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Mail Coaches Racing: Something Wrong with the Opposition Coach
Painting by G. D. Armour.

Mishaps were so frequent and productive of so many fatalities, to say nothing of broken limbs, that at last general outcry arose for more stringent repressive measures: and in 1820 a law (1 Geo. IV., c. 4) was passed, making coachmen who might be guilty of ‘wanton or furious driving or racing’ liable to imprisonment as well as to fine, even though their proceedings were not brought to a close by overturning the coach. The new law did not make an end of accidents: on the whole there were fewer as the result of racing, but the records of time bear ample witness to lack of ordinary caution.

For many years Macadam and Telford had been devoting their ingenuity to the task of solving the secret of road-making; it was not until 1818 that the Macadam system was finally approved and adopted. Then the work of remaking the roads of the kingdom was taken in hand, and the new highways, when constructed, ushered in the brief ‘golden age’ of coaching—say 1825 to 1838, the mails having been transferred to the railways in the latter year.

Nimrod's famous essay, written in 1835, shows in convincing fashion the difference between coaching in the olden days and at its best:—

‘May we be permitted, since we have mentioned the Arabian Nights, to make a little demand on our readers' fancy, and suppose it possible that a worthy old gentleman of this said year—1742—had fallen comfortably asleep à la Dodswell, and never awoke till Monday morning in Piccadilly? “What coach, your honour?” says a ruffianly-looking fellow, much like what he might have been had he lived a hundred years back. “I wish to go home to Exeter,” replies the old gentleman, mildly. “Just in time, your honour, here she comes—them there grey horses; where's your luggage?” “Don't be in a hurry,” observed the stranger; “that's a gentleman's carriage.” “It ain't! I tell you,” says the cad; “it's the Comet, and you must be as quick as lightning.” Nolens volens, the remonstrating old gentleman is shoved into the Comet, by a cad at each elbow, having been three times assured his luggage is in the hind boot, and twice three times denied having ocular demonstration of the fact.

‘However, he is now seated; and “What gentleman is going to drive us?” is his first question to his fellow-passengers. “He is no gentleman, sir,” says a person who sits opposite to him, and who happens to be a proprietor of the coach. “He has been on the Comet ever since she started, and is a very steady young man.” “Pardon my ignorance,” replies the regenerated; “from the cleanliness of his person, the neatness of his apparel, and the language he made use of, I mistook him for some enthusiastic bachelor of arts, wishing to become a charioteer after the manner of the illustrious ancients.”[3] “You must have been long in foreign parts, sir,” observes the proprietor. In five minutes, or less, after the parley commenced, the wheels went round, and in another five the coach arrived at Hyde Park gate; but long before it got there, the worthy gentleman of 1742 (set down by his fellow-travellers for either a little cracked or an emigrant from the backwoods of America) exclaimed, “What! off the stones already?” “You have never been on the stones,” observes his neighbour on his right; “no stones in London now, sir.”[4]

‘In five minutes under the hour the Comet arrives at Hounslow, to the great delight of our friend, who by this time waxed hungry, not having broken his fast before starting. “Just fifty-five minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” says he, “from the time we left London!—wonderful travelling, gentlemen, to be sure, but much too fast to be safe. However, thank heaven, we are arrived at a good-looking house; and now, waiter, I hope you have got breakf——” Before the last syllable, however, of the word could be pronounced, the worthy old gentleman's head struck the back of the coach by a jerk, which he could not account for (the fact was, three of the four fresh horses were bolters), and the waiter, the inn, and indeed Hounslow itself (terraeque urbesque recedunt) disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Never did such a succession of doors, windows, and window-shutters pass so quickly in his review before—and he hoped they might never do so again. Recovering, however, a little from his surprise—“My dear sir,” said he, “you told me we were to change horses at Hounslow? Surely they are not so inhuman as to drive these poor animals another stage at this unmerciful rate!” “Change horses, sir!” says the proprietor; “why, we changed them whilst you were putting on your spectacles, and looking at your watch. Only one minute allowed for it at Hounslow, and it is often done in fifty seconds by those nimble-fingered horse-keepers.” “You astonish me—but really I do not like to go so fast.” “Oh, sir! we always spring them over these six miles. It is what we call the hospital ground.” This alarming phrase is presently interpreted: it intimates that horses whose “backs are getting down instead of up in their work”—some “that won't hold an ounce down hill, or draw an ounce up”—others “that kick over the pole one day and over the bars the next”—in short, all the reprobates, styled in the road slang bo-kickers, are sent to work these six miles, because here they have nothing to do but gallop—not a pebble as big as a nutmeg on the road; and so even, that it would not disturb the equilibrium of a spirit-level.

‘The coach, however, goes faster and faster over the hospital ground, as the bo-kickers feel their legs and the collars get warm to their shoulders; and having ten outsides, the luggage of the said ten, and a few extra packages besides on the roof, she rolls rather more than is pleasant, although the centre of gravity is pretty well kept down by four not slender insides, two well-laden boots, and three huge trunks in the slide. The gentleman of the last century, however, becomes alarmed—is sure the horses are running away with the coach—declares he perceives by the shadow that there is nobody on the box, and can see the reins dangling about the horses' heels. He attempts to look out of the window, but his fellow-traveller dissuades him from doing so: “You may get a shot in your eye from the wheel. Keep your head in the coach, it's all right, depend on 't. We always spring 'em over this stage.” Persuasion is useless; for the horses increase their speed and the worthy old gentleman looks out. But what does he see? Death and