Carriages and carts; Coach horses; Coaching (Transportation)
COACHES AND COACHING
BOOK love, my friends, is your pass to the greatest,
the purest, and the most perfect pleasure that God has
prepared for His creatures. It lasts when all other
pleasures fade. It will support you when all other
recreations are gone. It will last you until your
death. It will make your hours pleasant to you as long
as you live.
ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
[Illustration: A MAIL-COACH PAUL HARDY]
[Illustration:
_Leigh Hunt_
COACHES
AND
COACHING
Embellished
with pictures by
PAUL HARDY
H. M. CALDWELL CO.
BOSTON]
[Illustration: COACHES AND COACHING]
ACCORDING to the opinion commonly entertained respecting an author's
want of riches, it may be allowed us to say that we retain from
childhood a considerable notion of "a ride in a coach." Nor do we
hesitate to confess, that by coach we especially mean a hired one; from
the equivocal dignity of the post-chaise, down to that despised old
castaway, the hackney.
It is true that the carriage, as it is indifferently called (as if
nothing less genteel could carry any one), is a more decided thing than
the chaise; it may be swifter even than the mail, leaves the stage at a
still greater distance in every respect, and (forgetting what it may
come to itself) darts by the poor old lumbering hackney with
immeasureable contempt.
It rolls with a prouder ease than any other vehicle. It is full of
cushions and comfort; elegantly coloured inside and out; rich, yet neat;
light and rapid, yet substantial. The horses seem proud to draw it. The
fat and fair-wigged coachman "lends his sounding lash," his arm only in
action and that but little, his body well set with its own weight.
The footman, in the pride of his nonchalance, holding by the straps
behind, and glancing down sideways betwixt his cocked-hat and neckcloth,
stands swinging from east to west upon his springy toes.
The horses rush along amidst their glancing harness. Spotted dogs leap
about them, barking with a princely superfluity of noise. The
hammer-cloth trembles through all its fringe. The paint flashes in the
sun.
We, contemptuous of everything less convenient, bow backwards and
forwards with a certain indifferent air of gentility, infinitely
predominant.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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