If we were to pin our faith on what we hear, and what we read, concerning the engrossing theme of horsemanship, we should ere long be led to believe that nothing was so easy as to keep alongside of a clipping pack of fox-hounds running hard over a grass country intersected with those formidable impediments which defend such verdant districts. Poor Nimrod tells us how to get our horses into condition; Beckford, Cooke, Delmé Radcliffe, Grantley Berkeley, Smith (not Assheton), and a host of others, instruct us patiently and at considerable length, in the scientific details of our favourite amusements. The author of “Soapy Sponge” presents to our delighted view the humours and ridiculous side of the question, conveying, by means of Mr. Jorrock’s inimitable vein of absurdity, many home-truths and incontrovertible reflections; whilst last of all comes Sir Francis Head, with the brilliancy of his reputation, and the weight of his personal experience, to give the finishing touches to our education. He tells us in the simplest language, and as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do it as well as himself, how we are to saddle our horse and bridle our horse, how to dress and how to feed, how to go out in the morning and how to come at night, how to transform our hack into a hunter, and, when so metamorphosed, how to ride the astonished animal over the highest gates and the widest brooks that can be found in the midland counties of merry England; the whole performance to be achieved in a jovial off-hand style, as if it were the simplest and safest thing in the world. Now this is all very well in theory, but becomes a more complicated question when reduced to a matter of practice. It seems to me that to achieve excellence in riding to hounds, something more is required than a hard heart and a light pair of hands; that with all the advantages of courage, strength, and activity, being good horsemen, and with excellent hunters to ride, many men go out day after day, and season after season, without ever seeing a run to their own satisfaction; nay, with a certainty, unless they are piloted by some more gifted sportsman, of losing the hounds in the first three fields. A man may be as bold as Alexander, and as well mounted too, never giving less than “three figures” for his Bucephalus, and yet unless he be possessed of a peculiar knack of finding his way over a country which it is almost impossible to explain, he will invariably be left behind in a quick thing.