With all the reckless simplicity of boyhood, I maintain that travelling by coach is by no means the least of our sublunary pleasures. Man is a _wheelable_ animal as well as walking one. Winter is the time for a nice inside jaunt. What divine evaporations from the coachman's muzzle! What a joyous creak in the down-flying steps!--and, oh! that comfortable alertness with which we deposit ourselves in the padded corner, and fold our coatflaps over our knees, glance at the frosty steam of the window; and then, quite _a la Tityre_, repose our recumbent bodies at our ease! Such moments as these are snatches of indefinable bliss. It would appear probable, that a coach was a very inconvenient place for a doze; the attendant bustle, the whip-smacks, bickering wheels, and untranquillizing jolts-- "Like angels' visits, few and far between,"-- are not calculated for sleepiness. Notwithstanding these correlative interruptions, a doze in the coach is by no means uncommon, even in the daytime. Let us examine this a little more intellectually. Suppose a man is returning to his friends, with a mind composed, and "all his business settled." (By-the-by, how vastly comprehensive this speech is!) Suppose he has entered the coach about four in the afternoon, and, by rare luck, finds he is, for the present, the only inside passenger. Such a man, I say, will be likely to doze before twenty miles have run under the coach-wheels--speaking _Hibernice_. For the last half-hour, he will be thinking of himself--how many commissions he has performed--how many he has left undone--and how many he intends to do. The next, he will probably give to his home attractions--his anxious wife, sat musingly round the tea-table--his favourite son George (so like his father)--and all the nine hundred and ninety-nine pretty nothings we hear of, after a brief absence. These will send his heart a long way from the coach, and therefore keep him in the full enjoyment of wakefulness. But this train of delectable musing is by no means exhaustless. The roll of the wheels gradually becomes naturalized to the ear, and the body moves in sympathy with the coach; the road gets very monotonously barren; the lounge in the corner--how suitable then to this solitary languor! Lulled here, the traveller for awhile admires the leathern trappings of the coach, hums a tune perhaps, and affects a dubious whistle. Meantime the operations of _doziness_ have been gently applying themselves. His eye is sated with the road and the coach; his hands become stationary on his lap; his feet supinely rested on the opposite seat; his head instinctively motions to the corner--and he dozes! A doze in the coach is the flower of dozes, when you are alone. There, you may twist your person into any shape you please, without the fear of discomposing a silken dress, or a nursemaid's petticoats. No boisterous arguments from snuff-taking sexagenarians: all is placid