through something he's afraid to jump over. He wears a cap and a dirty face under, as if he fell asleep in his chair last night, and forgot to wash when he got up in the morning. He has a detestably-stained pink, badly cleaned leathers, and highly wrinkled and lowly polished boots. He rides a seedy chesnut, with some good shape about him, but no flesh, no fore-legs, and ragged hips; and no wonder, for he does five days a fortnight. This is our snob: surely he supplies the NH with an account of our runs, for as he never takes part in them, perhaps he sees them the better-mind free from anxiety and his body from danger. They've found a fox in the gorse: a ring to the village again; and three gentlemen down out of the twelve who are with them in the three first fences: a slight check at the village, and a fine opportunity for the roadsters, for away we go at a rattling pace again, and run into the varmint on Lord Henley's lawn at Watford. Everybody was first some part of the way; but whether in the road, or over the grass, is so invidious a question that it is never put. The pony-carriage had the best of it along the road certainly; but it happened to be the shortest road, we having done the distance in about thirty-five minutes across the country. An excellent luncheon recompensed me for being nearly ridden over at the third fence it must have been accidental, as I have not an enemy in the world. My kindest regards to your mother; and pray take care of yourself at this dangerous season of the year. Burn this-for what would "snob" say if he saw it: and believe me, Yours very faithfully, Nov. 30, 1846. SCRIBBLE. P.S. We've a hard frost that looks like lasting.-S. “THE TIMES” CHANGE. ENGRAVED BY E. HACKER, FROM A PAINTING BY J. F. HERRING, SEN. "No more is heard the mellow winding horn, Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn: No spicey Change' now waits for the down mail, One solitary change alone is there That which has turned all hope into despair." THE DESERTED VILLAGE (NO. 2.) We have had some wonderful changes, certainly, within the last few years, though we really believe we have concentrated the cream and point of most of them in this present A 1, new-year number. In the first place, we have had some great changes in the constitution, consequent on some equally great changes in certain great men's minds, that, for thirdly, bring us on to some as striking alterations in other great men's ways. The point of all this everybody sees in a moment in the portrait of Lord George. Conservative principle turns to free-trade in full bloom; the chosen of the agriculturists, to the fancy-man of the manufacturers; and the accomplished turfite, to the straight-forward politician. On the other tack, the neatest and quickest of changes comes to no change at all; the pleasure of a day's journey turns to the dull business of an hour; coaching and road travelling arrive just at the height of perfection, and then, as the worst of things are sure to mend, the best, it seems, are to come to an end. It does appear wondrous strange, if we come to consider it, that any men should have been found bold enough to even endeavour to out-run the road at the time they did. Half a century back, when coaches were great, heavy, lumbering, uncomfortable concerns, and coach-horses under-bred, under-fed, over-worked brutes, when days and nights were broken into for the shortest of transits, and a hundredmile trip became altogether a most perilous adventure-at such a period your science and philosophy might have looked about for something better than the good entertainment man and horse could furnish them with. When, however, all this was altered and equally improved, when Englishmen began to feel a national pride in their public carriages, and an individual pleasure in travelling in them; when the hitherto deep-rutted, rough, and dangerous path showed a surface as smooth as glass and as firm as pavement; when the poor, soft-hearted pack-horse sort of animal gave way for the full-conditioned, high-couraged, and beautifully-broken machiner; when art, elegance, and finish in the coachman triumphed over untutored strength and unbearable coarseness; when, in fact, all was as complete and as comfortable as could be-then, and not till then, we rise en masse to say we can't endure this state of things any longer. Still it is the peculiar privilege of our dearly-beloved countrymen never to be satisfied, especially when they think you are doing all you can to please them; and, accordingly, so soon as the Eastern Counties has gone one month without a mishap, they'll have a balloon way over the same line; or, maybe, when the Penny Omnibus Company come down to nothing a mile, they will tire them out with an every-manhis-own-cab for the same fare. Say what the flash-of-lightning gentlemen will of the advantages of increased speed, we shall always, we repeat, define this difference between road and rail-that the one mode of transit was a real pleasure, and that the other is, at best, but a negative bore. Could any man, with a fair pair of eyes and a decent heart under his waistcoat, take his fifty miles out on "the Bedford Times" or "the Oxford Age" without feeling gratified and invigorated by the time so spent? Could he mark the gradual change of scene, catch the occasional far-spreading view of hill and valley, and breathe the fresh air of the open, without inward conviction that this was something more than a mere task-a form that must be endured and sat out before embracing his wife or binding his bargain? Or again, could he pass through the different towns, and by the different seats, without being enlightened as well as amused by all he saw and heard? Could he stand proof against the well-told anecdote of the dragsman, or the happy rejoinder of the young squire we just dropt at his own lodge-gate? Can any one think over such times as these, and have a word fit to throw at a dog for the hell-in-harness system now in Vogue? As far as the mere transition goes, it is all very good, no doubt; and a man puts on his travelling-cap just like the gentleman in the fairy-tale did his wishing one: "Here I am in London, but I wish I was in Bristol;" and it is, "Now then, take your ticket!" and away you go. "That was Windsor Castle, sir, we passed just this moment, but you can't see it from where you sit. This is Reading, I believe; and here, I declare, we are at Swindon, where they have got a good room, and run the steeple-chases." Next you have a tolerably correct water-colour sketch of Bath, and then you are landed right home into dull and dirty Bristol. You have come all the way, that's certain; but as to what you have come through, or what you are rather expected to have seen and marked, how is it? The old lady opposite most assuredly did take a good deal of snuff, and talk, when you could hear her, a good deal of nonsense; the aristocrat in the corner evidently wanted to impress you with the idea that next time he'd have a kettle boiled all for himself; the bar-maid that served the soda-water was wonderfully over-pressed, and the pitchdark tunnel suggested to a sensitive mind what a row there would be in case you should have a collision. For commercial men, or that more horrible term still, for " men of business" to uphold such an improvement of time as this, is perhaps natural enough; but for a sportsman to advocate it, and that, too, mainly by abusing the rival it has ruined, sounds odd, and, we are happy to add, is really uncommon. We have known, however, one, and a good sportsman into the bargain, employ a very pretty wit against the tapering crop and the well turned-out team, chiefly to the following effect: that one of the pleasantest days he ever had in his life was spent in travelling by a stagecoach, and that as a general rule the book-keeper was always too much of a blackguard and the coachman too much of a gentleman. To put his opinion to the proof, let us contrive to muster up courage enough to ask the varmint-looking youth here in the shooting-jacket, when we shall have a chance of witnessing Mr. Herring's very beautiful sketch, if possible, more fully realized. In two minutes you hear "The Times" will be up, and the next change is coming out now; so look lively, and we may see the whole act, from find to finish. And here she is, you see, drawing it as fine as one of Jem Robinson's races, and as full, in and out, as the legitimate drama used to be on a royal bespeak. A capital four, well-horsed and well-nursed; though certainly the whitelegged chesnut mare-by Patron out of Greenmantle by Sultanthat has been running near-leader, does look a little beat as she wanders down the yard. But never mind, we have four tried good ones ready to replace the relieved guard; and before the swell on the box, who saw the race, can tell you how Sir Tatton did win the Two-Thousand, or the worthy behind him give the latest state of the odds on the New-port or Old-port election, coachee has bowed in his boarding-school miss, badgered the bagman out of his shillings, and set himself fair once again. "St! st! All right; let 'em alone, and take care of yourselves." The leaders give a gammoning, showy sort of flourish to start with; the doubled thong falls more in flattery than in anger on the old brown at wheel-the parlour-boarder lends us one more glance at parting-St! st! it is all over, and "The Times" has changed! |