The next advance of our hero was an important step. The mail-coach is considered the school; its driver, the great master of the art--the _Phidias_ of the statuary--the _Claude_ of the landscape-painter. To approach him without preparatory instruction and study, would be like an attempt to copy the former without a knowledge of anatomy, or the latter, while ignorant of perspective. The standard of excellence--the model of perfection, all that the highest ambition can attain, is to approach as near as possible the original; to attempt a deviation, would be to _bolt out of the course, snap the curb, and run riot_. Sensible of the importance of his character, accustomed to hold the reins of arbitrary power; and seated where will is law, the mail-whip carries in his appearance all that may be expected from his elevated situation. Stern and sedate in his manner, and given to taciturnity, he speaks sententiously, or in monosyllables. If he passes on the road even an humble follower of the profession, with four tidy ones in hand, he views him with ineffable contempt, and would consider it an irreparable disgrace to appear conscious of the proximity. Should it be a country gentleman of large property and influence, and he held the reins, and handled the whip with a knowledge of the art, so to “get over the ground,” coachy might, perhaps, notice him “_en passant_,” by a slight and familiar nod; but it is only the peer, or man of first-rate sporting celebrity, that is honoured with any thing like a familiar mark of approbation and acquaintance; and these, justly appreciating the proud distinction, feel higher gratification by it than any thing the monarch could bestow: it is an inclination of the head, not forward, in the manner of a nod, but towards the off shoulder, accompanied with a certain jerk and elevation from the opposite side. But here neither pen nor pencil can depict; it belongs to him alone whose individual powers can nightly keep the house ~9~~in a roar, to catch the living manner and present it to the eye. “----A merrier man Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withall: His eye begets occasion for his wit; For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest.”