THE STAGE-COACH.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 作者：华盛顿·欧文投票推荐加入书签留言反馈

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Omne bene

 Sine poena

 Tempua est ludendi.

 Venit hora

 Absque mora

 Libros deponendi.

 OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL-SONG.

 IN the preg paper I have made some general observations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some aes of a Christmas passed in the try; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly and anxious only for amusement.

 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distan one of the public coaches on the day preg Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game and baskets and boxes of delicacies, and hares hung dangling their long ears about the ans box, presents from distant friends for the impendi. I had three ?ne rosy-cheeked school boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have obser></a>ved in the children of this try.

 They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog, and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, acc to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed sihe days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take!--there was not a hedge in the whole try that he could not clear.

 They were uhe particular guardianship of the an, to whom, whenever an opportunity presehey addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the an, who wore his hat a little on one side and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stu the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly s this season, having so many issions to execute in sequence of the great interge of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be uable to my untravelled readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of funaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air peculiar to themselves and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that wherever an English stage-an may be seen he ot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery.

 He has only 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 cauli?ower, the upper one reag to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-ed hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of ?owers in his buttohe present, most probably, of some enamored try lass. His waistcoat is only of some bright color, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the ko meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half his legs.

 All this e is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearahere is still disible that ness and propriety of person which is almost i in an Englishman. He enjoys great sequend sideration along the road; has frequent ferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good uanding with every bright-eyed try lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be ged, he throws down the reins with something of an air and abandons the cattle to the care of the ostler, his duty being merely to drive from oage to another. When off the box his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, 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 ostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on that i inns and taverns, and run errands and do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kit and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle, treasure up his t phrases, echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore, and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuf?n 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 tehroughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sou the entrance of the 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 hardly take leave of the group that apahem. In the meahe an has a world of small issions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or neer to the door of a public house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing house-maid 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 try faces and blooming giggling girls. At the ers are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing pany pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmiths, to whom the passing of the coach is a fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horses heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in broer cap lab at the bellows leans on the handle for a moment, as the asthmatigio heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphurous gleams of the smithy.

 Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the try, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers, butchers, and fruiterers shops were thronged with ers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order, and the glossy branches of holly with their bright-red berries began to appear at the windows. The se brought to mind an old writers at of Christmas preparation: "Noons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dand sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the ?re. The try maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again if she fets a pack of cards on Christmas Eve. Great is the tention of holly and ivy whether master or dame wears the breeches. Did cards behe butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his ?ngers."

 I was roused from this ?t of luxurious meditation by a shout from my little travelling panions. They had been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles, reizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy. "Theres John! and theres old Carlo! and theres Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

 At the end of a lahere was an old sober-looking servant in livery waiting for them; he was apanied by a superannuated pointer and by the<q></q> redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him.

 I leased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the pointer, whled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of i; all wao mount at once, and it was with some dif?culty that John arrahat they should ride by turns and the eldest should ride ?rst.

 Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding Johns hands, both talking at ond overp him with questions about home and with school aes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had knowher care nor sorrow and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route a turn of the road brought us in sight of a try-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage-road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

 In the evening we reached a village where I had determio pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kit-?re beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the huh time, that picture of venieneatness, and broad ho enjoyment, the kit of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green.

 Hams, tongues, and ?itches of ba were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless king beside the ?replace, and a clock ticked in one er. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kit, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oakeles beside the ?re. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards uhe dires of a fresh bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment to exge a ?ippant word and have a rallying laugh with the group round the ?re. The se pletely realized Poor Robins humble idea of the forts of midwinter:

 Now trees their leafy hats do bare

 To reverence Winters silver hair;

 A handsome hostess, merry host,

 A pot of ale now and a toast,

 Tobacd a good coal ?re,

 Are things this season doth require.*

 * Poor Robins Almanack, 1684.

 I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A youlema out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a tenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young fellow with whom I had oravelled on the ti. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the tenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recolle of a thousand pleasant ses, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a tra interview at an inn was impossible; and, ?nding that I was not pressed for time and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his fathers try-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays and which lay at a few miles distance. "It is better thaing a solitary Christmas di an inn," said he, "and I assure you of a hearty wele in something of the old-fashioyle." His reasoning was t, and I must fess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at oh his invitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.

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