A promised weapon can become a burden its carrier cannot use.

Evidence

I never told you that I once gave an unwary promise that I would not travel alone in Colorado unarmed, and that in consequence I left Estes Park with a Sharp’s revolver loaded with ball cartridge in my pocket, which has been the plague of my life. Its bright ominous barrel peeped out in quiet Denver shops, children pulled it out to play with, or when my riding dress hung up with it in the pocket, pulled the whole from the peg to the floor; and I cannot conceive of any circumstances in which I could feel it right to make any use of it, or in which it could do me any possible good. — Isabella L. Bird, A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains, 196

Categorization

• SHARE: The absurdity of a Victorian lady traveler saddled with a revolver that only ever falls off pegs with her riding dress is a niche tidbit for a correspondent into nineteenth-century travel writing or Western history.
• APHORISMS: A promise made in fear can become a lifelong plague — worth returning to as a warning about the commitments we make under pressure.