Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his
hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo
Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in
my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance
throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation always
with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn,
sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some
hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the
group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a
world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or
pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a
public-house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import,
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the
village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every
side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the
corners are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take
their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;
but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25