8o STAGE-COACH AND MAIL IN DAYS OF YORE 



hunclredweiglit, or thereabouts, Ave had left so 

 o'kidlv behind ? Are we overturned ? 



No ; it was nothing : nothing, that is to say, 

 but the hunchbacked Ijridge over the river 

 Welhmd, that leads from Stanifoi-d Baron into 

 Stamford Town. It is only the customary l)ump 

 and lurch, the guard informs us. May all archi- 

 tects of hunchback bridges be converted from 

 straight -backed human beings into bowed and 

 crooked likenesses of their own abominable 

 creations ! We will keep awake, lest another 

 such rude awaking await us. 



With this intent we gaze, wide-eyed, upon 

 Stamford ToAvn, its noble buildings wrapjied 

 round in midnight quiet, the moon sliining 

 here full upon the mullioned stone Avindows of 

 some ancient mansion, there casting imj^enetrable 

 black shadoAVs, making dark mysteries of grand 

 architectural doorways decorated with curions 

 scutcheons and overhung Avith heavy pediments, 

 like beetling eyebroAvs. Grand churches Avhose 

 spires soar away, aAvay far into the sky, astonish 

 our ncAvly-awakened vision as the coachman care- 

 fully guides the coach through the narroAV and 

 crooked streets, in Avhich the shadoAVs from 

 cornices and roof-tops lie so black and sharp 

 tliat none but he Avho has driven here before could 

 surely l)ring this coach safely through. Once or 

 tAvice Ave liaAC quailed as he has driven straight 

 at some solid Avail, and liaA'e l)reathed again 

 Avhen it ha,s proved to be only some oblique 

 monstrous silhouetted imai:^e cast athwart the 



