I have
reason to say so.--The finest sight in the metropolis is that of the
Mail-Coaches setting off from Piccadilly. The horses paw the ground, and
are impatient to be gone, as if conscious of the precious burden they
convey. There is a peculiar secresy and despatch, significant and full
of meaning, in all the proceedings concerning them. Even the outside
passengers have an erect and supercilious air, as if proof against the
accidents of the journey. In fact, it seems indifferent whether they are
to encounter the summer's heat or winter's cold, since they are borne
through the air in a winged chariot. The Mail-Carts drive up; the
transfer of packages is made; and, at a signal given, they start off,
bearing the irrevocable scrolls that give wings to thought, and that
bind or sever hearts for ever. How we hate the Putney and Brentford
stages that draw up in a line after they are gone! Some persons think
the sublimest object in nature is a ship launched on the bosom of the
ocean; but give me, for my private satisfaction, the Mail-Coaches that
pour down Piccadilly of an evening, tear up the pavement, and devour
the way before them to the Land's End!
In Cowper's time, Mail-Coaches were hardly set up; but he has
beautifully described the coming in of the Post-Boy:--
"Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;--
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
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