But the writer of these pages, who has pursued in former days,
and in the same bright weather, the same remarkable journey,
cannot but think of it with a sweet and tender regret. Where is
the road now and its merrv incidents of life? Is there no Chelsea or
Greenwich for the old honest, pimple-nosed coachmen? I
wonder where are they, those good fellows ? Is old Weller alive
or dead ? and the waiters, yea, and the inns at which they waited,
and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the stunted ostler, with
his blue nose and clinking pail, where is he, and where is his
generation ? To those great geniuses now in petticoats, who shall
write novels for the beloved reader's children, these men and
things will be as much legend and history as Nineveh, or Coeur
de Lion, or Jack Sheppard. For them stage-coaches will have
become romances — a team of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus
or Black Bess. Ah, how their coats shone, as the stablemen
pulled their clothes off, and away they went; ah, how their tails
shook, as with smoking sides at the stage's end they demurely
walked away into the inn-yard. Alas ! we shall never hear the
horn sing at midnight, or see the pike-gates fly open any more.
Whither, however, is the light four-inside Trafalgar coach carry-
ing us ?