Annette, that’s a good girl.” I shook hands with my friend, and jumped into the cab—“I say, coachman, look sharp and drive to the Windsor railway station; I fear I shall miss the special train.”
“No, you will not,” said my friend, looking at his watch, “you have full twenty minutes; good-bye, a pleasant journey.”
“Well, adieu! I shall see you some evening at Jullien’s or Drury Lane Theatre.”
“Very probably.”
“Stay a minute, cabby;”—to the servant—“Annette, put any letters which may come on my desk; if anybody calls, say I shall be here to-morrow or next day at the latest.”
“Very well, sir, I will do so.”
On my arrival at the station, I merely had time to take my ticket and run to the train, which was just on the move. In a few seconds we were flying over rows of houses like vampires, leaving the then desolate Royal property, Vauxhall tumble-down theatre, with its skeleton firework frame, on the left. We passed through Chiswick, Barnes, Mortlake, Kew, with its toyish pagoda, leaving to the left Richmond, with its picturesque banks, cheerful villas, heroine of the hill, and its exquisite maids of honour; at the same time crossing the Thames, cheerfully smiling beneath us in its serpentine bed. Its limpid currents flowed merrily downwards to the mighty ocean through green bushes, aquatic plants, and the alabaster-coloured plumage of hundreds of swans. In twenty-five minutes we arrived at Staines station. I descended and immediately ascended again, but on the top of the Virginia Water coach, which generally waits for the special train. “Very frosty this morning, coachman.”
“Hallo, Mr. Soyer! is that you? We have not seen you God knows how long. I suppose you have left us for good now?”
“No, not quite; but your flat and unpicturesque country looks so dull and unsociable at this time of year.”
“Then you prefer town just now?” said he.
“I certainly do; there is always something to be seen there, and to keep one alive, morning, noon, and night.”
“Very true, Mr. Soyer; we are very dull here in winter.” The top of the coach was loaded with passengers. “Well, boy, what are you about below?”
“All right, coachman,” cried the parcel-boy. “Pst! pst! Go it, my Britons!”
We were now at full trot, the north wind in our faces, and a kind of heavy sleet, which in a few minutes changed the colour of our noses to a deep crimson, very much like the unfashionable colour of beet-root, freezing our whiskers and moustaches like sugar-candy, but by no means quite so sweet-tasted. By way of a joke, I said to the coachman, “This is the good old English way of travelling, is it not?”
“That it is, sir; and I’m very glad to see you know how to appreciate it. Talk about your railways, it’s perfect nonsense compared with a good four-in-hand coach, sir.” As he said this, he whipped his horses, “Pst! go ahead, my true blue! I recollect the good old time when we took from fourteen to fifteen hours from London to Dover, changing horses and drinking your glass of grog at almost every inn on the road—in fact, enjoying ourselves all night, especially when the widow was out.”
“What widow?” said I.
“The moon, to be sure!”
“That is a bright idea of yours. I was not aware the pale queen of night was a widow.”
“Lord bless you, sir, she must be a widow, for she always comes out alone, and keeps very late hours; a maid or a married woman can’t do that, you know,” said he, laughing heartily.
“If your remark is not correct, it is at all events very original.”
“But to come back to coach-travelling—then you really knew if you were travelling or stopping at home; while now they pack you up under lock and key, in strong wooden boxes, such as we keep our horses in at the stable; and at the head of them they have a kind of long iron saveloy, full of nothing, which runs away with the lot like mad, belching and swearing all the way, taking sights at us poor coachmen just so,” putting his hand to his nose, “when we go by, as though we were a set of ragamuffins. Call that a gentlemanly way of travelling, sir! They make fun of all the passengers who are a little behind time, saying the like of this: ‘Don’t you wish you may get it?’ If you drop anything by accident, the deuce a bit will they stop to pick it up; and you are no sooner in than they turn you out, and pocket your money without blushing, the same as though they had dragged you about from morning till night, as we used to do in the good old time. That was indeed money honestly earned, sir!”
“There certainly is a great deal of truth in your argument,” said I, laughing at his devotion to his old business.
“Is it not brimful of truth, sir?”
“Of course it is!” I was by this time about half frozen.
“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all—no danger of being smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”
“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”
“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”
“You can’t—it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them fast, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road. In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though covered with snow.
“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”
“Not been long, my lad—why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”
“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this month.”
“Well, sir, we are not travelling now—we are at a stand-still, and no mistake.”
“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”
“No more do I,” said coachman; “so we are of the same opinion.” At this we all laughed, except the old gentleman.
In a short time all was right again. The coachman had resumed his important position as well as the reins, which I abdicated to my great satisfaction, and we were on the move. “Very slippery, governor; my horses can scarcely keep their feet. Thank God, we are not in a hurry; we can do the journey much more comfortably.”
“Excuse me,” said I, “if I do not hold exactly the same opinion as I did just now about the railway.”
“My dear sir, are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.”
“What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly, and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.”
