having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers to have a sketch that' may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 5 and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity," so that wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any 10 other craft or mystery.

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He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent pota- 15 tions of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further/ increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching/ to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed lowcrowned hat; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief 2 about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom, and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole; the present, most probably,, of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, 25 striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way up his legs.

All this costume is maintained with much precision: he has a pride in having his clothes of ex- 30 cellent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discern

ible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village house5 wives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with some10 thing of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the ostler: his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air 15 of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of ostlers, stableboys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of 20 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 25 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.

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing 30 serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A Stage Coach, however, carries

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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 band-boxes to secure places, and in the hurry 5 of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, 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 10 the door of a public-house, and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to Home half-blushing If-blushing half-laughing housemaid an

shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one 15 runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company 20 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 25 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

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to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through so the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxu- fast 5 ries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly with 10 their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations: "Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton must all die

for in twelve days a not be fed with a little. 2 sugar, and honey, square it

multitude of people will Now plums and spice, among pies and broth.

Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, 20 while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas-eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and 25 cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers."

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach30 windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy "There's

John! and there's old Carlo; and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

At the end of a lane there was an old soberlooking servant in livery waiting for them; he was and by 5 the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little the bustling times that awaited him.

accompanied by a superannuated at of

dreaming of

I was pleased to see the fondness with which 10 the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John arranged 15 that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first.

Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once, 20 and overpowering him with questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated: for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had 25 neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just 30 distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades with