The first
three stages terminate in Preston (called, by way of distinction from
other towns of that name, _Proud_ Preston); at which place it is
that the separate roads from Liverpool and from Manchester to the north
become confluent. [Footnote: "_Confluent_":--Suppose a capital Y
(the Pythagorean letter): Lancaster is at the foot of this letter;
Liverpool at the top of the _right_ branch; Manchester at the top
of the _left_; Proud Preston at the centre, where the two branches
unite. It is thirty-three miles along either of the two branches; it is
twenty-two miles along the stem,--viz., from Preston in the middle to
Lancaster at the root. There's a lesson in geography for the reader!]
Within these first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and
termination of our night's adventure. During the first stage, I found
out that Cyclops was mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of
sleep--a thing which previously I had never suspected. If a man
indulges in the vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation
of Apollo himself, with the horses of Aurora to execute his notions,
avails him nothing. "Oh, Cyclops!" I exclaimed, "thou art mortal. My
friend, thou snorest." Through the first eleven miles, however, this
infirmity--which I grieve to say that he shared with the whole Pagan
Pantheon--betrayed itself only by brief snatches.
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