in, to prevent his horse passing me; there is not, I
reckon, so spry a one on MY CIRCUIT.

CIRCUIT, OR NO CIRCUIT, one thing was settled in my mind;
he was a Yankee, and a very impertinent Yankee, too. I
felt humbled, my pride was hurt, and Mohawk was beaten.
To continue this trotting contest was humiliating; I
yielded, therefore, before the victory was palpable, and
pulled up. Yes, continued he, a horse of pretty considerable
good action, and a pretty fair trotter, too, I guess.
Pride must have a fall--I confess mine was prostrate in
the dust. These words cut me to the heart. What! is it
come to this, poor Mohawk, that you, the admiration of
all but the envious, the great Mohawk, the standard by
which all other horses are measured--trots next to Mohawk,
only yields to Mohawk, looks like Mohawk--that you are,
after all, only a counterfeit, and pronounced by a
straggling Yankee to be merely 'a pretty fair trotter!'
If he was trained, I guess that he might be made do a
little more. Excuse me, but if you divide your weight
between the knee and the stirrup, rather most on the
knee, and rise forward on the saddle, so as to leave a
little daylight between you and it, I hope I may never
ride THIS CIRCUIT AGAIN, if you don't get a mile more an
hour out of him. What! not enough, I mentally groaned,
to have my horse beaten, but I must be told that I don't
know how to ride him; and that, too, by a Yankee--Aye,
there's the rub--a Yankee what? Perhaps a half-bred puppy,
half Yankee, half Blue Nose. As there is no escape, I'll
try to make out my riding master. YOUR CIRCUIT, said I,