A cloud of smoke, which the wrath of Æolus poured upon our vessel, as a general contribution from all the forges along shore, here broke my reverie, by nearly suffocating the ship’s company. But the river in this quarter is as capricious as the fashions of a French milliner, or the loves of a figurante. We rounded a point of land, emerged into blue stream and bright sky, and left the whole Cyclopean region behind, ruddied with jets of flame, and shrouded with vapour, like a re-rehearsal of the great fire of London.
I had scarcely time to rejoice in the consciousness that I breathed once more, when my ear was caught by the sound of a song at the fore-part of the deck. The voice was of that peculiar kind, which once belonged to the stage coachman, (a race now belonging alone to history,)—strong without clearness; full without force; deep without profundity, and, as Sydney Smith says, “a great many other things without a great many other things;” or, as Dr. Parr would tell mankind,—“the product of nights of driving and days of indulgence; of facing the wintry storm, and enjoying the genial cup, the labours of the Jehu, and the luxuries of the Sybarite,”—it was to Moore’s melody,—
——“My dream of life
From morn till night,
Was love, still, love.”
THE SONG OF THE MAIL-COACHMAN.
Oh, the days were bright
When, young and light,
I drove my team,
My four-in-hand
Along the Strand,
Of bloods the cream.
But time flies fast:
Those days are past,
The ribbons are a dream:
Now, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.
The Bristol Mail,
Is but a snail,
The York stands still,
The Liverpool
Is but a stool—
All gone down hill.
Your fire you poke,
Up springs your smoke,
On sweeps the fiery stream:
Now, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.
Along the sky
The sparkles fly,
You fly below,—
You leave behind
Time, tide, and wind,
Hail, rain, and snow.
Through mountain cores
The engine snores,
The gas lamps palely gleam:
Oh, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.
You see a hill,
You see a mill,
A bit of sky;
You see a cow,
You see a plough,
All shooting by.
The cabins prance,
The hedgerows dance,
Like gnats in Evening’s beam:
Oh, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.
You hear a sound,
You feel a bound,
You all look blue.
You’ve split a horse,
A man’s a corse.
All’s one to you.
Upon the road
You meet a load,
In vain you wildly scream.
Oh, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.
You come full front
Upon a hunt,
You hear a yell;
You dash along,
You crush the throng,
Dogs, squires, pell-mell.
You see a van;
The signal man
Is snugly in a dream.
Oh, there’s nothing half so quick in life
As steam, still, steam.