The great coaching event of the year was the procession of mail coaches which took place in London on the King's Birthday, and heading the procession was usually the oldest established mail, the Bristol coach. In 1834 there were twenty-seven coaches in the procession. At the start from Millbank “the bells of the churches rang out merrily, continuing their rejoicing peals till the coaches arrived at the General Post Office.” I quote from a book, _Annals of the Road_: “In the cramped interior of the vehicle were closely packed buxom dames and blooming lassies, the wives, daughters, or sweethearts of the coachmen or guards, the fair passengers arrayed in coal-scuttle bonnets and in canary-coloured or scarlet silk. But the great feature after all was that stirring note so clearly blown and well drawn out, and every now and again sounded by the guards and alternated with such airs as 'The Days when we went Gipsying,' capitally played on a key-bugle. Should a mail come late, the tune from a passing one would be, “Oh dear! what can the matter be?” I have already spoken of the mail-coach era as the romantic age of the General Post Office. English literature and English art have drawn upon the real and legendary history of the period for much of their inspiration. Nobody has revealed to us with more vivacity the humours of the mail coach than Charles Dickens—did not Mr. Tony Weller drive a coach?—nobody has written of the glories of the mail coach with greater power than Thomas de Quincey. De Quincey has described one journey in particular which lives in our literature. The mail was carrying with it into the country districts the news of a great victory. “From eight P.M. to fifteen or twenty minutes later, imagine the mails assembled on parade in Lombard Street, where at that time and not at St. Martin's le Grand was seated the General Post Office. In what exact strength we mustered I do not remember, but from the length of each separate _attelage_ we filled the street, though a long one, and though we were drawn up in double file. On _any_ night the spectacle was beautiful. The absolute perfection of all the appointments about the carriages and the harness, their strength, their brilliant cleanliness, their beautiful simplicity—but more than all, the royal magnificence of the horses—were what might first have fixed the attention. Every carriage on every morning in the year was taken down to an official inspector for examination, wheels, axles, linchpins, pole, glasses, lamps were all critically probed and tested.... But the night before us was a night of victory, and behold! to the ordinary display what a heart-shaking addition!—horses, men, carriages, all are dressed in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and ribbons.” Then De Quincey describes how in every village they pass through there are people waiting for the news; how the cheers are taken up all along the road, as the mail coach in the days