CHAPTER II.

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Young coachmen—Save your horses—The ribbons—The whip—A professional Jehu—An amateur—Paralysed fingers.

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To a man who has a taste for driving, what can be more fascinating than to find himself upon the box of his own drag, with four three-parts-bred, well-matched horses before him, of which he is master? But how is this supreme pleasure to be arrived at? He may give fabulous prices for his horses, his coach and appointments may be faultless, all selected with great judgment, and still there will be moments when aching arms, paralysed fingers, and animals who seem determined to go “no how,” will compel him to wish himself in any other position. In order to guard against this, I would enjoin a young beginner not to run away with the idea that because he has driven four horses without getting into trouble, or, as still more frequently occurs, because he can drive a tandem, he can be in any degree a match for a team of horses with spirit and mettle, unless he have first carefully mastered the rudiments of the ribbons. There are many self-taught men who are excellent coachmen, and who, from long habit and experience, may be as much at home, in cases of sudden difficulty, as some of the more educated; but they invariably lack a certain precautionary system which makes almost any team go well and comfortably, and reduces the chance of an accident to a minimum. There are, alas, very few preceptors of the old school, but why the present generation should not be as well able to instruct themselves as were the men of fifty years ago is to me an unexplained marvel.

It is quite true that when coaching was a most important business, and when the component parties—contractors, coachmen, horsekeepers, and horses—sprang into existence, apparently for the purpose of carrying it on, there was a professional caste about the whole affair which kept it distinct and separate from all others. A proprietor was a big man, and his importance was measured by the ground he covered. There was an emulative rivalry between these gentlemen, which reflected very healthily upon the style in which their coaches were done.

The contractor supplied such horses as the proprietor required to cover the ground at a given coaching price.

The coachman had to keep such time as was laid down by the rules of the coach, and this was a point upon which depended much of the merit of the man. A coachman who, from an intimate knowledge of his ground, knew when to bustle and where to save his horses, was an invaluable acquisition to his employer. Horses themselves will sometimes suggest a little judicious springing, by which some of the most trying hills are more easily negotiated; but there is nothing better than to keep an even pace throughout the stage, jogging up all hills, easing them at the top, and coming steady off the crown of a descent. If circumstances should arise by which the time has been stolen from the horses, let me enjoin you, in the name of the whole equine race, not to attempt to make it up by showing your expertness with the whip up the hills; this is downright cruelty; and, in nine cases out of ten, the extra exertion and nervous efforts to respond are all made by one horse more sensitive than the rest of the team. It is better to wait for time than to race after it, the latter invariably resulting in one horse being so much more baked than the others as to cause the knowing eyes around the White Horse Cellars to wink when you do arrive.

To make my reader comfortable with his team as quickly as possible, I would here offer a few hints, which I venture to think will be found valuable to all not too proud to learn.

Being, then, comfortably attired, taking care that no part of his clothing approaches to tightness, supplied with a good thick shoe and gaiter, an easy (very easy) dogskin glove, taking care that the fingers are not too long (he should always be provided with a pair of woollen gloves in case of wet weather), we may safely leave supplementary garments to his own taste.

Having looked round his horses—a proceeding which no coachman should neglect—he walks up to the flank of the off-wheeler and takes all his reins, which should have been doubled and tucked into the tug on the off-side. Stepping back a pace, he separates his leading-reins, and pulls them through the terrets till he has gathered up the slack. He then slips his wheel-reins on either side of his right hand middle-finger, the near-side leading-rein over the forefinger, and the other over the wheel-rein between the fore and middle fingers of his right hand.

If he changes his whip it will be laid across the cruppers of the wheelers, and must be taken up, caught, and placed in the same hand with the reins, so as to leave the left free to seize the step of the front-boot, when, by stepping on the fore-wheel, and throwing the weight of his body well before it, the walk up on the bench will be comparatively easy and graceful. Having arrived there, still keeping the whip and reins in the right hand, he quickly settles his seat and apron, then shifting his reins to his left hand, in the same order which they occupied in the right, he proceeds to shorten them till he just feels the mouths of his horses.

The beauty and grace of a driving-seat is to assume such a posture as does not admit of any constraint. Without freedom of the wrist and arm, the whip, instead of being a most interesting plaything, will be a constant source of annoyance and difficulty to a young coachman. “It won’t catch.” “Why not?” Always because he will not let the bow of the thong swing sufficiently away from him, but tries it with a stiff arm. When once the knack is acquired it will last a lifetime, and there is no instrument the proper handling of which gives such a finish and proficiency, as a well-poised “yew” or a properly-weighted “holly.” Often have I been obliged to give away old favourite “crops” because mine would “catch” and others would not.

A good coachman shows his proficiency as well by the manner of his getting up on the bench as by the necessary preliminaries to make a comfortable start after he is seated. A lady, who must have been a close observer, once remarked to me that a certain gentleman, who was a mutual acquaintance, must be a very careful coachman, for, when riding upon the box-seat with him, he constantly asked her to hold the whip for him, while he went through a process of what appeared to her like “plaiting the reins.” There is a right way and a wrong way, and, at the risk of being a trifle wearisome, I venture to introduce a few hints for the benefit of such of my young readers as may desire to be guided in the acquirements of an art at once useful and agreeable, by tracing some of the oldest habits of the profession, and thus, in coaching parlance, picking up some of the “dodges of the road.”

Let us attempt to follow a professional “Jehu” over a stage or two of his ground.

His coach loaded and passengers placed, he takes a careful look round to see that every part of his harness is in its place and properly adjusted, and, if reminded by seeing any particular horse that he had gone uncomfortably on his last journey, to endeavour to find out the cause and have it altered. I have known a horse, usually straight and pleasant in his work, all at once take to snatching the rein and run away wide of his partner, and this occasioned only by the winker-strap being too short, causing the winker to press against his frontal-bone, the apparently trifling irregularity causing so much pain as to drive him almost mad.

A wheeler sometimes takes to diving suddenly with his head, and almost snatching the rein out of the driver’s hand. This can only be prevented by putting a bearing-rein upon him; and though this has often been censured (on the road), it has as often been condoned at the end of the stage. His inspection made, he mounts his box, according to the foregoing rules, and having given some parting instructions to his horsekeeper—“Send ‘Old Giles’ down o’ the off-side to-morrow, and rest the ‘Betsy Mare,’ etc. etc.”—the office to start is given; when the lightest feel of their mouths (wheelers having a little the most room) and a “klick” ought to be enough to start them.[3] Nothing is such “bad form” as to start with the whip; in dismissing which latter article I would caution young coachmen against the practice of carrying it in the socket. The moment when it may be required cannot be foreseen.

A well-organised team soon settles, and though for a mile or two they may appear to pull uncomfortably and not divide the work evenly, this is often occasioned merely by freshness and impatience, when presently they will settle down and go like “oil.”

A young friend, who lived not one hundred miles from Queen’s Gate, once asked me to come and see a splendid team he had purchased. I was indeed struck by their appearance when they came to the door. All roans, sixteen-and-a-half hands, very well bred, decorated all over with crest and coronet. There was a small party for the drag, with, of course, some muslin on the box, and I took my place behind the driver. I very soon observed that, although they were very highly bitted, they were carrying too many guns for our coachman; and we had not proceeded far when I ventured to remark that he was going rather fast (at this moment three were cantering), and in reply my friend candidly declared “he could not hold them.” “Then pull them all up at once,” I said promptly, “or they’ll be away with you.” Failing in this he accepted an offer of assistance, and, taking the reins, I, not without difficulty, stopped the runaways, and effected several alterations in their couplings, bittings, and harness.

I expected my friend would have resumed his post, but his hand was so paralysed that he could not grasp the reins. The explanation of this episode is twofold—firstly, the team was improperly put together; secondly, my friend discovered when we got to Richmond that he had been attempting to drive in a tight wrist-band, which, next to a tight glove, is of all things to be avoided. We had had unquestionably a narrow escape from what might have been a very serious accident. When four high-couraged horses, all very green and not properly strung together, get off “the balance” with a weak coachman, it is time to look out for a soft place. After I had made this team more comfortable in their harness, and their mouths more easily reached by the coupling-reins, they became, in my hands, perfectly temperate and docile, and gave every promise of becoming a handy pleasant lot.

It is a dangerous thing for a young coachman to embark with a team without somebody with him who can relieve his paralysed fingers and wrists if occasion requires; and this danger is increased tenfold if the team is composed of high-mettled cattle unused to their work or their places. I have found it very useful to condition the muscles of the arm by dumb-belling or balancing a chair upon the middle-finger of the left hand with the arm extended.

I trust that the foregoing hints may not be received with disdain. How many men there are who, from mistaken self-sufficiency, go through a whole life in practising what must be very uncomfortable, merely because they have been too proud to learn the A B C of the business. Without confidence—I may almost say without courage—no man can enjoy driving “a team.” He will be in a constant state of fret and in apprehension of all sorts of imaginary eventualities. The misgiving that they are either going too fast or not fast enough, not working straight, won’t stop the coach down hill, and a thousand other qualms, might all have been prevented by spending a few pounds at The Paxton.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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