The late Duke of Beaufort had some horses at work on this road at one time. He horsed a coach called the "Quicksilver," and Bob Pointer was the coachman (one of the best waggoners in England). He drove till he met Charley Harker half way, and then turned back. One very fine day the Duke went, as was not unusual, with some friends to see the "Quicksilver" start from the Red Office, and there found our friend Bob, not in the most upright position, just about to take hold of the ribbons from the off-wheeler's back. As soon as his Grace saw how matters stood he took them out of his hands, and drove up till he met the other coach, which he drove back, and after kicking the passengers handed the money to Bob, telling him not to let him see him in that state again. The warning, however, was not attended to for long, for, although the best of coachmen, he was a very wet 'un.
I will now ask the reader to fancy himself for a moment transported by the touch of Columbine's wand into the Midlands, and set down in the fashionable town of Cheltenham, which, fifty years ago, was justly famed for its fast and well-appointed coaches, as well as for its health-giving waters. Though situated far inland it was, like Brighton, very much dependent on the same element for its prosperity, and was frequented by much the same class of people, though the efficacy of the waters at one place depended upon external, and at the other upon internal application. Still they resembled one another in drawing together a society of persons who had little or no occupation except that of either bathing in or drinking the water.
The High Street of Cheltenham presents now a very different aspect to what it did at the time I am writing about, when the seats on the sunny side were occupied by visitors looking at the coaches passing to and fro or turning into the "Plough" yard. It was a sight worth coming for to see those well-horsed coaches. There were, first, the London coaches arriving: the "Magnet," driven by Jemmy Witherington, and the "Berkely Hunt," with Frank Martindale on the box, who was always the pink of neatness—indeed, as he once said to me a good many years afterwards, "You know, I was a bit of a dandy in those days."
Then there was also the London day mail with four greys, running alternately to the "Plough" and "Queen's Hotel," and later on in the day the "Hirondelle," driven by Finch, a rather wet soul, and the "Hibernia," arrived from Liverpool, both of which coaches are incidentally mentioned in another chapter, and were two of the fastest in England. Besides them, there were others running to Bath, Bristol, Leamington, Birmingham, and other places, and by the time all these had been inspected, it was time to think of dinner.
And now, having already made this chapter something of a "fugitive piece," I will, for the second time, make use of the fairy wand, and by one of its miraculous touches translate us back again to the Brighton road, which, being the one on which so many amateurs have become professionals, may be not inappropriately called the border land between them, and, therefore, as rather pointed out for considering the difference between them. Of course, in one sense, the demarcation is as plain as the nose on one's face. The man who drives for pay is a professional, at any rate for a time; but the question I would now raise is not that, but one more likely to prove an apple of discord—I mean what allowance should be made between them in estimating their proficiency in driving. What might be good for one might be decidedly under the mark for the other. To more fully explain my meaning, I will take a strong case. Sir St. Vincent Cotton, as is well known, drove professionally for some years on the Brighton road after having been acknowledged to be a first-rate amateur, and the question is, how soon after taking to the box professionally could he have been expected to pass muster with the professionals? Perhaps some will say that he was quite as good a coachman before as after he took to the bench professionally. No doubt his is a strong case, and I only give it as one in point; but, for myself, I very much doubt whether, even in those coachy days, it was possible for a man to get sufficient practice, only as an amateur, to make him equal to one who drove professionally.
Doubtless, among the professionals there were men who never with any amount of practice became good coachmen; but then we must remember that in all classes and conditions of men some are to be found who, from indolence or taking no pride in their work, never even reach mediocrity, whilst others are too conceited to learn; but these were in a small minority, and in driving, as in all other crafts, practice makes perfect. If it confers no other benefit, it must strengthen the muscles, and, no doubt, imparts a handiness, readiness, and resource which nothing else can produce. The difference is, perhaps, oftener to be observed in the whip hand than the rein one. A well-practised professional with a pair of sluggish leaders will make every cut tell, and then bring the thong up to his hand without staring about to see where the wind had blown it to; whereas, it would too often be the case with an amateur that, for want of having had sufficient practice, half his cuts fell flat, and not unfrequently, especially on a windy or wet day, he will get hung up in some part of the harness or in the pole chains, or possibly even round the stock of the wheel.
It is not only in the art of driving that this difference is to be met with, but it extends to huntsmen and jockeys. In neither of these occupations does a gentleman attain to sufficient proficiency to be called more than a good amateur, which implies that he is not equal to a professional, or at any rate to a good one. Now, why is this? Surely not because he was born a gentleman, and is, therefore, disqualified by nature. Still less, because education has unfitted him. No—it is simply because he does not give up his time to it, but only follows it as a recreation. Cricket might, perhaps, at first sight, contradict this rule, but in truth, I believe it only tends to confirm it. The gentlemen are able to hold their own with the players, but then, whilst the cricket season lasts, they work as hard as the professionals.
To come to the point, then, how soon after taking to the bench professionally ought an amateur to cease to claim any indulgence in criticism? I do not, of course, mean a muff, whose natural inaptitude might render him proof against any amount of practice, but one called "a good amateur whip;" and, probably, it would not be erring much to say that a period of from one to two years, with sixty to eighty miles of driving a day, including a fair share of night work, is sufficient to land him at the top of the profession, if the gift is in him.
Talking of the "gift," reminds me of a conversation which once took place between the late Mr. J. Taylor, who kept the "Lion" yard in Shrewsbury, and the well known "Chester Billy." They had been talking on the subject of driving, and the latter finished it by saying, "Well, master, it is a gift," to which the other replied, "It is, Billy, and it's a pity you never got it." I need hardly say, the old man turned away rather disgusted, and, no doubt, with the firm conviction that his master was no judge.