Grandpapa was absorbed in his newspaper, for it was newspaper day for
_him_, and newspaper day only came once a week, and when it--the paper,
not the day--did come, it was already the best part of a week old. For
it came all the way from London, and that not by the post, as we
understand the word, but by the post of those days, which meant "his
Majesty's mail," literally speaking, and his Majesty's mail took a very
long time indeed to reach outlying parts of the country, for all the
brave appearance, horses foaming, whips cracking, and flourishing of
horns, not to say trumpets, with which it clattered over the stones of
the "High Streets" of those days. And the paper--poor two-leaved,
miserable little pretence that _we_ should think it--cost both for
itself and for its journey from London, oh so dear! I am afraid to say
how much, for I should be sorry to exaggerate. But "those days" are
receding ever farther and farther from us, and as I write it comes over
me sadly that it is no use _now_ to leave a blank on my page and say to
myself, "I will ask dear such a one, or such an other. He or she will
remember, and I will fill it in afterwards." For those dear ones of the
last generation are passing from us--have already passed from us in such
numbers that we who were young not so very long ago shall ere long find
ourselves in their places. So I would rather not say what Grandpapa's
newspaper cost, but certainly it was dear enough and rare enough for him
to think of little else the day it came; and I don't suppose he would
have noticed the two children at all, till Grandmamma had made him do
so, had it not been that just as they were beginning to be a _little_
tired, to whisper to each other, "Suppose us stands on other legs for a
change," something--I don't know what--for his snuff-box had been lying
peacefully in his waistcoat pocket ever since Dymock, his old
soldier-servant, had brought in the newspaper--made him sneeze. And with
the sneeze he left off looking at the paper and raised his eyes, and his