—suggestive of Lamentably Insolvent. As to the neighbouring market-place, it seemed to have wholly relinquished marketing, to the dealer in crockery whose pots and pans straggled half across it, and to the Cheap Jack who sat with folded arms on the shafts of his cart, superciliously gazing around; his velveteen waistcoat, evidently harbouring grave doubts whether it was worth his while to stay a night in such a place. The church bells began to ring as I left this spot, but they by no means improved the case, for they said, in a petulant way, and speaking with some difficulty in their irritation, WHAT’S-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES!’ Nor would they (I found on listening) ever vary their emphasis, save in respect of growing more sharp and vexed, but invariably went on, ‘WHAT’S-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES!’—always beginning the inquiry with an unpolite abruptness. Perhaps from their elevation they saw the railway, and it aggravated them. Coming upon a coachmaker’s workshop, I began to look about me with a revived spirit, thinking that perchance I might behold there some remains of the old times of the town’s greatness. There was only one man at work—a dry man, grizzled, and far advanced in years, but tall and upright, who, becoming aware of me looking on, straightened his back, pushed up his spectacles against his brown-paper cap, and appeared inclined to defy me. To whom I pacifically said: ‘Good day, sir!’ ‘What?’ said he. ‘Good day, sir.’ He seemed to consider about that, and not to agree with me.—‘Was you a looking for anything?’ he then asked, in a pointed manner. ‘I was wondering whether there happened to be any fragment of an old stage-coach here.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘That’s all.’ ‘No, there ain’t.’ It was now my turn to say ‘Oh!’ and I said it. Not another word did the dry and grizzled man say, but bent to his work again. In the coach-making days, the coach-painters had tried their brushes on a post beside him; and quite a Calendar of departed glories was to be read upon it, in blue and yellow and red and green, some inches thick. Presently he looked up again. ‘You seem to have a deal of time on your hands,’ was his querulous remark. I admitted the fact. ‘I think it’s a pity you was not brought up to something,’ said he. I said I thought so too. Appearing to be informed with an idea, he laid down his plane (for it was a plane he was at work with), pushed up his spectacles again, and came to the door. ‘Would a po-shay do for you?’ he asked. ‘I am not sure that I understand what you mean.’ ‘Would a po-shay,’ said the coachmaker, standing close before me, and folding his arms in the manner of a cross-examining counsel—‘would a po-shay meet the views you have expressed? Yes, or no?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you keep straight along down there till you see one. _You’ll_ see one if you go fur enough.’