The “Deaf Postilion,” pictured by George Cruikshank, seems to have been a real person, and the incident he illustrates to have really happened. He was stone-deaf, and when furiously driving an anxious couple towards the goal of their hopes, failed to notice that, in the lurching and plunging of the chaise, the springs had broken, leaving the body behind, while he hastened on, blissfully unconscious of the disaster, with the fore-carriage. [Illustration: “ONE MILE FROM GRETNA: THE GOVERNOR IN SIGHT, WITH A SCREW LOOSE.” [_After C. B. Newhouse._ ] XXVIII [Illustration: THE DEAF POST-BOY. [_After Cruikshank._ ] [Sidenote: _INN AND REGISTRAR’S OFFICE_] In the merry days of the road, Springfield was alert. The two inns, the “King’s Head” (as it was then) and the “Maxwell Arms,” combined the parts of registrar’s office and hostelry: the innkeepers doubling the characters of “priests” and hosts: while at Gretna Green itself stood Gretna Hall, a most comfortable, and indeed aristocratic, hotel. But, indeed, any one could, would, and did marry all who asked, anywhere. There was absolute Free Trade in it; only some were sharper than others to turn the privilege to account. Even women might perform the simple formula, although it does not appear that a woman ever did. The inns, of course, took the pick of the business; for the convenience of coming, tired out with the long-continued excitement of being pursued out of one country into another, to be married and refreshed under one roof was so obvious that it need not be insisted upon. Prices, naturally enough, varied. They ruled low or high, according to whether you appeared to be poor or wealthy, moderately leisured, or in a frantic haste, and marriages have been “celebrated”—the circumstances would hardly permit the use of the word “solemnised”—for the sake, at one extreme, of a glass of whiskey and a pleasant word, and, at the other extremity, for so high a fee as £100, and “D—n you, be quick about it!” There have even been times when the offer of that sum has not availed; not, we may be sure, because the keen-witted natives stood out for more, but solely on account of the excruciating circumstances. You are required to imagine such a case: the hour midnight; the more or less innocent folk of Springfield and Gretna asleep. A chaise, driven at a headlong gallop, appears, closely followed by exultant parents. The village is awake in a trice, for it sleeps always with one ear cocked; and rival “priests” are hurrying on their clothes, as quick as may be, eager to earn a fee, which, judging from the circumstances, should be a substantial one. And even as they hurry, they hear a hoarse, despairing voice exclaiming in the empty street, “A hundred pounds to the man who marries me!” It is the expectant bridegroom; but before they can reach him and his bride-elect, the pursuers have come up, and snatched the lady away. [Sidenote: _THE “BLACKSMITH” LEGEND_]