The locomotive is like the horse. The latter, with long thin legs and slight frame—at least made so by training—is the race horse. His pace for a length of not more than a mile and a half is at the rate of 25 to 31 miles an hour. The Derby race of 1867 was run by Hermit, the winner, at the rate of 31·4 miles an hour. It was won in three seconds less time, or at the rate of nearly thirty-two miles an hour, in 1866. Since the Derby, Hermit has been “nowhere” in all his races. A first-class hunter will go cross country occasionally at the rate of about twenty miles an hour. A first-class “roadster,” with a weight suitable for his strength, will do fifteen miles, and maintain the pace for an hour. In the latter days of the old mail coach, the four horses _galloped_ nearly the whole of seven miles in about thirty-two minutes, but, as contractors used to say, ” the pace was killing.” On one occasion there was a race between two coaches from Maidstone to London; the distance—from Maidstone to the Bricklayers’ Arms, Dover Road, thirty-six miles—was accomplished by the winner in two hours and three-quarters. Perhaps there is no better road in all England to run a _coach_ race upon—it is undulating slightly all the way; whereas a completely level road is fatiguing to horses. A fast gig-horse, with light weight behind him, will go twelve miles in an hour, and can maintain that pace for at least an hour; but there are many horses in England that, having only to draw “a sulky”—that is, a vehicle for but one person—would easily accomplish fourteen and a half miles in an hour, and some are able to go fifteen. The old posters of former days could go eleven miles at the ordinary scale of pay for the post-boy. Properly “tipped,” he would get over the ground at the rate of twelve, or even thirteen, miles an hour. The Gretna Green pace was fifteen, and sometimes, for the last mile or two, nearly twenty; the object being to distance an enraged father, and to get within the toll-bar, closed against the pursuer at the instant the pursued had passed it. Put at this pace there was ever a risk of converting a marriage-feast into what Mr. _Punch_ tells us all Scotchmen, with eye to main chance, prefer to all other meals—“a gude, mautter-of-fact funeral brickfeast, wie plenty of the whisky aut it.”