A few years ago, I happened to pass through the main street of
Carlisle, just as the south mail had "pulled up" at the door of "The
Bush." The night was very cold; the horses were tossing their heads,
and pawing the ground, impatient to escape from the restraint of their
harness; and the steam, which rose in clouds from their bodies, gave
evidence that they had just "come off" a rapid and fatiguing stage. At
the coach-door stood a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man, whose
blue nose, muffled throat, and frozen body, pointed him out as one of
the new arrivals. As I loitered slowly past, the stranger, who had
just settled the claims of the guard, turned round, and observed me.
His keen eye rested for a moment on my features--he started, looked
again, and then said--
"No; I cannot be mistaken. I surely ought to know that face. Is not
your name Lorrimer?"
"It is," replied I, surprised at being thus accosted by a perfect
stranger. "You seem to be better acquainted with my name, sir, than I
am with yours; for I am not conscious of ever having seen you before."
"Look at me again, Frank; try if you cannot recollect me," said he, as
we entered the travellers' room, and the gas-light shone full on his
face.