I had brought a full load down. The coaches dined in those days upon the fat of the land. Always one hot joint (if not two) awaited the arrival of the coach, and the twenty minutes allotted for the refreshment of the inward passenger were thoroughly utilised. A boiled round of beef, a roast loin of pork, a roast aitchbone of beef, and a boiled hand of pork with peas-pudding and parsnips, a roast goose and a boiled leg of mutton, frequently composed a _menu_ well calculated to amuse a hungry passenger for the short space allotted him. The repast concluded and the coach reloaded, I watched her ascend the hill at a steady jog till she became a mere black spot in the road. I then directed my steps to the bottom of the long range of red-brick buildings used as coach-stables, where I found old Daniel Sleigh still busily engaged in what he called "Setting his 'osses fair." This implied the washing legs, drying flanks, and rubbing heads and ears of the team I had brought in half-an-hour ago. Although the old man looked after the "in-and-out" horses, he always designated the last arrival as "My 'osses," and they consequently enjoyed the largest share of Dan's attention: "Bill the Brewer," "Betsy Mare," "Old Giles," and "The Doctor." Dan Sleigh was a specimen of the old-fashioned horsekeeper, a race which has now become obsolete. He had lived with Mrs. Nelson, who was one of the largest coach proprietors of the period, for thirty-nine years, always having charge of a double team. He rarely conversed with anybody but "his 'osses," with whom, between the h--i--ss--e--s which accompanied every action of his life, he carried on a _sotto voce_ conversation, asking questions as to what they did with them, at the other end, and agreeing with himself as to the iniquitous system of taking them out of the coach and riding them into the horsepond, then leaving them to dry whilst Ben Ball--the other horsekeeper--went round to the tap to have half-a-pint of beer. _O tempora! O mores!_ Many of his old friends had fallen victims to this cruel treatment. A recent case had occurred in the death of old Blind Sal, who had worked over the same ground for thirteen years, and never required a hand put to her, either from the stable to the coach or from the coach to the stable. She caught a chill in the horsepond, and died of acute inflammation. When I interrupted old Dan he was just "hissing" out his final touches, and beginning to sponge the dirt off his harness. He recognised me with a smile--a shilling smile--and the following dialogue ensued. Daniel Sleigh was a man who, to use his own words, "kep' 'isself to 'isself." He never went to "no public 'ouses, nor yet no churches." He had never altered his time of getting up or going to bed for forty years; and, except when he lay in the "horsepital" six weeks, through a kick from a young horse, he had never been beyond the smithy for eleven years. In any other grade of life he would have been a "recluse."