The palsy of
doubt and distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed
remembrances upon my energies when the signal is flying for
_action_. But, on the other hand, this accursed gift I have, as
regards _thought_, that in the first step towards the possibility
of a misfortune I see its total evolution; in the radix of the series I
see too certainly and too instantly its entire expansion; in the first
syllable of the dreadful sentence I read already the last. It was not
that I feared for ourselves. _Us_ our bulk and impetus charmed
against peril in any collision. And I had ridden through too many
hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach, that were matter of
laughter to look back upon, the first face of which was horror, the
parting face a jest--for any anxiety to rest upon _our_ interests.
The mail was not built, I felt assured, nor bespoke, that could betray
_me_ who trusted to its protection. But any carriage that we could
meet would be frail and light in comparison of ourselves. And I
remarked this ominous accident of our situation,--we were on the wrong
side of the road. But then, it may be said, the other party, if other
there was, might also be on the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a
right. _That_ was not likely. The same motive which had drawn
_us_ to the right-hand side of the road--viz.
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