THE STAGE-COACH.
Omne bene Sine poena Tempua est ludendi. Venit hora Absque mora Libros deponendi. OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL-SONG.
IN the preceding paper I have made some general observations on theChristmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them bysome anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing whichI would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity ofwisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant offolly and anxious only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a longdistance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding Christmas.The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers who, bytheir talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations orfriends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers ofgame and baskets and boxes of delicacies, and hares hung dangling theirlong ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends forthe impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked school boys for myfellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spiritwhich I have observed in the children of this country. They werereturning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves aworld of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of thelittle rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform duringtheir six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch,and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with thefamily and household, down to the very cat and dog, and of the joythey were to give their little sisters by the presents with which theirpockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to lookforward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found tobe a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues thanany steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he couldrun! and then such leaps as he would take!--there was not a hedge in thewhole country that he could not clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom,whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions,and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I couldnot but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance ofthe coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side and had a largebunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. Heis always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he isparticularly so during this season, having so many commissions toexecute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here,perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers to have asketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerousand important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, alanguage, an air peculiar to themselves and prevalent throughout thefraternity; so that wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen hecannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as ifthe blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of theskin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of maltliquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity ofcoats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reachingto his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll ofcolored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked inat the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in hisbuttonhole, the present, most probably, of some enamored countrylass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, striped, and hissmall-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey bootswhich reach about halfway up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride inhaving his clothes of excellent materials, and, notwithstanding theseeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discerniblethat neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in anEnglishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along theroad; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who lookupon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to havea good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The momenthe arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reinswith something of an air and abandons the cattle to the care of theostler, his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. Whenoff the box his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, andhe rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness.Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of ostlers,stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on that infestinns and taverns, and run errands and do all kind of odd jobs for theprivilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakageof the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle, treasure uphis cant phrases, echo his opinions about horses and other topics ofjockey lore, and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage.Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in thepockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned inmy own mind that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenancethroughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation alwayswith it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn,sounded at the entrance of the village, produces a general bustle. Somehasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secureplaces, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of thegroup that accompanies them. In the meantime the coachman has a world ofsmall commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant;sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a publichouse; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import,hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing house-maid an odd-shapedbillet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through thevillage every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every sideof fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. At the corners areassembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stationsthere for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagestknot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coachis an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse'sheel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round theanvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool;and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap laboring at the bellows leanson the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave along-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphurousgleams of the smithy.
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usualanimation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was ingood looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries ofthe table were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers',butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. Thehousewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings inorder, and the glossy branches of holly with their bright-red berriesbegan to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an oldwriter's account of Christmas preparation: "Now capons and hens, besidesturkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, for intwelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Nowplums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Nowor never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing toget them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaveshalf her market, and must be sent again if she forgets a pack of cardson Christmas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy whethermaster or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler;and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers."
I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout frommy little travelling companions. They had been looking out of thecoach-windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottageas they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy."There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried thehappy little rogues, clapping their hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in live
rywaiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer and bythe redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy maneand long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, littledreaming of the bustling times that awaited him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leapedabout the steady old footman and hugged the pointer, who wriggled hiswhole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; allwanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that Johnarranged that they should ride by turns and the eldest should ridefirst.
Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barkingbefore him, and the others holding John's hands, both talking atonce and overpowering him with questions about home and with schoolanecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not knowwhether pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded of thosedays when, like them, I had known neither care nor sorrow and a holidaywas the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwardsto water the horses, and on resuming our route a turn of the roadbrought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just distinguish theforms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw mylittle comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along thecarriage-road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessingthe happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.
In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass thenight. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one sidethe light of a rousing kitchen-fire beaming through a window. I entered,and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience,neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn.It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vesselshighly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green.Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; asmoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clockticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one sideof the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viandsupon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast,while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backedoaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwardsand forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady, butstill seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word and havea rallying laugh with the group round the fire. The scene completelyrealized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of midwinter:
Now trees their leafy hats do bare To reverence Winter's silver hair; A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale now and a toast, Tobacco and a good coal fire, Are things this season doth require.*
* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.
I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door.A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of the lamps I caught aglimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward toget a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it wasFrank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young fellow with whom Ihad once travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial,for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings upthe recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, andexcellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at aninn was impossible; and, finding that I was not pressed for time and wasmerely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give hima day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to passthe holidays and which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is betterthan eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I canassure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashioned style."His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seenfor universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a littleimpatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with hisinvitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments I wason my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 23