In the whole catalogue of those whiffling vexations which come puffing across a man's canvass, there is not one of a more teasing and tormenting nature, than this particular one which I am going to describe----and for which (unless you travel with an avance-courier, which numbers do in order to prevent it)----there is no help: and it is this.
That be you in never so kindly a propensity to sleep----tho' you are passing perhaps through the finest country--upon the best roads, and in the easiest carriage for doing it in the world----nay, was you sure you could sleep fifty miles straight forwards, without once opening your eyes--nay, what is more, was you as demonstratively satisfied as you can be of any truth in _Euclid_, that you should upon all accounts be full as well asleep as awake----nay, perhaps better ----Yet the incessant returns of paying for the horses at every stage, ----with the necessity thereupon of putting your hand into your pocket, and counting out from thence three livres fifteen sous (sous by sous), puts an end to so much of the project, that you cannot execute above six miles of it (or supposing it is a post and a half, that is but nine)----were it to save your soul from destruction.
--I'll be even with 'em, quoth I, for I'll put the precise sum into a piece of paper, and hold it ready in my hand all the way: "Now I shall have nothing to do," said I (composing myself to rest), "but to drop this gently into the post-boy's hat, and not say a word." ----Then there wants two sous more to drink----or there is a twelve sous piece of _Louis_ XIV. which will not pass--or a livre and some odd liards to be brought over from the last stage, which Monsieur had forgot; which altercations (as a man cannot dispute very well asleep) rouse him: still is sweet sleep retrievable; and still might the flesh weigh down the spirit, and recover itself of these blows--but then, by heaven! you have paid but for a single post--whereas 'tis a post and a half; and this obliges you to pull out your book of post-roads, the print of which is so very small, it forces you to open your eyes, whether you will or no: Then Monsieur _le Cur_ offers you a pinch of snuff----or a poor soldier shews you his leg----or a shaveling his box----or the priestess of the cistern will water your wheels----they do not want it----but she swears by her _priesthood_ (throwing it back) that they do: ----then you have all these points to argue, or consider over in your mind; in doing of which, the rational powers get so thoroughly awakened----you may get 'em to sleep again as you can.
It was entirely owing to one of these misfortunes, or I had pass'd clean by the stables of _Chantilly_----
----But the postilion first affirming, and then persisting in it to my face, that there was no mark upon the two sous piece, I open'd my eyes to be convinced--and seeing the mark upon it as plain as my nose --I leap'd out of the chaise in a passion, and so saw everything at _Chantilly_ in spite. ----I tried it but for three posts and a half, but believe 'tis the best principle in the world to travel speedily upon; for as few objects look very inviting in that mood--you have little or nothing to stop you; by which means it was that I passed through St. _Dennis_, without turning my head so much as on one side towards the Abby----

Of all the whiffling vexations which come puffing across a man's canvas, there is not one more teasing and tormenting than this:
That be you never so ready for sleep - tho' you are passing perhaps through the finest country, upon the best roads, and in the easiest carriage in the world - nay, even if you were sure you could sleep for fifty miles, without once opening your eyes - yet the necessity of paying for the horses at every stage - of putting your hand into your pocket, and counting out three livres fifteen sous, puts an end to rest so effectively that you cannot sleep above six miles, to save your soul from destruction.
'I'll be even with 'em,' quoth I, 'for I'll put the precise sum into a piece of paper, and hold it ready in my hand all the way. Now I shall have nothing to do,' said I (composing myself to rest), 'but to drop this gently into the post-boy's hat, and not say a word.'
But then he wants two sous more to drink - or there is an old twelve sous piece which will not pass - or a livre to be brought over from the last stage, which Monsieur had forgot; still sweet sleep is retrievable; and still might the flesh recover from these blows - but then, by heaven! you have paid but for a single post-stage - whereas 'tis a stage and a half; and this obliges you to pull out your book of post-roads, the print of which is so very small, it forces you to open your eyes, whether you will or no.
Then Monsieur le Cur offers you a pinch of snuff - or a poor soldier shows you his leg - or a shaveling his box - or the priestess of the cistern will water your wheels, swearing they need it - and in all this, the mind gets so thoroughly awakened, you cannot get it asleep again.
It was entirely owing to one of these misfortunes that I did not pass clean by the stables of Chantilly -
- The postilion persisting that the two sous piece was a fake, I opened my eyes, and seeing it to be genuine as plain as my nose - I leaped out of the chaise in a passion, and so saw everything at Chantilly in spite. I tried this for three post-stages and a half, and believe 'tis the best principle in the world to travel speedily upon; for as few objects look inviting in that mood, you have little or nothing to stop you. By this means I passed through St. Dennis without so much as turning my head towards the Abbey.
