their names, was like putting a tax upon their christening. So it was
the hope of many, as well as every one's belief, that the postman, being
of Lancastrian race, would very soon be bogged, or famished, or get lost
in a fog, or swept off by a flood, or go and break his own neck from a
precipice.

The postman, however, was a wiry fellow, and as tough as any native, and
he rode a pony even tougher than himself, whose cradle was a marsh, and
whose mother a mountain, his first breath a fog, and his weaning meat
wire-grass, and his form a combination of sole-leather and corundum. He
wore no shoes for fear of not making sparks at night, to know the road
by, and although his bit had been a blacksmith's rasp, he would yield
to it only when it suited him. The postman, whose name was George King
(which confounded him with King George, in the money to pay), carried a
sword and blunderbuss, and would use them sooner than argue.

Now this man and horse had come slowly along, without meaning any
mischief, to deliver a large sealed packet, with sixteen pence to pay
put upon it, "to Mistress Philippa Yordas, etc., her own hands, and
speed, speed, speed;" which they carried out duly by stop, stop, stop,
whensoever they were hungry, or saw any thing to look at. None the less
for that, though with certainty much later, they arrived in good trim,
by the middle of the day, and ready for the comfort which they both
deserved.

As yet it was not considered safe to trust any tidings of importance to
the post in such a world as this was; and even were it safe, it would be
bad manners from a man of business. Therefore Mr. Jellicorse had sealed
up little, except his respectful consideration and request to be allowed
to wait upon his honored clients, concerning a matter of great moment,