An outstanding specimen of a stage-coach guard is the figure of George Young, of the Leeds “Union.” An excellent whip, as well as guard, he was a man of a peculiar versatility of genius, and as an entertainer of company on the roof of a coach was probably unequalled in his day. He transacted business commissions for the better class of jewellers and attorneys, was fond of all kinds of sport, a successful bookmaker, a good shot, went coursing, and at horseracing was as keen as any tyke in broad Yorkshire. Not insensible, either, to the charms of the P. R., he introduced some noted bruisers in his day, and was an intimate friend and companion of Tom Spring. When not actively engaged, he was always ready to take the ribbons for a friend who wanted a holiday or had urgent private affairs to attend to; and the tooling of the teams, no matter how refractory, never suffered in dignity from his manipulation. He was, take him for all in all, perhaps one of the most original and perfect specimens of the old-fashioned, cheery, story-telling, and loquacious sort who ever blew a horn, kissed a pretty barmaid, pulled a sluggish team out of a difficulty, or chaffed a yokel on his way to market. This paragon among guards met his death in April 1825, dying at the “Red Lion,” Pontefract, of mortification resulting from an accident. It seems that, to make room for an extra passenger, he had given up the guard’s seat, and went to sit beside the coachman, who already had a passenger on the box. In order not to inconvenience the coachman’s driving, he sat on the edge of the seat, with one of his legs dangling over the side, and so when the coach gave a lurch, was thrown off and his thigh broken. Bob Hadley, guard of the “Unicorn” coach between Manchester and the Potteries, was of the eccentric kind, sporting an odd kind of headgear which went by the name of the “Hadley Tile,” and was as well known in his circle as the “D’Orsay Hat” was in fashionable London. “It resembles,” said a contemporary, “an umbrella in extent, and Bob, as he luxuriates under its broad leaf, looks like an ourang-outang under a banyan-tree. Some of his contemporaries having adopted his taste too closely, he has been under the necessity of extending its brim about four inches, which puts all competition at defiance, and he now presents an unique specimen. To put himself still further beyond the reach of envious competition, he has enclosed his delicate person in a complete suit of plaid, from his thorax to his trotters, and is now as complete an original as is to be found in any zoological collection in the Kingdom.”