"So great is the itch of pleasure at this time of year, that on Sundays it is difficult to find post-horses in London. Last Sunday General Fox, and several other persons of Consideration, who had business out of town, were confined for want of them, though they sent as far as the extremity of Whitechapel."—(Times, Sept. 2, 1795.)
"The rate of Posting still continues at 14d. per mile, and nothing but the unanimous determination of the public to resist so extravagant a charge, can possibly do it away. Some few Post Masters have, it is true, advertised at 1s., but the general rate still remains at 14d. This charge took its rise from the scarcity, and, consequently, the high price of corn: but, at this moment, when corn has fell one third, nothing can justify the continuance of what may be justly reprobated as an imposition."—(Times, July 9, 1796.)
But it was not every one who could afford Posting or even the Stage Coach,—for them existed the "Stage Wagon"—a most cumbrous affair with very broad wheels—and some eight horses, the driver being mounted on a pony—so as to be able to ride round his team. The following is a very humorous story of a journey by Wagon:—
"A DELIGHTFUL RIDE,
"In the ten-wheeled Caravan, from Greenwich to London.
"We were twenty-four passengers within side, and nine without. It was my lot to sit in the middle, with a very lusty woman on one side, and a very thin man on the other. 'Open the window,' said the former, and she had a child on her lap, whose hands and face were all besmeared with gingerbread. 'It can't be opened,' said a little prim coxcomb, 'or I shall get cold.'—'But I say it shall, Sir,' said a Butcher, who sat opposite to him, and the Butcher opened it; but, as he stood, or rather bent forward to do this, the caravan came into a rut, and the Butcher's head, by the suddenness of the jolt, came into contact with that of the woman who sat next to me, and made her nose bleed. He begged her pardon, and she gave him a slap on the face that sounded through the whole caravan. Two sailors, that were seated near the helm of this machine, ordered the driver to cast anchor at the next public-house. He did so; and the woman next to me, called for a pot of ale, which she offered to me, after she had emptied about a pint of it, observing, that 'as how she loved ale mightily.' I could not drink, at which she took much offence; and said, 'I was mighty squeamish; but thank God, she was as good as I, and kept a lodging-house in Craven St., where she saw her betters every day, and so,' continues she, 'here's to you, my dear:' and she finished the pot. A violent dispute now arose between two stout looking men, the one a Recruiting Sergeant, and the other a Gentleman's Coachman, about the Rights of Man: and, having struck two or three blows in the Caravan, they got out into the road, to decide whether Tom Paine was an Atheist, or a Deist. In this contest, victory fell to the Sergeant, and the driver of the horses was so mauled by the leader of men, that he was lifted into the vehicle, where he sat in sullen silence all the rest of the journey.
"Another dispute afterwards arose about politics, which was carried on with such warmth, as to draw the attention of the company to the head of the Caravan, where the combatants sat wedged together like two pounds of Epping butter, whilst a child incessantly roared at the opposite side, and the mother abused the two politicians for frightening her babe. The heat was now so great that all the windows were opened, and with the fresh air, entered clouds of dust, for the body of the machine is but a few inches from the surface of the road.
"I trust, Mr. Conductor, you will give this journey to London, a place in your paper, and, I am, &c. &c.
"Lucy Treadneedle."
—(Times, Sept. 5, 1794.)