The Exeter Road

of the Sporting Magazine—writing in 1836, compares the exquisite pe

VAN

ailable: T

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ing by the ‘Comet’ of 1836. Rousing from his long sleep, he determines to go by the ‘Fly’ to Exeter. In the lapse of ninety-four years, however, that vehicle

to Exeter,’ replies

ere she comes—them there gray

ur Rip Van Winkle knew, that he says, ‘Don’t

quick as lightning.’ Whereupon, vehemently protesting, the ‘cad’ and a fellow r

a smartness to which coachmen had been entire strangers

happens to be sitting at his side; ‘but he has been on the “C

of his{16} apparel, and the language he made use of, I mistook him for some enthusiastic ba

in foreign parts, sir,’

ark Corner. ‘What!’ exclaims

nes,’ says a fellow-passenger;

ive for some time that the coach is a swift one. When he discovers that fact, a

Hounslow, in five minutes under the hour. ‘Wonderful travelling, but much too fast to be safe. Howeve

and the waiter, the inn, and indeed Hounslow itself, disappear in the twinkling of an eye. ‘My dear sir,’ exclaims he, in surprise, ‘you told

LLOPIN

tting on your spectacles and looking at your watch. Only one minute allowed for it at

the proprietor, in reply to the old gentleman’s remark that he really does not like to go so fast. ‘Not a peb

e old man, ‘what improv

etor. ‘No horse walks a yard in this coach bet

ers the senior to himself. ‘But who has ef

am,’ is the reply; ‘but coachmen

at sort of horses may you

es cattle strong and staid. You’ll see four as fine horses put to the

re galloping—no more spri

em 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, an

owls the man; ‘the quietest hanimal alive, sir.’ But the good faith of this pronouncement is somewhat discounted by the coachman’s caution, ‘Mind what you are about, Bob; don’t let him touch the roller-bolt.’ Then, ‘Let ’em go, and take care of yourselves,’ his next remark, seems a

ng pilgrimage. He quits the coach at Bagshot, congratulating himself

REGUL

HE ‘REGULATOR’ ON HA

R’ ON HARTFOR

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,’ says he, ‘have you any slow coach down this road to-day?’—‘Why, yes, s

gilt letters—a Bull’s Head on the doors, a Saracen’s Head on the hind boot, and drawn by four strapping horses; but it wants the neatness of the other. The waite

what’s that? Do you

no such a thing on the road now. It

e of ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’ and continue at that pace for the first five miles. The old gentleman again congratulates{22} himself, but prematurely, for they are about to enter upon Hartford Bridge Flats, which have the reputation at this time of being the best five miles for a coach in all England. The coachman now ‘springs’ his team and they break into a gallop which does those five miles in twenty-three minutes. Half-way across the Flats they meet the returning

r has had enough of it, and exclaims that he will walk into Devonshire. However, he thin

o. Have you no coach that does not carry luggage on the top?’—‘Oh yes, sir,’ replies the waiter; ‘we shall have one to-night that is not allowed to carry

ICKSILV

SILVER’ MAIL:—‘STOP, COACHMAN

—‘STOP, COACHMAN, I HAV

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and one under the footboard—see to pick up a pin the darkest night of the year.—‘Very fast?’—

’ and she performs more than half her journey by lamplight. It is needless to say, then, our senior soon finds out his mistake; but there is no remedy at hand, for it is dead of night, and all the inns are shut up. The climax of his misfortunes then approaches. He sleeps, and awakes on a stage called the fastest on the journey—it is four miles of ground, and twelve minutes is the time. The old gentleman starts from his seat, dreaming the horses are running aw

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