The day had not yet dawned, when John Moseley was summoned to take his seat in the mail for London.  Three of the places were already occupied, and John was compelled to get a seat for his man on the outside.  An intercourse with strangers is particularly irksome to an Englishman, and none appeared disposed, for a long time, to break the silence.  The coach had left the little village of L——­ far behind it, before any of the rational beings it contained thought it prudent or becoming to bend in the least to the charities of our nature, in a communication with a fellow creature of whose name or condition he happened to be ignorant.  This reserve is unquestionably characteristic of the nation; to what is it owing!—­modesty?  Did not national and deep personal vanity appear at once to refute the assertion, we might enter into an investigation of it.  The good opinion of himself in an Englishman is more deeply seated, though less buoyant, than that of his neighbors; in them it is more of manner, in us more of feeling; and the wound inflicted on the self-love of the two is very different.  The Frenchman wonders at its rudeness, but soon forgets the charge; while an Englishmam broods over it in silence and mortification.  It is said this distinction in character is owing to the different estimation of principles and morals in the two nations.  The solidity and purity of our ethics and religious creeds may have given a superior tone to our moral feeling; but has that man a tenable ground to value himself on either, whose respect to sacred things grows out of a respect to himself:  on the other hand, is not humility the very foundation of the real Christian?  For our part, we should be glad to see this national reserve lessened, if not done entirely away; we believe it is founded in pride and uncharitableness, and could wish to see men thrown accidentally together on the roads of the country, mindful that they are also travelling in company the highway of life, and that the goal of their destination is equally attainable by all.

John Moseley was occupied with thoughts very different from those of any of his fellow-travellers, as they proceeded rapidly on their route; and it was only when roused from his meditations by accidentally coming in contact with the hilt of a sword, that he looked up, and in the glimmerings of the morning’s light, recognised the person of Lord Henry Stapleton:  their eyes met, and—­“My lord,”—­“Mr. Moseley,”—­were repeated in mutual surprise.  John was eminently a social being, and he was happy to find recourse against his gloomy thoughts in the conversation of the dashing young sailor.  The frigate of the other had entered the bay the night before, and he was going to town to the wedding of his sister; the coach of his brother the marquis was to meet him about twenty miles from town, and the ship was ordered round to Yarmouth, where he was to rejoin her.

“But how are your lovely sisters, Moseley?” cried the young sailor in a frank and careless manner.  “I should have been half in love with one of them if I had time—­and money; both are necessary to marriage nowadays, you know.”