I frequently met James Dutton in after-years; but some nine or ten
months had passed since I had last seen him, when I was directed by
the chief partner in the firm to which Flint and I subsequently
succeeded, to take coach for Romford, Essex, in order to ascertain
from a witness there what kind of evidence we might expect him to give
in a trial to come off in the then Hilary term, at Westminster Hall.
It was the first week in January: the weather was bitterly cold; and I
experienced an intense satisfaction when, after despatching the
business I had come upon, I found myself in the long dining-room of
the chief market-inn, where two blazing fires shed a ruddy, cheerful
light over the snow-white damask table-cloth, bright glasses,
decanters, and other preparatives for the farmers' market-dinner.
Prices had ruled high that day; wheat had reached L.30 a load; and
the numerous groups of hearty, stalwart yeomen present were in high
glee, crowing and exulting alike over their full pockets and the
news--of which the papers were just then full--of the burning of
Moscow, and the flight and ruin of Bonaparte's army. James Dutton was
in the room, but not, I observed, in his usual flow of animal spirits.
The crape round his hat might, I thought, account for that; and as he
did not see me, I accosted him with an inquiry after his health, and
the reason of his being in mourning.
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