The book-keeper began to write. "What name, sir?"
"Burrel!" replied the stranger.
"Any luggage?"
"None," answered Burrel.
"One pound, ten shillings, and sixpence, sir, if you please!" said the book-keeper; and, as Burrel paid the money, the coachman's cry of "Now, gentlemen, if you please!" sounded through the yard.
In another minute the horses were dashing through that antique and abominable arch, which, in days of yore, gave egress and regress to the Golden Cross, while Burrel and the other traveler, seated side by side, held their breath as the rough vehicle clattered over the London stones. It has often been remarked, that it is wonderful how much shaking together two Englishmen require before they speak to each other; and, in setting out from a town like London, there is scarcely an individual who has not too much to think of--either in parting from well-loved friends--in quitting scenes of pleasure or of pain--in self-congratulations on escaping from smoke and noise--in anticipation of quiet and repose, of joyful meetings, and smiles of welcome--not to court a few minutes' calm reflection, as they leave behind them that great misty den of feelings and events. Our two travelers then leaned back in their respective corners, without the interchange of a word--the one, Burrel, apparently buried in deep thought; and the other too proud, if not too shy, to begin any conversation himself, even had he not had memories enough in his bosom to furnish him, also, with food for meditation. Such, however, he had; and--seeing that his companion appeared wrapped up in that sort of gentlemanly reserve which so often covers over a man's eyes, ears, and understanding, as he goes through life, and leaves him, like the Grand Lama, with nothing to speculate upon but his own perfections--the younger traveler gave way also to his thoughts, and, ere they had reached Brentford, had forgotten that there was any being in the coach but himself.
His reflections did not seem very pleasant; for at Hounslow, what appeared to be the first act thereof, ended in a sigh so long and deep, that it attracted the notice of his fellow-traveler, who turned his head, and, for the first time, examined him somewhat attentively, as he sat looking out of the windows, with the objects as they passed, skimming hardly noted before his eyes. The second act of the young man's thoughts did not seem quite so abstracted as the first; for when the coach stopped for a few minutes at Staines, he put his head forth from the window, and demanded the name of the place, addressing Mynheer Boots, who gazed in his face, and answered nothing.
"This is Staines," replied his hitherto silent companion, in a mild and gentlemanly tone, in which there was not the slightest touch of _coxcombry_ or affectation; "perhaps you have never traveled this road before?"
"I have, indeed," replied the other; "but the first time was many years ago; and when last I passed, I had various things to think of, which prevented my noting particularly the places through which I traveled."
"Oh, any thing on earth to think of," replied Burrel, "of course renders traveling out of the question. It is no longer traveling, it is locomotion. It becomes the act of a stage-coach, a steam-engine, or any other machine, as soon as a person has one thought occupied by either business or memory, or any one of the troublesome things of the world. Before one sets out on a journey, one should shake out one's mind, as the ancient pilgrims did their wallets, and leave no trace of friends, or relations, or feelings, or prejudices, or remembrances of any kind, in short, to hang about it; but make all void and clear for the new stock of ideas that are to be placed in it."