Of all the exercises indulged in by men and women, riding is perhaps the most productive of harmless pleasure. The healthful, exhilarating feeling caused by rapid motion through the air, and the sense of power conveyed by the easy gallop of a good horse, tends greatly to moral and physical well-being and satisfaction. Riding improves the temper, the spirits and the appetite; black shadows and morbid fancies disappear from the mental horizon, and wretched indeed must he be who can preserve a gloomy or discontented frame of mind during a fine run in a grass country, or even in a sharp, brisk gallop over turfy downs. Such being the case, no wonder that the numbers of horsemen increase every day, and that the hunting field, from the select company of a few country squires and hard-riding young men, has developed into an unruly mob of people, who ride over the hounds, crush together in the gateways, and follow like a flock of sheep through the gaps and over the fences, negotiated by more skilful or courageous sportsmen. Women, too, have rushed in where their mothers feared to tread. Little girls on ponies may be seen holding their own nobly out hunting, while Hyde Park, during the season, is filled with fair, fresh-looking girls in straw hats, covert coats and shirts, driving away the cobwebs of dissipation and the deleterious effects of hot rooms by a mild canter in the early morning. Unfortunately, though a woman never looks better than on horseback, when she knows how to ride, the specimens one often encounters riding crookedly, all one side, to the inevitable detriment of the horse's back, bumping on the saddle like a sack of potatoes, or holding on with convulsive effort to the horse's mouth, are sufficient to create a holy horror in the minds of reasonable spectators. Park-riding is not difficult compared with cross-country riding, yet how seldom do you see it perfect? To begin with, a certain amount of horsemanship is absolutely necessary. There must be art, and the grace that conceals art; there must be self-possession, quiet, and a thorough knowledge of the horse you are riding. Take, for instance, a fresh young hunter into the park for the first time. He shies at the homely perambulator, starts at the sound of cantering hoofs, is terrified by a water-cart, maddened by the strains of the regimental band, or the firing of the guards at their matutinal drill, and finally attempts to bolt or turn round as other horses, careering along, meet and pass him in a straggling gallop. If he backs, rears, kicks, shies and stops short, or wheels round suddenly, with ears thrown back, his rider need not be surprised. Horses cantering in every direction disturb, distress and puzzle him. On which side are the hounds? he wonders. Why does not his rider extend him? Where are the fences, and when will the fun begin? These, no doubt, are some of the thoughts that pass through a well-bred hunter's mind, for that horses do reason in their own peculiar fashion I am convinced, and that they fully recognise the touch and voice of the master, no one can doubt who has noticed the difference in the behaviour of a hunter when ridden by different persons. If the park rider wishes for a pleasant conveyance I should strongly recommend a hack, neither a polo pony nor a cob. But where, oh where, are perfect hacks to be found? They should be handsome, well-bred, not quite thorough-bred, about 15·3, with fine shoulders, good action, and, above all, perfect mouth and manners. No Irish horse has manners, as a rule, until he comes to England, or has the slightest idea of bending and holding himself, owing to the fact of his being usually broken and ridden in a snaffle bridle. This practice has its uses, notably in that it makes the horses bold fencers, and teaches them not to be afraid of facing the bit, but it is not conducive to the development of a park hack, which should be able to canter round a sixpence. I remember in my young days seeing Mr. Mackenzie Greaves and Lord Cardigan riding in the park, the latter mounted on a beautiful chestnut horse, which cantered at the slowest and easiest of paces, the real proverbial arm-chair, with a beautifully arched neck, champing proudly at the bit, yet really guided as by a silken thread. That was a perfect hack, and would probably fetch now-a-days four or five hundred guineas. No lady ought to ride (if she wishes to look well) on anything else. Men may bestride polo ponies, or clatter lumberingly along on chargers, or exercise steeple-chase horses with their heads in the air, yawing at a snaffle; but, if a woman wants to show off her figure and her seat she should have a perfect hack, not too small, with a good forehand, nice action, and, above all, a good walker, one that neither fidgets nor shuffles nor breaks into a trot.

Bitting is, as a rule, not sufficiently considered. In the park, a light, double bridle, or what they call in Ireland a Ward bit, is the best, and no martingale should be required. People often wonder why a horse does not carry his head in the right place. Generally, unless the horse is unfortunately shaped, this is the fault of the bit, sometimes it is too severe, or too narrow, which frets and irritates the horse's mouth. A horse with a very tender mouth will stand only the lightest of bits, and is what they call a snaffle bridle horse, not always the pleasantest of mouths, at least out hunting; for I cannot think that a lady can really ever hold a horse well together over a deep country, intersected by stiff fences, with a snaffle, especially if he is a big horse with somewhat rolling action. It has been said by a great authority on riding that no horse's mouth is good enough for a snaffle, and no man's hands good enough for a curb. I remember the late Lord Wilton, one of the finest cross-country riders, telling me to be sure never to ride my horse on the curb over a fence. But, as I suppose there is no absolute perfection in horse or man, each rider must, to a certain extent, judge for himself, and ride different horses in different ways. But you may be sure of this, that the bitting of grooms is generally too severe, and the hands of a man who rides all his horses in martingales, snaffles, and complicated arrangements of bit and bridle, are sure to be wrong. The matter practically resolves itself into hands. They, after all, are the chief

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