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SCENES IN THE SPORTING WORLD,

PICTORIAL AND DESCRIPTIVE.

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TIME was when THE ROAD stood forth as one of the most striking, and by no means the least glorious of our national peculiarities. Time is that we can see THE ROAD changing and drooping day by day. Time will be-should matters go on in the train they of late years have done, that the decline, decay, and ruin of THE ROAD shall be accomplished.

When men, and

The ill-wind came in with the mackintoshes. more especially coachmen, forsook box-coats, and took to "waterproof contrivances," "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream." THE ROAD thenceforth, ran rapidly down hill; and now, the changes working still together, of all the few "old stagers" left to us, I know of but one pair of genuine mahogany-top-boots, and two real, rough, honest, saucer-buttoned box-coats. Our coachmen now-a-days flutter in what to me bears a most marked resemblance to a dingy smock, thus seeming to show by outward and indisputable signs, that they are really, as well as allegorically, put to their shifts.

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Farewell the tranquil mind: farewell content !
Farewell the loaded coach, and full waybill,
That make ambition virtue! O farewell!.
Farewell th' impatient steed and the shrill horn,
The ready running rein, the well-poised bar,
The rattling pole-chain; and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious roads,
Farewell! The coachman's occupation's gone!

"What's in a name?" is a trite phrase, and that there is not much, is proved by the fact of people travelling by the Thame coach,Hitchin chaises,—and Crawley post-horses; but yet it was a keen cut of cruel raillery to call those convenient omnibus nuisances, the railways, IRON ROADS-much more appropriate, though scarcely so complimentary, was the nick-name given by an enemy to the mackintoshes aforesaid, of Hingy rubber stew-pots!

'Tis now plucking a flower in the field of memory to recall the once familiar scenes which used to pass before our eyes in a day's ride, through this, our "garden of the world;" yet we remember well how often, with a merry smile and cheerful salutation for each fellow traveller, we took our seats behind four handsome bays, whose polished harness and neat body cloths, bespoke due care for the appearance of the "show team."

We're up-all right-and off we go-cigars stuck in our mouths, and warm coats wrapped round our legs. We clear the townq uietly, and then mend our pace, until a cloud of dust marks our track. We whirl along o'er hill and plain-through the deep shadowed woodland, and the fertile meadow-passing by turns the clean but humble cot, the farmer's dwelling, and the squire's hall. The village spire peeps above the trees, and as we rattle through the narrow street, our coachman has a nod for all, and a smile for every pretty girl. Thus morning's early hours pass away, and shortly after noon, a more than common gathering at the inn-door tells of unusual preparation. There stands the landlord jingling the shillings in his pocket, and his hat cocked jauntily on one side of his head; here comes the busy waiter with his hair plastered smoothly down upon his forehead, and the eternal napkin tucked under his arm ;-and there, with the long box coat on his left arm, the whip in his right hand, and a tarpaulin apron lying at his feet, stands our second coachman.

Ten minutes for "a snack," and we are off again, fit to enjoy the riper and more genial beauties of the summer's day, and so we do enjoy them, until the lengthened shadows creep across our way,—the rooks wing their flight homeward,-the cows are gathering towarde

the homestead, and the last rays of the sinking sun still linger only on the top of the tall spire, as we enter the town which terminates our day's journey.

Such was once the scene,-what is it now? You are fast locked into a padded box, with (generally) six morose and meditative fellow creatures,--a big bell rings, and off you go, tearing over embankments or rushing through dark tunnels, tied to the tail of a screaming runaway kettle one moment cocked up high in mid-air,-the next diving into the bowels of the earth. If you keep the windows closed, you are stifled-if you open them, you stand a fair chance of losing an eye; -these are now the pleasures of THE ROAD.

Then a blow up!-there is no chance of a good old age nowa-days, when so many scientific means of manslaughter threaten us on every side. To be sure there are as many scientific means of safety; but for my own part, I have never been anxious to adopt any such preserves, since I heard of the pickle in which a specimen of patent safetyfied humanity was found floating about in the broad Atlantic, some three days sail from Sandy Hook, with an India-rubber life preserver (!) round his neck, nodding his skeleton skull as he bobbed up and down, a plaything of the wind and waves.

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