There had been such unexpected ease in the way in which my father had
slipt the knot usually esteemed the strongest that binds society
together, and let me depart as a sort of outcast from his family, that
strangely lessened my self-confidence. The Muse, too,--the very coquette
that had led me into this wilderness--deserted me, and I should have
been reduced to an uncomfortable state of dullness had it not been for
the conversation of strangers who chanced to pass the same way. One poor
man with whom I travelled a day and a half, and whose name was Morris,
afforded me most amusement. He had upon his pillion a very small, but
apparently a very weighty portmanteau, which he would never trust out of
his immediate care; and all his conversation was of unfortunate
travellers who had fallen among thieves. He wrought himself into a fever
of apprehension by the progress of his own narratives, and occasionally
eyed me with doubt and suspicion, too ludicrous to be offensive. I found
amusement in alternately exciting and lulling to sleep the causeless
fears of my timorous companion, who tried in vain to induce a Scotchman
with whom we dined in Darlington to ride with him, because the landlord
informed us "that for as peaceable a gentleman as Mr. Campbell was, he
was, moreover, as bold as a lion--seven highwaymen had he defeated with
his single arm, as he came from Whitson tryste."

"Thou art deceived, friend Jonathan," said Campbell, interrupting him.
"There were but barely two, and two cowardly loons as man could wish to
meet withal." My companion made up to him, and taking him aside seemed
to press his company upon him.

Mr. Campbell disengaged himself not very ceremoniously, and coming up to
me, observed, "Your friend, sir, is too communicative, considering the
nature of his trust."