the night before our departure! I
was up before the dawn, packing my little valise. I got my little
brass-barrelled pocket-pistol, and I loaded it with shot. I put it
away into my breast-pocket; and if we met with a highwayman I promised
myself he should have my charge of lead in his face. The Doctor's
postchaise was at his stables not very far from us. The stable
lanterns were alight, and Brown, the Doctor's man, cleaning the
carriage, when Mr Denis Duval comes up to the stable-door, lugging his
portmanteau after him through the twilight. Was ever daylight so long
a-coming? Ah! there comes the horses at last; the horses from the
"King's Head," and old Pascoe, the one-eyed postillion. How well I
remember the sound of their hoofs in that silent street! I can tell
everything that happened on that day; what we had for dinner--viz.,
veal cutlets and French beans, at Maidstone; where we changed horses,
and the colour of the horses. "Here, Brown! here's my portmanteau! I
say, where shall I stow it?" My portmanteau was about as large as a
good-sized apple-pie. I jump into the carriage and we drive up to the
rectory: and I think the Doctor will never come out. There he is at
last: with his mouth full of buttered toast, and I bob my head to him a
hundred times out of the chaise window. Then I must jump out,
forsooth. "Brown, shall I give you a hand with the luggage?" says I,
and I dare say they all laugh. Well, {146} I am so happy that anybody
may laugh who likes. The Doctor comes out, his precious box under his
arm. I see dear Mrs Barnard's great cap nodding at us out of the
parlour window as we drive away from the Rectory door to stop a hundred
yards further on at the Priory.

There at the parlour window stands my dear little Agnes, in a white
frock, in a great cap with a blue riband and bow, and curls clustering
over her face. I wish Sir Joshua Reynolds had painted thee in those
days, my dear: but thou wert the very image of one of his little
ladies, that one who became Duchess of Buccleuch afterwards. There is
my Agnes, and now presently comes out Mr Weston's man and luggage, and
it is fixed on the roof. Him, his master, Mr George Weston, follows.
This was the most good-natured of the two, and I shall never forget my
sensation of delight, when I saw him bring out two holster-pistols,
which he placed each in a pocket of the chaise. Is Tommy Chapman, the
apothecary's son of Westgate, alive yet, and does