All right, Tom--all right--stand away from the
horses' heads, there--ehewt, fee'e't!"--smack goes the whip, and away
goes the Brighton Times like a Congreve rocket, filled with all manner
of combustibles.
The box-seat has one considerable advantage--it exempts you from the
inquisitive and oftentimes impertinent conversation of a mixed group
of stage-coach passengers; in addition to which, if you are fond of
driving, a foible of mine, I confess, it affords an opportunity for an
extra lesson on the noble art of _handling the ribbons_, and at the same
time puts you in possession of all the topographical, descriptive, and
anecdotal matter relative to the resident gentry and the road.
The first two miles from the place of starting is generally occupied
in clearing obstructions on the road, taking up old maids at their own
houses, with pug-dogs, pattens, and parrots, or pert young misses at
their papas' shop-doors; whose mammas take this opportunity of delaying
a coach-load of people to display their maternal tenderness at parting,
while the junior branches of the family hover round the vehicle, and
assail your ears with lisping out their eternal "good b'yes," and the
old hairless head of the family is seen slyly _tipping_ coachee an
extra shilling to take care of his darling girl.
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