THE START. 



The outside of a coach in mid-winter, with darkness 

 and cold mist such as eats into the very marrow, 

 or with biting wind or pitiless contihuous rain, is not 

 pleasant, and is well exchanged for the inside of a 

 railway carriage. What avails scenery when you can 

 only discern the horses' heads through mist by aid of 

 the coach-lamps? Though, when the air was steady, 

 the night bright, and the roads firm, life on the box 

 was not undesirable. The little villages, with lights 

 shining through the diamond panes of the cottages, 

 the odd weird shape of the trees, the interchange of 

 conversation at any stoppage, were pleasant things 

 enough. 



' Eh, mon tod, it's a braw fine night, 

 The wind's in the west, and the moon shines bright !' 



Well can we remember, too, sundry hotels 

 famous for particular dishes, and how daintily Mrs. 

 Lewis of the Lion, at Shrewsbury, prepared the 

 mushrooms for the rump-steak. Well, too, can we 

 recall the monster hearth and fire at Farnborough, 

 where, at ^rst unable to find our fingers to unbutton 

 our coats, we broke in, half frozen, on the lazy discus- 

 sion by some village boors of Farmer Jackson's crops, 

 and how the ' frostes ' were affecting agricultural 

 prospects. 



How one wishes that John Leech had sketched for 



