suppose that the silent Mr. Burleigh shared
in the general feeling. Everybody there,
knew that Sir Boxer's favourite recreation
was to meet upon the road Mr. Burleigh's
Highflyer, Quicksilver, or Lightning four-
horse coach, and relieve the driver (at the
imminent risk of the passengers' necks) by
tooling the prads for ten or twelve miles, like
a real born gentleman, that he was; that is,
according to the standard that was recognised
in those days.

No one who had seen him in his broad-
brimmed hat, his great coat, his buff leather
gloves, and his narrow cord breeches, and
top-boots, holding the tugging reins, and
poising the canary-coloured, silver-headed,
long-thonged whip, could hesitate about the
nature and extent of his opposition to the
proposed branch railway.

Another period of a few years passed by.
Sir Boxer did oppose the railway, and
prevented the extension of the branch to my
nameless country town. Most of the inhabitants
believed that this was done on
principle; but a few of the sceptical and
uncharitable—myself amongst the number—
thought that it was because the worthy
Baronet had not been offered his price. The
railway pioneers had been liberal without
doubt—as was the fashion in those early days
of energy and enterprise— but an old
aristocratic family park was not to be cut up
for the benefit of rapid communication,
like a common, plebeian farm. Therefore,
Sir Boxer, for the present, remained doggedly
passive.

In the meantime the directors had carried
the railway to a point about five miles
distant from my nameless country town; they
then remained doggedly passive also.

The effect that this extension had upon
coaching interests, (although Mr. Burleigh
couldn't see it,) was very injurious. The
station was reached by the main road after
two hours' walk, or one hour's drive, and it
then took about two hours more, with a fare of
four shillings to reach London. For a little
time the inhabitants of my nameless country
town looked shyly upon this new and
cheap mode of conveyance; believed all
the exaggerated stories of dangers to be
feared, and accidents that had already
occurred— circulated, I am sorry to have
to believe, in the interest of the solemn Mr.
Burleigh; and rallied round that injured and
suffering coach-proprietor; who, although he
couldn't see it, had been wise enough to
reduce his fares .to meet the new competition.
Gradually, however, one or two adventurous
spirits had been induced to try the experiment
of the road and railway journey to the
metropolis; and, having returned, uninjured,
with a favourable report of the sensations
they had experienced, others followed their
example, and the railway rose steadily in
popularity in proportion as its novelty and
the fear of its dangers wore off.

It was at this time that Mr. Burleigh
was subjected to his severest trial. About the
general public of the nameless country town,
small as it was, he did not care much;
although every individual knew him, and
professed a regard for him; but his own
family began to turn against him. It was not
exactly his own flesh and blood; that would
indeed have been bitter; but, one morning,
the sad intelligence was conveyed
to him that his second nephew on the
wife's side had started off, without the
knowledge of his parents, to make his first
journey on the railroad. The mother came
round, with tears in her eyes, to apologise,
explain, and condole with Mrs. Burleigh;
and Mrs. Burleigh, in her turn, conveyed the
apologies, explanations, and condolences to
her husband. He did not say much— he
never did; but he felt the affliction deeply.
Still he resolved to fight the distant railroad,
or die in harness in the attempt. His
passengers dropped off, day by day, his
luggage carrying had entirely gone, his daily
consumption of brandy increased, and
he was again induced, by the advice of
friends and persons of experience, to reduce
his fares. I think, at this time, he began to
see it.

I continued my trips, as usual; and,
fair weather or fine weather, clung to the
Burleigh Quicksilver, and Highflyer (the
Lightning had already gone to pay expenses)
as if I had been the fine old English gentleman
who lived in the olden time. There
were many melancholy changes for the worse.
The horses were not so rampant; the
turnpike keepers were not so watchful nor so
obedient; the ostlers were not so numerous,
and those who were left were not so
admiring and so respectful; the guard had
gone, and the coachman put on the drag
himself when we went down hill, by the
mechanical contrivance of a rope that dangled
by the side of the box-seat. Sometimes we
drove several stages unicorn fashion— three
horses instead of four. Gradually, one or
two, then three or four, of the hotels on
the line of road, closed their shutters,
stuck up bills all over their frontage,
announcing a sale, or, when in a favourable
position, let off the greater portion of their
now unrequired premises for other business
purposes. Some regularly broke down under
the affliction, and, not finding a purchaser or
a tenant, became dreary roadside spectacles
of broken windows and rain-washed placards.
Under this sad state of things, we had to
alter our arrangements for changing horses.
Our stages were made longer; and sometimes,
the cattle were brought to us along a bleak,
muddy lane, from a few wretched barns, led
by stooping old men in dirty, fluttering, clay-
coloured smock-frocks, who had much more
of the potato-field about them than the
stable-yard.

At these painful moments the old coachman