he morning. I had to leave again at four the
same morning. On my way back to town, when the fog was very bad, I was
coming over Hounslow Heath when I reached the spot where the old
powder-mills used to stand. I saw several lights in the road, and heard
voices, which induced me to stop. The old Exeter Mail, which left
Bagshot thirty minutes before I did, had met with a singular accident;
it was driven by a man named Gambier; his leaders had come in contact
with a hay-cart on its way to London, which caused them to turn suddenly
round, break the pole, and blunder down a steep embankment, at the
bottom of which was a narrow deep ditch filled with water and mud. The
Mail Coach pitched on to the stump of a willow tree that over-hung the
ditch; the coachman and outside passengers were thrown over into the
meadow beyond, and the horses went into the ditch; the unfortunate
wheelers were drowned or smothered in the mud. There were two inside
passengers, who were extricated with some difficulty; but fortunately no
one was injured. I managed to take the passengers, with the guard and
mail-bags, on to London, leaving the coachman to wait for daylight
before he could make an attempt to get the Mail up the embankment. They
endeavoured to accomplish this, with cart-horses and chains. They had
nearly reached the top of the bank when something gave way, and the poor
old Mail went back into the ditch again. I shall never forget the scene;
there were about a dozen men from the powder-mills trying to render
assistance, and, with their black faces, each bearing a torch in his
hand, they presented a curious spectacle. This happened about thirty
years ago. Posts and rails were erected at the spot after the accident.
I passed the place last summer; they are still there, as well as the old
pollard willow stump.

I recollect another singular circumstance occasioned by a fog. There
were eight Mails that passed through Hounslow. The Bristol, Bath,
Gloucester and Stroud, took the right-hand road from Hounslow; the
Exeter, Yeovil, Poole, and "Quicksilver," Devonport (which was the one I
was driving), went the straight road towards Staines. We always saluted
each other when passing, with "Good night, Bill," "Dick," or "Harry," as
the case might be. I was once passing a Mail, mine being the faster, and
gave my wonted salute. A coachman named Downs was driving the Stroud
Mail; he instantly recognised my voice, and said, "Charlie, what are you
doing on