AN OCTOBER ABROAD. 



ing lash tipped with the best silk snapper. Always the- 

 inevitable snapper. I doubt if there is a whip in 

 Paris without a snapper. Here is where the fine art, 

 the rhetoric of driving, comes in. This converts a vul- 

 gar, prosy " gad " into a delicate instrument, to be 

 wielded with pride and skill, and never to be literally 

 applied to the backs of the animals, but to be launched 

 to the right and left into the air with a professional 

 flourish, and a sharp," ringing report. Crack! crack! 

 crack ! all day long go these ten thousand whips, like 

 the boys' Fourth of July fusillade. It was invariably 

 the first sound I heard when I opened my eyes in the 

 morning, and generally the last one at night. Occa- 

 sionally some belated drayman would come hurrying 

 along just as I was going to sleep, or some early bird 

 before I was fully awake in the morning, and let off. in 

 rapid succession in front of my hotel, a volley from the 

 tip of his lash that would make the street echo again, 

 and that might well have been the envy of any ring- 

 master that ever trod the tan-bark. Now and then, 

 during my ramblings, I would suddenly hear some mas- 

 ter-whip, perhaps that of an old omnibus-driver, that 

 would crack like a rifle, and, as it passed along, all the 

 lesser whips, all the amateur snappers, would strike up 

 with a jealous and envious emulation, making every 

 foot-passenger wink, and one (myself) at least almost 

 to shade my eyes from the imaginary missiles. 



I record this fact because it "points a moral and 

 adorns a tail." The French always give this extra 



