If it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had never entered my head. He flew like lightning⸺there was a slope of three miles and a half⸺we scarce touched the ground⸺the motion was most rapid⸺most impetuous⸻’twas communicated to my brain—my heart partook of it⸺“By the great God of day,” said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I made my vow, “I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my house.”
The London wagon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d—drag’d up by eight heavy beasts —“by main strength!⸺quoth I, nodding⸺but your betters draw the same way⸺and something of everybody’s!⸺O rare!”
Tell me, ye learned, shall we forever be adding so much to the bulk —so little to the stock ?
Shall we forever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we forever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? forever in the same track—forever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be showing the relicks of learning , as monks do the relicks of their saints—without working one—one single miracle with them?
Who made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a moment—that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of