I perceive that you have rubbed the bridge of your nose several times--that you have tried to swell forth your eyes with a full round stare at the parson; but your stoicism "profiteth nothing." The sermon is irreligiously long; and you are nodding--in a doze! Whether there be much pleasure in a church doze, I am not presuming enough to determine. For myself, I have found nothing more tantalizing than the endeavour to restrain from an occasioned doze during church time. After a certain period, I have perceived the parson diminishing, like a phantasmagoric image--all the ladies' black bonnets sinking away, like a cluster of clouds--and (shame on the confession!) I have performed head worship to the front of my seat, instead of keeping an immovable post-like position, before his reverence. However, a church doze is seldom admired by the wakeful. Should an embryo snore escape from one's nose (and this is possible,) some old grandam, or an upright piece of masculine sanctity, is sure to rouse you; the former will either _hem_ you into awakening shame, or drop her prayer-book on the floor; the latter will most likely thump the same with the imperative tip of his boot. How horridly stupid one seems after being aroused! The woman eyes you with the most piquant, self-justifying sneer possible; while all her little IMMACULATES, if she have any, look at you like so many hissing young turkey cocks; and as for the man--bless his holiness!--he'd frown you down to Hades at once. "My heart leaps up" when I behold a stage coach--that snug, panel painted, comfortable wheel-whirling "thing of life." O ye days of juvenilian sensibilities--ye eye-feeding, heart-rising scenes of remembered felicity!--how glorious was the coach at the school door! The whip--Ajax _Mastigoferos_ never had such a powerful one as the modern Jehu! The spokes of the wheels--they were handled with admiring fingers! That Jupiter-like throne, the coach-box--who would not have risked his neck to have been seated on it? When all was "right," how eloquent the lip-music of coachee! how fine the introductory frisks of the horses' tails, and the arching plunge of the fore-foot--no rainbow-curve ever was so beauteous! "Oh, happy days! who would not be a boy again?" But away with my puerilities. I intend the reader to take a doze in that comfortable repository for the person--the inside of a coach.