"Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot,
Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot."
_Coaching Song by R. E. E. Warburton, Esq._
"NOW, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho coach for Leicester
'll be round in half-an-hour, and don't wait for nobody." So spake the
Boots of the Peacock Inn, Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the
morning of a day in the early part of November, 183-, giving Tom at the
same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a candle and
carrying off his shoes to clean.
Tom and his father had arrived in town from Berkshire, the day before,
and finding, on inquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the
city did not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at
Dunchurch, a village three miles distant on the main road--where said
passengers had to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the
evening, or to take a post-chaise--had resolved that Tom should travel
down by the Tally-ho, which diverged from the main road and passed
through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had
driven out to the Peacock to be on the road.
Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at
the Belle Sauvage, where they had been put down by the Star, just at
dusk, that he might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious,
gas-lit streets, which, with their glare and hum and moving crowds;
excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that
the Peacock arrangement would get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the
day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all other
plans melted away; his one absorbing aim being to become a public
school-boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to
him of the most alarming importance.
Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the
evening, and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order at the
bar, of steaks and oyster sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen his
father seated cozily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the
paper in his hand--Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all
the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternised with the boots
and ostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip-top
goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages and so punctual that all
the road set their clocks by her.
Then being summoned to supper he had regaled himself in one of the
bright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room on the beef-steak and
unlimited oyster-sauce and brown stout (tasted then for the first
time--a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at
first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing on
him from over his glass of steaming brandy and water, and then begun
nodding from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the lecture.
Till the Squire observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was
nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the
little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom
having stipulated in the morning before starting, that kissing should
now cease between them,) and a few parting words.
"And now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember you are going, at
your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a
young bear with all your troubles before you--earlier than we should
have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll
see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul
bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind
heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother
and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to
see you."
The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather chokey, and he would
have liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the
recent stipulation.
As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and
said, "I'll try, father."
"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?"
"Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.
"And your keys?" said the Squire.
"All right," said Tom, diving into the other pocket.
"Well then, good night. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you, and
be up to see you off."
Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he
was roused in a clean little attic by that buxom person calling him a
little darling, and kissing him as she left the room, which indignity he
was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's
last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and
prayed, that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on
the dear folk at home.
Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they
had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he
had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice,
something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of
assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out his
flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an hour
till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which
he silently puffed; to the no small wonder of Coachee, who was an old
friend, and an institution on the Bath road; and who always expected a
talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the whole
county when he carried the Squire.
To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I
won't tell him to read his Bible and love and serve God; if he don't do
that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go
into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never
do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't
understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him
to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good
scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that--at any rate, not
for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the
digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well,
partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave,
helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian,
that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case
framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to
his purpose.
For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the
summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At
ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,
carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he
found his father nursing a bright fire and a cup of hot coffee and a
hard biscuit on the table.
"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this; there's
nothing like starting warm, old fellow."
Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked
himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through; a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight, after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful,
winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the
breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks in and says, "Tally-ho,
sir;" and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters
and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.
"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind,
and slapping himself across the chest.
"Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game,
Rugby," answers ostler.
"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot and
shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove
the portmanteau up a-top--I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump
up behind."
"Good-bye, father,--my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes
Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while
with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the
ostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away
goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time
they pulled up; Ostler, Boots, and the Squire stand looking after them
under the Peacock lamp.
"Sharp work!" says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach
being well out of sight and hearing.
Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long
as he can see it, and then the guard having disposed of his luggage
comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations
for facing the three hours before dawn; no joke for those who minded
cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late majesty.
I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer
fellows than we used to be. At any rate, you're much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other
dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy,
dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a
dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight
Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then
you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a
bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its
pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of
silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman,--of standing out against
something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling
harness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the
leaders' ears, into the darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's
horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the ostler at the next change; and
the looking forward to daylight--and last, but not least, the delight of
returning sensation in your toes.
Then the break of dawn and the sunrise; where can they be ever seen in
perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music
to see them in their glory; not the music of singing-men and
singing-women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head
the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.
The Tally-ho is past St. Alban's, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though
half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach,
is silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an
oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he has
gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and
promises, and of his mother and sister, and his father's last words; and
has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave
Brown as he is, though a young one.
Then he has been forward into the mysterious boy-future, speculating as
to what sort of a place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up
all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in
the holidays. He is chock full of hope and life, notwithstanding the
cold, and kicks his heels against the back board, and would like to
sing, only he doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take
it.
And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach
pulls up at a little road-side inn with huge stables behind. There is a
bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the bar-window, and the
door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and
throws it to the ostler; the steam of the horses rises straight up into
the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two
minutes before his time; he rolls down from the box and into the inn.
The guard rolls off behind. "Now, sir," says he to Tom, "you just jump
down, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the cold out."
Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the
wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels;
so the guard picks him off the coach-top, and sets him on his legs, and
they stump off into the bar, and join the coachman and the other outside
passengers.
Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early purl
as they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging business
remarks. The purl warms the cockles of Tom's heart, and makes him cough.
"Rare tackle, that, sir, of a cold morning," says the coachman, smiling.
"Time's up." They are out again and up; coachee the last, gathering the
reins into his hands and talking to Jem the ostler about the mare's
shoulder, and then swinging himself up on to the box--the horses dashing
off in a canter before he falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes
the horn, and away they are again, five-and-thirty miles on their road
(nearly half way to Rugby, thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at
the end of the stage.
And now they begin to see, and the early life of the country-side comes
out; a market cart or two, men in smock-frocks going to their work pipe
in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun
gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds
jogging along to a distant meet, at the heels of the huntsman's hack,
whose face is about the colour of the tails of his old pink, as he
exchanges greetings with coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a
lodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case
and carpet-bag. An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather up
their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the
elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind
if necessary. And here comes breakfast.
"Twenty minutes here, gentlemen," says the coachman as they pull up at
half-past seven at the inn door.
Have we not endured nobly this morning, and is not this a worthy reward
for much endurance? There is the low dark wainscoted room hung with
sporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing up in it
belonging to bagmen who are still snug in bed) by the door; the blazing
fire, with the quaint old glass over the mantelpiece, in which is stuck
a large card with the list of the meets for the week of the county
hounds. The table covered with the whitest of cloths and of china, and
bearing a pigeon-pie, ham, round of cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth
ox, and the great loaf of household bread on a wooden trencher. And here
comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot viands;
kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs, buttered
toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table can never
hold it all; the cold meats are removed to the sideboard, they were only
put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, gentlemen
all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are famous.
Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and are
very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
"Coffee please," says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney;
coffee is a treat to him, tea is not.
Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold-beef man. He
also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,
which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and
orders a ditto for himself.
Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little
skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying
head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out
before the inn door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and
in a highly-finished manner by the ostlers, as if they enjoyed the not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his way-bill, and puffing a fat
cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,
where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful
cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of
which would knock any one else out of time.
The pinks stand about the inn door lighting cigars and waiting to see us
start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place on which
the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected
credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.
"Now, sir, please," says the coachman; all the rest of the passengers
are up; the guard is locking the hind boot.
"A good run to you!" says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the
coachman's side in no time.
"Let 'em go, Dick!" The ostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from
their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the
High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several
worthy burgesses shaving thereat; while all the shop-boys who are
cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and
look pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate
morning's amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the
hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight.
The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs and
loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the
guard's between the puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is getting
tired of not talking; he is too full of his destination to talk about
anything else; and so asks the guard if he knows Rugby.
"Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes afore twelve
down--ten o'clock up."
"What sort of a place is it, please?" says Tom.
Guard looks at him with a comical expression. "Werry out-o'-the-way
place, sir; no paving to the streets nor no lighting. 'Mazin' big horse
and cattle fair in autumn--lasts a week--just over now. Takes town a
week to get clean after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place,
sir, slow place: off the main road, you see--only three coaches a day, and
one on 'em a two-oss wan, more like a hearse nor a coach--Regulator--comes
from Oxford. Young genl'm'n at school calls her Pig and Whistle, and
goes up to college by her (six miles an hour) when they goes to enter.
Belong to school, sir?"
"Yes," says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should think
him an old boy. But then having some qualms as to the truth of the
assertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old
boy he couldn't go on asking the questions he wanted, added--"that is to
say, I'm on my way there. I'm a new boy."
The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom.
"You're werry late, sir," says the guard; "only six weeks to-day to the
end of the half." Tom assented. "We takes up fine loads this day six
weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of
carrying you back."
Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his
fate would probably be the Pig and Whistle.
"It pays uncommon, cert'nly," continues the guard. "Werry free with
their cash is the young genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless you, we gets into such
rows all 'long the road, what wi' their pea-shooters, and long whips,
and hollering, and upsetting every one as comes by; I'd a sight sooner
carry one or two on 'em, sir, as I may be a carryin' of you now, than a
coach-load."
"What do they do with the pea-shooters?" inquires Tom.
"Do wi' 'em! why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, 'cept the
young gals, and breaks windows wi' them too, some on 'em shoots so hard.
Now 'twas just here last June, as we was a driving up the first-day
boys, they was mendin' a quarter-mile of road, and there was a lot of
Irish chaps, reg'lar roughs, a breaking stones. As we comes up, 'Now,
boys' says young gent on the box (smart young fellow and desper't
reckless), 'here's fun! Let the Pats have it about the ears.' 'God's
sake, sir!' says Bob (that's my mate the coachman), 'don't go for to
shoot at 'em, they'll knock us off the coach.' 'Damme, coachee,' says
young my lord, 'you ain't afraid; hoora, boys! let 'em have it.'
'Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths chock full of peas
to last the whole line. Bob seeing as 'twas to come, knocks his hat over
his eyes, hollers to his 'osses, and shakes 'em up, and away we goes up
to the line on 'em, twenty miles an hour. The Pats begin to hoora too,
thinking it was a runaway, and first lot on 'em stands grinnin' and
wavin' their old hats as we comes abreast on 'em; and then you'd ha'
laughed to see how took aback and choking savage they looked when they
gets the peas a stinging all over 'em. But bless you, the laugh weren't
all of our side, sir, by a long way. We was going so fast, and they was
so took aback, that they didn't take what was up till we was half-way up
the line. Then 'twas 'look out all,' surely. They howls all down the
line fit to frighten you, some on 'em runs arter us and tries to clamber
up behind, only we hits 'em over the fingers and pulls their hands off;
one as had had it very sharp act'ly runs right at the leaders, as though
he'd ketch 'em by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip, and
comes over a heap o' stones, first. The rest picks up stones, and gives
it us right away till we gets out o' shot, the young gents holding out
werry manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and
a pretty many there was too. Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks
at young gent on box werry solemn. Bob'd had a rum un in the ribs,
which'd like to ha' knocked him off the box, or made him drop the reins.
Young gent on box picks hisself up, and so does we all, and looks round
to count damage. Box's head cut open and his hat gone; 'nother young
gent's hat gone: mine knocked in at the side, and not one on us as
wasn't black and blue somewheres or another; most on 'em all over.
Two-pound-ten to pay for damage to paint, which they subscribed for
there and then, and give Bob and me a extra half-sovereign each; but I
wouldn't go down that line again not for twenty half-sovereigns." And
the guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear brisk
toot-toot.
"What fun!" said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this
exploit of his future school-fellows. He longed already for the end of
the half, that he might join them.
"'Taint such good fun though, sir, for the folk as meets the coach, nor
for we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last summer
had all got stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive, and we'd
got two reverend gents aboard too. We pulled up at the beginning of the
line, and pacified them, and were never going to carry no more
pea-shooters, unless they promises not to fire where there's a line of
Irish chaps a stone-breaking." The guard stopped and pulled away at his
cheroot, regarding Tom benignantly the while.
"Oh, don't stop! tell us something more about the pea-shooting."
"Well, there'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at
Bicester, a while back. We was six mile from the town, when we meets an
old square-headed grey-haired yeoman chap, a jogging along quite quiet.
He looks up at the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the nose, and
some ketches his cob behind and makes him dance up on his hind legs. I
see'd the old boy's face flush and look plaguy awkward, and I thought we
was in for somethin' nasty.
"He turns his cob's head, and rides quietly after us just out of shot.
How that ere cob did step! we never shook him off not a dozen yards in
the six mile. At first the young gents was werry lively on him; but
afore we got in, seeing how steady the old chap come on, they was quite
quiet, and laid their heads together what they should do. Some was for
fighting, some for axing his pardon. He rides into the town close after
us, comes up when we stops, and says the two as shot at him must come
before a magistrate; and a great crowd comes round, and we couldn't get
the 'osses to. But the young uns, they all stand by one another, and
says all or none must go, and as how they'd fight it out, and have to be
carried. Just as 'twas gettin' serious, and the old boy and the mob was
goin' to pull 'em off the coach, one little fellow jumps up and says,
'Here--I'll stay,--I'm only going three miles further. My father's
name's Davis; he's known about here, and I'll go before the magistrate
with this gentleman.' 'What, be thee parson Davis's son?' says the old
boy. 'Yes,' says the young un. 'Well, I be mortal sorry to meet thee in
such company, but for thy father's sake and thine (for thee bi'st a
brave young chap) I'll say no more about it.' Didn't the boys cheer him,
and the mob cheered the young chap--and then one of the biggest gets
down, and begs his pardon werry gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as
they all had been plaguy vexed from the first, but didn't like to ax his
pardon till then, 'cause they felt they hadn't ought to shirk the
consequences of their joke. And then they all got down and shook hands
with the old boy, and asked him to all parts of the country, to their
homes; and we drives off twenty minutes behind time, with cheering and
hollering as if we was county members. But, Lor' bless you, sir," says
the guard, smacking his hand down on his knee and looking full into
Tom's face, "ten minutes arter they was all as bad as ever."
Tom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his narrations,
that the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out into a graphic
history of all the performances of the boys on the road for the last
twenty years. Off the road he couldn't go; the exploit must have been
connected with horses or vehicles to hang in the old fellow's head. Tom
tried him off his own ground once or twice, but found he knew nothing
beyond, and so let him have his head, and the rest of the road bowled
easily away; for old Blow-hard (as the boys called him) was a dry old
file, with much kindness and humour, and a capital spinner of a yarn
when he had broken the neck of his day's work and got plenty of ale
under his belt.
What struck Tom's youthful imagination most was the desperate and
lawless character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him? He
couldn't help hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost all
English boys love danger; you can get ten to join a game, or climb a
tree, or swim a stream when there's a chance of breaking their limbs or
getting drowned, for one who'll stay on level ground, or in his depth,
or play quoits or bowls.
The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had
happened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with
their whips, and the boys with cricket-bats and wickets, which arose out
of a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going round to the
public-houses and taking the linch-pins out of the wheels of the gigs,
and was moralising upon the way in which the Doctor, "a terrible stern
man he'd heard tell," had come down upon several of the performers,
"sending three on 'em off next morning, each in a po-chay with a parish
constable," when they turned a corner and neared the milestone, the
third from Rugby. By the stone two boys stood, their jackets buttoned
tight, waiting for the coach.
"Look here, sir," says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot,
"there's two on 'em; out and out runners they be. They come out about
twice or three times a week, and spirts a mile alongside of us."
And as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the footpath,
keeping up with the horses; the first a light clean-made fellow going on
springs, the other stout and round-shouldered, labouring in his pace,
but going as dogged as a bull-terrier.
Old Blow-hard looked on admiringly. "See how beautiful that there un
holds hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir," said he; "he's a
'mazin' fine runner. Now, many coachmen as drives a first-rate team'd
put it on and try and pass 'em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's
tender-hearted; he'd sooner pull in a bit if he see'd 'em a gettin'
beat. I do b'lieve too as that there un'd sooner break his heart than
let us go by him afore next milestone."
At the second milestone the boys pulled up short and waved their hats to
the guard, who had his watch out and shouted "4.56," thereby indicating
that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five minutes. They
passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects of the deepest
interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten minutes before
twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had never spent a
pleasanter day. Before he went to bed he had quite settled that it must
be the greatest day he should ever spend, and didn't alter his opinion
for many a long year--if he has yet.