LEARNING TO RIDE.—Six half-hour rides on six successive days will
do infinitely more towards moulding the muscles to the equestrian
form than three lessons of two hours each, with an interval of a day
between. When the services of a competent teacher cannot be had, the
next best aid is that of a good model to imitate: not a soldier,
although some of the very finest horsemen are found among cavalry
officers, because a soldier has to follow rules which do not affect
a civilian; not a huntsman, because to the best huntsmen the horse
is only a machine, and one hand is always occupied with the horn or
the whip; but from watching a clever colt-breaker or accomplished
professional steeplechase rider very useful lessons may be learned.
It may safely be assumed that any man of forty, not disqualified by
physical defeats or oppressed with excessive corpulence, may, with
patience, perseverance, and pluck, without rashness, learn how to
ride and how to enjoy riding any well-broken horse, without looking
ridiculous, after from fifty to sixty well arranged rides, within
the space of three months. But it is a sort of exercise that cannot
be taken up and abandoned for a long interval with impunity. Even
practised horsemen suffer severely after a certain time of life, if,
after a long cessation from horse exercise, they attempt the feats
of their youth; feverishness, indigestion, a fluttering heart, a
disordered liver, remind them that for long days the man requires
preparation as much as the horse. A great deal of the comfort of riding
depends on proper garments for the lower limbs. Theoretically, there is
no riding-dress so comfortable as well-made breeches and boots either
of the modern cavalry or the plain “butcher pattern.” The next best
substitute is a pair of leather overalls, fastened at the sides by
buttons, not with springs. But those whose age and position would make
boots for riding in a town objectionable must pay attention to their
trousers. The material for riding-trousers should be thick woollen, and
may be dark—there are some very nice partly-elastic materials in dark
colors—they must be constructed by a real trouser-maker, who will make
you sit down when he measures you, and they must be worn with straps
whether straps are in fashion or not. Wellington boots are the best
with trousers; shoes are quite out of the question. Trousers without
straps, slipping up the leg of a timid horseman, are an acute form of
unnecessary misery, which was the fashion for many years up to 1877,
when straps again appeared on the trousers of the more correct riders
in Rotten Row.—_Illustrated Book of the Horse._
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A TRAGIC BARRING-OUT.—In the inner part of Riddell’s Close stands the
house of Bailie John Macmorran, whose tragic death made a great stir
at its time, threw the city into painful excitement, and tarnished the
reputation of the famous old High School. The conduct of the scholars
there had been bad and turbulent for some years, but it reached a
climax on September 15th, 1595. On a week’s holiday being refused, the
boys were so exasperated, being chiefly “gentilmane’s bairnes,” that
they formed a compact for vengeance in the true spirit of the age;
and, armed with swords and pistols, took possession at midnight of the
ancient school in the Blackfriars Gardens, and declining to admit the
masters or anyone else, made preparation to stand a siege, setting all
authority at defiance. The doors were not only shut but barricaded and
strongly guarded within; all attempts to storm the boy-garrison proved
impracticable, and all efforts at reconciliation were unavailing. The
Town Council lost patience, and sent Bailie John Macmorran, one of the
wealthiest merchants in the city (though he had begun life as a servant
to the Regent Morton), with a posse of city officers, to enforce the
peace. On their appearance in the school-yard the boys became simply
outrageous, and mocked them as “buttery carles,” daring anyone to
approach at his peril. “To the point likely to be first attacked,”
says Steven, in his history of the school, “they were observed to
throng in a highly excited state, and each seemed to vie with his
fellow in threatening instant death to the man who should forcibly
attempt to displace them. William Sinclair, son of the Chancellor of
Caithness, had taken a conspicuous share in this barring out, and he
now appeared foremost, encouraging his confederates,” and stood at a
window overlooking one of the entrances which the Bailie ordered the
officers to force, by using a long beam as a battering-ram, and he had
nearly accomplished his perilous purpose, when a ball in the forehead
from Sinclair’s pistol slew him on the spot, and he fell on his back.
Panic-stricken, the boys surrendered. Some effected their escape, and
others, including Sinclair and the sons of Murray of Springiedale,
and Pringle of Whitebank, were thrown into prison. Macmorran’s family
were too rich to be bribed, and clamored that they would have blood
for blood. On the other hand, “friends threatened death to all the
people of Edinburgh if they did the child any harm, saying they were
not wise who meddled with scholars, especially _gentlemen’s sons_,”
and Lord Sinclair, as chief of the family to which the young culprit
belonged, moved boldly in his behalf, and procured the intercession
of King James with the magistrates, and in the end all the accused
got free, including the slayer of the Bailie, who lived to become
Sir William Sinclair of Mey, in 1631, and the husband of Catherine
Ross, of Balnagowan, and from them the present Earls of Caithness are
descended.—_Old and New Edinburgh._
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INTELLIGENCE IN CATS.—Cats are like oysters, in that no one is neutral
about them; everyone is, explicitly or implicitly, friendly or hostile
to them. And they are like children in their power of discovering,
by a rapid and sure instinct, who likes them and who does not. It is
difficult to win their affection; and it is easy to forfeit what it is
hard to win. But when given, their love, although less demonstrative,
is more delicate and beautiful than that of a dog. Who that is on
really intimate terms with a cat has not watched its dismay at the
signs of packing up and leaving home? We ourselves have known a cat who
would recognise his master’s footstep after a three months’ absence,
and come out to meet him in the hall, with tail erect, and purring all
over as if to the very verge of bursting. And another cat we know,
who comes up every morning between six and seven o’clock to wake his
master, sits on the bed, and very gently feels first one eyelid and
then the other with his paw. When an eye opens, but not till then,
the cat sets up a loud purr, like the prayer of a fire-worshipper to
the rising sun. Those who say lightly that cats care only for places,
and not for persons, should go to the Cat Show at the Crystal Palace,
where they may see recognitions between cat and owner that will cure
them of so shallow an opinion. When we were last there, one striking
instance fell in our way. Cats greatly dislike these exhibitions; a
cat, as a rule, is like Queen Vashti, unwilling to be shown, even to
the nobles, at the pleasure of an Ahasuerus. Shy, sensitive, wayward,
and independent, a cat resents being placed upon a cushion in a wire
cage, and exposed to the unintelligent criticism, to say nothing of
the fingers of a mob of sightseers. One very eminent cat, belonging
to the Masters’ Common Room at Christ Church, Oxford, whose size and
beauty have on several occasions entailed on him the hard necessity
of attending a cat show, takes, it is said, three days to recover
from the sense of humiliation and disgust which he feels, whether
he gets a prize or not. On the occasion to which we refer, a row of
distinguished cats were sitting, each on his cushion, with their backs
turned to the sightseers, while their faces, when from time to time
visible, were expressive of the deepest gloom and disgust. Presently
two little girls pushed through the crowd to the cage of one of the
largest of these cats, crying, “There’s ‘Dick’!” Instantly the great
cat turned round, his face transfigured with joy, purred loudly, and
endeavored to scratch open the front of the cage, that he might rejoin
his little friends, who were with difficulty persuaded to leave him at
the show.—_Spectator._
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