s this one at Uffington, but he is a very beautiful
feature of the country. I paid him a visit the other day, and was
surprised to find he was very much smaller than he appears from the
railway. Glancing over a recent edition of Tom Hughes' book, "The
Scouring of the White Horse," I found the following lines:--

"In all likelihood the _pastime_ of 1857 will be the last of his race;
for is not the famous Saxon (or British) horse now scheduled to an Act
of Parliament as an ancient monument which will be maintained in time to
come as a piece of prosaic business, at the cost of other than Berkshire
men reared within sight of the hill?"

Alas! it is too true. There has been no _pastime_ since 1857.

It would have been a splendid way of commemorating the "diamond jubilee"
if a scouring had been organised in 1897. Forty years have passed since
the last pastime, with its backsword play and "climmin a greasy pole for
a leg of mutton," its race for a pig and a cheese; and, oddly enough,
the previous scouring had taken place in the year of the Queen's
accession, sixty-one years ago. It would be enough to make poor Tom
Hughes turn in his grave if he knew that the old White Horse had been
turned out to grass, and left to look after himself for the rest of
his days!

Those were grand old times when the Berkshire; Gloucestershire, and
Somersetshire men amused themselves by cracking each other's heads and
cudgel-playing for a gold-laced hat and a pair of buckskin breeches;
when a flitch of bacon was run for by donkeys; and when, last, but not
least, John Morse, of Uffington, "grinned agin another chap droo hos
[horse] collars, a fine bit of spwoart, to be sure, and made the folks
laaf." I here quote from Tom Hughes' book, "The Scouring of the White
Horse," to which I must refer my readers for further interesting
particulars.

There are some days during summer when the sunlight is so beautiful that
every object is invested with a glamour and a charm not usually
associated with it. Such a day was that of which we write. As we were
gliding out of Swindon the sun was beginning to descend. From a Great
Western express, running at the rate of sixty miles an hour through
picturesque country, you may watch the sun setting amidst every variety
of scenery. Now some hoary grey tower stands out against the intense
brightness of the western sky; now a tracery of fine trees shades for a
time the dazzling light; then suddenly the fiery furnace i