I will conclude in the words of Horace—
"Si quid noviste rectius istis,
Candidus imperti: si non his utere mecum."
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE END OF THE JOURNEY.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, "I leave you here," and trust I have given you no cause for complaint on the score of either civility or politeness to my passengers. I fear that in some places the road may have been heavy and the pace slow. Perhaps it may be thought that the style is incoherent, to which I can only say that such is usually the character of chatter; and if I have written anything which has afforded some interest or amusement, my most ardent hopes are satisfied.
The tale I have told has, in one sense, been told before, but so many fresh phases and incidents were so constantly turning up in the old mode of travelling, that it is not necessarily a twice-told tale. Probably the first idea of most readers upon closing the book will be, "How thankful I am that my lot was not cast in the days of my father or grandfather;" and this naturally leads to the reflection that when the busy wit of man had not produced so many inventions for evading the minor ills of life, the first idea was to endure them; but now, when fresh schemes of all sorts and descriptions are being propounded every day to render life easy, it is to cure them; and if this does not go to the length of making artificial wants, no doubt it is the wisest course to adopt.
To the old hand, however, who has not forgotten his early experiences, this eagerness to escape all hardship may seem to savour of softness and effeminacy, but I make no doubt that, though not called forth as it used to be in the days of yore, there still exists in the youth and manhood of Old England the same pluck and power of endurance when duty calls, as there ever was; and that as long as we continue to cherish our old field sports and games, we are not in much danger of losing them.
It were folly to stand up for road travelling as against the greater convenience of railways; still, I confess to a lingering feeling of regret that what was brought to such a state of perfection should have so completely vanished, and I think I cannot express these feelings better than by a short anecdote.
Many years ago, when hunting with the late Sir W. W. Wynn's hounds, when they had the advantage of the guidance of John Walker, I asked him which pack, whether the large or small, showed the best sport and killed the most foxes. His answer was, "Well, I really think the large pack does kill most foxes and give the best sport altogether, but I like the little ones." And if asked which is the best mode of travelling, whether by road or rail, I must confess that, as a travelling machine for conveying us from one part of the country to another, the railway is the best both for safety, speed, and economy; but having said this, I am constrained to make the same sort of reservation as was made by John Walker, and say, "I like the coaches."
Most noticeable of all, perhaps, was the plucky effort made in 1837 to revive the favourite "Red Rover" coach between London and Manchester, which had been discontinued upon the opening of the London and Birmingham and the Grand Junction Railways. It was "the last charge of the Old Guard," and shared the same fate. It may be interesting, however, to append a copy of this singular notice—one more evidence of the reluctance of Englishmen to be beaten, even at long odds. The very date at foot is significant, for the enterprise was embarked on in the teeth of the approaching winter.