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 



