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Excerpt from Recreations of a Literary Man, Vol. 2 of 2: Or Does Writing Pay?
There is no sensation more agreeable than, after a pleasant travel of an hour, to find the train slackening speed as it draws up, say at Staghurst, the Nupton station, on a soft and charming after noon. Everything is very green and pastoral about Staghurst - the hamlet, smoke curling, and the rest; and I, the only passenger alighting, see Nupton's light open waggonette and pair, and Nupton's coachman waiting in a pastoral dreamy way. I call him Nupton, but every one knows some such hospitable friend. All seems innocence and tranquillity, even to the porter who takes the portmanteau, lying abandoned far up on the plat form, and puts it with deep respect into the Nupton waggonette.
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