THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.
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.
I looked; but in vain.
"I am ashamed to say, I do not know who you can be, though I have a kind of consciousness that your features are those of an old friend."
"Do you remember Richard Musgrave?"
"What! Dick Muzzy? To be sure I do—the kindest-hearted fellow that ever dog's-eared a Latin grammar. What news of my old schoolmate?"