Give me the green lanes and hills, when I'm inclined to diverge; and the smooth turnpike roads, when disposed to “go a-head.”--“I can't bear a horse,” cries Numps: now this feeling is not at all reciprocal, for every horse can bear a man. “I'm off to the Isle of Wight,” says Numps: “Then you're going to Ryde at last,” quoth I, “notwithstanding your hostility to horse-flesh.” “Wrong!” replies he, “I'm going to Cowes.” “Then you're merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!” The ninny! he does not know the delight of a canter in the green fields--except, indeed, the said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher! My friend Rory's the boy for a horse; he and his bit o' blood are notorious at all the meetings. In fact I never saw him out of the saddle: he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur--full of anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly. I last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster --his “bit o' blood” had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making his way to the appointed spot. “I was in Buckinghamshire last week,” said he; “a fine turn out--such a field! I got an infernal topper tho'--smashed my best tile; tell you how it was. There was a high paling--put Spitfire to it, and she took it in fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely! Thought I was brained--but we did it cleverly however--although, if ever I made a leap in the dark, that was one. I was at fault for a minute--but Spitfire was all alive, and had it all her own way: with some difficulty I got my nob out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!” I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of sport, we parted. Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime--so true is it--that “The pleasure we delight in physic's pain;” his days pass lightly, and all his years are leap years! He has lately inherited a considerable property, accumulated by a miserly uncle, and has most appropriately purchased an estate in one of the Ridings of Yorkshire! With all his love for field-sports, however, he is no better “the better,” says he, “is often the worse; and I've no notion of losing my acres in gambling; besides, my chief aim being to be considered a good horseman, I should be a consummate fool, if, by my own folly, I lost my seat!” A RIGMAROLE--PART III. “Oderunt hilarem tristes.”