Triumphal Departure — No Season Like Youth — Extreme Old Age — Beautiful England — The Ratcatcher — A Misadventure

I departed from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map, which had been presented to me by the landlord. I must not forget to state that I did not ride out of the yard, but that my horse was brought to me at the front door by old Bill, who insisted upon doing so, and who refused a five-shilling piece which I offered him; and it will be as well to let the reader know that the landlord shook me by the hand as I mounted, and that the people attached to the inn, male and female — my friend the postillion at the head — assembled before the house to see me off, and gave me three cheers as I rode away. Perhaps no person ever departed from an inn with more eclat¹ or better wishes; nobody looked at me askance, except two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to his companion, ‘I say, Jim! twig² his portmanteau! a regular Newmarket turn out by ——!’

It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day — all the days of that summer were bright — that I departed. I felt at first rather melancholy³ at finding myself again launched into the wide world, and leaving the friends whom I had lately made behind me; but by occasionally trotting⁴ the horse, and occasionally singing a song of Romanvile, 154 I had dispelled⁶ the feeling of melancholy by the time I had proceeded three miles down the main road. It was at the end of these three miles, just opposite a milestone⁷, that I struck into a cross road. After riding about seven miles, threading what are called, in postillion parlance⁸, cross-country roads, I reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about nine o’clock, I halted and put up for the night.

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