There was no violent feeling the other way. People simply
did not care. The old watchwords were powerless. The old quarrel had been
revived in a world that had forgotten it, and would not be reminded of it.
It was Charles and his Highlanders against George and his regiments, and
as the latter were sure to win, nobody bothered. It is the strange but
exact truth that the only sign I discovered of the great event in
progress, was to come across a group of four respectable men of the middle
station in life bargaining with an innkeeper for the hire of a chaise, in
which they meant to drive to watch the Highlanders march by. They were
very keen to bate him a shilling, and as indifferent as four oysters to
the issues at stake.
Riding into the inn-yard, I shouted to the host to get me his best
dinner, and, while it was preparing, I overlooked the grooming and baiting
of Sultan. I left him comfortable and content, and strolled indoors to
look after my own needs.
Though on the London road, and only fifteen miles from the scene of
action, the inn was quiet. I learned from the host that a courier had
galloped through an hour before, spurring southwards, and cried out from
the saddle that the bare-legs were only five miles from Derby when he
left.
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