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Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings,

solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in

twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men

deceived us, and taken us back by another road? Is not this the

same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no. A village. Look back,

look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush! the posting-house.

Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach

stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no

likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new

horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the

new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their

whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make

wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the

time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far

outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.