The Coward: A Novel of Society and the Field in 1863Morford, Henry
History
The Coward: A Novel of Society and the Field in 1863
Morford, Henry
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
walking through it, on the rough road when coming up from Plymouth to Wells
river; and his few words, as the lady remarked, consorted well with the
respectability (to say the least) of his appearance. As to his personality,
which there did not seem the slightest occasion for his wishing to
disguise, there was a big black trunk in the baggage-wagon following behind
the line of coaches, and a small satchel strapped over his shoulder as he
rode; and the first bore the initials "H. T." and the direction
"Cincinnati."
While so much attention has been paid to the occupants of that single
coach, leaving the others and even the noisy passengers on the roof of
this, unnoticed, the vehicles had been buzzing and clattering along over
the table-land lying at the foot of the mountains, past the little hamlet
of Franconia, and nearing the mountains themselves. A glorious July evening
it was, with the fiery air which had been so oppressive below gradually
cooled by the approach to the presence of the monarchs, and the smoke from
the fires in the woods playing fantastic tricks among the peaks, and
compensating for the absence of the clouds which sometimes enveloped them.
Not half the passengers in those four stages had ever seen the mountains
before; and not one, even of those accustomed to such scenery, but felt the
blood beating a little quicker as the mountain road beyond Franconia was
reached, and they began to experience those rapid ascents, and yet more
rapid descents, which accompany thence all the way to the Notch, with grand
old woods overhanging, steep and sheer ravines at the side of the road that
made the head dizzy in looking, reverential glimpses of the awful peaks of
Lafayette and the Cannon frowning ahead, and of Washington, grander still,
towering far away over the White range, and with all the other
accompaniments of the finest mountain scenery on the Atlantic coast of the
American continent. There was quite enough, indeed, to engage the attention
of any except the most blasé and ennuyée traveller, in the grandeur of the
scenery and the excitement of being galloped in rocking, lumbering,
four-horse coaches, down declivities of road which would have made a driver
in any ordinary hill-country draw tight rein and creep down with a heavy
foot on the brake.
Not a few nervous passengers, first or last, dashing up and down the slopes
of the White Mountain roads, have been more or less frightened, and wished
that they could be once more on terra firma without incurring the penalty
of a laugh at their cowardice; and in the present instance this little bit
of locomotion was not to be allowed to pass without an adventure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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