The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies'

loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any a.s.sistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.

"You shall have an inside place, if you'll pluck up your heart; and you'll find yourself better with the motion of the coach."

"What, is she hurt--the mulatto woman?--I say, coachy, make haste,"

cried Holloway; "I want to be off."

"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet: here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."

Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so rich as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----. He had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway, "I must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first sleep."

Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto; or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.

The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the chaise-door, and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she said, she talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out where she wanted to be carried to."

"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and don't let her keep us here all night."

"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor acquaintance neither."

"Well, whom does she belong to, then?"

"She belongs to n.o.body--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she says."

"What would she have us to do with her, then?" said Holloway. "Drive on, for I shall be late."

The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, "No, master, no!--it's a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she's no Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger myself in _Lon'on_, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what it is, master."

The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. "Mistress,"

said he, "I'd fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the t'other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your Paul, as you don't know neither the name of his street--But I'll tell ye now all the streets I'm acquainted with, and that's a many: do you stop me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you're sadly bruised, and I won't see ye left this ways on the road."

He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one name, which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the gardener lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard the street in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he had a large garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early almost every morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she advised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send to ask the gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the morning. The postilion promised to go to the gardener's "by the first break of day." The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient Holloway loudly called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he would not give him one farthing for himself if he did not.

The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain; but Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his pains; therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a coach-box for one hour.

It was two o'clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town, when he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up, walked home, got in at his bedchamber window--his bedchamber was upon the ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed in his successful _frolic_. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again, and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his less manly dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school, advancing towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in his hand, which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into the face of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into the head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just at the instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver's face close to him, laughing heartily.

"Why," exclaimed Oliver, "you seized my head with both your hands when I came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?"

"I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of you," said Howard, laughing; "but I shall not get my medal by dreaming about it. What o'clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second."

"Ay," said Oliver, "I wont tell you what o'clock it is till you're dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I've got every thing ready, and I've carried the little table, and all your books, and the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you'll have a full hour to work, for it's only half after five."

At the back of Mrs. Howard's house there was a little garden; at the end of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out, and which he dignified by the t.i.tle of _the seat_. There were some pots of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard's permission, by a gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work in her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead leaves, whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been prepared for him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on which he was enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little French book which the traveller had given to him; and he was writing _an essay for a prize_. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in writing essays for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize medal as the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of critics, to be chosen from among the boys themselves, should p.r.o.nounce to be the best composition.

"I won't talk to you, I won't interrupt you," said Oliver to Howard; "but only answer me one question: what is your essay about?"

Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.

"I a.s.sure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able to write essays?"

"To be sure," said Howard; "why not?"

"Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know."

"But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great many things that you thought you could not do?"

"Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things which can be done without genius."

"And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done without genius?"

"Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway said so."

"But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we?

Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes, or putting on your hat, for instance."

Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort of things that can't be done without genius."

"What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the pen in my hand, make a list of them."

"Take a longer bit of paper."

"No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry."

"Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius."

"Why?"

"Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it."

"What did you try to write?" said Howard.

"Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins, desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never can make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but then, when I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines; and if I stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and what can I put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and hope they are all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage well enough, because there's duty and love to send to every body; and about _the post is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver, "this is all nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad letters. Now your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good letter, whilst I am writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you write good letters when you were of my age?"

"I never wrote any letters at your age," said Howard.

"Oh, how happy you must have been! But then, if you never learned, how comes it that you can write them now? How can you always find something to say?"

"I never write but when I have something to say; and you know, when you had something to say last post about Easter holidays, your pen, Oliver, went scratch, scratch, scratch, as fast as any body's."

"So it did," cried Oliver; "but then the thing is, I'm forced to write when I've nothing about the holidays to say."

"Forced?"

"Yes, because I'm afraid my uncle and cousins should be angry if I didn't write."

"I'm sure I'm much obliged," said Howard, "to my dear aunt, who never forced me to write: she always said, 'Never write, Charles, but when you like it;' and I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is, any thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any subject, or any questions to ask, which I very much wished to have answered, then, you know, I could easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write down just the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking."

"But I thought writing was quite a different thing from speaking, because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long sentences, and fine sentences, such as there are in books."