behold one of these old-fashioned boats gliding along within twenty yards of the shore, on the sunny mornings of summer; and to see young and old seated thereon side by side, old women in their scarlet cloaks and black gipsy bonnets, and bonny lasses in their best "bib and tucker;" for they generally array themselves in their holiday costumes on these occasions. Then, what treasures are piled upon the deck, or stowed away within the hold; what a gabbling and clamour amongst the turkeys, geese, ducks, and every variety of farm-yard fowl; what piles of fruit; what stores of butter, eggs, and cheese! and, oh! above all, what gossip, and-shall I write it ?-what secret envy! Betsy whispers Sally, that Fanny seems too proud to speak to them this morning, since she's got that new shawl and Leghorn bonnet on; and, marry, after all, she looks but a fright; and they would not wear such an ugly shape, no, if they might have it for nothing! And Fanny keeps her eyes riveted upon the butter-basket, which, for lack of room, she is compelled to hold upon her knee. Then some old woman inquires of Fanny what she intends to ask for butter that day, but Fanny cannot tell,—she will see how the market goes; and she again fixes her eyes upon the basket, for she dare not look around lest she should see everybody eyeing her new clothes. Then there are Farmer Jobson's daughters; and they both have got new riding-habits on, and they begin to converse with one another, and remark how stupid it was of father not to let them have the two horses to ride on to market, especially when they had donned their new habits. But old Jobson heard them not: "Jack wanted Diamond and Jewel that day, to carry a little manure into th' far paddock; so both the young missesses mun go by th' market-boat." And they do go; but never was motion so near a standstill as it is with that boat. What a while they are passing the willow tree on the bank! there is time enough to sleep, dream, and awake again, before they will advance the length of that field. They had the tide in their favour for the first two miles, but now the current is about to turn, and two men must haul the boat along. The ropes are thrown out, and two brawny "mud shovers," (for they are never called sailors who manage such craft,) with trowsers turned up, and their heavy boots laced high up the ancle, place the noose of the rope over the right shoulder and under the left arm, then, folding their arms on their breasts, with heads bow-bent, they move leisurely along, by "bank and shore, and tree and stile." What a body of water is borne along before the head of the boat! They are truly "Dutch-built," with prows as round as an apple. What room would there be lost were they made sharp a-head! How could they possibly pack those immense hampers forward, if they were built after any other model: they are aquatic stage-waggons, the ponderous four-wheelers of the river. Deuced hard work is that hauling, and almost “ drags the very heart out!" Then the men have to keep below the bank, and at every stride sink over the boots in mud. What a time they are lifting up one leg and putting another down! True, they might move quicker, but "could they hold it out?" Reader, if ever thou goest into Lincolnshire, try if thou canst. keep up a brisker pace than theirs only for two hundred yards. Then what stoppages! There is the sloop Ann, bound for Burton Stather,—she is coming the contrary way, and, as it is but little beyond high water, she must also be hauled, and either one set of haulers or the other must let go their lines; then they have to be drawn into the boat again, or they might be broken. When the vessel has passed, the rope is again thrown ashore, and it is wonderful to see the distance to which a skilful waterman will throw the coil of one of those towing lines. On they go again, slowly and steadily; the men who are dragging the boat along "sweating like brocks; " it is complete "horse work;" but no horses are allowed to haul above Gainsborough bridge. Any one standing on the opposite bank, would imagine that they never could reach the market town before sunset. But they will be home before then. The current will be in their favour back; and if they have started at five in the morning, and, after the first hour or so, go but a mile and a half the remainder of the way, they will arrive at their journey's end by ten. The market will be over by one; two hours for shopping and their dinners; and home again by seven. Slow but sure is this old system of travelling. Nor must we pass down the river without observing the different ferries on a market-day,-the broad, flat-bottomed ferry-boats, bringing over droves of sheep, swine, bullocks, horses, and horsemen, with pretty village girls, who may be seen moving along the river-banks with their various loads, -some carrying them on the head, and others on the arm. Nor are these ferries crossed without accidents; vessels passing will sometimes run athwart the boat, or the horses take fright and plunge into the river. The ferry-men are generally brave, brawny fellows, an amphibious race,who at times run many risks, especially in the night, when they are aroused to carry over some drunken farmer. In winter, too, theirs is a perilous occupation, when the river is swollen with the rains, or filled with masses of floating ice many a tale could we tell of accidents " by flood and field," but they would be out of place in this chapter. : с The heavy "pack-horses" have long been out of date, and all that now serves to remind us of this very ancient mode of travelling with merchandise is some alehouse sign. What sensation must the entrance of these venerable travellers have created in the remote towns and villages in the olden time, with the jingling of their bells, and the clattering of hoofs, and their huge packs of goods strapped securely on the backs of their strong horses to half the height of a man. What a treat would it be now to sit and listen to the conversation of those worthy way-farers, when, after a long journey, they got warmed with humming ale, and told tales of highwaymen, and lonely roads, and dark nights, and bales of silks stolen, worth so much an ell, and where they concealed their money, and what struggles they had had with footpads. A rare paper will we write some day on these matters ere long. Then there was the old postman in war time, who used to blow his horn as proudly as an ancient herald, and enter the town with a long sword by his side and a brace of loaded pistols in his holsters. A great man was the old postman, thus mounted on his raw-boned steed, in former days, and many a poor horseman was glad to travel in his wake to the distant market-town. And oh to see him do his sword-exercise in the Black-head parlour with the poker on an evening! Few, I deem, who heard him talk, would like to make an attack on him in the day-time when armed and mounted. What sturdy fellows were the old waggoners! men who never travelled more than two miles an hour, and halted either to bait themselves or their horses at every road-side inn. How the heavy wheels of their ponderous wains ground down the ridges of the ruts; and with what difficulty did they travel when the roads were bad! How the heart of the foot-beaten traveller was overjoyed when he saw one of these huge vehicles approach! What a time he might ride for a shilling; and what a comfortable nap he might enjoy on the straw ! Then what pretty faces might be seen sometimes peeping out from between the tilt !—a mother and her children journeying to some distant town, where her husband had found employment. Even the husband himself, when seeking work, had begged a ride of the old waggoner; perhaps he had then no money to pay his fare. But when he got employment he went to the inn where the old waggoner put up—where he had halted for many yearsthe inn itself perhaps called the Waggon and Horses-and there they drank their cup of ale and smoked their pipes together. And the poor father sent money to his family every week by the old waggoner, and he would charge nothing for his trouble, but take part of a cup of ale now and then. I wish I could paint the old man the first time he sought out the poor mechanic's wife, and counted out the few shillings from his old yellow bag, and gave the children a penny each out of his own pocket, and told them that some day he should take them all to see their father. Well, they are on their way now, and every time the old man stops to have his pint of ale, he asks the poor mother to drink, and cuts off a large piece of his bread and cheese for the children. God bless him for it! Who that has read "Roderick Random" can forget the scene in the waggon, where Joey grumbles at Captain Weazel because "he won't suffer the poor waggoner to make a penny;" and where poor Strap pitches upon the stomach of the captain, and the lady regrets "that they did not wait for the chariot ;" and the old usurer chuckles at Jenny until he brings on a fit of coughing. Rare fun, I doubt not, might be found in these rude conveyances in the olden time. Then what important men the waggoners |