CHELTENHAM CHRONICLE AUGUST 17, 1869

Some enthusiasts, who regret that the rail has superseded the old fashioned method of locomotion, the Stagecoach, have placed upon the road between London and Brighton, a Stagecoach as nearly as possible upon the old model. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, it leaves the Ship Hotel, Charing Cross, for Brighton; and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the Albion Hotel, for London. Intending to visit London-super-Mare for the first time for seventeen years, I resolved upon adopting the coach as my method of transit. Accordingly on Thursday last I went my way to The Ship, having previously taken the precaution of securing places, which is necessary, and mounted to the top of the coach in company with a full complement of outsiders. In fact we were more than a full complement, so the guard had to sit on the luggage. Big Ben had hardly finished striking eleven o'clock before we were off, a gallant colonel, equerry to the Duke of Cambridge, and a well-known whip, holding the ribbons.

The pace was slow through Parliament Street, and down the Westminster Bridge Road to Kensington Gate, and frequent horn blowing is necessary to secure as clear a passage as possible. Esprit de corps seemed to animate every driver of every vehicle to give room to us, and the omnibus drivers also saluted our gallant Jehu in the orthodox style. When Brixton was passed our pace became a little more lively, but there seemed hardly any break in the continuity of London until we reache Croydon where the Colonel descended to return to town, and Taylor, the regular Coachman, when no proprietor, or friend of a proprietor of the coach, wishes to drive, took possession of the box.

At Croydon we changed horses for the first time.

Quitting Croydon we sped merrily along a capital road, everyone appearing delighted to see us, and the small boys in particular raising infantile cheers, until we reached Redhill. Here the second change of horses took place. Our new team with four splendid greys, the property of one of the proprietors of the coach, which seemed to make nothing of the really heavy load they had to draw.

They carried us to Lowfield Heath where we stopped half an hour to lunch. The inn was the oddest and oldest place imaginable and the lunch was a very scrambling affair. The landlord was quite in character with the inn, being old, although still strong and wirey, and very deaf.

Nor was he apparently a disciple of Colenso, for his arithmetic was very shaky; in fact he tells you the items and leaves you to add them up for yourself. Mounting the coach again, we found a fourth team attached thereto.

These are what they would call in Oxford “a snatch four”. I suppose the proprietary reckon on the passengers not being hypercritical in horseflesh immediately after lunch. The professional coachman here resigned the reins to a scion of the Hoare family, who had travelled down with us from town, and now elected to drive. He is an excellent whip, but not up to the heavy load apparently, so he gave way to the professional at the next stopping place, Staplefield Common: our snatch four were now replaced by the most splendid team of bays it has been my lot to sit behind for many a long day. These also belonged to one of the proprietors of the coach, who lives hard by, and who came out to see the horses put to. They were in splendid condition, and the leaders rather frisky at starting.

When they settled down to work however they got over the ground in grand style. 

At Cuckfield we took in a couple of passengers, a venerable old lady with silver hair and her granddaughter. It was amusing to see the gentlemen help the old dame up onto the back seat, and to contrast the businesslike way in which she treated the affair and with the “I'm doing this for amusement” air of the young sparks who sat alongside of her. At Friars Oak we changed horses for the last time, and our final team had no easy task in pulling the coach over the downs. The hill is very long and very steep, following the course of the famous Clayton Tunnel, where the accident took place some years ago.

From the summit of the downs into Brighton is all downhill, and so we roll into Brighton.

So admirably is the time kept that as we passed Saint Peters Church, the hands of the clock point exactly to 6 o'clock, the time at which the coaches billed to arrive in Brighton. A couple of minutes and we have drawn up at the hospitable portals of the Albion Hotel, having accomplished the 52 miles in 5 1/2 hours. With the conditions of fine weather, not too fine, however, at the peril of being smothered with dust, and of a congenial spirit to bear one company, I know of no pleasanter journey than by the Brighton coach

OLIM  JUVENIS