The following text is studied in the Classical Liberal Arts Academy’s Elementary Literature 7 course.
“Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho coach for Leicester’ll be round in half an hour, and don’t wait for nobody.” So spake the boots of the Peacock Inn, Islington, at half-past two o’clock on the morning of a day in the early part of November 183-, giving Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean…
Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the evening; and having been summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the bright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room on the beef-steak and unlimited oyster-sauce. Afterward he had attended to the excellent advice which his father bestowed on him, and then begun nodding from the united effects of the fire and the lecture, till the Squire, observing Tom’s state and remembering that it was nearly nine o’clock and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom having stipulated in the morning before starting that kissing should now cease between them) and a few parting words.
“And now, Tom, my boy,” said the Squire, “remember you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before you—earlier than we should have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you’ll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul, bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn’t have your mother and sister hear, and you’ll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you.”
The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have liked to hug his father well, if it hadn’t been for the recent stipulation. As it was, he only squeezed his father’s hand, and looked bravely up and said, “I’ll try, father.”
“I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?”
“Yes,” said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.
“And your keys?” said the Squire.
“All right,” said Tom, diving into the other pocket.
“Well, then, good-night. God bless you! I’ll tell Boots to call you, and be up to see you off.”
Tom was carried off by the chambermaid, in a brown study, from which he was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a little darling and kissing him as she left the room, which indignity he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father’s last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on the dear folk at home.
Indeed, the Squire’s last words deserved to have their effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. To condense the Squire’s meditation, it was somewhat as follows: “I won’t tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he doesn’t do that for his mother’s sake and teaching, he won’t for mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he’ll meet with? No, I can’t do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won’t understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he’s sent to school to make himself a good scholar! Well, but he isn’t sent to school for that—at any rate, not for that mainly. I don’t care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If he’ll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that’s all I want,” thought the Squire; and upon this view he framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well suited to his purpose. For they were Tom’s first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table.
“Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this. There’s nothing like starting warm, old fellow.”
Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his greatcoat, well warmed through—a Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds; Boots looks in and says, “Tally-ho, sir;” and they hear the ring and rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.
“Anything for us, Bob?” says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest.
“Young gen’lm’n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o’ game, Rugby,” answers hostler.
“Tell young gent to look alive,” says guard, opening the hind-boot and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. “Here, shove the portmanteau up atop. I’ll fasten him presently.—Now, then, sir, jump up behind.”
“Good-bye, father—my love at home.” A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he clasps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! The hostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up. Hostler, Boots, and the Squire stand looking after them under the Peacock lamp.
“Sharp work!” says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach being well out of sight and hearing. Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father’s figure as long as he can see it; and then the guard, having disposed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the three hours before dawn—no joke for those who minded cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late Majesty.
I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer fellows than we used to be. At any rate, you’re much more comfortable travelers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid and other dod
ges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on the top of the tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman—of standing out against something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the ring of the horses’ feet on the hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the leaders’ ears, into the darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard’s horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the hostler at the next change; and the looking forward to daylight; and last, the delight of returning sensation in your toes. Then the break of dawn and the sunrise—where can they be ever seen in perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music to see them in their glory—not the music of singing men and singing women, but good, silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.
The tally-ho is past St. Albans, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is silent, put has muffled Tom’s feet up in straw, and put the end of an oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inward, and he has gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and promises, and of his mother and sister, and his father’s last words; and has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave Brown as he is, though a young one. Then he has been looking forward into the mysterious boy-future, speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in the holidays. He is chockfull of hope and life, notwithstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against the back-board, and would like to sing, only he doesn’t know how his friend the silent guard might take it.
And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach pulls up at a little roadside inn with huge stables behind. There is a bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the tavern window, and the door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and throws it to the hostler; the steam of the horses rises straight up into the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two minutes before his time. He rolls down from the box and into the inn. The guard rolls off behind. Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels; so the guard picks him off the coach top, and sets him on his legs, and they stump off into the tavern, and join the coachman and the other outside passengers.
“Time’s up.” They are out again and up; coachee the last, gathering the reins into his hands and talking to Jem the hostler about the mare’s shoulder and then swinging himself up onto the box—the horses dashing off in a canter before he falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes the horn, and away they are again, five-and-thirty miles on their road (nearly half-way to Rugby, thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at the end of the stage.
And now they begin to see, and the early life of the countryside comes out—a market cart or two; men in smock-frocks going to their work, pipe-in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds jogging along to a distant meet, at the heels of the huntsman’s hack, whose face is about the color of the tails of his old pink, as he exchanges greetings with coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a lodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case and carpet-bag. An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather up their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind. And here comes breakfast.
“Twenty minutes here, gentlemen,” says the coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven at the inn-door.
Have we not endured nobly this morning? and is not this a worthy reward for much endurance? There is the low, dark wainscoted room hung with sporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing up in it belonging to bagmen who are still snug in bed) by the door; the blazing fire, with the quaint old glass over the mantel-piece, in which is stuck a large card with the list of the meets for the week of the county hounds; the table covered with the whitest of cloths and of china, and bearing a pigeon-pie, ham, round of cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth ox, and the great loaf of household bread on a wooden trencher. And here comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot viands—kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs, buttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table can never hold it all. The cold meats are removed to the sideboard—they were only put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, gentlemen all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are famous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and are very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.
“Tea or coffee, sir!” says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
“Coffee, please,” says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney. Coffee is a treat to him, tea is not…
Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out before the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and in a highly-finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his waybill, and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap, where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of which would knock any one else out of time.
The “pinks” stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place, on which the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.
“Now, sir, please,” says the coachman. All the rest of the passengers are up; the guard is locking up the hind-boot.
“A good run to you!” says the sportsman to the “pinks,” and is by the coachman’s side in no time.
“Let ’em go, Dick!” The hostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several worthy burgesses shaving thereat; while all the shopboys who are cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and look pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate morning’s amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight. The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs and loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the guard’s between the puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is getting tired of not talking. He is too full of his destination to talk about anything else, and so asks the guard if he knows Rugby.
”Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes afore twelve down—ten o’clock up.”
“What sort of place is it, please!” says Tom.
Guard looks at him with a comical expression. “Werry out-o’-the-way place, sir; no paving to streets, nor no lighting. ‘Mazin’ big horse and cattle fair in autumn—lasts a week—just over now. Takes town a week to get clean after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place, sir, slow place—off the main road, you see—only three coaches a day, and one of ’em a two-oss wan, more like a hearse nor a coach—Regulator—comes from Oxford. Young gen’l’m’n at school calls her Pig and Whistle, and goes up to college by her (six miles an hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to school, sir?”
“Yes,” says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should think him an old boy. But then, having some qualms as to the truth of the assertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old boy he couldn’t go on asking the questions he wanted, added, “That is to say, I’m on my way there. I’m a new boy.”
The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom. “You’re werry late, sir,” says the guard; “only six weeks to-day to the end of the half.” Tom assented. “We takes up fine loads this day six weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of carrying you back.”
Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his fate would be the Pig and Whistle.
“It pays uncommon cert’nly,” continues the guard. “Werry free with their cash is the young gen’l’m’n. But, Lor’ bless you, we gets into such rows all ‘long the road, what wi’ their pea-shooters, and long whips, and hollering, and upsetting every one as comes by, I’d a sight sooner carry one or two on ’em, sir, as I may be a-carryin’ of you now, than a coach-load.” … And the guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear, brisk toot-toot…
The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had happened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with their whips, and the boys with cricket-bats and wickets, which arose out of a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going round to the public-houses and taking the linch-pins out of the wheels of the gigs, and was moralizing upon the way in which the Doctor, “a terrible stern man he’s heard tell,” had come down upon several of the performers, “sending three on ’em off next morning in a poshay with a parish constable,” when they turned a corner and neared the milestone, the third from Rugby. By the stone two boys stood, their jackets buttoned tight, waiting for the coach.
“Look here, sir,” says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot; “there’s two on ’em; out-and-out runners they be. They comes out about twice or three times a week, and spurts a mile alongside of us. It does one good to see them run.”
And as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the footpath, keeping up with the horses—the first a light, clean-made fellow going on springs; the other stout and round shouldered, laboring in his pace, but going as dogged as a bull-terrier.
Old Blow-Hard looked on admiringly. “See how beautiful that there un holds hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir,” said he; “he’s a ‘mazin’ fine runner. Now many coachmen as drives a first-rate team’d put it on, and try and pass ’em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he’s tender-hearted; he’d sooner pull in a bit if he see’d ’em a-gettin’ beat. I do b’lieve, too, as that there un’d sooner break his heart than let us go by him afore next milestone.
At the second milestone the boys pulled up short, and waved their hats to the guard, who had his watch out and shouted “4.56,” thereby indicating that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five minutes. They passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects of the deepest interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten minutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had never spent a pleasanter day. Before he went to bed he had quite settled that it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, and didn’t alter his opinion for many a long year—if he has yet.
-From “Tom Brown at Rugby.”
Notes
Leictster (les’ter) : a town in the center of England.
Rugby: a famous English preparatory school.
Petersham: a rough, knotted woolen cloth.
Pikeman: keeper of a turnpike gate.
Pink: red coat of a fox hunter.
Po-shay: postchaise, or traveling carriage.
Boots: general servant at an inn.
Drag: a heavy carriage.
Questions for Study
- What do you think of the advice Tom’s father gave him as he was leaving home? Was it the kind you would give your own son under similar circumstances?
- Why do you think Tom felt so choky when his father spoke of his mother? Are there some people you love so much that you hate to be reminded of them at a parting?
- Do you think Tom’s school life would be any happier because of the advice he had received from his father? Why?
- In what ways was travel in England different in those days from what it is today? Which way do you think is better?
- How much of Tom’s joy in his journey do you think came from the fact that he was on his way to Rugby? How much from the novelty and excitement of travel itself?
