The Stage-coach

by Washington Irving

　　Omne bene Sine poena Tempus 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 themby some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusingwhich, I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside theausterity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spiritwhich is tolerant of folly, 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 precedingChristmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, withpassengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to themansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. Itwas loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes ofdelicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about thecoachman's box,--presents from distant friends for the impendingfeast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellowpassengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit whichI have observed in the children of this country. They werereturning home for the holidays in high glee, and promisingthemselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear thegigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and theimpracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks'emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, andpedagogue. 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 whichtheir pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed tolook forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which Ifound to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of morevirtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he couldtrot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take--therewas not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.

　　They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, towhom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host ofquestions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the wholeworld. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary airof bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a littleon one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in thebutton-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mightycare and business, but he is particularly so during this season,having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the greatinterchange of presents.

　　And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelledreaders to have a sketch that may serve as a general representationof this very numerous and important class of functionaries who havea dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, andprevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an Englishstage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of anyother craft or mystery.

　　He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, asif the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel ofthe skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potationsof malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by amultiplicity 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 coloured handkerchief about hisneck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has insummer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole; thepresent, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. Hiswaistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and hissmall-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockeyboots which reach about half-way up his legs.

　　All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pridein having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstandingthe seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discerniblethat neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent inan Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration alongthe road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, wholook upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seemsto have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass.The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throwsdown the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle tothe care of the hostler; his duty being merely to drive from onestage to another.

　　When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of hisgreatcoat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the mostabsolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by anadmiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and thosenameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run errands,and do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on thedrippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. Theseall 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, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Everyragamuffin 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 animationalways with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along.The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a generalbustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles andbandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment canhardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In themeantime, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute.Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a smallparcel 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 fromsome rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village,every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side offresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the cornersare assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take theirstations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass;but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom thepassing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. Thesmith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehiclewhirls by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringinghammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre inbrown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle fora moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawnsigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureousgleams 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 wasin good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuriesof the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; thegrocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged withcustomers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, puttingtheir dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, withtheir bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. Thescene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmaspreparations:--"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, andducks, with beef and mutton--must all die; for in twelve days amultitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums andspice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now ornever 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 maidleaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets apack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Hollyand Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cardsbenefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he willsweetly 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, recognising every tree andcottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burstof 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 inlivery waiting for them: he was accompanied by a superannuatedpointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony,with a shaggy mane and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietlyby the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaitedhim.

　　I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellowsleaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, whowriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great objectof interest; all wanted to mount at once; and it was with somedifficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, andthe eldest should ride first.

　　Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding andbarking before him, and the others holding John's hands; bothtalking at once, and overpowering him by questions about home, andwith school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in whichI do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated: for Iwas reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither knowncare nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity.We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses, and onresuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of aneat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a ladyand 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 happymeeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

　　In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to passthe night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw onone side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through awindow. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, thatpicture of convenience, neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment, thekitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hunground with copper and tin vessels, highly polished, and decoratedhere and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitchesof bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made itsceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in onecorner. A well scoured deal table extended along one side of thekitchen, 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 stoutrepast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale ontwo high-backed oaken seats beside the fire. Trim house-maids werehurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh,bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment toexchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the groupround the fire. The scene completely realised Poor Robin's humbleidea 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 postchaise drove up to thedoor. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lampsI caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. Imoved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. Iwas not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on theContinent. Our meeting was extremely cordial; for the countenanceof an old fellow traveller always brings up the recollection of athousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. Todiscuss all these in a transient interview at an inn wasimpossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and wasmerely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should givehim a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he wasgoing 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 ofthe old-fashion style." His reasoning was cogent; and I mustconfess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity andsocial enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of myloneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his invitation: thechaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was on my wayto the family mansion of the Bracebridges.