The concern which the poor
fellow’s story threw me into required some attention; the
postilion paid not the least to it, but set off upon the
pavé in a full gallop.
The thirstiest soul in the most sandy desert of Arabia could
not have wished more for a cup of cold water, than mine did for
grave and quiet movements; and I should have had an high opinion
of the postilion had he but stolen off with me in something like
a pensive pace.—On the contrary, as the mourner finished
his lamentation, the fellow gave an unfeeling lash to each of his
beasts, and set off clattering like a thousand devils.
I called to him as loud as I could, for heaven’s sake to
go slower:—and the louder I called, the more unmercifully
he galloped.—The deuce take him and his galloping
too—said I,—he’ll go on tearing my nerves to
pieces till he has worked me into a foolish passion, and then
he’ll go slow that I may enjoy the sweets of it.
The postilion managed the point to a miracle: by the time he
had got to the foot of a steep hill, about half a league from
Nampont,—he had put me out of temper with him,—and
then with myself, for being so.
My case then required a different treatment; and a good
rattling gallop would have been of real service to me.—
—Then, prithee, get on—get on, my good lad, said
I.
The postilion pointed to the hill.—I then tried to
return back to the story of the poor German and his ass—but
I had broke the clue,—and could no more get into it again,
than the postilion could into a trot.
—The deuce go, said I, with it all! Here am I
sitting as candidly disposed to make the best of the worst, as
ever wight was, and all runs counter.
There is one sweet lenitive at least for evils, which Nature
holds out to us: so I took it kindly at her hands, and fell
asleep; and the first word which roused me was Amiens.
—Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes,—this is the
very town where my poor lady is to come.
