My father cut the matter short; when he was my age, his father had turned him out, and settled his legal inheritance on his younger brother; and one of that brother’s sons should take my place, if I crossed him any further.

At the end of the month he gave me to think the matter over, I found myself on the road to York, on a reasonably good horse, with fifty guineas in my pocket, travelling, as it would seem, for the purpose of assisting in the adoption of a successor to myself in my father’s house and favour; he having decided that I should pay a visit to my uncle, and stay at Osbaldistone Hall, till I should receive further instructions.

There had been such unexpected ease in the way in which my father had slipt the knot usually esteemed the strongest that binds society together, and let me depart as a sort of outcast from his family, that strangely lessened my self-confidence.  The Muse, too,—­the very coquette that had led me into this wilderness—­deserted me, and I should have been reduced to an uncomfortable state of dullness had it not been for the conversation of strangers who chanced to pass the same way.  One poor man with whom I travelled a day and a half, and whose name was Morris, afforded me most amusement.  He had upon his pillion a very small, but apparently a very weighty portmanteau, which he would never trust out of his immediate care; and all his conversation was of unfortunate travellers who had fallen among thieves.  He wrought himself into a fever of apprehension by the progress of his own narratives, and occasionally eyed me with doubt and suspicion, too ludicrous to be offensive.  I found amusement in alternately exciting and lulling to sleep the causeless fears of my timorous companion, who tried in vain to induce a Scotchman with whom we dined in Darlington to ride with him, because the landlord informed us “that for as peaceable a gentleman as Mr. Campbell was, he was, moreover, as bold as a lion—­seven highwaymen had he defeated with his single arm, as he came from Whitson tryste.”

“Thou art deceived, friend Jonathan,” said Campbell, interrupting him.  “There were but barely two, and two cowardly loons as man could wish to meet withal.”  My companion made up to him, and taking him aside seemed to press his company upon him.

Mr. Campbell disengaged himself not very ceremoniously, and coming up to me, observed, “Your friend, sir, is too communicative, considering the nature of his trust.”

I hastened to assure him that that gentleman was no friend of mine, and that I knew nothing of him or his business, and we separated for the night.