xm 



conscience could not deem them right ; and I have 

 been compelled to resort to the counsel given by 

 the justly celebrated Abernethy, "Turn to page 

 — of ' my hooky line — from the bottom, and there 

 you will find your case." 



I am not yet acquitted of all my obligations. 

 The weischtiest of all is due to a man whose 

 name even I do not know. Some few months ago 

 I was seated on the box of one of the western 

 coaches, and, as my custom is, entered into deep 

 converse with my neighbour. In modern times, 

 this outside seat, though much coveted by casual 

 travellers, is one of very doubtful comfort. Some- 

 times you meet with a broken-down squire, who, 

 having hunted or driven himself into poverty, is 

 fain to take the reins in hand, as the only resource 

 for which his habits and neglected education have 

 qualified him. Being your equal, and perhaps 

 more than your equal by birth, he soon admits you 

 into his secret ; and then courtesy forbids the 

 alternative of silence. Talk with him you must, 

 but " his talk is of oxen ;" and unless you are more 

 than half a beast yourself, your forced conversation 

 soon ends in mutual disgust. I once met with a 

 bright exception to this rule. In the winter of 1833, 

 I was travelling through one of the midland coun- 

 ties, and I found in the coachman a gentleman who 



