Sometimes after breakfast his Majesty's mail would become frisky; and,
in its difficult wheelings amongst the intricacies of early markets, it
would upset an apple-cart, a cart loaded with eggs, &c. Huge was the
affliction and dismay, awful was the smash. I, as far as possible,
endeavoured in such a case to represent the conscience and moral
sensibilities of the mail; and, when wildernesses of eggs were lying
poached under our horses' hoofs, then would I stretch forth my hands in
sorrow, saying (in words too celebrated at that time, from the false
echoes [Footnote: "_False echoes_":--Yes, false! for the words
ascribed to Napoleon, as breathed to the memory of Desaix, never were
uttered at all. They stand in the same category of theatrical fictions
as the cry of the foundering line-of-battle ship _Vengeur_, as the
vaunt of General Cambronne at Waterloo, "La Garde meurt, mais ne se
rend pas," or as the repartees of Talleyrand.] of Marengo), "Ah!
wherefore have we not time to weep over you?"--which was evidently
impossible, since, in fact, we had not time to laugh over them. Tied to
post-office allowance in some cases of fifty minutes for eleven miles,
could the royal mail pretend to undertake the offices of sympathy and
condolence? Could it be expected to provide tears for the accidents of
the road? If even it seemed to trample on humanity, it did so, I felt,
in discharge of its own more peremptory duties.
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