CORRESPONDENCE.

A SUMMER DRIVING-TOUR.—II.

[TO TUB EDITOR OF TRY "SPECTATOR:I

SIE,—When our good mare—Nancy—was in her stable, resting from her labours, and our luggage was unpacked from the rather dilapidated pony carriage we were using for our purney, and while we were still enjoying that inexplicable consciousness of pious merit which arises from success in any plan of enjoy- ment, and which even a thorough wetting, for instance, will transform into an odd mixture of humility and self-reproach, we ought to have seized that favourable moment of self-satisfaction which recurs so seldom in life, to repair at once to the " Rufus Stone," and there feed our minds on the great historical associa- tions of which that monument discourses to all beholders. For, on the day we reached the New Forest and Stonycross, we had travelled, though in the reverse direction, over the very ground which William Rufus's body traversed in the cart of "one Purkess, a charcoal-burner," from Stonycross to Winchester ; indeed, the glowing sunset which we saw on our arrival made us shade our eyes as we looked on it, just as, according to the story, William Rufus was shading his from a similar sunset when Tyrrers (or some other person's) arrow entered his heart ; so that we might well have recalled the scene with all the historical enthusiasm, of which our limited minds were capable. Moreover, it was but two days after the 775th anniversary of the rough king's death, and though there is probably hardly a tree in the forest now which stood there then,—for it is now again as " new " a Forest as it was in William Rufus's time,—the general aspect of the scene would, on that account, only the more closely resemble its aspect when the second William fell. Bat, alas! my " historical conscience," as Mr. Disraeli calls it, is but a lax one, and my wife's is laxer still. I never do feel quite equal to the occasion when I find myself on an historical spot, and am very apt to skulk the duty of musing, as proper feeling requires one to do, on the scenes of Time's catastrophes. In fact, I never knew but one man,—and he was a Professor of History, and a pompous one,—who did this sort of thing thoroughly and conscientiously. He travelled once with a brother of mine in Italy, and I used to hear with amusement how his chest dilated and his eyes began to roll when he gazed up at any historic spot or monument of ancient Rome, and how he would apostrophise it. "And this, then," he would say, "is the Soracte on which Horace gazed,—

Vides, ut alto stet nive candidum Soracte,'

and the sight of whose weight of winter-snovtts made the tender poet shiver ; let us imitate his example," he would proceed with a genial rapture not quite extemporised, casting a log on the fire,— (he had ordered a wood fire on purpose, by way of preparation),—

Thaw the cold, pile a liberal supply of billets on the hearth,'—

" Dissolve frigus, ligna super fete Large reponens,"

—and so he would go on rehearsing in the grand-historic vein all the conventional associations with as much fidelity to his "historic conscience " as the actor who blacked himself even under his clothes in order to let the spirit of Othello enter the more deeply into him. But we have never been at all up to that. Indeed, in these historic scenes I am not half satisfied even with my reveries, which are apt to be a trifle bald, let alone my comments, which are more so. Yet ever since I read Mr. Langton Sanford's ' Esti- mate' of William Rufus—is it, by the way, a mistaken impres- sion, Sir, that it was in your own columns that I read it originally ?—I have had a very distinct picture of that vigorous but uneven-minded King,—possibly much too distinct for the truth,—with his different-coloured eyes, and the angry glitter- ing specks in them, his strange, staring expression, his "stage- tyrant manner in public," and his violent levity in private, his reckless courage, his strong coarse scepticism, and his way of looking upon God as a sort of suzerain, from whom, if he had any cause of grievance against Him, his allegiance was to be tempo- rarily withheld. But graphic as the picture of William Rufus is which the rare insight of that keen and sagacious historian has drawn, and interesting as it was to imagine him dashing off to the sea,— to the place where Lymington perhaps, or Christchurch, now stands,—from the very midst of one of his hunting expeditions, when he got sudden news of the siege of his garrison in Mans,— I confess that I put off going to the "Rufus Stone" for many days, and went there with some reluctance at last. In the first place, it is a sloppy place, much frequented by picnickers from Southampton (which is only eleven miles off) and much adorned by bits of greasy paper, old bones, — very bad for the dogs,— and other remains of picnic parties. Also inferior photographers, who make wretched photographs of the "Rufus Stone," flock thither, and press their bad work upon you at inordinate prices. You are lucky if you do not find one or two enormous drags drawn up on the spot, and various young shopmen and women engaged in eating or flirtation. Then, again, there is no view at all there,—though one of the finest Forest views I know is to be got from the hill just above it, where you gaze down into a deep, mysterious ocean of trees, broken by one or two vistas of open glades, and with a rich blue horizon of the most various shades sweeping round behind it. Altogether, though I did go to the spot and duly read the four in- scriptions on the four sides of the " Rufus Stone," I think I was able to realise the death-scene less vividly there than in any other part of the Forest. The descendants of "one Purkess, a charcoal-burner," still live close by in Minstead,—or at least people of the same name said to be descendants,—and are rather crusty, by the way, on the strength, I suppose, of their ancestry, if I may judge by the frigid severity with which one of them received our praises of her very beautiful myrtle, instead of offering us a sprig of it, which was what we hoped ;—and very likely they burn charcoal still ; at least we came on a great pile of burning charcoal very near the cottage of "one Purkess," and not half a mile from the spot where Rufus fell, though far out of the ordinary range of the picnic parties. Here it was, in a lovely beech glade, with the charcoal smouldering fragrantly in a great heap,—such as one reads of in the legends of Riibezahl, the great Suabian gnome, who loves to appear in the dress of a gigantic charcoal-burner to those human beings who have the good or ill fortune to win his favour or excite his wrath,—that the old story of Matthew Paris seemed most real to me. Here, far from the picnics and the photographs, one could fancy the great black stag rushing out of the thicket by William Rufus, and the king, with his usual affectation of impatient fury, calling out to Sir Walter Tyrrel, "Draw, devil!" and so setting in motion the arrow which ended his own life, and having to thank poor Purkess and his charcoal-cart that he got himself buried somewhat royally in Winchester Cathedral at last. For us, the "Rufus Stone" had but one merit, that it attracted all the Southampton picnickers and sightseers to a singularly sloppy and uninteresting spot, and so left the rest of the neighbourhood clear for those misanthropists who were anxious for a season to see as little of their fellow-creatures as they could.

But as for us, it was not for some days that we visited the " Rufus Stone " at all. The first day after our arrival at Stonycross,

we made a solemn little. procession at a foot-pace to the smithy of the pretty little village of Minstead, to get the nuts of the trap

put right. For dismal forebodings—almost second-sight—arose in my wife's mind of still more solemn processions which might result from any sudden collapse of our already rather hardly worn pony- carriage. If there is a position in life which is a cross to human self-respect, it is the position of attending on foot the complete wreck of your pony-carriage, as it is dragged-in bandaged, and spliced, and drawn, perhaps by a wounded pony, to the house from which you started at a round pace in the morning for your excursion, with nothing but favouring omens. We ourselves, little more than a year ago, had experienced something of the bitterness of this anguish, when, having made arrangements to give my pony his mid-day feed out of a nose-bag on a quiet heath, I, with my usual artlessness, took off her bit and blinkers without unharnessing her, in order to let her eat her food more comfort- ably. Alas, one of the dogs, who always accompany our drives, began to frisk before her ; in the twinkling of an eye off went the pony in chase, and frightened by the new aspect of the world as it looked in the absence of the blinkers, she rushed in wild career over the heath, distributing the unfortunate carriage in fragments at various parts, and was only just saved by some opportun e rustics from dashing with the remainder into a river. On that occasion there was a very dismal foot-procession indeed, escorted by labourers, who pulled a very much mutilated and bandaged trap for us to the nearest human settlement, and the remem- brance of it had always exerted a salutary influence over our minds. On the present occasion that influence came into full operation. " Edward," said my wife, " we have got a treasure in our good Watson's mare. Let us be careful of her, and risk no accident to this valuable animal. This nut is very near gone. Let us walk Nancy every step of the way, till we can get it replaced." And we did. And in spite of the provocative behaviour of the dogs, who evidently wished to bring on a cata- strophe, we got our nut restored in safety, and had time also to admire that prettiest of Hampshire villages, Minstead, with its fine old grey square-towered church, and the quaintest of little spires tapering up out of its tower, and the brilliant yellow corn-fields shining round it like s tesselated pavement spread in the clearings of the dark stretches of forest. (By the way, who does get up the English provincial guide-books? The latest edition of Black's ' Hampshire' assures us that the ancient church of Minstead "lies in a deep, leafy hollow," whereas it stands on a knoll that rises considerably above the village, from which its tower and spire are visible for miles and miles round. And the description given of Minstead is about as like it, as the description of the church's position.)

We found all the most beautiful parts in the Forest easily accessible from Stonycross by the help of our fast-trotting Nancy, and had the great advantage of getting back to cool air and free horizons from all the leafy beauties of the woods. By the way, the forest-fly, of whose terrors for horses we had-heard so much, turned out by no means formidable—at least to horses of the bourgeois kind, as my wife remarked, with much self- congratulation—not near so formidable as the great grey- fly, which bites without any regard to geographical limi- tation, in North and South Eneland alike. The forest-fly is only a fly with a sort of claw by which it fastens itself into the exterior skin and tickles very much, but without drawing blood. Nancy made no fuss about it, though the grey-flies teased and bit her badly. The most the forest-flies effected was to make her whisk her tail over the reins,—a feat only too easy in our low pony-trap. But as in that awkward plight she not only never kicked, but obeyed the reins as well as ever till it was con- venient to replace her tail where Nature meant it to be, and the reins where Art meant them to be, no great harm came of that. Very beautiful is the drive by the Bolderwood enclosures to Burley, with its ancient oaks, to some of which are given the name of "The Twelve Apostles ;" and still more beautiful, because more varied, is the drive over a moor almost as wild and bare as any in Yorkshire, to the richly-wooded estuary of the Exe at Beaulieu (or, "Bewley," as it is there pronounced),—at high tide a most picturesque village, with the remains of a beautiful Cistercian abbey to lend it a special charm. The quadrangle of the abbey, once surrounded with cloisters, is still kept as an enclosed garden, one of rare tranquillity and brilliancy, a few of the beautiful Gothic arches that formerly led into the cloisters being still entire. The walls are covered with ivy, and crusted with moss and lichen. A magnificent magnolia in luxuriant blossom and a fine myrtle grew against the wall, and the flower- beds all round the grassy quadrangle had that peculiarly rich colour which only the Southern coast can show. It was the sort of place for the sun-dial that takes count " only of the sunny hours." I was reminded of the fine lines on the " Vale Crucis :"— " Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell, Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,— For there are sainted shadows seen, That frequent haunt thy dowy green. By wandering winds the dirge is sung, The convent-bell by spirits rang ; And matin hymns and vesper prayor Float softly on the tranquil air."

Moreover, the soft beauty seemed all the sweeter for the wild moorland by which this richly-wooded Southern estuary is separated from the forest glades of Brockenhurst and Lyndhurst.

After spending two or three days in such excursions, and sedu- lously interposing days of rest for our inestimable steed, we set out one rather steamy morning to drive to Bramshaw and Bramble Hill, whence we promised ourselves a fine view over the Forest and beyond its northern border. But we had not got two miles from our inn when we were alarmed by some irregular attempts to rear' on the part of the irreproachable Nancy, and then followed a sudden collapse of all her limbs which brought her sharply back upon her hocks. It was like one or two slight shocks of earthquake followed by a great convulsion. The dogs barked violently ; my wife cried out that Nancy had fallen dead, but I, who was at her head in a moment, saw that she was only in a slight fit. Cecilia imme- diately proposed to rush back for " a man " to a house about a quarter of a mile off on the heath, her vague impression being, I believe, that I am unfitted by sedentary pursuits for any of the physical work demanded of " a man " in buckling or unbuckling harness. But it was not necessary, this time ; in about a minute the poor mare recovered sufficiently to raise herself again, but with bleeding hocks and trembling like an aspen-leaf. It was "the Me- grims,"—a complaint from which the books cheerfully assure you that a horse which has once had a fit of it is never again safe. Here was what a French friend of mine once called "a thundering blow" to our hopes. And here, of course, began one of those dismal 'pro- cessions' of which I have already recorded our experience and our horror. I led the mare, still slightly trembling ; the dogs were put into their double strap, and with Cecilia brought up the rear of the mournful party. Fortunately there were no rustics to witness our discomfiture. Not a soul did we meet till we reached the lonely inn. But we held sad communings on the way, recall- ing all the lore of our various handy-books as to horses and their treatment which bore on this complaint in all its varieties, from slight shaking of the head to the climax of " mad staggers." When we reached'the inn, I despatched by post a summons to a neigh- bouring veterinary surgeon, and then we abandoned ourselves to despondency. Devonshire became obviously impossible ; even Dorsetehire faded into an ideal not likely to be realised ; and a ghastly vision of future processions of the same nature as to-day's, and as long as that line of Banquo's kingly posterity which paraded themselves before Macbeth in the witches' cave, spread out in dreary array before my imagination. Here was an explana- tion of Watson's complaisance in selling Nancy, which did more honour to his understanding than to ours. Our prospects were really dismal. The New Forest is a lonely place. 'Megrims' might at any time result in a fall which would break the carriage or, indeed, the mare's legs, and without help within five miles. I brooded dejectedly over these things,— " And fears and fancies thick upon me came, Dim sadness and blind thoughts I knew not, nor could name."

Indeed, when, while following out the reverie contained in the same poem, I thought

"Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough along the mountain-side,"

I felt there could have been no glory or joy for him at all, had he been aware that his plough-horse was subject to Megrims.' The very notion of 'a driving-tour' became hateful to me, as I sat gloomily in my inn. I reproached you for your advice. I be- wailed my own folly in taking it. I was wroth with myself for having been at once a compliant husband and

A DOCILE READER.