Here we are at the “Bull and Mouth,” in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, now newly rebuilt by Sherman, and named the “Queen’s.” It is a handsome building of red brick, with Portland stone dressings, but the old stables are still to be seen at the side, in Bull-and-Mouth Street. A strong and penetrating aroma of horses and straw pervades the neighbourhood.
Wonderful building, the new General Post Office, opened last year, nearly opposite. They say the Government has got something very like a white elephant in that vast pile. A great deal too big for present needs, or, indeed, for any possible extension of Post Office business. Here’s the “Lord Wellington.” What’s that the yard-porter says?—He says “they don’t call it nothin’ but the ‘Vellington’ now.”—Smart, turn-out, is it not, with its yellow wheels and body to match? You can tell Sherman’s coaches anywhere by that colouring. What a d——d nuisance those boys are, pestering one to buy things one doesn’t want! No; be off with you, we don’t want any braces or pocket looking-glasses, nor the “Life and Portrait of His Late Majesty,” nor any “Sure Cure for Fleas”—use it on yourselves, you dirty-looking devils!
THE “QUEEN’S HOTEL” AND GENERAL POST OFFICE. After T. Allom.
Thank goodness! we’re off, and the sooner we’re out of this traffic and off the stones at Kingsland Turnpike the better. These paved streets are so noisy, one can scarcely hear oneself talk, and the rattling sends a jar up one’s spine. How London grows! we shall soon see the houses stretching past Kingsland and swallowing up the country lanes of Dalston and Stoke Newington.
Hal-lo! That was a near shave. Confound those brewers’ drays; Shoreditch is always full of ’em; might have sent us slap over. Why don’t you keep your eyes open, fool?
The drayman offers to fight us all, one after the other, with one hand tied behind his back, for sixpence a head, money down; but though we have some of “the Fancy” aboard, the “Wellington” can’t stop for a mill in the middle of Shoreditch High Street.
Now at last we’re fairly in the country. If you look back you’ll be able to see St. Paul’s. This is Stamford Hill, where the rich City indigo and East and West India merchants live. Warm men, all of them. There, ahead of us, on the right, goes the river Lea: as pretty fishing there as you’d find even in the famous trout streams of Hampshire. What a quaint, quiet rural place this is at Tottenham! And Edmonton, with its tea-gardens; why, London might be fifty miles away!
Here we are, already at Waltham Cross, and at our first change. This is something like traveling! We change horses at the “Falcon” in little more than two minutes, and so are off again, on the ten-mile stage to Ware, through the long narrow street of Cheshunt, past the New River at Broxbourne, and along the broad thoroughfare of Hoddesdon. At Ware we change teams at the “Saracen’s Head,” and four fine strong-limbed chestnuts are put in, to take us the rather hilly stage on to Buntingford. At this sleepy little town they take care to give us as strong a team as you will find in any coach on any road, for the way rises steadily for some miles over Royston Downs. A good thing for the horses that the stage on to Royston town is not more than seven miles. “I believe you, sir,” says the coachman; “vy, I’ve heerd my father say, vot driv’ over this ’ere road thirty year ago, that he vore out many a good ’orse on this stage; an’ ’e vere a careful man too, as you might say, and turned out every blessed one, hinside to hout, to valk up-hill for two mile, wet or fine; strike me blue if he didn’t.”
“They talk of lowering the road through the top of Reed Hill, don’t they, coachman?”