Well, now for a full and true account of all our disasters. When we came to the second stage, we could not get fresh horses; and those we had were scarcely able to drag the chaise. One lagged, and the other very unwillingly tried to get into its old pace; yet, though any human creature, I should have thought, would have pitied them, the postilion gave them lash after lash, till my patience was quite exhausted, and I remonstrated with him: indeed the strokes went to my heart; and I felt as if I had rather have called the horse my brother, than the wretch who treated him with such barbarity, who, whistling, turned his unmoved face to me, while he smacked his whip. I soon perceived that the harness had galled one of the horses; well might it winch, poor wretch!—at last it tottered, and fell. The postilion again began to use his whip; but we interposed; I could not help asking him if he had any bowels? He stared at me, and said, fine talking, it is only rust, it must be beat out of him. Ah! my dear friend, of what use is a good education? this man seemed so thoughtless, as not even to know he was cruel: my anger was turned into compassion. We waited a short time, but we soon found the horses could not draw us to the next stage. There was no remedy or alternative, we must walk till we could meet with a house, or remain in the chaise till Harry could bring another. Dr. Bartlett determined to walk, though it was a very wet evening, and to leave Harry not only to take care of the luggage, but to prevent the postilion from exercising wanton cruelty on the fallen beast. We walked in the rain, along a very bad road; but I should not have minded these trifling inconveniences, if Dr. Bartlett had not been exposed to them—it was far better than hearing the lashes resound on the horse’s side; and seeing the look of patient anguish, which the poor animal cast on the driver—indeed I cannot forget it.