funeral of a four-horse coach, performed
by its ruined but obstinate proprietor. As
we wound slowly out of my nameless
country town, many persons stood looking at
us with various expressions of triumph, pity,
and contempt; but I was the only individual
besides the proprietor-driver in and about
the coach, the last single passenger who had
booked through, for the last journey. It was
a cold, dull, bleak day near the end of August.
Masses of heavy cloud were flying above,
which constantly foreboded rain, but did not
bring it. Mr. Burleigh was well stimulated
with raw brandy at starting, and he did
not fail to refresh himself with this liquid at
every opportunity. The harness was getting
old, and out of order, and Mr. Burleigh had
frequently to descend from his seat to repair
it, which caused considerable delay. As he
drove mechanically along, he preserved a moody
silence which I did not attempt to break;
presuming that he was occupied with reflections
that might, eventually, lead him to see it.
At several of the lanes and barns where we
changed horses, the men kept us waiting for
full twenty minutes; but, as Mr. Burleigh
made no complaint, I held my peace, as it
would have been refined cruelty to add
quarrels to the horrors of this sombre journey.
When we had got about half-way through,
we picked up another passenger—a fat, sickly,
pudding-faced boy, who was waiting at a
turnpike with a shaggy, howling dog, half-a-dozen
boxes, and two pounds of cake in his hand, with
eight or nine people to see him off. There
was a visible look of disappointment in Mr.
Burleigh's face when he found what an
unusual number of spectators there were in this
hopeful roadside crowd to one juvenile
passenger. The boy was placed inside, with the
cake, and the door locked; the packages
were soon disposed of, and the dog was put
in the boot to howl and moan incessantly, and
enliven our last journey.

Our time to arrive in London was properly
half-past nine at night, but harness-breaking
and brandy-drinking made it nearly one o'clock
in the morning before we reached the Old
Dragon Inn, at Smithfield.

Eight persons, chiefly females, were
anxiously waiting for the pudding-faced boy with
the dog and packages, and they made some
cruel remarks to Mr. Burleigh about the
uncertainty of coach-travelling compared
with the railway. He did not reply, but
st-ired vacantly at them as they disappeared
with the boy up the street. The rotten gates
of the Old Dragon Inn were slowly and
painfully opened with a fearful creaking by an
old, palsy-stricken ostler, with a voice that
squeaked from the lowest depths of his
slender stomach. He made some faint
remark—no one could possibly tell what—as
he led the horses and vehicle down the stone
hill into the yard. It was a fitting grave to
receive the last stage-coach, and the old ostler
was its most fitting sexton.

The Old Dragon Inn was in a sadly changed
condition since I had seen it last. My usual
custom was to drop down from Mr. Burleigh's
vehicles outside the town, seldom coming as
far as the end of the journey to dismount.
Three or four years must have gone by
since I had accepted the hospitality of the
Old Dragon Inn; but, being unusually late,
and determined to see the broken-down
Quicksilver to its tomb, and its broken-down
owner to his bed, I resolved to pass the
remainder of the night in it.

Mr. Burleigh took little notice of me, but
made for a corner of the yard where a dull
red light, caused by a candle shining through
a curtain, denoted the position of the bar. I
lingered a few minutes to look round
and examine the changes that had taken
place.

The principal entrance—a long passage
lined on each side with what were formerly
stables—was now turned into a narrow street
of small, dirty, cattle-smelling houses, let out
tenements, and decorated with festoons of
ragged, yellow clothes that danced upon
clothes-lines, stretched across the thoroughfare
from end to end. The old gate that
opened into the main road was now closed,
and the inhabitants slept soundly, and did not
dream of being robbed of their humble
garments.

Several pools of liquorice-coloured water
were in the yard, presided over by
rotten wooden pumps. The stones were
saffron-coloured, broken, and uneven. The
out-houses were falling to pieces, and the
sky shone in numberless places through the
broken roofs. Under one of these places
of doubtful shelter was stowed a large pile of
cheeses; under others, heavy carts that
looked like grain-waggons; and also a few
yellow-boarded vans with pictures of fat
women, boa-constrictors, and learned pigs.
The Old Dragon Inn could no longer afford
to be exclusive; but was compelled to
open its doors to entertain any man and
beast that thought proper to knock at them.
Sometimes it afforded shelter to the drovers
of the cattle-market; sometimes, as in the
present instance, it welcomed the motley
mummers who were preparing for the
approaching Bartholomew Fair. Drums,
boarding, poles, carts, and waggons were lying
about the yard. The night was clearer than
the day, and I had, therefore, no difficulty
in observing these things.

I joined Mr. Burleigh, who was still drinking
raw brandy in the bar, and learned that
every stable and bed-room in the inn, except
one—a double bedded apartment—was taken
up by jugglers, horse-riders, tumblers, and
fair-people. The bar was dirty and ill-stocked;
the floor was half covered with mud and
straw; there was a smell of rum, beer, and
tobacco-smoke floating through the place; and
the woman who attended upon us was sad,
pale, and dowdy. While we were speaking,