the thousand spongy pitfalls spread in his course. "Tis a queer line,' Tom thinks, for the mastiff to take, gorged with mutton, as he must 'be, and travelling up to his hocks in mire at every stride.' Still, it could be nothing else; for the curlew, the snipe, and the peewit were the only living animals that frequented that ground; and Duster, riotous as he was, never yet had transgressed so far as to speak feather if not the mastiff, it must be some C wishtness' making a fool of him and his dogs over the treacherous ground.

upon

Still the cry forged ahead merrily, and Tom followed as he best could over the dreary waste, now floundering up to his knees in the mire, and now bounding with a light foot over the sound heather, the prospect of the five-pound note still animating his hope and cheering him in the chase. But not till he reached the confines of Trowlsworthy Warren did the light of day enable him to make out the track of the beast he had been so long and so laboriously pursuing. It was no dog nor wishtness after all; but, as Tom told the tale at Buckbury on the following day, ""'Twas nort else but a stinking fitch; he'd a come all that var to go a rabbiting tu thickky warren, and I reckon they rabbits will ha' but a coose time o't, zo long as thik ' varmint bid'th among 'em.'

But how about the mastiff, Tom?' inquired the Doctor, who had been commissioned by his friend Cruwys to pay Tom for his labour, and employ him to settle with the Holne farmer for the loss of his sheep. You don't appear to have come across his line at all.' 'No, yeur honour, 'twas a fule's arrant, as yeu may zay; vor us 'never glimps'd un at a'; and ef I was to die, I can't tell what's come ov un.'

Then I can enlighten you, Tom, on that point: we had 'scarcely turned our backs above ten minutes on Holne Chase, and were descending the hill towards Brook, when up came the dog, apparently delighted at having overtaken us, and exhibiting none of 'that hang-dog look evinced by the others; but, on the contrary, carrying his tail high, as if he had been doing a good thing.'

Well, zur, 'tis a puppy, isn't it, and didn't know no other?' said the moorman, with an expression of disappointment he could ill disguise; but there, he's a larnt his lesson now, and, like enow, will repate it fust chance; they may zo well hang un, I zim, 't wance.'.

No, Tom, not quite that; he will still be useful in harness, and depend upon it will never be allowed to kill his mutton in that way again. But here's a five-pound note Mr. Cruwys left, with this injunction, that you should satisfy the farmer for the damage done and put the remainder into your own pocket.'

Tom's bright blue eye, if awhile dimmed by the labour of the night, so long and so utterly fruitless, absolutely sparkled with delight (for the man lived by the sweat of his brow, and was poor and needy a church-mouse) when Host, as he handed him the money, kindly added, 'There ought to be a good balance in your favour, too, for I do not believe that more than two of the sheep could ' have been killed in so short a time, and ten shillings each would be

as

' quite as much, if not more, than their market value. You'll there'fore net for the night's work a good four pounds—a larger sum than 'you'd earn by killing foxes in so many months. And now, Tom, one word of advice: change your game, save the foxes instead of 'killing them; you've served one set of masters, the churchwardens, long and laboriously, and with what profit you best know, namely, ' for hard pay and harder fare.'

८

< Ees, ees, fai'! that's true enow,' interrupted the moorman; "but 'yeur honour forgets the sport, and that's the stuff that sweet'ns the tay and butters the bread; and zo long as I've a got that, it mak'th 'but little odds how hard the crust may be. 'Tis a capical relish, 'I'll assure ee, vor any fare, is a bit o' sport over Dartimoor.'

6 No doubt of that, Tom; but the question is, Can't you earn 'better wages, put a good coat on your back, live on better fare, and 'withal enjoy hunting to your heart's content? I think you could, and I'll tell you how. Give up fox-killing, and I am quite sure 'the Squire and his friends would find you employment all round the year; in summer to look after the litters; in winter to bring up the terriers and help the hounds. Give it a trial, man; and, my ' word for it, you'll never regret the change.'

Yeur honour spak'th fair,' replied the moorman thoughtfully; but how be I to kip up wi' thay long-legged vox-hounds if I han't a got a hoss to ride? They'm in King's Wood one minute, and the next over Coryndon Ball or the Western Bickon, and, like enow, 'to ground in Stofor Cleaves; and then where be I and the tarriers ( tu wi'out a hoss?'

Well, there shall be no difficulty on that score. I'll give you a horse, Tom, a thoroughbred un, too, out of my own stable; and, 'what's more, I'll guarantee an allowance for hay and corn and your ' own labour into the bargain: so, what say you now?'

Any prudent man would have looked twice at his money before he would have given a ten-pound note for the pick of Host's stable, and • certainly the one he purposed drafting for Tom's use would have been a sorry purchase at a pound a leg, garnished as the garran was all round with curbs, spavins, windgalls, and the Devonshire arms. Still the gift of a horse that could carry the Doctor, and he a noted hard rider to hounds, sounded like a royal gift to Tom's ears, and, for the moment, he seemed to be overpowered by the generosity of the offer. The Doctor, too, made sure he had won over his man, and, by thus converting an inveterate enemy into a useful ally, already anticipated the credit he should gain from the Squire and his friends for so signal a service. With Tom disarmed, the extermination of the wild forest fox, than which no wilder nor gamer animal exists, would no longer be the subject of alarm; and the misery of a blank day on the moor would then become, as he hoped, a tale of the past, never again to be repeated.

But it was a castle in the air, this hope of the Doctor's, an imaginary structure without a foundation, as he speedily discovered on hearing Tom's uncertain, if not evasive, answer.

Thank ee, zur, sure-ly; there's nort I should like zo well as to ' ride a vox-hunting wi' Squire's hounds; but there, what be I tu du 'wi' Duster and Dainty? My old mistiss call'th 'em her beauties, ' and widn't part wi' thay nit vor goold; but I'll ax her, and zee what ' her zaith, and then let yeur honour know.'

It is thus ever when a man means to be shifty; he suddenly remembers that he is bound to consult his wife, and that his own choice must be guided, if not governed, by her decision. A locus penitentia is thus provided in the background-a bolting-hole by which, when caught in a difficulty, he can escape under cover of his wife's petticoat. It is marvellous what shirks men become under the spell of that convenient and all-potent garb.

Nor did Tom's manliness of character save him from this general weakness; for it was too evident, by his evasive answer, that the sacrifice of Duster and Dainty was one which no money would tempt him to submit to, and that the renouncement of his vulpecidal habits was, for the present, as far off as ever.

THE ROAD IN 1875.

It seems but yesterday that it was our mission to give a description of the revival of coaching in these later days, and lay the doings of the road before many who probably believed at one time that the swinging trot of four good horses, the sound of the yard of tin, and the rattle of the pole-chains would be heard no more. However, 'Men may come and men may go, but time rolls on for ever;' and since then not only have men come and gone in a coaching sense, but two years have rolled away, and it is meet that we lay before our readers the changes that have taken place in them. Those changes, happily, have been all towards the interest of coaching, save in a few instances, as we shall presently have to relate, where good men and true have passed into that strange land beyond the border to which we all are hastening. In the provinces, as around London, the sport seems taking root; and whether we look to the north, south, or west, we hear of coaches being put on the road where there is the slightest chance of commanding a load, though we fear that all the wise men must have migrated from the east, where there is no sound of anything doing on the road. This is as it should be, for there is no summer sport more deserving public attention than coaching, looked at merely as a sport. Like the chase, it can be enjoyed by all; there is no distinction of class; and we will undertake to say that Mr. Smith, wanting a day's outing and a rest from his office-stool or from behind his counter, having booked the boxseat, will receive as much courtesy and consideration on the road as Lord Scattercash himself-nay, we know, from facts which have fallen under our immediate notice, that coaching has been the means of a lasting feeling of regard and mutual esteem having arisen between

persons whose lot in life had been cast in a widely different sphere. There are natural causes which easily explain this: first, no one going through the exhilarating country air, on a fine day in spring or summer, is inclined to be sullen or morose, but some of the lightness, vivacity, and determination to enjoy the pleasure of the hour, which are said to be so much more the characteristics of our neighbours across the Channel than ourselves, are pretty well sure to be imparted to them. Business is, as a rule, left behind for the day; there is no rattle and screaming of engines to stop conversation, and places of beauty or interest that are passed naturally lead up to it. Even should the frost of English demeanour not be thawed by the outward drive -though a mile or two generally achieves it-there is the luncheon, which must perforce do something to make us sociable; and men who have broken bread and eaten salt together can scarcely return in dignified silence. Above all, there is the freedom of the thing. You know nothing of each other's faults and failings; each being pleased, generally does his or her best to please for the hour (knowing that the chances are greatly against your ever meeting or even seeing your fellow-passenger again) without after-thought or constraint. Another thing is its perfect harmlessness and freedom from every sort of vice and gambling; for even should you indulge in 'the road game,' so well described by Birch Reynardson in his charming volume of reminiscences, it can scarcely lead to squandering an estate or robbing a till. No; commend us to the road for as pure an enjoyment as can well be found: it is one which, as we said above, all can enjoy with advantage to themselves, and know that it will cause no after-pang. Even the humanitarian, who sits down with complacency to his venison, his grouse, or his salmon, and is yet prepared to denounce the deer-stalker, shooter, or fisherman from whose skill his feast has been derived, cannot lift up his voice against it. Nothing is frightened, nothing killed, and the horses even only get healthy exercise in working for our amusement. By-the-way, one word about horses: many of those who interest themselves in discussing the present deficiency attribute it to the want of a market for horses not quite first class, at remunerative prices. Where, let us ask, is such a market likely to be found as in coaches? People who drive now give a rattling price for anything that can go the pace and is fairly good-looking, as we know from experience; and a horse which is not just grand enough for Park work, or too much troubled with the slows for a hunter, may make a first-rate coach-horse. What 'Nimrod' wrote years ago holds good now: To be a hunter, a horse must have length of shoulder, length 'of frame, peculiarly placed hinder-legs, and a well-bitted mouth; whereas, without any of these qualities, he may make an excellent 'coach-horse.' We may add that the lofty action which looks so grand in the Ladies' Mile, and for which so much money is now demanded, is by no means desirable in coach work, where it would knock their legs to pieces in a very short time. Hence, when we know that this year several coach-horses have touched close upon

three figures, we do not draw our bow at a venture in saying that the development of coaching must open a favourable market to horsebreeders for those of their stock not exactly suited for the chase or the Park.

But our preliminary stage having been a pretty long one, we must get back to the road, and note it as a favourable sign that many were inclined to commence the season this year even earlier than the historical 1st of May. Amongst these was the oldest coach now on the road, the Tunbridge Wells, which was started in 1867 between Beckenham and Sevenoaks, and the next year extended to Hatchett's and Tunbridge Wells, under its present name, with, we fancy, Lord Bective, then Lord Kenlis, and Lieutenant-Colonel Chaplin as partners; the Pawleys horsing it from Sevenoaks to the Wells, as they have done until the present season. Colonel Chaplin gave place to Colonel Hathorn about 1869. In 1872 Mr. Charles Hoare, the former proprietor, retired from this road, the Earl of Bective and Colonel Hathorn taking the command, with Selby as coachman, which management was continued until the present season, when Lieutenant-Colonel Chaplin mounted the bench in the place of Colonel Hathorn, who retired. The Master of the Blankney has been most indefatigable in driving, whenever time permitted, since he has had the command, and promises to be as good on the box as across country, which is saying not a little. They have a new coach this year, and are also using one that was built a couple of years ago, both painted white, with red under-carriage, and with a white horse on the panels, added, we fancy, lately, and which is scarcely an improvement. It was altered from the old mail-coach colour about 1870. Both coaches are worked every day, as they have a clean one to return with. There is certainly nothing which looks neater on the road than the Tunbridge Wells; and, whether it is from their colour or some other cause, these coaches strike us as being lighter than many that are now going-perhaps from not having one of those horrible affairs for carrying passengers on the roof and hence smaller horses show to more advantage in them; and, contrary to the opinion of the late Mr. Chandos Pole, who liked big ones for the London ground, most now use smallish horses for town work. The teams of the Tunbridge Wells are one of the things people talk about. There is a team of two browns, a bay, and a roan that are as neat as anything possibly can be, and a nice, sharp lot to drive; while another, of bays and chestnuts, is as good. In the former lot it does not require the eye of a connoisseur to see that the brown leader has had other avocations before coming on the road, as he has entirely the cut of a hunter about him. On the stage from Green Gate Green to Sevenoaks there is a very neat lot, a black and bay at wheel, both powerful horses, and a chestnut and bay before them, that would take a lot of beating anywhere; and the lot that run from Tunbridge to Tunbridge Wells, four bays, are as coaching a looking lot of horses as we ever ran our eye over. They must have something that can both pull a coach up a