1828.] a Romance of High Holborn. 59 
seated on a new-made grave in church-yard, speculating on the 
nature of the clay that mouldered beneath—my feelings softened by the 
sunny gleams that every now and then shot through the old stained 
church-windows upon the fresh turned-up sod—when suddenly the 
earth beneath me yawned wide asunder, and disclosed an open coffin, in 
which, shrouded in its half-rotted grave-clothes, lay the blue sapless fes- 
tering form of him, my undying, omnipotent, and unearthly Tormentor. 
My tale would scarcely have an end, were I to repeat but the one 
half of what during two brief days (two centuries in suffering) I expe- 
rienced from this derangement of the nervous system. My readers may 
fancy that I have exaggerated my state of mind: far from it, I have 
purposely softened down the more distressing particulars, apprehensive 
if not of being discredited, at least of incurring ridicule. Towards the 
close of the third day my fever began to abate, I became more sobered 
in my turn of thought, could contrive to answer questions, and listen 
with tolerable composure to my landlord’s details of my miraculous 
preservation. The storm was slowly rolling off my mind, but the swell 
was still left behind it. The fourth day found me so far recovered, that 
I was enabled to quit my chamber, sit beside an open window, 
and derive amusement from the uncouth appearance of a Dutch crew, 
whose brig was lying at anchor in the harbour. From this time forward, 
every hour brought fresh accession to my strength, until at the expir2- . 
tion of the tenth day—so sudden is recovery in cases of violent fever 
when once the crisis is passed—I was sufficiently restored to take my 
place by a night-coach for London. The first few stages I endured 
tolerably well, notwithstanding that I had somewhat rashly ventured 
upon an outside place; but as midnight drew on, the wind became so 
piercingly keen, accompanied every now and then by a squally shower 
of sleet, that I was glad to bargain for an inside birth. By good 
luck, there was just room enough left for one, which I instantly 
appropriated, in spite of sundry hints hemmed forth by a crusty old 
gentlemen, that the coach was full already. Perhaps there is no situ- 
ation in which the peculiar surliness of the English character—a sur- 
liness not originating in the heart, but simply the result of a certain 
innate stiffness of manner, which John Bull can no more help than 
a lobster can help turning red when boiled—perhaps, I repeat, there 
is no situation in which this national mannerism is so fully developed 
as in travelling. Every individual is then on the quz vive; he calls to 
mind all the strange stories of swindling and trickery, with which the 
newspapers, from time to time, have furnished him, and is sure to 
fancy his nearest neighbour a rogue. The very circumstance of being 
from home keeps his distrust more keenly on the fret; he feels that 
he is abroad among strangers, with none to preserve him but himself: 
and eyen the ordinary courtesies which travellers instinctively pay to one 
another, are mixed up in his jaundiced imagination with ideas of impos- 
ture and duplicity. It may be inferred from this cursory hint, that I 
took my place in the coach not a little to the dissatisfaction of those 
already seated there. Not a word was spoken for miles: for the cir- 
cumstance of its being dark increased the distrust of all, and, in the firm 
conviction that I was an adventurer, they had already, I make no doubt, 
buttoned up their pockets, and diligently adjusted their watch-chains. 
In a short time, this reserve wore away ; an adroit common-place upon 
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