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.
True to his charge, the close packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And having dropped the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch!
Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes and the fall of stocks.
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,