k,
the country in many parts is beautiful, and the train-service between
the county towns is fairly good.

For these reasons the old stagers on the Bench are in the habit of
trying to get the Southern Circuit. On the present occasion they had
been successful. Sir Daniel Buller and Sir John Wiseman may not have
been extremely popular with the Bar, but they were very popular with
each other. They came down to Abertaff feeling in good form, Sir John
to preside over the civil court, and Sir Daniel to mete out justice to
the inmates of the county gaol.

Not for many years had there been such excitement at assize time in
the city. This excitement was due to two causes--the javelin-men and
the society murder.

Javelin-men are dying out. In former times, when the office of sheriff
was a mark of high social dignity, and before the new-fangled post of
lord-lieutenant had usurped so much of its splendour, the shrievalty
was an epoch in a county gentleman's career. It was considered almost
worth being ruined for. A heavy mortgage was not grudged as a
consequence of the lavish splendour with which the office was
surrounded. In those days javelin-men were a reality. Clad in
semi-military uniforms modelled on the master's family livery, and
armed with weapons of an extinct fashion, they simulated the state of
vice-royalty. Many a German princelet has enjoyed a less imposing
body-guard than an English sheriff of the olden time.

But the railways have killed all that. Everyone now seeks distinction
in the Metropolis. County society has become a byword for the
old-fashioned and the humdrum, for bad living, bad manners, and bad
taste. No one would now dream of embarrassing his estate to secure a
merely local renown. Hence the decay of the shrievalty. The modern
high-sheriff looks upon his obligatory office as a duty rather than an
honour. He contents himself with the cheap services of the county
police force for his retinue, and foregoes the expensive luxury of the
javelin-men.

There are a few brilliant exceptions, however. The present sheriff of
Mynyddshire was one. In the first place, he was master of what in the
country is regarded as a colossal fortune. In the second place, he
was the founder of his family. Money, therefore, was not an object to
Mr. Simon Reynolds. Glory was. His office gave him just the chance he
wanted, and he revived its mediaeval honours with a willing hand.

Two-and-twenty men, counting the buglers, in g