Every joy, however, even rapturous joy—­such is the sad law of earth—­may carry with it grief, or fear of grief, to some.  Three miles beyond Barnet, we see approaching us another private carriage, nearly repeating the circumstances of the former case.  Here, also, the glasses are all down—­here, also, is an elderly lady seated; but the two amiable daughters are missing; for the single young person, sitting by the lady’s side, seems to be an attendant—­so I judge from her dress, and her air of respectful reserve.  The lady is in mourning; and her countenance expresses sorrow.  At first she does not look up; so that I believe she is not aware of our approach, until she hears the measured beating of our horses’ hoofs.  Then she raises her eyes to settle them painfully on our triumphal equipage.  Our decorations explain the case to her at once; but she beholds them with apparent anxiety, or even with terror.  Some time before this, I, finding it difficult to hit a flying mark, when embarrassed by the coachman’s person and reins intervening, had given to the guard a Courier evening paper, containing the gazette, for the next carriage that might pass.  Accordingly he tossed it in so folded that the huge capitals expressing some such legend as—­GLORIOUS VICTORY, might catch the eye at once.  To see the paper, however, at all, interpreted as it was by our ensigns of triumph, explained everything; and, if the guard were right in thinking the lady to have received it with a gesture of horror, it could not be doubtful that she had suffered some deep personal affliction in connection with this Spanish war.

Here now was the case of one, who, having formerly suffered, might, erroneously perhaps, be distressing herself with anticipations of another similar suffering.  That same night, and hardly three hours later, occurred the reverse case.  A poor woman, who too probably would find herself, in a day or two, to have suffered the heaviest of afflictions by the battle, blindly allowed herself to express an exultation so unmeasured in the news, and its details, as gave to her the appearance which amongst Celtic Highlanders is called fey.  This was at some little town, I forget what, where we happened to change horses near midnight.  Some fair or wake had kept the people up out of their beds.  We saw many lights moving about as we drew near; and perhaps the most impressive scene on our route was our reception at this place.  The flashing of torches and the beautiful radiance of blue lights (technically Bengal lights) upon the heads of our horses; the fine effect of such a showery and ghostly illumination falling upon flowers and glittering laurels, whilst all around the massy darkness seemed to invest us with walls of impenetrable blackness, together with the prodigious enthusiasm of the people, composed a picture at once scenical and affecting.  As we staid for three or four minutes, I alighted.  And immediately from a dismantled stall in the street,