too, I had furtively tried on one of the
Goodmans' hats which was lying in the
hall.

Every one was down. The captain was
exquisitely shaved, even at that early hour,
as by machinery. The brave and noble
Tom Butler came rattling up in a cab, just
in time for the really sumptuous meal that
was set out. I was encouraged to partake
largely of the delicious broiled ham and
mutton chops, and, more succulent still, the
richly buttered muffins, which strewed the
board in profusion. Surely the only moral
I tried to draw was that mourning, and the
stroke that brings mourning, must be a
more agreeable thing than it was generally
depicted, and that those well-meaning
clergymen whom I had heard from the
pulpit asking death where its sting was,
and the grave where its victory, might well
pause for a reply. Victories and stings,
indeed! The embodied muffins and fried
ham were not to be spoken of thus unfairly.
We were all in good spirits, too, and even
gay, the captain making a passing allusion
to "poor old Ned's wake," and the hearty
Tom rallying Miss Simpson pleasantly. At
last we were ready. There was a sound of
wheels, and soon the green chariot came
clattering up to the window, shaking and
bobbing on its C springs. The postilion
had quite a festive air, as if he was about
to take in a wedding party. Heads came
to the other windows in our modest street,
for John had taken care to let the news get
wind, and this pageant and journey implied
a sort of magnificence both for the deceased
and those who mourned him. Finally we
emerged, the whole family on the steps and
about the hall, the captain, in his dark,
scarcely black suit, I alone glistening like a
little snake, while Tom, who had good-
naturedly made an attempt to join in
harmony with his afflicted companions, did
not get beyond mere neutral tints. John,
who had banged down the steps with needless
violence—a recollection of his old
lacquey days stood holding the door open
in genuine though slightly rusty sables.
To say the truth, these mournful occasions
were highly to his taste, and he always
requested permission to attend when he
thought there was the least excuse for paying
that last mark of respect. He never
lacked a seat, and there were, besides, the
inducements of the dismal decorations, scarf
and hatband, which ornaments, unbecoming
to a degree, he wore with a pride and
complacency the most splendid livery could
not have extorted.

The captain and the brave Tom Butler
were both seated inside. I was already in
the "dickey," yet having, alas! unluckily
"blocked" the new hat against the C
spring! It crushed in fearfully, with a
half crackle, half rustle. The misfortune
was seen by Miss Simpson only, but she
was generous, out of decency, I supposed,
to the occasion; otherwise I expected to
have been dragged down and brought up
summarily before the justices. Then the
whip cracked, and we were off.

Delightful day! We were posting it,
and were to go about sixty miles. For me
it was a new sensation— the freedom, the
keen air, the motion, the commanding
elevation, even the jolting! Above all, I began
to be gifted with an amazing fluency and
volubility, and invited John to unfold to
me experiences of his amazing life, which
seemed to me worthy to be placed beside
some of the adventurous voyagers whose
stories I had read with such interest. But
with an almost dramatic relevancy, he
confined himself to details that sprang, as it
were, from our present attitude. There
was a posting journey from London to
Cheltenham, "on the loveliest road," and
on which he had met the famous Colonel
Berkeley, himself driving four-in-hand,
"and the two grooms sitting up behind
with their arms crossed—the loveliest
brown and gold liveries on them, and a
lady, the creature! alongside of him." Then
we got out in the fine smooth country roads
— trips of grey and yellow winding out like
a ribbon of a rich green silk dress; then a hill
rose up before us like a ladder, and we had
to get out and walk, and the glass was let
down and a cloud of smoke came out—the
captain and the brave Tom Butler smoking
together. They talked to me cheerfully,
and when we got to the top of the hill there
was a halt, while, mysterious operation!
we all assisted in putting on the drag. I
loved the grinding sound as we scraped
down the hill. The postilion had an
interest for me, owing to the strange mechanism
of his inner boot—a protection against the
pole. We passed little villages, all scraps
of white in a very green ground. Then
came a snowy "'pike," where I should like
to have lived and taken the money, and in
about two hours drew up handsomely at an
inn called The Plough, where we were to
change horses. Ostlers came out, and
retired with our horses, grown very lanky of a
sudden. I heard our late postilion wishing
"long life" to the captain I had no doubt
a sincere wish for the captain's manner of