Well, I was about to say that when I heard of the sale I resolved to run over to Richmond and see what I could pick up. I got there just in time to see the last lot knocked down. It was shockingly stupid of me to have mistaken the hour--such a cold day, too, and I so unaccustomed to running about the country at that time of year. But there was no help for it; I had to return as wise as I started, and the poorer by the loss of my temper and expectations. I was beginning to get in a good humour again, however, what with my fire, and my cigar, and my article on "Truths," &c, and partly, no doubt, by reason of the genial effect of that old port-wine; besides, I am by no means of a sour disposition, naturally; when all of a sudden came the postman's knock, making me start so that the ash of my cigar fell on the open page of the _Contemporary_ and scorched a hole in it. Postmen have always been a horror to me; I have never enjoyed receiving letters since the date of a certain missive from--from someone who is now the wife of another man; and on this particular evening I was more than commonly averse to any such interruption. I laid my book on my knees, leaned back in my chair, and blew an irritated cloud of smoke towards the painted countenance of my ecclesiastical ancestor over the fireplace. It curled and twisted about his respectable visage, until I could almost have believed that he winked one eye and moved his ancient lips as if to speak. The servant brought in a square packet done up in brown wrapping-paper, and sealed in half-a-dozen places. It was about the size and shape of the magazine I had been reading--a little thicker, perhaps, and heavier. I put my name to the receipt accompanying the parcel, and the servant went out.