‘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, begins to grumble again. “Pray, my good sir,” says he anxiously, “do use your authority over your coachman, and insist upon his putting the drag-chain on the wheel when descending the next hill.” “I have no such authority,” replies the proprietor. “It is true, we are now drawn by my horses, but I cannot interfere with the driving of them.” “But is he not your servant?” “He is, sir; but I contract to work the coach so many miles in so many hours, and he engages to drive it, and each is subject to a fine if the time be not kept on the road. On so fast a coach as this every advantage must be taken; and if we were to drag down such hills as these, we should never reach Exeter to-day.”
‘Our friend, however, will have no more of it. He quits the coach at Bagshot, congratulating himself on the safety of his limbs. Yet he takes one more peep at the change, which is done with the same despatch as before; three greys and a pie-bald replacing three chestnuts and a bay—the harness beautifully clean, and the ornaments bright as the sun. Not a word is spoken by the passengers, who merely look their admiration; but the laconic address of the coachman is not lost on the bystanders. “Put the bay mare near wheel this evening, and the stallion up to the cheek,” said he to his horse-keeper as he placed his right foot on the roller-bolt—i.e. the last step but one to the box. “How is Paddy's leg?” “It's all right, sir,” replied the horse-keeper. “Let 'em go, then,” quoth the artist, “and take care of yourselves.”
‘The worthy old gentleman is now shown into a room, and after warming his hands at the fire, rings the bell for the waiter. A well-dressed person appears, whom he of course takes for the landlord. “Pray, sir,” says he, “have you any slow coach down this road to-day?” “Why, yes, sir,” replies John; “we shall have the Regulator down in an hour.” “Just right,” said our friend; “it will enable me to break my fast, which I have not done to-day.” “Oh, sir,” observes John, “these here fast drags be the ruin of us.” 'Tis all hurry scurry, and no gentleman has time to have nothing on the road. “What will you take, sir? Mutton-chops, veal-cutlets, beef-steaks, or a fowl (to kill?)”
‘At the appointed time, the Regulator appears at the door. It is a strong, well-built drag, painted what is called chocolate colour, bedaubed all over with 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 passengers may be, by a shade or two, of a lower order than those who had gone forward with the Comet; nor, perhaps, is the coachman quite so refined as the one we have just taken leave of. He has not the neat white hat, the clean doeskin gloves, the well-cut trousers, and dapper frock; but still his appearance is respectable, and perhaps, in the eyes of many, more in character with his calling. Neither has he the agility of the artist on the Comet, for he is nearly double his size; but he is a strong powerful man, and might be called a pattern card of the heavy coachman of the present day—in other words, of a man who drives a coach which carries sixteen passengers instead of fourteen, and is rated at eight miles an hour instead of ten. “What room in the Regulator?” says our friend to the waiter, as he comes to announce its arrival. “Full inside, sir, and in front; but you'll have the gammon board all to yourself, and your luggage is in the hind boot.” “Gammon board! Pray, what's that? Do you not mean the basket?”[7] “Oh no, sir,” says John, smiling; “no such thing on the road now. It is the hind-dickey, as some call it; where you'll be as comfortable as possible, and can sit with your back or your face to the coach, or both, if you like.” “Ah, ah,” continues the old gentleman; “something new again, I presume.” However, the mystery is cleared up; the ladder is reared to the hind wheel and the gentleman safely seated on the gammon board.
‘Before ascending to his place our friend has cast his eye on the team that is about to convey him to Hartford Bridge, the next stage on the great western road, and he perceives it to be of a different stamp from that which he had seen taken from the coach at Bagshot. It consisted of four moderate-sized horses, full of power, and still fuller of condition, but with a fair sprinkling of blood; in short, the eye of a judge would have discovered something about them not very unlike galloping. “All right!” cried the guard, taking his key-bugle[8] in his hand; and they proceeded up the village, at a steady pace, to the tune of “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” and continued at that pace for the first five miles. “I am landed,” thinks our friend to himself. Unluckily, however, for the humane and cautious old gentleman, even the Regulator was about to show tricks. Although what now is called a slow coach, she is timed at eight miles in the hour through a great extent of country, and must, of course, make play where she can, being strongly opposed by hills lower down the country, trifling as these hills are, no doubt, to what they once were. The Regulator, moreover, loads well, not only with passengers, but with luggage; and the last five miles of this stage, called the Bridge Flat, have the reputation of being the best five miles for a coach to be found at this time in England. The ground is firm; the surface undulating, and therefore favourable to draught; always dry, not a shrub being near it; nor is there a stone upon it much larger than a marble. These advantages, then, are not lost to the Regulator, or made use of without sore discomposure to the solitary tenant of her gammon board.
‘Any one that has looked into books will very readily account for the lateral motion, or rocking, as it is termed, of a coach, being greatest at the greatest distance from the horses (as the tail of a paper kite is in motion whilst the body remains at rest); and more especially when laden as this coach was—the greater part of the weight being forward. The situation of our friend, then, was once more deplorable. The Regulator takes but twenty-three minutes for these celebrated five miles, which cannot be done without “springing the cattle” now and then; and it was in one of the very best of their gallops of that day, that they were met by the coachman of the Comet, who was returning with his up-coach. When coming out of rival yards, coachmen never fail to cast an eye to the loading of their opponents on the road, and now that of the natty artist of the Comet experienced a high treat. He had a full view of his quondam passenger, and thus described his situation.
‘He was seated with his back to the horses—his teeth set grim as death—his eyes cast down towards the ground, thinking the less he saw of his danger the better. There was what is called a top-heavy load—perhaps a ton of luggage on the roof, and it may be not quite in obedience to the Act of Parliament standard.[9] There were also two horses at wheel, whose strides were of rather unequal length, and this operated powerfully on the coach. In short, the lurches of the Regulator were awful at the moment of the Comet meeting her. A tyro in mechanics would have exclaimed, “The centre of gravity must be lost, the centrifugal force will have the better of it—over she must go!”
‘The centre of gravity having been preserved, the coach arrived safe at Hartford Bridge; but the old gentleman has again had enough of it. “I will walk into Devonshire,” said he, as he descended from his perilous exaltation. “What did that rascally waiter mean by telling me this was a slow coach? and moreover, look at the luggage on the roof!” “Only regulation height, sir,” says the coachman; “we aren't allowed to have it an inch higher; sorry we can't please you, sir, but we will try and make room for you in front.” “Fronti nulla fides,” mutters the worthy to himself, as he walks tremblingly into the house—adding, “I shall not give this fellow a shilling; he is dangerous.”
‘The Regulator being off, the waiter is again applied to. “What do you charge per mile posting?” “One and sixpence, sir.” “Bless me! just double! Let me see—two hundred miles, at two shillings per mile, postboys, turnpikes, etc., £20. This will never do. 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 a band-box on the roof.”[10] “That's the coach for me; pray what do you call it?” “The Quicksilver mail, sir; one of the best out of London—Jack White and Tom Brown, picked coachmen, over this ground—Jack White down to-night.” “Guarded and lighted?” “Both, sir; blunderbuss and pistols in the sword-case;[11] a lamp each side the coach, and one under the foot-board—see to pick up a pin the darkest night of the year.” “Very fast?” “Oh no, sir, just keeps time, and that's all.” “That's the coach for me, then,” repeats our hero; “and I am sure I shall feel at my ease in it. I suppose it is what used to be called the Old Mercury.”