If it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had never entered my head. He flew like lightning----there was a slope of three miles and a half----we scarce touched the ground----the motion was most rapid----most impetuous------'twas communicated to my brain--my heart partook of it---- "By the great God of day," said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I made my vow, "I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my house."
The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag'd--drag'd up by eight _heavy beasts_-- "by main strength! ----quoth I, nodding----but your betters draw the same way----and something of everybody's! ----O rare!"
Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the _bulk_--so little to the _stock?_
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever in the same track--for ever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be shewing the _relicks of learning_, as monks do the relicks of their saints--without working one--one single miracle with them?

If it had not been for those two mettlesome horses, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought would have never entered my head. He flew like lightning - we scarce touched the ground - the impetuous motion was communicated to my brain - and my heart.
'By the great God of day,' said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the carriage window, 'I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw its key down the well.'
The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressing, dragged up by eight heavy beasts - 'by main strength!' quoth I, nodding - 'but your betters drag the same way!'
Tell me, shall we for ever be adding so much to the bulk - and so little to the stock of learning?
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope?
Shall we be eternally showing the relics of learning, as monks do the relics of their saints - without working one single miracle with them?
