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Washington Irving's short story: 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
the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to
illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the
country; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my
reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that
genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly and anxious
only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long
distance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding
Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with
passengers who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the
mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It
was loaded also with hampers of game and baskets and boxes of
delicacies, and hares hung dangling their long ears about the
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending
feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked school boys for my
fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly
spirit which I have observed in the children of this country.
They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and
promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to
hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the
impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks'
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and
pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with
the family and household, down to the very cat and dog, and of
the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents
with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which
they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with
Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk,
possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of
Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such
leaps as he would take!--there was not a hedge in the whole
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 could not but notice the more than ordinary air
of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a
little on one side and had a large bunch of Christmas greens
stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage
full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so
during this season, having so many commissions to execute in
consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here,
perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers to
have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this
very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a
dress, a manner, a language, an air peculiar to themselves and
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that wherever an English
stage-coachman may be seen he cannot be mistaken for one of any
other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red,
as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel
of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent
potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further
increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like
a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a
broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored
handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at
the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in
his buttonhole, the present, most probably, of some enamored
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color,
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to
meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about halfway up his
legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a
pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and,
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is
still discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is
almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and
consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the
village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and
dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every
bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses
are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an
air and abandons the cattle to the care of the ostler, his duty
being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box
his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he
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 infest inns and taverns, and run errands and do all kind of
odd jobs for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the
kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him
as to an oracle, treasure up his cant phrases, echo his opinions
about horses and other topics of jockey lore, and, above all,
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. 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 the
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 house-maid
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 juntos 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. The smith, with the
horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the
cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer
the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap
laboring at the bellows leans on the handle for a moment, and
permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he
glares through the murky smoke and sulphurous gleams of the
smithy.
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual
animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was
in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries
of the table were in brisk circulation in the villages; the
grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with
customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting
their dwellings in order, and the glossy branches of holly with
their bright-red berries began to appear at the windows. The
scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas
preparation: "Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and
ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, for in twelve days a
multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and
spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or
never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to
get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid
leaves half her market, and must be sent again if she forgets a
pack of cards on Christmas Eve. Great is the contention of holly
and ivy whether master 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
from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out
of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recognizing every
tree and cottage as 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 the happy little rogues, clapping their
hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in
livery waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated
pointer and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony
with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly
by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that
awaited him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows
leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the pointer, who
wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object
of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some
difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns and
the eldest should ride first.
Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and
barking before him, and the others holding John's hands, both
talking at once and overpowering him with questions about home
and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in
which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated;
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had known
neither care nor sorrow and a holiday was the summit of earthly
felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the
horses, and on resuming our route a turn of the road brought us
in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just distinguish the
forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my
little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along
the carriage-road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of
witnessing the 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 the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I
saw on one side the 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 vessels highly
polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green.
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the
ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the
fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal
table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round
of beef and other hearty viands upon 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-backed oaken
settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards
and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady,
but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant
word and have a rallying laugh with the group round the fire. The
scene completely realized 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 a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I
moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I
was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly,
good-humored young fellow with whom I had once travelled on the
Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance
of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a
thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was
impossible; and, finding that I was not pressed for time and was
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should
give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he
was going to pass the holidays and which lay at a few miles'
distance. "It is better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner
at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in
something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent,
and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal
festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his
invitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments
I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.
Washington Irving's short story: The Stage-Coach
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