fectly still with the reins firmly held but moveless, buttoning his gloves with an elaborate pretence of never minding, All known expedients have come to nought long ago. Pushing the wheels, even down hill, is regarded with contempt; leading (except by a lady) scornfully refused. The whip is out of the question. 'Patience is a virtue'—indeed the virtue, the only one which will serve our turn. Meanwhile, when people are fairly on the warpath, this dead refusal to budge an inch is a little, just a little, exasperating. Paterfamilias computes, however, that ten minutes' delay can be made up with such steppers. He smiles benignantly as he pulls out a newspaper and asks his wife if she has brought her book. Two minutes, four, five, or is it half an hour? The time seems long. 'Trois cent milles diables!' the natural man feels inclined to ejaculate. He knows that he is sinking fast in the estimation of newly-arrived station hands and chance spectators. Eight minutes—Railway makes no sign; years might roll on before he would start with an unwilling mate. Nine minutes—Steamer, whose impatient soul abhors inaction, begins to paw. The student is absorbed in his leading article. Ten minutes!—Steamer opens his mouth and carries the whole equipage off with one rush. Railway is up and away; half a second later the proprietor folds up his journal and takes them firmly in hand. The children begin to laugh and chatter; the lady to converse; and the journey, long or short, wet or dry, may be considered, as far as horseflesh is concerned, to be un fait accompli.
At the end of four years of unclouded happiness (as novelists write of wedded life), this state of literal conjugal bliss was doomed to end. An epidemic of lung disease, such as at intervals sweeps over the land, occurred in Victoria. Railway fell a victim, being found dead in his paddock. Up to this time he had never been ' sick or sorry,' lame, tired, or unfit to go. His iron legs, with feet to match, showed no sign of work. In single harness he was miraculous, going mile after mile with the regularity of a steam-engine, apparently incapable of fatigue. I was lucky enough to have a fast, clever grandson of Cornborough to put in his place. He lasted ten years. A half-brother three years more. The old horse was using up his fourth running mate, and entering upon his twentieth year in my service when King Death put on the brake.
