should respond in his case to the request set forth by the tuneful Apollo "Ply me, try me, prove, ere you deny me.” We all know (to quote the same song) that— "Where the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong." and, therefore, only appeal to those who are open to conviction to give the Patent Hames and Saddle a fair trial, and we doubt not but that, both to the dragsman and equestrian, they will prove "luxuries to the million." THE OLD PONY. BY CHARLES WILLOWDALE. Pone recordari. LAW TERM. Talk of Eclipse and Flying Childers, of all the stakes won by Beeswing, or carried off by Alice Hawthorn! what are they in their ephemeral glories to the solid usefulness, the lasting readiness, the every day fame, fun, and frolic of "the old pony?" The old pony is like Mr. Nobody, or Mr. Everybody, he is nothing and everything, as we shall see by-and-bye, when we come to look into his biography. Talk of Proteus and his thousand shapes! the old pony can match him-of Briareus and his hands! the old pony's legs at least will reach as far; and it is not his fault if nature by over bounty in the latter has been but a niggard in the former. Some of our earliest, and frequently some of our latest achievements, are made by the help of the old pony. Master Tommy on his pad, and t' auld squire on his saddle, mostly begin and end their witching horsemanship" upon his back. We have not forgotten the days (can we ever forget them?) when having sung dulce domum for the hundredth time, and coachee having "yoked his leading horses to," we were hailed by Pa, Ma, Cookey, and William, for the halidays, and having struggled through their kissings and smackings, we hastened to the stable to look at him. Ah! there he stood sleek as a mole, his little bright eye looking "as deep as Garrick," while his flowing mane and tail told how carefully he had been got" ready for young master at Midsummer." Next came manhood, and was he not then the pride and wonder of the stable? Did he not tire many a noble steed, and put the best hack in the stable to his trumps by almost incredible powers of endurance. Whether used as cover-hack or roadster-in single or double harness, pony-tandem, or ponyphæton; take him for all in all, which of them came up to him for all roads, at all times, all jobs, and all company? Then, as a shooting pony-yes, his forte lay there; trained to stand like a stopwatch as the bridle dropped on his neck, and so to remain until the bang! bang! of the double-barrel allowed him to breathe again, the old pony was as firm as the hills. And then how he could follow through gap, brook, and spinny, creeping and crawling like an Indian on the trail of his enemy, as wary, sagacious, and as sure. The rest all amiss; and the meet among the woods! How often has he taken the shine out of the best of them! His metal was up then. True it was that he could not go the pace, but he could stick it; and getting through where others could not get over-cutting off a corner here, and making a cast there, many and many are the days when the old pony has been in at the death, and seen a good deal of it before the finish into the bargain. It is very laughable, and I have been well amused to witness the performances of my old friend amongst my best friends, the farmers. It is there the pony is, par excellence, somebody of consequence, and at "the feast" that his glories shine forth in full splendour: he is kept going on that auspicious occasion" from morn to dewy eve." The first job is to fetch the fish from the Lane end, kindly deposited by the coachman as the down mail passes by-the down mail! it will puzzle you soon, I fancy, to discover an "up" one. Having deposited the salmon and lobsters, off he goes in a gig to fetch Miss Fanny or Miss Katie, who comes to visit Miss Jane or Miss Ann. It is out of the question to suppose that either young lady would go on a visit to a place where Master Tom, Dick, or Harry, is to be found. This fair burden brought home, it is discovered that the new cap has not been sent home for the mistress. Fire and faggot! love and madness! off he goes, with one spur on Johnny's heel, to Madame Mantalini of the next market town, and the cap comes safe to hand. He is now turned up into the paddock or straw-yard to cool himself, and regale on a bite of grass, or a mouthful of hay, if there is any: but vain as are the hopes of man, vainer are those of the old pony for a rest; if, indeed, he cares a pin about it. There are no lemons in the house! The worthy host, who stands proudly amidst the good cheer and old October-fruits and wines, pipes and glasses, of the grand anniversary of country-life-can scarcely credit his eyes, when having looked once and again throughout cupboard, shelf, sideboard, and pantry, there is not a lemon to be found, and ergo-but our friend does not condescend to Latin-no punch. Whoever heard of a feast without punch? Nobody, of course: so off he spins again, under orders to make haste this time (as if such jockeys as his ever go slow), and bring a dozen lemons from Mr. Sugarlip's-thirteen to the dozen, if they sell them so. That job jobbed, some of the young ladies think they should like a ride, and some of the young gentlemen being of the same opinion, on goes the side-saddle and away canters the old pony, gay as a lark, and fresh as a four-year-old. Having ridden round the lordship, and arrived safe at home, in they go to tea: but, oh! Cupid, blind as a beetle, and author of all mischief! so taken is cousin Charles with cousin Mary that he leaves the stabledoor open, and learns to his utter dismay, in due time, that, his mare has left her loose-box, and trotted off on the road for home, a good three miles and a-quarter. What's to be done now? Oh! call the boy, and let him fetch her back, on the old pony. And so they have him from Monday morning to Saturday night-eggs aud butter, meat and fish, business and pleasure, school and fox-hunting, fishing and shooting, father, mother, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, cousin, nephew and niece, down to the seventh generation, one and all, ride and drive, walk, trot, canter and gallop him in turn. In high-life and low-life who but he, the trotting pony, the racing pony, my lord's pony, my lady's pony, the jockey's pony, the huntsman's pony, the earth-stopper's old pony, the butcher's, baker's, fishmonger's, gardener's, miller's, and the sweep's pony. Welsh, Scotch, Irish, and English, all sizes and colours, ages, and nations, "everything by turns, and nothing long," the pony is owned by all-prized by all-and proved by all to be an out-and-outer, and no mistake. And then in these days of taxation he has another claim to popularity-it may be that he pays no tax. Oh! Bobby Peel! happy is he who, safe and sound from "general taxation," can look around him from saddle or driving-box, and yet keep his £1 8s. 9d., or his guinea (if he has one) safe in the bottom of his pocket, to say nothing of "the ten per cent." which comes in as a kind of makeweight to keep the scales even. But what sportman's house is complete without his picture, done to the life-dog and gun, pheasant or woodcock, greyhound and hare, as the owner's devotion is given to triggers or thistles? And such a picture!-there is no mistaking it. If one would pass by the wellknown features of an old friend, the form to the life of Don or Carlo, or of Myrtle when she killed the one ear'd hare, that beat every dog in the county, on Marholm Downs-there is no mistaking, "the old pony:" everybody knows him. Anybody may see at glance whose pony it is. Nobody with the least knowledge of horseflesh could ever look upon such a pony as that, and not recognize him from a thousand. And so he stands in the foreground of the landscape-the key to the whole picture. Reader, were you ever lost coming home in the night from a dinner party, and having to ride across country? If you have, you know well enough what it is, and who found the way home after you had given it up in despair. If you never had that pleasure, as Mytton's friend said half a minute before poor Jack upset him over a gravel heap, you are much to pity; you are going out of the world, my dear boy, with half your errand, as we say of the aged spinsters, unless you pass through the ordeal of bewilderment about to be told you. The month July, and the fête the wool-sale, or the feast before mentioned; sally forth about twelve, rather elevated, but not too far gone; for, if so, you are more likely to sleep than wander about until morning, and thereby curtail half the full enjoyment. You will get on well enough the first mile; thread the first two or three woods, spinnies, and cornfields, take the right turn to get upon the bridle road, cross the lane at the top handgate, and all of a sudden, as Pat would say, find yourself lost. Then ride back a bit, and pondering, puzzling and puzzled, discover in another half hour that you have come back to the same wall which first put a stopper on your homeward progress, and gave a silent but unmistakeable hint that there was something wrong, and your lordship lost. Well! pull the nag's head round, or up, if the dull beast has commenced grazing, which I warrant him to do before Aurora, as the poets sing, (you wish all singing at Old Nick) "strews roses on the opening portals of the morn;" and take another round to discover the road home, if possible. Some distant clock strikes two, and now and then an owl flaps by or screeches from the distant woods. You ride on; it is a gravel pit this time, or a pond or brook, but the odds are it is the wall; for, unconscious and bewildered, you have unknowingly pulled your horse's head out of, and then into, the same track; until, tired out, vexed and cold, you give him his head, and trust to the instinct of the brute to discover that which the proud intellect of his master is utterly at a loss to find-the way home. Ah! now's the time-he snuffs up the wind-pricks his ears-mends his pace-would break into a gallop if you allowed it-and, by-and-bye, after a circuit of some miles and another hour, you find yourself, or rather make the discovery, that you are once more on the right road for home at last; and that the old pony knows the way to the stable, although the master was unable to find that which led to his own door. I'll bet you a pony you never forgot such an adventure if it once befall youthat you never lose the feeling of the first knowledge that you are really lost, nor the thrill of satisfaction when assured that you are found again! "The How true are all old saws and sayings! and none more so than those belonging to the pony. "A pony will beat your big horse," is a truth which thousands can vouch for; and "a real good pony is oth anything," another. Some men are famed for good ponies, and the work they will do in such hands is truly astonishing. doctor's old pony" was as well known at our house, when I was a boy, as any one of the family; and how old he was, and what became of him at last, nobody seemed to know. I knew him for more than twenty years, and I suppose he was something like the ass-always old, never older, and never seen dead. The old pony is the best and worst of the whole lot: the best, when he has pushed the coach into a gallop, or brought his lord and master safe home, while he reeled in the saddle like one of those balanced Turks in the toy-shops, which always about to fall, yet always comes back to an equilibrium; the worst, when he has opened every gate on the farm, and let all the horses and cows into the standing grass or growing corn, which he had not before-hand lured into the seeds or the garden. The pride of the mistress's heart, when he brings her pet, "Master Harry," home from school; and the most vicious, worthless brute when said Harry having tumbled at a leap, his nag finds the way home alone. The very devil to catch when he has a mind for a frolic in the homestead, and no more to be lured with corn in a sieve than any old birds are to be caught with chaff. And then again," the little beauty," that eats bread from the hand, puts his nose into your pocket for an apple, and follows you round the homeclose like a dog. Ah! such he is, has been, and will be-an out-andouter, and not to be beaten every day-that old pony. August 22nd, 1845. PUBLIC AMUSEMENTS OF THE METROPOLIS. "Hard is his fate, that, here by fortune placed, JOHNSON. At length the opera season has drawn to a close, and London is again left without that musical nucleus whence diverged the brightest rays of talent and genius of the most delightful arts in the world. The curtain dropped on the 21st instant on the last representation of this year, and thus terminated a succession of nights more remarkable for sustained brilliancy and success than any the previous annals of the opera can boast. One advantage over all other seasons has especially distinguished that of forty-five, an advantage, too, that marks out the tactics of Mr. Lumley, in the management of the ITALIAN THEATRE, as eminently calculated to win the suffrages of the musical public. A bold innovation upon a tiresome custom is usually successful. Napoleon brought the whole strength of his army to bear upon the chief point of that of his antagonist; that gained, the very enthusiasm of victory worked miracles during the remainder of the engagement. Our lessee, despising, much in the same manner, all minor considerations, brought the whole force and talent of his company on the stage at once, and has thus insured himself a much more brilliant harvest than would have been the case, had his speculation been less bold or more mercenary. It is no easy matter to hit the fastidious tastes of the day, or to satisfy the caprices of luxury and fashion in their constant mutations; yet to this arduous task must every manager of the most frequented theatre in the metropolis bend himself, ere he can with certainty build upon the success due to strenuous effort. The redundant houses witnessed every night of the subscription amply proves that Mr. Lumley has known how to "chase the new-blown bubbles of the day" to the high satisfaction of his patrons. We have had at one and the same time a perfect galaxy of European musical celebrities. Persiani, Grisi, Rita Borio, Rossi Caccia, Castellan, Brambilla, Bellini, etc., etc., as lady vocalists; Mario, Moriani, Lablache, Fornasari, Corelli, etc., etc., as male singers; and as artistes of the twin-art of dance, we have rejoiced in the far-famed Taglioni, in the divine Carlotta Grisi, in the sprightly Ellsler, the arch Cerito, the classic Lucile Grahn: we have had the well-drilled army of Viennoises, and the masculine vigour of St. Leon and Perrot; and a succession of new or well-chosen operas and ballets has completely fulfilled the expectations of every opera audience. The last month was distinguished by the frequent repetition of the chefs d'œuvres of Mozart, Rossini, Mercandante, Donizetti, |