us it was "not to be found in any book or newspaper"--it
might have found its way into print. However, as twenty years have
elapsed, and I have never yet met with it in type, I will venture to
give the outlines of the narrative.

Major Rupert Stanley, a "bold dragoon" in the service of his majesty
George III., found himself, one dark and blustering night in autumn,
riding towards London on the old York road. He had supped with a
friend who lived at a village some distance off the road, and he was
unfamiliar with the country. Though not raining, the air was damp, and
the heavy, surcharged clouds threatened every moment to pour down
their contents. But the major, though a young man, was an old
campaigner; and with a warm cloak wrapped about him, and a good horse
under him, would have cared very little for storm and darkness, had he
felt sure of a good bed for himself, and comfortable quarters for his
horse, when he had ridden far enough for the strength of his faithful
animal. A good horseman cares as much for the comfort of his steed as
for his own ease. To add to the discomfort of the evening, there was
some chance of meeting highwaymen; but Major Stanley felt no
uneasiness on that score, as, just before leaving his friend's house,
he had examined his holster pistols, and freshly primed them. A brush
with a highwayman would enhance the romance of a night journey.

So he jogged along; but mile after mile was passed, and no twinkling
light in the distance gave notice of the appearance of the wished-for
inn. The major's horse began to give unmistakable evidence of
distress--stumbling once or twice, and recovering himself with
difficulty. At last, a dim light suddenly appeared at a turn of the
road. The horse pricked up his ears, and trotted forward with spirit,
soon halting beside a one-story cottage. The major was disappointed,
but he rode up to the door and rapped loudly with the but of his
riding whip. The summons brought a sleepy cotter to the door.

"My good friend," said the major, "can you tell me how far it is to
the next inn?"

"Eh! it be about zeven mile, zur," was the answer, in the broad
Yorkshire dialect of the district.

"Seven miles!" exclaimed the major, in a tone of deep disappointment,
"and my horse is already blown! My good fellow, can't you put my horse
somewhere, and give me a bed? I will pay you liberally for your
trouble."

"Eh! goodness zakes!" said the rustic. "I be nought but a ditcher!
Th