Here we are, already at Waltham Cross, and at our first change. This is something like traveling! We change horses at the “Falcon” in little more than two minutes, and so are off again, on the ten-mile stage to Ware, through the long narrow street of Cheshunt, past the New River at Broxbourne, and along the broad thoroughfare of Hoddesdon. At Ware we change teams at the “Saracen’s Head,” and four fine strong-limbed chestnuts are put in, to take us the rather hilly stage on to Buntingford. At this sleepy little town they take care to give us as strong a team as you will find in any coach on any road, for the way rises steadily for some miles over Royston Downs. A good thing for the horses that the stage on to Royston town is not more than seven miles. “I believe you, sir,” says the coachman; “vy, I’ve heerd my father say, vot driv’ over this ’ere road thirty year ago, that he vore out many a good ’orse on this stage; an’ ’e vere a careful man too, as you might say, and turned out every blessed one, _h_inside to _h_out, to valk up-hill for two mile, wet or fine; strike me blue if he didn’t.” “They talk of lowering the road through the top of Reed Hill, don’t they, coachman?” “Oh! yes; they torks, and that’s about all they does do. Lot o’ good torking does my ’orses. Vot _I_ vants to know is, v’y does we pay the turnpikes?” We change at the “Red Lion,” Royston, and then come on to the galloping ground that brings us smartly, along a level road, to Arrington Bridge, the spelling of whose name is a matter of divergent opinions among the compilers of road-books. But whether called Arrington or Harrington, it is a pretty, retired spot, with a handsome inn and an equally handsome row of houses opposite. “Will you please to alight?” asks the stately landlady of the “Hardwicke Arms” inn and posting-house, with perhaps a little too much air of condescension towards us, as coach-passengers. We of the stage-coaches--nay, even those of the mails--occupy only a second place in the consideration of mine host and hostess of this, one of the finest inns on the road. Their posting business brings them some very free-handed customers, and their position, hard by my lord of Hardwicke’s grand seat of Wimpole, spoils them for mere ordinary everyday folks. However, it is now more than half-past seven o’clock, and we have had no bite nor sup since two. Therefore we alight at the landlady’s bidding and hasten into the inn, to make as good a supper as possible in the twenty minutes allowed. Half a crown each, in all conscience, for two cups of tea, and some bread and butter, cold ham and eggs! We climb up to our places, dissatisfied. Soon the quiet spot falls away behind, as our horses get into their stride; and as we leave, so does a yellow po’shay dash up, and convert the apparently sleepy knot of smocked post-boys and shirt-sleeved ostlers, who have been lounging about the stable entrance, into a very alert and wide-awake throng.