he skill of Cyclops.

From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not in law) is the
capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven stages of eleven miles
each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in
Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and
the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in
Preston, (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name,
_proud_ Preston,) at which place it was that the separate roads from
Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these
first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termination of our
night's adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops was
mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep--a thing which I
had never previously suspected. If a man is addicted to the vicious habit
of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself, with the horses
of Aurora to execute the motions of his will, avail him nothing. "Oh,
Cyclops!" I exclaimed more than once, "Cyclops, my friend; thou art mortal.
Thou snorest." Through this first eleven miles, however, he betrayed
his infirmity--which I grieve to say he shared with the whole Pagan
Pantheon--only by short stretches. On waking up, he made an apology for
himself, which, instead of mending the matter, laid an ominous foundation
for coming disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding at Lancaster:
in consequence of which, for three nights and three days, he had not lain
down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his uncertain summons as
a witness on the trial in which he was interested; or he was drinking with
the other witnesses, under the vigilant surveillance of the attorneys.
During the night, or that part of it when the least temptations existed to
conviviality, he was driving. Throughout the second stage he grew more and
more drowsy. In the second mile of the third stage, he surrendered himself
finally and without a struggle to his perilous temptation. All his past
resistance had but deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven
atmospheres of sleep seemed resting upon him; and, to consummate the case,
our worthy guard, after singing "Love amongst the Roses," for the fiftieth
or sixtieth time, without any invitation from Cyclops or myself, and
without applause for his poor labors, had moodily resigned himself to
slumber--not so deep doubtless as the coachman