brain.  I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some opus magnum which Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read—­beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious of Homer’s rhapsodies.  What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave song!—­I return to the brave cob.

* * * * *

‘O Cheapside!  Cheapside!’ said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, ’truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise and riches!  Men talk of the bazaars of the East—­I have never seen them, but I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes.  O thou pride of London’s east!—­mighty mart of old renown!—­for thou art not a place of yesterday:  long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist—­a place of throng and bustle—­a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen.  Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England.  Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower’s bard, had a word of praise for London’s “Cheape,” for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes.  Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do?  But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world—­a place of wonder and astonishment!—­and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages—­may it be the world’s resort for merchandise, world without end.

* * * * *

Oh, that ride! that first ride!—­most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret.  People may talk of first love—­it is a very agreeable event, I dare say—­but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob!  My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that?  By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species.  No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil’s Hill on the cob.