These are the moments which the most thoughtless of men cannot but devote to reflection. There is nothing like pace to drive away unpleasant considerations; but when two miles an hour is the best rate we can command, black Care is pretty sure to abandon his seat on the cantle of the saddle, and, springing nimbly to the front, grins at us in the face. I remember well how a fast-going youth—a friend of my boyhood, now, alas! gone to Jericho _viâ_ Short Street, and with whom I have spent many a pleasant hour that might have been better employed—used to read with great energy whilst he was _dressing_. It was the only time, he said, that his conscience could get the better of him, and during which he had leisure to think of his sins and his debts. He smothered the accusing voice and its painful accessories by a course of severe study, and so got the anodyne and the information at once. Mr. Sawyer’s reflections were cheering enough till he began to get tired. He liked the idea of visiting the hospitable nobleman with whom he had lately parted, and pictured to himself the very pleasant visit he hoped to pay him, and the accession of importance with which such an acquaintance would doubtless invest him amongst his Harborough friends. He only wished he had inquired his name; but then, he was evidently a personage whom everybody knew, and it was better not to betray his ignorance. Also, when the written invitation arrived—as unquestionably it would—with its armorial bearings, and signature in full, he would know all about it. Before he had tramped through the mud for a mile, he began to think he had rather “got into a good thing.” Ere long, it began to rain—first of all, an ominous drizzle, that seemed like continuing; then a decided pour, such as runs into the nape of a man’s neck and the tops of his boots, and wets him through in about a quarter of an hour. It was not much fun, churning the fluid in his soles; so he climbed stiffly into the saddle, and was disagreeably aware that Hotspur, besides being thoroughly tired, was also undoubtedly _lame_. By degrees, his spirits fell considerably. He began to think of the Honourable Crasher, with his off-hand manner and his nine hunters. He remembered a certain fable of the earthenware vessel that sailed down-stream amongst the iron pots. How was he to hold his own in the fast-going set which he had entered? He had better, perhaps, have contented himself with the Old Country, and stayed quietly at home. The comforts of The Grange presented themselves in painful contrast to the muddy road along which he was plodding—even to the smoky bedroom and dingy parlour which would receive him at Harborough. Though the rain had moderated, he jogged along the dark highway, now squelching into puddles at the side, now cursing the stones lately laid down in the middle—in either case, to the equal discomfiture of poor Hotspur—and felt himself more unhappy and out of humour every yard he went.