ABSTRACT
The Wick Mail then, my dear fellow, is the last Mail-Coach within Great Britain, whence there comes a romantic interest that few could understand. 1 To me, on whose imagination positively nothing took so strong a hold as the Dick Tnrpins and Claude Duvals of last Century, a Mail was an object of religious awe. I pictured the long, dark highways, the guard's blunderbuss, the passengers with three cornered hats above a mummery of great coat and cravat; and the sudden "Stand and deliver!,"—the stop, the glimmer of the coach lamp upon the horseman—Ah! We shall never get back to Wick. 2
