'Unfortunately, the Devonport (commonly called the Quicksilver) mail is half a mile in the hour faster than most in England, and is, indeed, one of the miracles of the road. Let us then picture to ourselves our anti-reformer snugly seated in this mail, on a pitch-dark night in November. It is true she has no luggage on the roof, nor much to incommode her elsewhere; but she is a mile in the hour faster than the Comet, at least three miles quicker than the Regulator; and she performs more than half her journey by lamplight. It is needless to say, then, our senior soon finds out his mistake; but there is no remedy at hand, for it is the dead of the night, and all the inns are shut up. He must proceed, or be left behind in a stable. The climax of his misfortunes then approaches. 'Nature being exhausted, sleep comes to his aid, and he awakes on a stage which is called the fastest on the journey--four miles of ground, and twelve minutes the time! The old gentleman starts from his seat, having dreamed the horses were running away with the coach, and so, no doubt, they might be. He is determined to convince himself of the fact, though the passengers assure him "all's right." "Don't put your head out of the window," says one of them, "you will lose your hat to a certainty": but advice is seldom listened to by a terrified man, and next moment a stentorian voice is heard, crying, "Stop, coachman, stop--I have lost my hat and wig!" The coachman hears him not--and in another second the broad wheels of a road waggon have for ever demolished the lost headgear.' That was the Road at its best: the poetic side we have in mind when we speak of the good old days of coaching. The following passages refer equally to the 'golden age'; their very baldness has an eloquence of its own. It is true that the winter of 1836-37 is conspicuous in history for the exceptionally heavy snowfall; but as Nimrod has shown coaching at its best, there is no injustice in presenting these glimpses of coach travel at its worst:--