The day of retribution at last came, for, according to the clown’s doctrine, the whirligig of time always brings round its revenges. My poor mother died, and had a walking funeral, and my Step-father felt more for her than I had expected; but he suffered most in his legs and feet: the measured pace of the procession afflicted him beyond measure; he longed to give sorrow strides, but was forbidden; and he walked and grieved like a fiery horse upon the fret. The slow pace seemed as a slow poison: it has been affirmed that he caught cold upon the occasion; but whether he did or not,--from that day he took ill, went off rapidly, as he always did, in a galloping consumption, and died, leaving me, as usual, behind him. In compliance with his last wish, he was furnished with a walking funeral, and, as decency dictated, I followed him to the grave; though in truth it was sacrificing the only opportunity I ever had in the world, of getting before him. I have been told that, the evening of his decease, his apparition appeared to a first cousin at Penryn, and the same night to his brother at Appleby. I have no particular faith in Ghosts, but this I do most firmly believe, that if any Body had the Spirit to do the distance, in the time, it was the very Spirit of my Step-father Walker. [Illustration: FOUR INSIDE.] CONVEYANCING. Oh, London is the place for all In love with loco-motion! Still to and fro the people go Like billows of the ocean; Machine or man, or caravan, Can all be had for paying, When great estates, or heavy weights, Or bodies want conveying. There’s always hacks about in packs, Wherein you may be shaken, And Jarvis is not always _drunk_, Tho’ always _overtaken_; In racing tricks he’ll never mix, His nags are in their last days, And _slow_ to go, altho’ they show As if they had their _fast days_! Then if you like a single horse, This age is quite a _cab-age_, A car not quite so small and light As those of our Queen _Mab_ age; The horses have been _broken well_, All danger is rescinded, For some have _broken both their knees_, And some are _broken winded_. If you’ve a friend at Chelsea end, The stages are worth knowing-- There is a sort, we call ’em short, Although the longest going-- For some will stop at Hatchett’s shop Till you grow faint and sicky, Perched up behind, at last to find Your dinner is all _dickey_! Long stages run from every yard; But if you’re wise and frugal, You’ll never go with any Guard That plays upon the bugle, “Ye banks and braes,” and other lays, And ditties everlasting, Like miners going all your way, With _boring_ and with _blasting_.