Towards the evening of the second day's journey, the driver of Lord Colambre's hackney chaise stopped, and jumping off the wooden bar, on which he had been seated, exclaimed-- 'We're come to the bad step, now.

The bad road's beginning upon us, please your honour.' 'Bad road! that is very uncommon in this country.

I never saw such fine roads as you have in Ireland.' 'That's true; and God bless your honour, that's sensible of that same, for it's not what all the foreign quality I drive have the manners to notice.

God bless your honour! I heard you're a Welshman, but whether or no, I am sure you are a gentleman, anyway, Welsh or other.' Notwithstanding the shabby greatcoat, the shrewd postillion perceived, by our hero's language, that he was a gentleman.

After much dragging at the horses' heads, and pushing and lifting, the carriage was got over what the postillion said was the worst part of THE BAD STEP; but as the road 'was not yet to say good,' he continued walking beside the carriage.
'It's only bad just hereabouts, and that by accident,' said he, 'on account of there being no jantleman resident in it, nor near; but only a bit of an under-agent, a great little rogue, who gets his own turn out of the roads, and of everything else in life.