their several expressions, some avowing it was no wonder he could so soon change a building who could build a 'Change; others (reflecting on some known differences in this knight's family) affirmed. 'that any house is easier divided than united.” *

The other story is thus quoted by Lysons from the letters above mentioned: "Young Desmond (says Mr. Garrard, writing to Lord Wentworth), who married one of the co-heirs of Sir Michael Stanhope, came one morning to York House, where his wife had long lived with the duchess during his two years' absence beyond the seas, and hurried her away, half undressed, much against her will, into a coach, and so carried her away into Leicestershire. At Brickhill he lodged, where she, in the night, put herself into milkmaid's clothes, and had likely to make her escape, but was discovered. Madam Christian, whom your lordship knows, said that my Lord of Desmond was the first that ever she heard of that ran away with his own wife."

The case has often happened, where money was concerned. The countess afterwards came to Osterley Park with her husband, and bore him a numerous. family.

It should have been mentioned, in justice to Brentford, that we did not observe the "dirty street" in it mentioned by Gay: at least, the High Street looked smart and comfortable. All the thoroughfares in towns near London, and indeed almost all that we saw of any consequence in our journey, have wonderfully

* "Worthies of England," vol. ii. 1811, p. 45.

plucked up, and smugged themselves, of late years. The communication which is now grown so general between all parts of the country, renders all of them, in some measure, like neighbors; and what is done by one town, for the sake of neatness and ascendency, gets done by another. You see a regular pavement, smart London-looking shops, a circulating library, milliner's, watchmaker's, &c.; and the coach halts at a fine-looking inn, with large coach-yard, door, and other appurtenances, of the newest town fashion; out of which comes a smart waiter or landlord, no more anxious or civil in his countenance than the waiter of a well-to-do inn ought to be, and who does not seem to care whether you lunch or not. Meanwhile "miss,” if she is pretty or well-dressed, gives a look out at the threshold, with an eye still more indifferent, and glancing everywhere but at the faces she is thinking of. Passengers descend to stretch their legs for ten minutes, the inside and out reconnoitring one another; the "young woman" remains by her bundle; the gentleman in the travelling-cap longs to know where the gentleman in the shooting-jacket is going, but, not having dined yet, has not acquired confidence enough to speak; and the invalid gentleman eats a biscuit, or extremely declines it.

275

A JOURNEY BY COACH.

CONCLUDED.

Coach-horses. What do they think of the Coach? - Hounslow; its Thieves and Gunpowder. - Desideratum in Fighting. - The Wheat of Heston. Singular Fertility of Berkshire and Buckinghamshire in illustrious Memories. - Extinction of the Highwayman.

HEN a coach sets off again from its stoppage

at an inn-door, there is a sense of freshness and recommencement: the inside passengers settle themselves in their corners, or interchange legs, or take a turn on the outside; the outside adjust themselves to their seats and their bits of footing; the young woman looks, for the ninety-ninth time, to her box; the coachman is indifferent and scientific; he has the ease of power in his face; he shakes the reins; throws out a curve or so of knowing whip, as an angler does his line; and the horses begin to ply their never-ending jog. A horse's hind-leg on the road, to any eye looking down upon it, seems as if it would jaunt on for ever; the muscle works in the thigh; the mane at the same time dances a little bit; the hockjoint looks intensely angular, and not to be hit (it is horrible to think of wounding it); the hoof bites into the earth; wheels and legs seem made to work together like machinery; and on go the two patient creatures, they know not why nor whither, chewing

the unsatisfactory bit, wondering (if they wonder at all) why they may not hold their heads down, and have tails longer than five inches; and occasionally giving one another's noses a consolatory caress. It is curious to see sometimes how this affection seems to be all on one side. One of the horses goes dumbly talking, as it were, to the other, and giving proofs of the pleasure and comfort it takes in its society; while the other, making no sort of acknowledgment, keeps the “even tenor of its way," turning neither to the right nor left, nor condescending to give or receive the least evidences of the possibility of a satisfaction. It seems to say, "You may be as amiable and patient as you please: for my part, I am resolved to be a mere piece of the machinery, and to give these fellows behind us no reason whatsoever to suppose that I make any sentimental compromise with their usurpations over us."

Horses in a coach must certainly be the most patient or the most indifferent or the most unthinking of animals. The mule seems to have an opinion of his own: he is not to be driven so easily. The dog (till the new act) passed a horrible, unsatisfied time of it under the butcher's or baker's go-cart. Harnessed elephants would be inconvenient. They would be for re-adjusting their buckles, and making inquiries with their trunks into the behavior of the postilion. They might, to be sure, help with the other trunks, and perform the part of half-horse, half-hostler. The llama of Peru has inconvenient tricks, if you ill use him; and so has the camel. But the horse, when once he is ground well into the road, seems to give up

having any sort of mind of his own; that is to say, if he ever had any, except what his animal spirits made to be mistaken for it: for the breeding of horses is such in England, that, generally speaking, when they are not all blood and fire, they seem nothing but stupid acquiescence, without will, without curiosity, without the power of being roused into resistance, except, poor souls! when their last hour is come, and non-resistance itself can go no further, but lies down to die. We dock their tails, to subject them to the very flies; fasten their heads back, to hinder them from seeing their path; and put blinkers at their eyes, for fear of their getting used to the phenomena of the carriage and wheels behind them. What must they think (if they think at all) of the eternal mystery thus tied to their bodies, and rattling and lumbering at their heels? of the load thus fastened to them day by day, going the same road for no earthly object (intelligible to the horse capacity), and every now and then depositing, and taking up, other animals who walk on, their hindlegs, and occasionally come and stroke their noses, kick their bellies, and gift them with iron shoes?

Well, circumstances drive us, as we drive the horses, perhaps with as many smiling remarks on the part of other beings, at our thinking as little of the matter: so we must be moving on.

Hounslow (the stage we have now come to) is a good place for setting us upon reflections on horse and man, not merely by reason of the number of accommodations for both those travellers, but because of its celebrity at various times for its horse-races, its highwaymen, and its powder-mills. The series of heaths