It were well if every wayfarer were like the sailor, who when offered a quid from the ’bacoo box of a smoker, said, ’I never chews the short-cut!’ and in the same spirit, we strongly advise him, before he takes the short-cut to think of the returns!

Should the weather prove rainy, the hungry traveller may certainly get a wet on the road, although he starves before he reaches the wished-for inn.

As there is likewise no more chance of meeting a good tempered guide on a cross-road, than of finding eggs and bacon, in an edible state, at least on a common—­and as he can no more pull in the summer-rains than he can the reins of a runaway stallion; the result is, the inexperienced youth ludicrously represents so many pounds of ‘dripping,’ and although he may be thirsty, he will have no cause to complain that he is—­dry!  The best mode for an honest man to go round the country, is to take a straight-forward course, especially when the surcharged clouds do rule the horizon with sloping lines of rain!  Besides, it is by no means a pleasant thing for a man with a scanty wardrobe, to find his clothes running away at a most unpleasant rate, while he can scarcely drag one clay-encumbered leg after the other.

It is a difficult trial, too, of a man’s philosophy, after trudging over a long field, to be encountered by the mockery of a ’ha! ha!’—­fence!  He utters a few bitter expletives, perhaps, but nought avails his railing against such a fence as that!

The shower which makes all nature smile, only causes him to laugh—­on the wrong side of his mouth, for he regards it as a temperance man does a regular soaker!

Reader! never attempt a bye-way on a wet day, with a stick and bundle at your back—­(if you have a waterproof trunk, you may indeed weather it)—­but go a-head on the turnpike road—­the way of all mails—­leaving long and short commons to the goose and donkey—­and the probability is, that you may not only I make a sign before you die, but get a feed—­and a shelter.

SCENE XVII.

“I’m dem’d if I can ever hit ’em.”

It is a most extraordinary thing, ’pon my veracity:  I go out as regularly as the year, and yet I never bring down an individual bird.

I have one of the best Mantons going with such a bore! and then I use the best shot—­but not being the best shot in the world myself—­I suppose is the identical reason why I never hit any thing.  I think it must arise from a natural defect in my sight; for when I suppose a covey as near—­as my miser of an uncle—­they are probably as distant—­as my ninety-ninth cousin!

Such a rum go!—­the other day I had a troop of fellows at my heels, laughing like mad; and what do you think?—­when I doffed my shooting jacket, I found some wag had stuck the top of a printed placard on my back, with the horrid words, “A young Gentleman missing!”

It was only last week, a whole flight of sparrows rose at my very feet—­I fired—­bang!—­no go!—­but I heard a squall; and elevating my glass, lo!  I beheld a cottage within a few yards of my muzzle—­the vulgar peasant took the trouble to leap his fence, and inform me I had broken his windows—­of course I was compelled to pay him for his panes.