stlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on that
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs,
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the
leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle;
treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other
topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and
carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands
in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo
Coachey.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my
own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance
throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, carries animation always
with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn
sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some
hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the
group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a world
of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or
pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a
public-house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import,
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the
village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every
side of fresh country faces, and blooming giggling girls. At the corners
are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take their
stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the
sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the
horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the Cyclops
round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to
grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at the
bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic
engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky
smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual
animation to the co