difficulty the poor animals dragged their unwieldy burthen along the road. It groaned and creaked at every fresh tug which they gave it, as a ship rocking or beating up against a heavy sea, strains all her timbers with a low moaning sound, as she drives over the contending waves."

Now, what a transporting sight must such a vessel as this, looming large in a twilight fog, on the skirts of Bagshot or Hounslow Heath, have presented to the Turpins of the last century ! And if such were the stage-coaches which performed the journey from London to Exeter in four days, not much better were the post-chaises -witness the beautiful Mrs. Montagu's piteous accounts of the frequent misadventures of her sister Pea and herself, when returning from country assemblies. Hence, doubtless, the custom of rural beaux calling in the morning, to ascertain whether their partners reached home in safety. The by-roads of England must have been much in fault, when no less than three, overturns into ditches are mentioned in one letter; and even the high roads were in those days made so round, that it was dangerous for a chaise to

turn off the middle of the road when it met another, the descent being so very steep on each side. Now, only consider how many concomitant advantages the highwaymen had! But they were cowardly fellows after all, as the following true narrative will show.

My great-grandfather, Mr. W―, was crossing Wimbledon Common in broad daylight, in the year 1784, in his coach and four, on his way to dine with Dr. Mawbey, at Hampton Court. In the coach with him were two of his daughtersone of them my grandmother, with my mother, then an infant, on her lap.. From my grandmother I have the story. The old gentleman was dozing, when he was roused from his nap by his youngest daughter's seizing him suddenly by the arm, and exclaiming,

“Papa! papa !—a highwayman!"

It was just below the steep, gravelly bank where Jerry Abershaw had hung in chains. There were three mounted robbers.

The stout old gentleman instantly seized a loaded blunderbuss, which was slung over his head, and sprang out of the carriage with it; on

which the highwayman on that side galloped up the bank, stooping so as to place his horse's neck between his head and the levelled piece, at the same time dropping his own pistol, which was secured to his side by a leathern strap. He called to the postilion, "Drive on!"

"No, James," interrupted Mr. W., "for I see another carriage coming up, which may contain an unarmed party."

The highwayman, reiterating, "Drive on!" galloped off, followed by his two companions.

The other carriage, on coming up, proved to contain the Duke of Newcastle, with whom, his grace being unarmed, Mr. W. and his family proceeded to Kingston in company, leaving behind them three desperadoes discomfited by one energetic old man. While taking some refreshment at the inn, a couple of horsemen, dressed as a clergyman and his servant, passed by, and Mr. W., stepping out to them, related what had just occurred, and cautioned them against crossing the common unarmed. They thanked him, but replied that they were two of Sir John Fielding's men, disguised and well armed, in the hope of

attack. They were not disappointed, and, giving chace to the gang, who scattered as widely as they could, pursued one of them as far as Virginia Water. His horse swam across, but was so exhausted that the man was taken on the opposite side. Mr. W. was asked to appear against him, but declined, saying there was sufficient evidence to convict him, and he would not swear away a life he had spared when his blood was hot. He saw the prisoner in Newgate, however, and in his own mind identified him.

There were other encounters this old gentleman had one on Salisbury Plain, with the noted Bolter, a sort of low Rob Roy, who used to attack horsemen single-handed, after lurking about at fairs and markets, to find out what men were likely to travel alone and with money. Mr. W. had his son Ned with him; and the highwayman, who was splendidly mounted, dashed by him, waving his hand and crying derisively, "I'm not Bolter!"

H

ON THE SACRED AFFECTIONS.

ON that far-off horizon, where earth and heaven seem to meet, many of us may discern, if we cast a retrospective glance at our opening lives, a gleam of golden light, while all the intervening space is in dull shadow. If an illustration may be taken from direct experience, I remember, and have always remembered, with more or less distinctness, an early, halcyon time, when though the sons of God, indeed, walked not among the children of men, the Son of God did, and took them in his arms and blessed them. I mean to say, that, as a little child of three years old, I remember so loving Jesus, and feeling beloved by Him, that in my dreams I saw Him and walked with Him on fleecy clouds, held Him by his robe, was held by Him in his arms, and-oh, infant idea of beatitude!-received from Him a little prayer-book, bound in pink kid!