There was an impression upon the public mind, natural enough from the
continually augmenting velocity of the mail, but quite erroneous, that
an outside seat on this class of carriages was a post of danger. On the
contrary, I maintained that, if a man had become nervous from some
gipsy prediction in his childhood, allocating to a particular moon now
approaching some unknown danger, and he should inquire earnestly,
"Whither can I fly for shelter? Is a prison the safest retreat? or a
lunatic hospital? or the British Museum?" I should have replied, "Oh
no; I'll tell you what to do. Take lodgings for the next forty days on
the box of his Majesty's mail. Nobody can touch you there. If it is by
bills at ninety days after date that you are made unhappy--if noters
and protesters are the sort of wretches whose astrological shadows
darken the house of life--then note you what I vehemently protest:
viz., that, no matter though the sheriff and under-sheriff in every
county should be running after you with his _posse_, touch a hair
of your head he cannot whilst you keep house and have your legal
domicile on the box of the mail. It is felony to stop the mail; even
the sheriff cannot do that. And an _extra_ touch of the whip to the
leaders (no great matter if it grazes the sheriff) at any time
guarantees your safety." In fact, a bedroom in a quiet house seems a
safe enough retreat; yet it is liable to its own notorious nuisances--
to robbers by night, to rats, to fire.
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