HOW NOT TO GO. 129 



If I should ask you, my reader, to stop here for 

 a moment, and describe that stage, you would prob- 

 ably reply, " A Concord coach with yellow trim- 

 mings, with four well-groomed horses pawing the 

 ground, impatient to begin their labors." You 

 wouldn't? Oh! you know better, do you? You 

 have seen some of these country coaches, have 

 you? Then you would say, "A clumsy, well- 

 muddied, two-seated wagon : said seats covered 

 with buffalo-robes strongly reminding one of Tom 

 Hood's poem of 'The Lost Heir,' with but two 

 horses 'hitched' to it, not 'pawing,' and not at 

 all impatient to start ; " and now you think you 

 have got it, don't you ? 



Well, you have not, with all your wisdom. " Sea- 

 son your imagination for a while," and I will de- 

 scribe that conveyance, its driver, what it was 

 expected to carry to Jackson Brook, and how near 

 it came to fulfilling its mission. 



The stage was an ordinary one -seated wagon ; 

 imprimis : the body old and rickety, the seat droop- 

 ing and shaky ; the forward axle sprung, the rear 

 apparently about ready to spring ; the wheels way- 

 worn and weary, and oh ! so tired. The motive- 

 power, one horse, a modern Rosinante ; the har 

 ness, from bridle to crupper, like that which cov- 

 ered Petruchio's steed when he went to woo the 



