A FRAGMENT OF A CLUB-ROOM CONVERSATION.
"Did you ever," said the one-eyed gentleman, fixing his single sound optic upon us with an intensity which made it glow like one of the coals in the grate before us, "did you ever hear how I met with this misfortune?"
"What misfortune, sir?"
"The misfortune which made a Cyclops of me—the loss of my left eye."
"Never, sir. Pray how was it?"
"Put out by the cinder of a locomotive," growled the one-eyed gentleman, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire viciously. "Bad things these railroads, sir," he added, when he had demolished a huge fragment of sea coal. "Only last week—little boy playing on bank in his father's garden—little dog ran on the track—boy went down to call him off—express train came along—forty-five miles an hour and no stoppages—ran over boy and dog—agonized parents sought for the remains—nothing found except one shoe, the buckle of his hatband, and brass collar of the dog."
"Extraordinary!"
"No, sir; not extraordinary," said the one-eyed gentleman. "I maintain it's a common occurrence. Sir, I keep a railroad journal at home, as large as a family Bible. It is filled with brief accounts—brief, mind you—of railroad accidents. Next year I shall have to buy another book."
"Then you are a decided enemy of railroads?"
"Decided!" said the one-eyed gentleman. "Their prevalence and extent is a proof that the age is lapsing into barbarism. Ah! you remember the stage coaches?"
"Certainly."
"Well, sir," said the one-eyed gentleman, warmly, "travelling was travelling in those days; sir, it was a pleasure. The coaches were fast enough for any reasonable man; ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Ah!" he added, smacking his lips, "what a fine thing it was to start on a journey of a glorious October morning, when every thing looked bright and smiling! You mounted to the box or the roof, well wrapped up in your greatcoat and shawl, with your trunk safely strapped upon the rack behind. The driver was a man of substance—solid, of a gravity tempered with humor, a giant in a brown box-coat, with gray hat and mittens. How he handled the ribbons and took his cattle through Elm Street! How the long bridges rumbled and thundered as we bowled along away, away into the country! The country! it was the country then; inhabited by country people, not peopled with a mixed society of farmers and cits, six o' one and half a dozen of t'other. How nicely we glided along! There were birds, in those days, singing by the roadside; now the confounded locomotives have scared them all off. By and by we came to a tavern. Out rushed a troop of hostlers and keepers skilled in horse flesh. The cattle were just allowed to wet their lips, water was dashed on their legs and feet, and then, after the parcels and papers had been tossed off, away we went again. Five miles farther on, we pulled up to change. The fresh team was led out, bright, shining, and glittering, in tip-top condition. The driver descended to stretch his legs and personally superintend the putting to of the fresh horses. When he mounted the box again, his experienced eye glanced rapidly at the team, and then, with an 'all right—let 'em go!' we were on the road once more."
The one-eyed gentleman paused, after this flow of eloquence, and gazed pensively into the midst of the glowing coals. After a few moments' silence, he resumed:—
"Rather a singular occurrence happened to me last year on the 14th of October, about half past twelve, P.M. I am thus particular about dates, because this event is one that forms an era in my life. I had been driving across the country in my gig, to visit a friend who had recently moved upon a farm. The localities were new to me, and the roads blind. Guideboards were few, and human beings fewer. In short, I got astray, and hadn't the remotest conception of what part of the country I was in. It was a cold, cloudy day, with a sort of drizzling Scotch mist that wet one to the bone. I plodded along in hopes of soon reaching some tavern, where I could bait my horse and get some dinner for myself. All at once, at a turn of the road, just after having crossed the Concord River, I perceived a stage coach coming towards me. I had heard no noise of wheels or horses' feet; but there it was. The road was narrow, and the coachman pulled up to let me work my way past. The vehicle was a queer old affair, that looked as if it had been dug out of some antediluvian stable yard. The curtains were brown with age and dust, and riddled with holes; the body was bare and worm-eaten, and the springs perfectly green with mould. The horses were thin and lank, and the harness in as sorry a condition as the coach. The driver's clothes, which were very old fashioned, hung about him in loose folds, and he gazed upon me with a strange, stony stare that was absolutely appalling; yet his lips unclosed as I worked past him, and he exclaimed in a harsh, croaking voice, 'One eye!' Thereupon two or three queer people poked their heads out of the coach window. There was one old woman with false teeth, in an unpleasant state of decay, and a voice like a parrot. 'One eye!' she shrieked, as she gazed on me with an eye as stony as the coachman. A pale, simpering miss smirked in my face, and cried, 'One eye!' and a military gentleman, with a ghastly frown, hissed forth the same words. I should have scrutinized the queer coach and the queer people closer, had not my horse—my good, old, quiet, steady horse—seized the bit in his mouth and started off at a dead run. I tried to saw him up, but it was no use; he ran for a couple of miles, and did not slacken till he had brought me to the door of an old, decayed tavern, where I resigned him to the charge of a lame hostler, and made my way into the house in search of the landlord. I found him at last—a poor, poverty-pinched man, who had been ruined by the railroad. He complained bitterly of the hard times. 'But,' said I, 'you must have some custom; the stage coaches——' 'Bless your soul,' replied he, 'there hasn't been a coach on this road for fifteen years.' 'What do you, mean?' said I; 'I met a coach and passengers two miles back, near the river.' The landlord turned pale. 'What day is this?' he asked. 'The 14th of October.' 'The 14th of October!' cried the landlord; 'I remember that date well. That day, fifteen years since, was the last trip of the old mail coach. It left here, with Bill Snaffle, the driver, and three insides, a military man, an old woman, and a young lady. They were never heard of after they left here. Their trail was followed as far as the bridge. It is supposed that the horses got frightened at something, and backed off into the Concord River. But I have heard,' added the landlord, in a hollow whisper, 'that on this anniversary the ghost of that coach and company may be seen upon the turnpike. More, I will tell you, in confidence, that I have seen them myself.' After this I was convinced that I had been favored—if favor it may be called—with a spiritual visitation."
The one-eyed gentleman looked me full in the face, as if to say, "What do you think of it?" It was useless to argue with him; so I only shook my head. He nodded his in a very mysterious manner, and fell to poking the fire with redoubled activity; and I bade him good night, and left him to pursue his occupation.