Chapter 2

I recollect another singular circumstance occasioned by a fog. There were eight Mails that passed through Hounslow. The Bristol, Bath, Gloucester and Stroud, took the right-hand road from Hounslow; the Exeter, Yeovil, Poole, and "Quicksilver," Devonport (which was the one I was driving), went the straight road towards Staines. We always saluted each other when passing, with "Good night, Bill," "Dick," or "Harry," as the case might be. I was once passing a Mail, mine being the faster, and gave my wonted salute. A coachman named Downs was driving the Stroud Mail; he instantly recognised my voice, and said, "Charlie, what are you doing on my road?" It was he, however, who had made the mistake; he had taken the Staines, instead of the Slough, road out of Hounslow. We both pulled up immediately; he had to turn round and go back, which was a feat attended with much difficulty in such a fog. Had it not been for our usual salute, he would not have discovered his mistake before arriving at Staines. This mishap was about as bad as getting into a wrong train. I merely mention the circumstance to show that it was no joke driving a night Mail in those days. November was the month we dreaded most, the fogs were generally so bad. A singular event happened with the Bath Mail that ran between Bath and Devonport. Its time for arriving at Devonport was eleven o'clock at night. One eventful evening, they had set down all their outside passengers except a Mrs. Cox, who kept a fish-stall in Devonport Market. She was an immense woman, weighing about twenty stone. At Yealmpton, where the coachman and guard usually had their last drain before arriving at their destination, being a cold night, they kindly sent Mrs. Cox a drop of something warm. The servant-girl who brought out the glass, not being able to reach the lady, the ostler very imprudently left the horses' heads to do the polite. The animals hearing some one getting on the coach, doubtless concluded that it was the coachman; at the same time finding themselves free, and being, probably, anxious to get home, started off at their usual pace, and performed the seven miles in safety, passing over the Laira Bridge and through the toll-bar, keeping clear of everything on the road. Mrs. Cox meanwhile sat on the coach, with her arms extended in the attitude of a spread-eagle, and vainly trying to attract the attention of those she met or passed on the road. She very prudently, however, abstained from screaming, as she thought she might otherwise have alarmed the horses. They, indeed, only trotted at their ordinary speed, and came to a halt of their own accord at the door of the "King's Arms" Hotel, Plymouth, where they were in the habit of stopping to discharge some of the freight of the coach. The boots and ostler came running out to attend to their accustomed duties, but, to their astonishment, beheld no one but the affrighted Mrs. Cox on the coach and two passengers inside, who were happily, wholly unconscious of the danger to which they had been exposed! The coachman and guard soon arrived in a post-chaise. Poor Mrs. Cox drank many quarterns of gin to steady her nerves before she felt able to continue her journey to Devonport, where she carried on a prosperous trade for many years. Many people patronised her, on purpose to hear her narrate the great event of her life. I often used to chaff her, and hear her repeat the history of her memorable adventure.

* * * * *

I will add a little anecdote of Bob Pointer, who was on the Oxford road. Giving his ideas on coaching to a young gentleman who was on the box with him, on his way to college, he said:--"Soldiers and sailors may soon learn to fight; lawyers and parsons go to college, where they are crammed with all sorts of nonsense that all the Nobs have read and wrote since Adam--of course, very good if they like it--but to be a _coachman, sir_, you must go into the stable almost before you can run alone, and learn the nature of horses and the difference between corn and chaff. Well can I remember, the first morning I went out with four horses; I never slept a wink all night. I got a little flurried coming out of the yard, and looking round on the envious chaps who were watching me--it was as bad as getting married--at least, I should think so, never having been in that predicament myself. I have escaped that dilemma, for," he concluded, "when a man is always going backwards and forwards between two points, what is the use of a wife, a coachman could never be much more than half married. Now, if the law--in the case of coachmen--allowed two wives, that would be quite another story, because he could then have the tea-things set out at both ends of his journey. Driving, sir, is very like life, it's all so smooth when you start with the best team, so well-behaved and handsome; but get on a bit, and you will find you have some hills to get up and down, with all sorts of horses, as they used to give us over the middle ground. Another thing, sir, never let your horses know you are driving them, or, like women, they may get restive. Don't pull and haul, and stick your elbows a-kimbo; keep your hands as though you were playing the piano; let every horse be at work, and don't get flurried; handle their mouths lightly; do all this, and you might even drive four young ladies without ever ruffling their feathers or their tempers."

My readers will not, perhaps, deem it altogether an inappropriate conclusion to this very humble little treatise, if I annex for their amusement, if not for their edification, "The last Dying Speech of the Coachmen from Beambridge," and some two or three other mementoes of a period and of an institution which have both, alas! long since passed away--and for ever.

THE LAST DYING SPEECH OF THE COACHMEN FROM BEAM BRIDGE.

The _days_, nay, the very _nights_ of those who have so long "_reined_" supreme over the "Nonpareils" and the "Brilliants," the "Telegraphs" and the "Stars," the "Magnets" and the "Emeralds," are nearly at an end, and the final way-bill of the total "Eclipse" is made up. It is positively their last appearance on this stage.

In a few weeks they will be unceremoniously pushed from their boxes by an inanimate thing of vapour and flywheels--by a meddling fellow in a clean white jacket and a face not ditto to match, who, mounted on the engine platform, has for some weeks been flourishing a red hot poker over their heads, in triumph at their discomfiture and downfall; and the turnpike road, shorn of its glories, is left desolate and lone. No more shall the merry rattle of the wheels, as the frisky four-in-hand careers in the morning mist, summon the village beauty from her toilet to the window-pane to catch a passing nod of gallantry; no more shall they loiter by the way to trifle with the pretty coquette in the bar, or light up another kind of flame for the fragrant Havannah fished from amongst the miscellaneous deposits in the depths of the box-coat pockets. True, the race were always a little fond of _raillery_, and therefore they die by what they love--we speak of course of professional demise--but no doubt they "hold it hard," after having so often "pulled up" to be thus pulled down from their "high eminences," and compelled to sink into mere landlords of hotels, farmers, or private gentlemen. Yet so it is. They are "regularly booked." Their "places are taken" by one who shows no disposition to make room for them; even their coaches are already beginning to crumble into things that have been; and their bodies (we mean their coach bodies) are being seized upon by rural loving folks, for the vulgar purpose of summer-houses. But a few days and they will all vanish--

"And like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a _trace_ behind."

No, not even a buckle, or an inch of whipcord; and if, some years hence a petrified whipple tree, or the skeleton of a coachman, should be turned up, they will be hung up side by side with rusty armour and the geological gleanings of our antediluvian ancestors.

We cannot part with our civil, obliging, gentlemanly friends of the road without a feeling of regret, and an expression of gratitude for the benefits they have done us. It was pleasant, after a warm breakfast, to remove our heels from the hob, and ensconce oneself by the side of our modern whip--to establish a partnership in his cosy leathern apron--to see him handling his four spirited bays as though his reins were velvet--and having, with a few familiar words and a friendly cigar, drawn the cork from the bottle of his varied information, to learn, as we slapped along at ten miles an hour, whose park it was, stretching away to the left, to listen to his little anecdotes of horse and flesh, and his elucidation of the points of the last Derby. "Peace to the _manes_ and to the names" of our honest coachmen, one and all of them, and of their horses too--we speak of their whippish names, for in the _body_ we hope they may long tarry, and flourish to _boot_, in other departments of the living.

AN OLD FRIEND AND A NEW FACE.

_To the Editor of the_ "_Exeter and Plymouth Gazette_."

SIR,

You will oblige me by inserting the following in your paper, which may be amusing to some of your readers:--

It is a fact well known that when the subscription coaches started, in the year 1812, William Hanning, Esq., a magistrate of the county of Somerset, residing near Ilminster, was a strenuous advocate for their support, and it was in great measure owing to his exertions that they were established. This gentleman, from some motive or other, or perhaps from his known fondness for new speculations, is now the avowed supporter of a new coach, called, above all other names, the "Defiance," and it is professedly meant as an opposition to the subscription coaches. It started from Exeter for the first time on Sunday, April 13th, 1823. One really would have supposed that under such patronage a name better calculated to keep the peace of his Majesty's liege subjects, and to preserve harmony and good-will among men, would have been adopted for this coach, and that some other day might have been selected for its first appearance. However, the "Defiance" started on the Sunday afternoon, amidst the shouts and imprecations of guards, coachmen, and ostlers, contending one against the other, and having one ill-looking outside passenger, whose name was _Revenge_.

An interesting occurrence took place at Ilminster. The new "Defiance" was expected to arrive there, on its way from town, between nine and ten on the Sunday morning, and it was determined to honour it with ringing the church bells. The heroes of the belfry were all assembled, every man at his rope's end, "their souls on fire, and eager for the fray;" the Squire was stationed about a mile from Ilminster, and seeing the coach, as he thought, coming at a distance, he galloped through the street in triumph, gave the signal, and off went the merry peal. Every eye was soon directed to this new and delightful object, when, guess the consternation that prevailed upon seeing, instead of the _new_ "Defiance," the poor _old_ Subscription trotting nimbly up to the George Inn door, and Tom Goodman, the guard, playing on the key-bugle, with his usual excellence, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot?" The scene is more easily imagined than described; it would have been a fine subject for Hogarth. The bells were now ordered to cease; the Squire walked off and was seen no more. Honest Tom was not accustomed to this kind of reception; he had enlivened the town with his merry notes a thousand times, but now every one looked on him with disdain, as if they did not know him. He could scarcely suppress his feelings; but after a few minutes' reflection he mounted his seat again, and, casting a good-tempered look to all around him, went off, playing a tune which the occurrence and the sublimity of the day seemed to dictate to him--"Through all the changing scenes of life." Some of the good people of Ilminster who were going to church admired Tom's behaviour, and said it had a very good effect. Tom arrived safe with his coach at Exeter about one o'clock, having started from London one hour and a half after the "Defiance," and performed the journey in nineteen hours and a half. The "Defiance" arrived about an hour after the Subscription; but the proprietors of the latter did not approve of this system, and gave Tom a reprimand, directing him in future to keep on his regular steady pace,[21-*] and not to notice the other coach, which he promised to attend to, but said he only wished to show them, on their first journey, the way along. This, under all the circumstances, was admitted as an excuse. Tom went away much pleased with the adventures of his journey, and said he should never meet the Squire again without playing on his bugle "Hark to the merry Christ Church bells."

I beg leave to remain, Mr. Editor, Your obliged Servant, A FRIEND TO THE SUBSCRIPTION COACHES.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 21-*: The regular time is to perform the journey in twenty-two hours--to leave London at six in the evening, and arrive in Exeter at four the following afternoon.]

"ALL THE WORLD IS A STAGE COACH: IT HAS ITS INSIDES AND OUTSIDES, AND COACHMEN IN THEIR TIME SEE MUCH FUN."--_Old Play._

_Tune--"The Huntsman Winds his Horn."_

Some people delight in the sports of the turf Whilst others love only the chace, But to me, the delight above all others is A good Coach that can go the pace. There are some, too, for whom the sea has its charms And who'll sing of it night and morn, But give me a Coach with its rattling bars And a Guard who can blow his horn. But give me a Coach, &c.

When the Coach comes round to the office door, What a crowd to see it start, And the thoughts of the drive, cheer up many who leave Their friends with an aching heart. The prads are so anxiously tossing their heads, And a nosegay does each one adorn, When the Dragsman jumps up, crying out "sit fast," While the shooter blows his horn. When the Dragsman jumps up, &c.

Now merrily rolls the Coach along, Like a bird she seems to fly, As the girls all look out from the roadside Inns, For a wink from the Dragsman's eye, How they long for a ride with the man who's the pride Of each village through which he is borne, On that Coach which he tools with so skilful a hand, While the Guard plays a tune on his horn. On that Coach, &c.

How the girls all dote on the sight of the Coach, And the Dragsman's curly locks, As he rattles along with eleven and four, And a petticoat on the box. That box is his home, his teams are his pride, And he ne'er feels downcast or forlorn, When he lists to the musical sound of the bars, And the tune from the shooter's horn. When he lists, &c.

I have sung of the joys one feels on a Coach, And the beauty there is in a team, So let us all hope they may ne'er be destroyed By the rascally railroads and steam. There are still some good friends who'll stick by the old trade, And who truly their absence would mourn, "So here's a health to the Dragsman, success to the bars, And the Guard who blows his horn." So here's a health, &c.

_Tune--"The Queen, God bless her."_

1.

See that splendid fast Coach, well-named "TALLY HO," With prads that can come the long trot; Do their twelve miles an hour--like flashes they go, Spinning smoothly along as a top.

2.

With _Ward_ and _John Hex_, or _Hardcastle_ and _Judd_, How devoted they are to the fair; In their vests there you find the red rose in the bud, Perfuming the Summer soft air. Tally Ho, &c., &c.

3.

Four within and twelve out, see they usually start, And the horn sounding right merrily; Good humour and glee do these gay lads impart, And their management's right to a T.

4.

But, how shall we grieve, when the fam'd "Tally Ho," Shares the fate of those now long gone by? Yet--we'll toast its fond mem'ry wherever we go, For the sound of its name shall ne'er die. Tally Ho, &c., &c.

Printed by Jas. Wade, 18, Tavistock-street, Covent-garden.