Liberated from the embarrassments of the city, and issuing into the broad uncrowded avenues of the northern suburbs, we begin to enter upon our natural pace of ten miles an hour.  In the broad light of the summer evening, the sun, perhaps, only just at the point of setting, we are seen from every story of every house.  Heads of every age crowd to the windows—­young and old understand the language of our victorious symbols—­and rolling volleys of sympathizing cheers run along behind and before our course.  The beggar, rearing himself against the wall, forgets his lameness—­real or assumed—­thinks not of his whining trade, but stands erect, with bold exulting smiles, as we pass him.  The victory has healed him, and says—­Be thou whole!  Women and children, from garrets alike and cellars, look down or look up with loving eyes upon our gay ribbons and our martial laurels—­sometimes kiss their hands, sometimes hang out, as signals of affection, pocket handkerchiefs, aprons, dusters, anything that lies ready to their hands.  On the London side of Barnet, to which we draw near within a few minutes after nine, observe that private carriage which is approaching us.  The weather being so warm, the glasses are all down; and one may read, as on the stage of a theatre, everything that goes on within the carriage.  It contains three ladies, one likely to be “mama,” and two of seventeen or eighteen, who are probably her daughters.  What lovely animation, what beautiful unpremeditated pantomime, explaining to us every syllable that passes, in these ingenuous girls!  By the sudden start and raising of the hands, on first discovering our laurelled equipage—­by the sudden movement and appeal to the elder lady from both of them—­and by the heightened color on their animated countenances, we can almost hear them saying—­“See, see!  Look at their laurels.  Oh, mama! there has been a great battle in Spain; and it has been a great victory.”  In a moment we are on the point of passing them.  We passengers—­I on the box, and the two on the roof behind me—­raise our hats, the coachman makes his professional salute with the whip; the guard even, though punctilious on the matter of his dignity as an officer under the crown, touches his hat.  The ladies move to us, in return, with a winning graciousness of gesture:  all smile on each side in a way that nobody could misunderstand, and that nothing short of a grand national sympathy could so instantaneously prompt.  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 honor 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 labor—­do you mean to say that they are washerwomen and char-women?  Oh, my poor friend, you are quite mistaken; they are nothing of the kind.  I assure you they stand in a higher rank; for this one night they feel themselves by birthright to be daughters of England, and answer to no humbler title.