banks that was advancing to meet her, a momentary chill came over Mrs Woodburn. She was thinking so much of her own errand that she could not but jump at the idea that nothing less important could have induced Lucilla to be out of doors on such a day; and her heart beat loud as the two drew near each other. Was it an unexpected and generous auxiliary, or was it a foe accomplished and formidable? For one thing, she was not coming out of Mr Centum's, where Mrs Woodburn herself was going, which at least was a relief. As they came nearer the two ladies instinctively looked to their weapons. They had met already in many a little passage of arms, but nothing like this had ever occurred to them before. If they were to work in union, Mrs Woodburn felt that they would carry all before them; and if not, then it must be a struggle unto the death.

"Is it really you, Lucilla?" she said; "I could not believe my eyes. What can have brought you out of doors on such a day? You that have everything your own way, and no call to exert yourself

"I have been to see Mrs Chiley," said Lucilla, sweetly; "when the weather is bad she sees nobody, and she is always so pleased to have me. Her rheumatism is not so bad, thank you-though I am sure if this weather should last

"You would see Mrs Beverley's blanket," said Mrs Woodburn, who was a little nervous, though perhaps that might only be the cold; "but we know what sort of woman she is, and it must have been the Archdeacon's nieces, my dear. Do turn back with me a moment, Lucilla; or I shall go with you. I want to speak to you. Of course you have heard of Harry's coming home?"

"I saw it in the papers," said Miss Marjoribanks, whose perfect serenity offered a curious contrast to her companion's agitation. "I am sure I shall be very glad to see him again. I hope he will come to

dinner on Thursday as he used to do. It will be quite nice to see him in his old place."

“Yes,” said Mrs Woodburn; "but that was not what I was thinking of. You know you used always to say he ought to be in Parliament; and he has always kept thinking of it since he went away-and thinking, I am sure, that it would please you," said the poor woman, faltering; for Lucilla list ened with a smile that was quite unresponsive, and did not change countenance in the least, even at this tender suggestion. "He has come home with that object now, you know, now that poor old Mr Chiltern is dead; and I hope you are going to help us, Lucilla," said Mrs Woodburn. Her voice quite vibrated with agitation as she made this hurried, perhaps injudicious, appeal, thinking within herself at the same moment what would Harry say if he knew that she was thus committing him. As for Lucilla, she received it all with the same tranquillity, as if she expected it, and was quite prepared for everything that her assailant had to say.

"I am sure I wish I had a vote," said Lucilla; "but I have no vote, and what can a girl do? I am so sorry I don't understand about politics. If we were going in for that sort of thing, I don't know what there would be left for the gentlemen to do."

"You have influence, which is a great deal better than a vote," said Mrs Woodburn; "and they all say there is nobody like a lady for electioneering and a young lady above all; and then you know Harry so well, and can always draw him out to the best advantage. I never thought he looked so nice, or showed his talents so much, as when he was with you," said the eager advocate. She was only wrapped in a shawl herself, and when she looked at Lucilla's sealskin coat, and saw how rosy and comfortable she looked, and how serene and immovable, poor Mrs Woodburn was struck with a pang of envy. If

Miss Marjoribanks had married ten years ago, it might have been she now who would have had to stand trembling with anxiety and eagerness among the falling snow, knowing sundry reasons why Mr Cavendish should be disposed to go into Parliament more substantial than that of gratifying a young lady, and feeling how much depended on her ability to secure support for him. This, as it happened, had fallen to his sister's share instead, and Lucilla stood opposite to her looking at her, attentive and polite, and unresponsive. If Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago! for Mrs Woodburn began to think now with aunt Jemima, that Lucilla did not marry because she was too comfortable, and, without any of the bother, could have everything her own way.

"It is so cold," said Miss Marjo ribanks, "and I do think it is coming on to snow very fast. I don't think it is good to stand talking.

Do

come in to lunch, and then we can have a long chat; for I am sure nobody else will venture out to-day." "I wish I could come," said Mrs Woodburn, "but I have to go down to Mary Centum's, and hear all about her last new housemaid, you know. I don't know what servants are made of for my part. They will go out in their caps and talk to the young men, you know, in a night that is enough to give any one their death," the mimic added, with a feeble exercise of her gift which it was sad to see. "But Harry will be sure to come to call the first time he goes out, and you will not forget what I have said to you, Lucilla?" and with this Mrs Woodburn took her young friend's hand and looked in her face with a pathetic emphasis which it would be impossible to describe.

science and a sealskin cloak could have made it; and then they went their several ways through the wintry solitude. Ah, if Harry had only not been such a fool ten years ago! Mrs Woodburn was not an enthusiastic young wife, but knew very well that marriage had its drawbacks, and had come to an age at which she could appreciate the comfort of having her own way without any of the bother. She gave a furtive glance after Lucilla, and could not but acknowledge to herself that it would be very foolish of Miss Marjoribanks to marry, and forfeit all her advantages, and take somebody else's anxieties upon her shoulders, and never have any money except what she asked from her husband. Mrs Chiley, to be sure, who was more experienced than Mrs Woodburn, and might have been her grandmother, took a different view of the subject; but this was what the middle-aged married woman felt, who had, as may be said, two men to carry on her shoulders, as she went anxiously down Grange Lane to conciliate Mrs Centum, wrapping her shawl about her, and feeling the light snow melt beneath her feet, and the cold and discomfort go to her heart. She had her husband to keep in good humour, and her brother to keep up and keep to the mark, and to do what she could to remedy in public the effects of his indolent Continental habits, and carry, if it was possible, the election for him-all with the horrid sense upon her mind that if at any time the dinner should be a little less cared for than usual, or the children more noisy, Woodburn would go on like a savage. Under such circumstances, the poor woman, amid her cares, may be excused if she looked back a little wistfully at Lucilla going home all comfortable and independent and light-hearted, with no cares, nor anybody to go on at her, in her sealskin coat.

This was how Lucilla commenced that effective but decorous advo

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much good in Carlingford. She She did not pretend to understand about politics, or to care particularly about Reform or the Income-tax; but she expressed with quiet solemnity her conviction that it was not opinions but a good man that was wanted; that it was not a prime minister they were going to elect, and that Mr Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. By George! Lucilla is in the right of it," Colonel Chiley said; "that was always my opinion;" and the people in Grange Lane began very soon to echo the Colonel's sentiments. As for Miss Marjoribanks, nobody had any occasion to "go on" about any neglect on her part of her household duties. Dr Marjoribanks's dinners were always excellent, and it was now, as ever, a privilege to be admitted to his table, and nothing could be more exemplary than the care Lucilla took of aunt Jemima, who had always such bad nights. Even on that snowy morning she went in from her more important cares, with a complexion freshened by the cold, and coaxed Mrs John into eating something, and made her as comfortable as possible at the drawing room fireside. "Now, tell me all about Tom," Lucilla said, when she had got her work and settled herself comfortably for a quiet afternoon -for the snow had come on heavier than ever, and unless it might be a sister of charity, or such another sister not of charity, as Lucilla had already encountered, nobody was like to stir abroad or to disturb the two ladies in their work and their talk. Lucilla had some very interesting worsted-work in hand for her part, and the drawing-room never looked more cozy, with somebody to talk to inside, and the wintry world and driving snow without. And as for aunt Jemima, such an invitation as Miss Marjoribanks had just given lifted her into a paradise of content. She took Lucilla at her word, and told her, as may be supposed, all about Tom,

including many things which she was quite acquainted with and knew by heart; and at the same time there was a something implied all through, but never obtrusively set forth, which was not displeasing to the auditor. Miss Marjoribanks listened with affectionate satisfaction, and asked a great many questions, and supplied a great many reminiscences, and entered quite into the spirit of the conversation. And the two spent a very pleasant afternoon together,-so pleasant that Mrs John felt quite annoyed at the reflection that it must come to an end like everything else that is good, and that she must get herself once more into her velvet gown and dine with her brother-inlaw. If Providence had only given her the girl instead of the Doctor, who would no doubt have got on quite well without any children; but then, to be sure, if Lucilla had been hers to start with, she never could have married Tom.

For this was the extravagant hope which had already begun to blossom in his mother's breast. To be sure a woman might marry Tom, who was too comfortable at home to think of marrying just anybody who might make her an offer.

But it was not easy to tell how Lucilla herself felt on this subject. Her complexion was so bright with her walk, her sensations so agreeable after that warm, cheerful, pleasant afternoon, her position so entirely everything that was to be desired, and her mind so nobly conscious of being useful to her kind and country, that, even without any additional argument, Miss Marjoribanks had her reward, and was happy. Perhaps a touch more exquisite might have come in to round the full proportions of content; but if so, nobody could make altogether sure of it. For, to tell the truth, Lucilla was so well off that it was not necessary to invent any romantic source of happiness to account for the light of wellbeing and satisfaction that shone in her eyes.

Or the things on which all people imagine they can talk, and yet of which the number who really know anything is very small, the horse is most conspicuous.

It has been said that every man in England "thinks he can drive a gig," and the misfortune is, that the delusion is not merely the error of an excessive conceit, but is part and parcel of that intense snobbery which runs through the national character, making a man estimate the possession and the management of a horse as an evidence of a certain social status, and advancing his familiarity with equine matters, as the surest test of his rank and condition.

This pretension would be laughable if it had not its grave aspect in the fearful catalogue of accidents it has led to. Of these we read in almost every newspaper, fearful records as they are of gross ignorance and grosser self-sufficiency. Strange as it may seem, there is no country in Europe in which the taste for horsemanship is stronger than in England, and yet in which the horse as an animal is less studied and understood.

One of the most popular errors is to attribute too much to the rider's own skill-that is, to place more to the account of the man than of the horse, and to ascribe the brilliant display of a successful run to the horseman, and not to the animal he bestrode. Now I am very far from disparaging judgment or "hand" -probably my error would be to accord them more than their due; but I think our tendency is generally to ascribe far too much to the man, and too little to his horse. In cross-country riding, the horse that knows his work will always do it

best with the least interference. When men talk of sparing their horse here, and making play there, they are simply usurping the credit of that judgment the horse himself will employ. You may choose the part of the fence you wish your horse to take, but he'll take it himself in his own way far better than any suggestion of yours could intimate to him. The horse, too, will "take off" before his leap with far greater accuracy if left in a measure to himself; and in the measure of his stride, as he nears his fence, the animal will be guided by the amount of effort he is called on to make. I speak of course of a well-trained horse-a hunter; not of those fiery reckless animals that breast their walls and flounder into their double ditches, and to ride which is as harebrained a feat as a man can well perform.

The great test of good riding is the "consent"-the spirit of union established between the horse and his rider-the intuitive knowledge of what your horse can do being joined to your own power of conveying your wish to the animal. That attained, there is no more to be gained. This is not every man's gift, still rarer is it every woman's. To have it a man must live much with his horse-know when he is good-humoured, when angry, when his amour propre-and has he not amour propre ?-is flattered, and when his pride is wounded. I have known a horse "shut up" from an ungerrerous stroke of the whip, and refuse to go on. He must know when there is something wrong with his horse-when some passing derangement of health has occurred, or some inconvenience of a severe bit or over-tight girth has chafed

him.

What misery have I not seen a horse suffer, and what imputations on his temper have I not heard pronounced, because his bit had got beneath his tongue, or a nail in the pad of his saddle punctured his back?

I have seen a horse lie down and roll over to rid himself of the torture of a tight girth; and many a horse has been made a rearer by a coarse bad hand and a hasty temper. Nothing, however, more palpably displays the popular ignorance about the horse than the descriptions we read in our novels of horses and horsemanship. It would seem as if the writers not merely never rode themselves, but never had a friend or acquaintance who did ride.

People are fond of citing the old maid's husband as the type of all that is wildly imaginary and unreal; for my own part, I think I know of another type far nearer to everything that is out of nature. It is the horse that we find in Fiction!

Of all the creatures maligned, ridiculed, and calumniated of men, I do not believe that there exists anything to compare with this unlucky animal. His mad freaks, his wild exploits, his recklessness, his fury, his ungovernable passion, are stock themes, though, to be sure, they are occasionally balanced by his fidelity, his fondness, his love, and his sagacity. He is made to do the most harebrained of actions at one time, and at another he is represented as calculating the cost of an exploit with the skill of an actuary and the craft of an Old Bailey lawyer. He can go for days and nights unceasingly, and at full speed, and never evinces weariness till the last moment, when he drops down suddenly dead. He has that general acquaintance with the characters of the tale, that he is able to show his sympathy with the heroine, and his detestation of the wretch that persecutes her. If he never wants food, he is always ready to

accept the most incongruous rations from the hands of his master or mistress; and by his general state of preparedness, he suggests a secret suspicion in the reader's mind, that he knows how to saddle and bridle, and even shoe himself. Whyte Melville certainly understands a horse, and writes of him like a man who does so. Equally, too, Mr Surtees, the author of Soapy Sponge,' and other works of that order; he hits off the salient points of each particular style of horse in a way that no mere conventional knowledge could supply. You see that the man has ridden; but the majority of fictionwriters display the sort of ignorance that would set a group of stableboys in a convulsion of laughter. The fact is, the author is not usually a horseman, or rather the horseman is not usually a writer. Your man of letters may bestride his stout fourteen-hand cob, and jog over the Downs at Brighton, or perhaps may steal along Rotten Row on a daisycutting canterer with a good character not to "shy;" but to mount a strong-boned, square-jointed three-quarter bred, with a light head and a powerful quarter, fully equal to fourteen stone, and fast in any country, and do him credit over a five-and-forty minutes "fast thing," you'll not hear of him at the Garrick, take my word for it. You'll find some gardeners, a stray cricketer, now and then a very tolerable boating man, amongst the writers; but there is a combination of qualities in the rider—I mean here the real horseman-not akin to the daily life and habits of the penman. Let no one quote Byron to me--he was a downright bad rider; he rode mere hacks, highly trained, and he rode them without judgment, and ill. Scott sauntered about on a Highland pony and never pretended to ride. I forbear to talk of my contemporaries; but what a list of incapables could I give if I only threw off my reserve!