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.