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Chapter 1 ( Go call a coach, and let a coach be call'd And let the man who calleth be the caller; And in his calling let him nothing call, But Coach! Coach! Coach! O for a coach, ye gods! Chrononhotonthologos.) It was early on a fine summer's day, near the end of the eighteenth century, when a young man, of genteel appearance journeying towards the north-east of Scotland, provided himself with a ticket in one of those public carriages which travel between Edinburgh and the Queensferry, at which place, as the name implies, and is is well known to all my northern readers, there is a passage-boat for crossing the Frith of Forth. The coach was calculated to carry six regular passengers, besides such interlopers as the coachman could pick up by the way, and intrude upon those who were legally in possession. The tickets, which conferred right to a seat in this vehicle of little ease, were dispensed by a sharp-looking old dame, with a pair of spectacles on a very thin nose, who inhabited a "l . . .
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