popular ballad of the time--while through
all, at every turn and every corner, one huge fellow, without legs, rode
upon an ass, his wide chest ornamented by a picture of himself, and a
paragraph setting forth his infirmities. He, with a voice deeper than
a bassoon, bellowed forth his prayer for alms, and seemed to monopolise
far more than his proportion of charity, doubtless owing to the more
artistic development to which he had brought his profession.

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"De prayers of de holy Joseph be an yez, and relieve de maimed; de
prayers and blessins of all de Saints on dem that assists de suffering!"
And there were pilgrims, some with heads venerable enough for the
canvass of an old master, with flowing beards, and relics hung round
their necks, objects of worship which failed not to create sentiments of
devotion in the passers-by. But among these many sights and sounds, each
calculated to appeal to different classes and ages of the motley mass,
one object appeared to engross a more than ordinary share of attention;
and although certainly not of a nature to draw marked notice elsewhere,
was here sufficiently strange and uncommon to become actually a
spectacle. This was neither more nor less than an English groom, who,
mounted upon a thorough-bred horse, led another by the bridle, and
slowly paraded backwards and forwards, in attendance on his master.

"Them's the iligant bastes, Darby," said one of the bystanders, as the
horses moved past. "A finer pair than that I never seen."

"They're beauties, and no denying it," said the other; "and they've
skins like a looking-glass."

"Arrah, botheration t' yez! what are ye saying about their skins?" cried
a third, whose dress and manner betokened one of the jank of a small
farmer. "'Tis the breeding that's in 'em; that's the raal beauty. Only
look at their pasterns; and see how fine they run off over the quarter."

"Which is the best now, Phil?" said another, addressing the last speaker
with a tone of some deference.

"The grey horse is worth two of the dark chesnut," replied Phil
oracularly.

"Is he, then!" cried two or three in a breath. "Why is that, Phil?"

"Can't you perceive the signs of blood about the ears? They're long, and
coming to a point--"

"You're wrong this time, my friend," said a sharp voice, with an accent
which in Ireland would be called English. "You may be an excellent
judge of an ass, but the horse you speak of, as the best, is not wo