Certainly I was among those who rejoiced in the increased expedition
of the fast-coach period; not because I loved, but because I hated,
travelling, and was glad to have periods of misery abridged. I used to
listen with delight to the stories of my seniors, and to marvel that
in so short a space of time so great an improvement had been made. One
friend told me that in earlier life he had travelled from Gloucester
to Hereford in a coach, which performed the journey of about thirty
miles between the hours of five in the morning and seven in the
evening. I took it for granted that they stopped on the road to dine,
and spent a long afternoon in smoking, {34} napping, or playing at
bowls. But he would not acknowledge anything of the kind, and the
impression on his mind was that they kept going (such going as it
was), except during the time necessarily expended in baiting the
horses, who, I think, were not changed--unless indeed it were from bad
to worse by fatigue. Another friend, a physician at Sheffield, told me
that one of the first times (perhaps he may have said, the first) that
a coach started for London, he was a passenger.
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