r thirteen years, winter and summer, this coachman had driven this
monotonous, uninteresting route, with always the same sandy hills,
scrubby firs, occasional cabins, in sight. What a time to nurse his
thought and feed on his heart! How deliberately he can turn things over
in his brain! What a system of philosophy he might evolve out of his
consciousness! One would think so. But, in fact, the stagebox is no
place for thinking. To handle twelve horses every day, to keep each to
its proper work, stimulating the lazy and restraining the free, humoring
each disposition, so that the greatest amount of work shall be obtained
with the least friction, making each trip on time, and so as to leave
each horse in as good condition at the close as at the start, taking
advantage of the road, refreshing the team by an occasional spurt of
speed,--all these things require constant attention; and if the driver
was composing an epic, the coach might go into the ditch, or, if no
accident happened, the horses would be worn out in a month, except for
the driver's care.

I conclude that the most delicate and important occupation in life is
stage-driving. It would be easier to "run" the Treasury Department
of the United States than a four-in-hand. I have a sense of the
unimportance of everything else in comparison with this business in
hand. And I think the driver shares that feeling. He is the autocrat of
the situation. He is lord of all the humble passengers, and they feel
their inferiority. They may have knowledge and skill in some things, but
they are of no use here. At all the stables the driver is king; all the
people on the route are deferential to him; they are happy if he will
crack a joke with them, and take it as a favor if he gives them better
than they send. And it is his joke that always raises the laugh,
regardless of its quality.

We carry the royal mail, and as we go along drop little sealed canvas
bags at way offices. The bags would not hold more than three pints of
meal, and I can see that there is nothing in them. Yet somebody along
here must be expecting a letter, or they would not keep up the mail
facilities. At French River we change horses. There is a mill here, and
there are half a dozen houses, and a cranky bridge, which the driver
thinks will not tumble down this trip. The settlement may have seen
better days, and will probably see worse.

I preferred to cross the long, shaky wooden bridge on foot, leaving the
ins