CHAPTER XII.

COBB'S COACH-NED DEVINE-PALMERSTON-PIGROOT

GOLD FIELDS-BLACKSTONE.

WE started, three on the box, the middle man being a candidate for the Gold Fields in the Provincial Council, and as like the type of a Manchester bagman, in dress, manner, and everything else, politics included, as I ever saw a man. The pilot, for he was no less, was a Mr. "Ned Devine," who handled the six as easily and as skilfully as if it had been a single horse, and I proclaim him against all comers the first coachman in the world.

The way he managed at a turn of the road, the short turns of the streets in the town, and the awkward places on the road, were to me, not unused to four, a marvel of skill and strength. I took hold of the reins once or twice, and the weight of them, with the six horses, without bearing reins, was quite enough to have knocked up a man, without any driving or guiding. His day's journey was seventy miles.

The first stage was thirteen miles, and passed up and down a gorge of mountains, finely wooded, but with turns and twists in the road, round which he went at a pace which would have overturned the Exeter Telegraph, twice a week, with four horses, whereas we had six.

We changed in the bottom, and went another thirteen miles with six. At the end of this stage we breakfasted, and had a very fair meal at Warhomout's. We then started again with a fresh six, and arrived at Palmerston. Cobb's coach had, up to that time, been a fairly comfortable con

veyance.

It being hung on leather springs exceeded, to my recollection, the elastic movements of the various steamers I had come by. By holding on to the iron, and keeping my legs strained tight, I managed to sit there as far as Palmerston. But the Candidate had been an uncomfortable neighbour, and my leg had made no "progress," which was his chief point, owing to his proximity.

I had been warned that the road would be tolerable to this place, but execrable beyond. This turned out to be the case, and it reminded me of home politics.

To the end and limit of old Palmerston, everybody seemed pretty secure, and, Tory as I am, I was fairly content. Then when he was gone, and after

the brief "Derby" ministry, we began dipping into the sloughs of despond, plunging into deep ruts, driving down precipices, and running all sorts of

risks.

No such pilot as "Ned Devine," no stories sad or cheerful on the road, and when we drove off it, each crotchety tussack, like each crotchety member, making an impediment and jolt, to the discomfort of the passengers of the Government coach, or, in this case, her Majesty's Mail. Oh for the Derby Dilly! Having passed up the "Shag Valley" I fairly gave up my seat on the box and got inside, where I found my fellow passengers consisted of a rough north of Ireland chap, going to have a try at the Diggings, and a poor pennyless girl going to service at Nazeby.

After a ploughing match, for it was no better, and crossing either several rivers, or the same several times, and changing again, we arrived at "Pigroot," a euphonious but well deserved name for the place where we were to sleep.

I descended half smashed, with every bone in my body nearly dislocated, and entered the hut of which I had received such serious warning before leaving Dunedin. Its looks quite answered the prevision of my friends. The "up," or as they call it, the "down" coach had arrived, and we found the joint dinner table graced with the presence of four ladies

who were going to Dunedin. I use the term "ladies" as a generic term, indicating my respect for the softer sex, but only in that sense. We dined poorly enough, assisted by "Ned Devine and the other coachman.

All along the road we had been pestered by bets, and conversations of the most animated kind, with reference to the respective candidates for the districts through which we had passed. Here the controversy was confined to the respective merits of the two candidates for the superintendentship— Mac Andrew, the present superintendent of the province, and his opponent, Mr. Reed. Ned Devine manfully supported Mac Andrew, and Harry Nettlefold, the other coachman, Mr. Reed; and warm and excited was the debate. The Candidate who joined in seemed a "measuring cast" kind of man, who I think was waiting to see what the opinion of his constituents might be before forming his own. The ladies looked on impartially, and I listened.

As far as I could judge myself, I inclined to Mac Andrew. First, because of the better argument of Ned Devine, who put it, "if a man does what is right, isn't he right?" to which Harry Nettlefold had no immediate reply, nor did it seem to admit of any. Mac Andrew not being able to carry a majority in the Council, has peremptorily dissolved it, which seemed to me a fine exercise of

power. Ned offered four to one on him, of which offer there were no takers. After a prolonged discussion on this point, and various anecdotes about a rough mayor of Cromwell, who seems to be a quaint fellow, and who had been told that in speaking of the Governor, he ought to say "His Excellency,” addressed him in that way instead of "Your" on the occasion of a meeting. We prepared for bed. I had determined to avoid that proceeding, and spread my travelling bed and great-coat on the table, and abided there. It did very well, but that I woke up at three, and failed to discover from my watch that it was not five, at which hour we were to start. So I had two hours sitting by the fire, which was kept up to give us a cup of coffee in the morning. In obedience to raps at respective doors, the various snores which had sounded through the house, abated, and having shaken hands with Ned Devine, I got into "Cobb" again with my fellowpassengers, under the pilotage of Harry. I was comforted by finding that Harry had been the competitor for driving honours with Ned at Melbourne, where the vigour of competing companies, between Melbourne and Geelong, had culminated in twenty horses in hand! This is really no joke, as first of all he told me himself, and next it was confirmed by Mr. Allen, who had seen them at work, and various other people.