" Emerging upon the street, we see, issuing from an opposite
gateway, a dozen omnibuses, driven by scarlet-coated coachmen, and laden
entirely with scarlet-coated passengers. Each of these men is a "general
postman," and he is on his way to his "beat." As the vehicle arrives at
the most convenient point, he will alight and commence the "morning"
delivery. The process will be repeated in the evening; and these two
deliveries suffice, then, for all the "country" correspondence sent to
London.

Leaving them, our coach passes on through busy Aldersgate Street, where
we are interrupted frequently by droves of sheep and numerous oxen on
their way from Smithfield to the slaughter-houses of their purchasers.
On through Goswell Street, alive with cries of "milk" and "water
creeses." On through Goswell Road; past Sadler's Wells; over the New
River, then an open stream; and in a few minutes we pull up at "The
Angel." Here we take in some internal cargo. A lady of middle age, and
of far beyond middle size, has "booked inside," and is very desirous
that a ban-box (without the "d") should go inside, too. This the guard
declines to allow, and this matter being otherwise arranged, on we go
again. Through "Merrie Islington" to Highgate, where we pass under the
great archway, then newly built; on to Barnet, where we stop to change
horses, and where I stand up to have a look at my fellow outside
passengers. There is not a lady amongst us. Coachman, guard, and
passengers, we are fourteen. We all wear "top" hats, of which five are
white; each hat, white or black, has its band of black crape. King
William IV. was lately dead, and every decently dressed man in the
country then wore some badge of mourning.

During the whole of that long day we rattled on. Through sleepy towns
and pleasant villages; past the barracks at Weedon, near which we cross
a newly-built bridge, on the summit of which the coachman pulls up, and
we see a deep cutting through the fields on our right, and a long and
high embankment on the left. Scores of men, and horses drawing
strange-looking vehicles, are hard at work, and we are told that this is
to be the "London and Birmingham Railway," which the coachman adds "is
going to drive _us_ off the road." On we go again, through the noble
avenue of trees near Dunchurch; through quaint and picturesque Coventry;
past Meriden, where we see the words, "Meriden School," built curiously,
with vari-coloured bricks, into a boundary