CHARLES GEACH, M.P. 125

WILLIAM SANDS COX, F.R.S. 132

GEORGE EDMONDS 140

CHARLES VINCE 155

JOHN SMITH, SOLICITOR 164

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF BIRMINGHAM.

It is a fine autumnal morning in the year 1837. I am sitting on the box
seat of a stage coach, in the yard of the Bull-and-Mouth, St.
Martin's-le-Grand, in the City of London. The splendid gray horses seem
anxious to be off, but their heads are held by careful grooms. The metal
fittings of the harness glitter in the early sunlight. Jew pedlar-boys
offer me razors and penknives at prices unheard of in the shops. Porters
bring carpet-bags and strange-looking packages of all sizes, and, to my
great inconvenience, keep lifting up the foot-board, to deposit them in
the "front boot." A solemn-looking man, whose nose is preternaturally
red, holds carefully a silver-mounted whip. Passengers arrive, and climb
to the roof of the coach, before and behind, until we are "full
outside." Then the guard comes with a list, carefully checks off all our
names, and retires to the booking office, from which a minute later he
returns. He is this time accompanied by the coachman, who is a handsome,
roguish-looking man. He wears a white hat, his boots are brilliantly
polished, his drab great-coat is faultlessly clean, and the dark blue
neckerchief is daintily tied. His whiskers are carefully brushed forward
and curled, the flower in the button-hole is as fresh as if that
instant plucked, and he has a look as if he were well fed, and in all
other respects well cared for.

Looking admiringly over the horses, and taking the whip from his
satellite, who touches his hat as he gives it up, Jehu takes the reins
in hand; mounts rapidly to his seat; adjusts the "apron;" glances
backward; gets the signal from the guard, who has just jumped up--bugle
in hand--behind; arranges the "ribbons" in his well-gloved hand;
produces a sound, somehow, with his tongue, that would puzzle the most
skilful printer in the world to print phonetically, but which a Pole or
a Russian would possibly understand if printed "tzchk;" gently shakes
the reins, and we are off.

As we pass toward the gateway, the guard strikes up with the bugle, and
makes the place resound with the well-known air, "Off, off, said the
stranger.