In the north of England the calling of running footmen was not totally extinct till well into the middle of the last century, for as late as 1851 the Sheriff and Judges were announced, on the opening of a North of England Assize Court, as being preceded by two running footmen, whilst about the same date the carriage of the High Sheriff of Northumberland, on its way to meet the Judges of Assize, was attended by two pages on foot, holding on to the door handles of the carriage and running beside it. These running footmen were dressed in a short livery jacket and white trousers, and wore a jockey cap. In the old days, when communication between towns and villages was by no means easy, swift runners were often of the greatest service to their employers, especially in cases of illness when a doctor lived far away. The story of the Scotch running footman is a very old one; still I hope I may be excused for repeating it here. This man was on his way from Glasgow to Edinburgh in order to requisition the services of two noted physicians for his sick master, when he was stopped by an inquirer who wished to know how the invalid was. “He’s no dead yet,” was the reply, “but he soon will be dead, for I’m fast on the way to fetch twa Edinbro’ doctors to come and visit him.” In a small street at the foot of Hay Hill, leading towards Burton Mews, used to be another quaint old sign—“The Three Chairmen”—a relic of the days when Sedan-chairs were in fashion. I do not know whether this public-house still exists, but rather think it has disappeared. In 1774 a party of people driving in a coach were attacked and robbed on Hay Hill; the reputation of this locality, indeed, was very bad, as George IV. and the Duke of York, when very young men, discovered to their cost, for they also were made to stand and deliver by highwaymen who stopped their hackney carriage at this place. George IV. always used to declare that the man who robbed him was none other than Champneys the singer. The reason, as a matter of fact, why no great stir was made about this affair, was that the Prince Regent would have had to account for his whereabouts the evening before the robbery took place, and this he was for certain reasons unwilling to do. The whole neighbourhood, indeed, is full of memories of old days when life in London was totally different from that of the present time—witness the stout iron bar which stands in the doorway of Lansdowne Passage in Berkeley Street. This was put up to hamper highwaymen, one of these gentry having effected his escape after a robbery in Piccadilly by galloping through the passage from Curzon Street, his horse successfully negotiating the steps. This happened in comparatively recent times—at the end of the eighteenth century.