I will now ask the reader to fancy himself for a moment transported by the touch of Columbine's wand into the Midlands, and set down in the fashionable town of Cheltenham, which, fifty years ago, was justly famed for its fast and well-appointed coaches, as well as for its health-giving waters. Though situated far inland it was, like Brighton, very much dependent on the same element for its prosperity, and was frequented by much the same class of people, though the efficacy of the waters at one place depended upon external, and at the other upon internal application. Still they resembled one another in drawing together a society of persons who had little or no occupation except that of either bathing in or drinking the water. The High Street of Cheltenham presents now a very different aspect to what it did at the time I am writing about, when the seats on the sunny side were occupied by visitors looking at the coaches passing to and fro or turning into the "Plough" yard. It was a sight worth coming for to see those well-horsed coaches. There were, first, the London coaches arriving: the "Magnet," driven by Jemmy Witherington, and the "Berkely Hunt," with Frank Martindale on the box, who was always the pink of neatness--indeed, as he once said to me a good many years afterwards, "You know, I was a bit of a dandy in those days." Then there was also the London day mail with four greys, running alternately to the "Plough" and "Queen's Hotel," and later on in the day the "Hirondelle," driven by Finch, a rather wet soul, and the "Hibernia," arrived from Liverpool, both of which coaches are incidentally mentioned in another chapter, and were two of the fastest in England. Besides them, there were others running to Bath, Bristol, Leamington, Birmingham, and other places, and by the time all these had been inspected, it was time to think of dinner.