t out the other two sleepy
wretches that had been waiting like myself for places, and we at length
persuaded the heroic champion to order a postchaise instead of a horse,
into which we crammed ourselves all four, with a whole mountain of
leather bags that clung about our legs like the entrails of a fat cow
all the rest of the journey. At Kinross, as the morning was very fine,
we prevailed with the guard to go on the outside to dry himself, and got
on to the ferry about eleven, after encountering various perils and
vexations, in the loss of horse-shoes and wheel-pins, and in a great gap
in the road, over which we had to lead the horses, and haul the carriage
separately. At this place we supplicated our agitator for leave to eat a
little breakfast; but he would not stop an instant, and we were obliged
to snatch up a roll or two apiece and gnaw the dry crusts during our
passage to keep soul and body together. We got in soon after one, and I
have spent my time in eating, drinking, sleeping, and other recreations,
down to the present hour."

On going north from Edinburgh, on the same tour apparently, Jeffrey had
previous experience of the difficulties of travel, as described in a
letter from Montrose, date 26th August 1799.

"We stopped," says he, "for two days at Perth, hoping for places in the
mail, and then set forward on foot in despair. We have trudged it now
for fifty miles, and came here this morning very weary, sweaty, and
filthy. Our baggage, which was to have left Perth the same day that we
did, has not yet made its appearance, and we have received the
comfortable information that it is often a week before there is room in
the mail to bring such a parcel forward."

Writing from Kendal, in 1841, Jeffrey refers to a journey he made fifty
years before--that is, about 1791--when he slept a night in the town.
His description of the circumstances is as follows:--

"And an admirable dinner we have had in the Ancient King's Arms, with
great oaken staircases, uneven floors, and very thin oak panels,
plaster-filled outer walls, but capital new furniture, and the brightest
glass, linen, spoons, and china you ever saw. It is the same house in
which I once slept about fifty years ago, with the whole company of an
ancient stage-coach, which bedded its passengers on the way from
Edinburgh to London, and called them up by the waiter at six o'clock in
the morning to go five slow stages, and then have an hour to breakfast
and wa