The frequent change of coachmen works no change or variety inthe coachman’S character．He iS always dirty，sullen，and taciturn．If he be capable of smartness of any kind，moral or physical，he has a faculty of concealing it which i s truly marvelous。He never speaks to you as you sit beside him on the box，and if you speak tO him，he answers(if at a11)in monosyllables．He points out nothing on the road，and seldom looks at anything，being，tO all appearance，thoroughly weary of it and of existence generally．As to doing the honours of his coach，his business，as I have said，is with the horses．The coach follows because it is attached to them and goes on wheels；not because you are in it．Sometimes，towards the end of a long stage，he suddenly breaks out into a discordant fragment of an election song，but his face never sings along with him：it is only his voice，andnotoftenthat．
He always chews and always spits，and never encumbers himself with a pocket—handkerchief．The consequences tO the box passenger，especially when the wind blows towards him，are not agreeable．
Whenever the coach stops，and you can hear the voices of the inside passengers；or whenever any bystander addresses them，or any one among them；or they address each other；you will hear one phrase repeated over and over and over again to the most extraordinary extent．It is an ordinary and unpromising phrase enough，being neither more nor less than“Yes，sir；but it is adapted to every variety ofcircumstance．and fills up every pause in the conversation．Thus：
The time is one O’clock at noon．The scene，a place where we are to stay and dine，on this journey．The coach drives up to the door of an inn．The day is warm，and there are several idlers lingering about the tavern，and waiting for the public dinner．Among them is a stout gentleman in a brown hat，swinging himself to and fro in a rocking—chair on the pavement．