THE BRIGHTON ROAD.
So much has already been written about the Brighton road that,
perhaps, it may seem presumptuous in me to re-open the subject, but as
I have noticed the Birmingham road, I will venture to dwell very
shortly upon the Brighton one, as they may be said to have been the
antithesis to each other, much in the same way as now the business of
the southern railways differs from that of what are called by way of
distinction the heavy lines. No observant person can, I think, arrive
in London from the south and drive through town straight to one of the
large railway stations in the north, without being struck with the
difference of the traffic. So it was in the coaching days; on one road
business was paramount, on the other a little time for pleasure could
be indulged in. I do not mean to say that they carried on the old
practice of throwing away ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at each
change of horses; far from it. The work was admirably done, but it had
not about it the severe utilitarianism which was the prevailing
feature with the other. The horses on the northern road showed, as a
rule, more blood, and the coaches gave the idea of their having been
built with a view to carrying loads at a high rate of speed. Nothing
seemed wanting to ensure pace with safety, whilst, at the same time,
there was nothing to lead anyone to suppose for a moment that they
were anything but stage coaches.
On the other hand, on the road to the fashionable watering-place, some
of the coaches, from the small amount of lettering upon them, and
bright pole chains, might at first sight have been mistaken for
private drags.
Notwithstanding all this pace, it must not be supposed that a journey
by one of those fast coaches on the northern road was a hurried,
uncomfortable day's work, with no time to eat a comfortable meal. On
the contrary, though only twenty-five minutes were allowed for dinner,
so much assistance was generally given in waiters to carve and wait
upon the passengers, that a by no means bad dinner could be made in
the allotted time; and to show that the food was not otherwise than
palatable, I may instance the case of a medical gentleman residing at
Brickhill (I think), but, at any rate, in the town where the up
"Wonder" dined, who, whenever possible, went in with the passengers
and made his dinner with them.
I will now venture on a few circumstances and anecdotes connected with
the Brighton road, which may help to portray the differences I have
been describing in the two roads; but, before doing so, I should like
to remark that anyone writing at this time on the subject is liable to
make mistakes, as those coaches in some cases changed hands, as, for
instance, at one time the "Age" was the property of and driven by Mr.
Stevenson, and at a later period was in the possession of Sir St.
Vincent Cotton. Of this coach it has been written by Nimrod that "Mr.
Stevenson had arrived at perfection in his art and had introduced the
phenomenon of refinement into a stage coach." I never happened to see
this coach in his time, but can well remember Sir St. Vincent Cotton
on the box of his neat brown coach, with bright pole chains. A friend
of mine says, "Well I remember Harry Stevenson, with his beautiful
team, starting from the 'White Horse Cellars,' and calling for his box
passenger at the United Service Club, and from thence to the 'Elephant
and Castle,' the final stop before departure for Brighton, and his
guard, George Carrington, who was the essence of neatness and
politeness to his passengers."
This coach was for a short time driven by Sackville Gwynne, who ran
through all his property, and died in Liverpool, where he was driving
a cab.
It would be tedious to enumerate half the coaches, nearly thirty in
number, which ran out of Brighton every day, and many of them the best
looking turns-out in the kingdom. A few as specimens will suffice.
First and foremost came the "Times," starting at seven in the morning,
arriving at Charing Cross at twelve, and returning to Brighton at two,
driven by Sam Goodman. Bob Brackenbury, a first-rate amateur whip at
that time, used to drive from Brighton to Sam Goodman's farm, a
distance of eleven miles, and back again in the evening. Then there
was the "Dart," another up and down coach, driven by Bob Snow, a
first-rate artist. Some may even now remember his rubicund face, which
he had just helped to colour with a pint of sherry after his dinner,
as he mounted his box like a workman, when returning from the "Spread
Eagle," Gracechurch Street, with his faultless drab great-coat, and a
bale of white muslin round his neck; and such top boots! The "Elephant
and Castle" was his first stopping-place, to meet the West End branch
coach; and here he always replenished his inner man with a glass of
hot brandy and water with a spoonful of ground ginger in it, as he
said, to assist his digestion. After he started from there, it was
woe-betide the poor horse that offended him before he reached Reigate,
where the "Dart" stopped for dinner, and in those days the city
merchants and stockbrokers knew how to take care of themselves. His
only opponent was the "Item," driven by Charles Newman, who was always
wretchedly horsed, and could not come near him.
Another well known face on this road was that of John Willan, who,
after having lost a good fortune on the turf, started the "Arrow,"
which was also horsed by Horne and Sam Goodman. This coach was mostly
supported by the _élite_ of the sporting world. The turn-out was
altogether most unique.
The late Duke of Beaufort had some horses at work on this road at one
time. He horsed a coach called the "Quicksilver," and Bob Pointer was
the coachman (one of the best waggoners in England). He drove till he
met Charley Harker half way, and then turned back. One very fine day
the Duke went, as was not unusual, with some friends to see the
"Quicksilver" start from the Red Office, and there found our friend
Bob, not in the most upright position, just about to take hold of the
ribbons from the off-wheeler's back. As soon as his Grace saw how
matters stood he took them out of his hands, and drove up till he met
the other coach, which he drove back, and after kicking the passengers
handed the money to Bob, telling him not to let him see him in that
state again. The warning, however, was not attended to for long, for,
although the best of coachmen, he was a very wet 'un.
I will now ask the reader to fancy himself for a moment transported by
the touch of Columbine's wand into the Midlands, and set down in the
fashionable town of Cheltenham, which, fifty years ago, was justly
famed for its fast and well-appointed coaches, as well as for its
health-giving waters. Though situated far inland it was, like
Brighton, very much dependent on the same element for its prosperity,
and was frequented by much the same class of people, though the
efficacy of the waters at one place depended upon external, and at the
other upon internal application. Still they resembled one another in
drawing together a society of persons who had little or no occupation
except that of either bathing in or drinking the water.
The High Street of Cheltenham presents now a very different aspect to
what it did at the time I am writing about, when the seats on the
sunny side were occupied by visitors looking at the coaches passing to
and fro or turning into the "Plough" yard. It was a sight worth coming
for to see those well-horsed coaches. There were, first, the London
coaches arriving: the "Magnet," driven by Jemmy Witherington, and the
"Berkely Hunt," with Frank Martindale on the box, who was always the
pink of neatness--indeed, as he once said to me a good many years
afterwards, "You know, I was a bit of a dandy in those days."
Then there was also the London day mail with four greys, running
alternately to the "Plough" and "Queen's Hotel," and later on in the
day the "Hirondelle," driven by Finch, a rather wet soul, and the
"Hibernia," arrived from Liverpool, both of which coaches are
incidentally mentioned in another chapter, and were two of the fastest
in England. Besides them, there were others running to Bath, Bristol,
Leamington, Birmingham, and other places, and by the time all these
had been inspected, it was time to think of dinner.
And now, having already made this chapter something of a "fugitive
piece," I will, for the second time, make use of the fairy wand, and
by one of its miraculous touches translate us back again to the
Brighton road, which, being the one on which so many amateurs have
become professionals, may be not inappropriately called the border
land between them, and, therefore, as rather pointed out for
considering the difference between them. Of course, in one sense, the
demarcation is as plain as the nose on one's face. The man who drives
for pay is a professional, at any rate for a time; but the question I
would now raise is not that, but one more likely to prove an apple of
discord--I mean what allowance should be made between them in
estimating their proficiency in driving. What might be good for one
might be decidedly under the mark for the other. To more fully explain
my meaning, I will take a strong case. Sir St. Vincent Cotton, as is
well known, drove professionally for some years on the Brighton road
after having been acknowledged to be a first-rate amateur, and the
question is, how soon after taking to the box professionally could he
have been expected to pass muster with the professionals? Perhaps some
will say that he was quite as good a coachman before as after he took
to the bench professionally. No doubt his is a strong case, and I only
give it as one in point; but, for myself, I very much doubt whether,
even in those _coachy_ days, it was possible for a man to get
sufficient practice, only as an amateur, to make him equal to one who
drove professionally.
Doubtless, among the professionals there were men who never with any
amount of practice became good coachmen; but then we must remember
that in all classes and conditions of men some are to be found who,
from indolence or taking no pride in their work, never even reach
mediocrity, whilst others are too conceited to learn; but these were
in a small minority, and in driving, as in all other crafts, practice
makes perfect. If it confers no other benefit, it must strengthen the
muscles, and, no doubt, imparts a handiness, readiness, and resource
which nothing else can produce. The difference is, perhaps, oftener to
be observed in the whip hand than the rein one. A well-practised
professional with a pair of sluggish leaders will make every cut tell,
and then bring the thong up to his hand without staring about to see
where the wind had blown it to; whereas, it would too often be the
case with an amateur that, for want of having had sufficient practice,
half his cuts fell flat, and not unfrequently, especially on a windy
or wet day, he will get hung up in some part of the harness or in the
pole chains, or possibly even round the stock of the wheel.
It is not only in the art of driving that this difference is to be met
with, but it extends to huntsmen and jockeys. In neither of these
occupations does a gentleman attain to sufficient proficiency to be
called more than a good amateur, which implies that he is not equal to
a professional, or at any rate to a good one. Now, why is this? Surely
not because he was born a gentleman, and is, therefore, disqualified
by nature. Still less, because education has unfitted him. No--it is
simply because he does not give up his time to it, but only follows it
as a recreation. Cricket might, perhaps, at first sight, contradict
this rule, but in truth, I believe it only tends to confirm it. The
gentlemen are able to hold their own with the players, but then,
whilst the cricket season lasts, they work as hard as the
professionals.
To come to the point, then, how soon after taking to the bench
professionally ought an amateur to cease to claim any indulgence in
criticism? I do not, of course, mean a muff, whose natural inaptitude
might render him proof against any amount of practice, but one called
"a good amateur whip;" and, probably, it would not be erring much to
say that a period of from one to two years, with sixty to eighty miles
of driving a day, including a fair share of night work, is sufficient
to land him at the top of the profession, if the _gift_ is in
him.
Talking of the "gift," reminds me of a conversation which once took
place between the late Mr. J. Taylor, who kept the "Lion" yard in
Shrewsbury, and the well known "Chester Billy." They had been talking
on the subject of driving, and the latter finished it by saying,
"Well, master, it is a gift," to which the other replied, "It is,
Billy, and it's a pity you never got it." I need hardly say, the old
man turned away rather disgusted, and, no doubt, with the firm
conviction that his master was no judge.
Perhaps, in opposition to what I have said, I may be directed to some
instances where very fine samples of driving have been executed by
gentlemen. I will only mention two of them. The first took place in
times long ago, and is thus described by Nimrod. "Perhaps one of the
finest specimens of good coachmanship was performed by Sir Felix Agar.
He made a bet, which he won, that he would drive his own four horses
in hand up Grosvenor Place, down the passage into Tattersall's yard,
around the pillar which stands in the centre of it, and back again
into Grosvenor Place, without either of the horses going at a slower
pace than trot." So long a time has expired since this feat was
performed, and all spectators have passed away, that it is impossible
to criticise it in any way. Many, however, must be still alive who
remember the old Tattersall's, and they will be able to appreciate the
difficulty of the task.
The other is quite of a recent date, only occurring last summer, and
was performed by my friend, Mr. Pryce Hamilton, who was the victor in
the obstacle competition. Not having seen this, I am unable to say
anything about it, but make no doubt that those who laid out the
course did not err on the side of leniency to the coachmen, and that
it was a feat of no easy performance. But, then, these things are
hardly tests of every day coachmanship. No doubt they require very
neat handling of the reins, but, of course, the horses have
individually the best of manners, and the teams are as hardy as it is
possible to make them; but if the whip had been wanted in Tattersall's
yard, perhaps Sir Felix might have lost his bet.
Perhaps, it may be thought by some that the time I have stated is an
unnecessarily long apprenticeship. It may be for some, but for myself,
I can answer that, whether from natural stupidity or not, it was no
more than I required. Driving, if by that is understood a perfect
knowledge of the art, is, like most other things, a plant of slow
growth, and, to any one who has given much thought and attention to
it, it is surprising how long he finds something to learn. For myself,
although I had done many hundreds of miles of spare work for different
coachmen, and out of different yards, with the approval of the
proprietors, I did not find that I had been able to overcome
shortcomings and defects, of which I was conscious, till I had driven
regularly for three summers, and, perhaps, even then many remained of
which I was unconscious.
If there are any who think there is no difference between amateur and
professional coachmen, I would ask them why there was not one of the
owners of the "Old Times" put up to drive the justly celebrated match
instead of Selby?