The English Mail-Coach and Joan of Arc — John Shaqi
The English Mail-Coach and Joan of ArcDe Quincey, Thomas
General
The English Mail-Coach and Joan of Arc
De Quincey, Thomas
English essays; Joan, of Arc, Saint, 1412-1431
or by effort, or by succession, but by one flash of horrid simultaneous
intuition.
Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which _might_ be
gathering ahead, ah! what a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh of woe,
was that which stole 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; that, being known, was not therefore healed. What could be
done--who was it that could do it--to check the storm-flight of these
maniacal horses? 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. Easy was it? 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. Easy was it? Unhorse me, then,
that imperial rider; 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 gaiety in a gig? Was it sorrow that loitered, or joy that
raced? For as yet the snatches of sound were too intermitting, from
distance, to decipher the character of the motion. Whoever were the
travellers, something must be done to warn them. Upon the other party
rests the active responsibility, but upon _us_--and, woe is me!
that _us_ was reduced to my frail opium-shattered self--rests the
responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might I
not sound the guard's horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making
my way over the roof of the guard's seat. But this, from the accident
which I have mentioned, of the foreign mails 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 that final stage where the
collision must be accomplished and the catastrophe sealed. All was
apparently finished. The court was sitting; the case was heard; the
judge had finished; and only the verdict was yet in arrear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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