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