saddle-horse, and to suffer no one but himself to ride him, can well understand this.  I remember a horse and his rider among my early acquaintances on the banks of the Mississippi, whose mutual attachment was so remarkable as to excite the wonder of strangers.  That rider was a true woman—­kind, gentle, and yet full of spirit.  Affectionate as she was fearless, she had importuned her brother for the gift of a fine young blood-horse, which he gave her upon the condition that she would ride him.  She was an experienced rider, and promised.

After a few days of close intimacy, she ventured to mount him.  To the astonishment of every one he was perfectly docile, and moved away gently, but with an air of pride, as if conscious of the precious burden he bore.  From that time forward no one was permitted to ride him but the lady, who visited him every day in his stall, and always carried him a loaf of bread or a cup of sugar, and never mounted him without going to his front and holding a conversation with pretty Tom, stroking his head with her gentle hand, and giving him a lump of sugar or a biscuit.  He was allowed the liberty of the yard, to graze on the young sweet grass of the front lawn, and luxuriate in the shade of the princely trees which grew over it.  One or many ladies might go out upon the gallery and remain unnoticed by Tom.  The moment, however, that his mistress came, and he saw her or heard her voice, he would neigh in recognition of her presence, and bound immediately forward to the house, manifesting in his eye and manner great pleasure.  This was kindly returned by the lady always descending the steps and gently stroking his head, which he would affectionately rest against her person.  He would follow her over the yard like a pet spaniel; but he would do this for no one else.  He knew her voice, and would obey it, and bound to her call with the alacrity of a child.  His pleasure at her coming to mount him, when saddled for a ride, was so marked as to excite astonishment.  He would carefully place himself for her convenience, and stand quiet after she was in the saddle until her riding-skirt was adjusted and her foot well in the stirrup, and then she would only say, “Now, Tom!” when he would arch his neck and move off with a playful bound, and curvet about the grounds until she would lay her hand upon his mane, and, gently patting his neck, say, “There, Tom!” Then the play was over, and he went gallantly forward, obediently and kindly as a reasoning being.

The young reader will excuse this garrulity of age:  it is its privilege; and I am writing my recollections of bygone years, and none are more pleasant than those which recall to me this great woman—­the delightful hours spent in her society at the hospitable home of her family.  She still lives, an aged woman, respected by all, and honored in the great merits of her children.  Like Tom, they were affectionately trained; and like Tom, they were dutiful in their conduct,