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the Prince to sit fourteen hours in the coach that day without eating anything, and passing through the worst ways I ever saw in my life; we were thrown but once indeed, in going, but both our coach which was leading, and His Highness's body coach would have suffered very often, if the nimble boors of Sussex had not frequently poised it, or supported it with their shoulders from Godalming to Petworth; and the nearer we approached the Duke's the more inaccessible it seemed to be. The last nine miles of the way cost us six hours to conquer."

A little more than one hundred years ago there was no regular stage coach from London to Edinburgh, and the Scottish newspapers occasionally contained advertisements, stating that an individual about to proceed to the Metropolis by a post-chaise would be glad to hear of a fellowadventurer or two, that by mutual assistance the expense might be diminished to each.*

Stage coaches were, however, started before 1754; for the Edinburgh Courant of that year advertised that "the Edinburgh Stage Coach, for the better accommodation of passengers, will be altered to a new genteel two-end glass coach machine, hung on steel springs, exceeding light and easy, to go to London in ten days in summer, and twelve in winter." Now Edinburgh is reached in about eleven hours!

John Scott, afterwards Lord Eldon, came from Newcastle to London in 1766-the coach was called a "Fly," from its quick travelling, but "he was three or four days and nights on the road." Now the journey may be made under ten hours.

But most things mend-roads were improved, coaches were made lighter and easier, better horses were employed, and twenty-five to thirty years ago, by the genius of Telford,

"Our Iron Roads," by F. S. Williams.

and the good sense of M'Adam, the English roads reached their perfection.

Men not yet old remember the Manchester "Telegraph," "Royal Bruce," and "Peveril of the Peak," how they turned out from the "Bull and Mouth," the "Swan with two Necks," or the "Blossoms' Inn," how they passed daintily through the streets to Islington-stopped at the "Peacock," or the "Angel," and then fairly off, their horses trotting under Highgate archway, galloped away splendidly over the Great North Road.

Some of us remember how proud was our boyish position if we had secured the box seat, or how agreeable was the chat with the guard behind,-how as we approached the towns at night the horn was sounded as it has never sounded since-curtains were drawn aside-faces in nightcaps brought to the windows, and some distance on, the fresh team was already turned out, and ready to be yoked, to dash off, without five minutes' delay, on the next stage.

We remember the incidents on the road, the occasional entire somnolence of a toll-keeper who had carefully closed his gate, and had to be roused from his bed to throw it open, happy at times if he escaped the application of the whip intended only for the horses. Some can remember that beautiful part of the road from Matlock to Buxton, where with the hills on the left rising nearly precipitously, covered with foliage, the steep slopes on the right leading to the beautiful Derwent, which meandered in the valley below-Chatsworth just passed, glanced at from a distance, Haddon Hall full in sight-the old guard of the "Peveril" would suddenly wind his horn, and the echoes of the chamber where the Scottish Queen once slept would prolong the sound, until fainter and fainter the music sighed itself away amidst some of the finest scenery in Derbyshire. All this was very charming: so was the well-kept road-side

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inn, with its snow-white table-cloth, its substantial hospitality, its chimney fire, its jovial host, its handsome landlady, its hearty welcome-all this, when cold had been sufficiently experienced, and you were beginning to feel the journey sufficiently long-this was a sight to inspire the most pleasurable emotion, and was only marred by the guard's announcement as you crossed the threshold," Only twenty minutes for dinner, gentlemen!"

Some of us remember well the aristocratic drivers to Brighton. Baronets and sons of peers who frequently drove the "Age," or the "Times," and who gracefully touched their hats for the accustomed gratuity. The reminiscences are pleasant ones-for the roads were the finest in the world, the coaches well equipped, the cattle unsurpassed, and the coachmen and guards became at last a race of intelligent and agreeable men.

We can quite sympathise with those who would like just once a-year to revive an old coach ride, as it was in the last and best days of coaching; stipulating, however, only for a few hours, for a fine day-and for a picturesque road: for there were such days as wet days in the "good old coaching times;"-days when if you did not receive the drippings in your neck from your neighbour's umbrella, it was simply because you favoured him with a water supply from your own-days when wet, cold, shivering, you sat on the top of a coach pressed upright by the luggage behind, your feet cramped lest you should hurt your neighbour-days when nature all in tears, or mist, refused you a sight of the landscape or denied you enjoyment of it-days when fellow-travellers were gloomy or worse; when coachmen ceased to be civil, and guards actually growled, and innkeepers looked serious; and yet on such days you had to press on to your journey's end, paying a heavy fare, paying frequent fees, and paying the penalty of sitting in wet

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