And who next? That is Taylor the brewer. And there is another of the same trade, jolly old Ackers, great in malt and hops, greater in politics, and greatest of all in the actual bustle and conflict of an election. And there is his friend with him, old Hesketh, the famous tailor, of Paradise-street. Instead of being the ninth part of a man, Hesketh was nine men all in one, the picture of a true Englishman, the very portrait of John Bull himself, a regular old Tory, for men, out of his trade, more than measures, and with such a good-tempered countenance, that it drew customers, better than a thousand advertisements, to his shop. And there was another character who must not be excluded from the “curiosity shop” of our reminiscences. Every old stager must recollect Peter Tyrer, the coach-builder, and keeper of hackney coaches. A very primitive-looking man was old Peter, but as full of eccentricity and solemn jocularity as an egg is full of meat. Peter’s jests were always uttered with a serious tone, and spoken out of his nose more than through his lips, so that we laughed at the twang when there was nothing else to laugh at. There was occasionally some originality in his humour; but he had one standing joke, a very grave one, which has now passed into a regular Joe Miller with the men of his craft. Whenever any one came to order the funeral cavalcade which he had to let out, he invariably pointed to the plumed hearse, of which he was very proud, and observed, “That is the very thing for you, for of all that have travelled by it none have ever been heard to complain that they had not an easy and pleasant journey by it.” Poor Peter! And when thy turn came, we trust that thy journey, both to the grave and through it, was an easy one! Nor do we doubt it. With all his whims and oddities, Peter was a good man, no idle professor, but a zealous, practical Christian. We could do with more like him. CHAPTER XIII.