oting hackman's independence. They stop short, however, of his
impudence. They are lazy, but they touch their hats occasionally.

We choose two of the tumble-down vehicles and go after the ladies. My
driver is an elderly man with a hat which has seen better days, and
I have chosen his hack, not because it is less likely to drop off
its wheels than the others, but because he himself looks like a seedy
Bohemian. He proves to be a very intelligent fellow, with a ready turn
for description which serves him in good stead whenever his horse gets
tired of walking and stops short. At such times our Bohemian pretends
that he has stopped the horse himself in order to point out and
comment upon some curious thing in the immediate vicinity.

It is pleasant driving. The hack is open, and we hoist sun-umbrellas
and look about comfortably. Presently the weary horse stops in the
middle of the street.

"'Ere you are, sir," says Cabby briskly, turning half round on his box
and pointing to an old stone structure which stretches quite across
the High street. "This 'ere is the old Bar Gate, sir, one of the
hancient gates of the town. Part of the horiginal town wall. Was a
large ditch 'ere, sir, and another there, and a stone bridge betwixt
the two, and the young bucks in them days did use to practice harchery
right 'ere where you see the lamp-post. The Guild'all is _hin_ the
gate, sir, right hinside it, with a passage hup. I'll drive through
the harch, sir, and you'll see the hother side. Cluck!" (to the
horse).

On the other side, the horse not taking a notion to stop again, the
driver is not forced to resume his remarks. Turning about as we pass
on, we look up at the old Norman gate-tower, with its handsome archway
and projecting buttresses, and Amy says she fancies she sees a knight
in armor looking out through the narrow crevice which may have been a
window in olden times. This, being an altogether proper fancy for the
place, is received with applause.

The next time the horse concludes to stop we are in the midst of what
is here called the Common--in fact, a magnificent old forest park,
with a smooth road running through it, and numberless winding paths in
among the bosky depths. I fancy Central Park might come to look like
this if allowed to go untrimmed and unfussed-over for two or three
hundred years.

"The Common, sir," says Cabby, turning about, "where King Chawles did
use to 'unt wild boars. Fav'rite walk of Halexander Pop