Stage-coach and Mail in Days of Yore, Volume 1 (of 2): A picturesque history of the coaching ageHarper, Charles G. (Charles George)
History
Stage-coach and Mail in Days of Yore, Volume 1 (of 2): A picturesque history of the coaching age
Harper, Charles G. (Charles George)
Coaching (Transportation) -- History
“If,” he continued, “there be one thing in existence more miserable
than another, it most unquestionably is the being compelled to rise
by candle-light. If you ever doubted the fact, you are painfully
convinced of your error on the morning of your departure. You left
strict orders overnight to be called at half-past four, and you have
done nothing all night but doze for five minutes at a time, and start
up suddenly from a terrific dream of a large church clock with the
small hand running round, with astonishing rapidity, to every figure on
the dial-plate. At last, completely exhausted, you fall gradually into
a refreshing sleep--your thoughts grow confused--the stage-coaches,
which have been ‘going off’ before your eyes all night, become less
and less distinct, until they go off altogether; one moment you are
driving with all the skill and smartness of an experienced whip--the
next you are exhibiting _à la_ Ducrow on the off leader; anon you are
closely muffled up, inside, and have just recognised in the person of
the guard an old school-fellow whose funeral, even in your dream, you
remember to have attended eighteen years ago. At last you fall into a
state of complete oblivion, from which you are aroused, as if into a
new state of existence, by a singular illusion. You are apprenticed
to a trunk-maker; how, or why, or when, or wherefore, you don’t take
the trouble to inquire; but there you are, pasting the lining in the
lid of a portmanteau. Confound that other apprentice in the back-shop,
how he is hammering!--rap, rap, rap--what an industrious fellow he
must be! you have heard him at work for half an hour past, and he has
been hammering incessantly the whole time. Rap, rap, rap, again--he’s
talking now--what’s that he said? Five o’clock! You make a violent
exertion, and start up in bed. The vision is at once dispelled; the
trunk-maker’s shop is your own bedroom, and the other apprentice your
shivering servant, who has been vainly endeavouring to wake you for the
last quarter of an hour, at the imminent risk of breaking either his
own knuckles or the panels of the door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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