During this quarter of a century the fun was fast, not to say furious, and with such rapidity did coaches increase and multiply, that it is a wonder how the demand for coachmen was satisfied, for to become one fit to be entrusted with a fast coach, and one which loaded heavily, necessitates no little practice.
From whence then was this demand supplied? Principally, I believe, like that in other trades, on the hereditary principle. It was no uncommon thing for old coachmen to have several sons at work; but, as the box of a good day coach was a lucrative post, a considerable number of men were gradually attracted to it from superior positions in life. The value of a "drive" differed very much, according to the loading of the coach, distance driven, whether single or double journey, or whether the passengers were what was called "good cloth," or the contrary; but one which did not bring in twenty shillings a day was not thought much of, and some were worth double.
This may appear a large remuneration to be received for a day's work, seldom occupying more than nine or ten hours; but I know it is not overstated, as I have not only been told it by others, but have myself fingered forty-five shillings in one day. Perhaps, however, I should add that I was then driving as much as ninety-three miles a day, and had no guard.
There were also other sources from which money was made, and from which coachmen driving slow coaches were enabled to make amends for the inferior quality of their passengers; and, indeed, in quite old days, the best wheel of the coach was often his. The late Mr. Jobson, who for many years kept the "Talbot Hotel" in Shrewsbury, and horsed the "Nimrod," which ran opposition to the "Wonder," had previously driven the "Prince of Wales" coach between that town and Birmingham, during which time he had the opportunity of buying up the guineas, when they were called in by the Mint, at a trifle under their standard value, and being able to dispose of them at their full price he realised a handsome profit.
Again, fish was not an unusual article to be made the subject of trading, and I once was tempted to embark in this business myself, but, as the sequel will show, not with satisfactory results. When I was driving the "Snowdonian," I was frequently asked by friends and acquaintances on the road to bring some fish from Caernarvon, as the towns through which I passed were badly supplied with it. Accordingly, one morning, hearing that a good catch of fish had been brought in, I invested, before starting, in forty pounds of very nice small salmon at sixpence a pound, with the expectation of obliging friends, and at the same time making some profit for my trouble. However, I was soon undeceived. As I went from place to place I announced with a feeling of much complacency that I had got the long-wanted article, but in most cases the answer was that they did not want salmon—any other fish would have been acceptable. Consequently, when I arrived at the end of my journey, I found that more than half was left in hand. Pickled salmon was the standard dish on my table for a fortnight. It was my first and last appearance in the character of a fishmonger. I tried no other sort of fish, as I thought they were too dainty if they could not eat salmon. But perhaps I have digressed too far, and will return to where coachmen sprang from in the required numbers.
I once sat by the side of a Captain Douglas, who had seen service in the Peninsular war, and was then driving the Birmingham and Sheffield mail out of the former town, and a quiet, nice coachman he was. He had a long stage of sixteen miles to Lichfield, and brought his team in fresh at the end of it.
From the officer coachman I come to the private. He was named Marsh, and had served at Waterloo with the 14th Regiment, and after leaving the army, had driven a coach between Maidstone and London for many years. When I first became acquainted with him, he had, like a good many others, followed the receding tide to the west, and was driving one side of the Aberystwith and Shrewsbury mail, between the former place and Newtown, during which time I occasionally worked for him; but, like an old soldier, he was always, if possible, ready for duty. It is curious enough that I first came across him on a Waterloo day, when he modestly remarked, upon the subject being alluded to, "I happened to be there." I had lost sight of him for some years, till I observed a notice of him in the World newspaper of July 11th, 1888. It occurred in a short account of Lord Albemarle, and mentioned the interest he took in "the old soldier Matty Marsh, private 14th Foot, who was wounded at Waterloo, witnessed the funerals of Wellington and Napoleon, drove a coach from Maidstone for many years, and recently died at the advanced age of ninety-four years." I never heard him allude to either of the funerals, and don't very well see how he could have been at that of Napoleon's; but so far as I know, he may have attended both.
A few postboys were elevated to the "bench," notably little Dick Vickers, of the Holyhead mail; but few of them were equal to the task, and, indeed, some of them could not even handle four-horse reins sufficiently well for black work, and consequently the night coachmen were occasionally pressed into this service, much to their dislike, and this once led to a rather droll scene. A gentleman, who had taken to professional coach driving, found himself one day let in for the job of driving a hearse, and, of course, was obliged to get himself up for the occasion something like a mute, when catching sight of himself in a glass, he was so much struck with his personal appearance, that he remarked, "Well, if only some of my family could see me now, I wonder what they would say?"
Indeed, it is difficult to determine from what ranks and professions the large body of coachmen required in those days was not recruited. I suppose few would have looked among the list of publishers for one, but, nevertheless, one, at any rate, from that business was drawn into the service of the road, not having been successful in the former trade. A letter from an old friend of mine, also a coachman, will, I think, interest or amuse some readers, and will show that he possessed a considerable amount of grim humour, as well as some acuteness in business.
"Many years ago," says my friend, "I took up my residence for a short time at the 'Kentish Hotel' in Tunbridge Wells—the best hotel there, and at that time there were very few houses built upon the Common. After stopping there some time, the season ended, and the exodus of visitors had commenced, I took the box seat on Stockdale's coach. I must tell you he had been a large publisher in Piccadilly, but failed, and then took to the road, this being the first coach he had driven, and being part proprietor. He was an exceedingly good amateur whip, but still, not a first-rate artist, as he would try to make you believe.