[Illustration: THE SHEFFIELD COACH, ABOUT 1827. _From a contemporary painting._ ] No longer did coaching announcements propose to perform journeys in so many hours _if the roads were good_. They boldly promised that they would complete their course by a certain time, and altogether disregarded contingencies. By this time the “God-permits” had also become things of the past, and no proprietor was so old-fashioned as to announce that his coach would set out or arrive, “God permitting,” as aforetime had been the cautious or pious proviso. They now “started” instead of “setting out,” and arrived, as an irreverent wag observed, “God willing, or not.” In fine, the world was made to go according to time-tables, and much faster than of old. Coaches actually, as an ordinary everyday thing, went at a quicker pace than an able-bodied man could walk, and it was no longer possible for a weary traveller when offered a lift, to decline with the _bonâ-fide_ excuse that he was in a hurry; and so, continuing afoot, to arrive before the coach. Fielding shows us Parson Adams outwalking the coach, about 1745; but in this era the passengers just too late for the stage could by no means hope to catch it up. Why, it commonly went at eight miles an hour, and often nine! Thus we see Rowlandson’s anxious travellers, unable to attract the attention of the coach in front of them and equally unable to overtake it, left lamenting. This, too, was the age of increased competition, when a continuous smartening-up alone kept some of the old-stagers going. Thus, in 1805, when three coaches left London every day for Sheffield, the quickest took over thirty hours. In 1821 it left the “Angel,” Angel Street, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, at 3.30 p.m., and arrived at Sheffield at 8 the next evening,--163¼ miles in 28½ hours, or at the rate of 5¾ miles an hour, including stops. In 1824 it started an hour later and arrived at the same hour as before; and in 1827 was expedited by another half-hour. That was very poor travelling, and it is not surprising that after 1827 it is heard of no more. More strenuous rivals usurped the route. Here we see that coach drawn up in front of a wayside hostelry,--the “Bull’s Head”--at some unnamed spot. Let us not criticise the drawing of it too narrowly, for the painting whence this illustration was engraved was the work of the coachman, Alfred Elliot. He was coachman first, and artist afterwards. [Illustration: THE “BIRMINGHAM EXPRESS” LEAVING THE “HEN AND CHICKENS.” _From a contemporary painting._ ]