“Yes.” A long pause. “Fine horses these, sir.” “Yes.” Another long pause. “Queer fish this,” muttered the coachman to himself. “I wonder if he can say No. I’ll try him once more. Take snuff, sir?” said he, thrusting the mull under the nose of his victim. “No, I thank you,” followed by an impatient rustling of his cloak, and a restless movement on the seat. The coachman gave up the matter in despair, and was obliged to content himself with holding agreeable converse with his cattle, in which he certainly had the best of it, as they bore all he chose to inflict, in silence. The man of few words was a youth of one or two-and-twenty, of pleasing and gentlemanly exterior; and, although the _coachman_ looked with great contempt upon one who would not take snuff, and who did not admire his favourite horses, we hope he will prove an object of greater interest to our readers, as he is to be the hero of our story. Poor fellow! no wonder that he wore such an air of sadness and abstraction, and that he shrank from the well-meant, though obtrusive advances of the knight of the whip. Most of us have experienced—and who that has experienced can ever forget?—the feelings of mingled sorrow and hope with which we have, for the first time in our lives, turned our backs upon the home of our childhood, and were fairly launched, on our own responsibility, into the untried ocean of life. How fondly did our thoughts rest upon the much-loved scenes we were leaving behind us! how vividly did we recall each look and action of those nearest and dearest to our hearts! and how perseveringly did we cling to our sorrowful yet pleasing recollections, shutting our eyes and ears to the vulgar sights and sounds of every-day life around us, and shrinking from communication with our fellow-men, as if our sorrow were “a thing apart,” too sacred to be unveiled to the eyes of others. Such were the feelings of young Edward Malcolmson, our silent friend. _He_ was leaving, for the first time, a mother he tenderly loved, sisters who doted on him, and, last, though not least, he was leaving one who was dearer to him than them all—one whom he _then_ thought, as most of us have thought once in our lives, he would never, never forget—the joy of his heart, the light of his eyes (as the poets word it), his first, his only love. No wonder, then, that he flapped his travelling cap down over his ears, folded his arms on his breast, and, fixing his eyes upon the footboard, sat the very image of determination—to be miserable. Night was closing around, but the darkness was congenial to his feelings; he could now indulge them unobserved, and he abandoned himself to them without control. He felt the same kind of listlessness and prostration of mental energy which those experience who suffer from sea-sickness; so much so, that when a sudden gust of wind whisked his cap off his head, he was too completely victimised even to mention his loss to the coachman.—“Let it go! What do I care? O Jessy!”