ground of chocolate color was the mighty shield of the imperial arms, but emblazoned in proportions as modest as a signet-ring bears to a seal of office.  Even this was displayed only on a single panel, whispering, rather than proclaiming, our relations to the state; whilst the beast from Birmingham had as much writing and painting on its sprawling flanks as would have puzzled a decipherer from the tombs of Luxor.  For some time this Birmingham machine ran along by our side—­a piece of familiarity that seemed to us sufficiently jacobinical.  But all at once a movement of the horses announced a desperate intention of leaving us behind.  “Do you see that?” I said to the coachman.  “I see,” was his short answer.  He was awake, yet he waited longer than seemed prudent; for the horses of our audacious opponent had a disagreeable air of freshness and power.  But his motive was loyal; his wish was that the Birmingham conceit should be full-blown before he froze it.  When that seemed ripe, he unloosed, or, to speak by a stronger image, he sprang his known resources, he slipped our royal horses like cheetas, or hunting leopards, after the affrighted game.  How they could retain such a reserve of fiery power after the work they had accomplished, seemed hard to explain.  But on our side, besides the physical superiority, was a tower of strength, namely, the king’s name, “which they upon the adverse faction wanted.”  Passing them without an effort, as it seemed, we threw them into the rear with so lengthening an interval between us, as proved in itself the bitterest mockery of their presumption; whilst our guard blew back a shattering blast of triumph, that was really too painfully full of derision.

I mention this little incident for its connection with what followed.  A Welshman, sitting behind me, asked if I had not felt my heart burn within me during the continuance of the race?  I said—­No; because we were not racing with a mail, so that no glory could be gained.  In fact, it was sufficiently mortifying that such a Birmingham thing should dare to challenge us.  The Welshman replied, that he didn’t see that; for that a cat might look at a king, and a Brummagem coach might lawfully race the Holyhead mail. “Race us perhaps,” I replied, “though even that has an air of sedition, but not beat us.  This would have been treason; and for its own sake I am glad that the Tallyho was disappointed.”  So dissatisfied did the Welshman seem with this opinion, that at last I was obliged to tell him a very fine story from one of our elder dramatists, viz.—­that once, in some oriental region, when the prince of all the land, with his splendid court, were flying their falcons, a hawk suddenly flew at a majestic eagle; and in defiance of the eagle’s prodigious advantages, in sight also of all the astonished field sportsmen, spectators, and followers, killed him on the spot.  The prince was struck with amazement at the unequal