Wilful will to water, eh, Esmeralda?  You are determined to appear in that riding party after your third lesson, and you think that you “will look no worse than a great many others.”  Undoubtedly, that is true, and more’s the pity, but, since you will go, let us make the most of the third lesson, and trust that you will return in a whole piece, like Henry Clay’s pie.

You do not see why there is any more danger on the road than in the ring, and you have never been thrown!  It would be unkind, in the face of that “never,” to remind you that you have been in the saddle precisely twice, and, really, there is no more danger from your incompetency, should it manifest itself on the road, than might arise from its display in the ring, but with your horse it is another matter.  Having the whole world before him, why not, he will meditate, speed forth into space, and escape from the hateful creature who jerks on his head so causelessly, making him sigh wearily for the days of his unbroken colthood?  He would endure it within doors, because he has noticed that his tormentor gives place to another every hour, and pain may be borne when it is not monotonous; but he remembers that there is no limit to the time during which one human being may impel him along an open road, and he also remembers some very pretty friskings, delightful to himself, but disconcerting to his rider, and he may perform some of them.

Even if he should, he would not unseat a rider well accustomed to school work, but you!  You actually rose in the saddle three times in succession, the other day, and where were your elbows and where were your feet when you ceased rising, and long before your steady, quiet mount understood that you desired him to walk?

Your master smiles indulgently when you announce that this is your last practice lesson, and says:  “Very well, you shall ride Charlie, to-day, at least for a little while, until some others come in.”  He himself mounts, moves off a pace or two, one of the assistant masters puts you in the saddle, and before the groom lets Master Charlie’s head go, your master says, easily:  “Leave his reins pretty long, especially the right one.  Put your left knee close against the pommel; don’t try to rise until I tell you.  Ready.  Now.”

You feel as if you were in a transformation scene at the theatre.  The windows of the ring seem to run into one another, and at very short intervals you catch a glimpse in the mirror of a young woman, in a familiar looking Norfolk jacket, sitting with her elbows as far behind her as if held there by the Austrian plan of running a broomstick in front of the arms and behind the waist.

On and on!  You earnestly wish to stop, but are ashamed to say so.  Close at your right hand, pace for pace with you, rides your master, keeping up an unbroken fire of brief ejaculation:  “Hands a little lower!  Arms close to the side!” Shoulders square!  Square!  Draw your right shoulder backward and upward!  Now down with your right elbow!  Don’t pull o the right rein!  Don’t lift your hands!  You’ll make him go faster!”