enough in the house to form a
substantial militia regiment, a cup of tea was impossible to be obtained
for love or money. All we had for it was to bury our disappointment in
sleep.

Soon after three the next morning we were roused from our slumbers, and,
finishing our toilet, cheered our insides with an unadulterated draught
from the Ohio. All outside the door was dark, cheerless, solitary, and
still. Presently the silence was broken by some violent puffs from a
penny trumpet. "Dat's de mayle, massa," said a nigger in the hall,
accompanying his observation with a mysterious grin, evidently meant to
convey the idea, "You'll have enough of her before you've done." Up she
came to the door--I believe, by custom if not by grammar, a man-of-war
and a mail-coach are shes--a heavy, lumbering machine, with springs,
&c., apparently intended for scaling the Rocky Mountains. The inside
was about three feet broad and five feet long, and was intended for the
convenience (?) of nine people, the three who occupied the centre seat
having a moveable leather strap to support their backs. Outside, there
was one seat by the coachman; and if the correspondence was not great,
three more might sit behind the coachman, in all the full enjoyment of a
splendidly cramped position. The sides of the carriage were made of
leather, and fitted with buttons, for the purpose of opening in summer.
Being a nasty drizzling morning, we got inside, with our two servants,
and found we had it all to ourselves. "I am sure this is comfortable
enough," observed my companion, who was one of the mildest and most
contented of human beings. "Too good to last long," thought I.

The penny trumpet sounds, and off we go--not on our journey, but all
over the town to the different hotels, to pick up live freight. I
heartily hoped they might all oversleep themselves that morning. Alas!
no such luck. Jonathan and a weasel are two animals that are very rarely
caught napping. Passengers kept coming in until we were six, and
"comfortable enough" became a misnomer. A furious blast of the tin tube,
with a few spicy impromptu variations, portended something important,
and, as we pulled up, we saw it was the post-office; but, murder of
murders! we saw four more passengers! One got up outside; another was
following; Jarvey stopped him, with--"I guess there aint no room up here
for you; the mail's a-coming here." The door opened,--the three damp
bodkins in line commenced their assau