who had lost an eye. But why should _that_ delight me? Had he been one
of the Calendars in the Arabian Nights, and had paid down his eye as
the price of his criminal curiosity, what right had _I_ to exult in
his misfortune? I did _not_ exult; I delighted in no man’s punishment,
though it were even merited. But these personal distinctions identified
in an instant an old friend of mine, whom I had known in the South for
some years as the most masterly of mail-coachmen. He was the man in all
Europe that could best have undertaken to drive six-in-hand full gallop
over _Al Sirat_,—that famous bridge of Mahomet across the bottomless
gulf,—backing himself against the Prophet and twenty such fellows. I
used to call him _Cyclops mastigophorus_, Cyclops the whip-bearer, until
I observed that his skill made whips useless, except to fetch off an
impertinent fly from a leader’s head; upon which I changed his Grecian
name to Cyclops _diphrélates_ (Cyclops the charioteer). I, and others
known to me, studied under him the diphrelatic art. Excuse, reader, a
word too elegant to be pedantic. And also take this remark from me, as
a _gage d’amitié_, that no word ever was or _can_ be pedantic which,
by supporting a distinction, supports the accuracy of logic; or which
fills up a chasm for the understanding. As a pupil, though I paid extra
fees, I cannot say that I stood high in his esteem. It showed his dogged
honesty (though, observe, not his discernment), that he could not see
my merits. Perhaps we ought to excuse his absurdity in this particular
by remembering his want of an eye. _That_ made him blind to my merits.
Irritating as this blindness was (surely it could not be envy!) he always
courted my conversation, in which art I certainly had the whip-hand
of him. On this occasion, great joy was at our meeting. But what was
Cyclops doing here? Had the medical men recommended northern air, or
how? I collected, from such explanations as he volunteered, that he had
an interest at stake in a suit-at-law pending at Lancaster; so that
probably he had got himself transferred to this station, for the purpose
of connecting with his professional pursuits an instant readiness for the
calls of his lawsuit.
Meantime, what are we stopping for? Surely, we’ve been waiting long
enough. O, this procrastinating mail, and O, this procrastinating
post-office! Can’t they take a lesson upon that subject from _me_? Some
people have called _me_ procrastinating. Now you are witness, reader,
that I was in time for _them_. But can _they_ lay their hands on their
hearts, and say that they were in time for me? I, during my life, have
often had to wait for the post-office; the post-office never waited
a minute for me. What are they about? The guard tells me that there
is a large extra accumulation of foreign mails this night, owing to
irregularities caused by war and by the packet service, when as yet
nothing is done by steam. For an _extra_ hour, it seems, the post-office
has been engaged in threshing out the pure wheaten correspondence of
Glasgow, and winnowing it from the chaff of all baser intermediate towns.
We can hear the flails going at this moment. But at last all is finished.
Sound your horn, guard. Manchester, good by; we’ve lost an hour by your
criminal conduct at the post-office; which, however, though I do not mean
to part with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one which really _is_
such for the horses, to me secretly is an advantage, since it compels us
to recover this last hour amongst the next eight or nine. Off we are at
last, and at eleven miles an hour; and at first I detect no changes in
the energy or in the skill of Cyclops.
From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not in law) is the
capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven stages of eleven miles
each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in
Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and
the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in
Preston (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name,
_proud_ Preston), at which place it was that the separate roads from
Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these
first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termination of
our night’s adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops
was mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep,—a thing
which I had never previously suspected. If a man is addicted to the
vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself,
with the horses of Aurora to execute the motions of his will, avail him
nothing. “O Cyclops!” I exclaimed more than once, “Cyclops, my friend;
thou art mortal. Thou snorest.” Through this first eleven miles, however,
he betrayed his infirmity—which I grieve to say he shared with the whole
Pagan Pantheon—only by short stretches. On waking up, he made an apology
for himself, which, instead of mending the matter, laid an ominous
foundation for coming disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding
at Lancaster: in consequence of which, for three nights and three days,
he had not lain down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his
uncertain summons as a witness on the trial in which he was interested;
or he was drinking with the other witnesses, under the vigilant
surveillance of the attorneys. During the night, or that part of it when
the least temptations existed to conviviality, he was driving. Throughout
the second stage he grew more and more drowsy. In the second mile of the
third stage, he surrendered himself finally and without a struggle to his
perilous temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the weight
of this final oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep seemed resting
upon him; and to consummate the case, our worthy guard, after singing
“Love amongst the Roses” for the fiftieth or sixtieth time, without any
invitation from Cyclops or me, and without applause for his poor labors,
had moodily resigned himself to slumber,—not so deep doubtless as the
coachman’s, but deep enough for mischief, and having, probably, no
similar excuse. And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, I found
myself left in charge of his Majesty’s London and Glasgow mail, then
running about eleven miles an hour.
What made this negligence less criminal than else it must have been
thought, was the condition of the roads at night during the assizes. At
that time all the law business of populous Liverpool, and of populous
Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was
called up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To
break up this old traditional usage required a conflict with powerful
established interests, a large system of new arrangements, and a new
parliamentary statute. As things were at present, twice in the year so
vast a body of business rolled northwards, from the southern quarter of
the county, that a fortnight at least occupied the severe exertions of
two judges for its despatch. The consequence of this was, that every
horse available for such a service, along the whole line of road, was
exhausted in carrying down the multitudes of people who were parties to
the different suits. By sunset, therefore, it usually happened that,
through utter exhaustion amongst men and horses, the roads were all
silent. Except exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of York from a
contested election, nothing like it was ordinarily witnessed in England.
On this occasion, the usual silence and solitude prevailed along the
road. Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And to strengthen this
false luxurious confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that
the night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. I myself, though
slightly alive to the possibilities of peril, had so far yielded to the
influence of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound revery. The month
was August, in which lay my own birthday; a festival, to every thoughtful
man, suggesting solemn and often sigh-born thoughts. The county was my
own native county,—upon which, in its southern section, more than upon
any equal area known to man past or present, had descended the original
curse of labor in its heaviest form, not mastering the bodies of men
only as slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery
will. Upon no equal space of earth was, or ever had been, the same
energy of human power put forth daily. At this particular season also
of the assizes, that dreadful hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it
might have seemed to a stranger, that swept to and from Lancaster all
day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly subsiding about
sunset, united with the permanent distinction of Lancashire as the very
metropolis and citadel of labor, to point the thoughts pathetically upon
that counter-vision of rest, of saintly repose from strife and sorrow,
towards which, as to their secret haven, the profounder aspirations of
man’s heart are continually travelling. Obliquely we were nearing the
sea upon our left, which also must, under the present circumstances, be
repeating the general state of halcyon repose. The sea, the atmosphere,
the light, bore an orchestral part in this universal lull. Moonlight
and the first timid tremblings of the dawn were now blending; and the
blendings were brought into a still more exquisite state of unity by a
slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods and
fields, but with a veil of equable transparency. Except the feet of our
own horses, which, running on a sandy margin of the road, made little
disturbance, there was no sound abroad. In the clouds and on the earth
prevailed the same majestic peace; and in spite of all that the villain
of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer thoughts, which
are the thoughts of our infancy, we still believe in no such nonsense
as a limited atmosphere. Whatever we may swear with our false feigning
lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must forever believe,
in fields of air traversing the total gulf between earth and the central
heavens. Still, in the confidence of children that tread without fear
_every_ chamber in their father’s house, and to whom no door is closed,
we, in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour upon
nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow-stricken fields
of earth upwards to the sandals of God.
Suddenly from thoughts like these I was awakened to a sullen sound, as
of some motion on the distant road. It stole upon the air for a moment;
I listened in awe; but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could
not but observe with alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years’
experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion; and I saw
that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence
of mind. On the contrary, my fear is, that I am miserably and shamefully
deficient in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and
distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances
upon my energies, when the signal is flying for _action_. But, on the
other hand, this accursed gift I have, as regards _thought_, that in
the first step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see its total
evolution; in the radix I see too certainly and too instantly its entire
expansion; in the first syllable of the dreadful sentence, I read already
the last. It was not that I feared for ourselves. What could injure _us_?
Our bulk and impetus charmed us against peril in any collision. And I had
rode through too many hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach,
that were matter of laughter as we looked back upon them, for any anxiety
to rest upon _our_ interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured,
nor bespoke, that could betray _me_ who trusted to its protection. But
any carriage that we could meet would be frail and light in comparison
of ourselves. And I remarked this ominous accident of our situation. We
were on the wrong side of the road. But then the other party, if other
there was, might also be on the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a
right. _That_ was not likely. The same motive which had drawn _us_ to the
right-hand side of the road, namely, the soft beaten sand, as contrasted
with the paved centre, would prove attractive to others. Our lamps, still
lighted, would give the impression of vigilance on our part. And every
creature that met us would rely upon _us_ for quartering. All this, and
if the separate links of the anticipation had been a thousand times more,
I saw, not discursively or by effort, but as by one flash of horrid
intuition.
Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which _might_ be
gathering ahead, ah, reader! what a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh
of woe, seemed to steal upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a
wheel was heard! A whisper it was,—a whisper from, perhaps, four miles
off,—secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less
inevitable. What could be done—who was it that could do it—to check the
storm-flight of these maniacal horses? What! could I not seize the reins
from the grasp of the slumbering coachman? You, reader, think that it
would have been in _your_ power to do so. And I quarrel not with your
estimate of yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman’s hand was
viced between his upper and lower thigh, this was impossible. The guard
subsequently found it impossible, after this danger had passed. Not the
grasp only, but also the position of this Polyphemus, made the attempt
impossible. You still think otherwise. See, then, that bronze equestrian
statue. The cruel rider has kept the bit in his horse’s mouth for two
centuries. Unbridle him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth
with water. Or stay, reader, unhorse me that marble emperor: knock me
those marble feet from those marble stirrups of Charlemagne.
The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of
wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart? Was
it youthful gayety in a gig? Whoever it was, something must be attempted
to warn them. Upon the other party rests the active responsibility,
but upon _us_—and, woe is me! that _us_ was my single self—rests the
responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might I
not seize the guard’s horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making
my way over the roof to the guard’s seat. But this, from the foreign
mail’s being piled upon the roof, was a difficult and even dangerous
attempt, to one cramped by nearly three hundred miles of outside
travelling. And, fortunately, before I had lost much time in the attempt,
our frantic horses swept round an angle of the road, which opened upon
us the stage where the collision must be accomplished, the parties that
seemed summoned to the trial, and the impossibility of saving them by any
communication with the guard.
Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards,
perhaps, in length; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular
line from either side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character
of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early
light; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the farther end
of this Gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young
man, and, by his side, a young lady. Ah, young sir! what are you about?
If it is necessary that you should whisper your communications to this
young lady,—though really I see nobody at this hour, and on this solitary
road, likely to overhear your conversation,—is it, therefore, necessary
that you should carry your lips forward to hers? The little carriage is
creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus
tenderly engaged, are naturally bending down their heads. Between them
and eternity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a
half. What is it that I shall do? Strange it is, and, to a mere auditor
of the tale, might seem laughable, that I should need a suggestion from
the _Iliad_ to prompt the sole recourse that remained. But so it was.
Suddenly I remembered the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I
pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas? No, certainly:
but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant; a
shout would suffice, such as should carry terror into the hearts of two
thoughtless young people, and one gig horse. I shouted,—and the young man
heard me not. A second time I shouted,—and now he heard me, for now he
raised his head.
Here, then, all had been done that, by me, _could_ be done: more on _my_
part was not possible. Mine had been the first step: the second was
for the young man: the third was for God. If, said I, the stranger is
a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side,—or,
loving her not, if he feels the obligation pressing upon every man
worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided
to his protection,—he will at least make some effort to save her. If
_that_ fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for
having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to
the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to
save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his
duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness
of poltroonery. He will die no less: and why not? Wherefore should we
grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No; _let_ him perish,
without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and, in that case,
all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl, who
now, upon the least shadow of failure in _him_, must, by the fiercest
of translations,—must, without time for a prayer,—must, within seventy
seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God.
But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden
was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin
that was coming down: already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and
already he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar
thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it
for a shilling a day: ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when
some fearful crisis on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if
running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some mountainous
wave, from which, accordingly as he chooses his course, he describes
two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “This way lies hope; take
the other way and mourn forever!” Yet, even then, amidst the raving of
the seas and the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his
situation,—is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and
to seek all his counsel from _him_! For seven seconds, it might be, of
his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us,
as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For
five seconds more he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great
purpose. For five he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in
sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him towards
the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and, by a sudden
strain upon the reins, raising his horse’s forefeet from the ground,
he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind legs, so as to plant the
little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far
his condition was not improved; except as a first step had been taken
towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was
done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path,
though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late:
fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted; and one almighty
bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry then, hurry! for the
flying moments—_they_ hurry! O, hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for
the cruel hoofs of our horses—_they_ also hurry! Fast are the flying
moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for _him_, if human
energy can suffice: faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty;
faithful was the horse to _his_ command. One blow, one impulse given with
voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if
in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature’s forefeet
upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the
little equipage had then cleared our over-towering shadow: _that_ was
evident even to my own agitated sight. But it mattered little that one
wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were
embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage—was _that_
certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the
question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these
had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide
the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light
more indivisibly, than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping
efforts of the gig. _That_ must the young man have felt too plainly. His
back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicate
with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of our harness, too truly had
his ear been instructed,—that all was finished as regarded any further
effort of _his_. Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle;
and perhaps in his heart he was whispering, “Father, which art above,
do thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted.” We ran past
them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight. O, raving of
hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of
our transit! Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of our near
leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather
obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel
with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded
terrifically. I rose in horror, to look upon the ruins we might have
caused. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the
scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its records on my
heart forever.
The horse was planted immovably, with his forefeet upon the paved crest
of the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the
passion of death. The little cany carriage,—partly perhaps from the
dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the
thundering blow we had given to it,—as if it sympathized with human
horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man
sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But _his_ was the steadiness
of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look
round; for he knew that if anything remained to do, by him it could no
longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were
accomplished. But the lady—
But the lady,—O heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my
dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up
her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the
air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing! Figure to yourself, reader,
the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the
circumstances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep
peace of this saintly summer night,—from the pathetic blending of this
sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight,—from the manly tenderness of
this flattering, whispering, murmuring love,—suddenly as from the
woods and fields,—suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in
revelation,—suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon
her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crownéd phantom, with all
the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice.
The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses
had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right
angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried
the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams
forever.