'Your history whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?
A house there is, and that's enough!'

GRAY.

How we did enjoy our journey, when the wrench from our old home was
once made. We did not even leave Clarence behind, for Mr.
Castleford had given him a holiday, so that he might not appear to
be kept at a distance, as if under a cloud, and might help me
through our travels.

My mother and I occupied the inside of the carriage, with Emily
between us at the outset; but when we were off the London stones she
was often allowed to make a third on the dickey with Clarence and
Martyn, whose ecstatic heels could be endured for the sake of the
free air and the view. Of course we posted, and where there were
severe hills we indulged in four horses. The varieties of the
jackets of our post-boys, blue or yellow, as supposed to indicate
the politics of their inns, were interesting to us, as everything
was interesting then. Otherwise their equipment was exactly alike--
neat drab corduroy breeches and top-boots, and hats usually white,
and they were all boys, though the red faces and grizzled hair of
some looked as if they had faced the weather for at least fifty
years.

It was a beautiful August, and the harvest fields were a sight
perfectly new, filling us with rapture unspeakable. At every hill
which offered an excuse, our outsiders were on their feet, thrusting