The arrival of the stagecoach was heralded as the big event of the day in communities across New York State before the coming of the railroad.
The Old State Road
The old State Road from Utica, New York, to Lake Ontario, was, like Jordan, a "road hard to travel." Macadamized with rocks that never felt a hammer; boarded with boulders and mayweed in summer, and in winter with drifts of snow that left the country as fenceless as the Arctic Ocean; rising and falling with high hills and the deep valleys like a tremendous sea; the most like a tremendous sea; the most like a liquid when it had a solid's three dimensions, - length, breadth, and thickness, - with all this, it had a charm for "us boys" that the Appian Way or the sheep paths up the Hill of Science never possessed, for it led into the unseen world, and people went by stage - the yellow, egg-shaped, rollicking coach that smelled of tar, leather, buffalo robes, and reeking horses, but then no triumphal chariot of class story was ever half so grand.
Of that road John Benjamin, Driver, was hero and king. The breadth of his realm was as far as he could see on both sides of the way, and his subjects were all the people. His name, as here given, is exactly half true, and that is about all we can say of most history. A genial, hearty, tough fellow was John Benjamin. A reinsman without a master, he could get more volleys of small-arms out. Of the farther end of a whip-lash and a skein of silk than any man going; he could turn a straight tin horn into a key bugle; he believed in oats, and next to a matched and mettled four-in-hand, he admitted that man was the noblest animal on earth.
He knew everybody, and was not above a nod to little boys, and a smile for slips of girls, even if he could count their toes any summer day as they stood by the road side. A man might be forgiven for being unacquainted with Apollo, Jehu, or Palinurus, but not with John Benjamin. Not a lad in the country but meant to be a man and a driver himself. Not a lass but wished she could ride in John Benjamin's coach on her wedding day.
The coaches are all wrecked. The drivers are all gone; but the stage road remains. I got glimpses of il a while ago, as I went scurrying along by rail, and of dilapidated stage houses, as gray as wasps' nests, and as empty as martin boxes in midwinter. "So runs the world away!"
He knew everybody, and was not above a nod to little boys, and a smile for slips of girls, even if he could count their toes any summer day as they stood by the road side. A man might be forgiven for being unacquainted with Apollo, Jehu, or Palinurus, but not with John Benjamin. Not a lad in the country but meant to be a man and a driver himself. Not a lass but wished she could ride in John Benjamin's coach on her wedding day.
The coaches are all wrecked. The drivers are all gone; but the stage road remains. I got glimpses of il a while ago, as I went scurrying along by rail, and of dilapidated stage houses, as gray as wasps' nests, and as empty as martin boxes in midwinter. "So runs the world away!"
The Old State Road
Cut through the green wilderness down to the ground, Straight over the hills by the route of the crow, Now black as the bird, where the hemlocks abound, Then through the dim pines, half as white as the snow, By a cataract's track sunk away to the gulf That yawned grim and dark as the mouth of a wolf, Up hill and down dale like the trail of a brave, From Mohawk's wet march to Ontario's wave, When the world was in forest, the hamlet in grove, ran the stormy State Road where old Benjamin drove.
The rude, rugged bridges all growled at the stage,
The rough, rolling ridges all gave it a lift,
You read off the route like a line on a page,
Then dropped out of day into twilight and rift!
Through the sloughs of October it heavily rolled.
And lurched like a ship that is mounting a sea,
O'er rattling macadams of torrents untold,
Now in silence and sand midway to the knee.
It visioned the night with its yellow-eyed lamps
Like creatures that prowl out of gun-shot of camps,
When plunging along in the gloom of the swamps,
With halt, jolt, and thump, and the driver's "ahoy!"
It struck with a bounce on the ribbed corduroy,
And from hemlock to hemlock, log in and log out,
The coach jumped and jounced in a trip-hammer bout—
Through Gothic old chasms that swallowed the night,
Out into the clearings all golden with light,
Where flocks of white villages lay in the grass,
And watched for the stage and its cargo to pass.
John Benjamin, Stage Coach Driver
The boys and the girls all abroad in high feather,
The heads of the horses all tossing together,
Flinging flakes of white foam like snow in wild weather,
All swinging their silk like tassels of corn,
'Twas Benjamin's time! And he whipped out the horn!
'Twas the drone of king bees, and a myriad strong —
'Twas fanfare! and fanfare! with a bugle's prolong,
Chanticleer! Chan-ti-deer! I am coming along!
The heads of the horses all tossing together,
Flinging flakes of white foam like snow in wild weather,
All swinging their silk like tassels of corn,
'Twas Benjamin's time! And he whipped out the horn!
'Twas the drone of king bees, and a myriad strong —
'Twas fanfare! and fanfare! with a bugle's prolong,
Chanticleer! Chan-ti-deer! I am coming along!
The bellows dropped down with a vanishing snore,
The smith in black crayon gave the anvil the floor,
The smith in black crayon gave the anvil the floor,
And leaned on his sledge in the cave of a door;
The landlord in slippers cut away at the heel
Shuffled out on the stoop at the rattle of wheel,
Click-click—went the gates, and like yarn from a reel,
Smiling women wound out and looked down the street,
Where the driver swung plumb in his oriole seat,
The mail, chained and padlocked, tramped under his feet.
The landlord in slippers cut away at the heel
Shuffled out on the stoop at the rattle of wheel,
Click-click—went the gates, and like yarn from a reel,
Smiling women wound out and looked down the street,
Where the driver swung plumb in his oriole seat,
The mail, chained and padlocked, tramped under his feet.
He tightens the reins, and whirls off with a fling
From the roof of the coach his ten feet of string;
The invisible fireworks rattle and ring,
Torpedoes exploding in front and in rear,
A Fourth of July every day in the year!
Now lightly he flicks the "nigh" leader's left ear,
Gives the wheelers a neighborly slap with the stock,
They lay back their ears as the coach gives a rock,
And strike a square trot in the tick of a clock!
From the roof of the coach his ten feet of string;
The invisible fireworks rattle and ring,
Torpedoes exploding in front and in rear,
A Fourth of July every day in the year!
Now lightly he flicks the "nigh" leader's left ear,
Gives the wheelers a neighborly slap with the stock,
They lay back their ears as the coach gives a rock,
And strike a square trot in the tick of a clock!
There's a jumble, a jar, and a gravelly trill
In the craunch of the wheels on the slate-stone hill
That grind up the miles like a grist in a mill.
He touches the bay and he talks to the brown,
Sends a token of silk, a word and a frown
To the filly whose heels are too light to stay down.
I see him today all equipped for the snow
In a wonderful coat that falls to his heels,
With its ripple of capes on his shoulders a-flow,
And a plump visored cap that once was a seals
Drawn snug to his eye-brows down over his head;
In gloves of tough buckskin so wrinkled and brown,
With muffler begirt, and equator of red!
A shawl round his neck like a turban slipped down;
A couple of cubs are his buffalo shoes
Asleep on the mail-bag that carries the news.
All through of a size, in his Esquimaux guise,
He read off the road and he breasted the storm,
No sign of the man but his hands and his eyes,
His heart below frost - ah! it always kept warm.
"Afraid?" If bright Phoebus had told him to try
His horses of fire down the steep of the sky,
With the motto Ich dien, - I faithfully serve, -
And, foot on the brake, he would drive down the Blue
Without breaking an axle or losing a shoe!
A touch of North-easters had frosted his tones, -
He always must talk so his leaders could hear, -
Ah, men from grand pulpits and sit upon thrones,
Whose vision of duty was never so clear!
He loved the old route with its hemlock and rock,
Its sprinkle of mayweed, the breath of its hills,
The girls trailing out in bare feet from the flock
That ran alongside when the horses would walk,
Till the they wore a small path like the travel of rills!
In the craunch of the wheels on the slate-stone hill
That grind up the miles like a grist in a mill.
He touches the bay and he talks to the brown,
Sends a token of silk, a word and a frown
To the filly whose heels are too light to stay down.
I see him today all equipped for the snow
In a wonderful coat that falls to his heels,
With its ripple of capes on his shoulders a-flow,
And a plump visored cap that once was a seals
Drawn snug to his eye-brows down over his head;
In gloves of tough buckskin so wrinkled and brown,
With muffler begirt, and equator of red!
A shawl round his neck like a turban slipped down;
A couple of cubs are his buffalo shoes
Asleep on the mail-bag that carries the news.
All through of a size, in his Esquimaux guise,
He read off the road and he breasted the storm,
No sign of the man but his hands and his eyes,
His heart below frost - ah! it always kept warm.
"Afraid?" If bright Phoebus had told him to try
His horses of fire down the steep of the sky,
With the motto Ich dien, - I faithfully serve, -
And, foot on the brake, he would drive down the Blue
Without breaking an axle or losing a shoe!
A touch of North-easters had frosted his tones, -
He always must talk so his leaders could hear, -
Ah, men from grand pulpits and sit upon thrones,
Whose vision of duty was never so clear!
He loved the old route with its hemlock and rock,
Its sprinkle of mayweed, the breath of its hills,
The girls trailing out in bare feet from the flock
That ran alongside when the horses would walk,
Till the they wore a small path like the travel of rills!
Ah, Hero of boyhood! Asleep in thy grave,
Last Station of all on humanity's route,
In measureless peace where the Lombardies wave,
But time and its tempests have blotted out.
I letter his name on the Way Bill of Death
To tell who he was that is waiting beneath:
God night to John Benjamin, King of the Road! -
Who sleeps till the blast of the bugle of God,
In feverish noon, on the Highway of Strife,
Make the driver's old rule the law of your life:
Keep the track if you can, but mid-day and mid-night,
Whether you do, always turn to the right!
Arrival of the Stage
Ah, few whips alive in their cleverest mood
Whether you do, always turn to the right!
Arrival of the Stage
Clouds of dust roll behind with two urchins inside
That tow by the straps, as the holly-boats ride,
From the boot rusty brown like an elephant's hide.
With a sharp jingling halt he brings up at the door,
A surge to the coach like a ship by the shore,
He casts off the lines and his journey is o'er.
If king were to banter, would Benjamin trade
His box for a knighthood, his whip for the blade
That should make him Sir John by some grand accolade?
Ah, few whips alive in their cleverest mood
Can write with a coach as old Benjamin could,
And you ought to have seen the sixteen feet
With their iron shoes on the stricken stone
When they waltzed around in the narrow street
To a time and a tune that were all heir own,
Like the short sharp clicks of the castanet
By the Moorish girls in a dancing set,
When as free as the sweep of a wizard's wand,
Right about with a dash came the four-in-hand!
'Twas crackle of buckskin and sparkle of fire,
And never a rasp of a grazing tire,
As he cut a clean 6 and swept a bold 8,
Like a boy that is trying his brand-new slate!
Ah, few whips alive in their cleverest mood
Can write with a coach as old Benjamin could,
And you ought to have seen the sixteen feet
With their iron shoes on the stricken stone
When they waltzed around in the narrow street
To a time and a tune that were all heir own,
Like the short sharp clicks of the castanet
By the Moorish girls in a dancing set,
When as free as the sweep of a wizard's wand,
Right about with a dash came the four-in-hand!
'Twas crackle of buckskin and sparkle of fire,
And never a rasp of a grazing tire,
As he cut a clean 6 and swept a bold 8,
Like a boy that is trying his brand-new slate!
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