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. (Cut, 2.) 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? 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: "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. 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. 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. 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. Sixty years ago was this great of the British Empire.) Mr. Porter, in an article contributed to "The Companion to the Almanac," 1837, speaks of the condition of a road only thirty-six miles from London, about the same period:-"A gentleman now living at Horsham, in Sussex, has stated, on the authority of a person whose father carried on the business of a butcher, in that town, that in his time the only means of reaching London was either by going on foot or on horseback, the latter method not being practicable at all periods of the year, nor in every state of the weather; and that the roads were never at that time in such a condition as to admit of sheep or cattle being driven upon them to the London markets; for which reason the farmers were prevented sending thither the produce of their lands, the immediate neighbourhood being, in fact, their only market. Under these circumstances the quarter of a fat ox was commonly sold for about fifteen shillings, and the price of mutton was one penny farthing per pound." Mr. Porter, in his "Progress of the Nation," also informs us, that "when it was in contemplation to extend turnpike-roads from the metropolis to more distant points than those to which they had before been carried, the farmers in the metropolitan counties petitioned Parliament against the plan, fearing lest their market being invaded by so many competitors, who would sell their produce more cheaply, they should be ruined." Two centuries before these wise farmers, William Harrison,-in many things a shrewd observer-thought it would be good "if it were enacted that each one should keep his next market with his grain, and not to run six, eight, ten, fourteen, or twenty miles from home to sell his corn, where he doth find the highest price." Harrison saw clearly enough that communication equalized prices; although he would have kept down prices, and therefore kept down all profitable employment, by narrowing the market of the producers. Dr. Johnson appears to have had somewhat similar notions of public advantage. In 1784 he visited Mr. Windham, who made a note of his Conversations, amongst which we find the following: " Opinion about the effect of turnpike-roads. Every place communicating with each other. Before, there were cheap places and dear places. Now, all refuges are destroyed for elegant or genteel poverty. Disunion of families, by furnishing a market to each man's ability, and destroying the dependence of one man upon another." To have "cheap places and dear places"-to maintain "the dependence of one man upon another"—has been the struggle of class interests up to this hour. Roads and railroads and steamboats have annihilated the one remnant of feudality, local cheapness purchased by general dearness ;-and the penny-a-mile trains would extinguish all that is unhealthy in "the dependence of one man upon another," if the other remnant of feudality, the law of parish settlement, were broken up. The extension of turnpike-roads through the country at last brought about the ultimate perfection of coach engine of our civilization first set in motion. Before 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 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 coachman 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 moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws 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 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, "Pave no more." In 1839, the turnpike-roads of England and Wales amounted to 21,962 miles, and in Scotland, to 3,666 miles; while, in England and Wales, the other highways amounted to 104,772 miles. The turnpike-roads were maintained at the cost of a million pounds a year; and the parish highways at a cost of about twelve hundred thousand pounds. There were at that time nearly eight thousand toll-gates in England and Wales. There had been two thousand miles of turnpike roads, and ten thousand miles of other highways, added to the number existing in 1814. But the improvements of all our roads during that period had been enormous. Science was brought to bear upon the turnpike lines. Common sense changed their form and re-organized their material. The most beautiful engineering was applied to raise valleys and lower hills. Mountains were crossed with ease; rivers were spanned over massive piers, or by bridges which hung in the air like fairy platforms. The names of McAdam and Telford became "household words;" and even parish surveyors, stimulated by example, took thought how to mend their ways. 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 |