"A laden ass, a maid with wicker maun, A shepherd lad, driving his lambs to sell; Russet-clad girls move in the early dawn; Farmers, whose thoughts on crops and prizes dwell. Moving so slow, you think he never will get there." "SUMMER MORNING." BUT few have travelled far through England without being struck by the solitary situation of some of the toll-gates which they have passed through; and what must their loneliness be now, when such a number of coaches have been taken off the roads? For we fancy that the sound of the horn, and the thundering of the guard at the gate in the deep midnight, were often, in those dreary places, welcome company. But in the silent, out-of-the-way country, where three or four long, houseless, weary, lane-like roads, come through woods and between hills, and meet at some murderous-looking angle, that is the spot for a romantic and lonely toll-gate. If you peep in at the open door, you see a loaded gun and a brace of pistols hanging over the mantel-piece, and a savage dog stands staring at you on the threshold; for there is a look of danger, both within and without the place. If a suspicious character calls in the day-time, to light his pipe or inquire the way, the light is brought to the door, and the answer given through as small an opening as can possibly be made; for the tollkeeper has a dislike to all reconnoitering. If you look at the windows, they are barred like a prison; the door is also covered with sheet-iron, and it would be a difficult matter to storm such a stronghold. You see nothing around for miles, but moors and commons, woods and fields; and you think of the long nights in the middle of winter, when sixteen hours of darkness out of the twenty-four, hang over that lonely and silent scene. You recall the winds which blow all night long, and the awful roaring of the tall trees, mingled with heavy showers of rain, that come blinding and beating upon the window-panes, and sounding like robbers that are breaking through; and you feel that you could never sleep amid such "a warring of the elements." Perhaps near at hand there stands a gibbet-post, on the very spot where a murder was committed; and the gibbet-irons swing, and creak, and rattle, as the wind goes whistling through them; and you feel as if you would not live near such a place for a thousand a-year. Or it may be, that some one who destroyed himself, is buried beneath the guide-post at the corner of the cross roads, as it was the custom to inter suicides in such like places a few years ago; and all the country people, for miles around, believe that the spot is haunted, for at twelve o'clock at night, nobody knows what has not been seen. Drunken farmers, on horseback, have been chased, and timid ploughboys have had to run for it; and the old toll-man has had to come out to one fainting, and another speechless, and a third with his hair standing on end; and if you believe but half, there never was such a spot where "bogles" laid wait and “caught you unawares. One woman's "all in white," another without a head, a third carrying an infant in her arms. You could never see their faces, but you heard the rustle of their garments, and felt the cold air as they cut through it, for they walked not, but glided; and you never seemed to be nearer to them than when they at first appeared, and if you attempted to approach, why-they vanished. What a fine land of dreamy, old, supernatural lies to dwell in: nothing you can disprove, so you believe out of charity; and, in the open noon-day, are silly enough to stand and look at the place. True, they could see footprints which escaped you, and here and there blades of grass which the fire had blackened, and marks where "Christian and Apollyon sought each other to subdue." Many might think our picture overdrawn; but when we tell them that in our younger years such was the common gossip round many a country hearth, and "so catching is cowardice," that, when alone, we have run past these haunted places after dark, as if the ghost of the suicide or murderer was in full chase at our heels. It is a solitary life to keep watch at these dreary toll gates day after day and night after night; places where the traffic is so small, that the tolls taken scarcely pay for keeping the roads in the neighbourhood in repair. True, there is a small patch of garden ground to cultivate; but, then, how few pause to admire it. A horseman pulls up, pays his penny, and the old man, merely because it is a change, watches him until he is out of sight; then for hours he hears not the sound of a human voice, for no one comes that way but what has to journey miles further, for there is nowhere to go to, no place to stop at, but the market-town, ten miles off. Sometimes this solitary confinement is relieved by the appearance of the village constable and his deputy. A robbery has been committed, and they have traced foot-marks to the end of the lane; in the night he must have passed through the wicket (for foot passengers) of the toll-gate. Did he hear it "slam to?-at what time? Was it one man only, or did he hear voices?" Comfortable inquiries these for a lonely man, who may be called upon to give evidence at the next assizes, and if the prisoner escapes, there he is still to be found "at home" on any future occasion. Or, perhaps, the night before the trial, some comrade of the thief's sends his voice through the key-hole, bidding him beware; and that if he appears in court on the morrow, and but attempts to identify the prisoner (whom he saw pass through the gate), death will, some dark night, be his doom. Yet such things were not uncommon less than fifty years ago. There is more than one instance on record, of highwaymen riding up to the gate at midnight, and paying the toll with a bullet; and we have heard of one old man who returned the fire, and shot the robber in the arm, bidding him remember, as he galloped off wounded, "that he had got his change." as 66 But to drive up to one of these places in the night, we have done, on some desolate country road, and knock for half an hour before we could awaken the tollman; then, when he had answered you, to hear him hack, hack," with his flint and steel, to be told that the tinder was damp,-that he could not find a match,—and, perhaps, the rain coming down all the while in torrents. This is ruralising with a vengeance. Blow him up as hard as you like, he does not know how he came so dead asleep;" he fancied he heard somebody, but, then, everybody knocks who passes; and there's no knowing who's who, or what's what. He has got up so often, and there's been nobody there; or they've run away, especially on a market night or at a feast time! "Poor old fellow! with you it is but once; you bid him keep the change, and are ashamed that you lost your temper, for you find he gets but about twenty pounds a-year, when he has "paid the trust." 66 He has got more; but how? "He was the last who spoke to the poor woman that was murdered by the side of the wood." He points to where the gibbet-post stands, and where the bones of the murderer still swing in irons. They passed through the gate at 'dark hourshe lingered behind, to beg a drink of water-she walked very heavily-he noticed the bundle she carried-she seemed well-nigh fainting-the shawl she had on had been. patched-she carried a pair of pattens in her hand-the man bore a blue bonnet-box-she thanked him in a faint voice—came back again to inquire the time—he heard the man swear at her for staying so long behind—he was pockmarked-had a round head, and a savage look." The tollkeeper was the chief witness against him; he was kept at the assize town for three days; they allowed him a guinea |