were the majority of women recovering from their
affright, and struggling men, to be cheated out of
a single bar of the musical rights—whether to be
enjoyed in English or Welsh—belonging to their
portion of the Eisteddfod. I recollect nothing
like that ten minutes of confusion—that sudden
power of Music to still the waters of terror
— that struggle of enthusiasm against common
sense and safety—so admirably overruled by the
despotic will of one in authority. For a less
exercise of ready wit and real power has many
a Celt been dubbed a Bard,—and many a Saxon
Forcible Feeble received the easily-won honours
of knighthood!

CAN YOU RIDE?

THE yard of Mr. Mason, the eminent horse-
dealer, is a delicious scene. It is designed by
some great colourist—probably of the Dutch
school—a great artist who knows where to
draw the line a delicately plaited line too—
with regard to his arrangements of straw-colour;
where to throw in a bit of red brick; and where
to ease that off again with some subdued and
pearly whitewash. This mighty genius, again,
is accomplished in the art of sprinkling sand; he
is also the man to deal with such pieces of still
life as a pail and a besom, while as to his eye for
throwing in a stable cat in exactly the right place
—to an inch, mind you— who can approach him?

It is perhaps the passing through this beautiful
region that causes the residence of the
Mechanical Horse, which is at the back of the
premises, to appear, to the observant eye, more
unspeakably blank and terrible than it really is.
For the convenience of his works, which are—
like some people's minds—too large for his body,
and are placed in a room underneath him, this
terrible beast resides in a loft—a loft with sloping
roof, and only just light enough to tumble off
discreditably by. In ascending to that loft you
have a feeling as if you were going to succour a
family in distress, as if you were going to stand
by the death-bed of a malefactor, as if you were
ascending to the boxes of a booth-theatre at a fair.

The Mechanical Horse is a black horse, with
an expression of eye which encourages approach,
with an engaging and innocent tuft of mane on
his forehead, with a practicable neck and tail,
and with an impracticable set of legs, which are
doubled up tight as in the act of clearing
"timber." His appearance is on the whole
natural, but he has a steel bar growing out of
his stomach and descending through the floor of
the room into the abysses beneath, which we do
not often observe in the real subject, and he is
entirely surrounded on all sides by mattresses,
which is also not the case with the living animal
—more's the pity. On probing the animal's
body with our thumb, we found, to our un-
speakable relief, that it was soft, and at the
same time firm and elastic.

On the walls of the loft are one or two small
notices entreating "gentlemen not to hold on
by the animal's neck, when in difficulties"—words
of sinister and terrible augury— while exactly
in front of the monster's nose is a very small
mirror, about six inches square, the presence of
which is as inexplicable as that of what looks
like a very large corn-bin, on which the eye of
the Mechanical Horse may be observed to rest
thoughtfully in his passive moments.

Altogether, it may freely be acknowledged that
the scene is the reverse of cheerful. The padded
floor suggests the idea of the torture-chamber,
and this terrific monster rising out of the
mattresses, presiding over all, with an expression
about his neck as of a knight at chess who has
just won a game against all mankind, seems to
carry out the torture idea in some mysterious
way. What this must be on a moonlight night
one dares not think—and yet—that looking-glass
on the wall—that corn-bin, haply a bed by night,
a bin by day does some one sleep in this place?
It may be so. There is a certain German young
man whose business it is to shout to the men
in the regions below, conveying to them in a
foreign language directions as to the movements
of the M. H., telling them when the animal is
to rear, or jump, or kick, or twist, or fall as
upon ice. It is, moreover, the function of this
same individual to help in the execution of these
manoeuvres by tugging at a cord attached to the
body of the M. H., in order to give additional
impetus to its movements. Now the question
is, does this personage sleep in the room with
the Mechanical Horse? His appearance seems
to suggest that he does. He is intensely melancholy,
and given to the heaving of great heart-breaking performance.
He has it, moreover, distinctly inscribed on his
countenance, and proclaimed in his whole bearing,
that he disbelieves in the M. H., and moreover
hates him with a detestation that knows no
bounds. How he must long for a change in the
quadruped's appearance. One almost wonders
that he does not whitewash the brute covertly in
the watches of the night.

The "stable companion" of this depressed
gentleman has a much better time of it. His
business is to ride the horse for the benefit of
spectators. He is never thrown now, being up
to all the moves of the monster, but he is in
this respect alone in his glory, as according to
his own statement there is absolutely no one
unaccustomed to the M. H. who has gone through
all the exercises in the list without coming off
sooner or later—generally sooner.

The Mechanical Horse is not without a
biographer. A small pamphlet is to be had on the
premises, which repays perusal. On the very
fly-leaf of this work we are informed that "the
art of horsemanship consists in the rider's
knowledge to manage under all circumstances his
point of gravitation, and that of his horse, with
ease and grace," a statement put forth by the
author of the pamphlet, Colonel von Hamel,
with the greater confidence, because it seems
that he was from "his very boyhood destined
for the equestrian career," whatever that may
be. One thing, however, is certain, namely,
that ten years of that career have been devoted