operating upon is known by the slang term of "the Adam," an aged individual of some blood, but sadly showing the marks of age. Thus, for instance, his teeth will slant outward at a most acute angle-a well-known sign of equine senility. He will have deep depressions over the eyes, which also give a very ancient appearance; and finally, he will show white hairs all over his coat. To get rid of these signs of going down the hill the coper has his respective dodges. By means of a file he speedily reduces the teeth to the length of those of a five-year-old, and by a clever process called Bishopping' " he manages to imitate the dark marks or cavities which are to be found on the biting edges of all young horses' teeth. This is done by means of a hot iron, which burns out a cavity in the tooth, which, to the uninitiated or the casual observer, looks very like the real thing. The white hairs are reduced to the prevailing colour of the coat by using a hairdye. Do not old bachelors attempt to hide their hoary locks in a similar manner, and sometimes with the same design of taking in some eligible fair one? The third process of "gypping," or "puffing the glims," as it is termed, is done in this manner :-The loose skin which falls in over the aged horse's eye, is punctured; the coper then applies his lips to the place, and blows into the cavity; the punctures close, and the depression is obliterated, and in its place a smooth brow is seen. The effect in restoring the youthful looks of an aged horse is very remarkable—as striking, in fact, as the filling up of a nutcracker jaw by the introduction of a set of false teeth.

All these attempts to renew the old Adam, however, are of a very transitory nature. The purchaser, proud of his animal, which he flatters himself he has bought at a very reasonable rate, puts him into his stable over night, and by the time he has been well groomed in the morning, a dozen winters appear to have passed over his head.

The

truth is out, and the mortified dupe is only too glad to get rid of his bargain at any sacrifice. The dealer has decamped, of course, and his warranty as to age, &c., is worth the paper it is written upon, and no more; but he has left a confederate, who manages to buy back again the "Adam," which is led forth to some distant horse-fair to undergo a similar process of being restored to youth, and of being palmed off as a horse in the very prime of life.

There is another class of unsound horse which copers are much in the habit of "working with," as it is termed. Many fine-looking

horses are afflicted with a disease of the vertebral column, which is not apparent as long as they are run up and down the yard by the groom, but which immediately exhibits itself upon the animal's being mounted. This horse is termed the "Bobby," and more perhaps is done by the copers with this animal than with any other. He generally has splendid action when being trotted up and down the yard, and he is generally gingered beforehand to give him fire and spirit; in fact, no animal is more likely to take in a purchaser who goes upon mere appearances. The knowing ones would pinch him up and down the spine until the sore place was discovered; but the copers know very well that the knowing ones are not likely to buy of them, and if they discover the unsoundness by chance, a "tip" easily buys their silence respecting it.

The

There is still another class of animal with which the horse-coper tempts flats, and this is what is termed the "knock," or lame horse, an animal afflicted with shoulder lameness. "coper" is no believer in the saying that "two wrongs do not make a right," in appearances at least, for he proceeds to cure the lameness of one leg by producing a corresponding lameness in the sound one. This he does by taking off the shoe, and inserting a bean between it and the foot, and nailing it on again. The horse now appears to go all right, in consequence of the lameness being equal in each leg. This trick, however, is good for only a very short time, but generally long enough to suit the coper's purpose, who, immediately on selling the doctored animal, decamps with all speed from the neighbourhood, and when wanting, is not, of course, to be found.

There is some one left, however, to pick up the discarded animal, which is sure to be sold by the gull for an old song, and then the confederate, with his "property," as actors would say, is off to join the coper in some distant scene of operation. Thus the game is carried on from year to year, and we question whether the coper with a string of screws doesn't make a better bag than the honest dealer.

The moral to be drawn, after all, from our little story is, never to delude yourself with the idea that you can buy an Arab off a cab-stand; in other words, that you can, without any knowledge, pick up a great bargain either at a fair or at a London horserepository. If you attempt it, the chances are that you are only taking a bait most cunningly placed in your way by a horse-coper, who laughs at you as a greenhorn whilst he is fleecing you of your cash. A. W.

TWO LIVES IN ONE.

I AM old now. My life has been as placid and uneventful as I could have wished; but there is one memory I possess, known to but few, which my family wish me to put before the world. In my old age I learn to submit to younger judgments, even as in my youth I submitted to my elders. In some cases extremes meet. I ask attention to my story only because it is true. Whether it is strange or not, I hardly know it is strange enough to

me.

More than fifty years ago my brother Stephen and I lived together in a village about ten miles south of London, where he was in practice as a surgeon. Stephen was thirty-two, I eighteen. We had no relations, but a sister, five or six years older than myself, and well married in London. Stephen was a solitary and studious man, living somewhat apart from his neighbours, and standing almost in a fatherly position towards me. Through the years we had lived together no one had thought of his marrying. Thus it was when the events I have to tell began. The house next to ours was taken by a Mr. Cameron, a feeble-looking man, rather past middle age, with one daughter, Marion by name. How shall I describe her, the most beautiful creature I ever saw? She was perhaps twenty years old; I never knew precisely. A tall, slight form, fair complexion, dark chestnut eyes and hair, and an expression more like that of an angel than a human being. Though I was much struck with her appearance, Stephen did not seem to notice it; and we might have remained unacquainted with them for ever, but that he was required to help Mr. Cameron over an awkward stile opposite our house. Acquaintance once made, they soon grew familiar; for they had two feelings in common, a love of tobacco and Swedenborgianism. Many a summer evening did they pass, smoking the one and talking the other, Marion sometimes joining in, for she generally walked with them, while my chest, which was weak at that time, kept me at home. One day they quitted Stephen at the gate, and as he entered the door I said to him,

"How lovely Marion is ! I am never tired of looking at her."

Mr.

I said no word to him about it, I knew better; but I saw with what dreadful doubts he was perplexed. Excitement might shorten Marion's life- such an excitement as a declaration of love from him might be of material injury; and even if it did not prove so, how could he condemn himself to the prolonged torture of seeing the life of a beloved wife ebb away day by day? Besides, he did not think she cared for him. I, who had watched her ceaselessly, knew that she loved him with her whole heart. He struggled with himself fiercely; but he won the fight. He left home for some weeks and returned, looking older and paler; but he had learned to mention her name without his voice quivering, and to touch her hand without holding his breath hard. She was pining away under the influence of his changed manner, and I dared not help my two darlings to be happy. An unexpected aid soon came. Cameron, who was in bad health when we first saw him, died suddenly. saw him, died suddenly. Poor Marion's grief was terrible to see. Her father was dead, Stephen, as she thought, estranged; and there was no one else in the world who cared whether she lived or died, except myself. I brought her home with me, and was with her hourly till Mr. Cameron's funeral. How we got through that time I hardly know. Then came the necessary inquiry into his affairs. He had died, not altogether poor, but in reduced circumstances, leaving Marion an annuity that would scarcely give her the luxuries her state of health required. And where was she to live, and what to do? Stephen was the sole executor, the one adviser to whom she could look. He took two days and nights to consider, and then offered her his hand and home. At first she could not believe that his offer arose from anything but pity and compassion; but when he had told her the story of the last few months, and called me to bear witness to it, a great light seemed to come into her eyes, and a wonderful glow of love, such as I had never seen, over her face. I left them to themselves that evening, till Stephen tapped at the door of my room and told me all—nothing, in fact, but what I knew long before. In their case there was little cause for delay. Trousseaux were not the important matters in my day that they are in my grandchildren's; and Marion was

It was only too true. She had some dreadful complaint aneurism, I think it was— which must carry her off in the flower of her days.

Stephen told me that he had consulted the most eminent doctors without getting any hope; and the emotion, rare enough in him, that he displayed, told me he loved Marion.

a month of her father's funeral.

The next few months were a happy time for all of us. Marion's health improved greatly. The worried, frightened look she used to wear left her face as she recovered from the depression caused by her constant anxiety about her father, and the loss of rest she suffered in attending upon him at night. It seemed as if

she was entirely recovering; and Stephen, if he did not lose his fears, at least was not constantly occupied with them. How happily we used to look forward to the future, for Stephen was beginning to save money; and how many were our day-dreams about professional eminence for him, and fashionable life in London, partly for Marion, but mostly for me. I have tried fashionable life in London since, but I never found it so happy as our days in that dear old Surrey village.

Well, our happy time did not last long. Marion caught a cough and cold as the winter came on, and was soon so ill as to be taken to London for advice. Stephen came back alone, with a weary, deathly-looking face. Marion had broken a small blood-vessel on the journey -not anything serious in itself, but ominous enough. They were to go at once to a warmer climate-not a day to be lost. Sorrowfully I packed up the necessary things, and went with Stephen to London the next day to say goodby to Marion, who had been forbidden to go home. The same afternoon they were on board a trading vessel bound to Leghorn. Luckily, Marion was a good sailor and well used to ships, for she had made more than one voyage to Madeira with her father. Much as I wished to go with them, and much as they wished it too, it was out of the question. Stephen had saved but little money, and could hardly see how he and Marion were to live, unless he could make himself a practice somewhere among the English abroad, and his taking me also was not to be thought of. I was to live for the present with my married sister. It was very sore to part with Stephen, with whom I had lived all my life; it was almost sorer still to part with Marion, who had been more than a sister to me ever since I saw her. Stephen and I were nearly overcome with emotion; but she was calm and silent, with an intent, wistful look about her lovely face that has haunted me all my life since. I can see it now when I shut my eyes, though it is fifty years ago. Need I say that I never saw her again?

I went to my sister's house, and began the fashionable life I used to wish for. It was not all that I pictured it, though it was pleasant enough to occupy me in the daytime; but at night I longed sadly for my darlings.

Stephen wrote letters full of hope, and talked of returning after spending two years in Italy. Marion, too, wrote favourably of herself, and my anxiety began to lessen. There was another reason for this at the same time-my late husband, the friend and partner of my sister's husband, was at that time beginning to pay his addresses to me; and the tender troubles of my own case made me careless of others. Sum

mer came round again; and one day as I was half wishing for my country home again, a letter arrived from Stephen. Marion's complaint was at a crisis, and a great change would take place, one way or the other, in a few days. I was to go home, put the place in order, and be ready to receive them. I did not know till afterwards that Marion had begged to be allowed to die at home, if the change were for the worse; if it had been for the better, there would have been no reason for her staying abroad.

Well, I went home, arranged everything, and waited for them. Three weeks passed (the usual interval) and no letter; a month, and I supposed they were travelling slowly to avoid | fatigue. On the day five weeks after I had received the last letter I was sitting alone, rather late in the evening, when a quick step sounded in the road outside, and Stephen came to the gate, opened it, entered the house, and sat down in silence. He was dressed as usual, and looked tired and travel-stained; but there was no sorrow in his face, and I felt sure that Marion must be safe. I asked him where she was. He said she was not with him.

"Have you left her in Italy?" I asked. "She is dead," he answered, without a shadow of emotion.

"How? Where?" I was beginning to question him, but he stopped me.

"Give me something to eat and drink," he said. "I have walked from London, and I want to sleep."

I brought him what he wanted. He bade me good night; and as I saw he wished it, I left him and went to bed, full of grief, but even more of wonder that he, who truly loved his wife if ever man did, could speak of her not a month after her death without his voice faltering or his face changing in the least. "Tomorrow will solve the question," I said to myself as, weary with crying, I felt sleep coming over me. But to-morrow did not solve the question. He told me as before, without emotion, what he wished me to know, and from that moment we spoke no more on the subject. In every respect but this he was my own Stephen of old,-as kind and thoughtful as ever, only altered by a rather absent and abstracted manner. I thought at first that he was stunned by his loss, and would realise it most painfully afterwards; but months passed on without a change. He used Marion's chair, or things of her work, or sat opposite to her drawings without seeming to notice them; indeed, it was as if she had dropped out of his life entirely, and left him as he was before he knew her. The only difference was, that he, naturally a man of sedentary habits, took a