This was in 1837, and Ward was then only twenty-four years of age. “Youthful depravity,” some might say, and surmise an early and unhappy end. But facts controvert such views. Harry Ward, who had already, in 1833, driven on the London and Glasgow Mail, and was then the youngest coachman on the road, was also among the steadiest, and owed his transference to the Devonport “Quicksilver” to that already established reputation. To his last days--he died in 1894, in his 81st year--he was proud of the fact that he never had an accident on any road. Coachmen seem never to have been averse from loading their coaches to their fullest capacity, except in one particular. Barrels of oysters, kegs of spirits, hampers of game, and such heavy and bulky things, seem never to have roused objections; but they nursed a grudge against literature, for when the quarterly reviews were published and magazine-time came round, and the fore and hind boots of the night coaches were crammed with the damp sheets just issued from the press, they discovered that the weight severely tried weak teams over long stages, _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly_ reviewers prided themselves on their literary weight, which was an unknown quantity to the coachmen, who cursed them for their avoirdupois. These old Automedons rarely took a holiday, and when they did were at a loss how to use it. Like London omnibus drivers of the present time under similar circumstances, they generally spent their off-time in riding on some other coach and criticising the driving. The postboys were alike in this respect. One of the fraternity--Tom King, of the “Crown,” at Amersham, spent his holiday in a most peculiar manner. He had had the honour, on one occasion, of driving “Farmer George” post, after hunting with the Royal Staghounds, from Amersham to Windsor; and to the end of his life he would do no work on the anniversary of that day. After breakfast he repaired to the same yellow post-chaise, and sat in it till nightfall, on the seat his Sovereign had occupied. Throughout the day he refreshed himself liberally with pots of ale, and if he took his pipe from his lips at intervals, it was only to replace it with a key-bugle and to play “God save the King.” His master humoured his fancy, and visited the post-chaise with many others during the day, to see Tom indulging in these quaint Pleasures of Memory. CHAPTER XI MAIL-GUARDS