sitting very close to your saddle, your knee well pressed against the leaping-head, and your figure erect, but not thrown back, as the shock, or shocks to your spine would in such a case be not only painful but positively dangerous, and should therefore be carefully avoided. He will next be likely to romp away, pulling you much harder than is at all agreeable, and seemingly inclined to take head with you altogether. As a remedy against this you must neither yield to him nor pull against him. I have heard fairly good riders advocate by turns both systems of management, especially the former; indeed, the expression, "Drop your hands to him," has become so general amongst teachers of the equestrian art, that it has almost passed into a proverb. I do not advocate it, nor do I deem it advisable ever to pull against a pulling horse. When an animal tries to forereach you, you should neither give up to him nor yet pull one ounce against him. Close your fingers firmly upon the reins and keep your arms perfectly motionless, your hands well down, without giving or taking one quarter of an inch. In a stride or two he will be sure to yield to your hand, at which moment you should immediately yield to him, and his wondrous powers of intelligence will soon enable him to discern that you are not to be trifled with. Were you to give up to him when he rushes away or romps with his head he would very soon be going all abroad, and would give you a vast amount of trouble to pull him into proper form. Above all things, keep clear of trees, of which I myself have an unbounded dread. Should you have occasion to ride through a city, give your eyes and attention to your horse, and not to passing acquaintances, for in the present dangerous tangle of tramlines, slippery pavements, and ill-driven vehicles, it will require all your energies to bring you safely through. Never trot your horse through a town or city: walk him quietly through such portion of it as you have to pass, and leave him abundant head-room, that his intelligence may pick out a way for his own steps.

A very nice ride for a lady is to a meet of the hounds, if such should occur within reasonable distance, say from four to eight miles. The sight is a very pretty one, and there is not any reason why you should not thoroughly enjoy it; but having only ridden to see the meet, you must be careful not to interfere with, nor get in the way of those about to ride the run. Nothing is more charming than to see three or four ladies, nicely turned out, arrive to grace the meet with their presence, but nothing is more abominable than the same number of amazons coming galloping up in full hunting toggery, although without the least idea of hunting, and rushing hither and thither, frightening the hounds and getting in everybody's way, as though they were personages of the vastest possible importance, and meant to ride with a skill not second to that of the Nazares. Such women are the horror and spoliation of every hunting-field. They dash off with the hounds the moment the fox is found, but happily the first fence stops them, and a fervent thankfulness is felt by every true lover of the chase as they pause discomfited, look dismally at the yawning chasm, and jog crestfallen away to the road.

There are many ladies, and estimable ladies, too, who take out their horses every hunting-day, and by keeping upon the roadways see all that they can of the hounds. Sometimes they are fortunate, sometimes not; it depends upon the line of country taken. Their position is, in my opinion, a most miserable one; yet they must derive enjoyment from it, else why do they come? They surely cannot imagine that they are participating in the hunt; yet it affords them amusement to keep pottering about, and enables them to make their little harmless boast to credulous friends of their "hunting days," and the "runs" they have seen throughout the season. Indeed, so far does this passion for boasting carry the fair sex, that I myself know two young ladies who never saw a hound in their lives, except from the inside of a shabby waggonette, yet who brag in so audacious a manner that they have been heard to declare to gentlemen at evening dances, "Really we cawn't dawnce; we are so tired! Out all day with the Wards—and had such a clipping run!"

This sort of thing only makes us smile when we hear it amongst ladies, but when men resort to it we become inspired with sufficient contempt to feel a longing desire to offer them severer chastisement than our derision.

I once asked a little mannikin, who had given himself the name and airs of a great rider, if he would be kind enough to pilot me over an intricate piece of country with which I was unacquainted. The creature pulled his little moustaches, and sniffed, and hemmed and hawed, and finally said, "Aw, I'm sure I should be delighted, but you see I ride so deuced hard, I should not expect a lady to be able to keep up with me." I said nothing, but acted as my own pilot, and took opportunity to watch my hard-riding friend during the course of the run. He positively never jumped a fence, but worked rampantly at locks of gates, and bribed country-folks to let him pass through. The last I saw of him he was whipping his horse over a narrow ditch, preparatory to scrambling it himself on foot.

And this man was only one of many, for the really accomplished rider never boasts.

[1] This was written previous to the accident which has disabled me.

PART III.

HUNTING.

CHAPTER VI.

HUNTING-GEAR.‌—‌NECESSARY REGARD FOR SAFE SHOEING.‌—‌DRIVE TO THE MEET.‌—‌SCENE ON ARRIVING.‌—‌A WORD WITH THE HUNTSMAN.‌—‌A GOOD PILOT.‌—‌THE COVERT SIDE.‌—‌DISAPPOINTMENT.‌—‌A LONG TROT.

Now that you are thoroughly at home on your saddle—in the park, on the road, and over the country—you are doubtless longing to display your prowess in the hunting-field, and thither we shall have much pleasure in accompanying you.

Your outfit will be the first thing to consider; and do not be alarmed when I tell you that it will require a little more generosity on the part of papa than you have hitherto called upon him to exercise.

To commence with your feet—which I know is contrary to custom—you will need two pairs of patent Wellington boots. These are three guineas per pair, but are a beautiful article, and will last a long time with care. Woollen stockings of light texture, with a pair of silk ones drawn over, are the most comfortable for winter wear. A small steel spur to affix to your left heel will be the next item required. The nicest kind are those with a strap attached, which crosses the instep, and buckles securely at the side. Of course, all ladies' spurs are spring ones, displaying no rowels which could tear the habit, but simply one steel projection with spring probe within, which, when pressed to the horse's side, acts most efficiently as an instigator. Latchford's patent is the best.

Two pairs of chamois riding-trousers, cloth from the hip down, and buttoning quite close at the ankle to allow of the boot going over, will be the next necessary; and you must also provide yourself with two riding corsets of superior shape and make.

Three habits of strong dark cloth, one of them thoroughly waterproof, will be required—the skirts to be made so short as barely to cover the foot, and so spare as to fit like glove, without fold or wrinkle. If a hunting-habit be properly cut it will require no shotting, which will be an advantage to your horse in diminishing the weight which he would otherwise have to carry. An elastic band nicely placed upon the inside in position to catch around the toe of the right foot will be sufficient to answer all purposes. You cannot do better, to procure an article such as I describe, than entrust your order to Wolmershausen (whom I believe I have already named in a former chapter), corner of Curzon Street, Mayfair, where you will not fail to find your instructions intelligently carried out. This firm has a speciality for skirt-cutting,—is, indeed, unapproachable in this particular branch, of what is in reality an ART; and even in these days of eager competition the old-established house suffers from no rivalry, and holds its own in the widely-contested field.

A very neatly-made waterproof jacket will be an addition to your wardrobe, as also a cape with an elastic band from the back to fasten around the waist, and hold the front ends securely down. This latter is an almost indispensable article. It is so light that it can be carried with ease in your saddle-strap, and in case of an unexpected shower can be adjusted in a single instant and without assistance, which is not the case with a jacket. It should be made with a collar, which can be arranged to stand up close around the neck, and thus prevent the possibility of damp or wet causing you cold or inconvenience. I approve of the jacket for decidedly wet days, when it should be donned on going out, but for a showery day the cape is preferable, as it can be much more easily taken off and again put on.

Two silk hats, with the addition of a melon-shape if you desire it—a long-lashed hunting-whip, and a plentiful supply of collars, cuffs, gloves, veils, and handkerchiefs, will complete your outfit. I, hunting four days a week, find the above quite sufficient, and if you care your things (having got them in the first instance of the best quality) it is surprising how long they may be made to serve. I have told you how to take care of them, but believe me, if you leave the task to servants the end will prove disappointing. You will never be one-half so well turned out, and your outlay will be continual.

It is an excellent precaution for a hunting-day, to look the previous morning at your horse's shoes; and do this yourself, for it not unfrequently happens that a careless groom will suffer him to go out with a loose shoe which gradually becomes looser, and finally drops off, perhaps in the middle of an exciting run, and obliges you to leave your place with the hounds and seek the nearest forge. All this sort of thing could, in nine cases out of ten, be obviated by a little care and forethought, but the majority of riders are too grand, or too careless, or too absurdly squeamish about the "propriety" of entering a stable, and not unfrequently too ignorant of things they ought to know, to see to such matters themselves, and so they are passed over and neglected. A groom is too often utterly careless. He is bound to send your horse from the yard looking shiny, and sleek, and clean. Any deviation from this would at once attract your attention, and arouse your displeasure. The groom knows this, and acts accordingly; but he also knows what you do not—that one of the shoes is three-parts loose; it will probably hold very well until you begin to go, and then it will drop off and leave you in a fix, perhaps miles away from a village where the damage could be repaired. The groom knew all about it, very likely, the day before, but he saw that you were not troubling yourself, and why should he? You never made any inquiry about such matters, nor seemed to interest yourself in them, and why should he be troubled concerning them? A loose shoe is nothing to him: it does not cause him any inconvenience, not it; then why worry himself? He does not want to bring the horse down to the forge through mud and rain, and stand there awaiting the smith's convenience; not a bit of it. He is much more comfortable lolling against the stable-door and smoking a pipe with Tom, Dick, or Harry.

It frequently occurs in the hunting-field that a horse loses a shoe in going through heavy ground, or in jumping a fence where he brings his hind feet too close upon the front ones, and, catching the toe of the hind shoe in the heel of the front, drags the latter forcibly off, and leaves it either on the ground behind him or carries it for a field or two hanging by one or two nails to his hoof, before it finally drops off.

The moment you are made aware that your horse has cast a shoe, which will generally be by somebody informing you of the fact, ascertain at once which of the animal's feet has been left unprotected. If the lost shoe happens to be a hinder one, the matter is less serious, but if a front one should be cast, do not lose any time in inquiring your road to the nearest smithy, and, whilst wending your way thither, be careful to keep as much as possible upon the grass by the roadside, that the shoeless foot may not become worn, nor suffer from concussion by coming in contact with the hard road.

It is a good plan to send your horse early to the meet: quite in the morning; or, should the distance be a long one, despatch him the previous evening in charge of a careful servant, and stable him for the night as near as possible to the point at which you may require him upon the following day. If you are fortunate enough to have a friend's house to send him to, so much the better a great deal; but under any circumstances it is pleasanter both for you and your animal that he should be fresh and lively from his stable, and not that you should get upon him when he is half-jaded and covered with mud, after a long and tiresome road journey.

To drive to the meet or go by train yourself is the most agreeable way. Some ladies ride hacks to covert, and then have their hunters to replace them, but this is tiresome, and not to be advocated for various reasons. If the morning is fine the drive will be pleasant, and you can then send your conveyance to whatever point you deem it most likely the hunt will leave off. You must, of course, exercise your judgment in the endeavour to decide this, but you may assist it considerably by asking the Master or the huntsman to be kind enough to give you a hint as to the direction in which they will most probably draw.

We will, then, surmise that you drive to the meet. It is an excellent plan, whether you drive or go by train, to take with you a small bag containing a change of clothing; leave this in charge of your servant, with directions where he is to meet you in the evening, and then, should you come to grief in a dyke or river you can console yourself with the knowledge that dry garments are awaiting you, and that you will not have to encounter the risk of cold and rheumatism by sitting in drenched habiliments in a train or vehicle. You will also, if wise, take with you a foot-pick and a few yards of strong twine. Even if you should not require them yourself you may be able to oblige others, which is always a pleasure to a right-minded and unselfish huntress. Take, likewise, a few shillings in your pocket to reward, if necessary, the wreckers, whose tasks are at all times difficult and laborious, and too often thankless.

Arrived at the meet, your horse and servant are waiting for you in good time and order; but it is a little early yet, and so you look about you.

What a pretty sight it is! How full of healthful interest and charming variety! The day is bright and breezy—a little bit cloudy, perhaps, but no sign of rain. A glorious hunting morning altogether. Numbers of vehicles are drawn up, filled with happy-looking occupants, mostly ladies and children. There are a good many dog-carts, polo-carts, and a few tandems, from which gentlemen in ulsters and long white saving-aprons are preparing to alight. It is nice to see their steeds, so beautifully groomed and turned out, led up to the trap-wheels for them to mount, without the risk of soiling their boots. Very particular are these gentlemen. The day is muddy, and they know they must be splashed and spattered as they ride to the covert-side, but they will not leave the meet with a speck upon horse or rider. There is a military-looking man—long, tawny moustache, and most perfect get-up—divesting himself of his apron, and frowning because his snow-white breeches are disfigured by just one speck of dirt; probably it would be unobservable to anybody but himself, yet he is not the less annoyed. A dapper little gentleman, in drab shorts and gaiters, is covertly combing his horse's mane; and a hoary old fox-hunter, who has just mounted, has drawn over close to the hedge, and extends first one foot and then the other for his servant to remove the blemishes which mounting has put upon his boots. This extreme fastidiousness is carried by some to an absurd excess. I remember upon one occasion seeing a gentleman actually re-enter his dog-cart and drive sulkily away from the meet because he considered himself too much splashed to join the cavalcade which was moving away to the covert, although he was fully aware that a trot of a few hundred yards upon the muddy road in company with numerous other horses would, under any circumstances, have speedily reduced him to the condition which he was then lamenting.

A few ladies come upon the scene, and many more gentlemen; and then comes the huntsman in proud charge of the beauties. The whips and second horsemen come also, and the Master drives up about the same time, and loses not a moment in mounting his hunter. The pack looks superb, and many are the glances and words of commendation which it receives.

Always have a smile and pleasant word for the huntsman and whips. They deserve it, and they value it. I always make it a point to have a little conversation with them before we leave the meet—in fact, I know many of the hounds in the various packs by name, and I love to notice them. Nothing pleases the huntsman more than to commend his charge: it makes him your friend at once. Many a time when I have been holding good place in a run, we have come across some dangerous fence which it would be death to ride in a crowd, and the huntsman's shout of "Let the lady first!" has secured me a safe jump, and a maintenance of my foremost position.

All being now ready, you mount your horse. It would be well if some gentleman friend or relative would look first to his girths, &c.; but, should such not be available, do not be above doing it yourself. Servants, even the best, are, as aforesaid, often careless, and a horse may be sent out with girths too loose, throat-lash too tight, runners out, or any of the thousand and one little deficiencies which an interested and careful eye will at once detect.

Of course you have not come to hunt without having secured a good pilot. You have, I hope, selected somebody who rides well and straight—boldly, and yet with judgment—for, believe me, a display of silly recklessness does not constitute good riding, however it may be thought to do so by ignorant or silly persons. Your pilot will ride a few yards in advance of you, and it will be your duty to keep him well in view, and not to get separated from him. This latter you may at times find difficult, as others may ride in between, but you must learn smartness, and be prepared for all emergencies. Moreover, if your pilot be a good one, he will see that you keep close to him, and, by glancing over his shoulder after clearing each obstacle, will satisfy himself that you also are safely over, and that no mischance has befallen you. Any man who will not take this trouble is unfit to pilot a lady, for whilst he is careering onward in all the glories of perfect safety, she may be down in some ugly dyke, perhaps ridden on, or otherwise hurt; and, therefore, it is his bounden duty to see that no evil befals her. I cannot say that I consider the position of a trusty pilot at all an enviable one, and few men care to occupy it in relation to a beginner or timorous rider, although they are ever anxious to place their services at the disposal of a lady who is known to "go straight."

In selecting a pilot, do so with judgment. Choose one who knows the country, and who will not be too selfish nor too grand to take care of you; for, remember, you are only a beginner, and will need to be taken care of. If, then, you have secured the right sort of man, and your own heart is in the right place, you may prepare to enjoy yourself, for a real good day's hunting is the keenest enjoyment in which man or woman can hope to participate in this life.

The trot to the covert-side is usually very pleasant. You and your horse are quite fresh. You meet and chat with your friends. The two, three, or four miles, as the case may be, seem to glide away very fast. Then comes the anxious moment when the beauties are thrown in, and all wait in eager suspense for the whimper which shall proclaim Reynard at home. But not a hound gives tongue this morning. You can see them—heads down, sterns up, beating here and there through the gorse—but, alas! in silence; and, after a while, someone says, "No fox here!" and presently your ear catches the sound of the huntsman's horn, and the hounds come trooping out, almost as disappointed as the field.

Then the master gives the order for the next or nearest covert, and there is a rush, and a move, and a long cavalcade forms upon the road, headed, of course, by the hounds. Get well in front, if you can, so as to be quite up when they reach their next try, for sometimes they find as soon as ever they are thrown in, and are far away over the country before the stragglers come up, and great, then, are the lamentations, for hunting a stern-chase is, to say the least of it, not cheerful. You will have another advantage, also, in being well forward, for your horse will get the benefit of a temporary rest, whilst those who, by lagging, have lost time at the start, are obliged to follow as best they can upon the track, bucketing their horses, and thus depriving them of the chance of catching their wind—which is, in a lengthened run, of very material consequence.

One especial difference you observe between road-riding and hunting: you are obliged to trot at a fast swinging pace such long tiresome distances from covert to covert, without pause or rest, and you feel already half tired out. Hitherto, when riding on the road, or in the park, if you felt fatigued you have only had to pull up and walk; but on hunting days there is no walking. The time is too precious, these short, dark, wintry days, to allow of such "sweet restings." The evening closes in so rapidly that we cannot afford to lose a moment of our time, and so we go along at a sweeping pace. Nobody who is unable to trot long distances without rest has any business hunting.

CHAPTER VII.

HOUNDS IN COVERT.‌—‌THE FIRST FENCE.‌—‌FOLLOW YOUR PILOT.‌—‌A RIVER-BATH. ‌—‌A WISE PRECAUTION.‌—‌A LABEL ADVISABLE.‌—‌WALL AND WATER JUMPING. ‌—‌ADVICE TO FALLEN RIDERS.‌—‌HOGGING.‌—‌MORE TAIL.

You have now arrived at the next covert, and have seen the hounds thrown in. In an instant there is a whimper, taken up presently by one and another, until the air rings with the joyous music of the entire pack, as they rattle their game about, endeavouring to force him to face the open. The whips are standing warily on the watch, the huntsman's cheery voice is heard encouraging the hounds, the Master is galloping from point to point, warning off idlers whose uninvited presence would be sure to send the "varmint" back into his lair. Your pilot, knowing that a run from here is a certainty, selects his vantage ground. Being a shrewd man, he knows that no fox will face a keen nor'-easter, nor will he be likely to brave the crowd of country bumpkins, who, despite the Master's entreaties, are clustering about yonder hedge. In short, there is only one point from which he can well break, and so your pilot prepares accordingly.

Another anxious moment ere the "Gone away! Tally-ho!" rings out upon the keen air; and then follows that glorious burst which is worth giving up a whole year of one's life to see. Hounds running breast high, fairly flying, in fact; huntsmen, whips, horsemen, all in magnificent flight, each riding hard for the foremost place, amid such a chorus of delicious music as is never heard from any save canine throats; and then, when the first big fence is reached, such hurry and scurry! such tumbling and picking up again! such scrambling of dogs and shouting of men! such cold baths for horses and riders! and oh, such glory amongst the wreckers, as they stand tantalizingly at the edge of the chasm in which so many are hopelessly struggling, whilst their audacious cries of "What'll you give me, sir?" "Pull you out for a sovereign, captain!" are heard and laughed at by the fortunate ones who are safe upon the other side.

Your pilot has been a wise man. He selected his starting-point at the sound of the very first opening out, and when the general scrimmage took place he had his line chosen, and so has led you wide of the ruck, yet in the wake of the hounds.

And here suffer me to advise you, if you should ever chance to be left without a leader, do not fall into the mistake of following the others, for my experience of hunting is that nine-tenths of those out do not know where they are going, nor where fox or hounds have gone before them. Cut out a line for yourself, and follow the pack. A pilot is, of course, a great acquisition, if he be a good one, but throughout some of my best runs I have performed the office for myself, and have succeeded in being in at the death. But then I am not a beginner, and I am surmising that you are. Keep about six yards behind your leader; follow him unswervingly, and jump after him, but not on him. Always wait till he is well out of the way before you take the fence in his wake. Your horse will jump more readily having the example of his before him, but I cannot too well impress upon you the necessity of allowing him to get well over before you attempt to follow. One of the ugliest falls I ever got in my life was through riding too close upon my leader. The run was a very hot one, and only four of us were going at the time. None, in fact, but those who had first-rate horses had been able to live through it. We came to a wide branch of a river, swollen by recent rains. My pilot, going a rare pace, jumped it safely; I came too fast upon him. My horse's nose struck his animal's quarters, which, of course, threw my gallant little mount off his balance, and prevented his landing. He staggered and fell back, and we both got a drowning! I was dragged up with a boat-hook, the horse swam on until he found a place to scramble up the bank, and then galloped off over the country. I recollect standing dismally by that river, my pilot and two wreckers scraping the mud from me, and wringing my drenched garments, whilst two or three more were scouring the adjacent lands in search of my truant steed. When, at length, he was caught, I had eleven miles to ride to the place at which I had left my trap, and was obliged on arriving to change every atom of my clothing, and wash off the superabundant mud in a horse-bucket, kindly lent for the occasion.

The fall involved the loss of the run, the loss of a habit, the loss of many odd shillings to wreckers, the loss of my temper, a wound from the boat-hook, and a heavy cold, the result of immersion on a perishing winter day. All these disasters were the punishments consequent upon my impetuosity in coming too close upon my leader; therefore, having thus myself suffered, I warn you, from woful experience, never to tread upon the horse jumping in advance of you. Allowing, even, that you do not cannon against him, there is another casualty which may not improbably occur. Supposing that he falls and throws his rider, your horse may in alighting just chance to plant a foot upon the empty saddle of the prostrate animal, the slippery nature of which throws him off his balance, and you and he roll upon the earth together—perhaps receiving a kick from your pilot's struggling mount. From this species of accident many evils have from time to time arisen, and therefore I dutifully endeavour to put you well upon your guard. I would also again remind you that if you really mean to ride an intricate country, you should never under any circumstances neglect to bring a change of clothing, for you may at any moment be dyked, and to remain in wet garments is highly dangerous,—not so long as you are exercising, but during the journey to your home. It is not in the saddle, but in vehicles and railway carriages that colds are contracted and the seeds of disease are sown. It may not be out of place here to offer you a piece of wholesome advice. Should you at any time have the ill-fortune to be riding a kicking horse in the midst of a crowd, always put back your hand when the cavalcade pauses, to warn those behind not to come too close to the heels of your unquiet steed. By so doing you may save an accident, and may, moreover, guard yourself from more than one anathema. I once saw the horse of a fiery old General kicked by the mount of a young nobleman, who thought it not worth his while to offer an apology. "See here, young man," said the irate officer, riding up to the offender's side, "whenever you come out to hunt on brutes like that you should paste a danger-card upon your back, and not run the risk of breaking valuable bones. I have said my say," he added, "and now you may go to the devil!"

A few hints next as to jumping.

If, in the course of a run, you meet with stone walls, do not ride too fast at them. Always steady your horse at such obstacles, and follow my oft-repeated advice of leaving him abundant head-room. If you have to cross a river or very wide ditch, come fast at it, in order that the impetus may swing you safely over; few horses can cross a wide jump without having what is called a "run at it." Never expect your animal to take such obstacles at a stand, or under the disadvantages consequent upon coming at them at a slow pace. Should the leap be a river or wide water-jump, suffer your horse to stretch forward his head and neck when coming up to it. If you fail to do so, you will most probably go in, for an animal who accomplishes his work requires his liberty as an absolute necessity, and, if denied it, will teach you, at the cost of a good wetting, to treat him next time with greater consideration. You will frequently see men ride pretty boldly up to some yawning chasm or ugly bullfinch—stop and look at it, hesitate an instant, and then, by cruel spurring, urge an exhausted animal to take it at a stand. This is truly bad horsemanship, and leads to many direful results. A good rider will, on perceiving that the obstacle is a formidable one, turn his horse round, take him some little distance from it, and then, again turning, come fast at it—quick gallop, hands down, horse's head held straight and well in hand, but without any pulling or nervous reining in. Such a one will be pretty sure to get safely over.

Should your horse, in jumping a fence, land badly, and slip his hind legs into a gripe or ditch, do not wait more than an instant to see if he can recover himself; you will know in that time whether he will be likely to do so. The best advice I can give you is to kick your foot free of the stirrup and jump off before he goes back. You will thus keep your own skin dry; and, if you have been fortunate enough to retain a light hold of the rein, you can rescue your horse without much difficulty; for an animal, when immersed, makes such intelligent efforts to release himself, that a very trifling assistance upon your part will enable him to struggle safely to your side, when you can remount him and try your chances of again picking up the hounds. Be cautious, however, in pulling him up, that you do so over smooth ground. I had a valuable young horse badly staked last season through being dragged up over a clump of brushwood after a fall into the Lara river.

Should your steed peck on landing over a fence you will be pretty certain to come over his head, for this is an ugly accident, and one very likely to occur over recently-scoured drains. You may, however, save both yourself and him, if you are smart in using your hands in assisting him to recover his lost equilibrium.

In the event of your horse jumping short with you, either from having taken off too soon or from any other cause, and falling upon you into a gripe, you may (when you gain a little experience) be able to stick to him without leaving the saddle. The first effort a fallen animal makes is to try to get up; therefore, if you are not quite thrown, hold on to his mane, and as he struggles to right himself make your effort to regain your seat. Be guided, however, in doing this by observing with a quick glance whether there are thorns or brambles overgrowing the place, for if there are, and your horse on recovering himself strides onward in the ditch, seeking a place at which he may get out, your face will undoubtedly suffer. This sort of thing once occurred to me in the course of a day's hunting. I held on to my animal when he fell, and regained my seat without very much difficulty, but before I could recover my hold of the bridle he had rushed forward, and my face was terribly punished by the overhanging brambles.

Be very careful, in this matter of holding on to a fallen animal, not to confound the mane with the rein. By clinging to the former you assist yourself without in the smallest degree impeding the movements of your horse; by clinging to the latter you seriously interfere with his efforts at recovery, and most probably pull him back upon you.

And this brings me to the subject of hogging horses' manes. Never, under any circumstances, allow an animal of yours to be thus maltreated. Not only is it a vile disfigurement, depriving the horse of Nature's loveliest ornament, but it also deprives the rider of a very chief means of support in case of accident. Many a bad fall have I been saved by clutching firmly at the mane, which an ignorant groom had oft implored me to sacrifice; and many a good man and true have I seen recover himself by a like action, when a hog-maned animal would undoubtedly have brought him to grief. Grooms are especially fond of this system of "hogging," and many a beauteous adjunct of Nature's forming has been ruthlessly sacrificed to their ceaseless importunities to be permitted to "smarten the baste." Tails, too, are remorselessly clocked by these gentlemen of the stable; not that they really think it an improvement, any more than they veritably admire the hogging process, but it saves them trouble, it lightens their labours, they have less combing and grooming to attend to. Tails were sent by Nature, not merely as an ornament, but to enable the animal to whisk away the flies, which in hot weather render its life a burthen. Man, the ruthless master, by a cruel process of cutting and searing, deprives his helpless slave of one of its most valued and most necessary possessions. I do not myself advocate long switch tails, which are rarely an ornament, being usually covered with mud; but I maintain that "docking" is cruel and unnecessary, keeping the hairs closely and evenly cut being quite sufficient for purposes of cleanliness, without in any way interfering with the flesh; therefore, do not reject my oft-repeated plea for "a little more tail."

CHAPTER VIII.

HOLDING ON TO A PROSTRATE HORSE.‌—‌IS IT WISE OR OTHERWISE?‌—‌AN INDISCREET JUMP.‌—‌A DIFFICULT FINISH.‌—‌THE DANGERS OF MARSHY GROUNDS.‌—‌ENCOURAGE HUMANITY.‌—‌A RECLAIMED CABBY!

To return to the subject of jumping.

In the event of an ordinary fall in landing over a fence, it is a vexed question whether or not it is advisable to hold on by the rein whilst your horse is on the ground. I do not now mean when he is sunk in a ditch, but when he is prostrate upon even grass-land or upon smooth earth. Many first-rate riders affirm that it is a highly dangerous practice, therefore I am afraid to advocate it, and must speak with reserve—as I did respecting the management of a rearing animal—but for my own part I always do it. My experience is, that when a horse struggles to his feet his movement is almost invariably retrograde. He tries to get away, consequently his heels are turned from me; and so long as I keep my hold of the bridle his head will be nearest me and his feet furthest. He will not think of turning to kick me, unless he be a vilely vicious brute, not worth his keep; and so I can hold him with safety until I am up myself and ready to remount him. When my horse falls with me on the flat, I roll clear of him without letting go the rein, and as the only danger of a kick is whilst he is getting up, I shield my head with one arm and slip the rein to its fullest length with the other, thus allowing the animal so much head-room that he is enabled to make that retrograde movement, or "dragging away," which is natural to him, and which saves me from the possible contact of his heels.

This is, in my opinion (which I cannot, of course, pretend to think infallible), the best course to pursue. It is the one which I always adopt, and I have never yet, except in one trifling instance, received a kick from a fallen horse.

I remember one day, a couple of seasons ago, I was riding hard against a very beautiful Imperial lady, who dearly loves a little bit of rivalry. Neck and neck we had jumped most of the fences for forty minutes or so, and both our steeds were pretty well beaten, for the running had been continuous, without a check. We came to an awful obstacle—a high thick-set hedge, so impenetrable that there was no chance of knowing what might be on the other side. There was but one little apology for a gap, and at this the Empress's pilot rode—immediately putting up his hand as a warning to us not to follow, and pointing lower down. I knew that when Bay Middleton thought there was danger, it did, indeed, exist; but I was too much excited to stop. We had the hunt all to ourselves, the hounds running right in front of us, and not a soul with them. I came at the fence with whip, spur, and a shout! My horse—than which a better never was saddled—rose to the leap, and landing upon his head after a terrific drop, rolled completely over. I was not much hurt, and whilst he was on his knees getting up, I scrambled back to the saddle, and went on; but, oh! under what dire disadvantages! My rein had caught upon a stake in the fence and was broken clean off, and I fancy it was this chuck to my animal's mouth which had thrown him out of his stride and caused him to blunder, for it was the first and last mistake he ever made with me, nor could I, in the hurry of regaining my seat unassisted, get my foot into the stirrup; so I finished the run as if by a miracle, and astonished myself even more than anybody else by bringing home the fox's brush as a trophy that I was in at the death.

Always bear in mind when hunting that you are bound to save your horse as much as possible. Jump no unnecessary fences; look out for a friendly gate whenever you can find one at hand; and in going up hill or over ploughed land, ease your animal and take your time. By acting thus judiciously you will be able to keep going when others are standing still. Always avoid bogs and heavy bottoms; they are most treacherous, and swamp many an unwary hunter in their dangerous depths. If you should ever have the bad fortune to be caught in one, dismount at once, and lead your horse. It is not a pleasant thing to have to do, but if you remain upon him, your weight, added to his own, will probably sink him up to his saddle-girths, and there he will stick.

I would desire particularly to impress upon you that if your horse carries you safely and brilliantly through one good run, you ought to be contented with that, and not attempt to ride him a second. It is through the unwise and cruel habit of riding beaten animals that half the serious accidents occur. Also remember that if you are waiting at a covert-side where there seems likely to be a delay, after your steed has had a gallop or a long trot, you should get off his back and shift your saddle an inch one way or the other, generally backwards, as servants are usually apt in the first instance to place the saddle too close upon the withers. By adopting this plan you will, when you again get upon him, find him a new animal. If you or I were carrying a heavy burthen upon our shoulders for a certain number of hours in precisely the same position, would it not make a new being of us to have it eased and shifted? And exactly so it is with the horse. A selfish man will sit all day upon his beast, rather than take the trouble of getting off his back; but against himself does it tell, for his animal is fagged and jaded when that of a merciful man is able to keep its place in the run.

There is nothing which should more fully engross the thoughts of the humane hunter than kindly consideration towards the noble and beautiful creature which God has sent to be the help of man. Your horse should be your companion, your friend, your loved and valued associate, but never your wronged and over-tasked slave. Humanity cries out with ready uproar against the long list of grievances which animals have to endure, yet how few of us exert ourselves to lighten the burthen by so much as one of our fingers! There is not one of us who may not, if he choose, be daily and hourly striving to curtail the load of misery which the equine race is called upon to bear. We may not be fortunate enough to possess horses ourselves upon which to exercise our humanity, but can we not do something—yea, much—for others? Surely we can, if we only possess the courage and the will. Even a word judiciously spoken will often effect more than we could have hoped or supposed. Two years ago I saw a cabman in Dublin cruelly ill-treating his horse. The poor animal was resting its worn and tired body upon the stand, ready for the wrench which its jaw would receive as soon as the next prospect of a "fare" should excite the cupidity of its owner. One would have thought that the sight of so much patient misery would have moved the stoniest heart to suffer the hapless creature to enjoy its few moments of needed repose. But no; the driver wanted some amusement, he was weary of standing by himself, without some sort of employment to divert his ignoble mind, and so he found such out. How? By beating upon the front legs and otherwise cruelly worrying with the whip the poor ill-used slave which he should have felt bound to protect. I saw it first from a distance—more fully as I came near—and with a heart bursting with sorrow and indignation, I crossed over and remonstrated with the man. I said very little; only what I have tried to inculcate in these pages—that humanity to quadrupeds is not only a duty which we owe to their Creator, but will in time repay ourselves. I expected nothing but abuse, and, indeed, the man's angry face and half-raised whip seemed to augur me no good; but, suddenly, as something that I said came home to him, his countenance softened, and, laying his hand quite gently upon the poor beaten side of the animal which he had been ill-treating, he said: "Well, if there was more like you, there 'ud be less like me! that's the thruth, at all events." And then he said no more, for he was satisfied that I knew I had not spoken in vain. For two years that man has been my constant driver. He is almost daily at my door: he drives me to and from the trains when going to and returning from the hunts, and dearly loves to hear something of the runs; nor is there a more humane driver nor a better cared horse in any city of the empire.

I have related this true incident, not from any egotism—God is my witness—but merely to show you how good is "a word in season." You may speak many which may be, or may seem to be, of none effect, but, like the "bread upon the waters," you know not when it may return unto you blessed.

CHAPTER IX.

SELFISHNESS IN THE FIELD.‌—‌FORDING A RIVER.‌—‌SHIRKING A FENCE.‌—‌ OVER-RIDING THE HOUNDS.‌—‌TREATMENT OF TIRED HUNTERS.‌—‌BIGWIG AND THE MAJOR.‌—‌NAUGHTY BIGWIG.‌—‌HAPLESS MAJOR.

You must be particularly cautious in the hunting-field to avoid being cannoned against. There is no other place in the whole world where there is so little ceremony; and so very, very little politeness. It is verily a case of "Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost!" There is scarcely one man in the entire field who will not in his heart of hearts resent your presence, and so he will pay you no court. The crowding at gaps, and at certain negotiable places in different well-known fences is simply disgraceful; and persons—I cannot call them gentlemen—ride each other down like dogs. At such places you will be fortunate if you can enlist a friend to ride behind you, and thus prevent your being jumped upon in the event of a fall.

I must not omit to remind you that in crossing a ford your horse will be very apt to lose his footing. You will know when he does so by his making a kind of plunge, and an endeavour to swim, which he only does when he feels himself out of his depth. If at such a time you interfere with his mouth, he will inevitably roll over. Your only chance is to throw him the reins, and let him scramble or swim as he finds easiest. If the latter, lift your left leg (with foot still in the stirrup) completely over the third crutch, that he may not strike your heel with his near hind foot, or become in any way entangled with the stirrup or in your skirt. At the same time grasp the up-pommel firmly with your hand, that you may not be unseated when he makes his second struggle, which he will do as soon as he recovers his footing at the bottom of the water.

A horse who shirks his fences is a terrible infliction to have to ride. Of course the first refusal condemns you to lose your place, for it is the etiquette of the hunting-field that if your horse refuses you must at once draw aside and let the whole field go by before you again essay it. But, provoked though you may be, do not allow yourself to be vanquished. If you do not now gain the victory your horse will always be your conqueror. Bring him again to the leap, keeping his head straight and your hands low and firm. If he refuses a second time, bring him round again and again, always turning him from right to left—that is, with the pressure upon you right rein—and not suffering him to have his own way. Remember that if you suffer him to conquer you or bring him to any other part of the fence than that which he is refusing, you will thoroughly spoil him. Do not, however, treat him with harshness. Coax him and speak gently to him. It may be nervousness, not temper; and if so, you will soon get him over by kindly encouragement. The horse is essentially a timid creature. He is oftentimes subjected to cruelties for his "obstinacy," where a little kindness and a few reassuring words would be infinitely more effectual. Every glance of your eye, every look upon your countenance is noted by your horse whilst he can see you, and, when you are upon his back, your words fall upon highly sensitive ears. A horse's soul is full of affection for his owner. He yearns to please him. He would yield his life to serve him. Alas! how is such nobility requited? Man's cruelty converts a peerless and incomparable companion into a terrified and trembling slave. Young limbs are heavily weighted before they have had time to grow; dark, wretched, solitary confinement too early takes the place of the open air and free pasturage to which the creature would fain a little longer cling; young heads, pining for freedom, are tied or chained up in melancholy imprisonment. The numerous little devices with which the captive strives to while away the tedium of its captivity are punished as "vices" by heartless and ignorant grooms. Nervousness is called bad temper, and timidity regarded as a punishable offence. All the horrors of the modern stable are brought to bear upon the priceless creature who is born to freedom, and whose fettered limbs he is scarce permitted to stretch. A rack of dry, and oftentimes vitiated hay is placed above the head which was created to stoop to gather the juicy grasses of the earth. A measure of hard dry corn, or a bucket of water, is periodically brought and thrust before the prisoner, who eats and drinks for mere pastime, often without appetite, and whose frequent rejection of the offered dainties is regarded as "sulkiness" or "vice." The whole system of modern stable management is lamentably at fault. I cannot hope to remedy it. I cannot persuade obstinate humanity that the expenditure of a few shillings will turn in as many pounds: that by the bestowal of proper care, proper housing, light, and exercise, and proper clothing, food, and drink, the slave will repay by longer life and more active service the care and kindness which Christianity should deem a pleasure and privilege, instead of, as now, a compulsory and doled-out gift. I cannot expect to remedy these wide and universal evils, nor yet can you; but we are bound—you and I—to guard against such things in our own management. If your horse oppose you through nervousness, you can conquer him by kindness; if through obstinacy, which is occasional but not frequent, you must adopt a different plan. Use your spur and whip, and show that you will not be mastered, though you stay there till the stars come out. You will be sure to conquer ere long, unless your horse is one of those inveterate brutes which are, fortunately, rarely to be met with, and when you succeed in getting him over the obstacle at which he has sulked, put him at it again, making him take it backwards and forwards, and he will not be likely to trouble you by a repetition of his pranks.

You must be very cautious in the hunting-field not to leave yourself open to any suspicion of over-riding the hounds; keep close to them, but never so near as to be upon them. Over-riding hounds is a piece of unpardonable caddishness of which no gentleman, and certainly no lady, would be guilty; yet it is done; and then, when the master's wrath is aroused, the innocent suffer with the guilty, for many who are not absolutely offenders, ride too close in their zeal for the pleasures of the chase.

When your day's sport is over, and you are riding back to the place at which you expect to meet your trap, remember that the easiest way to bring your horse in is in a quiet jog-trot. It is nonsense to walk him, for he will only stiffen, and will be the longer away from his stable and his needed rest. If you chance to come across a piece of water, ride him to it and let him have a few "go downs,"—six or eight, but not more. When you get off his back, see that his girths are loosed at once, and, if very tired, a little water thrown over his feet. He should then be taken quietly home—if by road, in the same easy trot—and just washed over and turned into a loose box, where he can tumble and luxuriate without submitting to any of the worries of professional grooming. Fifteen minutes after my return from hunting, my horse—sheeted and comfortable—is feeding quietly in his stall, enjoying his food and rest; instead of standing in some wet corner of a cold yard, with his unhappy head tied up by an unsympathizing rope, and a fussy groom worrying his tired body with a noisy display of most unnecessary zeal. And this is as it ought to be. Horses are like human beings,—they like to rest when wearied, and their chief desire—if we would only believe it—is to be left alone. But we are incredulous, and so we hang about them, and fuss and worry the fagged and patient creatures who would fain appeal to us for a cessation of our attentions.

There are few things more truly delightful than a mutual understanding and affection between horse and rider, and this can easily be arrived at by kindness and care. I have a hunter—Bigwig, son of The Lawyer—who follows me all over the place, knows my voice from any distance, rubs his nose down my dress, puts it into my pocket to look for apples, and licks my hands and face like a dog; yet I have done nothing to induce all this, except treating him with uniform justice and kindness. He has carried me most brilliantly through three successive seasons without one single display of sulk or bad temper. He knows not the touch of a whip. I carry one, that the long lash, passed through his bridle, may assist him when necessary in getting over a trappy fence, at which I may deem it prudent to dismount, but the sight of it never inspires him with fear; if I showed it to him, he would probably lick it, and then gaze inquiringly at me to see if I were pleased with the novel performance. To me, this noble and beautiful creature is a priceless companion; yet, strange to say, nobody else (not even the most accomplished rider) can obtain any good of him. It is not that he displays vice, but he simply will not allow himself to be ridden. I once happened to mention this fact at our private dinner-table, in presence of a distinguished major, who had been boasting largely of his prowess in the saddle, and who at once offered to lay me ten to one that he would master the animal in question within five minutes. "I do not bet," I said, "but I will venture to assert that you will not be able to ride him out of the yard within as many hours." He took me up at once, and, as a good many sporting men were dining with us, who evidently enjoyed the prospect of a little excitement, I quietly called a servant, and sent orders to the groom to saddle Bigwig without delay. It was a lovely evening in summer, and we all adjourned to the yard to view the performance.

The moment my beautiful pet saw me he whinnied joyously and strove to approach me, but I dared not go near him, in case it should be thought that by any sort of "Freemasonry" I induced him to carry out my words. The sight was most amusing; the gentlemen all standing about, smoking and laughing; the horse suspicious, and not at ease, quietly held by the groom, whose face was in a grin of expectation, for none knew better than he what was likely to ensue. The major prepared to mount, and Bigwig stood with the utmost placidity; although I must confess he was naughty enough to cast back an eye, which augured no good to the gallant representative of Her Majesty's service. He mounted without difficulty, took up the reins, and evidently prepared for a struggle; but none such ensued. Bigwig tucked his tail very tight to his body, walked quietly forward for a yard or two, and then, suddenly standing up as straight as a whip, the defeated major slid over his tail upon the hard ground, whilst the horse trotted back to his box.

I have related for you this anecdote, not merely for your amusement, but to teach you never to boast. A braggart is ever the first to fall, and nobody sympathizes with him. If you become ever so successful in your management of horses, do not exert yourself to proclaim it. Suffer others to find it out if they will; but do not tell them of it, lest some day you share the fate of the prostrate and discomfited major.

CHAPTER X.

FEEDING HORSES.‌—‌FORAGE-BISCUITS.‌—‌IRISH PEASANTRY.‌—‌A CUNNING IDIOT.‌—‌A CABIN SUPPER.‌—‌THE ROGUISH MULE.‌—‌A DAY AT COURTOWN.‌—‌ PADDY'S OPINION OF THE EMPRESS.

I said at the commencement of these pages that I should offer little or no discourse upon the general management of horses; yet, in one reserved instance, I may be permitted to break through my rule. If you want your hunters to thrive, do not let them have a single grain of raw oats. People have laughed at me when I said this, and have scarcely waited for the turning of my back to call me a mad woman; but a few of the scoffers have since come to thank me, and if you adopt my plan you will think that this little volume would have been cheap at a ten-pound note. There are, of course, times when raw oats must be given, for your horse may not always be in your own stable. At such times it is a good plan to mix chopped clover or grass through the feeding, taking care that grain and clover be thoroughly mingled. The judicious mixture of green meat will go far towards counteracting the binding effects which raw oats will be likely to have upon a horse not accustomed to it, and will also induce him to masticate his food, which an animal inured to softer feeding will otherwise be apt to neglect, wasting the corn by dropping it from his mouth in a slobbering fashion, making no use whatever of his grinders, and swallowing a certain portion without chewing it at all. I am, for various tried reasons, a thorough advocate for Mayhew's and Shingler's style of feeding upon cooked food, mingled, of course, with good sweet hay, or an admixture of the juicy grasses upon which the animal in its unfettered state would be prone to live.

In my stable-yard are a large boiler and an unlimited supply of good water. The groom boils sufficient oats to do for two or three days, and, when cool, mixes through it a small proportion of bruised Indian corn. On this the horses are fed as with ordinary oats three times daily, and so enjoy the feeding that not one grain is left in the mangers, which are placed low upon the ground. The surest proof of the efficacy of this excellent and economical feeding is that my horses never sweat, never blow, never tire. When other hunters are standing still, mine have not turned a hair; and, as prize-winners and brilliant goers, they cannot be excelled.

The principle I go on is this:—If I eat a cupful of raw rice, it certainly does me no good; but if I boil it, it makes three or four times the quantity of good, wholesome, digestible food, every grain of which goes to the nourishment of my body. And it is precisely so with the oats and the horse. In addition to this feeding, I give abundance of good, sweet, moist hay, varied by green food in summer, substituting carrots in the winter-time, of which vegetable they are particularly fond. The carrots are given whole, either from my hand or put loosely in the manger. I never suffer them to be cut up, unless it be done very finely, either by myself or under my supervision, to induce a delicate feeder to taste his food through which the chopped carrots are rubbed. Grooms, with their accustomed ignorance, are almost always in favour of the "cutting up," but I regard it as a most dangerous practice. If the carrot be left whole the horse will nibble at it, and will bite off just such pieces as he knows he can chew and swallow, but there is more than one instance upon record of horses choking themselves with pieces of cut carrot, and very many who have nearly done so. I can feed my horses upon this system for very little more than half the sum which my neighbours are expending, with advantages which are certainly fourfold. I consider it an excellent plan to vary horses' feeding, as it tells quite as beneficially upon animals as upon ourselves;—and for this purpose there cannot, in my opinion, be anything better than the forage-biscuits, manufactured by Spratt & Co., Henry Street, London, ten of which are equal to one good feed of oats, and are so relished that not so much as a crumb is suffered to go to waste. They combine all the most nutritious of grains, with dates and linseed added in such proportions as experience has pointed out to the inventor to be the best. They are then baked, and thoroughly dried, so that they are entirely deprived of moisture, and will consequently keep good for any length of time. The baking process being complete, they are, when eaten, practically half-digested,—or, as I may say, they present the materials to the horse in the most digestible form in which it is possible to give them. There are certain chemicals used in very minute quantities in the manufacture of these biscuits, which are productive of highly beneficial effects upon animals thus fed,—improving their muscular development, and imparting to their coats a peculiarly healthy and brilliant appearance. One feed of the forage-biscuits three or four times weekly is the proper allowance,—and they should be given whole, as the same objection applies to the breaking of them as I have set forth in my dissertation upon the cutting up of carrots.

I now desire to warn you that if you hunt in Ireland you must be prepared for the laughable and most ingenious frauds which the poor people—alas! how poor—will certainly endeavour to practise upon you. I can, and do most fully, commiserate their poverty, but with their attempts at imposition I have long since lost patience. Doubtless they think that everybody who hunts is of necessity a rich person, and conceive the idea that by fleecing the wealthy they will aid in blotting out the poverty of the land. Nothing delights the old cottage-woman more than to kill an ancient hen or duck on a hunting-morning, and then, when the hunt comes sweeping past her door, out rushes the beldame with the bird concealed beneath her apron, and throwing it deftly—positively by a species of sleight of hand—beneath your horse's hoofs, kicks up a mighty whining, and declares that you have "kilt her beauty-ful fowl!" I was so taken aback upon the first of these occasions that I actually stopped and paid the price demanded; but, finding that the same thing occurred the following week in a different locality, I ascertained that it was a trick and declined to be farther hocussed.

It is likewise a common thing for a man to accost you, demanding a shilling, and declaring that it was he who pulled your ladyship's horse out of the ditch or quagmire on such and such a day. You do not remember ever having seen his face before; but if you are a hard-riding lady you will be so frequently assisted out of difficulties that you cannot undertake to say who nor how many may have helped you unrewarded, and, being unwilling that any should so suffer, you bestow the coin, most likely in many instances, until you find that your generosity has become known and is consequently being traded upon.

I remember one day, a couple of winters ago, when returning from hunting, I lost my way, and being desirous of speedily re-finding it, I accosted a ragged being whom I saw standing at a corner where four roads met, and inquired of him the most direct route to the point which I was desirous of reaching. The creature hitched his shoulders, scratched his collarless neck, pushed the hat from his sunburnt forehead, and, finally, looking down and rubbing the fore-finger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, thus delivered himself:

"I axed him for a ha'penny, and he wouldn't give it to me; but he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pinny, and gave it to me, and I took it in—ho, ho! and he gave me a letter to take up to Mrs. Johnston, and when I took it to her, she opened it and read it. Now, didn't I give her the letter?"

"Really," said I, "I know nothing about Mrs. Johnston nor her letter. I want to know the nearest way to Dunboyne station."

"I axed him for a ha'penny," began the man again. And then I had the whole story of the "pinny" and "Mrs. Johnston" repeated for me over and over, without a smile or any variation, until my vexation vanished, and I fairly roared with laughter. Guessing at once how the land lay, I produced a little coin with which I presented him, and which he immediately pocketed, and, touching his ragged feather, pointed down one of the roads, and said quite sensibly, "That's the right road, my lady." And so I found it. This man, I was subsequently informed, made quite a respectable maintenance by stationing himself at the cross-roads on daily duty, and informing every passer-by that he "axed for a ha'penny" but was generously treated to a "pinny," together with the story of Mrs. Johnston and her letter, accompanied by all the shruggings, and scratchings, and sniffings, which never failed to provoke the laughter of the hearer and to elicit the coveted coin.

The Irish, with all their little failings, are a hospitable people, and full of pungent wit. I was one evening wending my way to Sallins station, after a long and wearisome day's hunting. My tired horse was suffering from an over-reach, and I was taking him as quietly as I could, consistently with my anxiety to be in time to catch the train by which I desired to return to town. So utterly jaded were we both—I and my steed—that the way appeared very long indeed, and I asked the first countryman whom I met how far it was to Sallins. "Three miles," he told me, and I jogged on again. When we had traversed quite a long distance, and I thought I must be very near my journey's end, I ventured upon asking the same question of a farmer whom I met riding a big horse in an opposite direction to that in which I was myself going. It was a matter of about two miles, he told me, or mayhap three, but not more he thought, and I was certainly not going wrong; I was on the right road, and no mistake. I took out my watch. No hope for me now. I was undoubtedly late for the train which I had hoped to catch, and must wait two long hours for the next. A poor-looking little cottage was close at hand; to it I trotted, and looked in at the door. The family were at supper, all gathered about a narrow table, in the middle of which lay a pile of unpeeled potatoes and a little salt. The mule, upon which much of their fortune depended, was supping with them; thrusting his poor attenuated nose over the shoulders of the children, and occasionally snatching a potato, always receiving a box for so doing, to which, however, he paid no sort of heed. I was at once invited to enter, and gladly accepted the invitation, for I was cold and tired, pleased to ease my horse and get him a draught of meal and water. I sat down in the chimney-corner, thankful for the rest, but determined to withstand all entreaties to share the family supper, and my risible faculties were sorely put to the test, when my host, balancing a potato upon his fork and dipping it in the salt, presented it to me, saying, "Arrah! take it my lady, just for the jig o' the thing!" Of course I took it; and never have I enjoyed the richest luxury of an à la Russe dinner more than that simple potato in a poor man's cabin, in company with the mule and the pigs. When I stood up to go I carefully inquired the distance, for it was dark, and I had long since lost the remainder of my party. The man offered to accompany me to the station, and I believe he was actuated solely by civility, and not by any hope of gain. My horse was sadly done up; he had stiffened on the over-reach, and limped painfully. We proceeded but slowly, and, sighing for the patient suffering of my dearly-loved steed, I made the observation that the miles were very long indeed. "They are long, my lady," said the man, who was walking before me with a lanthorn; "but, shure and faith, if they're long they're narra'!" And with this most intelligent observation he closed his mouth, and left me to ponder upon it undisturbed until we arrived at the station.

One more anecdote, and I have done with them.

On one of last season's hunting-days the hounds met at Courtown, and great excitement was abroad, for the Imperial lady was expected to join the chase. She was, however, prevented through indisposition from attending, but Prince Liechtenstein and a very distinguished company came over from Summerhill. As we were trotting to the covert the country-folks were all on the alert, for not having heard of the disappointment respecting the Empress they were anxiously expecting her, and many were the surmises respecting her identity. I was riding close to the front, escorted by Lord Cloncurry, and as we swept past one of the wayside cottages, two men and a woman rushed out to stare at us and to give their opinions upon the "Impress." "Which is she?" cried the female, shading her eyes to have a good look,—"That must be her in front, with his lordship. Oh! isn't she lovely? A quane, every inch!"

"Arrah! shut up, woman," said one of the men, testily interrupting her. "That's not her at all, nor a taste like her! The Impress is a good-lookin' woman." I need not say that this genuinely-uttered remark took the wind completely out of my sails, and that I have never since dreamed of comparing my personal appearance with that of any woman whom an Irishman would call "good-lookin'."

CHAPTER XI.

THE DOUBLE-RISE.‌—‌POINTING OUT THE RIGHT FOOT.‌—‌THE FORCE OF HABIT. ‌—‌VARIOUS KINDS OF FAULT-FINDING.‌—‌MR. STURGESS' PICTURES.‌—‌AN ENGLISH HARVEST-HOME.‌—‌A JEALOUS SHREW.‌—‌A SHY BLACKSMITH.‌—‌HOW IRISHMEN GET PARTNERS AT A DANCE.

I shall now touch very briefly upon one or two points which I have not before mentioned, but which may, nevertheless, prove interesting to some lady riders.

Firstly, then, I shall speak of the annoyance—sometimes a serious one—which ladies experience from what is known as the double rise in the trot. I have been asked is it preventible. Before suggesting a remedy for anything—be it ailment or habit—we must endeavour to get at the cause of the evil complained of. The most successful medical men are those who first take time and pains to ascertain the wherefore, and then seek to effect the cure.

The extremely ungraceful and unpleasant motion known as the "double rise" is attributable to two distinct causes. It is due either to the horse or to the rider, and to the one quite as frequently as to the other. A large, heavy animal, with slow and clumsy action will, if ridden by a lady, be almost certain to necessitate the double rise. This I know by the certainty derived from experience. I was staying some time ago at a house in the midst of our finest hunting county in Ireland, namely, royal Meath. The owner was a great hunting-man in both senses of the word, for he was a superb cross-country rider, and, if put in the scales, would pull down sixteen stone. Being a top-weight he always rode immense horses—elephants I used to call them, greatly to his indignation. Very good he was about lending me one of these huge creatures whenever I felt desirous of joining the chase, which I confess was but seldom, for the first day upon which I accepted a mount we left off eighteen miles from home, and I was so exhausted by the time we arrived there, that I fairly fainted before reaching my own chamber. It was not the distance which tired me, although it was a pretty good one, but the fact that I was troubled with the double-rise all the way. I strove in vain to remedy it by urging my gigantic steed to a faster trot, and making him go up to his bridle; but the moment I began to experience a little relief, my companion—dear old man, now in heaven!—would say, "Well, that is the worst of ladies riding: they must always either creep in a walk, or bucket their horses along at an unnecessary pace. Why can't you jog on quietly, as I do?" He was clearly not suffering from the annoyance which was vexing and fatiguing me. I looked at him closely, watched his motion in the saddle—that slow, slow rise and fall—I compared it with mine, our pace being the same, and the mystery was at once solved. Both horses were trotting exactly together, keeping step, as the saying goes, yet my companion was at ease whilst I was in torment. Why was this? Because he had a leg at either side of his mount, his weight equally distributed, and an equal support upon both sides; in fact, he had, as all male riders have, the advantage of a double support in the rise; consequently, at the moment when his weight was removed from the saddle, it was thrown upon both feet, and this equal distribution enabled him to accomplish without fatigue that slow rise and fall which is so tiring to a lady, whose weight when she is out of the saddle is thrown entirely upon one delicate limb, thus inducing her to fall again as soon as possible, which, if riding a clumsy animal, she is constrained to do at variance, as it were, with his tedious and heavy motion, and hence the inconvenience of the double rise.

To illustrate my meaning, and explain more fully how it happens that men never complain of this particular evil: a man will be able to stand in his stirrups for a considerable time, even to ride a gallop so doing, because he transfers his weight equally to this feet; but how rarely do we see a lady balanced upon one leg! Never, except it be for a single instant whilst arranging her skirt or trying her stirrup. The sensation is not agreeable, and would be, moreover, unpleasantly productive of wrung backs.

A heavy horse is never in any way suitable to a lady. It looks amiss. The trot is invariably laboured, and if the animal should chance to fall, he gives his rider what we know in the hunting-field as "a mighty crusher!" It is, indeed, a rare thing to meet a perfect "lady's horse." In all my wide experience I have met but two. Breeding is necessary for stability and speed—two things most essential to a hunter; but good light action is, for a roadster, positively indispensable, and a horse who does not possess it is a burden to his rider, and is, moreover, exceedingly unsafe, as he is apt to stumble at every rut and stone.

The double rise may also, as I said, be quite attributable to the rider. A careless way of riding may occasion it, sitting loosely in the saddle, and allowing your horse to go asleep over his work. Pull you mount together, so as to throw his weight upon his haunches, not upon his shoulders. Keep your reins close in hand. Rise, so that you shall be out of the saddle when his off fore-leg is thrown out, and I do not think you will have much to complain of from the annoyance occasioned by the double rise.

I have dwelt upon this subject because so many have asked me privately for a cure for it, and I have surmised that numerous others, who have not had opportunity—nor perhaps courage—to ask, will nevertheless be pleased to receive a hint.

It has also been inquired of me whether there is any remedy for that excessively unsightly practice of sticking out the right foot when in the saddle, as we have seen so many ladies do, until the toe is positively almost resting upon the horse's neck. There is, of course, a remedy; a most effectual one. Don't do it. It is quite possible and even easy to keep the right leg as close to the saddle as the left, the toe pointing downward, and the knee well bent. I know, however, that in some cases the position objected to is consequent upon the up-pommel of the saddle being placed too near the off one, thus there is not sufficient space for the leg to lie easily, and consequently it sticks out in the ungraceful manner so often seen and deplored.

In many instances, also, it is habit; a bad practice, indulged in at first without notice, and then, when confirmed, most difficult to eradicate. These pernicious habits are extremely apt to grow upon all of us, unless most carefully watched, I have seen ladies utterly disfigure their appearance in the saddle by placing a hand upon their side, or, worse again, behind their back, and riding along in this jaunty style with an air as though they thought themselves the most elegant creatures in creation. Others keep their elbows a-kimbo, and fairly churn themselves in the saddle with every rise and fall. Others, again, acquire a habit of tipping their horse with the whip in an altogether unnecessary manner. It is not actually enough to hurt the animal, but is amply sufficient to worry and ruffle his temper. No horse fit to carry a lady requires to be constantly reminded of his work. A whip in a woman's hand should be more for show, and to give completeness to the picture, than for purposes of castigation. Nothing looks worse nor more ungentle than to see it wantonly applied. It has been said, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," but I cannot agree with the theory. Rod and whip may be alike useful in (happily) isolated cases, but I do not envy the disposition of child or animal who cannot be made amenable by less ungentle means. Practices which are the result of habit may be checked, and quite effectually, by the bestowal of a little care. We want first some kindly friend to tell us of them; we next require the common sense and good feeling not to be offended at the telling; and, finally, we need the patience and perseverance which are born of the determination to overcome the fault. With regard to the telling, how few of us know how to tell! There are just the two ways, or perhaps I should say three. There is the cold, carping, disagreeable fault-finding manner, which picks holes for the mere pleasure of picking them, and the unworthy delight of seeing how the victim writhes beneath the torture. There is the snake-like, insidious fault-finding—the worst and most dangerous of all—which invariably commences with the words, "You know, my dear, I am only telling you for your own good." This species of fault-finding is peculiar to the female friend, and is invariably served up with an admixture of honey and gall, so skilfully compounded that the very soul of the listener is exercised and deceived. "Her words were smoother than oil, yet were they drawn swords." Lastly, there is the genuine, honest, open-hearted, fault-finding, which bears no malice, and is too true to clothe itself with the garment of deceit. By this alone we should be influenced or seek to influence others; but, for my own part, as I have already said, I have found the world so inordinately self-opinionated and determined not to be advised, that I have long since ceased to offer counsel, and only give it when requested. Long ago, when I first began to write, I was jealous of all interference, and invariably prefaced my letters to my Editors with, "Please do not alter anything in my MS." Poor blind child I was then, groping about in the dark, and sadly needing the helping hand which I was so obstinately rejecting. Well, we gain sense with years, and wisdom with experience. Now that I have got on in the world, in every sense of the word, I am only too anxious for advice, and ready to grasp at every friendly hint.

And so it should be with riding as with writing. Take all kindly counsel in good part, and if given advice ask for more. Bad habits grow upon us with giant force; they strengthen with our strength, because we know not of them, or blindly refuse to be controlled. I dare say a good many of us are acquainted with a very famous queen of song who always holds her hands crossed and her thumbs turned stiffly up whilst she is singing. I do not believe she is at all aware of the peculiarity of her attitude, and perhaps she could not sing half so well nor sweetly if she altered it. In like manner I told you, in the earlier portion of this volume, of a young lady who could not ride a yard without laying a firm grip upon the off-pommel of her saddle. These things are habit; we do them without consciousness; we are not aware of anything unusual in ourselves, but when the knowledge comes to us (which it soon will if we are known to possess sufficient sweetness to take a hint) we should turn it to advantage, and so improve with time.

I recollect that when these writings of mine were first issued in the journal to which they originally owed their appearance, a dear lady wrote to me all the way from Rhode Island, U.S.A., asking me for hints upon various subjects, and likewise offering me a few such, with so much sweetness that I not alone accepted, but welcomed and adopted them. She asked me many questions relative to the pictures with which my various subjects were illustrated, and admired very warmly the spirited drawings which Mr. Sturgess had made of my leap into the farmyard and also of "The first fence." Many of my readers may recollect them; and as there was, at the time, much discussion respecting the position of my feet as portrayed in the former picture, I take this opportunity of ranging myself upon the artist's side, for, after much thoughtful inspection of the picture, I arrived at the conclusion that he was perfectly correct, and the position quite such as must of necessity be, in the event of a runaway steed clearing such an obstacle with a wearied and startled rider scarce able to retain her seat upon his back. Even had the artist been mistaken—which I am bound to say he was not—the matter need scarcely have evoked criticism, for his strong point is his delineation of horses, and as he has no equal in this particular branch of art, he may well be forgiven if such trifles as a lady's feet occasionally puzzle him a little! Moreover, he draws with a view to producing effect as much as ensuring stereotyped correctness. I recollect when I saw that picture I sounded my protest against the flowing skirt and flying veil: two things quite foreign to my style of riding-dress, which is always severely close-fitting and curtailed. His answer certainly carried weight. The skirt and veil were necessary to impart an appearance of rapid motion, or flying through the air. He was quite right, and I was decidedly wrong. I felt ashamed of myself, begged his pardon mentally, and atoned for my audacity by henceforward believing blindly in his judgment.

I recollect laughing much at the time at a grave suggestion made to me by a dear old lady, who thought there might be a particular reason why Mr. Sturgess was (in her opinion) less successful in depicting lady equestrians than when pursuing any other branch of his enchanting art. Neither she nor I had or have, unfortunately, the pleasure of his personal acquaintance, but we thought there might possibly be somebody in authority who strongly objected to his studying the details of the fair creatures whom he has occasionally to draw. To show that such things may be, and actually are, in real life, I recollect that when I was staying some two or three years ago at a famous house in the north of England, a gay harvest-home took place, and the servants and labourers had a dance in the barn. I and my husband, our host and hostess, and numerous guests staying at the castle, went out to see the fun, and greatly was I struck with the gallant appearance of the old barn, so gaily decorated with corn, and the fiddler fiddling away upon a beer-barrel! A mighty cheer was raised for us when we all, in full evening dress, joined the motley company of revellers, and the lord of the soil led off a country dance with a blushing mountain-lass, followed by her ladyship with an equally humble partner. The blacksmith was an Irishman, and looked very shy, as Irishmen invariably do in presence of the fair sex(?) I knew him as a workman upon the estate—I knew also that his wife, a very ugly woman, was a terribly jealous shrew—and, actuated by a spirit of mischief, I went and asked him to dance; but he only grinned, blushed, and said, "No, thank you, ma'am; I'm a married man!" My husband, who was standing by, said laughingly, "Why, Brian, you ought to feel flattered to be asked. Give Mrs. O'Donoghue your arm, and take your place for the dance." "O, faix," said Brian, hastening to obey, "if you have no objection, I'm sure I have none. Let her come on! Only," he added, pausing and scratching his head, "begorrah, I hope my wife won't see me!"

CHAPTER XII.

SUBJECT OF FEEDING RESUMED.‌—‌COOKED FOOD RECOMMENDED.‌—‌EFFECTS OF RAW OATS UPON "PLEADER."‌—‌SERVANTS' OBJECTIONS.‌—‌SNAFFLE-BRIDLE, AND BIT-AND-BRIDOON.‌—‌KINDNESS TO THE POOR.‌—‌AN UNSYMPATHETIC LADY.‌—‌AN UNGALLANT CAPTAIN.‌—‌WHAT IS A GENTLEMAN?‌—‌AU REVOIR!

My remarks upon the subject of feeding horses, having gained publicity through the columns of the press, have called forth much comment and adverse criticism. Some have evidently considered—and have not hesitated to say—that I have written the veriest twaddle; but happily there is a reverse side to the picture, and many (including one very august personage indeed) have expressed a determination to adopt my system. Beans are such excellent feeding that I cannot object to an admixture of them, and to most English horses they are almost a necessity; but in Ireland we care little about them. It is unwise to give too much hay. I said "abundance" on a former page, but the word, as I used it, did not signify a large quantity. For horses fed three times daily upon a plentiful measure of oats, crushed Indian corn, and beans if desired, a few handfuls of hay will be amply sufficient, and this should be placed where the horse can stoop to it, but never above him, as in the effort to disengage it from the rack the seeds fall in his eyes and produce irritation, and sometimes permanent disease.

A bran-mash on a Saturday night, or after a hard day, forms an admirable variety to the ordinary feeding routine. Let the bran be thoroughly well steeped and mixed, and a portion of cooked oats or chopped carrots intermingled with it. This will induce almost any animal to partake of the bran, from which otherwise many delicate feeders will resolutely turn.

I have strongly recommended cooked feeding, even against the uproar of a general outcry against it, because I have seen and proved its efficacy. Last November, on the first Tuesday in the month—the opening day with the Kildare hounds—we had a splendid run, during which, however, I was amazed to find that my great horse, Pleader, sweated heavily—a thing which had never previously been the case. In fact, it had always been my boast that when other horses were thoroughly done, mine had not turned a hair; but, on the day in question, he was in a white lather, and I thought appeared distressed. Upon coming home, and speaking about it in my stable, I was informed that the boiler was in some way out of order, and the horses had, unknown to me, been fed upon uncooked oats during the preceding three days. Had I required any confirmation of my theory, this circumstance would certainly have furnished it, and entirely defeats the general supposition that cooked food renders horses soft.

I have now given the best advice I can upon the subject of feeding, and I shall not again refer to it, nor to anything connected with the treatment or stable management of horses, as the subject is an endless one, everybody entertaining an opinion of his own, which it shall not be my ambition to upset. What I have said has been in kindness, and with a view to benefiting both man and beast; but I do not by any means expect the majority of my readers to coincide in my views. There is a stolid determination general throughout the world to stick to old customs and old-fashioned ways and habits, no matter how excellent the modern ones may be, and so the "horse and mill" go daily round. Masters object to my system because it involves an outlay in the erecting of a proper boiler and other necessary adjuncts; servants object to it because it gives them a little additional trouble. It is far easier to lounge to the oat-bin, fill a measure from it, and thrust it before the animal, not caring whether it is rejected or otherwise, than to fetch the water and fill the boiler and go through the labours of a process which, in itself exceedingly simple, is made to appear complicated and laborious by the amount of fuss and discontent which are brought to bear upon the work. There is an old saying, "If you want a thing well done, do it yourself"; but, unfortunately, there are some things—and this is one—which ladies and gentlemen cannot do, and there is no doubt whatever that servants accustomed to the old style of management will never willingly adopt the new—unless they belong to that rare and select and most exclusive few who have their masters' interest at heart.

Much information has been asked of me relative to the subject of holding reins. How often shall I say that there is no fixed rule, and that a method which may look well for park-riding will be totally out of place in the hunting-field. I have been asked how I hold my own bridle, and I shall answer that I almost invariably ride with a single rein, and you can understand my method readily if you will follow me whilst I endeavour to explain. Take your pocket-handkerchief, pass it through the back of any ordinary chair, and bring the ends evenly towards you, holding them for an instant with your right hand, which must, pro tem., represent the buckle. Place your left hand within the loop thus formed, the little finger resting firmly against the near-side, about four inches above the right hand; grasp the opposite side between the forefinger and thumb, left hand (the two sides of the handkerchief representing the reins); press the off-side slightly inward with the pressure of your thumb, slipping it entirely away from the control of the right hand; then bring the near-side, which still is held loosely by the right, under the thumb of the left, and hold it firmly. You will thus see that you establish a sort of "cross rein," and that you have, and are able to maintain, a secure grip upon either side. By an outward movement or slight turning of the wrist, accompanied by pressure of the little finger, you will control your horse upon the near-side of his mouth, whilst by an inward movement and pressure of the forefinger you will be able to command him upon the other or off-side. It must be borne in mind that these movements should be from the wrist only, and not from the arm or shoulder. A good rider will keep the elbows close to the sides, just drawing the line finely between that pinioned look which is so disfiguring, and the detestable flapping, like the wings of an unquiet bird, in which so many riders, both male and female, so frequently indulge. I have seen ladies, who wished to have an appearance of hard riding, leaning forward in the saddle and working their elbows in an unsightly manner, the hands (influenced by the elbows) sawing also, and the poor horse, with open mouth and straining jaws, staggering along in distress, fighting his bridle, and presenting altogether a melancholy spectacle. A firm even seat, elbows close, head erect, and strong steady hands held low—these are the characteristics of a good and lady-like rider. In going across country put both hands to your bridle, and keep your horse's head straight and well in hand, but do not attempt to pull him nor interfere with him at his fences, or you will undoubtedly come to grief. If you ride with a bit and bridoon my advice is, ride your horse—even though he be a puller—upon the snaffle, and keep the curb rein looped over your little finger, hanging quite loose, yet in such a position that you can if necessary take it up at a second's notice.

I cannot too often impress upon you the advisability of being conciliatory and kind in your manner to everybody with whom you may come in contact. No matter how exalted your rank may be, you can all the better afford to be courteous to those beneath you. Kind words cost nothing, and are as balm to the hearer. Many of the lower orders are quite as much gentry at heart, and far more so, than those who hide their unworthiness beneath the convenient shadow of a "family tree." I have been more than once pained upon hunting days by the extreme contempt and rudeness with which ladies have treated the poor, who have asked nothing from them save the innocent and inexpensive privilege of seeing them mount and canter away with the field. It is all very well to say, "I do not like to be stared at," but even to those who most dislike it, surely it is worth a little self-sacrifice to see the undisguised enjoyment and listen to the original observations of the Irish peasantry, to whom a sight of the hounds—especially when followed by ladies—is a treat they never care to miss.

I was riding last winter in company with a lady, very noble, very handsome, very proud. We came up to a branch of a river, upon the brink of which some country folk had gathered, with the innocent desire of seeing it jumped. A poor man, very quiet-looking and harmless, was actually knocked down and immersed in the water by a reckless young officer, who galloped over him, and went on without even glancing back at the spot where the poor half-drowned creature stood wringing his dripping clothing, yet not uttering a syllable of reproach. My companion roared with laughter, first at the catastrophe, and then at me for sympathising with the sufferer. "Apologise!" she cried, in a high key. "How could Captain Dash apologise to a man like that? It would be different had he been a gentleman." I thought so too, if the meaning of the word "he" had only been reversed; but I said nothing, and we went on.

A few fields further we came to a terrible obstacle—a high post and rails, with a deep and yawning ditch upon the landing side. Three or four of us went at it: the rest turned away and sought the road. I got over safely, my noble Pleader proving himself, as usual, worthy of my confidence. Captain Dash came next, safely also; and then my ill-starred lady friend, whose horse (an inferior timber-jumper) bungled, and left her completely prostrate upon the wet earth. Never a pause did Captain Dash make in his onward career, although he glanced back when he heard her shriek, and, incredible as it may appear, I thought I saw him smile, for it was ever his saying that ladies had no business hunting, and always deserved mischance; but the poor man, at whose immersion she had laughed a few moments before, came running to her relief, rendered her every assistance in his power, replaced her in the saddle, expressed regret for her accident, and positively declined to accept of any remuneration for his services.

Which of these men, think you, was the gentleman? I know what I thought respecting the question; and I judged that my friend's opinion was formed as mine, for she now loves and cares the poor, and suffers the rich to care themselves, as every true-hearted and Christian woman should; and, moreover, on glancing over a book of my poems which I lent her some time later, I found a leaf turned down, as though to mark these lines—

"What is a gentleman? Is it a thing

Decked with a scarf-pin, a chain, and a ring,

Dressed in a suit of immaculate style,

Sporting an eye-glass, a lisp, and a smile?

Talking of operas, concerts, and balls,

Evening assemblies, and afternoon calls,

Sunning himself at "at homes" and bazaars,

Whistling mazurkas, and smoking cigars?

"What is a gentleman? Say, is it one

Boasting of conquests and deeds he has done,

One who unblushingly glories to speak

Things which should call up a flush to his cheek?

One who, whilst railing at actions unjust,

Robs some young heart of its pureness and trust;

Scorns to steal money, or jewels, or wealth,

Thinks it no crime to take honour by stealth?

"What is a gentleman? Is it not one

Knowing instinctively what he should shun,

Speaking no word that could injure or pain,

Spreading no scandal and deep'ning no stain?

One who knows how to put each at his ease,

Striving instinctively always to please;

One who can tell by a glance at your cheek

When to be silent, and when he should speak?

"What is a gentleman? Is it not one

Honestly eating the bread he has won,

Living in uprightness, fearing his God,

Leaving no stain on the path he has trod?

Caring not whether his coat may be old,

Prizing sincerity far above gold,

Recking not whether his hand may be hard,

Stretching it boldly to grasp its reward?

"What is a gentleman? Say, is it birth

Makes a man noble, or adds to his worth?

Is there a family-tree to be had

Shady enough to conceal what is bad?