I will now come to the whip, the use of which, most young beginners want
to acquire in the first instance. Let me advise them to practice the art
of "catching it" in their sitting or bed-room, for if they try to learn
it when they are driving, they annoy their horses. A gentleman, whom I
was teaching, said it was so simple, he would not go to bed till he
could catch it properly. I saw him a fortnight afterwards, but he had
not even then succeeded; he told me he had not been to bed; but I will
not vouch for the accuracy of this part of the anecdote. The art, like
many others, is very easy when you know how to do it. The turn of the
wrist, with a slight jerk of the elbow, is the proper way to accomplish
it.
The less the whip is used while driving, the better, for it will only
get you into trouble if used improperly. If a horse shies, never flog
him for it; timidity is generally the cause of shying, unless his eyes
are defective. Of course whipping can do no good in that case; speak
kindly to him, that is the best way, if he be young; as he becomes
better acquainted with objects and gains confidence, he will most likely
give up the trick. I will make a few more observations on the whip. If
you can use it well, use it seldom, and before you strike a horse,
always take hold of his head; if you do this, you will find the
slightest touch will have the desired effect. It is a pretty art, to be
able with certainty, to touch a leader under the bar, without making a
noise with the lash or letting any of the other horses know anything
about it. The near leader is the most difficult one to reach, as you
must completely turn your wrist over. Very few can do it well; in fact,
many of the old professionals could never do it neatly.
I trust that some will benefit from these instructions, for there are
really few more agreeable sights than that of a good-looking team
handled neatly by a gentleman, who sits well, with, perhaps a lady
beside him on the box. I am much pleased to find that the taste for
four-in-hand driving is increasing of late, and am glad to say, some
gentlemen drive very well. It is easy enough, to detect those who are
self-taught from those who have received instruction from a professional
man. Many think that driving can be acquired without teaching. I wonder
if any gentleman would like to dance in a ball-room without first taking
lessons; and yet some, do not hesitate to drive four horses--a feat
attended with much danger, not only to the public generally, but to
themselves and those who accompany them, if undertaken without due
knowledge.
Before concluding, I will relate some of the difficulties we had to
encounter in foggy weather. We were obliged to be guided out of London
with torches, seven or eight Mails following one after the other, the
guard of the foremost Mail lighting the one following, and so on till
the last. We travelled at a slow pace, like a funeral procession. Many
times I have been three hours going from London to Hounslow. I remember
one very foggy night, instead of my arriving at Bagshot (a distance of
thirty miles from London, and my destination) at eleven o'clock, I did
not get there till one in the morning. I had to leave again at four the
same morning. On my way back to town, when the fog was very bad, I was
coming over Hounslow Heath when I reached the spot where the old
powder-mills used to stand. I saw several lights in the road, and heard
voices, which induced me to stop. The old Exeter Mail, which left
Bagshot thirty minutes before I did, had met with a singular accident;
it was driven by a man named Gambier; his leaders had come in contact
with a hay-cart on its way to London, which caused them to turn suddenly
round, break the pole, and blunder down a steep embankment, at the
bottom of which was a narrow deep ditch filled with water and mud. The
Mail Coach pitched on to the stump of a willow tree that over-hung the
ditch; the coachman and outside passengers were thrown over into the
meadow beyond, and the horses went into the ditch; the unfortunate
wheelers were drowned or smothered in the mud. There were two inside
passengers, who were extricated with some difficulty; but fortunately no
one was injured. I managed to take the passengers, with the guard and
mail-bags, on to London, leaving the coachman to wait for daylight
before he could make an attempt to get the Mail up the embankment. They
endeavoured to accomplish this, with cart-horses and chains. They had
nearly reached the top of the bank when something gave way, and the poor
old Mail went back into the ditch again. I shall never forget the scene;
there were about a dozen men from the powder-mills trying to render
assistance, and, with their black faces, each bearing a torch in his
hand, they presented a curious spectacle. This happened about thirty
years ago. Posts and rails were erected at the spot after the accident.
I passed the place last summer; they are still there, as well as the old
pollard willow stump.
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.