fire after travelling all night as an
outside passenger on the top, say, for instance, of the Royal London and
Yarmouth mail. Pardon my emotion, but I must shut my eyes, and endeavour
to recall the past. It is six o'clock on a night cold as that in which I
now write; I am at the ancient hostelry, now gone to the dogs, known as
the White Horse, Fetter Lane, on the top of the mail aforesaid. The
many-caped coachman, has clambered up into his seat; I sit by his side,
perched somewhat like a mummy; outside and in we are full of passengers.
The red-coated guard blows cheerily on the far-resounding horn. "Let
them go," says the coachman, and four faultless greys, impatient of
restraint, rush forth with their living load: in a twinkling we stoop
under the ancient gateway, and turn into Fetter Lane; now we cautiously
descend Holborn Hill, skilfully we are steered through Cheapside, past
the Mansion House, through Cornhill, along dark and sullen Leadenhall,
Whitechapel, all glaring with gas and butcher's meat; our driver gives
the horses their heads, and our pace becomes pleasant. We pass Bow
Church, and the bridge at Stratford, and now we have left the gaslights
far behind, above us is the grand dome of heaven studded with its myriads
of stars. Hedge and field far and near are covered with a mantle of
virgin snow. The traffic on the road has trodden it into firmness, and
on we speed till we reach Romford, not then as now known all over London
for its ales. I believe these ales are the occasion of an anecdote,
which I may here repeat:--Two friends went into a public-house and were
regaled plentifully with them, but not finding them so strong as they
wished were much disgusted, and rose to go; however, they had not gone
far before the ale began to tell; one traveller soon found himself in a
ditch on one side of the road, while his friend was prostrate in another.
"Holloa," said the one to the other, "that ale war'nt so bad as I
thought." "No, no," was the reply of his now apparently-satisfied
friend. But here we are at Romford. Fresh cattle are standing ready to
take the place of the four who have gallantly drawn us hither. But there
is time to jump down, and "have a drop of summut short," to catch a
glimpse from the most glorious of fires, and to feel for the buxom
landlady, and her clean and rosy-cheeked Hebes, very strong feelings of
personal regard. "All ready," cries the ostler, and away we rush from
this fairy la