When the precipitancy of a man’s wishes hurries on his ideas ninety times faster than the vehicle he rides in—woe be to truth! and woe be to the vehicle and its tackling (let ’em be made of what stuff you will) upon which he breathes forth the disappointment of his soul!
As I never give general characters either of men or things in choler, “ the most haste the worst speed ,” was all the reflection I made upon the affair, the first time it happen’d;—the second, third, fourth, and fifth time, I confined it respectively to those times, and accordingly blamed only the second, third, fourth, and fifth postboy for it, without carrying my reflections further; but the event continuing to befall me from the fifth, to the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth time, and without one exception, I then could not avoid making a national reflection of it, which I do in these words;
That something is always wrong in a French post-chaise, upon first setting out.
Or the proposition may stand thus:
A French postilion has always to alight before he has got three hundred yards out of town.
What’s wrong now?⸺Diable!⸺a rope’s broke!⸺a knot has slipt!⸺a staple’s drawn!⸺a bolt’s to whittle!⸺a tag, a rag, a jag, a strap, a buckle, or a buckle’s tongue, want altering.
Now true as all this is, I never think myself impowered to excommunicate thereupon either the post-chaise, or its driver⸺nor do I take it into my head to swear by the living G⸺, I would rather go afoot ten thousand times⸺or that I will be damn’d, if ever I get into