On The Morning Of The 30th Of May, We Took Places At Manchester In The
Stage-Coach For Chapel-En-Le-Frith.
We waited for some time before the
door of the Three Angels in Market-street, the finest street in
Manchester, broad and well-built, while the porters were busy in fastening
to the vehicle the huge loads of luggage with which the English commonly
travel.
As I looked on the passers by, I was again struck with what I had
observed almost immediately on entering the town - the portly figures and
florid complexions of some, and the very diminutive stature and sallow
countenances of others. Among the crowds about the coach, was a ruddy
round-faced man in a box-coat and a huge woollen cravat, walking about and
occasionally giving a look at the porters, whom we took to be the
coachman, so well did his appearance agree with the description usually
given of that class. We were not mistaken, for in a short time we saw him
buttoning his coat, and deliberately disentangling the lash from the
handle of a long coach whip. We took our seats with him on the outside of
the coach, and were rolled along smoothly through a level country of farms
and hedge-rows, and fields yellow with buttercups, until at the distance
of seven miles we reached Stockport, another populous manufacturing town
lying in the smoke of its tall chimneys. At nearly the same distance
beyond Stockport, the country began to swell into hills, divided by brooks
and valleys, and the hedge-rows gave place to stone fences, which seamed
the green region, bare of trees in every direction, separating it into
innumerable little inclosures.
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