On the
London side of Barnet, to which we draw near within a few minutes after
nine, observe that private carriage which is approaching us. The
weather being so warm, the glasses are all down; and one may read, as
on the stage of a theatre, everything that goes on within. It contains
three ladies--one likely to be "mamma," and two of seventeen or
eighteen, who are probably her daughters. What lovely animation, what
beautiful unpremeditated pantomime, explaining to us every syllable
that passes, in these ingenuous girls! By the sudden start and raising
of the hands on first discovering our laurelled equipage, by the sudden
movement and appeal to the elder lady from both of them, and by the
heightened colour on their animated countenances, we can almost hear
them saying, "See, see! Look at their laurels! Oh, mamma! there has
been a great battle in Spain; and it has been a great victory." In a
moment we are on the point of passing them. We passengers--I on the
box, and the two on the roof behind me--raise our hats to the ladies;
the coachman makes his professional salute with the whip; the guard
even, though punctilious on the matter of his dignity as an officer
under the crown, touches his hat. The ladies move to us, in return,
with a winning graciousness of gesture; all smile on each side in a way
that nobody could misunderstand, and that nothing short of a grand
national sympathy could so instantaneously prompt.
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