e resisted fox-hunting. With the exception of
that great genius in more than horsemanship, Andrew Ducrow, I never saw
a man sit a horse as he did. He seemed inspired, gay, erect, full of the
joy of life, fearless and secure. I have heard a farmer friend say if he
had not been a preacher of the gospel he would have been a cavalry
officer, and would have fought as he preached.

He was known all over the Upper Ward and down Tweeddale for his riding.
"There goes the minister," as he rode past at a swift canter. He had
generally well-bred horses, or as I would now call them, ponies; if he
had not, his sufferings from a dull, hardmouthed, heavy-hearted and
footed, plebeian horse were almost comic. On his gray mare, or his
little blood bay horse, to see him setting off and indulging it and
himself in some alarming gambols, and in the midst of his difficulties,
partly of his own making, taking off his hat or kissing his hand to a
lady, made one think of "young Harry with his beaver up." He used to
tell with much relish, how, one fine summer Sabbath evening after
preaching in the open air for a collection, in some village near, and
having put the money, chiefly halfpence, into his handkerchief, and that
into his hat, he was taking a smart gallop home across the moor, happy
and relieved, when three ladies--I think, the Miss Bertrams of
Kersewell--came suddenly upon him; off went the hat, down bent the head,
and over him streamed the cherished collection, the ladies busy among
the wild grass and heather picking it up, and he full of droll confusion
and laughter.

The gray mare he had for many years. I can remember her small head and
large eyes; her neat, compact body, round as a barrel; her finely
flea-bitten skin, and her thorough-bred legs. I have no doubt she had
Arabian blood. My father's pride in her was quite curious. Many a wild
ride to and from the Presbytery at Lanark, and across flooded and
shifting fords, he had on her. She was as sweet-tempered and enduring,
as she was swift and sure; and her powers of running were appreciated
and applied in a way which he was both angry and amused to discover. You
know what riding the _bruse_ means. At a country wedding the young men
have a race to the bridegroom's home, and he who wins, brings out a
bottle and glass and drinks the young wife's health. I wish Burns had
described a _bruse_; all sorts of steeds, wild, unkempt lads as well as
colts, old broken-down thorough-breds that d