1829.] ie 
HELL-FIRE Dick, THE CAMBRIDGE COACHMAN. 
Ir I were writing a romance, and therefore at liberty to lay my scene 
when and where I pleased, I certainly should choose some other hero. 
Now, this I have no mind to do, detesting, from the bottom of my heart, 
all works of fiction, as they are called, whether in prose or verse ; or, 
’ «rather, the more for their being in prose—inasmuch as I deem that a 
solid, useful article, and not to be wasted on idle leasings; while poetry, 
with all its trumpery of rhymes, metres, and metaphors, is good for 
nothing that I know of except to be the vehicle of nonsense. If the 
matter rested with me, I would enact a law at once, making it felony to 
vest fiction in prose, and limiting lies, whether black or white, to the 
more genial realms of verse, so that every one might know to what he 
had to trust, which is far from being the case as things stand at present. 
—After this little prelude on the score of heroes’, I beg leave to com- 
mence my veritable history. 
Richard Vaughan, or Hell-fire Dick, as he was more popularly called, 
was a coachman of high renown, who, about fifteen, or by our Lady, it 
may be some twenty-five, years ago, drove the Cambridge Telegraph, 
the only vehicle in which a student of any standing would condescend to 
be conveyed to the embraces of Alma Mater. Freshmen, indeed, who 
knew no better, were imported with other lumber in the heavy coach ; 
but a single term at college, if they had any proper spirit, was generally 
___ sufficient to make them scorn such vulgar doings, and aspire to the guid- 
ce of Hell-fire Dick, the best of whips, and the prince of taverners ; 
for, in addition to his other high office, Richard actually kept a hostel 
—I will not call it a public-house—in Trumpington-street. Here he was 
in the habit of entertaining all the choice spirits of the University, noble 
and ignoble, till some dull clod of a proctor, who had no soul for such 
$ high conceits, came forward, with power in the one hand, and ill-will in 
the other, to put an end to what he was pleased to term this course of 
profligacy. Under the pretence of regard for the morals of the colle- 
-gians—as if collegians ever had morals!—he actually pulled down 
Richard’s sign, that honourable banner, under which so many sons of 
Granta had fought their way through debts, duns, lectures, and imposi- 
aby to the dignity of A.B. It was a heavy day to all men of spirit ; 
ut let that pass; justice has been done to both parties by that fairest and 
most incorruptible of judges—Don Posterity, who has soused the poor 
proctor fathoms-deep in the waters of oblivion, while Richard floats 
snugly adown the stream of Time, without so much as wetting an 
I was a freshman—though my gown had lost something of its vulgar 
loss, for I was in my second term—when I rode for the first time by 
side of Vaughan, on his own box—an honour that procured for me 
1e undisguised envy of two sophs, or third-year men, who sate on the 
of the coach, immediately behind me. By means of an extra glass 
brandy, and certain intelligible hints of a crown-piece to be forth- 
ing at the end of our journey; I had soon acquired a degree of favour 
fe my companion ; and, as we flew along at the rate of twelve miles 
an hour, he condescended to give me much valuable instruction, touching 
the whip-club, the prize-ring, and other similar topics ; on which, sooth 
to say, I was not so well informed as might have been wished. I was, 
however, too discreet to expose my ignorance, more than need be, by 
’M.M. New Series.—Vou. VII. No. 37. 
