Byron, but unfortunately Shakespeare (save the mark) was lame, and the Laureate was at grass. Our next team, a fine lot of roans, bore very high-falutin titles—Julius Cæsar, Hannibal, Scipio, and Caius Gracchua. Inasmuch, however, as I heard the driver, in a moment of inadvertence, rebuke the Carthaginian general by the commonplace name of ‘Fred,’ I came to the conclusion that his nomenclature was a pleasant bit of bunkum manufactured for the occasion. More power to him! That coachman must have received a special unction from the father of all blarney, for he fibbed with a natural facility, and sweet imagination, grown quite uncommon in the terribly matter-of-fact days on which our lot is cast.
“Crossing the rivers is a process the reverse of re-assuring to nervous people, though there is really very little danger in ordinary weather, for the fords are carefully watched and sounded, the drivers particularly alert and skilful, and the horses patient, clever, and stanch. I cannot feel, however, that I would ever come to enjoy the sensation of the coach slipping bodily down steep banks, and bumping across wide beds of shingle, every stone of which seems to have a malignant faculty for jolting the vehicle in a contrary direction. Then comes a slow sliding plunge, and the straining horses are girth-deep, and the swirling waters, rushing against the wheels and under-carriage, makes one—in the language of the hymn—cast wistful eyes to the other side of Jordan, and wish to be at home. There is nothing sluggardly about these rivers, at all events, for they absolutely refuse to lie still in their beds, but rise up and shift their quarters upon the slightest provocation; and so far from studying the comfort and safety of the Queen’s lieges, they seem to bubble and chuckle with malicious pleasure, if there appears to be a chance of swallowing up a coachful of unwary passengers. Perhaps it may be an excuse for their fractiousness to remember how often they are crossed by the travelling public. This afternoon we had a curious illustration of their treachery, and of the way in which, after many days, they disgorge their prey. Soon after crossing the Taipo (devil) river, a man on horseback hailed us, and holding up some tattered fragments of paper, said he had found the mail bags which had been swept away on 11th May 1876.
“Evening is drawing on apace, and our journey’s end is near. There, full before us, is the sea. We catch the glitter of the crested surf, though its roar is inaudible at this distance. The sun is peering over the farthest verge of the level plain of waters, staining the deep with crimson, and lighting with a rosy glow the peaks of the enchanted region through which we have so lately passed. This soon fades, and as
“‘The Star of Evening
Melts and trembles, though the purple
Hangs suspended in the twilight,’
they stand out against the daffodil sky, glimmering with pale greenish hues; and as we rattle into the town, we can see them wrapped about their breasts with clinging mists, hooded with sombre clouds, silent, dark menacing—solemnity itself.
“I cannot express the enjoyment this trip has given me. It is a delightful compensation
