Part 2

TURNING.

In going round a corner, "point" your leader--that is, take hold of your leading rein, and get your leaders well round; then take hold of your wheel rein as well, all four horses will come round as evenly as though they were on a straight road. Most persons are careless about the mode of going round a corner; as long as they get round safely, they think it quite sufficient; they take hold of both reins and haul away; the consequence is, they get the fore part of the carriage and the wheel horses round before the leaders are square. This, I think, looks very bad, for it is a really pretty sight, to see four horses coming round straight, and thus showing that they are under perfect control. Always steady your carriage before attempting to turn, in case you should chance to meet anything coming in the opposite direction. Besides, there is no object in going fast round a corner. Even if pressed for time, always use precaution, for in driving, as in other phases of life, you will find it much easier to keep out, than to get out, of grief!

RULE V.

DESCENDING A HILL.

In going down a hill, steady and feel the weight of the carriage you have behind you; go off the top as quietly as you can, for you will discover before you get half way down, if it is at all a steep hill, the impetus will be so much increased, that you will have quite enough to do, to keep your coach steady and your horses under control. The patent drag is a great boon, which we had not in the old coaching days. I have many times gone off the top of a hill, and, before I got half way down, wished that I had put on the shoe; but another coach coming behind, with perhaps a lighter load than I had, they would have passed me while I was putting on the drag; this was the reason we sometimes neglected it, but you can always go faster down hill, with the drag, than without it.

RULE VI.

POSITION OF THE HANDS.

Keep your left hand up, within about ten or twelve inches of your chest, with your arm and wrist a little bent; you will then have your reins in such a position, that your right hand will be able to assist the other, without throwing your body forward to reach them. Many, instead of putting their right hand just in front of the left, and drawing the reins back towards them, put the right hand at least a foot before the other, and push the reins, consequently they lose nearly all power over the horses, and draw the reins away from the left hand. Besides being unskilful, this has a very ugly appearance.

RULE VII.

UNIFORMITY OF DRAUGHT.

To drive slowly, is much more gentlemanlike, and, at the same time, more difficult than going fast. Keep your horses well together; to do this properly, you must know how to arrange their couplings. I think I cannot better explain this, than to ask my readers to notice the working of the horses. If you see one a little in front of the other, you may judge that he is either stronger or more free, consequently his coupling requires shortening, or that of the other horse lengthening. To shorten it, you must bring the buckle towards you; and to let it out, put the buckle towards the horse's head. Most inexperienced persons resort to the whip, not knowing what is the cause of the fault they wish to remedy; this will make the strong or free horse, throw himself more into his collar; the other, meanwhile, cannot get up to him, however much he may try; the result is, he becomes more and more disheartened. If you use the whip at all, it must be very lightly and quietly, so that the freer or stronger horse may not hear it. At the same time, hold them both well together; if he is not a sluggard, he will gradually work up to the other. Again, if you notice one horse carrying his head unpleasantly, you may judge there is some cause for it; perhaps he is curbed too tightly, or his coupling is too short, or his rein ought to be over that of the other horse instead of under it, for, as may be supposed, all horses do not carry their heads alike; but all these little matters require watching and studying, and, with practice, they will all become familiar enough; and you will notice whether or not, all your horses go pleasantly together, for, depend on it, the more pleasantly they go, the more pleasure and comfort you will experience in driving them; and, as the old coaching term expressed it, when you can "cover them over with a sheet," you may conclude they are going about right.

RULE VIII.

THE USE OF THE WHIP.

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.

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.