Old Christmas | Page 6

could run! and then such leaps as he would
take--there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not
clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom,
whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions,
and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed,
I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and
had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his
coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he
is particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to
execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents.
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled
readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of
this very numerous and important class of functionaries who have a
dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English
stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any
other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if
the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin;
he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors,
and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity 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 his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the

bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his
buttonhole; the present, most probably, of some enamoured country
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his
small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots
which reach about half-way up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in
having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the
seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that
neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in an
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the
road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look
upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment
he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins
with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the
hostler; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another.
When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat,
and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of
hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on that
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs,
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the
leakage of the tap-room. These all 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. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands
in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my
own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance
throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation
always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The
horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle.
Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes
to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave

of the group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman
has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a
hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel 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 from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles
through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have
glances on every side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling
girls. At the corners are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men,
who take their stations there for the