best be left untouched. But it is very late to
find all this out—too late, perhaps."

Miss Diamond took her away, a little awed,
and perhaps a little scared. "When she was out of
his sight, the old grievances came back, and she
poured them all out to her companion, who
soothed and tranquillised her. But from that
night the vision of the golden-haired haunted
her like a spirit, fretting her into a fever, inflaming
her into little furies. From that night, too,
arose the sense of what he had called a fatal
mistake; and from that night, too, a chill and thick
cloud settled down between the husband and his
young wife.

PONIES.

OF all the sights of London in the month
of June, there are few prettier than Rotten
Row at that hour in the morning when grave
judges, merchants of mighty name in the City,
and the hard-worked of her Majesty's Cabinet
and her Majesty's Opposition begin to ride
away to their daily never-ending duties, while
the Park is alive with little mobs of boys and
girls galloping, trotting, and walking as little as
possible, with papa or mamma, or sister Anne,
or mostly with some stout and faithful
Ruggles, panting and toiling after his precious
charges. How bright they look, how happy
with innocent excitement glowing on their rosy
faces! No thought of heavy acceptances or of
doubtful parliamentary contests, or of ungrateful
minister of state, checks their ringing laughter,
or their cheerful and childish talk. And then
what pluck the little creatures have, and how
gravely they imitate their seniors, in handling
ponies a little bigger than Southdown rams!

In those admirably planned and picturesquely
arranged rides in the wood, provided by the
Emperor of the French for the inhabitants of
his capital, the splendour of the equipages on a
great fête day—a Gladiateur day—leaves
nothing to be desired. Our Ladies' Mile is left
in the shade by the splendour of a series of
four-horse postilioned barouches, with liveries
of every brilliant shade of velvet and satin,
from the brightest canary to the richest ruby,
beside hosts of grand steppers in Broughams,
and other triumphs of carriage-building art
well copied from the London style. Horsemen
are there, too, in very fair numbers, to whom a
critical eye would most probably object that
the horses are too good for their work, and
that the men ride too well, too correctly, too
seriously for pleasure—that they are perfectly
taught, but are not to the manner born. Yes, the
wealth of modern Paris rivals London in everything
that is gorgeous for grown-up people.
But when it comes to the little people and
ponies, Paris is a blank.

Pony-boy-ship, not horse-man-ship, is the
crowning glory of these equestrian islands.
The word pony is feebly represented in other
languages by two words implying little horse
or dwarf horse, and the French have been
obliged to borrow the term without being able
to borrow the thing. In the brilliant horse show
at Paris the other day, there was only one pony.
In the horse show at the Agricultural Hall,
the ponies were as numerous and as much
admired as the thorough-breds. There are small
horses in many countries, but it is only in
this among civilised nations that the let-alone
system of education allows the family pony to
develop into an institution. Good horses and
horsemen are not confined to England. The
Chasseurs d'Afrique, on their little wiry hardy
Arabs, the Hungarian Hussars, the Polish
Lancers, the Cossacks of the Russian Guard,
may claim to rank with any light cavalry;
Russian and Austrian coachmen drive fast
and well, three or four abreast, in their
own peculiar style; so, too, there are foreign
artists who know well how to draw the single
Arab, the war-horse of Job, or a whole charge
of cavalry, but it is only in England (meaning the
three English-speaking kingdoms) that John
Leech could have found his immortal boys on
ponyback; above all, that genuine Master George
on his Shetlander, his soul on fire speaking in his
eyes, and eager for the hunt streaming away on
the other side the brook, answering the piteous
"Hold hard!" of the much-enduring Ruggles,
"it's too wide and very deep," with the happiest
self-confidence, "All right, we can both swim."
Master George did not mean to be saucy to the
old coachman, or to be witty, like those royal
and imperial boys who make such wonderful
bon-mots—he only meant, in the language of the
Ring "business," that there was a brook to be
done, and dry or wet Master George meant to
do it.

The family pony, ridden at all hours, with
and without saddle, along bridle-roads, over the
moors, in the hay-field, and through the wood,
up hill and down dale, teaches the boy to go
alone, to defend himself, to tumble cleverly, and
to get up again without making a noise at a bump
or two. As far as teaching the art of horsemanship
goes, perhaps the completest plan with
boys, as well as girls, is to allow no riding
until they are eight or nine years old, and
then to commence with first principles. Still,
habits of independence are of more importance
than perfect horsemanship, therefore
fathers living in the country with a stable as
well as a library, if wise, will not neglect the
pony-branch of education, but will let the boy, as
soon as he likes, go wandering about the park,
the farm, the village, learning how to take care
of himself and his steed. With girls it is different.
A girl can no more learn to ride gracefully
than to dance gracefully without being
carefully taught from the first lesson to the
last.

Real ponies, not dwarf horses, bred without
care on waste moors and mountains, are more
sound than horses of pedigree; perhaps because,
like Indians, only those of stout constitutions
survive the hardships of infancy or foalhood,
and also because only the best are sent for sale
out of their native district.