ABSTRACT
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 h e l p a n d 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 civiliy 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 199 stands beckoning him to advance.
