Will these ladies
say that we are nothing to _them_? Oh no; they will not say
_that_. They cannot deny--they do not deny--that for this night
they are our sisters; gentle or simple, scholar or illiterate servant,
for twelve hours to come, we on the outside have the honour to be their
brothers. Those poor women, again, who stop to gaze upon us with
delight at the entrance of Barnet, and seem, by their air of weariness,
to be returning from labour--do you mean to say that they are
washerwomen and charwomen? Oh, my poor friend, you are quite mistaken.
I assure you they stand in a far higher rank; for this one night they
feel themselves by birthright to be daughters of England, and answer to
no humbler title.
Every joy, however, even rapturous joy--such is the sad law of earth--
may carry with it grief, or fear of grief, to some. Three miles beyond
Barnet, we see approaching us another private carriage, nearly
repeating the circumstances of the former case. Here, also, the glasses
are all down; here, also, is an elderly lady seated; but the two
daughters are missing; for the single young person sitting by the
lady's side seems to be an attendant--so I judge from her dress, and
her air of respectful reserve. The lady is in mourning; and her
countenance expresses sorrow. At first she does not look up; so that I
believe she is not aware of our approach, until she hears the measured
beating of our horses' hoofs.
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