Mr Croftangry, inter alia, Revisits Glentanner.
Then sing of stage-coaches,
And fear no reproaches
For riding in one;
But daily be jogging,
Whilst, whistling and flogging,
Whilst, whistling and flogging,
The coachman drives on.
Farquhar.
Disguised in a grey surtout which had seen service,
a white castor on my head, and a stout Indian
cane in my hand, the next week saw me on the
top of a mail-coach driving to the westward.
I like mail-coaches, and I hate them. I like
them for my convenience, but I detest them for
setting the whole world a-gadding, instead of sitting
quietly still minding their own business, and
preserving the stamp of originality of character
which nature or education may have impressed on
them. Off they go, jingling against each other in
the rattling vehicle till they have no more variety
of stamp in them than so many smooth shillings---
the same even in their Welsh wigs and great coats,
each without more individuality than belongs to a
partner of the company, as the waiter calls them,
of the North coach.
Worthy Mr Piper, best of contractors who ever
furnished four frampal jades for public use, I bless
you when I set out on a journey myself; the neat
coaches under your contract render the intercourse,
from Johnnie Groat's House to Ladykirk and
Cornhill Bridge, safe, pleasant, and cheap.
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