with the most stoical indifference. We know not whether it has ever
struck the reader, but the travellers by Dover coaches are less captious
about pace than those on most others.

And now let us fancy our friends up, and down, Shooter's Hill, through
Dartford, Northfleet, and Gravesend--at which latter place, the first
foreign symptom appears, in words, "Poste aux Chevaux," on the door-post
of the inn; and let us imagine them bowling down Rochester Hill at a
somewhat amended pace, with the old castle, by the river Medway, the
towns of Chatham, Strood and Rochester full before them, and the finely
wooded country extending round in pleasing variety of hill and dale.
As they reach the foot of the hill, the guard commences a solo on his
bugle, to give notice to the innkeeper to have the coach dinner on the
table. All huddled together, inside and out, long passengers and short
ones, they cut across the bridge, rattle along the narrow street,
sparking the mud from the newly-watered streets on the shop windows and
passengers on each side, and pull up at the "Pig and Crossbow," with a
jerk and a dash as though they had been travelling at the rate of
twelve miles an hour. Two other coaches are "dining," while some few
passengers, whose "hour is not yet come," sit patiently on the roof, or
pace up and down the street with short and hurried turns, anxious to see
the horses brought out that are to forward them on their journey. And
what a commotion this new arrival creates! From the arched doorway of
the inn issue two chamber-maids, one in curls the other in a cap; Boots,
with both curls and a cap, and a ladder in his hand; a knock-kneed
waiter, with a dirty duster, to count noses, while the neat landlady,
in a spruce black silk gown and clean white apron, stands smirking,
smiling, and rubbing her hands down her sides, inveigling the passengers
into the house, where she will turn them over to the waiters to take
their chance the instant she gets them in. About the door the usual