Those who did business for the Post Office claimed extra mileage, and travellers posting to or from Birmingham and Holyhead found themselves charged in the aggregate for 27 or 62 miles extra, as the case might be; which, say at 1_s._ 3_d._ a mile for chaise and four horses, was a consideration. Travellers resented this difference and pointed out that, if posting establishments could always have afforded to do certain stages at certain prices, they could continue so to do; to which those men of horses and carriages replied by pointing out that the milestones were official and that they themselves paid more carriage duty on the extra mileage; a generally conclusive retort. III The earliest coaches made no pretence of taking the traveller to Holyhead. Chester was the _ultima thule_ of wheeled conveyance when Sir William Dugdale and Pennant kept diaries, or when Swift wrote. We have already seen that the Chester stage took six days, and therefore the horrors of the journey described by Swift about the year 1700, were protracted as well as acute. Whether or not he ever really made the journey by coach is uncertain, but if so, he certainly for ever after rode horseback. But here is his picture of such an experience:— Resolv’d to visit a far-distant-friend, A Porter to the Bull and Gate I send, And bid the man, at all events, engage _Some_ place or other in the Chester stage. The man returns—“’Tis done as soon as said; Your Honour’s sure when once the money’s paid. My brother whip, impatient of delay, Puts to at three and swears he cannot stay.” (Four dismal hours before the break of day.) Rous’d from sound sleep—thrice call’d—at length I rise, Yawning, stretch out my arm, half-closed my eyes; By steps and lanthorn enter the machine, And take my place—how cordially!—between Two aged matrons of excessive bulk, To mend the matter, too, of meaner folk; While in like mood, jamm’d in on t’other side, A bullying captain and a fair one ride, Foolish as fair, and in whose lap a boy— _Our_ plague eternal, but _her_ only joy. At last, the glorious number to complete, Steps in my landlord for that bodkin seat; When soon, by ev’ry hillock, rut, and stone, Into each other’s face by turns we’re thrown. _This_ grandam scolds, _that_ coughs, the captain swears, The fair one screams and has a thousand fears; While our plump landlord, train’d in other lore, Slumbers at ease, nor yet asham’d to snore; And Master Dicky, in his mother’s lap, Squalling, at once brings up three meals of pap. Sweet company! Next time, I do protest, Sir, I’d walk to Dublin, ere I’d ride to Chester! [Illustration: YARD OF THE “BULL AND MOUTH,” ST. MARTIN’S-LE-GRAND. _From an old Print._]