Apropos of having the leaders' reins through the top terret, it is supposed to look smarter, but that it is not a very good plan is proved by the aforesaid catastrophe. The rings on the wheelers' throat-lashes are really much better for ordinary use.
My father used to drive a great deal, and, before he joined the Four-in-hand Club, he used to drive the Exeter and London mail-coaches regularly, three or four times a week, fifty years ago, when he was in the Ninth Lancers. It must have been hardish work, for he drove all night. He started at seven p.m. after his day's soldiering, and drove forty-four miles each way, getting back to barracks at seven p.m. next morning.
He tells me they only took eight passengers with them, four inside and four out, besides the coachman, and the guard who sat by himself behind, with his feet resting on the lid of the box in which lay the mail-bags, and always armed with two pistols and a blunderbuss, besides the horn.
There is nothing so pretty as hearing a coach-horn really well blown, and very few indeed can do it properly. It is, unfortunately, a thing which people have no conscience about attempting, though their listeners are not left in doubt as to whether they are proficients in the art from the first moment they seize the instrument. How senseless of failure they are, too, as they puff out their cheeks in fatal perseverance, while tears start from their eyes, and the noise!—well, that once heard, is not easily forgotten. Though it is not within the province of a coachman, it is well to know how to make "music on three feet of tin," for it is often very necessary to arouse sleepy carters and all the other drowsy souls who encumber the earth and the Queen's highway.
Like catching a whip, it is an impossible thing to explain, beyond saying that you should begin by putting the tip of your tongue into the mouthpiece, and bring it sharply out again with a little tip sort of sound, and without puffing out your cheeks at all. The higher the notes you want to get, the harder you should compress your lips to the mouthpiece. And after all is said and done, the horn it is that generally retains the mastery, and blessed indeed is he who achieves anything beyond the air generally associated with the decrease of our ancient friend the cow.
The first tandem I ever drove was a long time ago, when I was quite small, and exceedingly proud I was of my turnout. It was very smart, all white.
It certainly had the merit of being unique, for my wheeler was a milk-white goat of tender years, while my leader was a disreputable-looking old bull-dog of equally snowy hue, and the harness was—well, pocket-handkerchiefs—mostly other people's.
I drove them in a little go-cart on low wheels, and they went very well, poor little things, though I always had to run in front myself and call them, if I wanted them to go at all fast.
That tandem came to a very sad and tragic end, for I grieve to say that, after many months of close friendship, my leader found it in his heart to devour the wheeler, which black deed brought my tandem to an abrupt termination.
Some years ago I got a lot of practice driving a scratch team down from Banffshire to Fife. A long journey, which took three days to accomplish, and over a very rough road too, for the first stage was forty miles right across the moors. Splendid wild scenery, but most horrible going, up hills and down dales, through water courses, and scrambling along old stage-coach roads, which could hardly be dignified now by the title of tracks. We scrambled up and down the steepest of mountains, and altogether felt rather relieved when at length we deserted the moor and gained the level road quite close to Balmoral.[ [8] It is a beautiful road from Balmoral into Braemar, broad and level, with wide verges of grass on either side, and bordered by fir trees, lighted up here and there by the silver stems and golden leaves of graceful birches, while the river Dee dances along over the rocks and stones by the side of the road, brawling its running accompaniment to the rattle of the bars and the rhythm of the horses' hoofs. Passing below the "Lion's Face," and just outside the beautiful "policies" of Invermark, we trotted cheerily into the little town of Braemar, and there put up for the night.