ll village set on a hill mined and tunneled with coalpits; fifteen
miles or so beyond this was the roadside inn, where I proposed to halt
for the night. The sun had long set when I rode up to the
spectral-looking white house; remarking with no pleasant surprise, that
not a vestige of smoke rose from its gaunt chimneys. At the gate there
stood a cart laden with some sort of household goods. Near this, a man,
who lounged up, seeing me draw rein, to ask my business. It appeared
that a "flitting" had taken place that very day, and that he--the good
man--was then betaking himself, with the residue of the chattels, to
their new home, about five miles back on the Frostburgh road, whither
his family had already gone. The next chance of a billet was at
Grantsville, two leagues farther on. Now that sounds too absurdly short
a distance to disquiet any traveler; but neither is the fatal straw in
the camel's load a ponderous thing, _per se_. Both Falcon and I had
reckoned that our day's work was done when we climbed the last hill, so
it was in some discontent that we set our faces once more against the
black road, and the stinging sleet, and the bitter north wind.

Amongst Mrs. Browning's earlier poems, there is one to my mind almost
peerless for sweet sonority of verse-music, and simplicity of strength.
If it chance that any reader of mine has not admired "The Rhyme of the
Duchess May," this page, at least, has not been written in vain. My
saddle-bags held no volume other than a note-book, but that ballad in
manuscript was nearly the last gift bestowed on me in Baltimore. Never
was mortal mood less romantic than mine, so I cannot account for the
fancy which impelled me, there and then, to recite aloud, how

The bridegroom led the flight, on his red roan steed of might;
And the bride lay on his arm, still, as tho' she feared no harm,
Smiling out into the night.
"Fearest thou?" he said at last. "Nay," she answered him in haste,
"Not such death as we could find; only life with one behind,
Ride on--fast as fear--ride fast."

I found one listener, more appreciative than the wild pine-barren, that
surely had never been waked by rhythmic sound since the birthday of
Time. Falcon pricked his ears, and champed his bit cheerily, as he
mended his pace without warning of spur. As for myself--the pure,
earnest Saxon diction proved a more efficient "comforter" than "the
many-colored scarf round my neck, wrought b