II

The Mail


It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered
up Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the
mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the
least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but
because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were
all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop,
besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous
intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman
and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war
which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument,
that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had
capitulated and returned to their duty.

With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way
through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles,
as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often
as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a
wary "Wo-ho! so-ho-then!" the near leader violently shook his
head and everything upon it--like an unusually emphatic horse,
denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the
leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous
passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.