I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city—­I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one.  I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful?  Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful—­Good!  But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them.  Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful?  Truly, yes!

My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in.  I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary.  Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me.  Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses—­there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped.  ‘Want to get up?’ sounded a voice, in the true coachman-like tone—­half querulous, half authoritative.  I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance.  ‘Come, we can’t be staying here all night,’ said the voice, more sharply than before.  ’I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like,’ thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman.  ‘No, no,’ said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably-cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head.  ’No, no, keep behind—­the box ain’t for the like of you,’ said he, as he drove off; ’the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.’  I made no answer.  ’D—–­ that off-hand leader,’ said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek.  ‘These seem to be fine horses,’ said I. The coachman