If our father had no ear for music, he had a fine one for metre, and read poetry aloud very beautifully. His voice was melodious and ringing, and we were thrilled with his own enthusiasm as he read to us from Scott or Byron, his favorite poets. I never can read “The Assyrian came down,” without hearing the ring of his voice and seeing the flash of his blue eyes as he recited the splendid lines. He had a great liking for Pope, too (as I wish more people had nowadays), and for Butler’s “Hudibras,” which he was constantly quoting. He commonly, when riding, wore but one spur, giving Hudibras’s reason, that if one side of the horse went, the other must perforce go with it; and how often, on some early morning walk or ride, have I heard him say,-- “And, like a lobster boiled, the morn From black to red began to turn.” Or if war or fighting were mentioned, he would often cry,-- “Ay me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron!” I must not leave the subject of reading without speaking of his reading of the Bible, which was most impressive. No one who ever heard him read morning prayers at the Institution (which he always did until his health failed in later years) can have forgotten the grave, melodious voice, the reverent tone, the majestic head bent above the sacred book. Nor was it less impressive when on Sunday afternoons he read to us, his children. He would have us read, too, allowing us to choose our favorite psalms or other passages. He was an early riser, and often shared our morning walks. Each child, as soon as it was old enough, was taught to ride; and the rides before breakfast with him are things never to be forgotten. He took one child at a time, so that all in turn might have the pleasure. It seems hardly longer ago than yesterday,--the coming downstairs in the cool, dewy morning, nibbling a cracker for fear of hunger, springing into the saddle, the little black mare shaking her head, impatient to be off; the canter through the quiet streets, where only an early milkman or baker was to be seen, though on our return we should find them full of boys, who pointed the finger and shouted,-- “Lady on a hossback, Row, row, row!” then out into the pleasant country, galloping over the smooth road, or pacing quietly under shady trees. Our father was a superb rider; indeed, he never seemed so absolutely at home as in the saddle. He was very particular about our holding whip and reins in the right way.