On arriving in a cab at the Euston Station, the old-fashioned traveller is at first disposed to be exceedingly pleased at the newborn civility with which, the instant the vehicle stops, a porter, opening its door with surprising alacrity, most obligingly takes out every article of his luggage; but so soon as he suddenly finds out that the officious green straight-buttoned-up official’s object has been solely to get the cab off the premises, in order to allow the string of variegated carriages that are slowly following to advance--in short, that, while he has been paying to the driver, say only two shining shillings, his favourite great-coat, his umbrella, portmanteau, carpet-bag, Russia leather writing-case, secured by Chubb’s patent lock, have all vanished--he poignantly feels, like poor Johnson, that his “patron has encumbered him with help;” and it having been the golden maxim of his life never to lose sight of his luggage, it gravels and dyspepsias him beyond description to be civilly told that on no account can he be allowed to follow it, but that “_he will find it on the platform_;” and truly enough the prophecy is fulfilled; for there he does find it on a barrow in charge of the very harlequin who whipped away, and who, as its guardian angel, hastily muttering the words “_Now then, Sir!_” stands beckoning him to advance. The picture of the departure of one of the large trains from the Station at Euston Square, however often it may have been witnessed, is worthy of a few moments’ contemplation. On that great covered platform, which, with others adjoining it, is lighted from above by 8797 square yards (upwards of an acre and three-quarters) of plate-glass, are to be seen congregated and moving to and fro in all directions, in a sort of Babel confusion, persons of all countries, of all religions, and of all languages. People of high character, of low character, of no character at all. Infants just beginning life--old people just ending it. Many desirous to be noticed--many, from innumerable reasons, good, bad, and indifferent, anxious to escape notice. Some are looking for their friends--some, suddenly turning upon their heels, are evidently avoiding their acquaintance. Contrasted with that variety of free and easy well-worn costumes in which quiet-minded people usually travel, are occasionally to be seen a young couple--each, like a new-born baby, dressed from head to foot in everything perfectly new--hurrying towards a coupé, on whose door there negligently hangs a black board--upon which there is printed, not unappropriately, in white bridal letters, the word “ENGAGED.”