When least expected how often in our progress through life do we suddenly come face to face with a grave difficulty which the most acute of intellects would have failed to foresee. Here's an illustration of what I mean. To shorten our journey by about half a mile the Baron and I left the main road and struck into the forest. The shade from the trees was fully appreciated after the heat and dust. There were numerous glades of surpassing loveliness, and we had but little difficulty in finding a path for our horses. We had enjoyed the agreeable change for some time when the question arose whether we had not lost our way. It turned out that neither of us knew anything about the intricate windings of the forest. The scenery was certainly very pretty, but the wealth of the variegated foliage only gladdened the eye, and the trout in the streams wanted catching and cooking; we were two hungry men in search of something to eat. Our watches told us that we had been nearly an hour endeavouring to reach our destination, which by the longest route would not have occupied more than half the time. We had undoubtedly lost our reckoning, and were making for some unknown region. A philosopher, partial to offering words of advice in season would write here, "beware of short cuts."

We altered our course and rode to the left instead of the right, and coming to a large open space we set our horses going to make up for the mistake. The open space was beautiful to look at, but proved as treacherous as a lovely but deceitful woman. This simile is not mine—the fair sex has no more devoted champion than myself—it was suggested to me by Wormald, who has just returned from India to go through the Divorce Court. Before we had ridden many yards we found ourselves in the middle of a morass, and—pleasant sensations—horses and riders felt themselves gradually sinking out of sight. Shouting for help seemed useless in such a solitude, and our escape evidently depended on our own exertions.

The Baron was a heavy man and weighed quite sixteen stone in the saddle. He was mounted on a stout black cob about fifteen hands, which was making extraordinary exertions to get out of the mire, but the horses' floundering only made matters worse. My steed, a light-made thoroughbred mare, standing 15—2, having only to carry about ten stone, did not sink so deeply as the Baron's cob, and after a desperate scramble we managed to retrace our steps and regain sound ground. My trouble over, I fastened my muddy horse to a tree and hastened to see what I could do for my companion. His position had become very serious. The cob was lying on his side and had got the Baron under him.

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