It is somewhat strange that Mr. Reynardson and I should both have good reason for remembering the Llanymynech toll-bar, but its existence was nearly being impressed on my mind by a far more serious accident than killing poor piggy.
Many years ago, about the year 1836, before I had the honour of wearing His Majesty's uniform, I used to indulge my love of driving by starting from my father's house, about three miles from Welshpool, about five o'clock in the morning, and walking to that town for the pleasure of driving the "Royal Oak" coach, which started at six, and returning the same day by the down coach. Thereby getting a drive of about eighty miles, and the pace was fast, especially if the "Nettle" was supposed to be near, for we knew by experience that it followed very quickly; so there was pretty well enough of practice to be had.
On one of these mornings, when we were about two miles on our journey, Harry Booth, the coachman, who was sitting by my side, whistled to the horses, which started them off beyond my powers of holding them. I said, "For goodness' sake be quiet," when he coolly replied, "I thought you wanted to drive." Fortunately, however, they came back to me after going a short distance, and we completed the nine miles to Llanymynech in thirty-five minutes from the start.
This was, perhaps, a rather rough way of learning to drive, and something like throwing a fellow into deep water to teach him to swim. At any rate, it taught me to gallop, and a coachman who could not do that was of little use on a good many coaches in those days.
This, however, is a digression, as it was on the return journey of that day that I nearly came to grief at the Llanymynech toll-bar. It occurred in this way—
The "Royal Oak" did not carry a guard, and Tom Loader, the coachman, having resigned his seat to me when the coaches met, had retired to the one usually occupied by that functionary. As, however, he was not accustomed to guard's work, he was deficient in the activity necessary for slipping the skid pan under the wheel whilst the coach was in motion, and when he tried to do so at the top of Llanymynech hill he failed in the attempt. Consequently, we got over the brow of the hill without the wheel being locked, and, as there were no patent breaks in those days, there was nothing for it but a gallop, as the wheel horses were unable to hold the big load of passengers and luggage, and, of course, the lurches of the coach became considerable, to say the least of it. The turnpike gate, which was at the bottom of the hill, was rather a narrow one, and a collision seemed not altogether improbable, when, just as the leaders reached the gate, the passenger sitting on the roof seat behind me became so much alarmed that he seized hold of my right arm, thereby rendering any use of the whip impossible if it had been necessary, which, fortunately, it was not, as the coach was then in a safe direction, though rather too near the off-side gate-post to be pleasant. If the whip had been wanted to make the off-wheel horse pull us clear of the post I was helpless, and a collision would have been attended with an awful smash, as we were going at the rate of a mile in five minutes at the time. Killing the pig would have been nothing to it.
Whilst on the subject of toll gates I am reminded that I did on one occasion break one all to pieces, and, though chronologically out of place here, I am tempted to introduce it.
It occurred many years subsequently to the affair at Llanymynech, when I was residing at Aberystwith, and, as often happened whilst there, I was working the Shrewsbury and Aberystwith mail between the latter place and Newtown for one of the regular coachmen, who wanted a few days' rest. One morning on the down journey, on our reaching the toll gate at Caersws, the gatekeeper threw it open to allow the mail to pass, but, as he did not throw it sufficiently far back to hold in the catch, the high wind blew it back again, causing it to come in contact with the stock of the near fore wheel. Of course, it was too late to pull up, but, fortunately, the gate was old and very rotten, and doubled up with the collision. It was broken all to pieces, but, with the exception of a few slight cuts on the horses from splinters of wood, no injury was sustained. The toll-bar man was disposed to give some trouble, but little Rhodes, the post-office guard (for it was one of the last mails that carried them), shut him up with the remark that the penalty for delaying the mails was fifty pounds.
Before taking leave of the subject of racing, such as was carried on by the "Royal Oak" and "Nettle" coaches, I am induced to make a few remarks about it. Perhaps, some one on reading what I have said, may be disposed to exclaim, "how dangerous it must have been!" and, indeed, Mr. Reynardson says in "Down the Road," speaking of these coaches, "they were often too fast to be quite safe, as I sometimes used to fancy." To this, the result of his practical experience, I will not demur, suffice it to say that, though I have known a coachman of the "Royal Oak" fined for furious driving, I never knew a case of one scattering his passengers. Of course, it was not altogether unaccompanied by danger, but, judging by results, it could not have been very serious, as the accidents which occurred from it were not greater than were produced by other causes. Indeed, there are some reasons why they may have been less. When coaches were running strong opposition, everything, horses, coaches, and harness, were all of the very best, and none but real "artists" could be placed upon the box. (I think I hear a whisper that sometimes boys got there.) They were, therefore, secure from any accident caused, as was sometimes the case, by carelessness and penuriousness, which, to my own knowledge, have been productive of some very serious ones, as I shall show.
About twenty-five years ago, during one summer, two accidents occurred on the road between Dolgelly and Caernarvon, which might easily have been prevented—one of which was accompanied by serious loss of life, and which was to be attributed entirely to the use of old worn-out coaches and harness, or inferior coachmen and horses, such as, if the pace had been greater, no one would have ventured to employ. To the other accident there was a rather comic side, though not, perhaps, exactly to the sufferer. The coach was upset a few miles from Barmouth, on the road to Harlech, and the coachman's shoulder was dislocated; whereupon, a medical practitioner, who was passing at the time, mistaking the injury for a fracture, splintered it up. This treatment, of course, did not tend to mend matters, and the shoulder continued so painful that upon arriving at Caernarvon another surgeon was called in, who perceived the real nature of the injury, and reduced the dislocation.