XXVII 



TAKING him as the type of a class, the Central Park 

 rider has his good points and he has his bad ones. When 

 he is new to his work and over-imitates the English style, 

 he is at his worst; when he is used to the saddle he 

 throws aside blind imitation and rides well. He steers 

 clear of the showy tendencies of the Gaul, the military 

 flavor which still clings to the civilian Teuton, and the 

 extreme hunting type of the Briton. 



I am aware that in what I say I am liable to be mis- 

 construed by many of our riding-men, to be looked upon 

 as impregnated with Anglophobia. This is an error. 

 I have lived many years in England, and yield to no man 

 in my admiration for the open-hearted, generous, plucky, 

 prejudiced, self-adoring Briton. But love me love my 

 horse is unintelligent if proverbial. " How can you love 

 that drunken wretch?" asked a sympathetic friend of a 

 lachrymose wife. " You be still !" came the quick and 

 positive reply ; " I love every bone in his body but con- 

 found his nasty ways !" Here is a neat distinction. We 

 may love our British cousin and yet not adopt his style. 



There is no better horseman than the Briton, no better 

 rider. Few are as good. At his own sports hunting and 

 polo and racing he may almost be said to be unequalled. 

 But from these premises one must not draw the conclu- 

 sion that he is master of everything else. Too many 

 hard-riding English cross-country men have found on our 

 plains that they could not hold a candle to the average 



