air of health and comfort not unmixed with
Dissent; where troops of young ladies, in
regimental order, cast demure glances at us as we
hurry by, and where the air rings with the
overture to Semiramide and Czerny's exercises,
which come pealing through the windows of
the innumerable "seminaries" in the
neighbourhood. Within the three-quarters of an
hour we have done our first stage, and arrive
at Croydon, where the "change" is awaiting
us. The new team, having a longer and
a heavier stage to get through, are of a
different stamp—two roans, model coach-
horses, and two bays. Now, we pass our first
toll-bar, Foxley Hatch—pass it, too,
unnoticed; for the novelty of the coach's appearance
has worn off, and the tollman, secure of
his money, does not trouble himself to rise
from his seat. Here we come into close
proximity with our rival, the rail, dropping down
upon him just at what he, in his ridiculous
language, calls Caterham Junction, and
running parallel with him along that road which
all Brighton travellers know so well, where the
prettiest miniature farm lies between the railway
and the road, and, in the distance, the
white chalk quarry gleams in the green face of
the hill. Just before arriving at Redhill, at
one o'clock, the Hon. Sec., leaning over, tells
us that the next stage is horsed by the squire's
brother, and will probably be driven by the
squire himself. The smile with which the
intelligence is received, is false; the ardour with
which the remarkable exclamation, " Oh,
indeed?" is uttered is assumed; for, truth to
tell, we have never heard of the squire, and
have not the remotest idea who he is.

Not long are we left in doubt. The four
magnificently matched grey horses—the only
observable difference in them being that the leaders
are a trifle lighter and more "peacocky" than
the wheelers—are no sooner "to," than the
stouter of the Cheeryble brothers presents
himself, gives the team a rapid but apparently
satisfactory look over, and then, with singular
agility for such a heavily-built man, swings
himself to the box. Not much doubt that the
compliment paid to him of being the best
whip in England is well deserved! One
glance, like the celebrated "one trial" of
the advertisement, will "prove the fact."
Mark the way in which he holds the ribbons,
his left hand well down on his thigh; the ease
with which he slips into its proper place the
rein which the dancing near leader had switched
under its tail; the knowledge which points out
the exact place where the break should be
applied, and the quickness with which he
works it. The Colonel had been anecdotical,
not to say loquacious; the squire, though
perfectly courteous, is not particularly communicative.
He is a tall man, and he stands on
the splashboard, backed up by, rather than
sitting on, his box; so that conversation is more
difficult, his mouth being, as it were, out of
earshot. But it is evident that he does not
think talking business-like, and contents
himself with polite replies to leading questions,
and a perpetual refrain of sotto voce
encouragement to the team, each member of which
is addressed by name. So on, cheerily, up the
steep red hill, and round the corner by the
boys' school, where the lads in the playground
give us a shrill shout of welcome, down the
descent, and, at a hard gallop, over the glorious
breezy Eaiiswood Common, so often looked at
with longing eyes from the railway, and now
visited at last! Far away, now, from
omnibuses, theatrical managers, and ladies' schools.
"Toot-toot!" Give them a taste of your
horn, guard, and let them know we're coming.
Pull off to your near side, Taylor, with your
enormous cumbersome furniture-van, the two
men in the paper caps and the green aprons
sitting here, as in London, ever on the
tailboard! Run to your leader's head, carter,
for he does" not like our looks, and is beginning
to potter and shy, and will wheel round and
have you all in the ditch in an instant, if you
don't look out! Morning, farmer! Up goes
the elbow of the good old boy's whip-hand in
true professional salutation. Cheerily on, past
haymakers, leaning on scythes and rakes, and
gazing at us with hand-shaded eyes; past
brown-skinned tramps, male and female, all
sitting with their backs turned to the road, and
their feet in the ditch in front of them, and
who do not take the trouble to look round at
us; past solitary anglers, seen afar off in
distant windings of gleaming streams; past
lovely ladies playing croquet on smooth lawns,
and attended upon by gallant gentlemen,
among whom the village curate is conspicuous,
until the squire drops his left hand still lower,
and brings us up, " all standing," at Lowfield
Heath, where luncheon is awaiting us. And
such a luncheon! arranged, not on the Mugby
Junction system, but on the old-fashioned inn
principle. Large smoking joint of prime roast
beef, delicious potatoes, succulent peas,
strawberries, and cheese, for two shillings! We
suspect the strawberries were part of the " gala
day;" we are certain something else was. For
the placards hung about the room announced
that in addition to the joint we were entitled
to "half-a-pint of draught ale;" but we did
not have draught ale; we were proffered
refreshment from a fat bottle with a tinfoil
cravat, and we felt, with Mr. Tennyson, that,
on such an occasion,

Our drooping memory should not shun
The foaming grape of Eastern France.

So we took it. And the old lady who had been
our inside passenger was of one mind with us
and Mr. Tennyson. She tried the draught ale,
and did not like it, and, beckoning to our
friend, Mr. Tedder, who was apparently the
only person in whom she believed, asked if she
could not have some of "that" —designating
the champagne-bottle. She was told that
she could have some of it, and she did have
some of it, and drank it, and then emulated
the behaviour of Oliver Twist in asking for
more. We were told that they often had old
ladies as inside passengers by the coach. If all