What could be done--who was it that could do it--to check the storm-
flight of these maniacal horses? Could I not seize the reins from the
grasp of the slumbering coachman? You, reader, think that it would have
been in _your_ power to do so. And I quarrel not with your estimate
of yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman's hand was viced
between his upper and lower thigh, this was impossible. Easy was it?
See, then, that bronze equestrian statue. The cruel rider has kept the
bit in his horse's mouth for two centuries. Unbridle him for a minute,
if you please, and wash his mouth with water. Easy was it? Unhorse me,
then, that imperial rider; knock me those marble feet from those marble
stirrups of Charlemagne.
The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of
wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart? Was
it youthful gaiety in a gig? Was it sorrow that loitered, or joy that
raced? For as yet the snatches of sound were too intermitting, from
distance, to decipher the character of the motion. Whoever were the
travellers, something must be done to warn them. Upon the other party
rests the active responsibility, but upon _us_--and, woe is me!
that _us_ was reduced to my frail opium-shattered self--rests the
responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might
I not sound the guard's horn? Already, on the first thought, I was
making my way over the roof of the guard's seat.
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