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 waggon 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 every body’s!——O rare!”
Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the
_bulk_—so little to the _stock?_
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by
pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever
in the same track—for ever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as
working-days, to be shewing 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 the
world—the _miracle_ of nature, as Zoroaster in his book ωεσι φυσεως
called him—the SHEKINAH of the divine presence, as Chrysostom——the
_image_ of God, as Moses——the _ray_ of divinity, as Plato—the _marvel_
of _marvels_, as Aristotle—to go sneaking on at this
pitiful—pimping——pettifogging rate?
I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion——but if there is
no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that
every imitator in _Great Britain, France_, and _Ireland_, had the farcy
for his pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough
to hold—aye—and sublimate them, _shag rag and bob-tail_, male and
female, all together: and this leads me to the affair of
_Whiskers_——but, by what chain of ideas—I leave as a legacy in
_mort-main_ to Prudes and Tartufs, to enjoy and make the most of.