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TWO UPSETS IN WALES:

AND WHAT THEY ENDED IN.

BY ALEXANDER ANDREWS.

DASHINGLY started the "Tourist" coach from the door of the Royal Hotel at Chester, one fine afternoon in July, with a light load of five outside and a lady boxed up in its body. With a cheery crack of the coachman's whip, and a lively overture from the guard's horn, it sped down the street, leaving two or three loungers to watch its progress out of sight, and exchange opinions about its passengers.

"They be rum 'uns, at all events," said a cattle-dealer, coming out of Wales, to a "commercial gent" doing the north-west ground. "Who?" asked the bagman.

"Them two skylarky chaps behind the coachman," replied the cattledealer. "Blowed if I ever see fellows throw their money about like that, eh, Tummas ?"

"Tummas" was the waiter, who stood at the door of the Royal Hotel to see his guests off by the coach.

"Well," he said, with befitting gravity, and after duly revolving the question in his mind," they are rather free and liberal; but they're real gentlemen, for all that."

"Oh yes! We know all about it, eh, Tummas ?" said the cattledealer, with a wink of the eye and a poke in the ribs.

The subjects of these remarks, who were now far away down Watergate-street, clattering over the stones on a light coach, with four fresh horses before them and a glorious sky and sun above them, were young Sparkins of the Inner Temple, and Bob Willings of Guy's-two thorough young Londoners, out for a month into Wales. Sparkins had, as he himself declared to his companion at starting, "drawn his governor" of fifty pounds, and Willings, although not so richly endowed, had received a very nice little present from a maiden aunt, who looked upon him as a prodigy. The law student was retiring into Wales, of course, "to read" -the medical student, to recover a health shattered by a too close attendance at lectures. But, to look at them, you would never have supposed that the one was bent upon study, or the other in search of health. In fact, you would have said that they were two frisky young fellows out for a holiday, and not very ingenious in finding an excuse for it; and you would most likely have been very near the truth.

The other passengers were a great man, for whom the coachman seemed to entertain a marvellous respect, and who, they concluded, must be the Sir Watkyn of the day, a Methodist parson, and a poor leadminer returning to Mold, whose skin seemed to have been rubbed over with quicksilver. As for the guard, he left them at the first stage out, being engaged more for effect than utility.

From the first, it was apparent that Sir Watkyn viewed his fellowpassengers more especially our two young friends-with intense dislike and contempt; sensations which were obviously increased on the appearance of two black and certainly villanous-looking pipes, which they proceeded to fill with the accursed weed.

"You're surely not going to smoke," said Sir Watkyn, in a thin wiry voice, vividly contrasting with his burly form.

"I believe you, my boy !" replied Sparkins, most, irreverently.

"Then you'll be pleased to pass behind, and sit to windward of me." "I'll see you

Sparking was going to say something very wrong and ungentlemanly, no doubt, but Willings stopped him, and, addressing Sir Watkyn, said: "Certainly, sir! Tom," he added, turning to his companion, "don't you see the gentleman's lungs are affected ?" And, climbing on to the roof, they passed behind him, and took their seats on the other side.

"And who told you my lungs were affected, sir?" demanded Sir Watkyn, severely.

"Oh, it's stamped on your face and features, sir, I'm sorry to say, too plainly to deceive a practised eye. We of the faculty are not to be deceived by that insidious but deadly phthisis."

"That is consumption, is it not?" asked Sir Watkyn. Willings nodded his head with a lachrymose air.

"Dear me! do you think it is an advanced stage ?" inquired Sir Watkyn, in a friendly tone. "I've had suspicions: bad cough-shortness of breath

"Pain in the side ?" asked Willings.

"Why yes-occasionally."

"Oh, of course.

sir, to ride outside.”

Bad case-gone too long. Very rash, very rash,

"Do you think so?" asked Sir Watkyn, doubtfully.

"Sure of it-worst thing you can do. Your lungs are not equal to so rapid a passage through the air-will become congested-can't inflate themselves in time-great hole in one of them, I suspect tear it to pieces."

"Bless me!" cried Sir Watkyn; "I'm really very much obliged to you for your friendly advice. Here, Hugh Morris, pull up, and let me get inside."

"Got rid of him, at all events!" chuckled Willings, as the coachman, with a reverence, put his important passenger inside. "Now you must tackle the Methodist chap, Tom."

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How his friend proceeded to tackle the Methodist chap, we will forbear from inquiring. I fear it was in a way which neither you nor I could approve, for it called from the reverend gentleman a reproof, in which he addressed them as "ungodly youths," and expressed the opinion that they were cracked vessels." How long he would have held out was never decided, for the coach presently arrived at the village for which he was destined, and, with a look of benignant pity, he left them. The poor lead-complexioned miner sat humbly in the "dickey," or back seat, so they virtually had the outside of the coach to themselves, which was just what, from some unaccountable whim or caprice, they wanted.

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"Now this is glorious, eh, Bob?" cried the legal young gentleman, in ecstasies, throwing himself back on the coach. But, Lord! what's become of the sun?"

What had become of him? Why, he was in his place all right, of course; but some dense, heavy clouds had gone between him and the earth, and began to make their presence known by a rattling discharge of

hail.

“Hail in July, and on such a hot day!" cried Sparkins, astonished. "Off the mountains," replied Hugh Morris, the coachman, looking anxiously at the heap of Sir Watkyn's luggage on the roof. "Will either of you gentlemen just hold the reins while I put the tarpaulin over the trunks?"

"I will," said Sparkins, clambering on to the box as Hugh Morris jumped on the roof."

Now Sparkins had never had four-horse reins in his hands before, his driving having been limited to "the governor's" nag in the family chaise. But, being an aspiring spirit, he caught at them, and albeit they felt somewhat heavy to his unaccustomed grasp, he soon experienced that hilarious feeling which four fine horses in hand somehow or other convey to man. The horses were free and unblown; they wanted no drivingthat is to say, so long as the road was straight and level-but, unfortunately, there was a sudden bend and a sharp descent, on which Sparkins had not calculated. He had not achieved the art of what is called, in coachman's parlance, "keeping them together," and, in the twinkling of an eye, there was an undefined scramble, a fall, and the coach went over with a crash!

"Hallo!" cried Hugh Morris, on his feet, by the wayside in a minute, with a wreck of trunks and tarpaulins beside him, "how did you do

that ?"

"I didn't do it—the horses did," cried Sparkins, from some distance, in a wo-begone and pitiful voice. "Here, Willings, come directly! I

think I'm hurt."

Willings, who, in some mysterious way which he himself could never explain, had clung to the coach, and, as he said, "let himself down gently," ran to his friend's assistance, and soon discovered that he had received no injury beyond a good shaking, which he deserved.

"Here, then," cried the coachman, "come and help me with the horses; the varmin 'll kick themselves out of their harness!"

But here arose such a hubbub from the body of the coach, as reminded him that he had inside passengers too.

"Oh, it's the poor lady!" he cried. we'll see what's the matter with her." "And Sir Watkyn," said Willings.

"Well, get the horses up, and

"Sir Watkyn!" cried the coachman, aghast. "Who says it's Sir Watkyn?"

"No one," replied Willings. "I only thought so."

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No, no," said Hugh Morris, "it's not Sir Watkyn, but a very good gentleman out of Merioneth, I think. Never mind; get the horses up."

The leaders were up already, and were doing their best either to break themselves free or to drag the overturned coach and the two prostrate wheelers (who for their part protested violently in kicks) on the journey. However, by much tugging and pulling, Hugh Morris, with the aid of the lead-miner (for our friends were of very little use beyond risking their shins among the horses' hoofs and heels in fruitless efforts to undo impracticable buckles and overstrained chains), succeeded in unhooking the traces and calming the horses, who, after shaking themselves in their harness, turned round and looked in dismay at the mischief behind them.

"Hi! who-oa!" cried Hugh Morris. "Now just see that they don't go off, and we'll look arter the lady and gentleman."

And indeed it was time that they were looked after, for the gentleman had kept up an incessant shouting that no man with a hole in his lung could have managed. As for the lady, her screams had been so piercing at first that it was fair to assume that she was not seriously injured; but they had got gradually fainter and fainter, and now had died away entirely.

"Hark how the old boy's kicking at the door!" cried Sparkins, trying to clamber up the bottom of the coach, which now was, for a time, the side. But old Hugh Morris was used to upsets, for it was no uncommon thing in those days for a Welsh coach to turn over once a week-which was about as often as it travelled; and experience having taught agility, he was soon buried down to his broad back in the vehicle.

and

where

"Here!" then cried the inside passenger, "my mouth's full of straw, my hat's crushed down over my nose, and I can't get it off to see. but I think I'm topsy-turvy." feet my Yes, sure," said Hugh Morris, "he speaks truth." "And the lady's swooned," continued the gentleman.

are,

"Swooned!" cried Willings, who had scrambled up and was peeping in under the coachman's arm; "you've smothered her, I verily believe." "Here, give us hold of your feet, sir!" said the coachman; and by a wonderful process he soon dragged his passenger out, legs foremost, and laid him in piteous plight upon the road, whilst Willings was gently and tenderly extricating the lady.

Pale and senseless, she was yet a lovely young creature to behold, and her bloodless cheeks and closed eyes might have been a study for the sculptor who is getting up a bust of Venus for the Exhibition-being the four hundred and ninety-ninth of that lady which has been catalogued since the foundation of the Royal Academy. But the quivering lip told that she was not marble-her bosom began to heave and fall as the fresh ir passed into her lungs-and as Willings chafed her hands tenderly a gentle sigh escaped her.

"She inspires again, you see," said Bob, cheerfully.

"Yes," replied Sparkins, dreadfully mystified in his ideas, as they watched for her respiration. "Yes-and-there-thank God! she expires !"

"Oh dear! oh dear! poor dear lady!" cried the gentleman inside the crushed hat.

The lovely creature opened her eyes-such eyes! a very heaven of blue -languidly, and looked gratefully upon Willings.

"Thank you thank you, sir, I am better," she said, in a soft, sweet you-thank

voice.

Poor Bob Willings! Better for him had she bid him begone-his peace of mind was in jeopardy for ever.

It was no great difficulty to put things in order again; the gentleman whom, without meaning the slightest disrespect to the Master of Wynnstaye, we chose to call Sir Watkyn, was soon rescued from the depths of his hat, and lent a hand to his fellow-passengers in getting the coach upon its wheels, whilst Hugh Morris put the horses to, and in a few minutes they were fairly on their journey again.

VOL. LIV.

2 T

But poor Willings sat silent and reserved; the lovely landscape-even his pipe-had no further charms for him; and when they came to the rolling Dee, and the coach had to be unladen of its passengers and luggage, and the horses taken off to embark in the horse ferry, he assisted the fair inside passenger to alight, and placed her on the choicest part of the raft, which floated the coach, and horses, and all across the river. What he said to her, or she to him, during the passage of King's Ferry, it would not be fair in me to reveal-even if I knew; but I do not, and never shall, know-but words did pass, let us presume, of thanks from her and of politeness from him; at all events, they exhausted his conversational powers for the rest of the journey. At Mold the miner got down, and so did Sparkins, but Willings declined to join him in a glass of ale while they changed horses. Ale indeed! He was drunk with ethereal nectar!

On again as the day closed in and the moon arose-on, on, among the . hills, reverberating the soft music of a little band of fifes and flageolets, which had scrambled up behind somewhere in the darkness-on, on, till the coach pulled up at a pretty lodge by the wayside. Here the lady alighted; Bob's spell was broken-the coach went on again with a lacerated heart outside.

"Who lives at the house?" asked Bob of the coachman.

"What house?" inquired Hugh Morris, clearly showing that his thoughts were not with the beautiful vision in which poor Bob's were steeped.

The house that belongs to the lodge," explained Willings. "Oh," said Hugh Morris; "why, that's Plas Vychan, Lord Gronwy's shooting-box."

"And is she a daughter of Lord Gronwy, then ?" asked poor Willings, sadly, as the angel soared to a heaven far beyond his reach.

"Who?" again inquired the coachman. "No; I never see the young woman afore-perhaps she's a visitor, or a new lady's-maid, for you can't tell one from the other now-a-days, only that the lady's-maid's generally dressed the finest."

Was it lawful for a coachman, a mere earthly coachman, to designate that seraphic creature "a young woman?" Willings thought not, and felt a decided inclination to knock Hugh Morris off his box. Then the base insinuation about her being a lady's-maid! Nothing but the dread of a second catastrophe prevented his sending the gross-minded creature spinning into the road.

"Rythen, gents," at length cried Hugh Morris, as he pulled up his horses before the snug little inn known as the Wynnstaye Arms, but more popularly as the Crossed Foxes, at Ruthin. "A car for a gent to Arlech!" he cried.

And in due course the stout gentleman was despatched therein to his destination among the consonants of the Vale of Clwyd, and our travellers found themselves the only guests at the inn. I will not ask the reader to stay with them the week they spent rambling about the beautiful vale, for they were sorry company. Willings was in a dream-a sheer somnambulus; and Sparkins had been so humbled by his adventure with the reins (which he never boastfully called "ribbons" again as long as he lived), as well as by a terrible break down in his Welsh, or "Cambric," as he chose