But we never recollect to have been more amused with a hackney-coach party, than one we saw early the other morning in Tottenham-court-road.

It was a wedding-party, and emerged from one of the inferior streets near Fitzroy-square.

There were the bride, with a thin white dress, and a great red face; and the bridesmaid, a little, dumpy, good-humoured young woman, dressed, of course, in the same appropriate costume; and the bridegroom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow waist-coats, white trousers, and Berlin gloves to match.

They stopped at the corner of the street, and called a coach with an air of indescribable dignity.
The moment they were in, the bridesmaid threw a red shawl, which she had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently over the number on the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into the belief that the hackney-coach was a private carriage; and away they went, perfectly satisfied that the imposition was successful, and quite unconscious that there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a plate as large as a schoolboy's slate.

A shilling a mile!--the ride was worth five, at least, to them.
What an interesting book a hackney-coach might produce, if it could carry as much in its head as it does in its body! The autobiography of a broken-down hackney-coach, would surely be as amusing as the autobiography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist; and it might tell as much of its travels _with_ the pole, as others have of their expeditions _to_ it.