me in his own mysterious language.  ‘The horse wants no whip,’ said the landlord.  ‘Hold your tongue, daddy,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ’my pal knows quite well what to do with the whip, he’s not going to beat the horse with it.’  About four hundred yards from the house there was a hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level; towards the foot of this hill, I trotted the horse, who set off at a long, swift pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour.  On reaching the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal found, and trotted him towards the house—­the horse sped faster than before.  Ere he had advanced a hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which Mr. Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding it over the horse’s head, commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of the whip; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed out of the house to be spectators of what was going on.  ’I see now what you wanted the whip for,’ said the landlord, ’and sure enough, that drumming on your hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not.  Well, did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter?’ ’My cob shall trot against him,’ said a fellow, dressed in velveteen, mounted on a low powerful-looking animal.  ’My cob shall trot against him to the hill and back again—­come on!’ We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half the way to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind.  Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him.  We then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I reached the door.  This running of horses, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north.  I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of —–.

‘Are you satisfied?’ said the landlord.  ’Didn’t you tell me that he could leap?’ I demanded.  ‘I am told he can,’ said the landlord; ’but I can’t consent that he should be tried in that way, as he might be damaged.’  ‘That’s right!’ said Mr. Petulengro, ’don’t trust my pal to leap that horse, he’ll merely fling him down, and break his neck and his own.  There’s a better man than he close by; let him get on his back and leap him.’  ‘You mean yourself, I suppose,’ said the landlord.  ’Well, I call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man more than modesty.’  ‘It a’n’t I, daddy,’ said Mr. Petulengro.  ‘Here’s the man,’ said he, pointing to Tawno.  ‘Here’s the horse-leaper of the world!’ ’You mean the horse-back breaker,’ said the landlord.  ’That big fellow would break down my cousin’s horse.’  ‘Why, he weighs only sixteen