“Four miles? Why, it does not seem two.”
“It’s all four, sir,” said the driver, giving his long whip a whish through the air, making the leaders of the four-horse coach shake their heads and increase their speed, as he deftly caught the end of the lash, and twisted the thong around the whip-shaft by a turn of his wrist.
“Ah!” said the first speaker, a young man of about thirty, “the air is so fine and clear. I presume that you are going on to Felsport?”
“No, no,” said the gentleman addressed, in a hesitating tone of voice; “I am going to stop at Carnac.”
His long black coat, broad-brimmed round-topped hat and tassel, suggested that he was a clergyman of advanced—or retrogressive—views, and he paused wearily, as if annoyed at being interrupted, as he spoke—
“How strange! Do you know the place?”
“N-no; I have never seen it.”
The clergyman lowered his eyes, and began once more reading a little book, with very small type, while the first speaker raised his eyes in wonder that a stranger could read while passing through the wild beauties of the grand Cornish region spread around. He then leaned forward once more to speak to the coachman, who was ready enough to answer questions about that mine, in full work, where a tall granite building, like a clumsily-formed church tower, stood up on the bleakest point of wind-swept barren hill, with what seemed like a long arm thrust out on one side, the said arm being apparently engaged in telegraphing to them mysterious signs as it slowly rose up and stopped, then went half-way down and stopped before descending to the earth, and finally rose, but all in the most peculiar and deliberate manner.
“That’s Wheal Porley, sir. Bringing a good bit of copper to grass there just now.”
“And what mine’s that on the next hill?”