with a couple of arm-chairs and a standing
desk, and are left to yourself. There
is not much to amuse your solitude, unless
you care to look at the oil-painting hanging
over the mantelpiece, which represents
a stamp of horse now almost extinct, the
hackney. No, my friend, not the hack at
all; the hack, as you understand it, means
the Park and the Row, amble and dance,
curvet and prance, showy and pretty. The
hackney meant a strong roadster, of great
bone and sinew, with a long, lean head,
deep neck, round barrel, deep chest, low
back, short forehand, big broad feet, game
to go his five-and-thirty miles almost without
a break, in one round, strong, steady,
ground-covering trot. There he stands in
the picture, with his short bang-tail, which
would call forth a roar of derision now-a-
days; but if Mr. Demijohn chose, he could
tell you that if such a stamp of animal were
procurable it would be almost invaluable.

The muttered conversation which has
been going on suddenly finishes, and from
a window you observe Mr. Demijohn's
customer jump into the mail-phaeton
which awaits him, and drive rapidly off.
Then you are fetched into the yard, and
into Mr. Demijohn's presence. The first
thing that strikes you is the impossibility
of divining what might be Mr. Demijohn's
business from his outward appearance. He
is a short, round-shouldered man, wearing
a palpable wig, and dressed in a dark
frock-coat and dark grey trousers. He
might be a lawyer or a doctor; there is a
quiet, earnest look in his face, and he
speaks in a subdued, low voice; he is a
little deaf, and ill-natured people say that
when pressed home on certain points, to
which he does not wish to give an answer,
he is very deaf indeed; but his manner is
mild and courteous, and there is not the
slightest trace of the stable about him. A
brougham horse? Yes, he thinks he can
suit you; he has such an animal, a bright
bay with black points, standing sixteen
hands three, strong, and with fine action.
He says a few words to a subordinate, and
presently the bright bay emerges from the
stable, with an ostler struggling at his
head; the coachman in undress takes up a
whip, and the horse is trotted up and down
the length of the yard once or twice, finally
being placed in an advantageous position
against the wall. This is called "giving a
show," and during the operation Mr. Demijohn
looks on as though he had not the
smallest interest in the transaction. To
the bay succeeds a dark brown, an iron-
grey, or, if your brougham be a light and
single one, Mr. Demijohn thinks that that
silver roan would be about the stamp of
animal for it, and would look uncommonly
well in a plain black harness. The price?
Well, the price varies from one hundred
and fifty to two hundred and fifty guineas.
This sounds high; but you must recollect
that in London we pay for name, and
though other men make quite as good
coats as Mr. Bethesda, and quite as good
hats as Mr. Mowbray, if we choose to
employ those fashionable tradesmen, we
must pay for it. The price is not so
extravagant when all things are considered.
As much capital, skill, and energy are
embarked in Mr. Demijohn's business as in
any other trade carried on in this great
commercial country. He has his agents
constantly travelling through the breeding
districts, with keen eyes for every good
four-year-old to be laid hands on. Farmers
and breeders ask a high price for their
cattle, and Mr. Demijohn, knowing his
business, will make no objection to these
prices, being fully aware that for extraordinary
beauty and action he, with his
reputation, can demand and obtain almost
any price in the London market.

If you want a riding-horse or hunter, Mr.
Demijohn will send you up to his other
establishment, his "farm," as he calls it,
where these animals are kept. He introduces
you to his partner, Mr. Spurrier,
who looks after that department. No doubt
about Mr. Spurrier's horsiness! That is
shown in his tight trousers and cut-away
coat, his horse-shoe pin, even in his breezy
whiskers, fresh complexion, and hard hat.
Up you jump into the mail-phaeton, to
which a pair of horses has been harnessed
while you have been talking, and away you
go like the wind, Mr. Spurrier driving
in apparently the most reckless, but really
the most careful manner. Twenty minutes
after starting you will arrive at one of
those pretty little suburban farms which
are peculiar to the north and north-west
side of London, varying from fifty to one
hundred acres of well-manured, gravelly
soil, each with its little picturesque buildings,
consisting of small, honeysuckle and
rose-entwined brick houses, with pantile-
roofs and lattice-windows, and hard by a
hay-stack, three times the size of the house.
The well-known noise of Mr. Spurrier's
horses' hoofs has been heard in advance,
and by the time you have descended from
the vehicle, the whole force of the
establishment, with the stud-groom at its