the mystery is explained. Sitting with the glass
open in my hand, and placed at such an angle
that it reflected the conductor's face instead
of my own, I fell asleep, and was visited by a
dream, of which the strange countenance was
the foundation.

APPENDIX.

The incidents at New Fangle Villa do not in
the least correspond to those prefigured in my
dream. No ladies are present; my host is the
jovial president of a bachelor's party; Garibaldi
is not once mentioned; there is no scowling
connoisseur with a broken nose, everything
goes on as cheerfully as possible, and I tell all
my best stories amid unbounded laughter and
applause.

JACK'S CASTLE UP THE LANE.

I HAD taken one of the omnibuses which run
through the City to the Bank,  and, seated by
the side of the driver, was watching with much
interest the manifold impediments which beset
the way, when a peculiar rattle of iron and stone
together, and the backing of a Hansom cab in our
front, seemed to say there was a horse down
upon the stones. And so it proved; and after
the usual unlooping of chains, unbuckling
of straps, and hauling at tangled traces, the
omnibus (it was an omnibus horse) was set
rolling upon the fallen animal, the other horse
was whipped up smartly, and with another
rattle and a strong plunge the prostrate beast
scrambled to its feet. This was the third time
in the course of the day that the like accident
had occurred before my eyes, and it set me
thinking of the perils and mischances to which
our working horses in the streets of London are
hourly exposed. I took the driver into my
confidence:

"How long, now, will a horse stand this kind
of racket?"

"Well," was the slow contemplative reply,
"it depends on the horse, and the way he's
drove."

"But how long, on an average, does an
omnibus horse last?"

"Well, some on 'em last an uncommon long
time. This one now," touching the head of
the near horse in a tender way with the top of
his whip, "this one I've had good sixteen year.
But he's a wonder."

"Are there many horses killed in the streets?"

"Not many. They mostly get wore out. We
often change our horses. Horses has tempers,
like people, and some of 'em can't stand the
worry and tearing in a 'bus. It's trying. Some
horses get done right off. Sometimes they don't
last more nor two or three months. But on the
average, I should say, omnibus horses will last
about five year."

"The cab horse, now, has a better time of it?"

"Well, I don't know that. They get more
rest on the stand, to be sure; but they're
haggled, while they're at it, terrible."

"I suppose your horses are not fit for much
when you have done with them?"

"Not much; unless they're done with through
bad temper. Certainly, there's some kind of
work they can do — turn a mill, perhaps — but
they werry often get hurt, if they don't get
killed by falling and other accidents, and then
it's all up with 'em."

"And they soon find themselves in the
knacker's yard?"

"Why, yes," with a half sigh, and a gentle
stroke of the whip on the side of the near horse.
"They either gets a knock on the head at once,
or, if they can walk, they're trotted up the Lane
to 'Jack's,' and there's an end."

What horse, in a sane state of mind, can
expect to die a natural death? It is true we
occasionally hear of some gallant Bucephalus
to whom his equally gallant master has, by
codicil to his will, bequeathed an annuity of beans
and oats and fresh pasture, in order that he may
"pass away" in the due course of nature. But
this is an excess of weakness which very few
riders are guilty of, and a species of philanthropy
which is oftener sneered at than imitated. What
between the rough chances of the road and the
poleaxe, the horse has very little prospect of
living to a green old age; and sometimes we
read of his immolation by pistol-shot, if he
happen to have had a trooper for his master,
over the grave of the dead soldier. A short life,
if not a merry one, is the inevitable destiny of
the working horse; and let no proud steed, in
his moment of pampered ease, imagine he can
escape the curse of labour, with the moral
certainty of at last becoming the food of a lower
race of animals.

Whenever a horse is down in the street, it
will be noticed that the professional public—
the horse public — take to "holding his head"
in a very determined way, while the entanglement
of straps and buckles is cleared; and that the
favourite method of holding the animal's head
is by sitting on it: a process no doubt very
sedative and comforting to the beast itself.
In this case, however, we will suppose
there is no hope for the wounded creature.
The horse public shakes its tousled head,
and decides peremptorily: "He's a done-er,
and no mistake!" A little while, and a clean trim
cart, painted red, with a few fancy lines in white
and black, and an open back and flap, dashes
to the side of the prostrate animal. A sharp
quick blow of the bright axe, a rapid motion
with a lithe cane, a plunge or two on the part
of the horse, and all is over. By the aid of a
strong rope,  the carcase is soon lifted into the
open cart; and with swinging legs and hanging
mane, and a fearfully disjointed motion of the
head, the "poor old horse" is borne "up the
lane" to Jack's private premises — Jack the
horse-killer, or, according to his own style and
title, "Horse Slaughterer to Her Majesty."

The "lane" is a mournful stretch of road,
beginning with the dead side wall of a railway
station, and ending in the dead side wall of a
cattle market. It is cut into bits by a canal