a marching regiment, and a city money-lender, be confounded with the broad-wheeled waggon that, after being half drowned by the waters of the canal, has now been swept from the surface of the earth by the fire of the railroad. Have we not ourselves heard the merry bells of the team, breasting their way right in the centre of the broad Bath road, unyielding to coach or curricle? Have we not seen the bright eye glancing from the opening of the tilt behind, as the ponderous wain is moving beside the village green, and the stalwart driver tells the anxious maiden that it is only one more mile to the turnpike where she is to meet "the young man?" Have we not sat beneath the branching elm which fronts some little inn where waggons congregate, and heard much goodly talk about the dearness of horses, and the craft of Lunnun? They are gone -these once familiar scenes; "They live no longer in the faith of reason;" but they will live for ever in such pictures as that our friend Creswick has painted of "The London Road a hundred years ago;" or of the equally gifted William Harvey, who has painted for us the fears of the fair Lady, on pillion, clinging to the waist of her cavalier while he disputes with the toll-keeper to the tune of "My coin is spent, my time is lost." We have abundant evidence that stage-coaches were in use soon after the middle of the seventeenth century. In 1663, Mr. Edward Parker, writing to his father, who lived near Preston, says, "I got to London on Saturday last. My journey was noways pleasant, being forced to ride in the boot all the way. The company that came up with me were persons of great quality, as knights and ladies. My journey's expense was thirty shillings. This travel hath so indisposed me, that I am resolved never to ride up again in the coach." (Archæologia, vol. xx.) Let us turn aside, for a moment, to explain what "the boot" was. There were two boots to these old coaches-uncovered projections from each side of the carriage. Taylor, the Water Poet, thus describes them : "It [the coach] wears two boots, and no spurs, sometimes having two pair of legs in one boot; and oftentimes, against nature, most preposterously, it makes fair ladies wear the boot. Moreover, it makes people imitate sea-crabs, in being drawn sideways, as they are when they sit in the boot of the coach." In this boot, then, travelled unhappy Edward Parker. He does not tell us the rate at which he travelled. We will supply that information from other sources. From the Diary of Sir William Dugdale, it appears that in 1659 he set forward to London in the Coventry coach, on the 2nd of May, and arrived on the 4th of May—three days. The Diary of a Yorkshire clergyman (quoted in Archæologia, vol. xx.) shows that in the winter of 1682, a journey from Nottingham to London in a stage-coach occupied four whole days. In Antony à Wood's Diary we are told, that in 1667 he travelled from Oxford to London in the coach, and was two days in accomplishing the passage. A few years after, the feat was performed in thirteen hours; but in 1692 it was again found necessary to give two days to the journey, from Michaelmas to Lady-day. "The lover of his country," however, has furnished us the most complete picture of coach travelling, in 1673. The long journeys were from London to Exeter, Chester, or York. On these roads the fare was forty shillings in summer, and forty-five shillings in winter, each way. The coachman was changed four times, and a passenger was expected to give each coachman a shilling at the end of the stage, besides a total of three shillings for drink to the coachmen, at their halting-places. In summer, the time occupied in riding was four days,-in winter, six days. But these were long days. The complaining writer says, "what advantage is it to men's health to be called out of their beds into these coaches, an hour before day in the morning, to be hurried in them from place to place, till one hour, two, or three, within night; insomuch that, after sitting all day, in the summer time stifled with heat and choked with dust, or in the winter time starving and freezing with cold or choked with filthy fogs, they are often brought into their inns by torch-light, when it is too late to sit up to get a supper; and next morning they are forced into the coach so early that they can get no breakfast." Added to these troubles the fault-finder alleges the grievances of crying children, and crowds of boxes and bundles. He gives us some notion of the roads and the safety of the carriages: "Is it for a man's health to travel with tired jades, to be laid fast in the foul ways, and forced to wade up to the knees in mire; afterwards sit in the cold till teams of horses can be sent to pu!! the coach out? Is it for their health to travel in rotten coaches, and to have their tackle, or perch, or axletree broken, and then to wait three or four hours, sometimes half a day, to have them mended, and then to travel all night to make good their stage?" This is a queer state of things,-a little exaggerated perhaps, but in the main true. It is remarkable how long the roads and the coaches continued to be execrable. The Express train of the Great Western Railway goes to Exeter, a hundred and ninety-three miles, in four hours and a half. In 1725 the stage-coach journey from London to Exeter occupied four summer days. The passengers were aroused every morning at two o'clock, left their inn at three, dined at ten o'clock, and finished their day's labour at three in the afternoon. (Mrs. Manley's Journey.) In 1739 Mr. Andrew Thompson, of Glasgow, with a friend, left Glasgow to ride to London. There was no turnpikeroad till they came to Grantham, within a hundred and ten miles of the metropolis. Up to that point they travelled on a narrow causeway, with an unmade soft road on each side. As strings of pack-horses met them, from time to time, they were obliged to plunge into the side road, and had often difficulty in scrambling again upon the causeway. (Cleland's Glasgow.) As late as 1763 there was only a coach once a month from Edinburgh to London, which was twelve or four C.-VOL. I. THE MACHINE: 1750.-W. HARVEY. teen days on the road. In the south of England we made more rapid strides to perfection. We have before us a very curious bill of the "Alton and Farnham. Machine," dated 1750, which is headed with an engraving furnishing the best representation of the coach of a century ago that we have seen. The clumsy vehicle carries no passengers on the roof; but it has a large basket-literally a basket-swung behind, for half-price passengers. The coachman has four horses in hand, and a postilion rides a pair of leaders. This is truly a magnificent equipage; and it accomplished its journey in a marvellously short time, starting at six in the morning, and arriving duly the same night. This journey of forty-seven miles in one day was a feat; and well might the vehicle which accomplished it be dignified by the name of " Machine." The name became common; and hence stage-coach horses were called "Machiners." Our eminent coadjutor, W. Harvey, has translated the "Alton Machine" into a picturesque illustration, without losing the character of the original. Let us turn to those great interpreters of manners, the novelists and the dramatists, to learn something more of the travelling economy of the last century. Parson Adams, according to the immortal author of "Joseph Andrews," had no difficulty in outwalking the coach. "The lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company; and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, 'Never believe me, if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his horse! On my word, and so he is,' says Slipslop: 'and as sure as twopence he hath left him behind at the inn.' Indeed, true it is, the parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crab-stick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant from it. Mrs, Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove, the faster ran the parson, often crying out, 'Ay, ay, catch me if you can;' till at length the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving the parson two or three hearty curses, he cried, 'Softly, softly, boys,' to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed." Fielding was a close observer of the ways of men, and he has left us this admirable description of the stage-coachman of his day, in his "Voyage to Lisbon :" "This subjection [that of a traveller] is absolute, and consists of a perfect resignation both of body and soul to the disposal of another; after which resignation, during a certain time, his subject retains no more power over his own will than an Asiatic slave, or an English wife, by the laws of both countries, and by the customs of one of them. If I should mention the instance of a stage-coachman, many of my readers would recognize Manly. Come, tell us all-Pray how do they travel? * * * * * Lord Townly. And when do you expect them here, John? John Moody. Why we were in hopes to ha' come yesterday, an' it had no' been that th' owld wheazebelly horse tired: And then we were so cruelly loaden, that the two fore-wheels came crash down at once in Waggon-Rut Lane; and there we lost four hours 'fore we could set things to rights again. the truth of what I have here observed; all, indeed, that ever have been under the dominion of that tyrant, who, in this free country, is as absolute as a Turkish John Moody. Why, i' the auld coach, Measter, and bashaw. In two particulars only his power is defec- 'cause my Lady loves to do things handsome, to be sure, tive, he cannot press you into his service; and if you she would have a couple of cart-horses clapt to th' four enter yourself at one place, on condition of being dis-old geldings, that neighbours might see she went up to charged at a certain time at another, he is obliged to London in her coach and six! And so Giles Joulter, perform his agreement, if God permit: but all the the ploughman, rides postilion! intermediate time you are absolutely under his government; he carries you how he will, when he will, and whither he will, provided it be not much out of the road; you have nothing to eat or to drink, but what, and when, and where he pleases. Nay, you cannot sleep, unless he pleases you should; for he will order you sometimes out of bed at midnight, and hurry you away at a moment's warning: indeed, if you can sleep in his vehicle, he cannot prevent it; nay, indeed, to give him his due, this he is ordinarily disposed to encourage; for the earlier he forces you to rise in the morning, the more time he will give you in the heat of the day, sometimes even six hours at an ale-house, or at their doors, where he always gives you the same indulgence which he allows himself; and for this he is generally very moderate in his demands. I have known a whole bundle of passengers charged no more than half-a-crown for being suffered to remain quiet at an ale-house door for above a whole hour, and that even in the hottest day in summer." Of the travelling by private carriages in those days of the most villainous cross-roads we have abundant evidence. The Duke of Somerset, who died in 1748, was always compelled by the badness of the roads to sleep at Guildford, on his way from Petworth to London. A letter of one of the Duke's servants to another servant, announces his master's intention to arrive at Petworth, from London; and adds directions, that "the keepers and others who knew the holes and sloughs, must come to meet his Grace, with lanthorns and long poles, to help him on his way." The grandfather of the present Duke of Buckingham had an inn built for his special accommodation at Winslow, as the journey from Stowe to London could not be accomplished in one day. Vanbrugh, in the "Provoked Husband," has given us an amusing, and, we have little doubt, faithful account of the progress of a Yorkshire family to town in their own equipage: Manly. So they bring all their baggage with the coach then? John Moody. Ay, ay, and good store on't there is.Why, my lady's gear alone were as much as filled four portmantel trunks, besides the great deal box, that heavy Ralph and the monkey sit upon behind. Lord Townly, Lady Grace, and Manly. Ha! ha! ha! Lady Grace. Well, Mr. Moody, and pray how many are they within the coach? John Moody. Why, there's my lady and his worship; and the young squoire, and Miss Jenny, and the fat lap-dog, and my lady's maid, Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe, the cook; that's all-Only Doll puked a little with riding backward, so they hoisted her into the coach-box-and then her stomach was easy. Lady Grace. Oh! I see 'em. I see 'em go by me. Ah! ha! John Moody. Then you mun think, measter, there was some stowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; such cargoes of plum-cake, and baskets of tongues, and biscuits and cheese, and cold boiled beef-and then, in case of sickness, bottles of cherry-brandy, plaguewater, sack, tent, and strong-beer, so plenty as made th' owld coach crack again! Mercy upon 'em! and send 'em all well to town, I say. Manly. Ay! and well out on't again, John. John Moody. Ods bud! measter, you're a wise mon; and for that matter, so am I.-Whoam's whoam, I say: I'm sure we got but little good e'er sin' we turned our backs on 't. Nothing but mischief! Some devil's trick or other plagued us, aw th' day lung! Crack goes one thing; Bawnce! goes another. Woa, says Roger--Then souse! we are all set fast in a slough. Whaw! cries Miss!--scream go the maids! Lady Grace. I hope my Lady has had no hurt, Mr. and bawl! just as thof' they were stuck! And so, mercy Moody. on us! this was the trade from morning to night." "Lord Townly. Mr. Moody, your servant; I am glad to see you in London. I hope all the family is well. John Moody. Thanks be praised, your honour, they are all in pretty good heart; thof' we have had a power of crosses upo' the road. John Moody. Noa, an't please your ladyship, she was never in better humour: There's money enough stirring now. Manly. What has been the matter, John? John Moody. Why, we came up in such a hurry, you mun think that our tackle was not so tight as it should be. From the days of the first turnpike a whole century appears to have passed before any very great improvements were effected in the roads, or in the vehicles travelling upon them. Mr. M'Culloch says, "It was not till after the peace of Paris, in 1763, that turnpikeroads began to be extended to all parts of the kingdom; and that the means of internal communication began, in consequence, to be signally improved." (Account | travelling, THE MAIL. The extension of turnpike-roads through the country at last brought about the ultimate perfection of coach Sixty years ago was this great engine of our civilization first set in motion. Before Mr. Palmer suggested his improvements to the Government, letters sent by the post, which left Bath on Monday night, were not delivered in London till Wednesday afternoon. The London post of Monday night did not reach Worcester, Birmingham, or Norwich, till Wednesday morning, and Exeter on the Thursday morning. A letter from London to Glasgow, before 1788, was five days on the road. The letter-bags were carried by boys on horseback; and the robbery of the mail was, of course, so common an occurrence, that no safety whatever could be secured in the transmission of money. The highwayman was the great hero of the travelling of that day. But on the 2nd of August, 1784, the first mail-coach left London for Bristol; and from that evening, till the general establishment of the railway system, the mail was one of the wonders and glories of "the Land we live in." And the mail was 66 a thing of beauty," and " a joy." It is gone. Never more, as St. Paul's clock is verging towards eight, shall we hurry down the narrow outlet of the "Swan-with-two-Necks, Lad-lane," and secure the place of honour on the box of the Holyhead mail, for a ten miles' ride on a summer evening. A short ride by the mail,- -we can only say of it, as Johnson said to Boswell, when they were driving rapidly along in a post-chaise, "Life has not many better things than this." Cautiously the skilful coachman, in all his pride of scarlet and gold, steers his impatient leaders through the mazes that conduct to St. Martin'sle-Grand. A minute's pause at the side-entrance of the Post-office, and the guard is then seen emerging from the lamp-lit passage into the brightness of the western sun, with porter after porter bearing the leathern bags. They are rapidly stowed in the boot, amidst perfect silence. "All right," is the word, and we are trotting briskly up Aldersgate-street. The crowd always turns round to gaze at the mail, and we, a humble half-crown passenger, feel an elevation of heart as if we shared the triumph. Islington, Holloway, the Highgate Archway (in the days before railroads a great work), Finchley, are rapidly passed. The coachman and the guard are quite at ease when they have fairly quitted the London suburb. The professional joke that travels over the roof like a shuttlecock ;-the knowing and condescending uplifting of the coachman's whip-elbow to the honoured driver of the pair-horse ;-the smile and the wink upon the blushing Hebe, who waits with the expected glass of ale for the Jupiter of the box,-how they linger in the memory. And then the stories of what the road was before Mr. Telford took it in hand; and how Mr. Macneill has laid down a mile of concrete that will never be rutty;-and-but we are upon the place where the quarrel between York and Lancaster was fought out. England has seen strange changes between that day and the day of mail-coaches; and so we have a mutual "Good night" with our friends of the scarlet and gold, and moralize homeward. that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen, and the leakings of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey." The portrait belongs to the archæology of England. A sedan, a hackney-coach, and a stuffed stage-coachman of the fat times, should be deposited in the rooms of the Antiquarian Society, while a specimen can be preserved in relic, or made out from description. "There were twenty-nine military roads leading from Rome, some of which extended to the extreme parts of the empire, their total extent being, according to Rondelet, 52,964 Roman miles, or about 48,500 English miles." (Tredgold on Railroads.) We were beating the Romans in our own island, in comparative miles of stone and gravel, at the time when iron said, The stage-coaches followed the mails in the course of improvement. We remember them when they were not very particular about the pace; and four hours from Windsor to London was pretty well. To be sure there was a quarter of an hour for breakfast at Longford, and another quarter of an hour for luncheon at Turnham-green; but it was a pleasant ride in a pleasant ride in days when men were not in a hurry. The pace of our now surviving stage-coaches is, for the first half-hour after the railway, a sort of impertinence. You feel you are crawling when you have mounted the tenmile-an-hour tortoise that is to take you across the country from the station; but yet the driver presumes to talk of his cattle. Look at him. He has a load of responsibility put upon him which he is little able to bear. He must keep time. He dare not have a snack at the halfway-house; he has no messages to deliver; he sticks gloomily upon the box, while the horses are hurriedly changed; he sleeps not at nights, without dreaming of the whistle; he is dependent upon an absolute will; he has a cadaverous melancholy face, as if Time were beating him prematurely. Contrast him with Washington Irving's English coach-" Pave no more." In 1839, the turnpike-roads of man of 1820, who may himself be contrasted with Fielding's stage-coachman of 1740: "He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broadbrimmed low-crowned hat; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole; the present, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up his legs. All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The noment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he hrows down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the ostler: his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on England and Wales amounted to 21,962 miles, and Science was brought to The great revolution of the age was at hand. We have had an enthusiast amongst us, who held that the words of the prophet Ezekiel, "And I looked, and behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire," were typical of railway locomotion. We meddle not with such dangerous interpretations. But one with no pretensions to prophecy gave us some of the poetical elements of THE RAILWAY, long before such matters had any existence except in the fables of the Hindoo mythology. In 1810, Robert Southey, in his "Curse of Kehama," shadowed out a dark hint for the practical genius of Stephenson. Coleridge used to say that he anticipated many of Davy's experimental discoveries by à priori reasoning. Had Southey visions of the locomotive engine when he described "The Car of Miracle," which |