Another variety of the coach was the _barouche_, which, though, I suppose, not technically a coach at all, if one accepts Thrupp’s definition—for it was roofless—is generally classed with this kind of vehicle. There had been, I believe, a barouche in England so early as 1767, but it was not popular until a much later date. The barouche was simply a coach-body without its upper portion—an open carriage, that is to say, with high driving seat, and a hood fixed to the back if required—not indeed unlike an opened landau to look at. It was purely a town carriage. Its driving seat, similar to that in a landau, was built to hold both coachman and footman, “the hinder part being unprovided with a standard, which would,” says Bridges Adams, “be useless, as when the head is down there is little convenience for the servant’s holders, and he would moreover be unpleasantly placed, looking down on the sitters within, and listening to all the conversation,” a matter of course which he would have been only too pleased to do. The barouche would hold four or six persons, and in fine weather was considered to be “the most delightful of all carriages.” There was, too, a certain amount of state about it, and several noble families continued to drive in them long after most other people had given them up. When Ackermann, the publisher, invented his patent movable axles about 1816, the barouche was one of the carriages to which these axles were fitted. A print of this carriage is shown in the accompanying illustration. A _barouchet_, corresponding to the landaulet, was also built at this time, but was never popular. Bridges Adams speaks of it as a graceless carriage for one horse.
The town chariot, or _coupé_, as it was called in France, and indeed, at a later date in England, was being built lower than before, but otherwise remained unaltered. The high driving seat was still removed to transform the carriage into a post-chaise. Amusing instructions for buying a chariot are given by John Jervis, an old coachman, in the second volume of the _Horse and Carriage Oracle_, 1828. “The form of Carriages,” he opines, “is as absurdly at the Mercy of Fashion, as the Cut of a Coat is—however, if the Reader is willing to let the Builder please himself with the form of the Exterior, he will not be quite so polite as to submit the construction of the Interior entirely to the caprice of his Coachmaker.” Don’t, he advises, have too much stuffing inside: “_The present fashion of Stuffing_ is preposterous, it reduces a Large Body to the size of a small One: however,” he adds obligingly, “if you like to ride about for the benefit of public inspection, as your friends, my _Lady Look-out_, the _Widow Will-be-seen_—and _Sir Simon Stare_, do, pray, study Geoffrey Gambado on the Art of sitting politely in Carriages, with the most becoming attitudes, &c., and choose wide Door Lights and full Squabbing;—if you wish to go about peaceably and quietly, like _Sir Solomon Snug_, and are contented with seeing without being seen, adopt the contracted Lights, and common Stuffing, which, among others, have this great advantage that when you sit back, you may have the side Window down, and a thorough Air passing through the Carriage, without it blowing directly in upon you: this, to Invalids who easily catch Cold, is very important.” The lining of the chariot, he recommends, should be “green, with Lace to correspond, and the Green _silk Sun Shades_ of the same Colour,” green being pleasant to the eye. Venetian blinds, he says, are very nice in warm weather, and should be painted verdigris green on the inside and on the outside a colour which matches with that of the coach-body. Further instructions follow. You are advised never to permit officious strangers to shut your carriage door—a piece of sound advice which might well be followed to-day when seedy people expect a small tip for having watched you get into a cab—and if your coachman sees any one about to do so, he is to say “loudly and imperatively, ‘_Don’t meddle with the Door!_’”