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Updated: June 9, 2025
All went well as long as we kept on the highroad; but when it became necessary to climb the small lanes of the vineyards, my dear master, slipping at every movement of the horse, lost the rest of his little strength, and fainted away again. We thought it best to take him off the horse and carry him in our arms. The postboy held him under the arms and I by the legs.
Oh! if I were a poet, what a flight I would make into the realms of of well, you understand me! I have no time for more. The big-bearded postboy is growing impatient. Only this much will I add, do, do come, if you love me. My kindest love to you all. May God guide you in this matter. Your affectionate son, JIM. "P.S. One of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter named Reuben Dale.
I exclaimed bitterly, and then, the chaise beginning to slow up, I thrust my head from the window to demand why we were stopping. "Turnpike, sir!" answered the postboy.
He found one in Nozdrev, and you may be sure that the scapegoat in question received a good drubbing from every side, even as an experienced captain or chief of police will give a knavish starosta or postboy a rating not only in the terms become classical, but also in such terms as the said captain or chief of police may invent for himself.
Of the chief newspapers of this period we get the following account from John Dunton, who was joint proprietor with Samuel Wesley of the Athenian Mercury: 'The Observator is best to towel the Jacks, the Review is best to promote peace, the Flying Post is best for the Scotch news, the Postboy is best for the English and Spanish news, the Daily Courant is the best critic, the English Post is the best collector, the London Gazette has the best authority, and the Postman is the best for everything.
The postboy dismounted and rang the bell. "I almost think they are going to keep me waiting," said Mr. Richard, well-nigh in the very words of Louis XIV. But the fear was not realized, the door opened; a well-fed servant out of livery presented himself. There was no hearty welcoming smile on his face, but he opened the chaise-door with demure and taciturn respect. "Where's George?
"By heaven, Perry!" he exclaimed, forgetting his ferocity and settling his hat more firmly with a blow of his fist, "I believe some damned scoundrel is kicking a horse!" And away he strode forthwith and I hastened after him. Reaching the yard behind the inn we perceived an ostler and a postboy who cherished a trembling horse between them, talking together in hushed but sullen tones.
But Gwyneth and I are not uncomfortably provided for, and I no longer contribute paragraphs of gossip to the Pimlico Postboy, nor yet do I vaticinate in the columns of the Tipster. Perhaps I ought to have fled from the Towers the morning after my arrival. And I declare that I would have fled but for Gwyneth and "Love, that is a great Master."
This was at about the period when Olympia Squires became involved in the anniversary. Truth is sacred, and the visions are crowned by a shining white beaver bonnet, impossibly suggestive of a little feminine postboy. My memory presents a birthday when Olympia and I were taken by an unfeeling relative some cruel uncle, or the like to a slow torture called an Orrery.
"My lady," said he, his voice hoarse and uncertain, "why do you tempt me? I am only an amateur gentleman why do you tempt me so?" As he spoke he wheeled his horse and motioned to the flinching postboy. "Turn!" he commanded. "No!" cried Cleone. "Turn!" said Barnabas, and, as the post-boy hesitated, levelled his pistol.
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