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"Your lordship may not be aware that it was quite new," was the postboy's meek reply. "And the window glasses are broken!" sighed Jahel, seated on a portmanteau, at the side of the road. "If it were but the glasses," said M. Coignard, "a remedy could soon be found by lowering the blinds, but the bottles cannot be in the same state as the windows.
Whilst they sate at that meal, the postboy's twanging horn was heard, as he trotted into the village with his letter-bag. My lord's bag was brought in presently from the village, and his letters, which he put aside, and his newspaper which he read.
It would never have appeared in time but for me. I verified quotations, continued articles that were too short by half-a-dozen pages, found statistics where there were blanks in the manuscript, invented them if I could not find them, generally bullied the printers and proof-readers, saw to the cover, and never let go till the "Purple-and-Green," as we were called, was for sale on all the counters and speeding over Britain in every postboy's leathers.
I cannot help regarding this amiable weakness of the mind with something too nearly allied to contempt. I keep the press behind me at a good distance, and I, like the "Postboy's horse, am glad to miss The lumber of the wheels." February 15. I wrought to-day, but not much rather dawdled, and took to reading Chambers's Beauties of Scotland, which would be admirable if they were more accurate.
Recalled old Jackie Deeds lurching out of that same inn yard, empty pipe in mouth, greedy of alms. Recalled the old postboy's ugly morsel of profanity "God Almighty had His jokes too." And, at that, the laughter of those loafers upon the canal bridge saluted Richard's ears once more, as did the loud, familiar phrases of Mr. Lemuel Image, the Westchurch brewer.
"It was a stupid mistake of the postboy's. He left a letter of yours among mine when he came this morning. It was most careless. I shall speak to his father about it. It might have been important that you should receive it early." When she saw the letter Rosalie uttered an exclamation. It was addressed in her father's handwriting. "Oh!" she cried. "It's from father! And the postmark is Havre.
Parker had a sheep roast whole on the ice, with which he regaled the company who had assembled to witness the hurling match." Under January 29th we have a ludicrous accident recorded, namely, "that the Drogheda postboy's horse fell at Santry, near Dublin, and broke his neck. One of the postboy's legs being caught under the horse got so frozen that he could not pull it out!"
'Never know'd a churchyard were there wos a postboy's tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you? inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism. 'No, rejoined Bob, 'I never did. 'No! rejoined Sam triumphantly. 'Nor never vill; and there's another thing that no man never see, and that's a dead donkey.
But, even as I shook my head, the postboy's whip cracked, and the horses plunged forward. "Good-by, George!" I cried, "good-by, dear fellow!" and the last I saw of him was as he stood rubbing his tears away with one fist and shaking the other after the chaise.
One of the springs was broken, one of the wheels also, and one of the horses lame. "Fetch a smith," ordered M. d'Anquetil. "There is no smith in the neighbourhood," was the postboy's reply. "A mechanic of some kind." "There is none." "A saddler." "There is no saddler." We looked round. To the west the vineyards extended to the horizon their long peaceful lines.
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