In walking, the legs and all the muscles of the body are brought into action, and the blood courses through the veins, and a girl looks like a thoroughbred, but in horseback riding the legs lay dormant, get to sleep and have to be waked up when the owner dismounts, and all the exercise is got by portions of the human frame that never has seemed to us as though there was absolute need of greater development. It is true that horseback riding makes the cheeks-red. Well, blood that wouldn't rush to the head after being churned that way wouldn't be worth having. It has to go somewhere. It can't go to the legs, because they are paralyzed, being curled up like a tailor, mending trousers. Horseback exercise for ladies, on a side saddle, is a delusion and a snare, and does not amount to a row of pins, and it never will be worth a cent until women can ride like men. Then the lower limbs--now it is _limbs_--will be developed and health will be the result, and there will be no danger of a saddle turning and a helpless woman being dragged to her death. There is nothing indelicate about riding on both sides of a horse, if they once get used to it. But they have got to get over this superstition that to ride on horseback a woman must put her limbs up in curl papers. THE TROUBLE MR. STOREY HAS. A dispatch from Chicago says that Wilbur F. Storey, of the _Times_, is in a bad state, and that he gets around by leaning on his young wife with one hand and a cane with the other, that he believes his latter end is approaching, and that he is giving liberally to churches and has quit abusing ministers, and is trying to lead a different life. We should have no objections to Mr. Storey's going to heaven. However much he might try to revolutionize things there, and run the place, there will be enough of us there to hold the balance of power and prevent him from doing any particular damage. Besides, we do not believe he is responsible for the cussedness of his newspaper. It is the wicked young men he keeps. The four that we know, Wilkie, Snowdon, Seymour and Doc Hinman, are enough to make the truly good Mr. Storey have night sweats. They never refuse when you ask them up, and they are full of guile. Storey got fooled the worst on Snowdon. Snow-don is a graduate of a nice Christian college at Ripon, a beautiful blonde young man with the most resigned and pious countenance we ever saw, one that seems to draw people to him. His heart is tender and he weeps at the recital of suffering. A stranger, to look at his face in repose, would say that he was an evangelist and the pillar of some church, and that he associated only with the truly good, but he plays the almightiest game of draw poker of any man in Chicago.