"The good of ancient times let others state;I think it lucky I was born so late."
"The good of ancient times let others state;I think it lucky I was born so late."
"The good of ancient times let others state;I think it lucky I was born so late."
"The good of ancient times let others state;
I think it lucky I was born so late."
So wrote Sydney Smith, and it is a sentiment that all must concur in. The witty divine goes on to state:—
"A young man alive at this period hardly knows to what improvement of human life he has been introduced, and I would bring before his notice the following changes which havetaken place in England since I first began to breathe in it the breath of life—a period amounting now to nearly seventy-three years. Gas was unknown. I groped about the streets of London in all but the utter darkness of a twinkling oil lamp, under the protection of watchmen in their grand climacteric, and exposed to every species of depredation and insult. I have been nine hours sailing from Dover to Calais before the invention of steam. It took me nine hours to go from Taunton to Bath before the invention of railroads, and I now go in six hours from London to Bath."
The witty Reverend then proceeds to refer to wooden pavements instead of stone ones, the new police instead of the superannuated "Charleys," the well-appointed cab (what would he have said to the hansom)? in lieu of the lumbering hackney coach, waterproof instead of primitive pulp hats; he then calls the attention of the reader to the introduction of gentlemen's braces, colchicum, calomel, and clubs. He might have added, the greatest boons of all, the telegraph, which "wafts a sigh from Indus to the Pole," or, unpoetically speaking, announces in an incredibly short space of time the arrival of a friend in India or America, norwould he have omitted chloroform, which saves hours of agony and torture, and which is an especial blessing to the humbler classes, who, when undergoing some painful operation, have not the comforts of the wealthier class about them.
SLOW COACHES—FAST COACHES—"THE WONDER" AND "BLENHEIM"—PUBLIC DINNERS TO THE DRIVERS—PRESENTATION OF A SILVER CUP TO A DRIVER OF "THE BLENHEIM"—THE YOUNG OXONIANS FAIRLY TAKEN IN—NIMROD ON THE SHREWSBURY AND CHESTER "HIGHFLYER"—BANEFUL EFFECTS OF RAILWAYS ON THE ROAD—"THE DESERTED VILLAGE"—WONDERFUL FEAT OF LOCOMOTION.
CHAPTER III.
The term "slow coach" became proverbial, and was applied not only to the lumbering six-inside vehicles that travelled at almost a snail's pace, but to every schoolboy and collegian who possessed little or no gumption. Unfortunately, in those days the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals did not exist, or many a hulking fellow would have been had up for his merciless use of the lash when urging his wretched cattle up a severe hill or over ruts recently laid down with large unbroken stones—smooth "macadamised" roads being not then in prospective existence. So heavy was the draught that an appeal was being constantly made to the passengers to alight and walk up any acclivity, which upon a wet day or whenthe mud was ankle-deep, was not a very pleasant thing.
Such was the system of travelling in the good old times, as they were called, when every affair of life moved on at a quiet, jog-trot pace. But when competition of the most eager kind became the order of the day, it cannot be said that mails or coaches stood still. The Edinburgh Mail ran four hundred miles in forty hours, stoppages included. The Exeter day coach, the "Herald," went over its ground, one hundred and seventy-three miles, in twenty hours, an admirable performance, considering the natural unevenness of the country; and the Devonport Mail performed the journey, two hundred and twenty-seven miles, in twenty-two hours. The increase of speed was alarming to those who had been accustomed to the old-fashioned slow coaches, and the rate at which the new vehicles travelled was considered reckless risking of human life.
It may not be here out of place to observe that the first requisite in a coach horse is action, and the second sound legs and feet, with blood and bone. The third desideratum is good wind, as the power of respiration is called, without which the first and second qualifications availbut little for any length of time. A clear-winded coach horse will always keep his condition, and consequently his health, because he does not feel distress on a reasonable length of ground. The hunter or racer is good or bad, chiefly in proportion to his powers of respiration, and such equally applies to the coach horse. The food most proper, then, for a coach horse in fast work is that which affords ample support, without having a pernicious influence on his wind; or to use a more elegant, though not more forcible, expression, that which does not impair his respiratory organs by pressing on them.
To return to the fast coaches, so splendidly were they horsed, and so admirably well did they keep their time, that they fully merited the following eulogium.
At a dinner given at Shrewsbury some five and thirty years ago by coachmen and guards to the Honourable Mr. Kenyon, that gentleman, in proposing the health of Mr. R. Taylor, coach proprietor, made some interesting statements on the subject of stage-coach travelling. Among other remarks, he said:—
"As a coach proprietor, Mr. Taylor was oneof the most spirited in England. He had, at one time, two of the very best coaches that ever ran—the "Hirondelle" and "Wonder." No coach established for itself a higher reputation than the former. On May 1st, (the precise year he could not recollect) it accomplished its journey of one hundred and twenty miles in eight hours and twenty minutes—a speed few coaches could ever boast of.
"He (Mr. Kenyon) was in Shrewsbury that day, and saw a team of four greys, belonging to Mr. Taylor, enter the town, which had done their nine miles in thirty-five minutes. He recollected that there were two ladies inside the coach, who were informed that, as that day was appointed for a trial of strength, they might, if they were frightened at the speed, choose any other conveyance they pleased, and should be forwarded on their journey immediately; but their answer showed good blood; they said they were not aware that they had come at the great speed they had, and that they preferred going fast.
"With regard to the 'Wonder,' he himself left the 'Lion Yard,' Shrewsbury, one morning at six o'clock, and was at Islington the sameevening at seven o'clock, being only thirteen hours on the road. On that occasion he was driven by four of the best coachmen he ever saw.
"Another instance of the reputation the 'Wonder' had acquired was given him by his friend Sir Henry Peyton, who had informed him that he had frequently seen persons at St. Albans regulating their watches by the 'Wonder' coach as it came into that town. This was the only instance he had ever heard of a coach regulating the time. It was clear that the coach could not have gained such a name for regularity without good cattle and good coachmen, and it was to the proprietors they were indebted."
Charles Holmes, the driver of the "Blenheim" coach was in the year 1835 presented with a silver cup bearing the following inscription,
/# "Presented to Charles Holmes by Sir Henry Peyton on behalf of himself and two hundred and fifty subscribers, in testimony of their admiration of his good conduct as driver of the 'Blenheim' coach for a period of upwards of twenty years." #/
The subscription was limited to ten shillings, the actual half sovereign subscribed by the late Duke of Wellington was let into the bottom of the vase. The cup was presented to this first-rate "dragsman" after a dinner at the "Thatched House," presided over by Sir Henry Peyton.
Among the numerous anecdotes the road have furnished, perhaps one of the most amusing ones is the story of the Oxford "Defiance."
Term was over; the coach was full of young Oxonians returning to their respective colleges; the morning was cold, wet, and miserable, when the well-appointed "drag" drove up to the "White Horse Cellar," Piccadilly.
"Have you room for one inside?" asked as pretty a girl as you would wish to see on a Summer's day.
"What a beauty!" exclaimed one.
"Quite lovely!" said another.
"Perfect!" lisped a third.
"Quite full, Miss, inside and out," replied the coachman.
"Surely you could make room for one," persevered the fair applicant.
"Quite impossible, without the young gentlemen's consent."
"Lots of room," cried the insides; "we are not very large; we can manage to take one more."
"If the gentlemen consent," replied the driver, "I can have no objection."
"We agree," said the inside quartette.
"All right," responded the coachman.
The fare was paid, and the guard proceeded to open the door, and let down the steps.
"Now, Miss, if you please; we are behind our time."
"Come along, grandfather," cried the damsel, addressing a most respectable-looking, portly, elderly man; "the money is paid; get in, and be sure you thank the young gentlemen," at the same time suiting the action to the word, and, with a smile, assisting her respected grandfather into the coach.
"Here's some mistake. You'll squeeze us to death," cried the astonished party.
"Sorry to incommode you," replied the intruder; "I hope you won't object to haveboth windows up, I'm sadly troubled with a cough."
At this moment, "All right, sit fast!" was heard; and the "Defiance" rattled away, best pace, drowning the voices of the astonished Oxonians.
"Nimrod" tells a good story of the Shrewsbury and Chester "Highflyer," which started at eight o'clock in the morning and arrived at Chester about the same time in the evening—distance forty miles. This was always a good hard road for wheels, and rather favourable for draught; and how, then, could all these hours be accounted for?
"Why, if a commercial gentleman had a little business at Ellesmere there was plenty of time for that. If a real gentleman wanted to pay a morning visit on the road, there could be no objection to that. In the pork-pie season half an hour was generally occupied in consuming one of them, for Mr. Williams, the coachman, was a wonderful favourite with the farmers' wives and daughters all along the road.
"The coach dined at Wrexham, and Wrexham Church was to be seen—a fine specimen of the florid Gothic, and one of the wondersof Wales. Then Wrexham was also famous for ale, there being no public breweries in those days in Wales; and, above all, the inn belonged to Sir Watkin. About two hours were allowed for dinner, but Billy Williams, one of the best-tempered fellows on earth, as honest as Aristides, was never particular to half an hour or so.
"'The coach is ready, gentlemen,' he would say; 'but don't let me disturb you if you wish for another bottle.'"
What a contrast does this furnish to the hasty meals at the railway stations, where the bell for departure is heard long before the hungry passenger has swallowed half his scalding soup, or devoured his plate of cold meat!
The removal of posting and coaching from the road has had a baneful effect upon every branch of trade and industry. One example from each line of railway will show the consequences of the change that has taken place.
In the town of Hounslow, which was the first stage on the Great Western Road, there used to be kept, for the purposes of coaching and posting, two thousand five hundred horses.Any person acquainted with the nature of the business is aware that it would not be by any means an exaggeration to say that every one of these horses, for keep, duty, shoeing, ostlers, harness, &c., occasioned an outlay of two pounds per week, so that there was a sum of five thousand pounds circulated every week in this one town, besides the money that was spent by travellers at the different inns; and a very considerable portion of that amount was paid for labour and distributed among the different tradesmen, every one of whom was benefited directly or indirectly.
The state of things on the first stage of the Western Road will serve as an example for the whole of the remaining distance, as, of course, an equal number of horses was required all the way down the road, and the effect, therefore, was equally destructive upon all towns which were formerly thriving and prosperous—witness Reading, Newbury, Hungerford, Marlborough.
On the Northern Road an equally disastrous effect has been produced. At Barnet, where formerly Messrs. Bryant and Newman, the rival postmasters, could produce three hundred to four hundred pairs of horses, and where, alsoan immense number of coach-horses were kept, the grass has grown over the inn yard. The same observation applies with equal force to all towns east and south of the metropolis.
The above gave rise to the following parody on Goldsmith's "Deserted Village":—
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
"Quantum mutatus ab illo."
Hail, Hounslow! primest town upon the road,Where coaching once in all its glory showed,Where careful drivers might be always found,Ready when ostlers called to "bring 'em round."The Member rattling up at slapping pace,To ease his conscience, or secure a place—The maiden flying from a guardian's rage,In Hymen's "Union" venturing a stage—These knew no more of anxious fear or doubt,When John the ostler cried, "the first turn out."Once, Hounslow, there was many a gallant team,The dragsman's pride, the helper's fruitful theme;How dashingly they sweep up to the well-known door,Where rest awaited when their task was o'er;Or, sleek of coat, and deck'd with trappings gay,Bounding they met the labour of the day.Landlord and whip gazed on the thriving trade,And dreamt of fortunes soon and surely made,For then alike both house and coach fill'd well,"And all went merry as a marriage bell."Once it was thus—another age appears,And Hounslow's smiles, alas! are turn'd to tears.No more is heard the mellow winding horn,Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn;No spicy "change" now waits for the down mail,For, woe is me! the "Bristol's" on the "rail."No longer now is heard the busy dinIn the full yard that marks the prosperous inn;Unheard is now the watching ostler's call;The only "pair" is weary of the stall.Silent the joke of "boots," ne'er known to fail;The keeper's whistle and the postboy's tale.No waiter now bestirs him for the nonce,To answer fifty summonses at once;E'en Bessy's self, so long the bar's fair boast,The cookmaid's envy, and the bagman's toast,Whose winning smile was so well known to fameThat for a ray each traveller duly came,—E'en she—so hopeless, Hounslow, is thy case—Hath packed her traps and bolted from her place.A time there was, ere railroads came in force,When every mile of ground maintained its horse;Coach after coach then rattled briskly by,"Live and let live" was then the wholesome cry.'Tis past! and now succeeds the general doomOf landlord, barmaid, waiters, ostler, groom;The coachman's glories have for ever set,And "boots" has got a place—in theGazette.
Hail, Hounslow! primest town upon the road,Where coaching once in all its glory showed,Where careful drivers might be always found,Ready when ostlers called to "bring 'em round."The Member rattling up at slapping pace,To ease his conscience, or secure a place—The maiden flying from a guardian's rage,In Hymen's "Union" venturing a stage—These knew no more of anxious fear or doubt,When John the ostler cried, "the first turn out."Once, Hounslow, there was many a gallant team,The dragsman's pride, the helper's fruitful theme;How dashingly they sweep up to the well-known door,Where rest awaited when their task was o'er;Or, sleek of coat, and deck'd with trappings gay,Bounding they met the labour of the day.Landlord and whip gazed on the thriving trade,And dreamt of fortunes soon and surely made,For then alike both house and coach fill'd well,"And all went merry as a marriage bell."Once it was thus—another age appears,And Hounslow's smiles, alas! are turn'd to tears.No more is heard the mellow winding horn,Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn;No spicy "change" now waits for the down mail,For, woe is me! the "Bristol's" on the "rail."No longer now is heard the busy dinIn the full yard that marks the prosperous inn;Unheard is now the watching ostler's call;The only "pair" is weary of the stall.Silent the joke of "boots," ne'er known to fail;The keeper's whistle and the postboy's tale.No waiter now bestirs him for the nonce,To answer fifty summonses at once;E'en Bessy's self, so long the bar's fair boast,The cookmaid's envy, and the bagman's toast,Whose winning smile was so well known to fameThat for a ray each traveller duly came,—E'en she—so hopeless, Hounslow, is thy case—Hath packed her traps and bolted from her place.A time there was, ere railroads came in force,When every mile of ground maintained its horse;Coach after coach then rattled briskly by,"Live and let live" was then the wholesome cry.'Tis past! and now succeeds the general doomOf landlord, barmaid, waiters, ostler, groom;The coachman's glories have for ever set,And "boots" has got a place—in theGazette.
Hail, Hounslow! primest town upon the road,Where coaching once in all its glory showed,Where careful drivers might be always found,Ready when ostlers called to "bring 'em round."The Member rattling up at slapping pace,To ease his conscience, or secure a place—The maiden flying from a guardian's rage,In Hymen's "Union" venturing a stage—These knew no more of anxious fear or doubt,When John the ostler cried, "the first turn out."Once, Hounslow, there was many a gallant team,The dragsman's pride, the helper's fruitful theme;How dashingly they sweep up to the well-known door,Where rest awaited when their task was o'er;Or, sleek of coat, and deck'd with trappings gay,Bounding they met the labour of the day.Landlord and whip gazed on the thriving trade,And dreamt of fortunes soon and surely made,For then alike both house and coach fill'd well,"And all went merry as a marriage bell."
Hail, Hounslow! primest town upon the road,
Where coaching once in all its glory showed,
Where careful drivers might be always found,
Ready when ostlers called to "bring 'em round."
The Member rattling up at slapping pace,
To ease his conscience, or secure a place—
The maiden flying from a guardian's rage,
In Hymen's "Union" venturing a stage—
These knew no more of anxious fear or doubt,
When John the ostler cried, "the first turn out."
Once, Hounslow, there was many a gallant team,
The dragsman's pride, the helper's fruitful theme;
How dashingly they sweep up to the well-known door,
Where rest awaited when their task was o'er;
Or, sleek of coat, and deck'd with trappings gay,
Bounding they met the labour of the day.
Landlord and whip gazed on the thriving trade,
And dreamt of fortunes soon and surely made,
For then alike both house and coach fill'd well,
"And all went merry as a marriage bell."
Once it was thus—another age appears,And Hounslow's smiles, alas! are turn'd to tears.No more is heard the mellow winding horn,Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn;No spicy "change" now waits for the down mail,For, woe is me! the "Bristol's" on the "rail."No longer now is heard the busy dinIn the full yard that marks the prosperous inn;Unheard is now the watching ostler's call;The only "pair" is weary of the stall.Silent the joke of "boots," ne'er known to fail;The keeper's whistle and the postboy's tale.No waiter now bestirs him for the nonce,To answer fifty summonses at once;E'en Bessy's self, so long the bar's fair boast,The cookmaid's envy, and the bagman's toast,Whose winning smile was so well known to fameThat for a ray each traveller duly came,—E'en she—so hopeless, Hounslow, is thy case—Hath packed her traps and bolted from her place.
Once it was thus—another age appears,
And Hounslow's smiles, alas! are turn'd to tears.
No more is heard the mellow winding horn,
Waking the drowsy slumbers of the morn;
No spicy "change" now waits for the down mail,
For, woe is me! the "Bristol's" on the "rail."
No longer now is heard the busy din
In the full yard that marks the prosperous inn;
Unheard is now the watching ostler's call;
The only "pair" is weary of the stall.
Silent the joke of "boots," ne'er known to fail;
The keeper's whistle and the postboy's tale.
No waiter now bestirs him for the nonce,
To answer fifty summonses at once;
E'en Bessy's self, so long the bar's fair boast,
The cookmaid's envy, and the bagman's toast,
Whose winning smile was so well known to fame
That for a ray each traveller duly came,—
E'en she—so hopeless, Hounslow, is thy case—
Hath packed her traps and bolted from her place.
A time there was, ere railroads came in force,When every mile of ground maintained its horse;Coach after coach then rattled briskly by,"Live and let live" was then the wholesome cry.'Tis past! and now succeeds the general doomOf landlord, barmaid, waiters, ostler, groom;The coachman's glories have for ever set,And "boots" has got a place—in theGazette.
A time there was, ere railroads came in force,
When every mile of ground maintained its horse;
Coach after coach then rattled briskly by,
"Live and let live" was then the wholesome cry.
'Tis past! and now succeeds the general doom
Of landlord, barmaid, waiters, ostler, groom;
The coachman's glories have for ever set,
And "boots" has got a place—in theGazette.
A popular writer who flourished some five and forty years ago quotes a letter from a personal friend, who boasts of the following wonderful feat of locomotion:—
"I was out hunting last season, on aMonday, near Brighton, and dined with my father in Merrion Square, Dublin, at six o'clock on the following Wednesday, distance four hundred miles."
It was done thus:—He went from Brighton in an afternoon coach that set him down in London in time for the Holyhead Mail, and this mail, with the help of the steamer to cross the Channel, delivered him in Dublin at the time mentioned.
What would the writer say now, when, by leaving London at 7.15 a.m., he may dine at the table-d'hôte at the Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, at 7.30 p.m., with ample time to have a hot bath and change his dress before dinner is served?
The writer then proceeds to say:—
"In this wonder-working age few greater improvements have been made in any of the useful arts than in those applied to the system of travelling by land. Projectors and projects have multiplied with our years, and the fairy-petted princes of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" were scarcely transported from place to place with more facility or dispatch than Englishmen are ina.d.1832. From Liverpool to Manchester, thirty-six miles, inan hour and a half! Surely Dædalus is come amongst us again."
What would the writer of the above have thought if he had lived to travel by what is termed the "Flying Dutchman," which now runs from London to Plymouth in six hours and a quarter, and which, we understand, will shortly accomplish seventy miles an hour.
To resume—or, as the gentlemanly gang under Captain Macheath say, "Let us take the road" as it was at the period above mentioned.
The Edinburgh Mail ran the distance (four hundred miles) in forty hours, stoppages included. The Exeter day-coach, the "Herald," performed her journey of one hundred and seventy-three miles in twenty hours; Stevenson's Brighton "Age" kept its time to the minute; in short, from London to Cheltenham, Gloucester, Worcester, Birmingham, Norwich, Bath, Bristol, Southampton, Oxford, Cambridge, was little more than a pleasant Summer day's drive.
In order to accomplish the above fast journey two important considerations were required; first, that the horses should not be overworked,and, secondly, that they should be well fed. Horses have increased greatly in price since the period I write of, and a team which would have cost a hundred guineas in 1832 could not now be had for two hundred and fifty guineas. The cost of coaches of the best materials varied from one hundred and forty pounds to one hundred and sixty pounds; generally speaking, they were hired from the maker at from twopence half-penny to threepence per mile.
JOURNEY TO BATH IN THE PALMY DAYS OF COACHING—A DRIVING GIOVANNI—"PARSON DENNIS"—CONTRAST TO THE ABOVE—TENNANT'S DESCRIPTION—THE OLD BRIGHTON ROAD—MODERN IMPROVEMENTS—A SQUIRE OF 1638.
CHAPTER IV.
I now proceed to describe the road as it was before panting steeds had givin way to puffing engines, iron greys to iron rails, coachmen and guards to stokers, and horseflesh to steam, which has been likened to water in a high state of perspiration.
It was early in a morning, in the merry month of May, when I found myself at the "White Horse Cellar," Piccadilly, just as the York House coach was starting for Bath. I had previously secured the box seat, and, encased in a double-breasted drab coat, waited the arrival of a noble Duke, then a Marquis, well known to all the best coachmen on the road as a most liberal patron, and a first-rate whip himself.
"Sorry to have kept you," said the newcomer,"but Swaine only sent home the whip I promised you this morning; you will find it in this narrow deal case."
"Allow me to give up my place to you," I said, addressing the Marquis.
"Thank you a thousand times," he replied, "I am unfortunately engaged. We are going to man my new cutter, and pull to the Red House and back."
The case was handed up; the dragsman expressed his thanks.
"All right behind, gentlemen," he thundered, fingering the ribbons in the plenitude of vehicular importance. Away we went, rattling along the stony pavement of Piccadilly at an awful rate to make up for the lost time.
"Nice morning, Sir," said my companion, as we passed through the turnpike-gate that then stood opposite the entrance to the Park, near Apsley House. "The flowers are all a-blowing and a-growing." This line he sang, and then continued, "My missus gave me these beautiful violets about an hour ago."
"'Sam,' said she, 'I know I can trust you not to give them away to any girls on the road.'"
I turned round to admire the bouquet andtake a look at the wearer, who fully realised the description of the swell-dragsman immortalised in song by the late Hon. Fitzroy Stanhope. He was a well-dressed, natty-looking fellow, decked out in a neat dark brown coat, white hat, corduroy breeches, well polished boots, cloth leggings, and a splendid pair of double-sewn buckskin gloves. A huge pair of whiskers, shaped like a mutton chop, fringed the borders of each cheek, and were (as a costermonger in Knightsbridge irreverently remarked) large enough to pad a cart-saddle. In the course of conversation he invariably indulged the outside passengers with snatches of the popular ditties of the day, "Oh, say not woman's heart is bought," "Love has Eyes," "Will you come to the bower?" "Savourneen Deelish," "The Thorn," and "Sally in our Alley."
I soon discovered, from his manners and remarks, that my new coaching ally was a prodigious favourite with the fair sex, and from the roguish leer that he gave the respective damsels at the different inns and public-houses, I fancied he did not quite merit the confidence his wife placed in him. Indeed, when we stopped to change horses at Slough, I saw thefaithless Lothario present the pretty barmaid of the "Red Lion" with the bunch of violets, which she placed near her heart. Nay, more, if my optics did not deceive me, he implanted a kiss on the rosy lips of the blooming landlady, who faintly exclaimed, "For shame, you naughty man."
As I had won the good graces of this driving Giovanni, not only by listening to the story of his conquests over the rural Hebes, who dispensed their smiles and liquor to him, but by commending his voice in "Pray, Goody," which I declared to be equal to Sinclair's, he offered me the reins just after passing the "Sun Inn" at Maidenhead.
"Take 'em gently up the hill," said he, "and then you can have a spirt over the thicket."
To say that I was proud is to say nothing, for, having passed a few months with a private tutor at Littlewick Green, within two miles of the spot where we were, I felt that I should cut no little figure as I drove by the "Coach and Horses," a wayside public-house where I and my companions used to keep our guns when at our tutor's.
"Do you pull up at the 'Coach and Horses?'"I inquired, in so nervous a manner—I was then young, and, as Shakespeare writes, "in my salad days"—that the coachman, who is what is termed "wide-awake" upon all affairs of the heart, guessed my motive.
"We can, Sir, if you like," he responded. "Perhaps Dick has a parcel to leave for Squire Lee. Anything for the thicket?" he continued, turning to the "shooter" behind, and giving him a knowing wink, a hint which the other took at once.
"Why, yes, Sam; I wish to know whether Mr. Vansittart has sent for the empty sack I left there last Monday."
As we reached the well-known spot where I had passed many a half-hour in the society of the pretty, innocent girl whose fair face, blue eyes, auburn ringlets, and bewitching smile had turned the heads of all the youths in the neighbourhood, my heart began to palpitate, my hands to tremble, and I should have driven past the house had not my box companion caught hold of the reins with a firm grasp and pulled the horses up in front of the public-house. Fortunately, my Dulcinea had not noticed the hand that assisted me, and, seeing the coach stop, rushed to the door, exclaiming.
"Lord William! Who would have thought it! How much you have improved in driving! Do you recollect when you upset the dog-cart close to that pond?"
"I hope your father is well," I replied, anxious to change the conversation; "and Sally—I mean Miss Sadbroke—let the coachman and guard have a glass of your cream of the valley."
"Pray alight, my Lord," said the coachman, "I was not aware who I had the honour of addressing. Dick, show his Lordship into the bar."
I jumped down, rushed into the well-known snuggery, shook hands with poor old Sadgrove, who was a victim to what he called the "rheumatiz," quaffed a glass of bright, sparkling ale, threw down a crown piece, kissed my hand to the blooming girl, and mounted the box, not a little elated with my adventure. But to quit this spot of juvenile reminiscences. We trotted past my tutor's house on the green, where I was cheered by the boys of the village school, and, after an agreeable drive, reached Reading and then Newbury. Here the passengers were allowed twenty minutes for dinner, where we (I can answer for myself) did amplejustice to the fare, which consisted of a splendid boiled leg of mutton and a ham-and-veal pie.
"I go no further, gentlemen," said the coachman.
"All right," I responded, handing him a gold seven-shilling piece, then a current coin of the realm.
"Good morning! and thank you, my Lord," replied the deposed monarch of the whip. "I've told Mr. Dennis (commonly called Parson Dennis) that your Lordship has your driving-gloves on."
Again mounting the box, I found myself seated by one of the smartest men I ever met with at that period on the road. There was an air of conceit about him that was truly amusing, and it was rendered doubly so by his affected style of conversation. Unlike other dragsmen, he was dressed in the plainest style imaginable—a well-brushed black beaver hat, glossier than silk; a brown cutaway coat, dark Oxford mixed overalls, highly-polished Wellington boots, and fawn-coloured double kid gloves. The first object of my new companion was to inform me that he was well born, that he had been educated at Oxford, and that he was the most popularman at Bath; indeed, so much so that he was called the Beau Nash of the road. Unquestionably, according to his own showing, he was entitled to that distinction, for he offered to point out all the sights of the English Montpellier, including the assemblies, theatre, pump-room, crescents, gardens, walks, and abbey. So delighted was I with the dandified manner of my companion that the journey passed rapidly away.
On leaving Marlborough, he offered me the reins, which I accepted; and during the last stage he begged I would accept a pinch of the best Petersham mixture, informing me that it was a present from the noble Lord of that name, to whom he had been presented by an old Oxford acquaintance. Upon reaching the city of Bladud and driving up to the "York House," Mr. Dennis, with the air of Louis le Grand, politely took off his hat, wished me good evening, thanked me for my gratuity, and said that if I mentioned his name at the hotel every attention would be paid to me.
As a contrast to the above, let me show how our great-grandfathers travelled in 1739. Tennant writes as follows:—
"In March I changed my Welsh school for one nearer to the capital, and travelled in the Chester stage, then no despicable vehicle for country gentlemen. The first day, with much labour, we got from Chester to Whitchurch, twenty miles; the second day to the "Welsh Harp," the third to Coventry, the fourth to Northampton, the fifth to Dunstable; and, as a wondrous effort, on the last to London before the commencement of the night. The strain and labour of six horses, sometimes eight, drew us through the slough of Mireden and many other places. We were constantly out two hours before day, and as late at night, and in the depth of Winter proportionately later. Families who travelled in their own carriages contracted with Benson and Co., and were dragged up in the same number of days."
The single gentlemen—then a hardy race—equipped in jack-boots, rode post, through almost impassable roads, guarded against the mire, defying the frequent stumbles and falls, pursuing their journey with alacrity, while in these our days their enervated posterity sleep away their rapid journeys in easy railway carriages, fitted for the soft inhabitants of Sybaris. I can vouch for the latter, for I left York a few weeksago at night, after delivering a lecture of an hour and a quarter, and was in bed in Hans Place by four o'clock in the morning.
In bygone days a journey to Brighton occupied one entire day. Latterly the march of improvement has made rapid strides upon all roads. Brighton can now be reached in an hour and thirteen minutes; first class fares, by express (which are about to be reduced), thirteen shillings and threepence; by ordinary trains, ten shillings; second class express, ten shillings; ordinary trains, seven shillings and ninepence; third class, four shillings and sixpence. An inside passenger by the old coach had to pay sixteen shillings to Brighton; and for excess of luggage, if he carried what is now allowed to a first class passenger, a further charge of eight shillings and fourpence would be made; total, one pound four shillings and fourpence.
"This is the patent age of inventions." So wrote Byron, more than sixty years ago. Had he lived in our time how much greater cause would he have had to make the remark; for since the days of the noble poet how many inventions have been introduced! Steamboats andrailways instead of canvas sails and horses; active, wide-awake policemen instead of superannuated, sleeping "Charlies" of the Dogberry school; brilliant gas in lieu of the darkness-made-visible light, "whose oily rays shot from the crystal lamp."
No longer can we hail the "officious link-boy's smoky light," except during a dense thick, pea-soup coloured fog in the suicidal month of November. Instead of paved streets we have macadamised roads, albeit, there are some wiseacres who are (to adopt the old joke)putting their heads togetherto form a wooden pavement. We have light broughams and neat cabs instead of the rattling "agony" or hackney coach; iron vessels have taken the place of the "wooden walls of Old England," though our gallant tars are still "hearts of oak;" light French wines have driven good old humble port from our cellars, much to the advantage of gouty subjects.
Last, not least, the improved system of locomotion enables the sportsman to hunt from London, to enjoy his breakfast and return to his dinner in the metropolis, to run down to Ascot, Epsom, Egham, Brighton, Croydon, Sandown Park, Windsor, and Goodwood races, and beback at night, while the follower of old Isaac Walton may kill his trout in some of the Berkshire or Hampshire streams and enjoy the pleasure of his (the fish's) company at a seven o'clock dinner in London.
Of course, occasionally there are discomforts connected with the rail, for on a fine Summer's day it is far more agreeable to view the country from a travelling chariot, britchka, or stage-coach, than to be shot forth like an arrow from a crossbow, at an awful rate, amidst a hissing, whizzing, ear-piercing, shrill, sharp noise, something between a catcall in the gallery of some transpontine theatre on Boxing Night and the war-whoop of the Ojibbeway Indians after a scalping-party in North America. Then the odour! Instead of the scent of the brier, the balmy bean-field, the cottage-side honeysuckle, the jessamine, you have an essence of villanous compounds—sulphur, rank oil, and soot.
Again, the railway traveller occasionally finds his luggage missing; sometimes it is lost; our only wonder is that the above does not happen more frequently when we find the platform filled with loungers of all classes. Whether there are more fatal accidents by rail (in proportion to theexcess of travellers) over those who formerly journeyed by road we know not for certain, but we are disposed to think there are not.
Therefore, to sum up, if the question was "RoadversusRail," taking all the pros and cons into consideration, we should give the verdict for the defendant.
The modern lover of field sports is no longer a drunken, rollicking, two or four-bottle man; he prefers the society of the ladies in the drawing-room to that of the half-inebriated gentlemen in the dining-room; he dresses in a becoming manner, seldom swears, and, as far as his means go, keeps open house. What a contrast is this to the sportsman of bygone days! Perhaps, however, the following is the most curious picture of the sporting life and rude habits of the English country gentleman of the olden time, extant.
"In the year 1638 lived Mr. Hastings, second son of an Earl of Huntingdon. He was, peradventure, an original in our age, or rather the copy of our ancient nobility in hunting, not in warlike times. He was low, very strong, and very active, of a reddish flaxen hair. His clothes, always green cloth, and never all worth(when new) five pounds; his house was perfectly of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park, well stocked with deer, and near the house rabbits, to serve his kitchen; many fishponds, great store of wood and timber, a bowling green in it (long, but narrow), full of high ridges, it being never levelled since it was ploughed. They used round lead bowls, and it had a banqueting house, like a stand, built in a tree.
"He kept all manner of sport-hounds, that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and hawks, long and short-winged. He had all sorts of nets for fish; he had a walk in the New Forest and the Manor of Christ Church.
"This last supplied him with red deer, sea and river fish; and, indeed, all his neighbours grounds and royalties were free to him, who bestowed all his time on these sports. He was popular with his neighbours, and was ever a welcome guest at their houses; he, too, kept open house, where beef, pudding, and small beer, were to be had in plenty; his great hall was full of marrow bones, and full of hawks' perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers, the upper side of which was hung with foxes'brushes, here and there a polecat intermixed.
"The parlour was a very large room, and properly furnished. On a great hearth, paved with brick, lay some terriers, and the choicest hounds and spaniels. Seldom but two of the great chairs had litters of young cats in them, which were not to be disturbed, he having always three or four attending him at dinner, and a little white round stick of fourteen inches lying by his trencher, that he might defend such meat as he had no mind to part with to them.
"The windows (which were very large) served for places to lay his arrows, crossbows, stonebows, and other such-like accoutrements. The corners of the room full of the best chase hunting and hawking poles, an oyster-table at the lower end, which was of constant use twice a day all the year round, for he never failed to eat oysters before dinner and supper through all seasons; the neighbouring town of Poole supplied him with them. The upper part of the room had two small tables and a desk, on the one side of which was a Church Bible, and on the other the 'Book of Martyrs.'
"On the tables were hawks' hoods, bells,and such like, two or three old green hats, with their crowns thrust in, so as to hold ten or a dozen eggs, which were of a pheasant kind of poultry he took much care of, and fed himself. Tables, dice, cards, and bowls were not wanting. In the hole of the desk were scores of tobacco-pipes that had been used.
"On one side of this end of the room was the door of a closet, wherein stood the strong beer and the wine, which never came thence but in single glasses, that being the rule of the house strictly observed, for he never exceeded in drink or permitted it. On the other side was the door into an old chapel, not used for devotion; the pulpit, as the safest place, was never wanting of a cold chine of beef, venison pasty, gammon of bacon, or great apple-pie, with thick crust, extremely baked.
"His table cost him not much, though it was good to eat at; his sports supplied all but beef and mutton, except Fridays, when he had the best salt fish (as well as other fish) he could get, and that was the day his neighbours of best quality most visited him. He never wanted a London Pudding, and always sang it in with 'My past lies therein—a.'
"He drank a glass of wine or two at meals, very often syrup of gilliflower in his sack, and had always a tun glass without feet by his side, holding a pint of small beer, which he often stirred with rosemary. He was well natured, but soon angry; he lived to be a hundred; never lost his eye-sight, but always read and wrote without spectacles, and got on horseback without help. Until past fourscore he rode to the death of a stag as well as any."
COACHversusRAIL—DESCRIPTION OF A COACH JOURNEY FROM LONDON TO BATH—DIFFERENCES OF OPINION—THE COACH DINNER—LUXURIOUS LIVING—SNUG HÔTELLERIES—ENGLISHversusFOREIGN COOKING.
CHAPTER V.
"Every medal has its reverse." Many persons may be found who denounce coaching as an abomination; while others declare that railway travelling is most fatal only not to the lives, but to the comforts of Her Majesty's subjects. I pass over the dangers of the rail, and will lay before my readers the opinions expressed by the two contending parties. One declares that, among the many improvements of which this age has been productive—and many and vast have they been—that of travelling unquestionably bears the bell. The very word, however, has now become a misnomer. It is no longer travelling; it is flying over the country, luxuriously and triumphantly, at a pace that equals the hurricane.
The rapidity with which travellers are now conveyed by steam over the length and breadth of the country is a social advantage which, for manifold purposes, cannot be too much appreciated. Some may remember, and have not those suffered from, the old slow and sure system?
"This racks the joints,This fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,"
"This racks the joints,This fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,"
"This racks the joints,This fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,"
"This racks the joints,
This fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,"
might have been the motto of those stage-coaches which in former days pursued their way at the rate of six miles an hour, to the misery, inconvenience, and detention of every passenger that was doomed to the adoption of such conveyances. The pillory would now be preferable to the top of a stage-coach on its passage from London to Exeter on a dark, tempestuous night in December. What inexpressible horrors does the very idea suggest!
The expense, too, was no trifling consideration; for after the fare was paid, half of which was recouped if you did not put in an appearance, fees were incessantly demanded and wrung from the luckless traveller, as if he were a sheepborn to be fleeced by a pack of merciless hirelings.
Ere you started on your journey, a porter rushed up, and, whether permitted or not, seized your carpet-bag or hat-box, and pitching them into the boot, regardless of their contents, would turn round and, with audacious effrontery, demand a fee for his trouble; ay, and if he did not get it would abuse you roundly to your face. Then, the dignity of the box-seat! "Nota quæ sedes fuerat columbis"—pigeons they were, with a vengeance, that occupied it. At what price was it purchased! Entailing a double fee—one to the porter for casting your coat upon it, the other to the coachman for the privilege of sitting with your teeth in the wind, sharing his conversation, his rug, and his seat.
Talk not of the spicy team, the rattling bars, which for short journeys in fine weather was an agreeable way of travelling; but for distances the inside of a coach was almost insupportable. Outside in Winter not much better.
Then, again, the great improvement in travelling since the road gave way to the rail is never more deeply felt and rejoiced at than atEaster, Whitsuntide, and the festive season of Christmas, as it enables so many more to visit their friends in the country than was formerly the case, with a greater amount, too, of comfort to themselves, and at a considerably less expense.
In the old days of coaching and posting few, comparatively speaking, would be conveyed to or from the metropolis. Those who travelled post were often detained for horses; and those who went by coach had to book their places weeks before, paying half the fare, and even then a heavy fall of snow might put an end to all journeys. Now, instead of sitting for hours wet through from the pelting pitiless storm outside a coach—instead of being called by candlelight, and traversing the streets in a slow rumbling vehicle, the traveller can enjoy his breakfast in London, can be conveyed to the station in a fast-trotting hansom, can sit snugly protected from the weather, and reach his destination in a fourth of the time his predecessors could on the road.
And here it may not be out of place to describe a journey by coach, say from London to Bath, on a cold raw Winter's day. I speak of the time when the old, crawling, creaking, rattling, sixinside vehicle had not given way to the fast four-horse light coach.
Often have I travelled by one of these wretched conveyances to Newbury, when I was at a private tutor's at Donnington Grove. As lucifer-matches had not then been introduced, the only method of getting a light was by striking a flint against a steel in a tinder-box. Your candle lit, a hasty toilet made, you descended, if at an hotel, into a coffee-room, miserably lit, and reeking with the odour of gin, brandy, and punch.
At that early hour, breakfast was out of the question. Then there was the uncertainty whether the hackney-coach you had ordered over night would be forthcoming; if it did arrive, you reached the "White Horse Cellar" or "Gloucester" Coffee-House by a little before six, where a glass of rum and milk, or some "early purl," might be had. If an inside passenger, you were subjected to being "cribb'd, cabin'd, confined" in a small compass, without head or knee room, for nearly sixteen hours. If an outsider, there was the discomfort of cold winds, drifting snow, heavy rain, and dripping umbrellas.
Then the dinners on the road—twentyminutes allowed, with its scalding soup stained warm water, its tough steaks, its Scotch collops, "liquidis profusus odoribus," its underdone boiled leg of mutton, its potatoes, hot without and hard within. Then the scramble for a nook by the fire to dry the soaked coat, cloak, or hat; then the change of coachmen, all of whom expected to be remembered; then the fees to guard and porters. Let anyone picture to himself or herself the miseries of such a journey, and be thankful that they have all nearly vanished under the mighty power of steam.
Having given the opinions of the advocates of the rail, I turn to those of the road, who thus describe the delights of a journey in a fast coach.
They suppose a fine Spring morning, when you find yourself seated by the side of a pleasant companion, behind four blood horses, the roads sufficiently watered by an April shower to lay the dust; the hedgerows shooting forth—buds unfolding, flowers bursting out; the birds carolling cheerfully, as if to welcome the return of Spring; the sun smiling upon the snug cottages, the picturesque village churches, the small hamlets, the peaceful homesteads, the neatly-keptgardens, whose early produce were beginning to bloom—such were theagrémentsof the road.
Every mile presented a new feature; the green fields, the earth teeming with fertility, the velvet lawns, the verdant fields, the luxuriant woods, the peaceful valleys, the shady lanes, the blossomed orchards, the "balmy odours" of nature—her breath upon the breeze—all combined to raise your dull spirits to a state of ecstasy. Then the excitement as the well-appointed "drag" drove through the village, the guard sounding his cheerful horn, and the coach pulled up for a snack at a cleanly wayside public-house, where the buxom landlady and the pretty barmaid dispensed the creature comforts to the hungry guests, their appetites sharpened by a drive of some twenty or five-and-twenty miles.
They then turn to the rail, declaring that, instead of the "balmy odours" of nature—her breath upon the breeze—the traveller is nearly suffocated with the rank smell of oil, smoke, gas, and sulphur. Instead of gazing upon the beauties of England's rural scenery, you are whirled along at the rate of fifty miles an hour, amidst the densest smoke, the groanings ofengines, through an embankment of chalk or clay.
Just as you are contemplating a fine mountainous view, a stately viaduct, a picturesque waterfall, or a placid lake, another train meets yours, and entirely hides the prospect from you. Instead of the warm welcome at the inn, apostrophised by Shenstone, or the less ostentatious, although not less sincere, reception at the wayside public-house, you are shown into a huge room that reminds you of the spot where the lions are wont to be fed at the Zoological Gardens, where all is noise, hurry, and confusion; where your pockets are emptied and your inner man not filled, from the caloric qualities of the food and the haste in which you are called upon to devour it; and last, not least, they compare the comfort of a barouche and four, a chariot and pair, starting at your own hour, stopping where you like, with the levelling system of the rail, where high-born dames of great degree are mixed with blacklegs and sharpers, where the "hereditary pillars of the State" congregate with Whitechapel "gents" and Corinthian "swells," where prim old maids are "cheek by jowl" with libertineroués, where young and innocent boarding-school misses sit next tosoi-disantcaptains and needy fortune-hunters, where unprincipled debtors are placed opposite their clamorous creditors, where sage philosophers come in collision with unchained lunatics, and proud peeresses are brought in contact with the frail and fair ones of the demimonde.
They then describe a stage-coach dinner, contrasting it with one that could be had at all good inns on the road when travelling luxuriously in your own carriage. And they lay the scene at the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames; at the "Windmill," Salt-hill; at the "Pelican," Newbury; at the "Bear," Reading; at the "Sugar-loaf," Dunstable; at the "Dun Cow," Dunchurch; at the "Hop Pole," Worcester; at the "King's Arms," Godalming; at the "Castle," Taunton; at the "Lion," Shrewsbury; at the "Hand Inn," Llangollen, and at a variety of other excellent inns, many of which have been swept away since the introduction of the rail.
They dwell upon the good old English country fare, which did not require the foreign aid of ornament. Not that they censure French cooking; but what they find fault with—and Iheartily concur in this—is an attempt to transmogrify native dishes into Continental ones by what the newspaper advertisements term "a professed woman cook," who is as fit to send up a well-dressedfilet de volaille à la Parisienne, aMaintenon cotelette, or aVol au vent à la financièreas she would be to play a match of polo at Hurlingham, or to take the part of the Countess in the "Mariage de Figaro."
The plain and perfect English dinners in bygone days generally consisted of mutton broth, rich in meat and herbs; fresh-water fish in every form, eels stewed, fried, boiled, baked, spitch-cocked, and water-suchet; the purest bread and freshest butter; salmon and fennel sauce; mackerel brought down by coach from the Groves of London, with green gooseberries, and the earliest cucumbers; a saddle of Southdown, kept to a moment and done to a turn; mutton chops, hot and hot; marrow-bones; Irish stews; rump-steaks tender and juicy; chicken and ham, plum-pudding, fruit tarts, trifles, and gooseberry-fool. Then the produce of the grape—no thin, washy claret, at eighteen shillings a dozen; no fiery port, one day inbottle; no sherry at twenty-five guineas the cask; but fine old crusted port, sherry dry and fruity, madeira that had made more than one voyage to India. Our readers must decide between the two opinions.
"MOVING ACCIDENTS" BY RAIL AND COACH—SHORT TIME FOR THE ISSUE OF RAILWAY TICKETS—RECKLESS DRIVERS—AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR—ANECDOTE OF THE LATE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
CHAPTER VI.
A great deal has been written and said upon the subject of accidents in travelling, and comparisons have been made between those caused by rail and road. There can be no doubt that there has been an awful sacrifice of life and an enormous amount of injury attributable to the rail. Where hundreds formerly made their journeys by public mails and stage-coaches, or travelled in their own carriages, thousands upon thousands are now conveyed by steam; and out of those thousands how many are reckless and foolish!—scrambling into the carriages when they are moving, or rushing out before they stop.
Although it would be, humanly speaking, impossible to provide against accidents, for in or after a frost ironwork cannot be depended upon;still, some might be averted by extra care and diligence on the part of those to whom the lives of Her Majesty's faithful subjects are entrusted. I believe it is many years since an accident has occurred on the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway; and this is mainly owing to the unremitting attention of the general manager, J. P. Knight, Esq., and his staff; and probably there are other railways equally well looked after and equally free from danger.
To render railway travelling safer than it now is, the following rules should be adopted:—First and foremost, the men should be better paid, and not overworked; secondly, the telegraph and signal duties should be placed in the hands of responsible and intelligent persons; and last, not least, punctuality in starting should be rigidly enforced, for in making up for lost time many have found to their cost that the old hunting maxim has been realised, "It is the pace that kills."
To carry out the latter, luggage should be sent into the station a quarter of an hour before the time of departure, and the doors closed to passengers five minutes before the train leaves. How often have I seen trains delayed in London and at different stations in the country throughthe late arrival of some persons of distinction! The humbler classes do not fare quite as well, for many a farmer's wife, country girl, labourer, or mechanic has either been left behind or has been hustled into the third class carriages, leaving band-boxes, baskets, tools or implements on the platform. It is only a few months ago that I saw the above illustrated.
At—— station, just after the train was in motion, a well-appointed waggonette drove up, the coachman shouting "Wait a moment!" The injunction was obeyed, the train was stopped, and in about four or five minutes two middle-aged ladies, a tiny specimen of the canine race, a luncheon basket, dressing case, work-basket, cloaks, umbrella, and parasols were deposited in a first class compartment, and a large amount of luggage placed in the van. The darling little white, curly-haired pet, "Bijou" by name, soon emancipated itself from the muff in which it had been hid, much to the discomfiture of myself and other occupants of the carriage! Mark the contrast! After about an hour's journey we stopped at a very rural station, and just as the whistle was about to be blown a quiet, respectable-looking female, evidently of the humbler grade, rushed out of the office withmerely a small basket in her hand, exclaiming,
"Am I in time, guard?"
"Plenty," he responded, "for the next train."
The whistle was heard, and the poor woman left behind, to ruminate for four hours upon her ill-luck.
There is another evil which many of the railways have got rid of, and which we trust will shortly be universally adopted—I refer to the brief time allowed for taking tickets. In Glasgow (I speak from experience) you may purchase your ticket in offices appointed for the sale of them independent of the railway station. To the public this is a special boon, and upon one occasion I found the benefit of it.
I was engaged to give a lecture at the City Hall, Glasgow, which was to commence at eight o'clock. The night train to London left at twelve minutes after nine, so there was not much time to spare. By taking my ticket in the afternoon, leaving my portmanteau in the cloak-room, engaging an intelligent porter to take it out and have it ready for me, and benefiting by the kindness of my host, Wm. Holms, Esq., M.P. for Paisley, who conveyed me inhis brougham from the lecture-hall to the station, I arrived in time for the train, reaching my London home in time for a ten o'clock breakfast, with ample time, as the Yorkshireman says, "to have a wash before a bite."
I now turn to accidents by road. These were principally caused through the carelessness of the drivers, a refractory team, a coach that had not been thoroughly inspected before starting, and occasionally by a coachman who had imbibed a considerable quantity of strong ale or fiery spirits. I could fill pages with accidents that have occurred to stage-coaches, in which many were killed and others most severely hurt.
If I recollect right, a Worcester coach, descending the steep hill into Severn Stoke, was overturned, none of the passengers escaping death; and on all the roads east, west, south, and north of London frequent upsets took place, more especially during the foggy month of November, where ditches bounded the main road.
I well remember travelling from Windsor to London on the box of Moody's coach, driven by "Young Moody," as he was called in contradistinction to his father, the proprietor ofit. I was on the box seat; and after passing Cranford Bridge a dense fog set in, one of those fogs that are described as resembling the colour of pea-soup. The coach was full inside and out.
"I don't half like this," said Moody. "If I can only manage to get safe to Hounslow, I'll have the lamps lit."
In those days lucifer-matches were quite unknown, so to get a light from any of the passengers was impossible; not so would it be at the present time, when almost every one carries with his pipe or cigar a box of matches.
Scarcely had my box companion uttered the above words when we were upset, an accident caused by our driving into a deep, broad ditch. I and the outsiders were pitched into the furze on the heath, anything but a bed of roses, while the insides were screeching for help. Some of us ran to the horses to keep them quiet, others lent their aid in extricating three middle-aged ladies and an elderly gentleman who were confined in what one of the females described as the "opaque body of a stage-coach."
After some trouble things were put to rights;happily, no one being severely injured. Thinking it more than probable that if we attempted to proceed on our journey without lamps we should meet with another mishap, I got a labouring friend who came to our assistance to walk to the "Travellers' Friend," and borrow two lanthorns. This he accordingly did; so with the aid of our own lamps and the above lights we managed to reach Hounslow in safety. From Hounslow to London we had difficulties to contend against, for the dim oily rays of a few lamps and lights in shops had not then given way to the brilliancy of gas.
A few years afterwards, when travelling inside the Henley coach, an axletree broke, and we were upset into a drift of snow—soft, but rather cooling. Upon this occasion an outside passenger had his arm fractured.
My third and fourth upsets from private carriages will be duly recorded.
It occasionally happened that driving out or into a yard, despite the warning "Take care of your heads," some half-sleepy or inattentive passenger met with a serious accident by his head coming in contact with the roof. Then, again, a skid would come off the wheel goingdown hill at an awful pace, which, of course, brought the passengers to grief. An inveterate kicker or a giber added to the dangers of the road, and a heavy snowstorm, in which the passengers had to descend and make their way to the nearest wayside inn or cottage, did not improve their condition.
Of course when due precautions were taken, the accidents were, comparatively speaking, few. I have travelled at a tremendous pace by the "Hirondelle"—irreverently called the "Iron Devil"—by the "Wonder," between Shrewsbury and London, and by almost all the fast coaches between London and Brighton, London and Oxford, London and Southampton, London and Bath, and have never met with the slightest accident.
In bygone days it was very agreeable, albeit rather expensive, to travel post, especially in your own light chariot or britchka; but to be dependent upon hack chaises on the road was far from pleasant. These chaises were not very well hung on springs, the windows seldom fitted closely, and the rattling noise reminded one of a dice-box in full play upon wheels. There was generally straw enough at your feet to hold a covey of partridges. Although thesevehicles were light and followed well, a great deal of time was wasted in shifting your luggage from one to another at every stage, or, at most, every other stage.
I once left London on an affair of importance—namely, that of carrying a hostile message from a friend to a gentleman who resided near Marlborough, and found it so difficult to rouse the ostler, postboy, and the man who looked after the chaises, that I got no farther than Botham's at Salt Hill.
I left the Piazza Coffee-House, where the letter had been concocted demanding an apology or a meeting, about eleven at night, was kept waiting for more than a half hour at the "Red Lion," Hounslow, and only reached Salt Hill about half-past one in the morning. There, again, had I to awake the sleepy ostler and drowsy waiter, the latter of whom strenuously recommended me to sleep at the hotel and continue my journey at daylight. This I accordingly did; but what with the arrangement of the affair of honour, as it was called, and which ended amicably, I was nearly two-and-twenty hours on the journey by road that could now be accomplished with ease by rail in less than seven.
I have alluded to two upsets that I have in the course of my life met with from private travelling-carriages. The first occurred in July, 1814, when returning with the late Duke of Wellington from Windsor to London. His Grace had been dining with the officers of the Royal Horse Guards (Blues), in which regiment I had the honour of holding a commission, when, as we reached Brentford, at night, the linch pin came out of the fore wheel of his carriage, by which it was upset.
Nothing would satisfy the people but drawing the carriage to London, which they certainly would have done but for the remonstrance of his Grace, which finally succeeded. After a delay of half an hour the damage was repaired, and we reached London in safety. The accident might have proved a fatal one, for we were travelling as fast as four good horses could take us.
Had such a calamity happened to Wellington, then in the prime of life, no one can hardly picture the consequences. Happily his life was spared to add another conquest to those he had won on the banks of the Douro, of the Tagus, the Ebro, and the Garonne.
The second and last upset I had was on the night of my return from Canada, in 1819, when, in driving through Goodwood Park, the postboys drove over a bank and, to use a common expression, "floored the coach."