Unanimously we repeated
Dr. Johnson's exclamation in a post chaise: 'Life has not
many things better than this.'
But where were we? Our watches told us that we had been two
hours covering a distance of eleven miles.
'Hi! Hullo! Stop!' shouted Napier. In those days post
horses were ridden, not driven; and about all we could see of
the post boy was what Mistress Tabitha Bramble saw of
Humphrey Clinker. 'Where the dickens have we got to now?'
'Don't know, I'm sure, sir,' says the boy; 'never was in
these 'ere parts afore.'
'Why,' shouts the vicar, after a survey of the landscape, 'if
I can see a church by daylight, that's Blakeney steeple; and
we are only three miles from where we started.'
Sure enough it was so. There was nothing for it but to stop
at the nearest house, give the horses a rest and a feed, and
make a fresh start, - better informed as to our topography.
It was past four on that summer afternoon when we reached our
destination. The plan of campaign was cut and dried. I
called for writing materials, and indicted my epistle as
agreed upon.
'To whom are you telling her to address the answer?' asked my
accomplice.
