behaviour, that he sent to purchase him, but
"John Bull was not to be sold."

A word about the weight-carrying cobs,
which in perfection are as scarce as any class
it is possible to name. Plenty of cart-bred
brutes, with thick hairy legs, heavy shoulders,
and round quarters, are to be found in the
Park, bestridden by stout gentlemen, whose
ignorance, it may be presumed, gives them
courage; plenty, too, that go safely in very
vulgar form, whose chief merit is their docile
stupidity. But the ideal cob to carry a millionnaire,
is a stout body, short strong flat legs,
with fine sloping shoulders and a thorough-bred
head and neck. This cob must walk admirably
with reins on his neck, nodding his head, and
must pace from Hyde Park to the Bank if
needed without slipping, sliding, or paying the
slightest attention to the most unexpected
sights or sounds. A very light mouth is,
perhaps, not essential, as your welter-weight
generally hangs more or less on the bridle.
He must trot or canter well—trot for choice—
smoothly, and if fast, all the better; but a
Park cob need not be fast, if true in his paces.
If, then, up to seventeen stone or upwards, of
a good colour (a lady may ride a piebald or
a cream, but a banker cannot), with suitable
manners, he is worth from one hundred to three
hundred guineas, according to merit and the
pocket of the customer.

A young hack, however good, is easily spoiled
by a careless rider, just as ladies' horses are
often spoiled for want of regular exercise. Half
the accidents that take place occur from this
cause. Good stud-grooms do not consult my
lady, but give Sultan or Fatima, full of blood
and full of corn, a full hour's exercise in the
morning early before the side-saddle is called
for.

"So you have got the young Kingston horse
back again?"

"Why, you see, sir, the gentleman that gave
me three hundred for him took him down into
the country, and rode him about all the summer
with one hand and a snaffle bridle, so I have to
break him over again!"

Park riders, a last word. Don't forget your
hands!

MOLLY THE TRAMP.

VERY late on a dark wet night in June,
two persons entered together a pawnbroker's
shop in Dublin. One was a low-sized countryman,
with a fox-like face, quick eyes, hanging
brows, an unscrupulous mouth, a narrow
forehead, and a large ear set so amongst his
bristling hair, that it had the appearance of
being habitually cocked. He was clad in two
huge coats of grey frieze, and wore a
consciousness of responsibility. He looked hard at
the other customer entering with him, who
shrank away and cowered into a corner by the
counter. The pawnbroker, coming from a little
room behind the shop, directed his attention to
the countryman at once, with only a glance at
the timid figure in the background.

The man in frieze was a west-country drover,
who had arrived from the mountains only a
few hours before with a drove of sheep for
market. He found himself unexpectedly in
need of money until next day, when his stock
would be sold. He pulled on the outer of his
two coats, and flung it on the counter.

The pawnbroker examined the coat, and a
discussion arose as to the amount of money to
be advanced upon it. It was thrown from one
to the other, shaken out, folded up, and finally
tossed down on the counter, while the
pawnbroker, himself in a passion, almost dragged his
bullying customer into his little room behind,
for the purpose of showing him articles of equal
value, for which he had advanced smaller sums
than that which he now offered on the coat.
The other customer, a woman, was left standing
in the shop alone.

She was a woful specimen of womanhood: a
figure whose outlines were lost in miserable
wrappings of rags, a dirty trailing gown, and a
tattered shawl. Her bonnet, fit for a gutter,
had two or three grimy red roses flaunting
dismally under the brim. Her skin was dark,
either by nature or from want of care and
cleanliness. She was quite young, though one
could hardly know it, looking on her thin sallow
face, deadened eyes, and colourless lips.

She had in her hand what can only be
described as a rag. A wobegone look had fallen
over her face when the two men left her
unnoticed: a look which was crossed now and
then by one of impatience, which burned up and
went out of her sallow face again, leaving the
stolid weariness to come back. Of what use
was it for her to be angry who only existed in
the world upon sufferance?

Presently the pawnbroker comes bustling
back to the shop to fetch something, takes in
her wretchedness with a keen eye, and roughly
asks her business. She offers him her rag, calling
it a mantle. It is perfectly worthless, and he is
out of temper. He flings it back to her with
an oath, and returns to his more important
customer.

The tall figure shakes as if blows had come
down upon it, the light of eagerness fades out
of the eyes, the hands mechanically fold up the
rejected garment. This is no new scene that
she is passing through: no unexpected trial that
has come upon her; it is part of the daily
routine of her life. Harsh words, repulsion,
are as familiar to her as the taste of bread
and milk to a child who has never suffered
hunger. She accepts the award of her patience
with the meekness of habitual dejection, but
behind it there is something stirring which
is not habitual; something which makes the
cowed spirit rise up again, which awakens
persistence out of the passiveness of despair.
She turns again from the shop door, towards
which she had set her face, and takes her stand
by the counter once more. She will wait to
have another word with the pawnbroker.