RAIL v. ROAD;

OR,

ANCIENT AND MODERN TRAVEL.

BY WHISKAWAY.

I set out by saying that I could not boast of any stage coach intimacy, but, on running my mind through my memory I bring up one that ought not to have escaped my recollection. It was with a very singular man, one who made some noise in the sporting world, and in my opinion ought to have made much more; and the course of our acquaintance was as singular as anything else. It was on a fine summer afternoon that, having taken my seat behind poor Stevenson, on the roof of the Age, for a few gulps of the sea air at Brighton, that on passing the Elephant and Castle, a yellow buggy pulled up alongside the coach, and the driver having given the reins to his servant, handed a small portmanteau to Stevenson's servant to put in the hind boot. Stevenson and he were evidently acquainted; possibly they had been together that morning, for neither seemed to think it worth while recognizing the other, further than as far as a jerk of the arm and a glance of the eye went on pulling up, and the stranger having seen his luggage deposited, and his drab coat thrown over the box seat, gave me an opportunity of scanning him, while with a quick restless sort of air he made a hurried survey of the horses. He was a little man-a good deal below the average height, I should say-and his size was made still less by a lowish crowned narrow-leafed hat rather tapering towards the top, from the glossy sides of which snowwhite hair was protruded. His face, though aged, was fair and clear; time seemed to have passed lightly over it, for though the deep lines were visible, the surface had nothing of a hard or weather-beaten appearance. It was a mild, good-natured, pleasant countenance, lit up with the most piercing little black eyes that I ever beheld-eyes that roved here, there, and everywhere, and seemed to take in everything and scan everybody at a glance. He wore a white neckcloth, with a blue silk upper handkerchief, and the rest of his costume consisted of a plain Oxford grey coat and waistcoat (coat pockets outside), with drab trowsers and well polished boots.

His hasty survey of the horses being completed, he then proceeded to mount the box. It was evident he was fresher on his legs than he was in his hands, for he took a considerable deal of "clawing", as they

I

called it, before heeffected his purpose; but having done so, he shook his great coat out by the collar to sit upon, observing with a smile and a shake of the head, half to himself, half to any body that liked to take it-"Oh this weary gout! this weary gout!" exhibiting at the same time a set of much swelled knuckles.

He

The same quick, darting sort of scrutiny now awaited the passengers; and, having shot his little jet-black eyes-their blackness contrasting strongly with the whiteness of his hair-around the coach, he settled himself into his seat, and made himself comfortable. was a lively, volatile little man-a word for everybody, or an observation for every thing-driving, riding, racing, shooting, fishing, hunting, farming, gardening, nothing seemed to come amiss to him. He could talk about them all; not only talk, but entered with enthusiasm into almost every subject; his piercing little eyes deriving fresh lustre, if possible, as he warmed with his observations. I was quite taken with the old gentleman. In truth, he was a pleasant old man; nothing pedantic, nothing formal, neither obtrusive nor forward, but just a merry, communicative little man, with whom one seemed to glide into acquaintance-if not friendship-imperceptibly. He seemed to have a large acquaintance too; for scarce a coach we met, but he spoke to some one or some one spoke to him, and not a gig or horseman passed us on the road between London and Croydon, but he gave one of his little, quiet nods. Before we arrived at Brighton we had got quite thick-so thick, indeed, that he was rash enough to lend me a horse-a thorough-bred hack, that, he said, I might keep as long as I liked; buy, if I chose (at a small figuresome eighteen or twenty pounds), or return to him at any time I

liked.

Some few-and I fear they will only be few, for it is long sinceof your readers will recognize in this sketch the person of "Jonathan Bell," as keen a little sportsman and as pleasant a little fellow as ever mounted a coach box or followed hounds. To the greater part of the world he will still be unknown; but when I introduce him as the author of "Peter Pry's" and "Anisty's" letters, in a Sporting Contemporary, I give those who appreciated them at the time an interest in my man; and those who never read them, an opportunity of referring to productions springing warm from a genuine sportsman's heart, creditable to his feelings, creditable to English literature, and creditable to the work in which they appeared.

In my opinion, the sporting world knew too little of Jonathan Bell. He was too modest, too diffident, too humble-minded, to push his way and beam a meteor in the great constellation of talent that then illumined the sporting literature of the day; but I put it to any man who was acquainted with him, whether they ever knew a keener or quieter sportsman, one who entered more minutely, more enthusiastically into the various departments of field sports than himself; while the admirer of lively, quaint, graphic description and portraiture, cannot fail to be pleased with a perusal of his papers.

I don't know how it was, but, on referring to the volumes of the "Old Sporting Magazine," I find few of those applauding cheers be

stowed on "Peter's" papers that cotemporary writers lavished on each other in their monthly criticisms of the current number; but I remember, as a mere reader (without dreaming that I should ever become acquainted with their author), being struck and delighted with the hearty, natural, "con amore" style of "Peter's" papers. They read like the writings of a man sitting down in a hurry, to tell all he knew in a short space of time, without that curse of modern authorship, writing at particular people, and without any desire of spinning the article out beyond its legitimate length, or any consideration as to how many pages it would make in print. "Peter's" style, too, was strangely like the man-quick, darting and restless: no using two words where one would suffice; no casting about for fine language, or lugging in quotations neck and croup; but it was what may be called a fine, joyous, dashing, sparkling style of writing, full of quiet fun, stealing imperceptibly upon one, just as he used to steal upon the field out hunting, till his low-crowned hat and pepper-andsalt coat led the way.

One writer, and one only that I remember, spoke kindly and encouragingly of "Peter"-the late Lord Harley. In a postscript to his account of St. Brieux Races, under the signature of "The Old Forester," in reviewing the recent accession of writers to the work, his Lordship says "Of Peter,' like his name-sake Paul Pry, I can only say he is ever a most welcome intruder whenever he makes his appearance in your pages. There are some glowing descriptions by him of men and things, in the July number, which would not disgrace the pen of the Great Novelist himself." Alacka-day! three years more, and it will be twenty years since those papers were published; and "Peter," like his panegyrist, I fear, has long been laid low. I do not know what age Mr. Bell was at the time I made his acquaintance, but I should say little short of seventy. As I said before, he was a fresh man in the face, with symptoms of age and feebleness in his limbs. Still he was a capital hand across country. I saw him lead a large field of London sportsmen, one day, with Lord Derby's stag-hounds, on a little brown horse, under fifteen hands. It is singular, though I should have known him so well as to have borrowed a horse of him, or, as your readers may, perhaps, say, that he should have known me so well as to have lent me one, that I never knew what Mr. Bell was, nor yet where he lived. I have some indistinct idea that his domicile was at Kensington; but I never was in his house, if I ever was at it: our dealings were upon paper. Like myself, I should think he was a great wanderer: his writings show that. How many aliases he may have adopted I know not, but the two signatures he was generally known by, "Peter Pry" and "Anisty," abundantly show his erratic propensity. Mr. Bell evidently wrote for pleasure. Had he been desirous of literary distinction, the "Warren's Blacking" sort of notoriety that attends the man who undergoes the full puff process of Colburn or Bentley, he would have stuck to one signature and (as Lord Byron said) "made it famous." Not that Bell was without fame or admirers, but he never sought for it. There

was always a diffidence and self-depreciation in his papers; an apparent willingness to knock under to any one who wanted precedence of him. Such a man is ill calculated to elbow his way and get on in this pushing, jostling world. I have been a close observer of sporting literature for the last twenty years; and, from what I knew of Mr. Bell, and from what I glean from his writings, I do not think we had any man so competent to edit a sporting periodical as he was. It has been said that a sporting editor should know a little of every thing; but Mr. Bell knew a great deal, and that practically. Nor was he a man to travel from Dan to Beersheba, and exclaim that "all was barren!" On the contrary, I'll be bound to say, if you'd put him on a Putney 'buss, in Piccadilly, to go to its sixpenny journey's end, Bell would have extracted fun and instruction from the stage.

"Mr.

The subject of the road brought Mr. Bell to my recollection, as a writer upon it. His début in print was in an article headed, Hanbury's Hounds-Coachmen on the North Road;" and he commences it by telling a little of his history. Addressing himself to the editor-"the Speaker of the sporting world," he says, "It is only within a very short time that I have had the pleasure of reading any of the "Sporting Magazine" numbers: although a man of a downhill period of life-although a man who has been much occupied, during a course of thirty years, with sports of all descriptions, and kept the society of sporting men, at whose houses I was constantly in the habit of seeing this amusing work well ordered in the libraries -yet it has so happened that I never embraced an opportunity of becoming acquainted with its merits. Fortunately, during a visit to a friend (thoroughly a fox-hunter) of a few days, about a month since, I found several of your offerings to the public on the readingtable. It was in my friend's dressing-room; and, while he was preparing for dinner, I ran over some of the numbers" [I can fancy Peter, hurrying through the pages, reading both columns, in which the "Sporting Magazine" used to be printed, at once]," and was much gratified by many of the communications. Being a man of Hertfordshire, my friend said- Do look at the account of a chase with your friend Hanbury's hounds: you know the country, and all the men described.' I turned to the page, of course, with much interest, being accurately acquainted with such localities as were likely to be discussed. The run which Nimrod the Second' enjoyed I had heard of before, every minute character of it having been detailed by a conspicuous character in the exhilirating scene; but, as your correspondent has rather curtailed his history, I trust he will excuse my venturing to throw a little more light on its well-described brilliancy by him. I mean not to cast the most distant degree of slight on his relation, but simply to add a few circumstances which appear to have escaped his observation, and which I trust will only increase the interest of the story, and be in unison with his just feelings, to render a tribute of praise so eminently due to the master of the hunt." Peter then goes on to perform the work thus cut out for himself. Having done so, he proceeds with his letter, and tells us that he next "glanced

his eye" to the entertaining description of the road, and driving by the editor's valuable coadjutor, “Nimrod." "I am," says he, "an enthusiast in these matters, and have had no trifling experience in the working department." This I know to be perfectly true: I remember sitting next an honourable coaching captain at dinner one day, who said to me "Our quiet little friend Bell knows more about coaching and driving than almost any man going, and is a first-rate performer." Indeed, this is apparent from the manner in which Bell handles the subject; for, after depreciating his own and extolling Nimrod's descriptive powers, he proceeds to discuss driving, and the merits of particular coachmen, in a way that plainly shows he is perfectly at home on the box. Take the following sketch of Cartwright :-" Mr. Cartwright," says he, "drives the York Express coach from Bugden and Welwyn, and back every day, about seventy miles, one or two stages of which he provides horses for.

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I consider him under fifty years of age, bony without fat-healthy looking, evidently the effect of abstemiousness-not too tall, but just the size to sit gracefully and powerfully, as well as to render his getting up and down easy. The moment he has got his seat and made his start, you are struck at once with the perfect mastership of his art: the hand just over his left thigh-the arm without constraint, steady, and yet with a holding command that keeps his horses like clockwork-yet, to a superficial observer, quite with loose reins. So firm and compact is he, that you seldom observe any shifting-only, I may say, to take a shorter purchase for a run down hill, which he accomplishes with greater confidence and skill than any man I ever saw, untinctured with imprudence. His right hand and whip are beautifully in unison: the crop, if not in the direct line with the box over the near wheel, raised gracefully up, ready, as it were, to reward the near-side horse; the thong-the thong, after three twists (just enough suspended for the necessary purpose), which appear in his hand to have been placed by the maker, never to be altered or improved; and, if the off-side horse becomes slack, to see the turn of his arm to reduce a twist, or to reverse it, if necessary, is exquisite; and, after being placed under the rib, or upon the shoulder-point, up comes the arm, and with it the thong returns to the elegant position upon the cross."

Though copying print is by no means so pleasant as reading it, yet in a valedictory article to stage-coaches like this-making up, as it were, all the pros and cons in a bundle, for the amusement and gratitude of future generations (as I cannot send the vol. by post), I will undergo the slavery of extracting a sketch of a right sort of coachman, for the purpose of showing a little more of Peter Pry's descriptive powers and discrimination, and as a contrast to the doe-skinned, lily-tiled heroes of later days.

"Cartwright's perfections end not here: his manner of treating the leaders is equally fine. His teams are too good ever to require seve rity; therefore you cannot get to see a specimen of the different strokes right and left. However, to see my friend use a back-handed draw over the leaders' heads, is worth riding many hours in a wet day for,