Coaches in Ireland fifty years ago—Warm welcome—Still-hunting—Another blank day—Talent and temper—The Avoca coach.

Before the reign of King Bianconi in Ireland, the coaching and all public conveyances were of a most primitive description.[11] I am writing of Ireland fifty years ago, when it was a real pleasure to have intercourse with the peasantry; when every look was a smile; when the hardest raps with a shillelah were accepted as additional tokens of friendship; and if a few heads were broken it was looked upon simply as part of the fun of the fair.

Hospitality is no word for the overflowing welcome which was invariably extended to a stranger, and the sincerity of the men was only equalled by the fascination of the softer sex. The ready repartee, the quick appreciation of wit or satire, were ingredients which gave zest to conversation and piquancy to a society unlike that which may be met with in any other country.

In the same degree, the peasantry, as far as their humble means would permit, were ever ready to display their kindly feeling towards a stranger, no matter of what social grade.

As a soldier in those days I had some disagreeable duties to perform, but these were frequently rendered less painful by the very people against whom these duties were directed. I allude, for example, to “still-hunting.” It was the rule in those days for the gauger, whose duty it was to hunt up all illicit stills in the country, to make a requisition for a party of military, to supervise and surround the suspected spot, prevent the escape of those concerned in the manufacture, and secure, if possible, the worm of the still. The latter part of the triumph was seldom achieved; a small steel worm, which would go into a man’s hat, would take a party of gaugers a long night to hunt for, and often wind up with a blank after all.

I was detached from the headquarters of my regiment at the town of Ballingarry, Limerick. I had been out as usual with my gun in the bogs, which, in that neighbourhood, abounded in snipe, and having dined in my snug quarters (the lodge at the gate of the Protestant minister’s demesne), had just finished my tumbler of “hot stoppings,” when the thump of an open palm against my door announced a visit from my sergeant-major.

“Here’s the gauger, sir; and he wants our men to capture a still.”

A cold frosty night outside, and a clear turf fire within, with other pictures of comfort, did not help to inflame my soul with military ardour in the prospect of a still-hunt among the mountains five miles off. I was bound, however, to interview the gauger, and thereupon there entered a stout man, with a very blossomy nose, dressed in rusty black, who, at my invitation, seated himself by the fire.

“I have a requisition for twelve rank and file to assist in capturing a still in the neighbourhood, and here, sir, is the fee.”[12]

“When do you propose to make the expedition?”

“We should leave this at eleven to-night, and as no suspicion is aroused, we shall probably capture the lot, still and all.”

I pushed the materials towards the gauger, who required very little persuasion to avail himself of the opportunity to brew a hot tumbler of punch. On many former occasions I had by judicious hospitality kept this functionary at bay until it became too late, or the weather set in too bad, to make a start, thus saving my men the harassing duty we all disliked.

Now, however, the summons was imperative; and I accordingly turned out my picquet, and started with the revenue officer and his assistant for a mountain some five or six miles distant from my post.

The moon was shining brightly, and the sharp frosty air of the night was most exhilarating. The light and springy step of my riflemen suggested the idea of being on a poaching lark rather than a solemn expedition for the vindication of the law.

We had left the highway and ascended a few hundred yards of the mountain-road, when the gauger pointed out to me a light curling white cloud, distant about a quarter of a mile, rising as if from the ground. That was the still.

Extending my small force, I formed a cordon round the point, gradually closing in, till within fifty yards of our object. This operation completed, I left further proceedings to the gauger.

Suddenly my attention was attracted by the melancholy wailing of a woman, and, on investigation, I discovered an old hag who might easily have been great-grandmother of all the stills in the district.

“Och-hone, och-hone! We’ll all be kilt entirely. We’ll all be kilt outright wid dem soldiers. Och-hone!”

The gauger now reappeared. His search, both for men and machinery, had been fruitless. At once the old woman opened upon him a broadside of execrations such as are rarely heard even from the lips of an infuriated Irish beldame, strangely mixed with benedictions—the curses for the gauger, the blessings for me.

“To the divil I pitch them gaugers. Long life to y’r honour. Bad cess to ’em, I’d bail ’em out of —— (purgatory?) ev they’d wait. Och, thin, God bless you and y’r min! And thim to say I had a still!—the blag-g-a-ards!” All the time never moving from her seat amongst the ferns, whence she challenged the gaugers to search the skibeen and welcome. “Bad luck to you and your ugly mate!”

Finding the fun was over, I assembled my men and started on the homeward march; but wishing to reward the ancient sibyl for her blessing with a taste of tobacco, I halted the party in the road for a minute, and hurried back.

“You’re lucky not to have had your still discovered,” I remarked.

“Oh thin, good luck to your honour, and it’s you and your min saved it. May you live till the longest tooth in your head makes a walking-stick for you.”

“How do you mean, my good woman?”

“Sure the boys seen the soldiers coming, and they lighted a bit fire to blind ’em. The gauger was never near our plant; and for the worm, I was sitting on it all the time.”

I gave the old woman a blast for her pipe, and drank a tot of the best potheen I ever tasted.

To revert to the subject of Irish coaching which, as I have said before, was of the wildest and most primitive description, before the great mail contractor monopolised nearly every road in the country, conveying both mails and passengers on cars in a manner much better suited to the taste and habits of the people.

What the original coaches lacked in neatness they made up in pace. It was no uncommon thing to see a team brought out to attach to a coach, one blinded with a rubber, two with twitches on their noses, and the fourth having his leg tied up till the moment of departure. I once started from Waterford under these circumstances, and when all was ready, at the moment of starting, the coachman having climbed up, with his rope reins in hand, began shouting, cheering, and rattling his feet against the footboard to make them start. On this I reminded him that his whip was lying on the top of the luggage behind him.

“Oh, bad luck to ’em! I wouldn’t show ’em that till they’d ask for it,” was the answer “Sure they’d never lave home if they thought I’d take that along wid me.”

They did start, with the vocal assistance of half the spalpeens of the city, who followed us barefooted for at least a mile—an Irish mile—out of the town.

There is no country in the world where so many clever horses are bred as in Ireland. I say clever in the general acceptation of the word, for an Irish horse is as great an adept at an argument with his driver as he is in the falling at once into the latter’s views, and performing all that he can expect from him with cheerfulness.

I have generally found in my experience that a horse with a bad temper is a good stayer; while, on the other hand, an animal with a little temper, easily got the better of, is a cur.

A horse in Ireland is never allowed to have a bad temper; he only rises to tricks.

I was driving in Dublin some time since to catch a boat, and the horse in the car, after being very refractory, lay down. I was very much incensed, and afraid of losing my passage, when the driver quietly said:

“Oh, don’t mind him, sir; it’s only tricks.”

Since the reign of Bianconi the travelling has very much improved. The long car, substituted for the coach, is by no means an uncomfortable carriage, and the weight being kept so near the ground reduces the chances of being upset to a minimum. The roads are extremely good, and the scenery in some parts indescribably beautiful.

A revival of coaching was attempted in Dublin in the year 1879, but it did not attain any great proportions. There was one coach, however, with which I was intimately connected, which ran from the Sherbourne Hotel, Dublin, to the Vale of Avoca, and enjoyed a fair share of success. It was a private venture, was well horsed and appointed, changing four times in fifty-four miles (down one day and up another), and performing the journey in six hours, including a liberal interval for lunch each way.

This route embraces one of the most beautiful parts of Ireland, through the county of Wicklow, and the coach was consequently much encouraged by tourists and foreigners.

When the days of Land League and low rents (no rents) shall be buried in oblivion, and the country restored to the condition which I have described as its natural social aspect fifty years ago, I have no doubt that this and many other roads out of Dublin will be as thickly covered by amateur coaches as are the suburban roads from London.