_For the Table Book._
It was a November morning--sullen and lowering. A dense fog left the
houses but half distinguishable on either side the way, as I passed
through Holborn to the Saracen’s Head, Snow-hill, where I had taken my
place the preceding evening in the ---- coach, in order to pay a
long-promised visit to my friend and schoolfellow T----. My feelings
were any thing but enviable. They were in a state of _seasonable_ and
almost intolerable irritation, resulting from all successive evils of a
shivering and early resignation of enveloping bed-clothes, a hurried
dressing, (productive of an utter failure in the arrangement of the bow
of my neckcloth,) a trembling hand that caused a gash in my chin with a
blunt razor, (all my others had been officiously packed up by Mrs.
Sally,) a breakfast swallowed standing, (which I abominate, as it
_stands_ to reason it must be unwholesome,) tea that seemed “as if it
never would grow _cool_,” though poured out in the saucer, and sundry
admonitory twitchings of the bit of court-plaster on my sliced chin,
threatening the total discomfiture of my habilimentary economy. All
these things tended but little towards rendering my frame of mind
peculiarly equable, while hurrying forward towards the point of
destination, gulping down fresh (no not _fresh_) mouthfuls of the thick
yellow atmosphere, at each extorted exclamation of disgust and
impatience.
At last I arrived in the inn-yard, fully prepared for an expected look
of surprise, and accompanying exclamation of--“The ---- coach, sir! why,
Lord bless you, sir, it’s off long ago; it leaves here at seven
precisely, and it’s now nearly half past.” Conceive then what was my
agreeable astonishment when I learned that the real time was only half
past six! I found that, owing to my anxious fears lest I should be too
late, I had neglected to perceive that my watch had gained half an hour
in the course of the night; and the shame I now felt at having thus
suffered my irritability to get the better of me, led me to reflect upon
the patient gentleness of the mild and amiable Fanny, (my friend’s
wife,) who is indeed a perfect specimen of a delightful woman. In her
are joined those two qualities so rarely united (yet, which, when they
are so, form a gem)--a truly feminine and gentle heart, and a strong and
well-informed mind. It is truly delightful to see her blend the domestic
duties of a housewife, (the fulfilment of which is ever graceful in a
female,) and the affectionate attentions of a mother and wife, with
literary information and attainments.
I was called off from this pleasing subject of reflection by a view of
the scene before me. The coach, a handsome, well-built vehicle, stood on
one side of the yard in all the brilliancy of a highly-varnished claret
ground, and burnishe The four beautiful, spirited animals
belonging to it, with their glossy bright skins covered with cloths till
the moment of “putting to,” were then led forth by a fellow in corduroy
breeches, laying in massive rolls on his large muscular limbs, and
terminating in a pair of dull and never-shining top-boots--a waistcoat
which had been of red plush, spotted with black; but the glories of its
gules and sable were well nigh effaced by the long line of successive
cross-quarterings of grease and mud--a face hard and liny, that looked
impenetrable, and certainly conveyed no idea to my mind of a “Robin
Ostler,” who “never joy’d since the price of oats rose,” much less could
it have ever been “the death of him.” He came forward with that
slouching gait and hoarse rasping voice, so well personified by the
admirable and all-observing Matthews.
Then the coachman appeared--well buttoned up to the throat in an
enormous box-coat of a whitish drab colour, fastened with immense
mother-o’-pearl buttons--a yellow silk handkerchief round his neck,
reaching just under the nether lip, and covering the tips of his ears--a
hat with brims, like the walls of Babylon--and an air of affected
_nonchalance_, which tells you, that you are expected to look upon him
in a very different light from the attentive “coachee” of some few years
back. He is now a complete fine gentleman; for as the gentleman affects
the coachman, why should not the coachman affect the gentleman? They are
now not to be known apart.
The “luggage” is then brought forth and “loaded”--and all the passengers
installed in their different places. The last directions are given.
“More last words,” and a paper of biscuits is handed in at the
coach-window to the little boy who is going to ----, under the special
care of the coachman, and, as his mamma delightedly observes, is already
become a favourite with the “kind-looking lady” opposite to him. The
small parcel “to be left at Mr. K----’s at the small white cottage” is
snugly slipt into the coach-pocket--and the final “all right” is given
from the impatient passengers “behind.” How different is the quiet and
orderly manner in which a vehicle is thus despatched to go hundreds of
miles, from the dire bustle and utter “confusion of tongues” attendant
upon the departure of a French diligence.----
Imagine a spacious yard, paved with stones shaped like enormous “sugared
almonds,” jutting out in all directions to the utter annoyance of the
_five_ poor animals, or rather skeletons, in rope harness, which are
about to be yoked to an uncouth machine, looking the complete antipodes
of rapidity of motion--of a colour perfectly indescribable, but
something approaching to a dingy red, intermixed with a rusty, dusty
black--straw peeping out in every direction; whether from roof, or
sides, or entangled among the broken, rickety steps, which project in
awful forewarning of grazed shins and sprained ancles. The _Conducteur_
in his dark blue jacket turned up with scarlet--leather breeches shining
with the perpetual friction of the saddle--boots, like brewing vats--a
hat, very nearly a “perfect cone,” with a rim, set in the middle of a
regular copse-wood of coal black hair, surmounting a face whose dark
complexion, fiercely sparkling eyes, and stiff mustachios, help to give
force to the excessive tension of muscle in his countenance, which is
actually convulsed with ire, as he sends forth volleys of _sacrés_ and
_morbleus_ at the _maudit entêté_ on the roof, who persists in loading
the different articles in exact opposition to all the passionate
remonstrances and directions of poor _Monsieur le Conducteur_. _Femmes
de chambres_ shrieking at the very top of their voices--“_Garçons_ of
fifty” equally vociferous in bawling “_On vient! on vient!_” though no
one calls--_Commissionaires_ insisting upon the necessity of passports
to incredulous Englishmen, with an incessant “_Mais que diable donc,
Monsieur!_”--Hordes of beggars shouting forth their humble petitions of
“_Pour l’amour du bon Dieu un petit liard, Monsieur._” “_Ah! Seigneur,
qu’est-ce que j’ai fait de mes clefs!_” screams the landlady. “_Sacré
nom de tonnerre! tais-toi, donc_,” growls the landlord, in a voice like
the thunder he invokes.
At last the ponderous vehicle is set in motion amid the deafening
clamour of the surrounding group, and the hideous, unrelentingly,
eternal cracking of the _Conducteur’s_ detested _fouet_!