THE OBSERVER.
“IT’S very strange,” said the coachman,—looking at me over his left shoulder—“I never see it afore—but I’ve made three observations through life.”
Bat—so called for shortness, though in feet and inches he was rather an Upper Benjamin—was anything but what Othello denominates “a puny whipster.” He had brandished the whip for full thirty years, at an average of as many miles a day; the product of which, calculated according to Cocker, appears in a respectable sum total of six figures deep.
Now an experience picked up in a progress of some three hundred thousand miles is not to be slighted; so I leaned with my best ear over the coachman’s shoulder, in order to catch every syllable.
“I have set on the box, man and boy,” said Bat, looking straight ahead between his leaders, “a matter of full thirty year, and what’s more, never missing a day—barring the Friday I was married; and one of my remarks is—I never see a sailor in top-boots.”
“Now I think of it, Bat,” said I, a little disconcerted at my windfall from the tree of knowledge, “I have had some experience in travelling myself, and certainly do not recollect such a phenomenon.”
“I’ll take my oath you haven’t,” said Bat, giving the near leader a little switch of self-satisfaction. “I once driv the Phenomenon myself. There’s no such thing in nature. And I’ll tell you another remarkable remark I’ve made through life—I never yet see a Jew Pedlar with a Newfoundland dog.”
“As for that, Bat,” said I, perhaps willing to retort upon him a little of my own disappointment, “though I cannot call such a sight to mind—I will not undertake to say I have never met with such an association.”
“If you have, you’re a lucky man,” said Bat, somewhat sharply, and with a smart cut on the wheeler; “I belong to an association too, and we’ve none of us seen it. There’s a hundred members, and I’ve enquired of every man of ’em, for it’s my remark. But some people see a deal more than their fellows. Mayhap you’ve seen the other thing I’ve observed through life, and that’s this—I’ve never observed a black man drive a long stage.”
“Never, Bat,” said I, desiring to conciliate him, “never in the whole course of my stage practice; and for many years of my life I was a daily visitant to Richmond.”
“And no one else has ever seen it,” said Bat. “That’s a correct remark, anyhow. As for Richmond, he never drove a team in his life, for I asked him the question myself, just after his fight with Shelton.”
THE CONTRAST.
“I HOPE the Leviathan is outward-bound,” I ejaculated, half aloud, as I beheld the Kit-Kat portion of the Man-Mountain occupying the whole frame of the coach-window. But Hope deceived as usual; and in he came.
I ought rather to have said he essayed to come in,—for it was only after repeated experiments upon material substances, that he contrived to enter the vehicle edgeways,—if such blunt bodies may be said to have an edge at all. As I contemplated his bulk, I could not help thinking of the mighty Lambert, and was ready to exclaim with Gratiano, “A Daniel! a second Daniel!”
The Brobdignaggian had barely subsided in his seat, when the opposite door opened, and in stepped a Liliputian! The conjunction was whimsical. Yonder, thought I, is the Irish Giant, and the other is the dwarf, Count Borulawski. This coach is their travelling caravan—and as for myself, I am no doubt the showman.
I was amusing myself with this and kindred fancies, when a hand suddenly held up something, at the coach window. “It’s my luggage,” said the Giant, with a small penny-trumpet of a pipe, and taking possession of a mere golden pippin of a bundle.
“The three large trunks and the biggest carpet-bag are my property,” said the Dwarf, with a voice as unexpectedly stentorian.
“Warm day, Sir,” squeaked the Giant, by way of small talk.
“Prodigious preponderance of caloric in the atmosphere,” thundered the Dwarf, by way of big talk.
“Have you paid your fare, gentlemen?” asked the coachman, looking in at the door.
“I have paid half of mine,” said the Stupendous, “and it’s booked. My name is Lightfoot.”
“Mine is Heavyside,” said the Pigmy, “and I have disbursed the sum total.”
The door slammed—the whip cracked—sixteen horse-shoes made a clatter, and away bowled the New Safety; but had barely rolled two hundred yards, when it gave an alarming bound over some loose paving stones, followed by a very critical swing. The Dwarf, in a tone louder than ever, gave vent to a prodigious oath; the Giant said, “Dear me!”
There will something come of this, said I to myself; so, feigning I sleep, I leaned back in a corner, with a wary ear to their conversation. The Gog had been that morning to the Exhibition of Fleas, in Regent Street, and thought them “prodigious!” The Runtling had visited the Great Whale at Charing-Cross, and “thought little of it.” The Goliath spoke with wonder of the “vast extent of view from the top of the Monument.” The David was “disappointed by the prospect from Plinlimmon.” The Hurlothrumbo was “amazed by the grandeur of St. Paul’s.” The Tom Thumb spoke slightingly of St. Peter’s at Rome. In theatricals their taste held the same mathematical proportion. Gog “must say he liked the Minors best.” The “Wee Thing” declared for the Majors. The Man-Mountain’s favourite was Miss Foote = twelve inches. The Manikin preferred Miss Cubitt = eighteen.
The conversation, and the contrast, flourished in full flower through several stages, till we stopped to dine at the Salisbury Arms, and then—
The Folio took a chair at the ordinary—
The Duodecimo required “a room to himself.”
The Puppet bespoke a leg of mutton—
The Colossus ordered a mutton-chop.
The Imp rang the bell for “the loaf”—
The Monster called for a roll.
A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum.
A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum.
We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, “The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!”
The Mammoth hummed “The Streamlet.”
The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna.
The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva.
A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through the holes that time has made in her sieve: but I remember distinctly, as we passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while
The Pigmy bussed the landlady—a buxom widow, fat, fair, and forty—
The Giant kissed her daughter—a child ten years old, and remarkably small for her age.