destruction before his eyes? No: to his surprise he finds the coachman firm at his post, and in the act of taking a pinch of snuff from the gentleman who sits beside him on the bench, his horses going at the rate of a mile in three minutes at the time. “But suppose anything should break, or a linchpin should give way and let a wheel loose?” is the next appeal to the communicative but not very consoling proprietor. “Nothing can break, sir,” is the reply; “all of the very best stuff; axletrees of the best K.Q. iron, faggotted edgeways, well bedded in the timbers; and as for linchpins, we have not one about the coach. We use the best patent boxes that are manufactured. In short, sir, you are as safe in it as if you were in your bed.” “Bless me,” exclaims the old man, “what improvements! And the roads!!!” “They are at perfection, sir,” says the proprietor. “No horse walks a yard in this coach between London and Exeter—all trotting ground now.” “A little galloping ground, I fear,” whispers the senior to himself! “But who has effected all this improvement in your paving?” “An American of the name of Macadam,”[5] was the reply, “but coachmen call him the Colossus of Roads. Great things have likewise been done in cutting through hills and altering the course of roads: and it is no uncommon thing now-a-days to see four horses trotting away merrily down hill on that very ground where they formerly were seen walking up hill.”

‘“And pray, my good sir, what sort of horses may you have over the next stage?” “Oh, sir, no more bo-kickers. It is hilly and severe ground, and requires cattle strong and staid. You'll see four as fine horses put to the coach at Staines as you ever saw in a nobleman's carriage in your life.” “Then we shall have no more galloping—no more springing them as you term it?” “Not quite so fast over the next ground,” replied the proprietor; “but he will make good play over some part of it: for example, when he gets three parts down a hill he lets them loose, and cheats them out of half the one they have to ascend from the bottom of it. In short, they are half-way up it before a horse touches his collar; and we must take every advantage with such a fast coach as this, and one that loads so well, or we should never keep our time. We are now to a minute; in fact the country people no longer look at the sun when they want to set their clocks—they look only to the Comet. But, depend upon it, you are quite safe; we have nothing but first-rate artists on this coach.” “Artist! artist!” grumbles the old gentleman, “we had no such term as that.”

‘“I should like to see this artist change horses at the next stage,” resumes our ancient; “for at the last it had the appearance of magic—‘Presto, Jack, and begone!’” “By all means; you will be much gratified. It is done with a quickness and ease almost incredible to anyone who has only read or heard of it; not a buckle or a rein is touched twice, and still all is made secure; but use becomes second nature with us. Even in my younger days it was always half an hour's work—sometimes more. There was—‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, what would you like to take? There's plenty of time, while the horses are changing, for tea, coffee, or supper; and the coachman will wait for you—won't you, Mr. Smith?’ Then Mr. Smith himself was in no hurry; he had a lamb about his coach for one butcher in the town, and perhaps half a calf for another, a barrel of oysters for the lawyer, and a basket of game for the parson, all on his own account. In short, the best wheel of the coach was his, and he could not be otherwise than accommodating.”

‘The coach arrives at Staines, and the ancient gentleman puts his intentions into effect, though he was near being again too late; for by the time he could extract his hat from the netting that suspended it over his head, the leaders had been taken from their bars, and were walking up the yard towards their stables. On perceiving a fine thorough-bred horse led toward the coach with a twitch fastened tightly to his nose, he exclaimed, “Holloa, Mr. Horse-keeper! You are going to put an unruly horse in the coach.” “What! this here 'oss?” growls the man; “the quietest hanimal alive, sir!” as he shoves him to the near side of the pole. At this moment, however, the coachman is heard to say in somewhat of an undertone, “Mind what you are about, Bob; don't let him touch the roller-bolt.” In thirty seconds more they are off—“the staid and steady team,” so styled by the proprietor of the coach. “Let 'em go! and take care of yourselves,” says the artist, so soon as he is firmly seated upon his box; and this is the way they start. The near leader rears right on end; and if the rein had not been yielded to him at the instant, he would have fallen backwards on the head of the pole. The moment the twitch was taken from the nose of the thorough-bred near-wheeler, he drew himself back to the extent of his pole-chain—his forelegs stretched out before him—and then, like a lion loosened from his toil, made a snatch at the coach that would have broken two pairs of traces of 1742. A steady and good-whipped horse, however, his partner, started the coach himself, with a gentle touch of the thong, and away they went off together. But the thorough-bred was very far from being comfortable; it was in vain that the coachman tried to soothe him with his voice, or stroked him with the crop of his whip. He drew three parts of the coach, and cantered for the first mile, and when he did settle down to his trot, his snorting could be heard by the passengers, being as much as to say, “I was not born to be a slave.” In fact, as the proprietor now observed, “he had been a fair plate horse in his time, but his temper was always queer.”

‘After the first shock was over, the Conservative of the eighteenth century felt comfortable. The pace was considerably slower than it had been over the last stage, but he was unconscious of the reason for its being diminished. It was to accommodate the queer temper of the race-horse,[6] who, if he had not been humoured at starting, would never have settled down to his trot, but have ruffled all the rest of the team. He was also surprised, if not pleased, at the quick rate at which they were ascending hills which, in his time, he should have been asked by the coachman to have walked up—but his pleasure was short-lived; the third hill they descended produced a return of his agony. This was what is termed on the road a long fall of ground, and the coach rather pressed upon the horses. The temper of the race-horse became exhausted: breaking into a canter, he was of little use as a wheeler, and there was then nothing for it but a gallop. The leaders only wanted the signal; and the point of the thong being thrown lightly over their backs, they were off like an arrow out of a bow: but the rocking of the coach was awful, and more particularly so to the passengers on the roof. Nevertheless, she was not in danger: the master-hand of the artist kept her in a direct line; and meeting the opposing ground, she steadied, and all was right. The newly-awakened gentleman, however,