scenery and the quaint idiomatic conversation
of the coachman: a jovial, genial gentleman,
who bears the whole of the expense of the
affair.  We can be carried into Berks under
the auspices of a noble lord, or under those
of his partner, that well-known sporting
personage, Mr. Cherubim. (Ah, Cherubim, how
long is it since you and I rode on a drag
together for a trip from Oxford to Henley and
Maidenhead, and how many of that pleasant
company have "gone under" since that time!)
Or, we can go to Brighton by the coach, the
starting of which gave life to the present
revival movement. That sounds pleasantest—
a drive to Brighton, a swim at Brill's, a little
dinner at the Albion, and home by the evening
train. We decide for Brighton.

The Brighton coach starts from the Ship at
Charing Cross punctually at eleven. When
we arrive there, a few minutes before the time,
a little crowd has already collected, which eyes
the vehicle, the team, and the intending
passengers, with curiosity mingled with admiration.
There are boys with newspapers, and
children with cigar-lights; but what has
become of the man with the net of lemons, the
man with the many-bladed knife which he
was always proving on his tattered leather
glove, and the man with a silver watch-guard
extended between the forefingers of his hands,
who always used to haunt the White Horse
Cellar and the Ship, on the departure of
the coaches? While we are looking at the
coach, which is beautifully built and hung,
with an under carriage singularly light for
its strength, and is coloured dark blue with
red wheels, the honorary secretary introduces
himself to us, and from him—bright,
active, and intelligent—we learn some
particulars of the business arrangements of the
concern.

There are, it seems, five proprietors by whom
the coach is horsed: one of them, who is
perhaps the finest whip in England,
providing the teams for two stages. The scheme
was entered on as a hobby by these gentlemen,
and as such it continues; but our
informant expects that this year the balance sheet
will show that the returns equal the expenses;
not the wear and tear of the horses, of course,
for, as we shall see, nearly all the teams are
composed of valuable horses; but the corn-
chandler's bill, the stabling and the wages of
the professional coachman and guard. The
professional coachman? Oh yes, there is
always a professional coachman, ready to take
the ribbons in case all the gentlemen should
lie engaged, and one of the strictest rules is
that no amateur—the proprietors have been
driving all their lives and can scarcely be
regarded as amateurs—shall on any pretext be
allowed to have anything to do with the
horses. " I want to learn to drive, and I'm
thinking of taking some shares in your couch!"
said a young gentleman last summer. " When
you have learned to drive, it will be time enough
to think whether we will allow you to take
any shares," was the reply. Our professional,
even when not driving, rarely misses a journey;
he is heart and soul in the concern, and takes
as much pride and interest in it as any of us.
Here he is; let me introduce Mr. Tedder.
(There is no reason why Alfred Tedder's name
should not appear here. He was for many
years a first-class coachman on the Oxford
road, and, as we are assured, has the good
word of every one who knows him.) Tedder
will not drive to-day, however. This is rather
a gala-day; three out of the five proprietors
are coming down, and the first stage will be
driven by the Colonel.

The busy hands are slipping over Big Ben's
great face, the crowd of bystanding idlers is
increased, the helpers are ready at the horses'
heads, and there are other signs of departure.
Two big sacks, one of them labelled as containung
ice, are slung up beneath the back seat, two
ladies are inside, and the outside passengers
are enjoined to take their places. Two of the
proprietors—brothers, portly, pleasant, jovial
gentlemen, in figure and hearty geniality
recalling the Cheeryble brothers—get up behind,
where they are joined by Tedder and the guard.
To us is allotted the honour of the box-seat.
The others climb to their seats, then the Colonel
swings himself up beside us, the helpers loose
their hold on the horses, the horn sounds, and
we are off. Whitehall is pretty full, Parliament-
street is thronged, and there is a crowd
on Westminster-bridge; but the Colonel, who
is a slight, slim, wiry man of middle age, with
a clear blue eye, which shows you at once
that he could never be surprised or taken
aback, heeds not such obstacles. With his
whip in the socket, he quietly tools his team of
four handsome brown horses along, talking to
us that airiest and pleasantest gossip, that
chit-chat which is so light and yet so difficult
to sustain, which none but accomplished men of
the world manage to rattle on with. Now,
amidst stares of the populace and hat touches
from all the omnibus drivers, we bowl along
through that strange region between West-
minster and Kennington Park, region of
marine-store shops, fried-fish vendors, and
cheap photographic artists. Elderly merchants
and City men, who can afford to take things
easily, are driving townward in their mail
phaeton. On the box of one of the omnibuses
we meet a well-known theatrical manager, deep
in his newspaper; and at Kennington-gate
cheery greetings are exchanged between several
of our party and a weather-stained veteran,
who was for many years a four-horse whip,
but who, under pressure of circumstances, has
descended to a 'bus. At Kennington-gate,
did we say? That stronghold of tolls has
been swept away, long since, and the actual
turnpike-gate, over which there were so many
hard fights on Derby days, may be seen close
by Brixton-hill, having been bought by an
omnibus proprietor, and converted into part of
the fence for his property.

Now, through Streatham, where the new
villas and the old brick houses, standing back
from the road in their trim gardens, have an