and that it is transition only. Heaven forefend that the good planet should stop where it is, — at a Manchester millennium!

And we cannot take thoroughly to the modern, and, we hope, transitory coachman, compared with the humbler pretensions of his predecessor. We acknowledge his improvement in some respects. He wears gloves; has cleaner linen, and an opinion of himself; and is called "Sir" by the hostlers. He gathers the reins in his hands with a sort of half-gentility, a certain retinence and composure of bearing; and gives answers in the style of a man who is not to be too much troubled, a part-proprietor, or, for aught we know, corn-chandler, and cousin to Squire Jenks himself, who in less knowing times was called Farmer Jenks. He knows what belongs to the Diffusion of Coaches. You doubt, notwithstanding his red face, whether he could ever get in a passion, and swear; till, somebody bringing his authority into question, out comes the long-suppressed, natural, gin-drinking man of many weathers. Peace be to him, poor fellow! and a fit of illness that shall stop his drinking in time.

After all, however, our coach was a very good coach, and the coachmen as good also,- for aught that we recollect to the contrary. We are painting from the race in general. We had the inside, as we said before, all to ourselves: we had books, rapidity, fresh air, and one another's company. Good-natured Cowley was with us, in the shape of his delightful volume of Essays; Parnell, Shenstone, and others, not taxing the faculties overmuch, but good, chatting, inn-loving men; some Shakespeare, fit for all places,

especially for one to which we were bound; a bit of Greek Anthology; some extracts from "Blackwood," "Fraser," "Tait," and the "New Monthly," chiefly consisting of delightful chat upon poets (of which more by and by); and a curious volume, little known, of miscellaneous prose by Armstrong, in which one of the best-natured men that ever lived appears to be one of the most caustic and querulous.

All these books and papers kept sliding every now and then from the seats, and set us laughing. The air was delightfully fresh and moist; the bits of black earth, spun up by the coach-wheels, danced merrily by the windows. We passed Hyde-Park Corner, famous for Pope's going to school; Knightsbridge, where Steele made Savage write the pamphlet that was to pay for their dinner; and are come in sight of Kensington, and Mrs. Inchbald's privacy, a publichouse.

But we must here give the reader breath; requesting his company with us next week.

255

A JOURNEY BY COACH.

CONTINUED.

IFE has few things better than this," said Dr. Johnson, on feeling himself settled in a coach, and rolling along the road. "The pleasure is complete, sir," said Boswell; thinking to echo the sentiment of his illustrious friend, and leave no doubt about it.

"Why, no, sir," returned the doctor, who did not choose to be too much agreed with, Boswellically. "You have to arrive somewhere: there is to be an end of the pleasure. Sir, you have a melancholy anticipation."

We quote from memory, — probably with little justice to what was really said; but such was the gist of it. We confess we did not think with Johnson, in the present instance: for the friends we had left behind us, and the friends we were going to see, are both better things to live with than the fact of being on the road; and our health was not good enough to render the intermediate state of existence a perfect one. But where the circumstances are all favorable, or the change merely good for its own sake, we do thoroughly hold with the doctor, that few things in life are better than rolling along in a coach at your ease, looking out upon novelty, and feeling lord of your place and time.

And as to the melancholy of arriving somewhere, it has often struck us how unwise it is, in people not bound upon any journey's end more attractive than ordinary, to be in so much haste to reach there. People must exist somewhere; and where better (except with dear friends) than in the midst of scenes of nature, in fresh air, and in any easy state of movement? To be borne along, with no trouble, and yet without compulsion or mere passiveness, and with a sense of the power of commanding what you enjoy, is surely a pleasurable state of being both for body and mind. Let the reader nestle himself up in a corner of the coach, with his arms folded, and thorough room for his legs; and fancy it. Perhaps he shuts his eyes, and a balmy air comes breathing on the lids, while his body is carried jovially along, — jolted a little, occasionally, without jolting, wafted over the fine English roads, now dashing at the hill, now going gentlier down it; spinning along a perfect level, or gently dipping into a bit of an undulation, and so up again, just enough to bend his chin a little closer, and remind him how smoothly the carriage is hung.

Verily an English stage-coach is a fine thing, and they do not "order these matters better in France." What we miss of our lively neighbors, when the coach has strangers in it, is their sociability; but when a couple of friends have the inside to themselves, as was the case in our instance, what more can be desired? No wonder the Spanish gentleman, when he saw such an equipage at his door, with its handsome horses instead of mules, its compact and comfortable self, its nice leather reins (not ropes, as they

have in the South), its respectful and respectable coachman, and the royal arms to boot on the panels, thought he had been provided by government with the carriage of one of its nobles; and found it especially difficult to be convinced to the contrary, when he was seated in all its luxury, and smoothly scudding for London at the rate of ten miles an hour.

But to resume our setting out. Since writing our last, we had reason to believe that we had been misinformed respecting the site of Mrs. Inchbald's sequestered retirement, the public-house; and, on consulting her Memoirs by Mr. Boaden, we find that it was in the other Kensington Road, the one from Oxford Street, at No. 1, St. George's Terrace, near the chapel where Sterne lies. We have been told, that, somebody asking her how she came to lodge at a public-house, she said with great apparent simplicity, perhaps to mystify the inquirer, "They had very good beer there." We take this opportunity of observing, that, when we speak jestingly of this abode, we do it out of no disrespect to the memory of this excellent woman and admirable writer. She was an original in conduct as well as in writing, but all in a true and superior, not affected or mean spirit. She lived at a public-house because it was cheap, and had a good prospect; and she lived cheaply, because she gave her money away to poor friends and relations. She would pass a winter without a fire, the want of which she sometimes felt so as to make her "" cry with cold,” in order to be able to afford one to an ailing sister. O true Christian and noble creature! Thy love of superiority was full of heart! Angels, if angels could