hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the
group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a
world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or
pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a
public-house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import,
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the
village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every
side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the
corners are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take
their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The
smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls
by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and
suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap,
labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits
the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual
animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in
good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of
the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers',
butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The
housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in
order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries,
began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old
writer's account of Christmas preparations:--"Now capons and hens,