t we rattled along the stones that formed the
entrance to the village, an unfavourable alteration took place in my
companion. He grew excited and impatient; and his lips quivered, and
his eyes sparkled, as I had never seen them before. I was satisfied
that we had reached the object of his long desire, and that in a few
minutes the mysterious relation in which he stood to the place would
be ascertained. "He MUST be known," I continued to repeat to myself;
"the first eye that falls on him, will recognize him instantly." We
reached the inn; we alighted. The landlord and the ostler came to
the coach door, and received us with extreme civility, and the
former assisted the idiot in his eager endeavour to reach the
ground--I watched the action, expecting him to start, to speak, to
claim acquaintance--and having completed the polite intention, he
stood smiling and scraping. I looked at him, then at the idiot, and
saw at once that they were strangers. A dozen idlers stood about the
door. I waited for a recognition: none came.

Seated in the parlour of the inn, I asked to see the landlady. The
sight of the idiot caused as little emotion in her, as it had
produced in her husband. I ordered dinner for him. Whilst it was
preparing, I engaged the landlord in conversation at the door. I did
not wish to speak before young Harrington. I dared not leave him. I
enquired, first, if the face of the idiot were familiar to him. I
received for answer, that the man had never seen him in his life
before, nor had his wife.

"Do you know the name of Harrington?" said I.

"No--never heard on it," was the reply.

"Fitzjones, perhaps?"

"Many Joneses hereabouts, sir," said the landlord, "but none of that
there Christian name."

The excitement of the idiot did not abate. He would not touch his
food nor sit quietly, but he walked swiftly up and down the room,
breathing heavily, and trembling with increasing agitation. He urged
me in his own peculiar way to leave the house and walk abroad. He
pointed to the road and strove to speak. The attempt was fruitless,
and he paced the room again, wringing his hands and sighing
sorrowfully. At length I yielded to his request, and we were again
in the village, I following whithersoever he led me. He ran through
the street, like a madman as he was, bringing upon him the eyes of
every one, and outstripping me speedily. He stopped for a moment to
collect himself--looked round as though he had lost his way, an