y,
as there will be met on it only the liveried equipage of some local
magnate, the more unpretentious turn-out of country doctor or parson,
with here and there a lumbering farm waggon, or the farmer himself in
his smart two-wheeled "trap," on the way to a neighbouring market.

How different it was half a century ago, when along this same highway
fifty four-horse stages were "tooled" to and fro from England's
metropolis to her chief seaport town, top-heavy with fares--often a
noisy crowd of jovial Jack tars, just off a cruise and making
Londonward, or with faces set for Portsmouth, once more to breast the
billows and brave the dangers of the deep! Many a naval officer of name
and fame historic, such as the Rodneys, Cochranes, Collingwoods, and
Codringtons,--even Nile's hero himself,--has been whirled along this old
highway.

All that is over now, and long has been. To-day the iron horse, with
its rattling train, carries such travellers by a different route--the
screech of its whistle being just audible to wayfarers on the old road,
as in mockery of their crawling pace. Of its ancient glories there
remain only the splendid causeway, still kept in repair, and the inns
encountered at short distances apart, many of them once grand
hostelries. They, however, are not in repair; instead, altogether out
of it. Their walls are cracked and crumbling to ruins, the ample
courtyards are grass-grown and the stables empty, or occupied only by
half a dozen clumsy cart-horses; while of human kind moving around will
be a lout or two in smock-frocks, where gaudily-dressed postillions,
booted and spurred, with natty ostlers in sleeve-waistcoats,
tight-fitting breeches, and gaiters, once ruled the roast.

Among other ancient landmarks on this now little-used highway is one of
dark and tragic import. Beyond the town of Petersfield, going
southward, the road winds up a long steep ridge of chalk formation--the
"South Downs," which have given their name to the celebrated breed of
sheep. Near the summit is a crater-like depression, several hundred
feet in depth, around whose rim the causeway is carried--a dark and
dismal hole, so weird of aspect as to have earned for it the appellation
of the "Devil's Punch Bowl." Human agency has further contributed to
the appropriateness of the title. By the side of the road, just where
it turns around the upper edge of the hollow, is a monolithic monument,
recording the tragic fate of a sailor who