The postillions had spared their horses so much on the two first days of the journey, that on entering upon the last stage evening had already commenced; the stage was a long one; the road bad; (illegible text); and the Recorder soon became aware that, in order to unless he desired his jou entrance into Klatschhausen a day beyond the appointed time, he must borrow largely of the night.—Some miles they had now slowly advanced—, (illegible text) the road growinggrew continually worse, plun plunging at times into dark lanes, and at timesonly to emerging upon dreary tracts of heath; the light was fast decaying; and at length the last gleam of had vanished from streaks long slips of light had faded from in the western skyin the horizon. The Recorder could not see his own hand; and he began to have some uneasy thoughts; for, though a great man and a defier of ghosts, he was mortal mortal—as well as Philip of Macedon.
“I say, driver, (illegible text)” demanded the Recording Recorder, letting down one of the Frontfront glasses,—“I say driver driver,—do you consider these this road quite safe?—These lanes now, and these wild-looking heaths,—is there no danger in them: (illegible text) eh eh,aye, boy? what do you think, boy?”
The “boy”, who was a young gentleman of sixty odd, scratched his head—thenthen cleared his throat—then spat—then again cleared his throat, and finally replied by thisa question: “What was it your worship said?”
“What was it I said, boy? Why I say, boy, what sort of roads are these? that we are coming upon for the next sixteen miles?
“Why thereafter as they be, your honor.”
“Well, is that bad or good?”
“Why so so, your worship. Some journeystimes we stick fast a dozen times; other some a score of times; other some two score: it’s all luck, your honor; all luck. nothing at all but luck.”
