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,
endeavor 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 band-boxes 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.
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