delight, it drew my own attention to the fact that this coachman was a
monster in point of bulk, and that he had but one eye. In fact, he had
been foretold by Virgil as

"Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum."

He answered to the conditions in every one of the items:--1, a monster
he was; 2, dreadful; 3, shapeless; 4, huge; 5, who had lost an eye. But
why should _that_ delight me? Had he been one of the Calendars in
the "Arabian Nights," and had paid down his eye as the price of his
criminal curiosity, what right had _I_ to exult in his misfortune?
I did _not_ exult; I delighted in no man's punishment, though it
were even merited. But these personal distinctions (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)
identified in an instant an old friend of mine whom I had known in the
south for some years as the most masterly of mail-coachmen. He was the
man in all Europe that could (if _any_ could) have driven six-in-
hand full gallop over _Al Sirat_--that dreadful bridge of Mahomet,
with no side battlements, and of _extra_ room not enough for a
razor's edge--leading right across the bottomless gulf. Under this
eminent man, whom in Greek I cognominated Cyclops _Diphrelates_
(Cyclops the Charioteer), I, and others known to me, studied the
diphrelatic art. Excuse, reader, a word too elegant to be pedantic. As
a pupil, though I paid extra fees, it is to be lamented that I did not
stand high in his esteem. It showed his dogged honesty (though,
observe, not his discernment) that he could not see my merits. Let us
excuse his absurdity in this particular by remembering his want of an
eye. Doubtless _that_ made him blind to my merits. In the art of
conversation, however, he admitted that I had the whip-hand of him. On
the present occasion great joy was at our meeting. But what was Cyclops
doing here? Had the medical men recommended northern air, or how? I