They got in, Chummy acting his part very well, and greatly to the annoyance and discomfort of the wags, who, however, said nothing. But when the coach stopped at the next change, and for breakfast, they asked the man who had been their butt, and was now their tormentor, how far he was going to take the sweep, as he was not a very desirable companion.
He replied: “I took two seats so that, although corpulent, I should annoy no one. You prevented me occupying them, therefore I filled the remaining seat with Chummy, and he goes as far as the end of my journey. But I will dismiss him if you will agree to what I propose. When I engaged him, I agreed to pay him for his time, and to pay his fare home, with all other expenses incurred. He is now at breakfast. If you agree to pay him, he goes no farther; if not, he proceeds.”
Having listened to this ultimatum, and being completely discomfited, they accepted these terms, and the sweep was dismissed.
Among the most laughable of old-time skits on coaching miseries is the following breathless account, in the style of the immortal Jingle. Its humour is somewhat broad, and indeed all coaching humour was of the smoking-room rather than of the drawing-room order:—
“Stage-Coach Adventures.
“Inside.—Crammed full of passengers—three fat fusty old men—a young mother and sick child—a cross old maid—a poll parrot—a bag of red herrings—double-barrelled gun (which you are afraid is loaded)—and a snarling lapdog, in addition to yourself. Awake out of a sound nap with the cramp in one leg and the other in a lady’s bandbox—pay the damage (four or five shillings) for gallantry’s sake—getting out in the dark at the half-way house, in the hurry stepping into the return coach and finding yourself next morning at the very spot you had started from the evening before—not a breath of air—asthmatic old woman and child with the measles—window closed in consequence—unpleasant smell—shoes filled with warm water—look up and find it’s the child—obliged to bear it—no appeal—shut your eyes and scold the dog—pretend sleep and pinch the child—mistake—pinch the dog and get bit—execrate the child in return—black looks—no gentleman—pay the coachman and drop a piece of gold in the straw—not to be found—fell through a crevice—coachman says ‘He’ll find it’—can’t—get out yourself—gone—picked up by the ostler—no time for blowing up—coach off for next stage—lose your money—get in—lose your seat—stuck in the middle—get laughed at—lose your temper—turn sulky—and turned over in a horse pond.
“Outside.—Your eye cut out by the lash of a clumsy coachman’s whip—hat blown off into a pond by a sudden gust of wind—seated between two apprehended murderers and a noted sheep-stealer in irons, who are being conveyed to gaol—a drunken fellow half-asleep falls off the coach—and in attempting to save himself drags you along with him into the mud—musical guard, and driver horn mad—turned over—one leg under a bale of cotton, the other under the coach—hands in breeches pockets—head in hamper of wine—lots of broken bottles versus broken heads—cut and run—send for surgeon—wounds dressed, lotion and lint, four dollars—take post-chaise—get home—lie down—and laid up.”
A “humorous” story is told of a coach coming into Dover at night, and the coachman, “feather-edging” a corner, running into a lamp-post. It was the period just after Waterloo. A little French count, who occupied the box-seat, was thrown off, and, falling on his side, had three ribs fractured. The coachman pulled up and asked a passing sailor to pick up the unhappy passenger. The half-drunken tar, seeing a heap of limp clothes on the pavement, said, “There’s no gemman here—on’y a lot of coats.” At that moment the Count groaned, “Oh! by gar! I brake tree rib.” “Damn your eyes!” roared the sailor, “you’re a Frenchman, are you? Lie there and be damned,” and so went on his way.
I think the brutality of this tale is even more noticeable than its humour, but it is distinctly redolent of the age when people only laughed on seeing others placed in a painful or uncomfortable position. When no one was hurt there was no humour, according to the notions of that time—a time when to crush a man’s hat over his eyes was exquisitely funny, and for half a dozen lusty Toms and Jerrys to overturn a decrepit old watchman was a screaming farce. It is, by the way, significant that that was the era when screaming farces held the theatrical stage, and the rough-and-tumble of the harlequinade was at its zenith. The practical joker was then prominent, and the more “practical” (i.e. the more wantonly cruel and injurious) the joke the more it was applauded. If the victim ever thought of resenting a witticism of this kind, he was, in the cant of that period, “no sportsman,” and behind that formula the blackguard jokers screened themselves. If they had not very carefully, for their own protection, erected that obligation to “take a thing in good part” which stayed the heavy hand of revenge, it is quite likely that some of these humourists would have been very severely mauled. The amazing thing is that the victims agreed to that convention, and allowed themselves to be harassed with impunity.
Practical joking affected every class. One of the old borough members of Parliament—Francis Fane, who began his long Parliamentary career in 1790—was a practical joker of the most desolating kind. Travelling by coach to London along the Exeter Road on one occasion, he saw, from his seat inside, the coat-tails of one of the outside passengers—a barber, of Dorchester—hanging down. This gave him the pleasing notion of cutting open the pocket and extracting its contents, which happened to be a bulky parcel of banknotes the unfortunate shaver had had given in his charge. The extraordinary cruelty of the practical jokers who made existence a burden to their victims a hundred years ago promised Fane to gloat over the barber’s terror when he found the notes gone, and only to restore them when his enjoyment could be carried no farther. As some amends, he entertained his victim at the White Horse Cellar on the eve of the barber’s return to Dorchester; but his practical joking was not yet complete, for, taking excellent care that his victim should be fully charged with liquor, he hustled him into the night coach for quite another Dorchester—Dorchester, Oxfordshire—where he was duly set down the following morning.