hill, perhaps, rises
between him and the main line--it would cost forty thousands pounds a
mile--he must bore an enormous tunnel, and fill up a prodigious valley,
and the united wealth of all the shopkeepers in the town would fall far
short of the required half million. He sinks down in sheer despair, or
takes to drinking with the innkeeper, who has already had an attack of
_delirium tremens_, gives up the _Times_ newspaper for the _Weekly
Despatch_, and thinks Mr Frost a much injured character, and Rebecca a
Welsh Hampden. The railway has touched his pocket, and the iron has
entered into his soul. He feels as if he lived at the Land's-End, or had
emigrated to the back woods of America. All the world goes at a gallop,
and he creeps. Finally, he is removed to Hanwell, and endeavours to
persuade Dr Conolly that he is one of Stephenson's engines, and goes
hissing and spurting in fierce imitation of Rapid or Infernal. And all
this is the natural consequence of having settled in an ancient city
inaccessible to rails. A list could easily be made out that would astonish
any one who had not reflected on the subject before, of cities and towns
which must yield up their relative rank to more aspiring neighbourhoods on
whom the gods of steam and iron have smiled. It will be sufficient to
point out a few instances in some of the main lines of mail-coach
travelling, and see what their position is now.

Let us go to Lincoln, region of fens and enterprize, of fat land and jolly
yeomen. The mail is just ready to start; we pay our fare, and, after
seeing our luggage carefully deposited in the recesses of the boot, we
mount beside the red-faced, much-becoated individual who is flickering his
whip in idle listlessness on the box; the guard gives a triumphal shout on
his short tin horn, the flickering of the whip ceases, the horses snort
and paw, and finally, in a tempest of sound and a whirlwind of dust, we
career onward from the Saracen's head, and watch the stepping of the
stately team with pride and exultation--a hundred and forty miles before
us, and thirteen hours on the road.

In fifty-five minutes we are at Barnet--pick up a stout gentleman and
plethoric portmanteau in the green shades of Little Heath lane; and
dashing through Hatfield, as if we were announcing Waterloo, change horses
again at Stanborough. Away, away, the coach and we, with two very jolly
fellows on the roof, and cross in due time the beautiful river Lea,
scatter