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JOHNA.SEAVERNS 


COACHING    DAYS 


AM> 


COACHING    WAYS 


J' 


iMK  ' m^  fti'l'  .'P^^  m    ^f^^"  '^mt^y^--^^ 


The  rosl-Boys. 


COACHING    DAYS 


AND 


COACHING    WAYS 


BY 

W.    OUTRAM    TRISTRAM 


WITH    214    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 
HUGH    THOMSON    and    HERBERT    RAILTON 


Hontion 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    NEW    YORK 
1893 


Richard  Clay  and  Sons,  Limited 
london  and  bungay 


First  Edition  (^^\.o)  printed  1888 

Si-ccmd  Edition  (Crown  Z\o)  June  1893.  reprinted  July  1893 

Edition  dc  Luxe  (Super  Royal  Svo)  1893 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.    The  Bath  Road i 

11.    The   Exeter    Road 80 

III.  The  Portsmouth  Road 149 

IV.  The  Brighton   Road 190 

V.     The  Dover  Road 222 

VI.    The  York  Road 279 

VII.    The  Holyhead  Road 335 

Conclusion 37o 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Post-Boys Frontispiece 

Setting  Out i 

The  Lower  Ship  Inn  at  Reading 2 

Waiting  for  the  Stage  Coach. 5 

The  Bear  at  Reading  :  "  its  days  are  gone  ! "  .    . 6 

A  Breakdown  :  Taking  on  the  Mails  .    .    .    : I'i 

True — every  word  of  it i  - 

St.  Mary's  Butts,  Reading 15 

A  Winter  Day's  Amusement 19 

Newbury    Bridge -i 

The  Jack  of  Newbury 24 

The  Sign  of  the  Angel,  Woolhampton 25 

Henry  the  Eighth  and  the  Abbot  of  Reading 27 

Doctor  Swift  and  Bolingbroke 30 

The  Old  Angel  at  Theale V- 

Courtyard  of  Angel,  Woolhampton 34 

The  King's    Head,   Thatcham 35 

Shaw    House,  Newbury 36 

Littlecote 37 

The  White  Hart,  Thatcham 38 

Great  Chatfield  Manor,  near  Bath 39 

Littlecote   Hall 4^ 

Haunted  Room,  Littlecote 44 


X  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Black  Bear,  Hungerford 48 

The  Young 'Un 50 

Old  Marlborough 52 

The  Castle  Inn,  now  part  of  Marlborough  College     ....  54 

Eloped  ! 57 

A  Quaint  Corner  in  Marlborough 58 

A  Change  of  Horses 60 

The  Old  Market  House,  Marlborough 61 

Hungerford  Chapel,  Devizes 63 

St.  John's  Church,  Devizes 66 

Wraxhall    Manor 67 

The  Bear  at  Devizes 70 

The  Old  Street  in  Potterne 72 

Asking  the  Way 73 

High    Street,    Bath 75 

Mass  House  on  Bridge,  Bradford-on-Avon      .......  76 

Courtyard  of  the  Castle  and  Balls 77 

The  George,  and  High  Street,  Salisbury 80 

An  Alarm  by  the  Guard 84 

The  Three  Swans,  Salisbury 87 

The  Catherine  Wheel,  Salisbury 8S 

In  a  Snow-drift 92 

St.  Anne's  Gate,  Salisbury 94 

Courtyard,  King's  Arms,  Salisbury 96 

The  Meet  at  an  Inn 99 

Giving   them  a  Start 102 

Crane  Bridge,  Salisbury 103 

Putting-to  the  Team 104 

Courtyardof  Church  House,  Salisbury 106 

The  White  Hart,  at  Blackwater 108 

The  Lion,  at  Blackwater 109 

At  Whitchurch 109 

The  Poultry  Cross,  Salisbury no 

The  White  Hart,  at  Hook 112 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

PAGE 

Courtyard,  White  Hart,  Hook 113 

The  White  Hart,  Whitchurch IT5 

Corridor  in  White  Hart 115 

Barry  Lyndon  Cracks  a  Bottle .  116 

A  Christmas  Visitor 117 

Quadrangle  of   House,  Exeter 119 

The  Elephant  Inn,  Exeter 121 

Christmas   Eve 123 

St.  Mary's   Steps 125 

The   Broken   Trace 126 

College  Hall,  Exeter 128 

The  Lunnon  Coach 130 

Old  Houses  on  Exe  Island 133 

An  Exeter  Gable 135 

Paying  Toll 136 

Forde  Abbey,  near  Chard 138 

Old  House  at  Bridport,  at  one  time  the  Castle  Inn 139 

Exeter.     Charles  II.  hid  in  this  House 140 

The  White  Hart,  Dorchester 142 

Judge   Jeffreys'    Lodgings,    Dorchester 143 

Charles  Recognized  by  the  Ostler 144 

The    Packhorse,    Bridport 145 

The  George  Inn,  Axminster 147 

The  Half  Moon,  Exeter  .    .  ' 147 

Castle  Arch,  Guildford 149 

The  Angel,  Guildford 151 

Courtyard,  White  Hart,  Guildford 153 

A  Duel  on  Putney  Heath - 155 

Back  of  Red  Lion,  Guildford 157 

Bakers"  Market  House  (now  demolished) 157 

Birthplace  of  Archbishop  Abbot,  Guildford 15S 

Old  Court,   Guildford i59 

The  Bear,  Esher 161 

Water  Gate,  Wolsey's  Palace,  Esher 162 


xii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Old  Church,  Esher 163 

Guildford  Town   H«all 165 

Courtyard  of  the  Crown,  Guildford 165 

Fireplace  in  Abbot's  Hospital 166 

A  Corner  of  Abbot's  Hospital  at  Guildford 167 

Old  Mill,    near    Guildford 168 

The    Seven  Thorns 171 

Charging  a  Snowdrift 172 

The  Anchor,  Liphook 176 

The  Porch 177 

The  Anchor,  Liphook 177 

House  at  Petersfield.  formerly  the  Castle  Inn 180 

Racing  the    Mail 181 

The  Jolly  Drovers  on  Rake  Hill 187 

Old  Gable  End  in  Anne  of  Cleves'  House,  at  Southover  ...  190 

An  Old  Sign  at  East  Grinstead 191 

Regency  Bucks 191 

A    Snapped   Pole 193 

A  Visit  to  the  Invalids 195 

The  Maiden's  Head,  Uckfield 196 

The  Village  Cage,  Lindfield 198 

The  Star,  Alfriston 199 

Fresh  Teams 200 

Crowhurst  Grange    .    , 202 

The  White  Hart,  Lewes 204 

The  Gossips 207 

Quaint  Signs      209 

The  Chequers,  Maresfield      210 

Sackville  College       211 

Taking  up  the  Mails 213 

The  Dorset  Arms,  East  Grinstead 215 

The  Clayton  Arms,  Godstone 217 

The  Judges' Houses,  East  Grinstead 219 

The  Grange,  Lewes 220 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

I'AGK 

The  Sign  of  the  Swan,  Southover 220 

St.  John's  Hospital,  Canterbury 222 

The  Old  Tabard,  Southwark 224 

The  Toilet 226 

Hall  Place,  Bexley 227 

Cobham  Hall,  Rochester 229 

A  Clandestine  Interview 231 

The  Leather  Bottle,  Cobham      232 

Walking  up  the  Hill 236 

The  Bull,  Dartford 239 

Place  House,  Anne  of  Cleves'  Manor  House 240 

The  Precinct  Gate,  Rochester 243 

The  New  Leader 244 

The  Nuns'  Houses,  Rochester 245 

The  Bull  and  Victoria,  Rochester 247 

Courtyard  of  Bull  and  Victoria,  Rochester 249 

Restoration  House,  Rochester 251 

Summerhill 253 

Town  House,  Ightham 254 

Gateway,  Leeds  Castle 256 

Old  Hospital,  Canterbury 257 

Butchery  Lane,  Canterbury 259 

Taking  out  the  Leaders 261 

Falstaff  Inn,  West  Gate,  Canterbury 262 

A  Cast  Shoe 263 

The  Chequers  of  the  Hope,  Canterbury 265 

Watering  the  Horses 267 

The  Flying  Horse,  Canterbury 268 

The  Rose,  Canterbury 269 

^*  Springing 'em  " 271 

A  Roadside  Inn,  HoUingbourne 273 

Mote  House,  Ightham 275 

The  Chapel 275 

Fatherly  Advice 276 


xiv  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Chequers,  Tollbridge 277 

The  Green  Man,  Waltham 279 

Filling  the  Boot 282 

An  Old  Corner,  Smithfield 283 

The  Queen's  Head,  Islington 285 

The  Two  Brewers,  Ponders  End 287 

At  the  Cross  Roads 288 

The  George  and  Vulture,  Tottenham 290 

The  Bell,  Edmonton 291 

The  Falcon  and  the  Four  Swans,  Waltham 292 

The  Green  Dragon,  Cheshunt 294 

The  Roebuck,  Knebworth 296 

A  Coachman's  Courtship 298 

The  Falcon,  Huntingdon 2.99 

Huntingdon  Bridge 301 

A  Morning  Draught 304 

Bridge  at  St.  Neot's 307 

Irnham  Hall 308 

Driving  to  Catch  the  Mail 310 

The  Fox  and  Hounds 312 

The  George,  Huntingdon 313 

Down  the  Hill  on  a  Frosty  Morning 314 

St.  Mary's,  Stamford 315 

Newark  Castle 317 

The  Crown,  Bawtry 318 

Making  the  Yard  Ring 319 

Bootham  Bar,  York 321 

The  George,  Stamford      323 

Stamford  Town 324 

The  Angel,  Grantham 326 

Oriel  Window  in  the  Angel,  Grantham 328 

Courtyard  of  the  Bell,  Stilton 330 

"  Can  I  have  a  Night's  Lodging  ? '' 331 

The  Sign  of  the  Bell,  Stilton 332 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xv 

PAGE 

The  Bell,  Stilton 333 

A  Quaint  Bay,  St.  Albans 335 

At  the  Stable  Door 337 

Saddling  Up 338 

Catesby's  House,  Ashby-St.-Legers 340 

Seeing  them  Off 342 

Through  the  Toil-Gate 343 

Saracen's  Head,  St.  Albans 346 

Courtyard  of  the  George,  St.  Albans 349 

The  George  and  Red  Lion,  St.  Albans 351 

Old  Inn,  St.  Albans 354 

Porch  at  Dunstable 356 

Old  Inn,  now  Farmhouse,  Brickhills 358 

Courtyard  of  the  Saracen's  Head,  Towcester 360 

Ford's  Hospital,  Coventry 362 

The  Rows  of  Chester 3^4 

The  Falcon  and  Bear,  Chester 365 

The  Bear  and  Billet,  Chester 366 

The  Yacht  Inn 366 

The  End  of  the  Journey 368 

A  Performance  on  the  Horn 374 


Setting  Otit. 


COACHING    DAYS    AND 
COACHING   WAYS 


L— THE  BATH  ROAD 


In  setting  out  on  the  Great  Roads  of  England — 
whether  in  the  lumbering  six-inside  vehicles  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  or  in  the  light  four-inside  Fast 
Coaches  which  in  about  1823  marked  the  meridian  of 
road  travelling — I  propose  to  take  an  inconstant  course 
of  my  own.  And  by  inconstant  I  mean  that  I  shall 
bind  myself  neither  to  time,  place,  nor  consistency  of 
attitude   to    my  subject.     I    shall    now   look    at    it,  for 

3£  B 


2       COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

instance,  in   the   company  of  Mr.   Stanley  Harris,  Lord 
William  Lennox,  Captain  Malet,  Mr.  James  Hissey,  and 


The  Lower  SMp  Inn  at  ficadiiif^ 


other    Knights    of    the     Ribbons    (whose    experienced 
enthusiasm  shines  so  pleasantly  in  such  works  as  T/ie 


THE  BATH  ROAD  3 

Coaching  Age  ;  Coaching  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Road;  A 
Drive  through  England,  &c.,  &c.),  purely  from  the  coach- 
man's point  of  view  ;  and  then  I  shall  look  at  it  from  the 
point  of  view  of  Miss  Burney  and  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys. 
With  kindred  assistance  I  shall  try  to  get  some  glimpses 
of  the  social  life  which  passed  to  and  fro  between 
London  and  the  provinces  from  the  time  when  men 
began  to  travel,  up  to  the  time  when  they  began  to 
arrive  at  places,  but  to  travel  no  more.  I  shall  show  our 
ancestors  of  all  ages  in  all  kinds  of  costumes — -trunk 
hose,  doublet  and  ruffles,  sacks  and  sarcinets,  periwigs 
and  full-bottomed  coats,  beavers  and  top-boots,  busy 
at  those  nothings  which  make  travelled  life — eating, 
drinking,  flirting,  quarrelling,  delivering  up  their  purses, 
grumbling  over  their  bills — a  motley  crowd  of  kings, 
queens,  statesmen,  highwaymen,  generals,  poets,  wits, 
fine  ladies,  conspirators,  and  coachmen.  With  the 
assistance  of  my  able  illustrators,  I  shall  picture  these 
worthies  in  all  sorts  of  positions — on  the  road  and  off  it, 
snowed  up,  in  peril  from  the  great  waters,  waiting  for 
the  stage  coaches,  &c.,  alighting  at  the  inns — those  inns 
for  which  England  was  once  famous,  with  their  broad 
corridors,  their  snug  bars,  their  four-posted  beds  hung 
with  silk,  their  sheets  smelling  of  lavender,  their  choice 
cookery,  their  claret  equal  to  the  best  that  could  be 
drunk  in  London.  Here  too  I  shall  hope  now  and 
again  to  make  the  violet  of  a  legend  blow  among  the 
chops  and  steaks  ;  and  besides  mere  chance  travellers, 
to  call  upon  some  ghostly  and  romantic  figures  who 
lived  near  the  road  when  in  the  flesh,  whose  residence 
by  it  seems  to  make  them  of  it,  and  must  have  caused 
them  many  a  time  to  post  up  and  down  it  on  business 
or  pleasure  bent,  before  grim  Fate  sent  them  posting  to 
Hades. 

Any  time  between  the  years  1667  and  1670  the  issue 
of  some  such  announcement  as  the  following  made 
Londoners  stare : — 

B  2 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


"FLYING  MACHINE. 

"  All  those  desirous  to  pass  from  London  to  Bath,  or  any  other 
Place  on  their  Road,  let  them  repair  to  the  Bell  Savage  on 
Ludgate  Hill  in  London  and  the  White  Lion  at  Bath,  at  both 
which  places  they  may  be  received  in  a  Stage  Coach  every 
Monday,  Wednesday,  and  Friday,  vi^hich  performs  the  whole 
journey  in  Three  Days  (if  God  permit),  and  sets  forth  at  five 
in  the  Morning. 

"  Passengers  to  pay  One  Pound  five  Shillings  each,  who  are 
allowed  to  carry  fourteen  Pounds  Weight — for  all  above  to  pay 
three  halfpence  per  Pound." 

Bill  posting  was  in  its  infancy  in  the  days  of  the 
Restoration,  but  the  above  effort  drew  a  crowd  to  the 
Bell  Savage  even  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  This 
crowd  eyed  the  Flying  Machine,  drawn  up  in  the  inn 
yard  ready  for  its  flight,  with  a  wild  surmise.  With 
a  kindred  expression  they  also  eyed  the  six  intrepid 
passengers  who  had  been  received  into  it,  and  their 
fourteen  pounds  of  luggage  to  each  man  piled  on 
the  roof — that  roof  on  which  no  passenger  dared 
venture  himself  for  fear  of  his  neck.  And  the  six  inside 
intrepid  passengers  turned  upon  the  onlookers  twelve 
eyes  estranged  and  sad.  They  were  practised  travellers 
all  of  them,  but  even  for  practised  travelling  this  was  a 
new  departure.  They  had  booked  for  Bath  ;  with  a 
proper  regard  for  the  proviso  in  the  advertisement,  they 
had  committed  themselves  to  Providence  ;  but  they  did 
not  very  well  know  whither  they  were  going.  They 
knew  however  that  they  were  going  five-and-thirty 
miles  a  day  instead  of  twenty,  over  roads  called  so  out 
of  courtesy,  and  the  thought,  now  that  they  were  seated, 
gave  them  melancholy  pause.  They  felt  probably  as 
the  passengers  by  the  first  railway  train  felt  a  century 
and  a  half  later.  They  cursed  the  curiosity  which 
pines  for  a  new  experience,  and  wished  themselves  on 
the  fixed  earth  again.  And  as  they  did  so  the  huzzas  of 
the  crowd  and  a  supernatural  jolting  told  them  they 
were  off  it. 


THE  RATH  ROAD 


5 


The  streets  of  that  London  in  which  woodcocks  were 
killed  in  Regent  Street,  in  which  bears  danced  and  bulls 


Mm  #' 


-^ 


were  baited  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  in  which  the  dead 
cats  and  dogs  of  Westminster  were  shot  into  St.  James's 


6       COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Square,  were  not  mediums  for  making  coach-riding  a 
bed  of  roses — in  point  of  fact  they  were  in  as  dangerous 


I; 


.'m.^:- -m«|r  ».' 


5>GH 


)  •■ 


T/j^  Bear  at  Reading-;  its  days  are  gone. 


a  condition  as  they  could  well  be.    Long  before  the  Flying 
Macliine    had    cleared    the    metropolis — the    metropolis 


THE  BATH  ROAD  7 

which  knew  Chelsea  as  a  quiet  country  village  with  a 
thousand  inhabitants,  Marylebone  as  a  space  where  cattle 
feci  and  sportsmen  wandered — the  six  inside  passengers 
had  been  twice  nearly  upset  and  shaken  out  of  their  seven 
senses  ;  and  it  had  scarcely  begun  its  creeping  passage 
over  Hounslow  Heath  when  it  was  stopped  abruptly, 
and  the  six  inside  passengers  had  their  six  purses  taken 
away.  When  their  eyesight,  temporarily  obscured  by 
agitation,  returned  to  them,  they  recognized  the  French 
page  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond  as  the  author  of  this 
graceful  feat,  and  having  spoken  strange  words  to  the 
guard  for  having  neglected  the  fleeting  oppor- 
tunity presented  to  him  for  the  discharge  of  his 
blunderbuss  (which  was  rather  wild  of  them,  the  said 
blunderbuss  being  a  mere  vehicle  for  the  release  of 
coach  guards  who  were  weary  of  their  lives,  and 
perfectly  well  known  as  such),  they  jolted  forwards  on 
their  way  to  Bath  pale  and  purseless. 

The  French  page  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond  will 
recompense  us  for  their  departure.  Claude  Duval  was 
about  this  time  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame  :  indeed  in 
1670  his  brilliant  career  was  cut  short  with  the  sudden- 
ness in  character  with  such  shooting  stars,  and  at  the 
usual  time  and  place.  To  speak  plainly,  having 
sacrificed  unduly  to  the  rosy  god  of  Mr.  Swiveller 
at  "  The  Hole  in  the  Wall,"  in  Chandos  Street,  the 
gallant  Claude  was  surprised  in  that  elegiac  retreat, 
arrested  without  expense  of  blood  or  treasure — "  and 
well  it  was  for  the  bailiff  and  his  men  that  he  was  drunk  " 
— committed  to  Newgate,  arraigned,  convicted,  and 
condemned,  and  on  Friday,  January  21,  executed  at 
Tyburn  in  the  27th  year  of  his  age.  "  A  sad  instance  of 
the  irresistible  influence  of  the  stars  and  the  fatality  of 
the  climacterical  years  ;  for  Venus  and  Mars  were  in 
conjunction  at  the  hero's  birth,  certain  presages  of  good 
fortune,  but  of  short  continuance." 

He  was  I  think  the  greatest  of  the  highwaymen  ;  and 
lately  I   have   read  the  records  of  most  of  them  :  have 


8  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

admired  the  reckless  buoyancy  of  their  enterprising 
Hves  ;  have  thought  how  colourless  the  history  of  the 
roads  would  be  without  their  brilliant  presences.  I  have 
become  acquainted,  amongst  others,  with  the  dashing 
Augustin  King,  educated  at  Cambridge,  hanged  at 
Colchester ;  with  the  great  William  Nevison,  whose 
name  still  haunts  the  hamlets  of  the  northern  moors, 
hanged  at  York  ;  with  the  magnanimous  Bliss,  hanged  at 
Salisbury  ;  with  the  Brothers  Weston,  the  Peaces  of  the 
last  century,  who  frequented  the  best  society  at 
Winchelsea,  and  robbed  in  the  surrounding  country, 
hanged  at  Tyburn — a  cultured  pair,  whose  lives  were 
pleasant,  and  in  death  they  were  not  divided  ;  but  I 
declare  that  none  of  them — no,  not  Turpin  himself,  the 
Turpin  whose  ride  to  York  has  been  labelled  by  Macaulay 
a  myth — seem  to  me  to  attain  to  that  high  standard  of 
elegant  rascality  displayed  b)^  this  importation  from 
France.  For  Claude,  alas  !  was  not  a  native  product. 
No,  to  our  sorrow  we  say  it,  he  was  born  at  Domfront,  in 
Normandy,  a  place  very  famous  for  the  excellency  of 
the  air  and  the  production  of  mercurial  wits.  His  father 
moreover  was  a  miller,  and  his  mother  a  tailor's 
daughter.  Early  in  life  the  boy  was  troubled  Vv^ith  the 
stirrings  of  young  ambition.  He  was  wanted  by  the 
local  police,  but  was  out  when  they  called.  He  had 
gone  to  Paris,  where  he  did  odd  jobs  for  Englishmen  and 
got  his  hand  in,  and  in  this  improving  exercise  he 
continued  till  the  Restoration  brought  him  over  to 
England  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  Jubilee.  He  now 
entered  the  service  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  gamed, 
made  love,  drank  (a  vice  for  which  his  indulgent  bio- 
grapher cannot  pardon  him,  though  for  our  part  we  admire 
this  graceful  participation  in  a  national  pastime),  soon 
fell  into  want  of  money,  took  to  padding  to  pay  his  debts, 
quiclvly  became  so  accomplished  in  his  business  that  in 
a  proclamation  for  the  taking  several  notorious  highway- 
men he  liad  the  honour  to  be  named  first.  How  brilliant 
a  rise  to  eminence  !    What  a  record  for  a  short  public  life  ! 


THE  BATH  ROAD  9 

That  so  gifted  and  elegant  a  ruffian  as  this  should  in 
an  age  of  gaiet}'  and  fine  manners,  when  morality  was 
never  considered,  have  met  his  fate  by  having  a  cart 
pulled  away  from  under  him,  is,  to  my  thinking,  a 
melancholy  reflection  on  the  ingratitude  of  mankind. 
Why,  this  was  a  man  after  Charles  the  Second's  own  heart, 
and  not  unlike  him,  except  that  he  was  better  looking  ! 
To  do  the  King  justice  however  I  think  he  would  have 
spared  the  highwayman  if  he  had  had  his  way.  It  was 
the  judge  who  presided  at  the  trial  who  hanged  the 
accomplished  Claude  ;  as  it  was  the  judge  who  with  so 
flagrant  a  disregard  for  right  feeling  interrupted  the 
solemn  post-moj'tem  celebrations,  when  the  defunct  hero 
lay  in  state  in  the  "  Tangiers  Tavern,"  St.  Giles,  in  a 
room  covered  with  black  cloth,  his  hearse  blazing  with 
escutcheons,  eight  wax  tapers  burning,  and  as  many  tall 
gentlemen  with  black  cloaks  in  attendance.  "  Mum  was 
the  word,  as  if  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  sleeping  lion  ; 
and  the  night  was  stormy  and  rainy,  as  if  the  heavens 
sympathised  with  the  ladies,  echoed  over  their  sighs, 
wept  over  again  their  tears." 

I  read  that  as  they  were  undressing  him  "  in  order  to 
his  lying  in  state,"  one  of  his  friends — one  of  the  tall 
gentlemen  in  black  cloaks,  that  is  to  say — in  an  abstrac- 
tion natural  no  doubt  to  so  solemn  an  occasion,  and 
with  a  gesture  full  of  melancholy  meaning,  put  his  hand 
in  the  defunct  hero's  pocket  and  produced — not  his  purse 
but  his  Dying  Confession.  I  much  regret  that  I  cannot 
reproduce  this  elegant  effort  here.  It  is  written  in  a 
blithe  spirit  of  Christian  resignation,  not  unmixed  with 
a  stoic's  contempt  for  the  pleasures  of  the  life  he  was 
leaving.  It  contains  a  surprising  summary  of  Duval's 
good  fortunes.  But  the  concluding  lines  in  which  he  so 
to  speak  rounds  his  philosophy  are  so  truly  conceived  in 
the  spirit  of  the  Restoration,  so  faithfully  reflect  the 
polished  manners  of  the  times,  they  are  quite  unfit  for 
publication. 

Duval  was  buried  in  the  middle  aisle  of  Covent  Garden 


lo  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Church.  The  fair  sex  formed  the  larger  part  of  the 
crowd  which  attended.  Flambeaux  blazed,  and  the  hero 
was  laid  under  a  plain  white  marble  stone,  "  whereon 
were  curiousl}"  engraved  the  Du  Vail  arms,"  and  under 
them  written  in  black  this  epitaph  : — 

"DU  VALL'S  EPITAPH. 

"  Here  lies  Du  Vail  :  Reader,  if  Male  thou  art, 
Look  to  thy  Purse  :  if  Female,  to  thy  Heart. 
Much  Havoc  has  he  made  of  both  ;  for  all 
Men  he  made  stand  and  ^Vomen  he  made  fall. 
The  second  Conqu'ror  of  the  Norman  Race 
Knights  to  his  arms  did  yield  and  Ladies  to  his  Face. 
Old  Tyburn's  glory,   lingland's  illustrious  Thief, 
Du  Vail  the  Ladies'  joy:  Du  Vail  the  Ladies'  Grief." 


What  is  an  inscription  in  Westminster  Abbey  to  this 
surprising  offering  at  the  tomb  of  genius  }  "  The  Second 
Conqu'ror  of  the  Norman  Race."  Can  anything  be  more 
magnificent  ?  "  Du  Vail  the  Ladies'  Grief"  This  sorrow 
is  heavenl}'.  Let  us  take  our  leave  of  this  great  man 
and  follow  the  Flying  Machine  that  he  has  lightened. 
We  shall  not  have  to  go  far  to  catch  it  up  in  spite  of  our 
digression.  It  has  been  off  the  Road  as  well  as  we  have, 
has  got  into  one  of  those  ruts  or  rather  trenches,  which 
filled  foreigners  with  strange  oaths — and  there  it  sticks 
fast — the  six  horses  with  flanks  distended,  the  coachman 
scarlet  in  the  face  w^ith  thonging  them,  the  guard  armed 
with  a  stick  in  aid  of  his  amiable  exertions  ;  all  powerless 
to  move  it.  The  state  of  the  roads  at  this  time  in  early 
spring  and  winter  must  have  been  something  awful.  So 
late  as  1797,  Middleton,  in  his  Survey  of  Middlesex, 
speaking  of  the  Oxford  road  at  Uxbridge,  observes  that 
during  the  whole  of  the  winter  there  was  but  one  pass- 
able track  on  it,  and  that  was  less  than  six  feet  wide  and 
was  eight  inches  deep  in  fluid  sludge.  To  be  in  charac- 
ter, on  a  sliding  scale,  all  the  rest  of  the  road  was  from 
a  foot  to  eighteen  inches  deep  in  adhesive  mud,  which 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


II 


was  better.  Earlier  roads,  more  adhesive  mud.  And 
when  snow  was  on  the  ground,  more  adhesive  snow  ; 
causing  coaches  to  stand  on  their  heads  in  snow  drifts  ; 
and  guards  with  bhic  noses  to  mount  the  unharnessed 
leaders  and  *'  take  on  the  mails."  Small  wonder  then 
that  in  1668  the  Bath  Fl}ang  Machine  sticks  fast  and 
needs  four  cart  horses,  pressed  into  the  service,  after  much 
bawling,  to  pull  it  on  to  firm  land  again.  Meanwhile  it 
has  blocked  the  road  for  an  hour  to  all  but  the  fortunate 


■'■,■■/■// 


A  Breakdown :  Taking  on  the  Mails. 

people  who  can  afford  to  ride  post.  Amongst  these 
envied  ones  of  the  earth  is  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, who  rides  furiously  by,  scattering  the  mud  far 
and  wide  on  each  side  of  him — his  rich  dress  disordered 
and  travel-stained,  his  horse  covered  with  foam — his 
attendants  spurring  to  keep  up  with  his  headlong  pace 
and  cursing  the  Bath  Coach  as  they  ride  by  it.  His 
Grace  is  making  for  Cliefden, 


"The  bower  of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  of  Love," 


12 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


which  lady's  husband  he  has  just  run  through  the  right 
breast  and  shoulder  at  Barne  Elms  ;  her  ladyship,  who 


True — every  -word  of  it. 


now  rides  by  the  Duke's  side  in  a  page's  dress,  having 
shed  the  light  of  her  graceful  presence  on  the  amiable 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


13 


formality;  in  her  office  of  page  holding  her  lover's  horse  as 
he  exchanged  thrusts  with  her  better  half  Delightful 
society  !  So  picturesquely  free  from  care  and  scruple  ! 
— who  would  not  have  lived  in  those  days  ?  The  trav- 
ellers in  the  Flying  Machines  of  Charles  the  Second's 
day  must  have  seen  much  of  that  brilliant,  sparkling, 
outrageous  society  fly  by  them.  That  seems  to  me  to 
have  been  the  chief  advantage  of  the  Flying  Machines. 
Everybody  flew  by  them — at  least  everybody  who  was 
worth  seeing. 

This  Hounslow  Heath,  which  the  Flying  Machine  has 
now  left  behind  it — the  creaky,  mud-covered  old  caravan 
is  drawn  up  now  outside  the  Inn,  at  Cranford,  the  horses 
are  in  the  stable  feeding,  the  coachman  with  a  pot  of  beer 
in  his  hand  lying  about  his  heroic  resistance  to  six  high- 
waymen— it  seems  to  have  been  the  province  of  coach- 
men at  all  periods  to  lie — ("  compare^  Tom,"  said  I,  "  I 
think  you  can  whistle  louder,  hit  a  horse  harder,  and  tell 
a  bigger  lie  than  any  one  I  ever  knew  " — words  spoken 
to    a   great   coachman    on    the    Northern    Road,    Tom 
Hennessey  by  name,  to  which,  with  Spartan  frankness,  he 
replied,  "  You're  right,  sir,") — but  this  is  a  digression — 
the  Hounslow  Heath,  I   say,  which  the  Flying  Machine 
has  left  behind  it,  holds  a  prominent  place  at  all  periods 
in  the  Annals  of  tJie  Roads.     To  us  it  is  chiefly  remark- 
able for  its  powder  mills,  which  explode  once  or  twice  a 
year  ;  but  besides  highwaymen  in   Charles  the  Second's 
time  (in  the  spontaneous  production  of  which  it,  in  all 
ages,  held   a  high   place   in    national  esteem),  it  had  in 
James  the  Second's  time  a  camp  of  thirteen  thousand 
men  placed  there  to  overawe  the  London  which  was  ripe 
for   the    rebellion,  and  which  had  an    exactly  opposite 
eflect — a  visit  to  Hounslow  Camp  becoming  a  favourite 
holiday  amusement  for  Londoners  ;  and  later  on  in  the 
great  Era  of  Coaching,  when  it  was  the  first  stage  out  of 
London  for  all  coaches  going  westward,  there  used  to  be 
kept  here  for  the  purposes  of  posting  and  coaching  two 
thousand  five  hundred  horses,   which  perhaps  gives  as 


14  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

good  an  idea  of  the  scale  of  an  undertaking  as  anything 
can. 

It  has  its  lists  of  accidents  too.     It   was    not  a   eood 
place  even  in  the  best  days  of  the  road  to  cross  in  a  fog. 
The  celebrated  Charles  Ward  was   an  eye-witness   of  a 
calamity    wjiich    happened   in    1840   when    some   thick 
weather  prevailed.     He  was  bound  for  Bagshot  and  had 
to   be  escorted   out  of  London   by  torches,  *'  seven   or 
eight  Mails  following  one  after  the  other,  the  guard   of 
the  foremost  lighting  the  one  following  and  soon  till  the 
last."     He  took  three  hours  to  do  the  nine  miles,  and  on 
his  way  back  to  London,  the  same  weather  prevailing, 
he  found  the  old  Exeter  Mail  in   a  ditch.     The    leaders 
had    come  in   contact   with    a  haycart,   which  not   un- 
naturally caused  them  to  turn   suddenly   round.     They 
foolishly  did  not  stop  here  or  all  would  have  been   well. 
No !     They  broke    the   pole,  blundered    down  a   steep 
embankment,  and  brought  up  in  the  bottom   of  a  deep 
ditch  filled  with  mud  and  water.     The   wheelers   were 
drowned  and  the  Mail  Coach  pitched  on  the  stump  of  a 
willow  tree  that  hung  gracefully  over  the  scene.     Mean- 
while where  were  the  outside   passengers  ?     They  were 
throw  into  the   meadow  beyond   in  company  with   the 
coachman.       The    two    inside    passengers   however    re- 
mained  where  they  were,  wherever  that   was,  and   were 
extricated   with  some    difficulty.      Fortunately   no  one 
was   injured,   which,  considering  the  somewhat  mixed 
condition  of  men,  beasts,  and  things,  was  fortunate,  and 
lends  some  colour  to  the  fine  distinction  drawn  between 
railway   and   coaching    accidents   by  a   devotee   of  the 
roads  : — "  You  got  upset  in  a  coach  or  chaise,"  he   cries, 
"  and   there  you   were.      You    get   upset   in    a   railway, 
and  where  are  you  ? " 

The  same  authority  discourses  more  of  fogs  on 
Hounslow  Heath  as  follows  :— 

"  There  were  eight  Mails,"  he  writes  (they  ought  to 
be  sung,  these  old  coaching  yarns,  gray  legends  of  a  life 
that  has  faded,  and   out  of  which  much  meaning  has 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


15 


gone,  turned  into  Border  poetry  by  some  horsey  Scott, 
so  that  they  should  possess  some  form  at  least  to  future 
generations  who  may  be  grappling  in  the   central  blue), 


^"S 


St.  Mary's  Butts,  Reading. 


"  there  were  eight  Mails,"  he  writes,  "  that  passed  through 
Hounslow.  The  Bristol,  Bath,  Gloucester,  and  Stroud 
took  the  right  hand  road   from   Hounslow  ;  the    Exeter, 


i6  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Yeovil,  Poole,  and  '  Quicksilver,'  Devonport  (which  was 
the  one  I  was  driving),  went  the  straight  road  towards 
Staines.  We  always  saluted  each  other  when  passing 
with  '  Good-night,  Bill/  '  Dick,'  or  '  Harry,'  as  the  case 
might  be.  I  was  once  passing  a  Mail,  mine  being  the 
fastest,  and  gave  the  wonted  salute.  A  coachman 
named  Downs  was  driving  the  Stroud  Mail.  He  in- 
stantly recognised  my  voice,  and  said,  '  Charley,  what 
are  you  doing  on  my  road  .'' '  It  was  he  however  who 
had  made  the  mistake  ;  he  had  taken  the  Staines 
instead  of  the  Slough  Road  out  of  Hounslow.  We  both 
pulled  up  immediately.  He  had  to  turn  round  and  go 
back,  which  was  a  feat  attended  with  much  difficulty  in 
such  a  fog.  Had  it  not  been  for  our  usual  salute  he 
would  not  have  discovered  his  mistake  before  reaching 
Staines." 

After  leaving  Cranford  Bridge — where  I  shall  leave 
the  Flying  Machine  and  its  passengers,  it  is  much  too 
slow  for  me,  considering  the  ground  I  have  to  get  over, 
and  with  the  help  of  the  York  House  fast  day  coach, 
or  the  Bristol  Mail,  or  the  Beaufort  Hunt,  I  shall  be  at 
Bath  before  they  "  inn  "  for  the  night  at  Reading.  After 
leaving  Cranford  Bridge  with  its  White  Hart  Inn,  the 
memory  of  which  is  in  the  nostrils  of  old  stage  coach- 
men as  a  sweet-smelling  savour,  the  Bath  Road  runs 
through  flat  pastoral  country  (indeed,  this  side  of 
Reading  there  is  hardly  a  rise),  past  Sipson  Green,  where 
at  the  Magpies  post  horses  could  be  procured,  past 
Longford  where  thc\'  couldn't,  till  it  enters  Buckingham- 
shire just  before  reaching  Colnbrook. 

And  in  entering  Buckinghamshire  wc  arc  on  classic 
ground.  Every  }'ard  of  the  way  burns  with  memories 
— not  of  broken  poles,  of  runaway  teams,  of  chains 
snapped  and  coaches  running  on  wheelers,  and  like  data 
of  purely  horsey  history  ;  the  Bath  Road  is  not  rich  in 
this  kind  of  recollection,  being  a  flat,  comfortable  road 
almost  as  far  as  Newbury,  and  as  a  consequence  not  as 
remarkable  as  many  others  for   great  catastrophes,  and 


THE  BATH  ROAD  17 

cunning  coachmen  ;  but  the  memories  which  haunt  it 
about  Cohibrook  no  less  belong,  it  seems  to  me,  to  its 
history  ;  memories  of  great  names  famous  in  art,  fashion, 
poetry,  scandal,  politics,  which  have  posted  down  it, 
coached  down  it,  sauntered  by  its  side,  lived  within 
touch  almost  of  its  ceaseless,  hurried  pulse. 

For  on  the  right  of  Colnbrook  is  Ritchings — where 
Lord  Bathurst,  the  pleasant,  kindly  Maecenas  of  the  last 
century,  loved  to  entertain  the  literary  celebrities  of  his 
time.  Round  his  table  Addison,  Steele,  Pope,  Prior,  and 
Swift  constantly  gathered.  An  old  bench  in  the  grounds 
used  to  be  covered  with  the  autographs  of  these  im- 
mortals— post-prandial  mementoes  of  a  pleasant  jaunt 
from  town.  Here  the  great  Congreve,  fresh  from  some 
recent  stage  triumph,  wrote  his  great  name  in  juxta- 
position, of  course,  to  the  equally  great  name  of  some 
fine  lady.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  these  symposiums 
of  wit,  poetry,  and  politics  ;  of  the  wine  taken  on  the 
site  of  the  chapel  to  St.  Lawrence,  the  tutelary  saint  of 
Windsor  forest  ;  of  the  drive  back  to  London  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  ;  of  the  laughter  which  echoed  to  some 
forgotten  good  thing,  which  made  the  sixteen  miles 
back  to  London  seem  six,  and  this  part  of  this  Bath 
Road  classic. 

My  Lord  Bathurst,  after  having  enjoyed  the  society 
of  Addison,  Steele,  Swift,  Pope,  and  Prior,  came  at  the 
end  of  his  long  and  cultured  life  to  know  Sterne,  and  in 
doing  so  touched  hands  with  the  wits  of  two  generations. 
The  most  original  of  English  authors,  however,  and  the 
most  misunderstood  did  not  grace  Ritchings  with  his 
quaint  presence,  at  least  not  as  Lord  Bathurst's  guest, 
the  place  having  passed  from  his  lordship's  hands  in  1739 
into  those  of  the  Earl  of  Hertford.  This  nobleman's 
wife  continued  the  literary  traditions  of  the  place.  She 
was  the  Eusebia  of  Dr.  Watts  and  the  Cleora  of  Mrs. 
Rowe.  Minor  poets  piped  about  her  feet  and  listened, 
with  the  enthusiasm  which  authors  in  company  of  their 
kind  can  feign  so  well,  to  her  poems.     For  Eusebia  not 


i8  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

only  wrote  poetry,  but  recited  it  too  ;  and  this  is  the 
deuce,  as  every  one  knows,  and  as  Thomson  found  it. 
The  author  of  the  Seaso/is  dedicated  his  poem  of 
"Spring"  to  her;  and,  no  doubt,  according  to  his 
deHghtful  custom,  wandered  round  her  garden  in  his 
dressing-gown,  and  bit  off  the  sunny  side  of  her  peaches  ; 
but  when  Eusebia  cried,  "  Lend  me  3/our  ears,"  and  pro- 
duced a  manuscript,  the  sleepy  poet  plied  his  pinions 
and  betook  himself  to  a  less  intellectual  feast ;  in  point 
of  fact,  he  went  off  and  caroused  with  Eusebia's  husband  ; 
and  of  course  Eusebia  was  annoyed. 

This  dual  tenancy  of  Ritchings  has  connected  the  Bath 
Road  with   some   famous  literar}^   characters   already — 
with,    indeed,    the     lions    of     two    periods    and    their 
jackals  ;  but  its  passage  through  Colnbrook  connects  it 
with  a  greater  memory  still.      It  was  here — or,  to  speak 
more  accurately,  in  the  neighbouring  village  of  Horton — 
that  young  Milton  lived,  from  the  time  he  was  twenty- 
four  to  the  time  he  was  thirty.     It  was  here,  in  the  quiet 
Buckinghamshire    hamlet,    and    before    the    shadow   of 
political  convulsion  informed  his  genius  with  a   sterner 
bent,  that  he  gave  to  the  world  those  rich  fancies  of  a 
yet  courtly  Muse,  which  some  hold  still  to  be  her  most 
precious  request.     At  Horton  he  wrote  "  Lycidas,"  the 
"  Comus,"    the     "Sonnet     to     the     Nightingale,"     and 
probably  the   "Allegro"   and   "  Penseroso."      Hence    it 
was  that  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Diodati,  "  You  ask  me  of 
what   I   am   thinking.      As   God   shall  help  me,   of  im- 
mortality ;    but   how   shall    I   attain   it  ?     My  wings  are 
fledging,  and  I  meditate  a  flight."     I   like  to  think  that 
the  travellers  on  the  Bath  Road  between  1634  and  1637 
may  have  often  passed  and  noticed  the  romantic  figure 
of  the  young  poet,  his  fine  face  aflame  with  genius,  his 
comely  head   bent  to  catch  the   music  of  the  spheres. 
The  ladies  in  the  Bath  Machine  or  the  Post-Chaise  of 
Charles  the  P^irst's  time  would,  I   am  sure,  have  noticed 
him  ;    would   have  awakened   their  sleeping  husbands, 
heav}'  with  the  dinner  at  Cranford,  and  pointed  him  out 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


19 


to  them  ;  would  have  looked  back  at  him,  admired   him, 
wondered  who  he  was. 

But  let  us  get  back  to  our  horses  and  coachmen  ;  for 
the  history  of  the  Bath  Road  is  not  all  a  literary 
history,  though,  of  all  the  great  roads  of  England,  1 
have  found  it  the  most  literary  road.  At  one  end  of  it 
must  be  remembered  was  Bath,  and  to  "The  Bath" — 
as  it  was  till  quite  lately  called — jaded  authors  and  other 


A  Winter  Day's  Amusemeni. 


literary  wild  fowl  rushed  to  rouse  sedentary  livers.  The 
Bath  Road,  as  I  say,  however,  has  its  coachmen  as  well 
as  its  poets,  and  they  must  be  chronicled  in  their  courses. 
Down  this  part  of  the  road,  then,  where  we  are  resting, 
the  following  great  men,  who  are  now,  let  us  hope, 
driving  in  august  procession  by  the  Styx,  exercised 
their  superlative  craft — Isaac  Walton — not  he  of  fishing 
fame,  but   the    Maecenas  of  whips,  the   Braham  of  the 

C  2 


20  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Bath  Road — who  could  pick  a  fly  off  his  leader's  right 
eyelid  with  all  the  friendly  dexterity  discovered  by  Mr. 
Vincent  Crummies  ;  Jack  Adams,  the  civil  and  obliging 
pastor,  who  taught  the  }'oung  Etonians  how  to  drive — 
(how  schoolboys  must  have  enjoyed  coaches,  by  the  way  ; 
how  the  slow  rate  of  travelling  must  have  drawn  out  the 
delicious  luxury  of  departure  from  the  seat  of  learning; 
how  postponed  the  horrid  moment  of  arrival  ;  with  what 
pride   the   first  driving  lesson  must  have  been  taken  on 
so  conspicuous   a  box  ;    with   what  unerring   aim   peas 
must    have    been    launched    at    equestrians    on     restive 
horses,  from  how  great  a  point  of  vantage  !) — then,  to 
proceed  with  the  catalogue  of  the  coachmen,  there  was 
the    gallant    Jack   Everett,   who    upset   his    coach    near 
Marlborough,  broke  one  of  his  own  legs,  and  one  also 
belonging  to  a  female  passenger,  but  who,  disdaining  an 
ignominious  flight,  allowed  himself  to  be   conveyed  to 
the  nearest  surgeon  in  the  same  barrow  Avith  his  victim, 
who  was  neither  fair,  fat,  nor  under  fifty  ;  who,  moreover, 
after  uttering  the  ever-memorable  exclamation,  "  I  have 
often  kissed  a  young  woman,  and  why  shouldn't  I   kiss 
an   old   one  ? "   suited  the   tender  action   to   the   candid 
w^ord  ;     neither    did    shrieks    issue    from    the    barrow. 
Lastly,  of  those  whom  I  have  space  left  me  to  mention. 
Jack  Stacey  must  not  be  forgotten  ;  one  of  four  brothers 
w^ho  worked  on  the  Western  roads — known,  all  of  them, 
for  equal  skill,  courage,  punctuality,  and  hats  with  brims 
destitute  of  all  curl  ;  but  Jack  notorious  above  them  all 
for  having,  for  the  first  time  on  record,  driven  a  Mail  out 
of   Piccadilly    w^ith    more    than    four  passengers   inside. 
The  deed,  hateful  alike  to  men  and  Mail  inspectors,  is 
thus    pleasantly    told    by    Mr.    Stanley    Harris,    in    his 
erudite  and  amusing  work,  The  Coaching  Age : 

"  One  night  the  Bath  Mail  was  full  inside  all  the  way 
clown,  w^ien  a  gentleman  who  was  a  regular  customer 
wanted  to  return  home  to  Marlborough,  and  there  was 
no  means  of  his  getting  there.  Stacey  held  a  council 
with  the  book-keeper,  observing  that  it  wouldn't  do  to 


TIIK  JiATII  ROAD 


21 


leave  the  (gentleman  behind  as  he  was  a  regular  customer, 
but  how  they  were  to  get  out  of  the  dilemma  neither  of 
them  was  able  to  explain.  Ultimatcl)-  it  was,  I  believe, 
solved  by  the  gentleman  himself  getting  in  just  as  the 
mail  was  starting.  A  squeeze  it  must  have  been  if  they 
were  small  men  ;  but  on  this  point    I  have   no   informa- 


fL 


**?$'.■ 


'  ■f'^n  tn  --5*  ?  T 


4lf  '^ 


'•^-t'- 


Ncwbury  Bfidge. 


tion.  Arrived  at  the  Bear,  at  Maidenhead,  where  they 
changed,  Stacey  went  to  the  coach  door  and  said, 
'  There's  time  for  you  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee  here,  gentle- 
men, if  you  just  like  to  get  out/  No  one  moved,  fearful 
that  if  once  out  he  might  not  be  able  to  get  in  again. 
In  this   way  they   travelled  down  to  Newbury,  fifty-six 


22  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

miles  from  London,  and  the  end  of  Stacy's  journey. 
They  liad  then  however  seventeen  miles  to  go  on  to 
Marlborough,  the  extra  passenger's  destination,  and  he 
got  out  without  any  expression  of  regret  either  on  the 
part  of  himself  or  his  fellow  passengers  at  the  parting." 

Here  is  a  picture  of  a  fearful  possibility  in  a  coach. 
Degenerate  travellers  of  to-day,  we  know  what  glances 
of  flame  are  exchanged,  even  in  an  hour's  journey, 
between  the  ten  occupants  of  a  first-class  special  and  the 
accursed  eleventh  who  projects  himself  into  their  midst 
at  the  very  moment  when  the  train  is  moving  from  the 
platform.  But  here  was  an  agony  prolonged  for  seventy- 
four  miles,  and  suffered  in  a  sinister  silence.  Why  that 
silence  when  experience  would  lead  one  to  expect 
curses  }  I  should  much  like  to  know  the  secret 
history  of  that  ride.  How  did  the  fifth  passenger  so 
impress  his  presence  on  his  victims  that  they  said  no 
word  when  the  coachman  asked  them  whether  they 
would  like  some  coffee  ?  Did  he  administer  some 
narcotic  on  entering  the  coach,  or — those  were  fighting 
days — was  it  by  knocking  them  "  out  of  time  "  that  he 
"  sent  them  to  sleep  ?  " 

The  issue  is  lapped  in  mystery  ;  but  much  of  the 
Bath  Road  lies  beyond  Colnbrook,  where  I  have  been 
pausing,  and  it  is  time  to  get  along  it.  The  fast  coaches 
out  of  London  soon  covered  the  twenty-two  miles  to 
Reading,  and  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  dawdle  by  the 
way.  The  purely  coaching  record  is  a  blank.  There 
was  however  a  fine  inn  at  Slough,  where  there  is  now  a 
draughty  railway  station  ;  and  at  Salt  Hill,  six  furlongs 
on,  the  Windmill  was  noted  for  its  dinners.  Here  was 
also  one  of  those  unlimited  establishments  for  the  supply 
of  posting  horses,  to  be  found  years  ago  on  all  the  great 
thoroughfares  out  of  London.  After  crossincf  over 
Maidenhead  Bridge  the  road  enters  Berkshire,  and 
immediatel)'  afterwards  the  town  of  Maidenhead  itself. 
An  industrious  curate,  once  resident  in  the  town,  has 
filled    a    large  volume   with    its    history  ;    but   there   is 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


23 


nothing  in  it  ;  and  were  it  not  that  Royalty  here  first 
sets  its  foot  on  the  road,  we  might  hurry  on  to  Maiden- 
head thicket,  where  we  should  have  our  purses  taken. 
Such  a  lot,  at  least,  would  in  all  likelihood  have  been 
ours,  had  we  travelled  in  the  good  old  days,  and  properly 
provided.  The  place  had  such  a  bad  reputation  so  far 
back  as  Elizabeth's  time  that  the  Vicar  of  Hurley,  who 
did  duty  at  Maidenhead,  drew  an  extra  salary  as  amends 
for  having  to  pass  it. 

In  July,  1647,  Charles  the  First  was  allowed,  after 
several  years  separation,  to  see  his  children,  and  child- 
ren and  father  met  at  Maidenhead,  at  the  Greyhound 
Inn.  The  meeting  must  have  been  a  pathetic  one,  but 
the  town  was  strewn  with  flowers  and  decked  with  green 
boughs.  The  united  family,  so  soon  to  be  so  terribly 
divided,  dined  together,  we  read,  and  afterwards  drove 
to  Caversham.  It  must  have  been  a  pleasant  journey 
that  down  the  Reading  Road,  and  would  make,  I  think, 
a  pretty  picture  ;  the  king,  with  a  sad  smile  on  his  fine 
face,  pale  from  imprisonment,  the  children  laughing  and 
talking  gaily,  innocent  of  what  the  Fates  were  pre- 
paring unseen,  the  stern  guard  of  Ironsides,  not  unmoved 
at  the  sight,  riding  grimly  behind.  I  wonder  what 
Charles  and  his  children  talked  about  on  that  historic 
journey.  Not  of  past  troubles,  I  suspect.  Care  had 
been  too  constant  a  companion  of  late  years  to  be 
chosen  as  a  topic.  I  dare  say  that  the  king,  who  knew 
his  folk-lore  and  his  Berkshire  too — and  who  was  a 
capital  story-teller  if  we  are  to  believe  Mr.  Wills — 
simply  discussed  the  places  of  interest  on  the  road, 
and  acted  as  cicerone  to  his  children.  It  would  be  a 
natural  event  at  so  critical  a  meeting,  just  as  it  was 
natural  that  Heine,  after  careful  consideration  of  what 
he  should  say  to  Goethe  when  he  met  him,  found  when 
the  crisis  came  that  he  could  only  talk  about  plums  ; 
and  Charles  if  he  did  discuss  scenery  had  a  subject. 
Half  a  mile  south  of  Maidenhead,  he  might  have  pointed 
out  the  spire  of  Bray  Church,  and  told  his  children  the 


24 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


story  of  the  immortal  Vicar.  Perhaps  at  his  children's 
request,  he  sang  them  a  song,  or  perchance  a  ballad, 
according  to  prescription,  though  I  am  not  quite  sure 
whether  one  was  extant  at  the  time — probably  it  wasn't. 
At  any  rate,  the  Vicar  alone  would  make  a  subject  for 
an  afternoon  drive.  There  are  few  characters  in  English 
history  that  I  admire  more  than  the  soft-hearted  Simon 

Aleyn.  This  genial 
churchman  had 
seen  some  martyrs 
burnt ;  he  thought 
the  game  was  not 
worth  the  candle, 
and  at  the  same 
time  discovered  in 
himself  no  particu- 
lar penchant  for 
martyrdom.  The 
result  was  that  he 
was  a  papist  in 
Henry  the  Eighth's 
time,  a  Protestant 
in  Edward  the 
Sixth's  time,  a 
papist  in  Mary's, 
and  in  Elizabeth's  a 
Protestant  ao;ain.  I 
cannot  sufficiently 
admire  the  genial 
adroitness  of  this 
bending  to  circum- 
stance, or  weary  of  considering  what  seas  of  precious 
blood  might  have  been  saved  to  England  if  Simon 
Aleyn's  contemporaries  could  have  added  a  leaven  of 
his  circumspection  to  the  fury  of  their  faith,  l^ut  1  do 
not  think  that  his  contemporaries  thought  very  highly 
of  poor  Simon — though  from  all  I  can  read,  he  made  as 
good  a  vicar  as  many  of  them,  and  a  better  one  than 


i"!      ^    ■'    '  '    <     ■        '31" 


The  Jack  cf  Neiuhury. 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


25 


most.  No  !  they  "  lay  low  "  for  him  in  the  cruellest 
manner,  and  asked  him  at  the  end  of  his  life,  whether, 
if  he  was  not  a  turncoat,  he  was  not  an  inconstant 
changeling  ?  But  Simon,  though  he  must  have  been 
about  a  hundred,  was  ready  for  them.  "  Not  so,"  said 
he,  *'  for  I  have  always  kept  my  principle."  Upon  this 
the  wicked  desired  him  to  "  go  to,"  when  he  "  went  to" 

"  My  principle,"  he  said,  "  is 
Vicar  of    Bray."     Then    his 


in  the  following  fashion. 


this :    to    live  and 
questioners  "  went 


die  the 
too," 


and  the  good  Simon  died 
according  to  his  prin- 
ciples in  1588. 

His  genial  presence 
must  have  passed  up  and 
down  the  London  Road 
many  times  during  his 
life,  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  fresh  oaths  under 
varying  conditions,  sign- 
incr  recantations  and 
executing  more  import- 
ant commissions,  and  his 
jolly  ghost  should  haunt 
it  still  if  ghosts  were  not 
like  stage  coaches — so 
hideously  out  of  fashion  ; 
and  Simon  would  be  in 

good  company  too  if  he  would  walk,  for  the  Bath  Road 
is  haunted,  and  by  two  of  his  contemporaries. 

I  shall  have  occasion  later  on  to  remark  on  the  curious 
way  in  which  Henry  the  Eighth's  name  has  attached 
itself  to  certain  counties,  with  which,  if  we  are  to  credit 
historians,  for  want  of  other  pastime,  he  had  no  earthly 
connection  in  life.  It  is  not  surprising  however  that 
between  Windsor  and  Reading,  the  much  married  and 
much  whitewashed  king  should  be  the  hero  of  every 
tale.     And  it  is  of  a  ghost  story  of  which  he  is  particu- 


Sign  of  the  Angel,  Woolhampton. 


26  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

larly  the  moving  spirit — a  story  which  I  shall  tell  here 
because  it  connects  another  royalty  with  the  Bath 
Road. 

In  the  days,  then,  when  people  used  to  sit  round  ingle 
benches  and  frighten  each  other  with  horrid  tales  to 
make  an  excuse  for  taking  strong  waters,  travellers  by 
night  on  the  Bath  Road  used  often  to  have  a  fright  on 
this  side  of  Reading.  They  met,  or  rather  were  con- 
fronted with — confronted  is  the  proper  word — two 
figures  with  their  faces  set  towards  London.  The  usual 
preliminaries  in  the  way  of  hair  standing  on  end,  eyes 
shooting  out  of  sockets,  horses  trembling  violently  and 
then  running  away,  having  been  adjusted,  the  traveller 
looked  at  the  apparitions  and  found  one  was  a  fat  king 
in  Lincoln  green  and  the  other  a  pale  abbot  extremely 
emaciated,  having  his  hand  pressed  meaningly  on  the 
place  where  his  supper  ought  to  have  been  and  clearly 
was  not — under  which  presentment  the  two  figures 
passed  on  towards  London,  the  king  beckoning  the 
churchman.  So  far  so  good.  But  what  occurred  when 
the  apparitions  in  a  marvellously  short  space  of  time 
were  seen  returning  Reading-wards  ?  Why,  a  change 
had  come  over  the  spirit  of  the  dream  and  the  order  of 
the  procession.  The  churchman  rode  first,  and  his 
complexion,  so  far  as  a  ghost's  can,  had  recovered  all  its 
roses — his  face  moreover  had  filled  out  and  his  priestly 
hands  folded  before  him  embraced  a  portly  person. 
Behind  him  rode  the  fat  king  tossing  a  purse  of  gold 
and  shaking  his  royal  sides  with  paroxysms  of  ghostly 
inaudible  laughter  !     The  whole  thing  was  a  mystery. 

Its  key  can  be  found  in  Fuller.  It  seems  that  Henry 
the  Eighth  one  day  lost  his  way  out  hunting,  and  as  he 
had  started  the  chase  at  Windsor,  and  found  himself 
outside  the  Abbot  of  Reading's  house  at  dinner-time, 
he  must  be  allowed  to  have  got  some  distance  from  his 
bearings.  Clearly  however  the  next  thing  was  to  dine, 
and  this  he  did  at  the  Abbot's  table,  the  bat-eyed 
churchman  having  taken  him  for  one  of  the  Royal  Guard. 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


27 


A  sirloin  was  produced  and  the  king  "  laid  on,"  much 
marked  of  the  Abbot,  who  had  as  much  appetite  as  a 
peahen.  When  the  roast  had  almost  disappeared  before 
the    royal    onslaught,    the     churchman     could     contain 


himself  no  longer. 


"  Well  fare  thy  heart,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  supposed 
man-at-arms,  "  for  here  in  a  cup  of  sack  I  remember 
thy  master.  J  would  give  a  hundred  pounds  on  condition 
that  I  could  feed  as  lustily  on  beef  as  you  do.  Alas  ! 
my  weak   and   queasie  stomach  will   hardly  digest  the 


Henry  the  Eighth  and  the  Abbot  of  Reading. 
"  I  would  give  £100  could  I  feed  so  lustily  on  beef  as  you  do.' 


wing  of  a  small  rabbit  or  chicken."  How  cruel  a  case 
of  dyspepsia  in  the  Middle  Ages  !  I  recommend  it  to 
the  notice  of  the  faculty,  as  a  proof  that  there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun,  not  even  in  this  "  new  disease  that 
is  stealing  upon  us  all."  Meanw^iile  the  king  pledged 
his  host  and  departed.  Some  weeks  after,  the  Abbot 
was  committed  to  the  Tower  and  fed  for  a  short  space 
on  bread  and  water — a  novel  treatment  for  loss  of 
appetite  which  threw  the  pious  patient  into  the  most 
horrid  dejection,  "  yet  not  so  empty  was  his  body  of 
food  as  his  mind  was  filled  with  fears  as  to  how  he  had 


28  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

incurred  the  king's  displeasure."  At  the  very  cHmax 
of  this  emptiness  a  sirloin  of  beef  was  set  before  him, 
when  the  good  Abbot  verified  the  proverb  that  two 
hungry  meals  make  a  glutton.  He  in  point  of  fact 
rivalled  the  king's  performance  at  Reading,  and  just  as 
he  was  wiping  his  mouth,  out  jumped  the  king  from  a 
closet.  "  My  Lord,"  quoth  the  king,  "  deposit  presently 
your  hundred  pounds  of  gold,  or  else  no  going  hence  all 
the  days  of  your  life.  I  have  been  your  physician  to 
cure  you  of  your  '  queasie  stomach,'  and  here  as  I  deserve 
I  demand  my  fee  for  the  same."  Too  replete  for  repartee 
the  Abbot  ''  down  with  his  dust,"  and  presently  returned 
to  Reading  as  somewhat  lighter  in  purse  so  much  more 
merry  in  heart  than  when  he  came  thence.  I  hope  that 
when  Henry  the  Eighth  suppressed  the  monasteries  he 
remembered  that  the  good  Abbot  had  got  a  renewed 
digestion  and  left  him  something  to  buy  beef  with — but 
it  is  probable  that  he  didn't. 

This  I  believe  to  be  the  right  interpretation  of  the 
vision  of  the  two  horsemen  on  the  Reading  Road  ;  which 
I  hope  will  not  be  considered  a  digression  from  my 
subject,  because  the  travellers  are  somewhat  pale  and 
insubstantial,  and  ride  by  us  on  ghostly  old  horses 
instead  of  in  a  spick  and  span  fast  day  coach.  Every- 
thing is  a  subject  in  my  eyes  provided  that  it  has 
travelled  on  the  road,  and  if  Henry  the  Eighth  and  his 
patient  travelled  on  it  some  time  since,  they  have  at  all 
events  brought  me  to  Reading,  which  is  thirty-eight 
miles  seven  furlongs  from  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  a 
third  of  the  way  to  ]^ath. 

Reading  has  a  history  like  many  other  provincial 
towns  which  nobody  has  read  of  That  is  to  say  the 
usual  number  of  l^arliaments  have  been  held  there  at 
which  no  particular  measures  were  passed.  Queen 
Elizabeth  visited  it  six  times,  but  seems  to  have  omitted 
to  shoot  a  stag  during  her  stays  :  there  was  a  siege  or 
two  undertaken  in  the  Civil  Wars  ;  and  a  Benedictine 
Abbey    turned     into     a     palace — the    Abbey     of    the 


THE  RATH  ROAD  29 

unfortunate  Abbot.  What  is  more  to  the  purpose 
however  is  that  here  the  Flying  Machines  of  the  early 
days  of  coaching  inncd,  as  they  called  it,  after  the 
first  of  their  three  days'  journey  to  Bath,  and  the  coaches 
of  the  palmy  days  changed  horses.  The  great  Western 
Hotel  now  reigns  of  course  instead  of  the  Bear,  the 
Crown,  and  the  George  ;  but  it  was  at  the  latter  signs 
that  the  passengers  in  the  Flying  Machines  rested  their 
jolted  limbs  on  the  sheets  smelling  of  lavender  that  we 
have  read  of,  and  their  more  hurried  descendants  had 
just  time  to  drink  the  great  drink  of  a  tumbler  of  fresh 
milk,  one  fair  lump  of  sugar,  two  tablespoonfuls  of  rum, 
and  just  a  thought  of  nutmeg  grating  on  the  top  of  all, 
a  trifle  that  could  be  tossed  off  in  a  minute,  and,  so  far 
as  I  can  read,  was  perpetually  so  being  tossed  off,  before 
the  guard  applied  "  the  yard  of  tin  "  to  his  lips  and  the 
four  fresh  horses  whirled  them  off  to  Newbury. 

I  have  said  that  the  Bath  Road  has  appealed  to  me 
as  being  more  particularly  the  literary  road  than  any  of 
the  other  five  great  thoroughfares  out  of  London.  The 
next  thirteen  miles  out  of  Reading  go  to  bear  out  this 
view.  They  teem  with  literary  and  romantic  recollections. 
Two  miles  out  of  Reading  and  on  the  right  of  the  road 
is  Calcott  House,  once  the  seat  of  the  Berkshire  Lady. 
In  the  pleasant  park  which  lies  in  front  of  the  square, 
formal-looking  old  house,  the  beautiful  Miss  Kendrick, 
the  rich,  the  whimsical,  confronted  Benjamin  Child, 
Esq.,  Barrister-at-law — masked,  rapier  in  hand,  and 
under  the  pale  moonlight.  The  lady  had  refused 
numberless  offers  of  marriage  made  in  due  form.  Due 
forms  however  were  her  aversion,  and  so  seem  men  to 
have  been,,  till  one  fine  day,  when 

"  Being  at  a  noble  wedding 

In  the  famous  town  of  Reading, 
A  young  gentleman  she  saw 
Who  belonged  to  the  law." 

In  fact  Benjamin  Child,  Esq.     To  him  the  lady  sends  a 
challenge  unbeknownst,   as   Mrs.   Gamp   would  say,  to 


30 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


THE  BATH  ROAD  31 

fis^ht  a  mortal  duel  in  Calcott  Park.  Nor  did  she 
trouble  to  assign  any  cause  why  Child — if  such  lot  were 
to  be  his — should  be  skewered  like  a  chicken.  This 
sounds  like  Dumas,  but  the  barrister  thought  it  meant 
business,  and  repaired  to  the  place  named  sword  in  hand. 
He  found  the  fair  Miss  Kendrick,  masked,  and  still 
"  unbeknownst,"  awaiting  him, 

"  '  So  now  take  your  chance,'  says  she, 
'  Either  fight  or  marry  me.' 
Said  he,  '  Madam,  pray  what  mean  ye  ? 
In  my  life  I  ne'er  have  seen  ye.'" 

In  fact  he  proposed  point-blank  that  she  should  unmask, 
not  perhaps  caring  to  take  a  pig  in  a  poke.  The  lady 
however  remained  firm  and  incognito,  when  the  intrepid 
Child,  fortified  perhaps  by  a  view  of  Calcott  House, 
which  formed  a  grateful  background  to  the  scene,  told 
the  lady  that  he  preferred  to  wed  her  than  to  try  her 
skill.  Upon  which  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  found 
himself 

"  Clothed  in  rich  attire 
Not  inferior  to  a  squire  " — 

in  fact  master  of  Calcott.  Fortunate  man  ;  romantic 
times,  say  I.     They  were  only  so  far  back  as  171 2. 

Two  miles  beyond  Calcott  the  Bath  Road  runs  through 
Theale,  v/here  on  the  Old  Angel  inn  the  traveller's 
eyes  at  least  may  be  feasted.  And  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, the  memory  of  Pope  once  more  adds  lustre  to  the 
way.  For  at  Ufton  Nervet  lived  Arabella  Fermor,  the 
Belinda  of  The  Rape  of  tJie  Lock.  Arabella  must  have 
passed  down  the  road  man}^  a  time  on  her  way  from 
Ufton  to  Hampton  Court. 

"  Where  mighty  Anna,  whom  three  realms  obey, 
Doth  sometimes  counsel  take  and  sometimes  tea," 

perhaps  in  the  society  of  her  celebrator  ;  for  Pope  him- 
self was   frequently  a   visitor   at   Ufton.      Many  of  his 


32 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


^•^ 


r-i 


^T^!'^^ 


/rT»t" 


most  delightful  letters  are  dated  from  there — letters  in 
which  he  gives  charming  sketches  of  English  country 
life  in  the  last  century,  and  paints  the  old  house  for  us, 
with  its  haunted  staircase,  secret  chambers,  formal 
gardens,  and  the  raised  terrace  behind  it  where  Arabella 
must  often  have  walked.  Bucklebury,  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood,  is  associated  with  even  greater  names. 

This  was  the  country 
seat    of    Bolingbroke 
the  magnificent.  Here 
great    statesman 


the 

who  was  half  Horace 

rr^^^[^^l  and  half  the  elder  Pitt, 

/^  forgot  the  distractions 

yiKS^'^  ^^'i  -       °^  political  intrigue  in 

}%}f^y  f/^         the    smiles    of    Bur- 

^^  ^!^    /  ^-r^    gundy  and  the   calm 

pleasures  of  country 
life.  Bucklebury  was 
his  Sabine  farm.  Here 
he  played  the  fancy 
farmer  and  gathered 
round  him  the  finest 
intellects  of  the  day. 
Swift  was  a  constant 
visitor,  and  in  a  very 
delightful  letter  to 
Stella,  he  has  drawn 
Mr.  Secretary  for  us 
as  the  perfect  country 
gentleman,  smoking 
his  tobacco  with  one  or  two  neighbours  inquiring 
after  the  wheat  in  such  a  field,  visiting  his  hounds 
and  calling  them  all  by  their  names,  he  and  his  wife 
showing  Swift  up  to  his  bedroom  just  in  the  country 
fashion.  "  His  house,"  writes  the  author  of  "  Gulliver/' 
"  is  just  in  the  midst  of  3,000/.  a  year  he  had  by  his 
lady,    who    is    descended    from    Jack    of    Newbury,    of 


fieaJe 


The  Old  Angel  at  Theale. 


THE  BATH  ROAD  33 

whom  books  and  ballads  are  written  ;  and  there  is  an  old 
picture  of  him  in  the  room," 

At  Woolhampton,  a  little  over  ten  miles  from  Reading 
still  stands  all  that  is  left  of  the  Angel,  a  celebrated  old 
posting  inn,  with  a  most  curious  sign,  and  three  miles  five 
furlongs  further  on  is  Thatcham.  Here  the  passengers 
by  the  "  New  Company's  elegant  light  four  inside 
post  coaches,"  which  in  the  palmy  days  of  coaching 
did  the  hundred  and  five  miles  from  Bath  to  London  in 
twelve  hours  and  a  half,  used  to  dine  at  the  King's  Head. 
Here  prodigies  in  the  way  of  taking  in  provisions  were 
performed  in  half  an  hour.  The  attack  on  the  table 
must  have  been  tremendous,  and  the  tables  were  well 
fortified  for  the  attack.  These  were  the  days,  be  it 
remembered,  when  English  cookery  was  English  cookery, 
unpolluted  as  yet  with 

"  Art,  with  poisonous  honey  stolen  from  France." 

The  distinguished  author  of  Tancred  and  the  Treaty 
of  Berlin  has  described  the  half  hour  for  dinner  at  such 
an  inn  as  the  King's  Head  with  much  spirit. 

'"  The  coach  stops  here  half  an  hour,  gentlemen:  dinner 
quite  ready.' 

'"Tis  a  delightful  sound.  And  what  a  dinner!  What 
a  profusion  of  substantial  delicacies  !  What  mighty  and 
iris-tinted  rounds  of  beef!  What  vast  and  marble- 
veined  ribs  !  What  gelatinous  veal  pies  !  What  colossal 
hams !  Those  are  evidently  prize  cheeses  !  And  how 
invigorating  is  the  perfume  of  those  various  and 
variegated  pickles !  Then  the  bustle  emulating  the 
plenty  ;  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  clash  of  thoroughfare, 
the  summoning  of  ubiquitous  waiters,  and  the  all-pervad- 
ing feeling  of  omnipotence  from  the  guests,  who  order 
what  they  please  to  the  landlord,  who  can  produce  and 
execute  everything  they  can  desire.  'Tis  a  wondrous 
sight  ! " 

Three  miles  further  on  and   we   are  at  Newbury,  or 

D 


34 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


-^         /"uS- 


Courtyard  of  Angd,  ll'ooihainf'toii. 


4^ 


.( 

I 

v. 


/T  .  . 


*^<^''''^ 
^ 


rather  at  Spccnhamlancl,  a  kind  of  suburb  of  Inns  and 
posting  houses  which  connected  it  with  the  Bath  Road  ; 
and  at  Newbiir)',  and  indeed  right  f^n  to  Hungerford,  we 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


35 


arc  on  historic  ground.  It  is  out  of  my  province  to 
describe  in  detail  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  fortunes  of  the 
fight  during  those  two  tremendous  days,  September  i6th, 
1643,  and  October  27th,  1644,  when  the  best  blood  of 
England  was  poured  out  like  water  on  Speen  Hill,  and 
the  cause  of  Charles  the  First  was  upheld  by  an  uncertain 
triumph  ;  nor  have  I  space  to  do  more  than  make  passing 


The  King's  Head,  Thatcham. 


mention  of  the  famous  personages  in  the  world  of  history, 
romance  and  letters,  whose  memories  throng  the  road  as 
far  as  Hungerford,  and  indeed  beyond  it,  "  thick  as  leaves 
in  Vallombrosa."  I  see  Charles  the  First  dressing  in  the 
bow  window  of  the  drawing-room  of  Shaw  House  on  the 
morning  of  the  battle,  and  the  divinity  that  hedges  a  king 
turning  aside  the  rebel  bullet  ;  and  the  gallant  Carnarvon 
measuring  the  gateway  with  his  sword  to  see  how  Essex 

D  2 


36 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


horns  could  pass  through  when  they  should  lead  him  in 
as  prisoner  (Carnarvon's  dead  body  came  into  Newbury 


Sha^ii  House,  N^ewbury. 


the  same  evening  stretched  across  a  horse) ;  and  Sunder- 
land dying  sword  in  hand  at  twenty-three  ;  and  Falkland 
the  blameless,  who  foresaw  much  misery  to  his  country. 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


37 


riding  into  the  battle  in  the  belief  that  he  would  be  out 
of  that  misery  before  night  ;  I  see  the  travellers  on  the 
Bath  Road  smacking  their  lips  over  the  Pelican  dinners, 
and  losing  their  colour  over  the  Pelican  bill,  each  equally 


notorious  at  that  great  house. 


"  The  famous  inn  in  Speenhamland 
That  stands  below  the  hill, 
May  v^ell  be  called  the  Pelican 
From  its  enormous  bill," 


as  Quin  sang  of  it.  On  the  i6th  of  June,  1668,  Mr. 
Samuel  Pepys  came  to  "  Newberry,"  as  he  spells  it,  and 
there  dined  "  and 
musick  :  a  song  of 
the  old  courtier  of 
Oueene  Eliza- 
beth's,  and  how  he 
was  changed  upon 
the  coming  in  of 
the  King  did  please 
me  mightily,  and  I 
did  cause \V.  Hewer 
to  write  it  out. 
Then  comes  the 
reckoning  (forced  to 
change  gold),  Ss.  jd. 
servants,  and  poor 
i^.  6d.  So  out 
and  lost  our  way  ; 
but  come  into  it 
again."  I  do  not 
see  Chaucer  writ- 
ing the  Canterbury 

Tales  under  the  oak  named  after  him  in  Donnington 
Park,  because,  in  spite  of  the  tradition  that  says  he 
did  so,  the  Park  did  not  come  into  the  family's  posses- 
sion till  eighteen  years  after  the  poet's  death,  but 
I     can     see     Burke,     and     Johnson,     and     Goldsmith, 


Littlecote. 


38 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


and  Reynolds  posting  along  the  road  towards  Sand- 
ford,  where  they  are  going  to  stay  with  Mrs. 
Montagu,  and  I  can  see  Evelyn  eating  "troutes" 
at  Hungerford,  and  William  of  Orange  receiving 
the    commissioners    of   King   James.       This    important 


,r-  ■:■:'-,.  .,r,- 


,  „:,  .1,;  .i!!^i  ■■  •  jSffl    llmi 

"^"Siiiiiii^:^  .w  III 


.^ 


:.=£^    '.' 


IS^ffF'^'^^  ■ 


lii^ 


The  White  Uavte,  I'hatcham. 


episode  in    the    Rebellion    is  graphically   described   by 
Macaulay  : 

"  On  the  morning  of  Saturday,  8th  of  December,  i688, 
the  King's  commissioners  reached  Hungerford.  The 
Prince's  bodyguard  was  drawn  up  to  receive  them  with 
military  respect.  Benting  welcomed  them  and  proposed 
to  conduct  them  immediately  to  his  master.  They 
expressed  a   hope  that   the   Prince  would    favour  them 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


39 


with  a  private  audience  ;  but  they  were  informed  that  he 
had  resolv'cd  to  hear  them  and  answer  them  in  pubHc. 
They  were  ushered  into  his  bed-chamber  where  they 
found  him  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  noblemen  and 
gentlemen.  Halifax,  whose  rank,  age,  and  abilities 
entitled  him  to  precedence,  was  spokesman.  Halifax 
having  explained  the  basis  on  which  he  and  his 
colleagues  were  prepared  to  treat,  put  into  William's 
hand  a  letter  from  the  King  and  retired.  William 
opened     the     letter     and     seemed     unusually     moved. 


Great  Chatfield  Manor,  near  Bath. 


It  was  the  first  letter  which  he  had  received  from  his 
father-in-law  since  they  had  become  avowed  enemies. 
He  requested  the  Lords  and  Gentlemen  whom  he  had 
convoked  on  this  occasion  to  consult  together  unrestrained 
by  his  presence  as  to  the  answer  which  ought  to  be 
returned.  To  himself  however  he  reserved  the  power  ol 
deciding  in  the  last  resort  after  hearing  their  opinion. 
He  then  left  them  and  retired  to  Littlecote  Hall,  a  manor 
house,  situated  about  two  miles  off,  and  renowned  down 
to  our  own  times  not  more  on  account  of  its  venerable 
architecture  and  furniture  than  on  account  of  a  horrible 


40  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

and  mysterious  crime  which  was  perpetrated  there  in  the 
days  of  the  Tudors." 

I  do  not  think  that  the  travellers  on  the  Bath  Road, 
whether  posting  or  coaching,   knew  much  about   ''  this 
horrible    and    mysterious     crime "    which     has     made 
Littlecote   Hall  and   Wild   Darrell  notorious,  till   Scott 
told  the  story  to  the  general  world  in  a  fine  foot-note 
to  Rokeby ;  for  Evelyn — to  take  one  example — on  his 
journey  to  Wiltshire,  in    1654,  passes  the  place  with  the 
remark  that  it  "  is  a  noble  seat,  park,  and  river,"  which 
is   perfectly    true,    but    not    much    to    the    point ;    and 
Pepys — to  take  another — on  Tuesday,  June   i6th,   1668, 
after  paying  the  reckoning  at  the  Hart  at  Marlborough 
— *' 14^'.    6d. ;    and    servants,    2s. ;     poor    \s. ;    set    out, 
and    passing  through   a  good   part    of   this    county    of 
Wiltshire  saw  a  good  house   of  Alexander  Fopham's," 
and  with  that  passes  on  to  Newbury,  where  he  dined, 
and    heard    that   song   of   the    old    courtier   of  Oueene 
Elizabeth,  and  how  "  he  was  changed  at  the  coming  in 
of  the   king,"   which  pleased   him   so   mightily,   and   to 
which  I  have  already  referred.     Now  we  expect  nothing 
but  pragmatical  practicalness  from  the  delightful  Samuel, 
but  to  call  Wild  Darrell's  haunted  home  "a  good  house 
of  Alexander  Fopham's,"  is  really  to  touch  bottom  in  an 
outrage  on  the  eternal   fitness  of  things.     Worse  how- 
ever   remains    behind.     One    might   at   least  be   led  to 
expect   mention   of  a   romantic   legend   from   a    literary 
lady  ;  but  Miss  Burney,  on  her  journey  to  Bath  in   1780 
with    Mrs.    Thrale,    viewed    Littlecote's   storied    towers 
unmoved,  that  is  to  say  if  she  saw  them  at  all,  and  was 
not  looking  out  of  the  other  window  of  the  post-chaise  ; 
at  all  events  she  makes  no  mention  of  there  being  such 
a  place   in   Europe,   or  her  Diary,  though  she  tells  us 
that  she  slept  at  Maidenhead  the  first  night,  Speen  Hill 
the  second,  the  third  at  Devizes,  and  dwells  on  the  Bear 
Inn  there  at  great  length — where   we  will  join   her   in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Meanwhile  it  is  not  for  me  to  pass  with  such  travelled 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


41 


!i  f\: 


Littlecote  Hall. 


indifference  the  scene  of  that  wild  story  of  EHzabethan 
crime  and  mystery,  which  reads  even  in  these  practical 


42  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

times  like  some  page  of  horror  torn  out  of  Sheridan  Le 
Fanu,  and  to  which  the  great  magician  of  the  world  fan- 
tastical could  alone  have  given  fit  form  and  colour. 
Summoned  by  his  eerie  genius,  with  what  terrible 
vividness  would  each  incident,  each  actor  in  the  buried 
infamy,  rise  from  the  dead  !  The  whole  story  would 
pass  before  us  under  a  ghostly,  shimmering,  ghoul-like 
glamour  :  the  midwife  at  Shefford,  a  village  seven  miles 
off,  waked  in  the  dead  of  night,  with  a  promise  of  high 
pay  for  her  ofhce  on  condition  that  she  should  be  blind- 
folded !  the  headlong  ride  through  the  wild  weather 
behind  the  silent  serving  man  !  the  arrival  at  a  large 
house  which  was  strange  to  her  !  the  mounting  of  the 
long  stairs,  which  the  woman,  shadowed  already  with 
some  grim  foreboding,  counted  carefully  as  she  passed 
up  them !  the  delivery  in  a  gloomy,  richly  furnished 
room  of  a  masked  lady  !  the  entrance  of  a  tall  man  "  of 
ferocious  aspect,"  who  seized  the  newborn  child,  thrust 
it  into  the  fire  that  was  blazing  on  the  hearth,  ground  it 
under  his  heavy  boot  till  it  was  cinders !  then  the 
trembling  departure  of  the  pale  spectator  of  the  hideous 
scene,  blindfolded  as  she  had  come,  aghast,  speechless, 
carrying  a  heavy  bribe  with  her  as  the  price  of  guilty 
silence,  but  carrying  also  a  piece  of  the  curtain  which 
she  had  cut  out  of  the  bed — all  this  scene  of  horror  how 
the  author  of  The  Dragon  Volant  would  have  described 
it  for  us  !     And  all  this  horror  is  history  ! 

The  original  deposition  made  on  her  death-bed  by 
the  midwife,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Barnes,  and  com- 
mitted to  writing  by  Mr.  Bridges,  magistrate  of  Great 
Shefford  is  in  existence  to  this  day,  and  is  proof  beyond 
cavil.  It  is  from  this  point  that  rumour  begins.  That 
rumour,  backed  in  my  opinion  by  damning  circumstance, 
has  for  tvvc»  hundred  years  connected  the  tragedy  with 
Littlccote  house  and  William  Darrell,  commonly  called 
Wild  Darrell,  then  its  proprietor.  It  is  alleged  that  the 
midwife's  depositions  set  justice  on  the  murderer's  track, 
and  that  the  fitting  of  the   piece  of  curtain  which   Mrs. 


THE  BATH  ROAD  43 

Barnes  had  taken  away  with  her  into  a  rent  found  in 
the  curtain  of  the  Haunted  Room  at  Littlecote,  marked 
the  scene  of  the  murder.  Wild  Barrel  1  was  tried  for 
his  life,  it  is  said,  but  escaped  by  bribing  the  officers  of 
the  law  with  the  reversion  of  his  large  estates.  But — so 
runs  the  rumour- — the  memory  of  his  crime  pursued 
him.  He  was  haunted  by  ghastly  spectres  which  he 
tried  to  forget  in  wild  excesses,  but  which  no  seas  of 
claret  would  lay.  Finally  as  he  was  riding  recklessly 
down  the  steep  downs,  with  the  scene  of  his  atrocity  in 
sight,  at  headlong  speed,  the  reins  loose,  his  body 
swaying  in  the  saddle,  pale,  wild-eyed,  unkempt,  the 
very  picture  of  debauched  and  guilty  recklessness, 
tearing  from  the  Furies  of  the  past,  that  past  con- 
fronted him.  The  apparition  of  a  babe  burning  in  a 
flame  barred  his  path.  The  horse  reared  violently  at 
the  supernatural  sight.  Darrell  was  as  violently  thrown, 
and  the  wicked  neck,  which  had  escaped  the  halter  by  a 
bribe,  was  broken  at  last  as  it  deserved  to  be.  The 
stile  is  still  shown  by  the  country  people  where  the 
wretched,  haunted  man,  met  his  fate  ;  the  spectres 
of  the  pale  huntsman  and  his  hounds  often  cross  their 
simple  paths  in  the  gloaming  of  summer  evenings  when 
the  downs  loom  gray  and  ghostly — or  did  cross  them, 
rather,  before  School  Boards,  the  franchise,  the  abolition 
of  the  smock  frock,  and  the  general  improvement  of 
everything  on  and  off  the  earth,  banished  such  inspiriting 
sights  for  ever.  Wild  Darrell  is  remembered  but  as  a 
name  now,  and  as  a  name  for  all  that  is  wicked. 

And  yet  not  quite  so  if  we  are  to  judge  from  a  recent 
publication  ;  in  point  of  fact  *'  not  at  all  so  by  any 
means  no  more,"  as  the  South  Sea  Islanders  say  when 
they  have  eaten  a  Wesley  an  missionary.  For  we  live 
in  an  age  of  the  rehabilitation  of  condemned  reputations, 
and  a  generation  which  has  learnt  from  a  German  pro- 
fessor that  Tiberius  was  an  amiable  potentate,  and  not 
a  fourteen-bottle  man,  and  from  an  English  historian 
that    Henry    the    Eighth   was   a   confirmed    theological 


44 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


student  for  whom  women's  society  offered  no  charm, 
will  not  raise  their  eyebrows  even  when  Mr.  Hubert 
Hall  tells  them  in  his  delightful  Society  in  tJie  Elizabethan 
Age  (Sonnenschein  &  Co.),  that  Wild  Darrell,  far  from 
being  the  monster  that  rumour  and  I  have  made  out, 
was  in  point  of  fact  a  plain,  courteous,  much  abused 
lord  of  wide  acres,  which  rapacious  neighbours  passed 


gi'ir  -'-:i^ 


^^»^5^?^> 


},  \     fl'^>^>^y  > 


Haunted  Room,  Litilecotc. 


their  lives  in  trying  to  take  from  him,  and  who  was 
compelled  as  a  painful  consequence  to  ruin  himself  in 
Chancery  law-suits.  The  William  Darrell  that  Mr.  Hall 
draws  for  us  is  indeed  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  He 
bears  an  ominous  resemblance  to  the  "  good  young  man 
who  died,"  aiid  far  from  roasting  live  children  at  mid- 
night  and   breaking   his   neck  by  furious  riding,  spends 


THE  BATH  ROAD  45 

his  whole  days  in  totting  up  his  accounts,  drawing  up 
amateur  legal  documents  to  the  utter  confusion  of  his 
legal  advisers,  giving  away  estates  in  order  that  these 
documents  may  be  heard  in  court,  reading  philosophy, 
cultivating  strawberries  and  trout  with  the  aid  of  a 
Dutch  gardener  (the  strawberries  not  the  trout),  smoking 
tobacco,  and  finally  dying  in  his  bed,  comfortable  and 
orthodox.  Mr.  Hall  does  indeed  take  pity  on  his  hero 
and  permits  him,  with  many  graceful  excuses,  the  senti- 
mental license  of  running  away  with  his  neighbour's 
wife  (the  injured  husband,  as  is  customary,  coming  in 
for  no  consideration  whatever)  ;  but  at  best  his  hero  is 
but  a  dowdy  sort  of  Elizabethan  Edgar  Ravenswood, 
attired  in  a  gray  jerkin,  with  an  elderjy  Lady  Hunger- 
ford  for  a  Lucy  Ashton. 

Now  all  this  is  very  sad,  and  bad,  and  mad — at  least 
it  will  make  most  people  feel  so  if  their  cherished 
illusions  are  thus  ruthlessly  shattered.  In  the  present 
instance  however  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the 
romance  of  private  history  has  been  deprived  of  a 
lawful  possession,  or  that  the  wicked  Wild  Darrell  of 
our  youth,  "  the  tall  man  of  ferocious  aspect,"  has  been 
turned  for  good  and  all  into  an  agricultural  goody- 
goody.  Nevertheless  in  an  age  when  documentary 
evidence  is  considered  everything,  and  all  other  kind  of 
evidence  as  nothing  at  all,  Mr.  Hall's  defence  of  Darrell 
must  command  respect,  for  it  is  a  defence  based  entirely 
on  a  series  of  Darrell  papers  lying  in  the  Record  Office, 
which  have  been  carefully  edited,  and  give  us  as  inter- 
esting a  glimpse  into  Elizabethan  country  society  as  can 
have  been  got  for  some  time.  The  cry  of  documentary 
evidence  is  not  however  one  at  which  I  stand  instantly 
abashed,  because  I  know  that  not  only  have  documents 
relating  to  issues  wherein  the  honour  of  families  has 
been  at  stake  been  frequently  tampered  with  in  public 
collections,  but  have  been  found,  on  search  being  made, 
to  have  vanished  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  Who  sup- 
poses for   instance  that   in  our   Record  Office  is  to  be 


46  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

found  anything  approaching  even  to  a  complete  account 
of  an  event  so  important  as  the  Gunpowder  Treason  ? 
Who  wrote  the  letter  to  Monteagle  ?  and  at  whose 
instigation  ?  Was  the  Government  cognizant  before 
that  letter  was  written  of  the  exact  nature  of  the  con- 
spiracy ?  Where  are  the  documents  which  should 
point  most  clearly  to  the  complicity  of  the  Provincial 
of  the  English  Jesuits?  Echo  answers  "Where?" 
and  will  continue  to  answer  so  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter. 

It  is  from  this  point  of  view,  though  not  from  this 
point  of  view  only,  that  Mr.  Hall's  defence  of  Darrell 
seems  to  me  inconclusive.  The  Darrell  papers,  or  rather 
such  as  are  now  in  the  Record  Office,  are  all  that  he 
relies  upon  ;  and  the  Darrell  papers  really  have  little  to 
do  with  anything  but  farm  accounts.  Mr.  Hall,  in 
truth,  has  only  got  hold  of  one  end  of  the  stick.  There 
is  a  lack  of  cause  for  effect,  as  a  consequence,  at  the 
very  basis  of  his  argument.  And  the  same  flaw,  if  I 
may  say  so,  runs  through  it.  We  are  shown  at  the 
outset,  a  man  at  feud  with  all  his  neighbours,  accused  of 
one  murder,  suspected  of  another,  his  name  a  by-word 
for  profligacy  and  something  worse,  and  we  are  told 
that  the  only  reason  for  this  notorious  reputation  was 
that  he  was  a  wealthy  landowner,  and  that  his  neigh- 
bours wanted  to  grab  his  farms  !  As  if  the  whole 
energies  of  an  Elizabethan  country  gentleman—  the 
contemporary  of  Raleigh,  Sidney,  Essex,  be  it  remem- 
bered— were  devoted  to  this  pastoral  pursuit !  Mr. 
Hall  indeed  would  have  us  believe  that  they  were  ;  as 
he  would  have  us  believe,  as  an  excuse  for  Darrell's 
amour  with  Lady  Hungerford,  "  that  it  was  as  common 
for  men  of  his  class  to  debauch  their  neighbours'  wives, 
as  for  two  yeomen  to  draw  on  each  other  at  a  country 
fair  ; "  but  surely  Mr.  Hall  is  thinking  of  times  when 
carving-knives  were  made  of  flint-stones  and  authors 
lived  in  caves  and  ate  each  other.  And  the  arguments 
that    he  adduces  to   prove   that   his   hero  was  not   the 


THE  BATH  ROAD  47 

ruffian  that  contemporary  opinion  made  out,  are  really 
not  conclusive  at  all.  If  Darrcll,  for  instance,  is  accused 
of  being  a  wine-bibber,  we  are  confronted  with  a  most 
interesting  collection  of  meiuis  during  his  last  stay  in 
London,  fi'om  April  i6th  to  July  14th,  1589,  in  which 
we  find  constant  entry  of  a  "  pynt  of  clarett "  in  con- 
nection with  "  a  legg  of  mutton,"  and  so  forth.  But 
waiving  the  fact  that  the  wicked  squire  was  at  this  time 
playing  the  courtier,  with  a  suspected  reputation  to  keep 
up,  does  this  formal  entry  for  the  benefit  of  the  steward 
preclude  the  possibility  of  private  drinking  }  I  think 
that  many  a  confirmed  drunkard's  house  books  would 
show  as  temperate  a  return.  It  is  that  private  store  of 
Rhenish  which  does  the  business,  which  remains  un- 
entered in  ledgers,  or  if  entered,  appears  as  "  dressinge 
for  ye  chickens."  Then  again,  and  this  touches  the 
root  of  the  whole  matter,  Mr.  Hall  expressly  declares 
that  Darrell  did  not  "  keep  a  brace  of  painted  madams 
at  his  own  command."  But  has  he  heard  of  a  certain 
letter  dated  2  January,  1579,  from  Sir  H.  Knyvett  of 
Charlton,  to  Sir  John  Thynne  of  Longleat,  which  was 
discovered  by  the  Reverend  Canon  Jackson  of  Leigh 
Delamere,  in  which  the  writer  asks  Sir  John  Thynne  to 
tell  a  Mr.  Bonham,  who  was  in  his  employ,  "  to  inquire 
of  his  sister  touching  her  usage  at  Will  Darrell's  ;  the 
birth  of  her  children  ;  how  many  there  were  and  what 
became  of  them  ;  for  that  the  report  of  the  murder  of 
one  of  them  was  increasing  foully  and  would  touch 
Will  Darrell  to  the  quick  "  }  This  surely  seems  rather 
grave  !  and  does  not  look  like  "  the  best  years  of  a  life 
devoted  to  a  Platonic  intercourse  with  a  highly  culti- 
vated woman."  Nor  is  Mr.  Hall  more  satisfactory  with 
regard  to  the  alleged  bribe  to  Sir  John  Popham  of  the 
reversion  of  Littlecote,  to  which  rumour  assigns  the 
salvation  of  Darrell's  neck.  He  looks  upon  it  indeed, 
so  far  as  I  can  judge,  as  a  sort  of  Elizabethan  refreshing 
fee  to  counsel.  Will  Mr.  Hall  tell  us  next  that  it  was 
the  custom   of  an   afternoon  for  Elizabethan  squires  to 


48 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


convey  away  estates  "  of  thousands  of  broad  acres  upon 
the  famous  downland  of  three  counties,"  simply  to 
hurry  on  a  chancery  lawsuit  ?  I  think  that  even  his 
able  and  earnest  advocacy  will  fail  to  arouse  such  a 
belief.  The  truth  is  that  the  weakest  point  of  the  latest 
defence  of  Darrell  is  the  graceful  negligence  with  which 
his  advocate  avoids  the  main,  the  one,  issue.  We  have 
pages  of   farm   accounts   and    household    expenses,  all 


%M  ,^ 


•  ■  "V^v"^  -  -  f^    ■  - 


iS^-=SZ 


The  Black  Bear,  Hungerford. 


very  interesting  and  creditable,  but  only  a  contemptuous 
allusion  here  and  there  to  the  alleged  horrible  and 
mysterious  crime. 

Mr.  Hall,  to  be  plain,  treats  the  whole  accusation  of 
murder  brought  against  Darrell  as  so  much  vindictive 
cackle.  On  what  grounds  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture, 
unless  indeed  it  be  that  Darrell,  when  accused  of  murder 


THE  BATH  ROAD  49 

before  the  magistrates,  "  replied  to  the  wild  charge  with 
a  mournful  dignity  " — but  so  did  the  late  Mr.  William 
Palmer  of  Rugeley  notoriety  under  similarly  embarrass- 
ing circumstances  ;  and  he  could  keep  accounts  as  well 
as  Darrell  could,  ay,  and  make  a  book  too.  I  trust, 
I  am  sure,  that  the  author  of  Society  in  the  Elizabethan 
Age  will  give  us  many  more  charming  works  of  the 
same  kind,  but  he  must  really  not  try  to  destroy  all 
romantic  faith  that  is  in  us  with  such  doubtful  argu- 
ments as  these.  Meanwhile  I  wonder  whether  he  has 
seen  all  those  papers  that  Popham's  agent  seized 
almost  before  Darrell's  breath  was  out  of  his  body,  and 
despatched  in  chests  to  London,  there  to  await  the 
arbitration  promised  between  the  respective  claims  of 
the  Attorney-General  and  the  Secretary  of  State,  who 
also  had  a  finger  in  this  mysterious  pie.  Why  this 
almost  indecent  despatch  on  the  part  of  Popham 
("  faithful  to  the  last,  though  wise  only  for  himself") 
I  should  much  like  to  know.     I  wonder  ! 

In  the  interim  I  must  hurry  after  Miss  Burney  and 
Mrs.  Thrale,  who  are  waiting  for  me  all  this  while  at 
the  Bear  Inn  at  Devizes,  three  and  twenty  miles  or  so 
down  the  road.  I  cannot  find  much  to  record  in  the 
way  of  history,  coaching  or  otherwise,  between  Hunger- 
ford  and  Marlborough.  The  road  between  Newbury  and 
Bath  was  called  the  "  lower  ground,"  and  being  remark- 
able chiefly  for  its  hills,  necessitated  much  skidding 
and  unskidding.  Nor  even  in  the  palmy  days  was  it  un- 
renowned  for  accidents.  On  the  contrary,  the  Beaufort 
Hunt  fast  day  coach  from  London  to  Bath,  run  by  the 
celebrated  Sherman,  he  of  the  moustachios  (a  prodigy, 
a  blasphemy  I  had  almost  said,  in  those  days  ;  of  the 
three  old  ladies  also,  wived  in  succession  ;  distinguished, 
moreover,  for  the  colour  of  his  coaches,  which  was 
yellow  ;  and  for  their  strange  shape,  which  was  heavy, 
peculiar,  and  old-fashioned  as  Noah's  Ark) — the  Beaufort 
Hunt,  I  say,  was  upset  in  this  part  of  the  world  three 
times  in   less  than   three  weeks,  an  event,   or   rather  a 

E 


so 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


The  \ottiti^''U}i. 


THE  BATH  ROAD  51 

trilogy,  which  made  passengers  nervous,  affected  the 
receipts,  and  led  to  the  removal  from  the  box-seat, 
whence  he  had  directed  these  acrobatic  manoeuvres,  of 
a  so-called  Captain  Jones,  whoever  he  may  have  been. 
From  which  I  infer  that  there  were  coach-driving 
captains  even  in  those  days,  though  I  have  never  read 
of  one  before.  However,  the  captain  retired  into  private 
life,  and  a  young  man  who  was  a  very  good  coachman, 
but  whose  name  is  unknown  to  me,  though  it  was  very 
well  known  on  the  road,  reigned  in  his  stead.  This 
change  of  cast  brought  up  the  receipts  of  the  Beaufort 
Hunt  with  a  run  ;  places  were  booked  three  or  four 
weeks  in  advance  by  passengers  who  wished  to  travel 
eleven  miles  an  hour  without  breaking  their  necks.  The 
coach  became  quite  the  fashion,  crowds  of  people  stand- 
ing about  the  White  Lion  in  the  Market-place  at  Bath 
to  see  it  start. 

This  coach  used  to  change  horses  at  Froxfield,  three 
miles  out  of  Hungerford,  and  the  next  stage  was 
Marlborough,  seven  miles  on  ;  the  last  two  miles  of  the 
road  skirting  Savernake  Forest,  which  is  a  horrible  place 
to  hunt  in,  is  sixteen  miles  in  circumference,  and  the 
only  forest  in  the  country  in  the  possession  of  a  subject, 
which  seems  very  strange  and  wild. 

One  begins  to  be  ashamed  of  saying  of  English 
country  towns  that  they  stood  a  siege  in  the  great 
Civil  Wars,  yet  this  must  be  said  of  Marlborough, 
which  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  most  important  place, 
considered  from  a  strategical  point  of  view,  and  a  thorn 
for  a  long  time  in  the  side  of  the  royal  cause  ;  for  it  was 
not  only  the  most  notoriously  disaffected  town  in  all 
Wiltshire,  remarkable  for  the  obstinacy  and  malice  of 
its  inhabitants  (why,  I  wonder,  this  strange  malignancy 
on  the  part  of  the  good  burghers  of  Marlborough  ?), 
but,  standing  as  it  does  on  the  W^estern  Road,  it  seriously 
menaced  Charles's  communications  with  the  loyal  West. 
It  accordingly  underwent  the  proverbial  harmless,  neces- 
sary siege,  and  was  stormed  by  Wilmot   in   December, 

E   2 


52 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


1642.     In  April   and    November  of  the  following  year, 
Charles  himself  was  at  Marlborough,  as  Plenry  the  First 


Old  Marlborough. 


was  here  five  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  before, 
keeping  Easter  ;  but  with  the  royal  junketings  of  the 
scholar  king  we  have  nothing  to  do,  though  he  went  to 


THE  BATH  ROAD  53 

Bath  himself  two  years  later,  curiously  enough,  as  we 
are  going  now. 

In  the  days  of  the  great  Roads  Marlborough  possessed 
in  the  Castle  (where  we  will  in  a  minute  or  two  rest  a 
while)  one  of  the  finest  inns  in  the  three  kingdoms.  As 
to  the  town  itself,  Evelyn,  who  dined  there  on  the  9th 
of  June,  1652,  found  it  fresh  built  from  a  fire  (it  has  had 
about  four  in  its  history),  but  he  found  nothing  else  in 
it,  except  "  My  Lord  Seymour's  house,"  which  was  after- 
wards this  very  same  famous  Castle  Inn,  and  the  Mount, 
which  he  climbed  dejectedly  for  want  of  something 
better  to  do  ;  ''  ascending  by  windings  for  neere  halfe 
a  mile,"  and  remarking  that  it  seemed  to  have  been 
cast  up  by  hand — which  indeed  it  was  by  some  one  or 
other — weird  and  legendary,  the  betting  at  the  present 
moment  being  in  favour  of  Merlin,  for  lack  of  anybody 
better  known;  while  Pepys,  on  the  15th  of  June,  1668, 
after  lying  at  the  Hart,  which  he  describes  as  a  good 
house,  walked  out  and  found  Marlborough  *'  a  pretty 
fair  town  only  for  a  street  or  two."  After  which,  having 
sagely  observed  that  what  was  most  singular  was,  that 
the  houses  on  one  side  had  their  pent-houses  supported 
by  pillars,  which  made  a  good  walk,  and  also,  what  is 
more  to  our  purpose,  that  all  the  five  coaches  that  came 
that  day  from  Bath  were  out  of  the  town  before  six, 
went  to  bed,  and  the  following  morning,  according  to 
the  immortal  prescription,  "  after  paying  the  reckoning, 
etc.,  etc.,  set  out." 

But  the  Castle  Inn  at  Marlborough  is  the  question 
after  all,  or  rather  was,  for  the  celebrated  caravansary  is 
now  part  of  the  College,  and  ingenuous  youths  acquire 
the  Greek  accidence  where  their  ancestors  drank  port 
and  recalled  their  casualities  ;  a  striking  example  of 
what  strange  uses  an  inn  may  return  to  as  well  as  a 
human  being.  The  Castle  however  has  had  a  threefold 
destiny,  for  not  only  has  it  changed  from  a  caravansary 
into  a  college,  but  it  was  a  nobleman's  palace  before  it 
was  a  caravansary.     Here  lived,  amongst  others,  a  noble 


54 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHINCx  WAYS 


lad}'  whose  acquaintance  we  have  made  further  up  the 
road,  to  wit,  Frances,  Countess  of  Hertford,  afterwards 
Duchess  of  Somerset,  she  who  at  Ritchings  entertained 
Thomson  till  she  found  that  he  preferred  to  entertain 
himself  ;  though  some  sa)'  that  it  was  in  this  very  castle 


■  ••■/i 


The  Castle  Inn,  nov  part  of  Afarlboivtigh  College. 


that  the  august  patroness  to  whom  "  Spring  "  was  dedi- 
cated, discovered  the  horrid  truth  that  her  poet  was, 
alas  !  little  better  than  a  drunkard.  And  it  was  in  her 
noble  lord's  society  that  Eusebia  discoverd  her  bard 
carousing — that  was  the  pit}'  of  it — no  doubt  in  one  of 
Eusebia's    grottos,    which,    in    compan}'    with    cascades, 


THE  BATH  ROAD  55 

artificially  formed,  it  pleased  her  to  scatter  about  the 
castle  grounds  with  a  lavish  and  pastoral  hand.  With 
what  divine  anger  must  she  have  confronted  the  guilty 
pair — both  their  wigs  off  by  reason  of  the  heat — drink- 
ing punch  in  her  pet  cave  !  That  divine  anger  proved 
at  all  events  too  enduring  for  Thomson's  powers  of 
pacification.      It  was  In  vain  that  he  piped  off — 

"  Hertford,  fitted  or  to  shine  in  couiis 
With  unaffected  grace,  or  walk  the  plain 
With  Innocence  and  Meditation  joined 
In  soft  assemblage." 

In  vain  !  In  vain  !  The  lady  declined  to  listen  to 
his  song,  "which  her  own  season  painted"  (the  season 
was  spring  by  the  by,  but  surely  under  the  circumstance 
it  ought  to  have  been  winter),  and  the  unfortunate  bard 
had  to  pack  his  portmanteau  and  leave  the  castle  for  ever, 
with  a  flea  in  his  ear.  So  much  for  poets  who  prefer  iced 
punch  to  the  streams  of  Helicon,  and  so  much  also  for 
the  great  Frances's  connection  with  the  castle.  The 
family  seat  of  the  Seymours  became  an  inn  soon  after 
this,  being  leased  by  the  Northumberlands  (who  also 
found  Marlborough  slow,  and  preferred  Alnwick)  to  Mr. 
Cotterell,  and  an  inn  the  old  place  remained,  with  the 
reputation  for  being  the  best  in  England  almost  to  the 
time  when  it  closed  its  doors  in  1843  and  was  turned 
into  a  public  school. 

And  it  was  an  inn  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  an 
inn  such  as  Macaulay  describes,  whose  equal  was  not  to 
be  found  on  the  Continent,  whose  "  innkeeper,  too,  was 
not  like  other  innkeepers."  It  was  of  this  sort  of  place 
that  Johnson  was  thinking  when  he  declared  that  a  chair 
in  it  was  the  throne  of  human  felicity,  though  it  was  not 
at  the  Castle,  Marlborough,  that  he  spoke  his  great 
speech  on  taverns,  but  at  the  celebrated  Chapel  House, 
Cold  Norton,  in  Oxfordshire,  on  the  North-Western 
Road.  But  the  Castle,  Marlborough,  might  quite  as 
justly  have    earned    the    advertisement.       Not    that    i*" 


56  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

wanted  it,  for  it  had  the  advertisement  of  all  the  nobih'ty, 
wealth,  fashion  of  a  century,  that  thronged,  as  all  history 
in  those  days  thronged,  to  that  centre  of  the  vale- 
tudinarian and  the  voluptuary,  Bath. 

I   should  like   to   have  the  visitors'  list  of  the  Castle, 
during  the  days  of  its  prime.      It  would  be  a  Homeric 
catalogue    of   guests,    compared    with    which    the    ship 
business  would  be  commonplace.     Consider  that  every- 
body of  note  in   England   for  over   a   century  entered 
those  doors,  ate,  drank,  slept,  gamed  there,  grumbled 
over  their  bills,  paid  their  reckoning,  thronged   to  their 
post-chaises  or  coaches,  and  posted  off  Bath-wards  or  to 
London.     Why,  the  mere  writing  of  the  names   would 
make  a  history,  and  a  more  suggestive  one   than   many 
chronicles  of  the  kings.     Chesterfield  and   Lady    Mary 
Wortley  Montagu  making  for  scandal  and  the  waters  ; 
Walpole  reclining  in  his  chariot,  meditating  his  ailments 
and  the  ancient  legend  of  Bath  ;  hypochondriasis  and 
antiquities   usurping   equal   halves   of  that  delicate,  in- 
dolent brain,  his  nostril,  curled  at  the  horsey  atmosphere 
of  the  old  inn  yard,  his  white  hand  raised  in  deprecating 
horror  at  mine  host  proffering  refreshment  on  a  salver  as 
big  as  a  coach-wheel  ;  Selwyn,   most  good-natured   of 
voluptuaries,  who  however  liked  to  see  a  man  hanged, 
taking  his   ease  before  dinner   in   the  inn's   best  room, 
while    his    delightful    chaplain.    Dr.    Warner,    who  had 
Rabelais   and  Horace  at  his  finger  ends,  is  busy  below 
with  the   cellarman,  assuring  himself  of  the  qualit}"   of 
his   patron's  claret  ;  Sheridan    running    away  with    his 
beautiful   wife  ;  Garrick  posting   to  Bath   in    search    of 
new    talent  and    to  depreciate    Barry  ;  Byron    (already 
on  his  biscuit   and   soda-water   regime)  eyeing  the  bill 
of  fare   misanthropically  ;  and   Brummell    incubating   a 
new  cravat ;  and  Gentleman  Jackson  surrounded  by  his 
backers  on  his  way  to  a  prize   fight.     But   why  proceed 
with   the   list  }     The   names  of  the  visitors  at  this  cele- 
brated inn  are  written  in  the  letters  and  diaries  of  three 
generations. 


TTTK  BATH  ROAD 


57 


Of  all  the  great  people  who  put  up  at  the  Castle  in 
the  days  of  its  prime,  perhaps  the  greatest  of  them,  as 
is  meet  and  right,  has  left  the  most  lasting  impression 
behind  him.  But  he  did  so  by  rather  out-of-the-way 
means,  and  advertised  himself  as  a  great  statesman,  not 
indeed  at  all  more  than  is  customary  at  the  present  day, 
but   with  a   naive   absence  of  affectation   that  raises   a 


Eloped! 


smile.  There  were  no  paragraphists  in  the  land  in  those 
times,  be  it  remembered,  to  announce  to  an  expectant 
world  that  a  prime  minister  had  cut  a  tree  down,  or  read 
the  first  lesson  in  church  ;  so  Lord  Chatham  having 
been  attacked  b}^  gout  on  his  way  from  Bath  to  London, 
in  1762,  took  a  more  picturesque  way  of  acquainting 
his  countrymen  with  his  whereabouts.  He  made  it  an 
insistive  condition  to  his  staying  at  the  Castle  that  every 


58 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


servant  in  the  place  from  the  waiter  to  the  stable  boy 
should  wear  his  livery.  Now  I  do  not  know  what  the 
livery  of  the  noble  Lord  w^as,  but  it  was  very  well  known 
to  the  England  of  his  day,  and  as  gout  kept  him  in  his 
room  at  the  Castle  for  several  weeks,  and  as  the  establish- 
ment of  that  inn  (temporarily  clothed  as  his  servants) 
was  the    largest    in  England,  the  good  town  of   Marl- 


A  Quaint  Corner  in  Marlbor-jugh. 


borough  simply  exhaled  its  distinguished  visitor.  People 
rail  against  his  attendants  at  every  turn.  The  streets 
sw^armed  with  them.  The  inn  was  alive.  The  name 
of  Chatham  was  on  every  lip,  and  the  great  tide  of  travel 
w^hich  ebbed  and  flowed  night  and  day  along  the  Bath 
road,  carried  the  strange  news  to  the  uttermost  parts  of 
the  kingdom. 


THE  BATH  ROAD  59 

So  political  celebrities  advertised  themselves  before 
the  Daily  Telegraph  was,  or  editors  of  fashionable  papers 
wanted  copy — but  I  must  get  on  to  Devizes. 

The  fourteen  miles  odd  between  this  town  and  Marl- 
borough is  sacred  to  the  antiquary,  who  delights  to  dig 
up  mounds  on  plains,  and  discover  two  human  skeletons 
or  more  in  a  sitting  posture,  and  two  laid  horizontally  as 
the  case  ma}'  be,  which  is  what  was  done  at  West 
Kennett,  four  and  a  quarter  miles  down  the  road.  At 
this  West  Kennett,  to  complete  the  celebrity  of  the  spot, 
is  made  and  stored  the  celebrated  West  Kennett  Ale, 
and  that  it  is  also  drunk  here  in  large  quantities,  is  not 
beyond  the  pale  of  reasonable  human  hope.  The 
travellers  on  the  once  thronged  Bath  Road,  now  as 
deserted,  alas  !  as  the  old  Roman  highway  which  here 
coincides  with  it,  took  a  good  deal  of  this  ale,  1  suspect 
(if  it  was  brewed  in  those  days,  of  which  fact  I  am  not 
certain),  to  fortify  themselves  against  down  air  ;  and  at 
the  same  time  no  doubt  some  antiquary,  perched  on  the 
box-seat  with  pince-nez  pinched  firmly  on  red  nose,  ob- 
served Silbury  Hill  immediately  on  the  left  of  the  road, 
which  some  sages  suppose  to  be  posterior  to  the  Roman 
invasion,  and  some  anterior  to  it,  but  which  is  the  biggest 
artificial  hill  in  Europe,  and  is  indeed  "  very  fine  and 
large." 

Now  Beckhampton  Inn  looms  in  sight.  Here  the 
Beaufort  Hunt,  and  all  the  principal  coaches  changed 
horses,  passengers  refreshed  the  inner  man,  and  the 
different  roads  to  Bath  diverged.  The  Beaufort  Hunt 
and  other  fast  coaches  going  by  Chcrhill,  Calne  and 
Chippenham,  making  the  whole  distance  from  town  105 
miles  6  furlongs  ;  other  coaches  less  known  taking  the 
next  shortest  cut  by  Sandy  Lane  and  Bowdon  Hill  to 
Lacock.  Here  there  is  an  Abbey  with  a  romance  at- 
tached to  it,  which  tells  how  a  young  lady,  discoursing 
one  night  to  her  lover  from  the  battlements  of  the  Abbey 
church,  though  strictly  forbidden  to  do  so  by  her  papa, 
remarked  "  I  will  leap  down  to  you  "  (^which  was  surely 


6o 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


A  Change  of  Horses:. 


very  unwise),  and  leapt.     The  wind  came  to  the  rescue 
and  "got  under  her  coates,"  (the  ulster  I  presume  of  the 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


6i 


1 6th  century)  and  thus  assisted,  the  young  lady,  whose 
name  was  Sherington,  flopped  into  the  arms  of  the  young 
man,  whose  name  was  Talbot,  and  killed  him  to  all  ap- 
pearances fatally  dead  on  the  spot,  at  which  she  sat 
down  and  wept.  Upon  this  the  defunct  Talbot,  who 
had  been   only  temporarily  deprived  of  breath,  came  to 


o    • 


The  Old,  Market  House-,  Marlboroii,^h. 


life  again,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  lady's  father, 
with  a  fine  instinct  for  a  melodramatic  situation,  jumped 
out  of  a  bush  and  observed,  that  "  as  his  daughter  had 
made  such  a  leap  to  him  she  should  e'en  marry  him," 
meaning  Talbot,  which  was  rather  obscure,  but  exactly 
what  the  young  lady  wanted,  and  married  she  was  to 
Talbot,  whose   Christian   name  was   John,  brought   him 


62  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

the  Abbey  as  a  dowry,  and  lived  happy  ever  after. 
Leaving  Lacock  behind,  the  coaches  which  took  this 
second  route  from  Beckhampton  passed  through 
Corsham,  Peckwick  Box,  and  Batheaston,  where  they 
entered  Somersetshire,  and  so  into  Bath,  making  the 
whole  distance  from  London  io6h  miles. 

The  third  route  however  is  the  one  which  I  shall  follow 
more  closely,  not  because  it  is  a  mile  longer  than  the 
last  (on  the  map  it  looks  five  miles  longer  at  the  very 
least,  but  this  is  a  geographical  optical  delusion),  but 
because  it  was  the  route  of  the  Bath  mail  particularly 
as  distinguished  from  the  Bristol,  and  because  it  passes 
through  Devizes,  where  there  is  or  was,  a  celebrated  inn 
at  which  two  distinguished  travellers,  in  the  persons  of 
Miss  Burney  and  Mrs.  Thrale,  have  all  this  long  while 
been  waiting  for  me.  But  I  have  not  got  there  yet. 
After  leaving  Beckhampton,  and  not  going  to  Avebury 
on  the  right  of  the  right  of  the  road,  which  is  a  re- 
markable temple  after  the  manner  of  Stonehenge, 
which  some  suppose  to  have  been  built  in  the  time  of 
Abraham,  whenever  that  may  have  been,  and  some 
modestly  proclaim  a  Serpent's  Temple. 

"  Now  o'er  true  Roman  way  our  horses  sound," 

as  Gay  sings  ;  and  three  miles  and  a  half  or  so  from 
Beckhampton  the  road  runs  through  Wandsditch  (per- 
haps Wans  Dyke  will  be  preferred  by  etymologists), 
which  magnificent  earthwork  was,  according  to  Dr. 
Guest,  the  last  frontier  of  the  Belgic  province,  and  can 
be  traced  through  Wiltshire  for  nineteen  miles.  All 
about  here  the  Bath  Road  is  as  exposed  as  an  ancient 
Briton  or  Beige  could  wish  it  to  be  ;  but  for  warmer  and 
more  modern  fancies  it  is  not  a  good  place  for  a  kilt. 
To  tell  the  truth  it  blows  on  these  downs  confoundedly, 
and  here  all  coaches  which  were  about  in  the  great  snow- 
storm of  1836  wished  they  were  out  of  it.  Nor  does 
the  present  appearance  of  Shepherd's  Shore,  a  lone  house 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


63 


standing  by  the  roadside,  look  as  if  it  could  have  proffered 
much  in  the  way  of  shelter  ;  yet  this  is  the  last  stage  of 
all,  of  an  inn,  which,  like  Winterslow  Hut  on  the  Exeter 


l?".:-- 


'f^^wffncv^^y 


Road,  has  had  its  day,  and  which,  when  that  day  was 
in  the  ascendant,  gave  shelter  and  refreshment  to  any 
number  who  wanted  it. 

It  is  in  standing  by  such  a  deserted  relic  of  bygone 


64  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

days  as  this,  in  looking  up  and  down  the  silent  coach 
road — that  great  artery  which  once  gave  Shepherd's 
Shore  life,  and  which  is  now  as  empty  as  the  heart  which 
it  fed — that  we  get  some  sense  of  the  poetry  of  the  old 
coaching  days,  some  perception  of  the  gulf  which  sepa- 
rates our  manners  and  our  methods  from  theirs  ;  the 
difference,  indeed,  which  lies  between  travelling  to  a 
place  with,  such  due  pauses  for  romance  and  adventure 
as  were  provided  in  the  old  days  of  posting  and  flying 
machines,  and  arriving  at  a  place  with  no  pauses  at  all 
save  for  collecting  tickets — which  are  not  always  to  be 
found — as  are  provided  for  by  our  limited  mails  and  fly- 
ing Dutchmen.  For  it  was  this  very  deliberation  of  our 
ancestors  which  has  given  to  such  inns  as  this  Shepherd's 
Shore  on  the  great  roads,  much  of  their  historic  charm 
—  a  deliberation  which  permitted  these  old  houses  to 
catch,  if  I  may  say  so,  something  of  the  personality  of  the 
great  people,  whether  kings,  queens,  highwaymen,  con- 
spirators, or  coachmen,  who  halted  at  their  hospitable 
doors,  dined  at  their  liberal  tables,  or  passed  by  them  at 
that  decorous  speed  of  from  five  to  nine  miles  an  hour, 
which,  even  without  a  stoppage,  permitted  however  faintly 
some  sort  of  individual  impression.  And  what  sort  of 
individual  impression,  may  I  ask,  can  a  distinguished 
traveller  to  Bath  in  these  days — whether  statesman,  on 
his  way  to  the  waters,  or  modern  highwayman,  armed 
with  the  three-card-trick  (we  live  in  degenerate  days  !), 
or  conspirator,  fresh  from  Parliament — make,  let  us  say 
on  Reading,  whose  platform  he  can  only  just  see  as  he 
whizzes  by  it  ;  or  on  Swindon,  in  whose  refreshment-room 
he  has  five  minutes  in  which  to  bolt  hot  soup  ?  Why,  he 
makes  no  impression  at  all,  and  his  characterless  transit 
from  one  spot  to  the  other  (to  call  it  a  journey  might 
raise  the  indignant  ghost  of  some  great  departed  coach- 
man) will  remain  ignored  and  unrecorded  for  ever. 

Yes  !  Railway  days  and  Railway  ways,  or  rather  the 
romance  of  them  will  not  be  written  even  when  posterity 
has   taken  to  balloons,  for  the  hurry  of  the  concern  is 


THE  BATH  ROAD  65 

not  only  fatal  to  romance,  but  is  fatal  to  any  collection 
of  it,  if  any  romance  at  any  period  existed  ;  and  some 
sort  of  prophetic  insight  into  this  truth,  a  sort  of  sad  per- 
ception of  what  posterity,  by  its  rejection  of  stage  coaches, 
would  be  eternally  bereft,  breathes  through  the  following- 
threnody  of  a  great  coachman,  whose  poetic  heart  could 
not  remain  silent  under  the  introduction  of  the  new  gods, 
but  whose  name,  as  Keats  supposed  his  to  be,  is  writ  in 
water,  or  perhaps  in  rum  and  water,  which  would  in  this 
case  be  a  fitter  emblem  of  effacement. 

"  Them,"  he  cries,  with  a  fine  directness  of  pathos, 
"  them  as  'ave  seen  coaches  afore  rails  came  into  fashion 
'ave  seen  something  worth  remembering  !  Them  was 
'appy  days  for  old  England,  afore  reform  and  rails  turned 
everything  upside  down,  and  men  rode,  as  nature  intended 
they  should,  on  pikes,  with  coaches  and  smart  active 
cattle,  and  not  by  machinery  Hke  bags  of  cotton  and 
hardware.  But  coaches  is  done  for  ever,  and  a  heavy 
blow  it  is  !  They  was  the  pride  of  the  country  ;  there 
wasn't  anything  like  them,  as  I've  'eerd  gemmen  say 
from  forrin  parts,  to  be  found  nowhere,  nor  never  will 
again." 

To  descend  from  these  high  regions  of  prophecy  and 
metaphor  to  firm  earth  again,  the  Bath  Road,  after  leaving 
Shepherd's  Shore,  runs  through  a  district  whose  in- 
habitants must  have  been  regarded  by  the  drivers  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Cooper's  coaches  between  London  and  Bath 
with  appreciative  eyes  ;  for  the  Wiltshire  men  resident 
between  Shepherd's  Shore  and  Devizes  have  been 
notorious  through  all  ages  for  being  "  very  fine  and 
large,"  as  were  Mr.  Thomas  Cooper's  coachmen.  The 
inhabitants,  indeed,  of  Bishop's  Canning,  a  village  about 
three  miles  from  Devizes,  might,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  according  to  Aubrey,  have  challenged  all 
England  to  the  exquisitely  diversive  exercises  of  music 
and  football.  In  James  the  First's  time  the  village 
boasted  a  peculiarly  musical  vicar,  one  George  Ferraby, 
who  I  trust  played  football  as  well  as  he  played  the  lute, 

F 


66 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


4, 


■^  «,„..  - 


>^^.(i 


5^.  y^hn's  C/nircJi,  Devizes. 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


67 


armed  with  which  instrument  and  attired  in  the  costume 
of  a  druid  bard  (lent  by  the  local  costumier  of  the  day), 
he,  at  the  head  of  his  parishioners,  disguised  for  their 
part  as  shepherds,  assaulted  the  ears  of  Queen  Anne  of 
Denmark  at  the  Wansdyke,  in  April,  161 3,  with  a  four- 
part  song  of  his  own  composing.  Let  me  hope  that  it 
was  not  as  windy  an  April  day  on  those  downs  as  I  have 


>vl^i' 


z  <  , 


iii,:„m,iiii,4iii'lr    •  'A'  ■  ,r-  ' 


mm 

I:' 
1" )"' 


{     '  .1  111!     i      ' 


\  ii 


^>  "■ 


!i\l' 


\  1 


Wraxhall  Manor. 


known  it,  or  our  reverend  druid  must  have  cursed  his 
ancestors'  airy  taste  in  costume  ;  and  our  royal  Solomon 
himself,  who  on  this  occasion  accompanied  his  queen, 
would  have  found  a  pipe  of  that  tobacco,  which  he  had 
lately  counter-blasted,  greatly  beneficial  to  his  health.  I 
make  no  doubt  that  Oueen  Anne  herself  caught  a  cold 
in  the  head,  but  she  was  gracious  enough  notwithstand- 

F  2 


68  COACHING  DAYS   AND   COACHING  WAYS 

ing  to  express  her  great  liking  and  content  to  the 
Reverend  George  Ferraby,  and  her  ladies  joined  their 
congratulations  to  hers,  though  they  had  no  doubt  caught 
colds  too. 

The  practised  enthusiasm  of  these  Wiltshire  musicians 
found  fresh  vent  in  1702,  when,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
second  Queen  Anne's  return  from  Bath,  they  indulged 
themselves  and  their  august  audience  with  another 
musical  junketing,  this  time  however  according  to  the 
pamphlet  in  the  British  Museum,  accompanied  with  a 
less  scrupulous  regard  to  archaeological  correctness  in 
costume.  The  Reverend  George  Ferraby,  being  dead 
many  years,  no  longer  stage-managed  the  ceremonial, 
nor  did  he,  unless  as  a  spirit,  indulge  in  choryambic 
exercises  at  the  head  of  his  parishioners,  lightly  attired 
as  a  druid.  A  more  simply  pastoral  atmosphere  con- 
sequently prevailed.  The  pamphlet  I  have  referred  to 
thus  describes  the  scene  : — 

"  Her  Majesty  and  her  Royal  attendants  passed  over 
the  downs  in  Wiltshire,  where  they  were  met  by  a  great 
number  of  Shepherds  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  all 
dressed  in  their  long,  coarse  white  cloaks  with  their  crooks, 
shepherd  scrips,  and  Tarboxes,  playing  all  the  way 
they  marched  upon  their  pipes  of  Reeds,  humbly  pre- 
senting themselves  to  her  Majesty ;  who  was  pleased  to 
hear  their  country  Songs  and  Musick  with  a  great  deal 
of  Satisfaction,  and  as  a  Demonstration  of  Her  Royal 
Acceptance  of  their  Duty,  was  pleased  as  a  mark  of 
her  condescending  Goodness  and  Bounty  to  give  20  or 
30  guineas  among  'em,  which  they  received  with  repeated 
acknowledgments  of  loud  and  repeated  prayers  and  ac- 
clamations for  Her  Majesty's  Long  Life  and  Prosperity  : 
after  which  a  great  number  of  Spinners  with  their 
Spinning  Wheels  presented  themselves  before  her 
Majesty,  and  were  favourably  received,  and  tasted  very 
liberally  of  Her  Majesty's  bounty." 

"  And  so  on  to  Bath,"  as  Pepys  would  have  said,  and 
as  I  must  be  going. 


THE  BATH  ROAD  69 

I  have  first  however  to  pause  a  while  at  Devizes,  88| 
miles  from  Hyde  Park  Corner,  a  town  famous  in  coaching 
days,  and  whose  name  has  long  been  the  subject  of  dis- 
cussion among  the  learned.  What  however  is  in  a  name, 
when  one  thinks  that  no  less  persons  than  Miss  Burney 
and  Mrs.  Thrale  have  been  waiting  for  me  at  the  famous 
Bear  Inn  ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  chapter? 
Coachmen  remember  this  famous  house  principally  for 
its  fine  stables.  Memoir  hunters  know  it  best  probably 
from  the  diary  of  the  lady  who  has  so  long  been  waiting 
for  us,  and  from  her  meeting  there  with  a  young  gentle- 
man, son  of  the  landlord,  destined  afterwards  to  be  as  great 
a  celebrity  as  her  own  fair  self. 

To  be  plain,  at  this  Bear  Inn  at  Devizes  in  April,  1780, 
Miss  Burney  met  the  future  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence — the 
portrait-painter  of  a  whole  generation  of  court  beauties — 
clothed  in  knickerbockers,  and  with  a  precocity  for  catch- 
ing likenesses,  not  often  found  in  an  inn.  Miss  Burney 
and  her  friend,  in  their  journey  from  London,  posting — 
which  was  after  all  the  equivalent  to  first-class  travelling 
in  those  days,  coaching  being  the  second-class  compart- 
ment of  the  then  travelling  scheme,  and  riding  in  damp 
straw  at  the  bottom  of  stage  waggons  drawn  by  six 
horses,  the  third — Miss  Burney  and  her  friend,  I  say, 
posting  from  London,  stopped  for  the  first  night  at 
Maidenhead,  the  second  at  Speen  Hill,  and  for  the  third 
put  up  at  the  same  Bear  Inn  at  Devizes.  Here  a  strange 
series  of  accidents  befel  them,  which  the  fair  diarist 
elaborately  describes.  Having  observed  that  the  inn  was 
full  of  books  as  well  as  paintings,  drawings,  and  music, 
and  that  their  hostess,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  seemed  something 
above  her  station  in  her  inn,  the  two  visitors,  according  to 
habitual  contemporary  prescription,  and  before  supper, 
sat  down  to  cards.  I  wonder,  after  reading  our  ancestors' 
feats  in  this  line,  that  aces  are  not  found  stamped  on  the 
persons  of  all  the  present  generation.  But  this  is  a 
psychological  digression.  It  is  now  that  Miss  Burney's 
adventures  at  the  inn  began.     Scarcely  had  she  and  Mrs. 


70 


COACHING   DAYS    AND    COACHING   WAYS 


Thralc    warmed  to  their   work   when    their  artistic  ab- 
straction  was  surprised  by  the  sound   of  a  pianoforte. 


1   .-:''-^i 


wmjm 


t^^^i2 


'-^  f'^        '^^'4 


ri.. 


'Vn-> 


>^:^ 


>"^u*i 


-"(f/^ — 


-=- ;  ->-y 


•-■^ 


»<s 


The  Bear  at  Dn'izes. 


This,  at  first,  in  the  way  of  an  interruption  at  an  inn,  may 
strike  my  readers  in  the  words  of  the  I>aureate  as 


**  New-old,  and  shadowing  sense  at  war  with  soid." 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


71 


Miss  Burney  however,  who  had  not  the  advantage  of 
reading  Tennyson,  jumped  up  and  ran  to  h'sten  whence 
the  sound  proceeded.  She  found  it  came  from  the 
next  room,  where  the  overture  to  the  Biiono  Figlitiola 
was  being  performed — a  piece  not  often  heard,  so  far  as 
I  can  learn,  at  the  Promenade  Concerts,  Covent  Garden. 
Mrs.  Thrale  however  though  hardly  for  this  reason, 
determined  to  know  from  whom  it  came,  and  tapped  at 
the  door.  And  who  confronted  her  when  it  was  opened  .'* 
A  young  highwayman  of  the  Paul  Clifford  type,  with  pale 
face,  eyes  full  of  music,  and  pockets  full  of  pistols  }  Not 
at  all.  But  a  very  handsome  girl  with  fine  dark  hair  upon 
a  finely-formed  forehead  ;  and  at  the  same  moment 
another  girl  advanced,  and  obligingly  and  gracefully 
invited  the  intruders  in  and  gave  them  chairs.  And  who 
were  these  houris  }  Miss  Burney  soon  discovered  that 
they  w^ere  the  daughters  of  the  hostess  and  born  and  bred 
at  Devizes.     "  Oh,  what  a  surprise  !  " 

"  But  though  these  pretty  girls  struck  us  much,"  she 
writes,  "  the  wonder  of  the  family  was  yet  to  be  pro- 
duced. This  was  their  brother,  a  most  lovely  boy  of  ten 
years  of  age,  who  seems  to  be  not  merely  the  wonder  of 
their  family,  but  of  the  times,  for  his  astonishing  skill  at 
drawing.  They  protest  he  has  never  had  any  instruc- 
tion, yet  showed  us  some  of  his  productions,  that  were 
really  beautiful." 

The  future  Sir  Thomas  had  ample  opportunities  at 
the  Bear  for  keeping  his  hand  in.  His  father  used  to  use 
him  now  as  a  stimulant  to  his  guests,  now  as  a  sedative. 
Instead  of  offering  lame  excuses  when  the  roast  had 
gone  wrong,  or  saying  that  a  bad  bottle  of  claret  was 
simply  "  sick  from  a  journey,"  this  original  in  the  way 
of  a  host,  used  simply  to  introduce  his  son  to  the 
malcontents,  and  in  a  moment  where  there  had  been 
disgust  there  was  wonder.  At  the  simple  talisman, 
"  Gentlemen,  here's  my  son  ;  will  you  have  him  recite 
from  the  poets  or  take  your  portraits  }  "  the  most  con- 
firmed   bald-headed    grumbler   ceased    his    monotonous 


72 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


drone,  and  the  storm  In  the  coffee-room  fell  before  the 
smile  of  the  young  genius. 

I  shall  go  on  with  Miss  Burney  and  Mrs.  Thrale  to 
Bath  in  their  post-chaise  instead  of  waiting  sixty  years 
later  for  the  Monarch,  or  one  of  Thomas  Cooper, 
Esquire's  fast  day  coaches,  not  only  because  the  ladies 
went   by  the   old    Bath   Road,  on   which    I    propose  to 


4    J 


I  * 
i 


fi' 

1  -  iS 


■^ 


j^f 


The  Old  Street  in  Pottcrne. 


travel,  but  for  the  further  reason  that  they  met  during 
their  stay  at  Bath  some  unhackneyed  society  to  which 
I  should  like  to  make  my  readers  known. 

Miss  Burney  however,  I  observe  in  her  memoirs, 
declares  her  intention  of  "skipping  to  our  arrival  at  this 
beautiful  city,"  meaning  Bath,  and  I  am  not  certain  that 
there   is  much   reason   for  not   following  in  her  diary- 


TllK  BATH  ROAD 


73 


^^^t./    .:^SM Jm^-'' 


sy. 


J" 


^^, 


\/' 


// 


A- 


'i^^ 


Asking  the  Way. 


74  COACHING   DAYS   AND   COACHING   WAYS 


writing  wake,  for  there  is  not  much  in  Trowbridge  or 
Bradford  to  chronicle,  though  Seend,  about  three  miles 
before  the  first-mentioned  place,  or  rather  Poulshot, 
which  lies  on  the  left  before  reaching  Seend,  is  con- 
nected with  an  atmospheric  catastrophe  and  a  celebrated 
character.  In  the  vicarage  at  Poulshot  lived  the  son  of 
the  great  Izaak  Walton,  he  whom  Byron  (who  was  no 
angler)  would  fain  have  seen  impaled  upon  a  hook  in 
the  manner  prescribed  by  the  great  fisherman  for  spring 
frogs  ;  and  to  the  same  vicarage,  as  guest  of  the  great 
fisherman's  son,  came  the  good  Bishop  Ken,  his  uncle, 
"with  all  his  coach-horses,  and  as  many  of  his  saddle- 
horses  as  he  could  bring,"  to  prevent  their  being  seized 
by  the  invading  force  of  William  of  Orange. 

Poulshot  vicarage  gave  the  good  bishop  shelter  from 
other  troubles  than  that  revolution,  for,  in  1703,  while 
Ken  was  sleeping  under  his  nephew's  roof,  the  "  Great 
Storm,"  sung  by  Addison,  broke  over  the  country  and 
buried  Bishop  Kidder  and  his  wife,  (who  had  usurped 
Ken's  place  at  Wells)  even  in  the  episcopal  palace. 
The  deposed  bishop  lay  awake  in  Poulshot  vicarage 
meanwhile  escaping  all  harm,  though  the  beam  which 
supported  the  roof  ov^er  his  head,  was  shaken  out  to 
that  degree,  that  at  the  conclusion  of  the  hurricane  it 
had  but  an  inch  to  hold. 

My  readers  will  not  probably  be  unprepared  to  learn 
that  the  name  of  the  town  of  Trowbridge,  96  miles  from 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  has  much  perplexed  etymologists, 
but  they  will  remember  that  the  poet  Crabbe  (who 
ought  to  have  been  a  three-volume  novelist)  was  vicar 
of  the  place  ;  with  which  mention  I  may  leave  the  plain- 
looking  town  behind,  and  passing  through  Bradford  with 
all  convenient  speed,  and,  still  in  the  company  of  Miss 
Burney  and  Mrs.  Thrale,  go,  by  Walcot  into  Bath,  which 
is  107]  miles  from  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  according  to 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  the  next  most  beautiful  city  in 
the  world  to  J^lorcnce. 

In  1780  Miss  Burney  was   much   of  the  same  opinion 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


75 


though  Florence  she  had  not  seen  ;  but  the  houses  of 
Bath  she  found  elegant,  the  streets  beautiful,  the  pros- 
pects enchanting,  and  she  alighted  from  her  post-chaise 
at  the  York  House.  To  her  and  Mrs.  Thrale,  as  they 
were  in  the  act  of  alighting,  entered  instantly  Sir  Philip 
Jenning  Gierke  ''  with  his   usual  alacrity    to  oblige,"  and 


V ^Li' 

■f,.f!i    frtiT"'  y 


f  f 


^s, 


_>r^" 


«  '  iK^.^lf^ 


■ «;'  — 


Hish  Street,  Bath. 


told  them  of  lodgings  on  the  South  Parade.  Mrs.  Thrale 
immediately  hired  a  house  at  the  left  corner.  "It  was 
deliciously  situated,"  Miss  Burney  tells  us.  "  We  have 
meadows,  hills.  Prior  Park,  the  soft-flowing  Avon,  what- 
ever Nature  has  to  offer,  I  think,  always  in  our  view." 
So  ends  pleasantly  what  seems  to  have  been  a  pleasant 


76 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  Wx\YS 


journey  down  the  Bath  Road  in  1780,  and  it  is  outside 
the  scope  of  my  scheme  to  describe  the  terminus,  or  to 
follow  our  travellers  further  through  their  three  months' 
stay.  They  met  however  some  characteristic  figures, 
travellers  like  themselves  on  the  Bath  Road,  some  known 
to  fame,  others  not.     Amongst  them  a  Mr.  W.,  a  young 


'     'w»  ft*m«t*fi^    .—  L      /    J-  .'    ^ 


I    *^  7ii#ii?*^'^ 


i>^^ 


^^^ 


>^-5S?=: 


Mrtss  House  oil  Bridge,  Bradford-on-Avott. 


clergyman,  who  had  a  house  on  the  Crescent.  He  was 
immensely  tall,  thin,  and  handsome,  but  affected,  delicate, 
and  sentimentally  pathetic,  and  his  conversation  about 
his  "  own  feelings,"  about  amiable  motives,  and  about 
the  wind  which,  at  the  Crescent,  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
dying  horror,  "  blew  in  a  manner  really  frightful,"  made 


THE  BATH  ROAD 


n 


Miss  Burney  open  her  diary  ;  then  there  was  Mrs.  Byron, 
^grandmother  of  the  poet,  who  was  very  far  from  well, 
but  whose  charming  spirits  never  failed  her  ;  and  Mrs. 
Siddons,  playing  in  Belvidera,  who  did  not  move  Miss 


■;  n\  \  ^^y-^i?^-  ism 


Courtyard  of  The  Castle  and  Balls. 

Burney  greatly  ;  and  Mr.  Lee,  playing  Pierre,  who  did  ; 
and  Mr.  Anstey,  author  of  the  Bat/i  Guide,  who  on 
the  first  occasion  on  which  Miss  Burney  met  him,  had 
no  opportunity  of  shining,  and  appeared,  not  unnaturally, 
"  as  like  anoth  er  man  as  could  be  imagined  ;  "  and  Mrs. 


78  COACHING   DAYS   AND   COACHING   WAYS 

Ord,  constant  to  the  Pump-room  ;  and  Georgiana 
Duchess  of  Devonshire,  of  whose  style  of  beauty  "  vanity 
was  such  a  characteristic  that  it  required  it  indispensably," 
and  who  put  her  face  to  the  glass  of  her  chair  as 
she  passed  Miss  Burney  and  remarked,  '  How  d'ye 
do  ? '  " 

These  travellers  on  the  Bath  Road  came  personally 
under  the  author  of  Evelina's  piercing  ken,  and  are 
accordingly  types  for  ever.  The  Bath  Miscellany  of 
1740  enlarges  the  list  with  some  unfamiliar  names — to 
wit,  a  Miss  Jeffery,  junior,  who  danced  well  and  had  "a 
poem  wrote  her  in  the  rooms  ; "  a  nameless  gentleman, 
likevv^ise  celebrated  by  the  local  bard,  "  who  was  observed 
never  to  go  to  church  till  Miss  Potter  came  to  Bath, 
when  he  went  twice  a  day  as  constant  as  she  ;  "  a  parson 
also  nameless,  who  played  PJiaroaJi  (note  the  spelling), 
and  who  suffered  for  his  imprudence  by  an  impromptu 
delivered  to  him  on  a  card ;  and  a  hundred  other  figures 
— old,  young,  beautiful,  decrepit,  bent  on  health,  pleasure, 
scandal,  wine,  or  the  waters,  but  travellers  on  the  Bath 
Road,  all  of  them,  and  any  of  whom,  when  the  inevitable 
time  for  separation  and  departure  had  come,  might  have 
been  seen  standing  in  groups  about  the  White  Lion  Inn 
in  1780,  much  as  their  ancestors  stood  about  the  Belle 
Sauvage  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  before,  but  with  less 
surprise  on  their  faces,  eying  some  such  announcements 
as  these,  and  prepared  for  the  worst  : 

"MACHINE  IN  TWO  DAYS. 

"  From  ]?ath  for  London,  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  P'ridays  ;  arrive 
at.  London  from  ]>ath,  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays.  The  ma- 
chines from  the  WMiite  Lion  Inn  at  the  Bell  Savage,  on  Ludgate  Hill  ; 
those  from  the  White  Hart  Inn,  at  the  White  Swan,  Holborn  Bridge,  and 
the  Three  Cups  in  Bread  Street  ;  and  those  from  the  Bear  Inn  at  the  Swan 
with  Two  Necks  in  Lad  Lane. 

"  Passengers  to  pay  One  Pound  five  Shillings  each,  who  are  allowed  to 
carry  fourteen  Pounds  Weight—  for  all  above  to  pay  three  halfpence  per 
Pound." 

I  do  not  think  that  1    can  close  my  review  of  the  old 


THE  BATH  ROAD  79 

Bath  Road,  a  review  which  pretends  only  to  deal  with 
its  more  salient  features,  with  an  excerpt  more  suggestive 
than  this.  What  perils  does  it  not  breathe  of  by  flood 
and  field — perils  due  to  increased  confidence  and  a 
reckless  acceleration  of  pace.  And  acceleration  of  pace 
was  not  the  only  sign  on  the  time-bill  of  increased 
recklessness.  The  lapse  of  a  century  had  marked  a 
departure  in  advertisement.  The  coach  proprietors  in 
Charles  the  Second's  time  did,  it  will  be  remembered,  in 
assuring  the  public  that  their  flying  machines  would 
reach  Bath  from  London  in  three  days,  add  a  proviso 
which  committed  the  safety  of  their  passengers  to 
Providence.  The  coach  proprietors  of  George  the 
Third's  time  however,  in  assuring  the  public  that  their 
machines  would  reach  London  from  Bath  in  tzvo  days 
only,  appear  to  have  forgotten  this  formality. 


l^rpp^f^^fy^: 


I      •Had    , 

A  ■         H 


(i' 


The  Geors^e,  and  High  Street,  Salisbury. 


IL— THE  EXETER  ROAD. 


When  the  elegant  and  accomplished  Barry  Lyndon, 
about  the  17th  of  May,  1773,  and  shortly  after  his 
marriage  with  the  widow  of  the  late  Right  Honourable 
Sir  Cliarles  Lyndon,  K.B.,  set  out  to  visit  his  estates  in 
the  West  of  England,  where  he  had  never  yet  set  foot, 
he  and  his  Ilonoria  and  suite  left  London  in  three 
chariots,  each  with  four  horses  ;  an  outrider  in  livery 
went  before  and  bespoke  lodgings  from  town  to  town  : 
the  party  lay  in  state  at  Andover,  Ilminster  and  Exeter  ; 
and  the  fourth  evening  arrived  in  time  for  supper,  "  before 
that  antique  baronial  mansion  of  which  the  gate  was  in 


THE  EXETF:R  road  8i 

an  odius  Gothic  taste   that  would  have  set  Mr.  Walpole 
wild  with  pleasure." 

Now  this  was  good  travelling  in  the  days  when  full- 
bottomed  wigs  were  in  wear,  and  the  roads  of  England 
in  the  state  that  I  have  described  them.  It  was  natural 
however  that  the  fine  gentleman  whose  pocket  permitted 
him  to  fly  *'  Flying  Machines  "  as  a  slow  form  of  lingering 
death,  should  have  made  better  time  with  the  aid  of 
outriders,  constant  changes,  and  the  finest  cattle  that 
could  be  procured,  than  the  sad  citizen  whose  wish 
was  to  pass  from  London  to  Exeter  in  the  shortest 
time  possible,  and  whose  purse  only  permitted  him 
to  pass  there  behind  six  cart  horses  harnessed  to  a 
diving  bell. 

For  such  I  take  it  was  very  much  the  sort  of  appear- 
ance that  the  Exeter  Fly  presented  in  1773,  as  it  set  out 
for  its  weekly  flight  from  the  Bull  and  Gate  in  Aldersgate, 
at  five  o'clock  on  some  wintry  morning,  with  the  snow 
already  falling  thickly.  Nor  did  the  passengers  seated 
in  it,  or  rather  clinging  to  its  inside,  aspire  to  Barry 
Lyndon's  good  fortune.  They  did  not  look  forward  to 
lying  in  state  at  Andover  the  first  night,  at  Ilminster  the 
second,  at  Exeter  the  third.  Far  other  were  their  dreams. 
The  young  lady  of  the  party  (Belinda,  Leanthe,  Lucinda 
— what  you  will)  drew  her  furs  round  her,  and  nestled 
closer  to  her  mother,  who  took  snuff  at  short  intervals, 
and  returned  with  interest  the  opposing  captain's 
impudent  gaze.  The  captain  had  been  at  Dettingen, 
as  he  somewhat  raucously  informed  the  company  on 
entering  the  coach,  a  fact  of  which  they  appeared 
doubtful,  though  they  agreed  nein.  con.  that  he  had  since 
been  in  liquor.  Him  (whenever,  that  is  to  say,  he  dared 
to  look  at  the  young  lady  of  the  party)  the  young  man 
of  the  party — (Ranger,  Mirabel — what  you  will)  eyed 
furiously  as  if  he  would  eat  him,  sword,  Dettingen  and 
all  ;  while  the  lawyer,  who  sat  between  these  two  men  of 
mettle,  tried  his  best  to  preserve  peace,  and  wished  him- 
self on  the  other  side  of  the  coach.     All  this  party  were 

G 


82  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

bound  to  Exeter  ;  but  none  of  them,  I  say,  hoped  to 
reach  it  in  three  days.  The  lawyer  indeed,  who  was  a 
great  traveller,  having  made  the  journey  three  times  in 
his  life,  blew  his  frozen  nose  and  publicly  revelled  in  a 
more  moderate  ideal.  "  If,"  he  said,  "  in  spite  of  high- 
waymen, snowdrifts,  ruts  a  yard  deep,  and  Bagshot 
Heath,  we  compass  the  172  miles  in  six  days,  we  may 
think  ourselves  lucky,  and  may  thank  our  stars,  when  we 
are  safe  at  The  Swan  at  Exeter,  that  we  are  not  wander- 
ing among  the  bustards  on  Salisbury  Plain." 

And  so  they  rumbled  and  jolted  along  what  is  now 
Piccadilly,  till  they  got  to  what  is  now  Apsley  House  ; 
there  the  coachman  alis^hted  for  a  drink  at  the  Hercules' 
Pillars — the  Hatchett's  of  the  period — which  stood  where 
Apsley  House  now  stands.  Readers  of  Tom  Jo7ies  will 
remember  this  Hercules'  Pillars  well,  will  fancy  that  they 
have  stayed  in  the  place,  as  they  can  fancy  that  they 
have  stayed  in  every  inn  which  Fielding  has  described. 
Was  it  not  here  that  Squire  Western  alighted  on  his 
arrival  in  London  in  pursuit  of  the  fair  Sophia  ? 
Certainly  it  was  ;  and  it  was  here  that  he  cursed  the 
chairmen,  who,  true  progenitors  of  our  cabmen  of  to-day, 

asked  him  for  another  shilling.    "  D me,"  in  point  of 

fact,  the  immortal  old  gentleman  exclaimed,  "  D me, 

if  I  don't  walk  in  the  rain  rather  than  get  into  one  of 
their  handbarrows  again,  They  have  jolted  me  more 
in  a  mile  than  Brown  Bess  would  in  a  fox  chase."  The 
travellers  in  the  Exeter  Fly  of  1773  did  not  regard  The 
Hercules'  Pillars  from  the  Squire  Western  point  of  view, 
it  is  more  than  likely ;  but  they  were  thankful  for  its 
light  in  the  gray  winter's  morning  ;  and  as  they  saw  the 
guard  in  the  inn  doorway  somewhat  ostentatiously  getting 
his  blunderbuss  under  control,  recollected  that  they  were 
near  Knightsbridge,  and  experienced  a  qualm. 

Considering  that  Knightsbridge  is  only  two  furlongs 
from  Hyde  Park  Corner — measured  to  what  was  once 
the  cloth  manufactory — this  early  perturbation  of  our 
ancestors  may  seem  strange  ;    but   the  truth   is,  that  a 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  83 

little  more  than  a  century  ago  those  who,  on  nearing 
Knightsbridge,  sported  prayer  books,  felt  for  pistols,  and 
generally  put  themselves  into  a  posture  of  defence,  did 
the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.  The  Arcadian  tract 
indeed,  which  we  now  associate  with  guardsmen  and 
nurserymaids,  was  known  to  travellers  in  the  Exeter  Fly 
as  a  place  of  bogs  and  highwaymen.  For  here  the 
Great  Western  road  crossed  the  stream — Where  is  the 
stream  now  ? — and  the  stream's  bed  was  composed, 
"  especially  during  the  winter  months,"  as  the  advertise- 
ment has  it,  of  impassable  mud. 

In  the  rebellion  of  1554  Wyatt's  men  discovered  this 
fact  to  their  cost.  After  having  marched  all  the  way 
round  by  Kingston  to  cross  the  Thames,  the  stream  at 
Knightsbridge  proved  a  harder  nut  to  crack,  and  utterly 
annihilated  their  reputation  on  entering  town.  Instead  of 
beine  welcomed  as  Defenders  of  the  Protestant  Faith  the 
crowd  saluted  them  as  "Draggletails,"  and  how,  after  such 
a  reception,  could  they  look  for  anything  but  defeat  ? 

And,  though  this  sort  of  thing  may  appear  in  keeping 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  Knightsbridge  was  no  better 
place  for  travellers  in  1736.  "The  road  between  this  place 
and  London,"  writes  Lord  Hervey,  dating  his  letter  from 
Kensington,  "  Is  grown  so  infamously  bad  that  we  live  in 
the  same  solicitude  as  we  should  do  if  cast  on  a  rock  in 
the  middle  of  the  ocean  ;  and  all  the  Londoners  tell  us 
there  is  between  them  and  us  a  great  impassable  gulf  of 
mud." 

Into  this  great  impassable  gulf  of  mud  the  Exeter  Fly 
presently  descended,  and  after  desperate  flounderings 
which  only  made  matters  worse,  stuck  fast.  To  it,  when 
thus  safely  anchored,  entered  a  gentleman  in  a  vizor  and 
riding  a  dark  chestnut  mare,  who  good-naturedly  recom- 
mended the  coachman  to  alight,  and  offered  to  relieve  the 
passengers  of  their  purses.  The  first  to  take  advantage  of 
this  amiability  and  give  up  his  purse  was  the  warrior 
from  Dettingen,  who  had  been  loud  in  his  contempt  for 
highwaymen  ever  since  the  Fly  left  the  city,  and  had 

G  2 


84 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


All  Alann  hv  the  Giiard. 


sketched,  with  an  elaborate  garnishing  of  oaths,  the 
horrid  fate  to  which  any  marauder  would  be  subject  who 
ventured  to  bar  the  way.      He  spoke  no  more  now  of 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  85 

Dettingen,  and  of  the  standard  he  had  taken  from  the 
musketeer  of  the  French  guard.  Far  from  it.  He  gave 
his  httle  all  to  the  gentleman  who  asked  for  it,  counselled 
submission  to  his  companions,  and  disappeared  to  eat 
straw  in  the  bottom  of  the  coach.  The  highwayman 
now  asked  the  ladies  to  oblige,  parenthetically  observing 
that  time  pressed.  The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his 
mouth  when  Mirabel,  who  had  been  biding  his  time, 
obliged  him  with  a  sudden  blow  on  that  jaw  which  he 
had  somewhat  ostentatiously  intruded  upon  the  company, 
and  at  the  same  moment  jumped  from  the  coach  and 
seized  the  bridle  of  the  chestnut  mare.  The  highway- 
man now  said  "  Zounds  ! "  and  discharged  his  pistol ;  but 
as  the  chestnut  mare  reared  and  fell  back  with  him  just 
as  he  was  firing  it,  the  aim  was  not  so  true  as  the  intention  ; 
in  point  of  fact,  instead  of  shooting  Mirabel  through  the 
head,  he  shot  the  guard  through  the  hat,  who  announced 
in  stentorian  tones  that  he  was  a  dead  man,  and  let  off  his 
blunderbuss  at  the  morning  star.  Meanwhile  the  high- 
wayman and  Mirabel  had  closed  and  were  wrestling  in  the 
mud,  the  ladies  viewing  the  progress  of  the  strife  in  a 
state  of  pleasing  suppressed  excitement,  and  the  coach- 
man flogging  his  horses  with  a  view  of  driving  off  and 
leaving  Mirabel  and  his  antagonist  to  decide  their 
interesting  difference  in  solitude  and  peace.  This  genial 
intention  was  frustrated  by  the  mud  which  held  the 
coach  fast,  and  by  the  guard,  who  mounting  one  of  the 
leaders  succeeded  in  waking  some  watchmen,  who,  by 
way  of  performing  their  patrol  between  Kensington  and 
Knightsbridge,  were  lying  in  graceful  sleep  at  The  Half- 
way Public  House.  They  came  upon  the  scene  just  as 
Mirabel  was  binding  the  highwayman's  hands  behind  his 
back,  the  man  having  yielded  himself  for  w^orse  when  he 
felt  eleven  stone  and  a  half  kneeling  on  his  chest  and 
saw  that  the  chestnut  mare  had  run  away.  The  watch 
now  with  great  intrepidity  took  charge  of  the  bound 
prisoner,  helped  the  Exeter  Fly  out  of  the  ditch,  and 
Mirabel  into  the  coach,  who  joined  his  companions  in   a 


86  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

somewhat  mud-stained,  flushed,  and  exhausted  state,  but 
not  inwardly  unpleascd  at  what  he  had  done. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  may  be  surprised  at  such 
an  affair  having  taken  place  a  little  more  than  a  century 
ago  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  present 
barracks  of  life-guards,  may  be  glad  to  learn  that  such 
adventures  were,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  of  almost  daily 
occurrence.  In  April,  1740,  the  Bristol  Mail  was  robbed 
a  little  beyond  this  spot  by  a  man  on  foot,  who 
took  the  Bath  and  Bristol  bags,  and  mounting  the 
post-boy's  horse,  rode  off  towards  London.  On  the 
1st  of  July,  1774,  William  Hawke  was  executed  for 
highway  robbery  here,  and  two  men  were  executed  on 
the  30th  of  the  ensuing  November  for  a  similar  offence. 
In  the  same  year,  December  27th,  Mr.  Jackson,  of  the 
Court  of  Requests  at  Westminster,  was  attacked  at 
Kensington  Gore  by  four  footpads,  and  even  so  late  as 
1799  it  was  necessary  to  order  a  party  of  light  horse 
to  patrol  every  night  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to 
Kensington,  all  of  which  strange  facts  will  be  found 
chronicled  in  Mr.  John  Timbs's  pleasant  work  on  the 
Romance  of  London^  who  at  the  same  time  tells  a  good 
story  of  a  footpad's  capture  at  this  very  place. 

It  seems  that  during  the  year  1752,  the  chaise  to 
Devizes  had  been  robbed  two  or  three  times,  and  at  last 
the  thing  becoming  no  doubt  monotonous,  a  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Norton,  not  unknown  to  the  authorities, 
was  asked  to  try  his  hand  at  abating  the  nuisance. 
With  this  end  in  view  he  entered  the  post-chaise  on 
the  3rd  of  June,  and  had  got  just  as  far  as  Knights- 
bridge  on  the  way  to  Devizes,  at  half-past  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  when  a  man  came  up  on  foot  and  said, 
"  Driver,  stop."  The  driver,  who  was  a  post-boy,  did  as 
he  was  bid  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ;  and  the  man  held 
a  pistol  tinder-box  to  the  chaise  and  said,  "Your  money 
directly  ;  you  must  not  stay — this  minute  your  money." 
Mr.  Norton  now  commenced  business.  He  took  a  pistol 
from  his  coat  pocket,  and  from  his  breeches  pocket  a  five 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


87 


shilling  piece  and  a  dollar,  holding,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
say,  the  pistol  concealed  in  one  hand  and  the  money  in 
the  other.  He  held  the  money  pretty  hard.  This 
puzzled  the  footpad,  who  said,  "  Put  it  in  my  hat,"  a  very 
gentlemanly  request  surely.  Mr.  Norton  however  pre- 
ferred to  let  him  take  the  five-shilling  piece  out  of  his 
hand  ;  but  directly  he  had  done  so,  was  rude  enough  to 


The  Three  Siuatis,  Salisbury. 


snap  a  pistol  in  his  face.  The  highwayman  naturally 
incensed  at  this  surprise,  staggered  back,  held  up  his 
hands  and  remarked,  "  Lord  !  Lord  !  "  He  then  incon- 
tinently ran  away,  hotly  pursued  by  the  indefatigable 
Norton,  who  took  him  about  600  yards  off.  But  how  did 
he  take  him  ?  It  pains  me  to  say  that  he  hit  him  a  blow 
in  the  back.    To  take  his  neckcloth  off  after  this,  and  tie  his 


88 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


hands  with  it,  was  a  mere  matter  of  adding  insult  to  injury, 
but  Norton  did  not  disdain  the  deed.  He  then  took  his 
captive  back  to  the  chaise  and  told  the  gentlemen  "  that 
was  the  errand  he  had  come  upon  "  (which  was  surely  an 


:^vmirm-(] 


m^ 


etine 


mm:..  :-mS.^m9 


The  Catherine  Wheel,  Salisbury. 


unnecessary  confidence),  and  then  he  wished  them  a  good 
journey,  and  brought  his  captive  back  to  London. 

The  customary  preliminaries  at  the  trial  which  ensued 
having  been  adjusted,  the  prisoner  was  asked  whether  he 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  89 

had  anything  to  urge  against  his  being  taken  to  Tyburn 
in  an  open  cart.  Said  he,  pointing  to  the  indefatigable 
Norton,  "Ask  him  how  he  Hves  !  "  To  which  question, 
meant  to  be  insulting,  the  indefatigable  Norton  replied 
in  these  meaning  words — "  I  live  in  Wych  Street,  and 
sometimes  I  take  a  thief." 

But  where  is  the  Exeter  Fly  vm  Salisbury  all  this  time  ? 
Why,  the  coachman  has  recovered  his  reins  and  his  senses, 
and  the  Fly  has  resumed  its  flight,  and  while  its  passengers 
are  busily  discussing  footpads  from  a  personal  experience, 
it  passes,  about  a  furlong  further  down  the  road,  a  noted 
house  of  entertainment  at  which  footpads  used  to 
congregate.  This  was  the  celebrated  Half-way  House^ 
an  inn  midway  between  Knightsbridge  and  Kensington, 
which  stood  on  the  present  site  of  the  Prince  of  Wales' 
Gate,  Hyde  Park,  and  which  was  pulled  down  in  the 
autumn  of  1846.  Every  highwayman  of  the  period  had 
drunk  within  its  doors,  a  recollection  of  which  fact  did  not 
incline  the  driver  of  the  Exeter  Fly  to  try  the  quality  of 
its  beer.  Meanwhile  all  the  way  through  Kensington 
(just  outside  which  charming  village  the  Fly  passes  two 
blue  nosed  sportsmen,  out  snipe  shooting)  the  passengers 
with  much  exciternent  and  heat  review  the  recent  adven- 
ture. A  scene  from  Smollett  slips  in  so  well  here  that  I 
cannot  refrain,  a  scene  which  I  grieve  to  have  to  tone 
for  ears  polite. 

"  When,"  writes  Roderick  Random  (after  a  similar 
adventure),  "  when  I  had  taken  my  seat,  Miss  Snapper, 
who  from  the  coach  had  seen  everything  that  had 
happened,  made  me  a  compliment  on  my  behaviour ; 
and  said  she  was  glad  to  see  me  returned  without  having 
received  any  injury ;  her  mother,  too,  owned  herself 
obliged  to  my  resolution  ;  and  the  lawyer  told  me  I  was 
entitled  by  Act  of  Parliament  to  a  reward  of  forty 
pounds  for  having  apprehended  a  highwayman.  The 
soldier  observed  with  a  countenance  in  which  impudence 
and  shame  struggling  produced  some  disorder,  that  if  I 
had  not  been  in  such   a hurry  to  get  out   of  the 


90  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

coach,  he  would  have  secured  the  rogue  effectually 
without  all  this  bustle  and  loss  of  time,  by  a  scheme 
which  my  heat  and  precipitation  ruined.  '  For  my  own 
part,'  continued  he,  '  I  am  always  extremely  cool  on 
these  occasions.' 

"  '  So  it  appeared  by  your  trembling,'  said  the  young 
lady. 

"  '  Death  and  the  deuce  ! '  cried  he.  '  Your  sex  protects 
you,  madam  ;  if  any  man  on  earth  durst  tell  me  so  much 
I'd  send  him  to in  an  instant.' 

"  So  saying  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me,  and  asked  if  I 
had  seen  him  tremble.  I  answered  without  hesitation 
'  Yes.' 

"  '  D — e  sir,'  said  he,  '  d'ye  doubt  my  courage  ? '  I 
replied,  '  Very  much.'  This  declaration  quite  discon- 
certed him  ;  he  looked  blank,  and  pronounced  with  a 
faltering  voice,  '  Oh,  'tis  very  well !   1  shall  find  a  time.' 

"  1  signified  my  contempt  of  him  by  thrusting  my 
tongue  into  my  cheek,  which  humbled  him  so  much  that 
he  scarce  swore  another  oath  aloud  during  the  whole 
journey" — or  perhaps  till  he  got  as  far  as  Brentford, 
let  us  say,  where  our  travellers  in  the  Exeter  Fly  break- 
fasted at  The  Pigeons. 

Brentford  is  seven  miles  from  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and 
is  a  noted  town  in  the  opinion  of  some  experts, 
though  others,  I  observe,  prefer  to  describe  it  as  a  filthy 
place.  The  Pigeons  was,  at  any  rate  in  the  old  coaching 
days,  a  noted  inn  for  post-horses,  two  of  whom,  tired  of 
life  and  the  vile  paving  stones  which  adorned  the  streets, 
tried  early  in  the  century  to  drown  themselves  in  the 
Grand  Canal,  in  the  decorous  company  of  a  clergyman 
from  Buckinghamshire,  who  was  seated  in  the  chaise 
with  twelve  volumes  of  Tillotson's  sermons,  two  maiden 
daughters,  and  their  aunt.  On  being  recovered  from  the 
waters,  the  Buckinghamshire  clergyman  sought  his 
sermons,  or  rather  Tillotson's,  wildly,  and  when  he  found 
they  had  gone  to  improve  the  fishes,  he  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  said  the  strangest  things.      He  told  one  of  his 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  91 

daughters  that  he  could  better  have  spared  her  aunt, 
and  spoke  in  monosyllables  to  the  post-boy  who  was 
duly  discovered  to  be  drunk. 

This,  however,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Exeter  Fly, 
which  is  standing  before  The  Pigeons,  refreshed  as  to 
men  and  horses,  and  ready  to  start.  The  snow  is  still 
falling,  the  coachman's  nose  beams  a  benignant  purple, 
and  the  ostler  recommends  another  glass  as  an  antidote 
to  the  weather,  of  which  he  presages  the  worst.  Re- 
covered by  the  aid  of  Nantes  brandy  from  his  previous 
dejection,  the  captain  hears  these  words  of  ill  omen  as  he 
issues  from  the  inn,  and  meditates  falling  back  on  the 
bar  for  further  support.  The  guard  however  tells  him 
that  it  is  time  to  get  forward,  and  the  man  of  war 
somewhat  sadly  joins  his  company  and  the  coach.  The 
talk  now  among  the  passengers  is  of  Hounslow  Heath  ; 
and  the  ladies  fearing  as  to  what  may  happen  there,  in 
the  way  of  highwaymen,  the  captain,  full  of  a  temporary 
valour,  lets  fall  something  about  the  cold  which  will 
make  a  little  martial  exercise  enjoyable.  He  is  instantly 
however  reduced  to  abject  silence  by  a  glance  from  the 
hero  of  the  recent  episode,  who  at  the  same  time 
eloquently  squeezes  the  younger  lady's  hand.  A  deli- 
cious glance  is  exchanged.  At  the  same  time  the  coach 
begins  to  jolt  unspeakably,  and  enters  the  town  of 
Hounslow.  Here  they  are  advised  by  the  landlord  of 
The  George  not  to  go  forward,  as  the  Bath  Flying 
Machine  up  to  town  has  been  snowed  up  beyond  Coin- 
brook,  and  six  beds  at  The  George  are  aired  and  empty. 
As  sole  answer  to  this  appeal,  the  coachman  full  of 
valour,  calls  for  more  brandy,  and  two  more  horses,  to 
take  them  comfortably  over  the  heath,  and  the  captain 
adjourns  for  a  little  something  in  the  bar  which  may 
serve  the  same  purpose.  Inspired  by  a  like  exercise, 
the  coachman  now  imagines  himself  to  be  Jehu,  the  son 
of  Nimshi,  and  the  Fly  leaves  Hounslow  behind  it  at 
six  round  miles  an  hour.  The  first  thing  to  be  seen  on 
the  notorious  heath  is  the   Salisbury  Fly  in   a  terrific 


92 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


snow   drift,   or  rather  the   coachman's   hat,  two  horses' 
heads,  the  roof  of  the  coach,  and  two  passengers  standing 


1)1  a  Siiow-Drijt. 


on  their   luggage  bawHng  "  Help."     The   driver  of  the 
Exeter  VXy  observes  this  catastrophe,  but  he   does   not 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  •  93 

regard  it,  or  regards  it  purely  as  a  landmark,  and  majesti- 
cally avoids  the  pit  into  which  his  less  fortunate  brother 
has  fallen.     Surely  in  vain  is  the  snare  laid  in  sight  of 
any  coachman.     But  to  see  at  all   has  become   difficult 
by  this  time.     The  snow  drives  ;  the  wind  blows  it  full 
in    their    faces ;     the    horses    begin    to    show    signs    of 
suddenly  capitulating.     The  coachman  now  has  recourse 
to  all  the  dark  arts  of  persuasion  and  the  whip  ;  "  fan- 
ning "    them,    which    in    the    tongue    of   coachmen    is 
whipping    them,  "  towelling    them,"    which    is    flogging, 
''  chopping  them,"  which  is   hitting  the  horse   with  the 
whip  on  the  thigh  (a  barbarous  practice  very   common 
among    the  coachmen  of  the   Iceni,  who   however  pre- 
ferred a  spear  head  for  the  purpose),  in  vain  ! — absolutely 
in  vain  !     The  six  horses  fell  into  a  walk,  and  can  only 
be  kept  to  that  by  incredible  exertions  and  oaths.     The 
passengers  now  give  themselves  for  gone,  in  the  expres- 
sive language  of  the  day  ;    but  presently  when   things 
are  at  the  worst,  their  clouds  break  a  bit,  and  the  snow 
ceases  driving.     The  coachman  does  the  opposite  with 
redoubled   vigour,  and  presently  draws  up   before   The 
Bush,  at   Staines.      The  Exeter   Fly   has   taken  nearly 
three  hours  to  come  the    seven  miles  from   Hounslow. 
The  landlord  of  The  Bush,  Staines,  hearing  this,  follows 
the  lead  of  the   landlord  of  The  George,  and  counsels 
rest   and   dinner ;    and    the    passengers,  who    to    speak 
truly,  have  never  before  in  their  lives  come  so  near  to  the 
experience  of  riding  in  the  air  in  a  hollowed-out  iceberg, 
incline  their  ears  to  the  advice.     Success,  stimulant,  and 
the   lull  in  the  snow  storm    have,   however,   made   the 
coachman  daring.     He  observes  thickly  that  /le  is  an 
Englishman,   and    declares    his    intention    of  inning  at 
Bagshot    for    the    night,  whether  the    passengers   leave 
the  coach  or  stick  to  it.     Upon  this  the  young  captor  of 
the  highwayman  says,  blushing  with  ingenuous  shame, 
that   he   is  willing   to  go  on  ;    upon   which   the  young 
lady,    blushing     also,     says    that    she    is    willing     too. 
This  necessitates  the  mother  also  putting  her  neck  in 


94 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


jeopardy,  and  she,  too,  re-enters  the  coach.  The  lawyer, 
seeing  himself  in  danger  of  being  divided  from  the 
proprietress  of  a  snug  estate  in  Devonshire,  free  from 
encumbrances,  and  perhaps  divided  from  her  for  ever, 
takes  his  heart  out  of  his  boots,  recites  a  by-law  to  the 
coachman  on  the  subject  of  catastrophes,  and  drivers 
committed  for  manslaughter,  and  sits  by  the  widow's 
side ;  the  captain,  for  his  very  uniform's  sake,  feels 
bound    to    follow   the  lawyer's   suit ;    and  amidst  faint 


St.  Anne's  Gate,  Salisbury. 


hurrahs  from  half-frozen  potboys,  the  Exeter  Fly  starts 
gallantly  on  its  last  flight.  At  Egham,  one  mile  three 
furlongs  on,  it  begins  to  snow  again,  and  as  the  coachman 
pulls  up  at  the  Catherine  Wheel,  the  lawyer  desires  the 
captain  not  to  stare  at  the  widow  ;  the  captain  threatens 
to  send  the  lawyer  to  a  place  where  legal  documents  arc 
not  of  the  faintest  use  ;  the  lawyer  threatens  the  captain 
meanwhile,  if  he  moves  a  finger,  with  an  immediate 
action  for  assault.  Upon  this  the  captain,  not  being  a 
man  of  immediate  action,  subsides,  and  the  Exeter  Fly 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  95 

enters  upon  the  most  perilous  part  of  its  journey.  Now 
the  snow  falls  as  it  should  at  Christmas  time,  when  men 
are  seated  round  blazing  fires  in  snug  inn  parlours,  and 
not  braving  the  blasts  in  antediluvian  flying  machines. 
The  coachman  foreseeing  the  worst,  and  that  every 
moment  the  snowfall  is  heavier,  tries  to  churn  his  horses 
into  a  canter  as  the  gloom  of  a  winter's  afternoon  begins 
to  fall  upon  Bagshot  Heath.  The  guard  now  fingers  his 
blunderbuss  delicately,  and  sees  a  highwayman  behind 
every  bush  ;  but  highwaymen  are  not  such  fools  as  to 
be  out  in  such  weather,  and  the  driver,  who  can  see 
nothing  at  all,  drives  into  a  rut  a  yard  deep. 

"Now  shriek'd  the  timid  and  stood  still  the  brave — " 

among  whom  the  captain  may  not  be  numbered.  He 
bellows  indeed  like  a  bull,  and  jumping  out  of  the  coach 
seeks  refuge  in  a  snowdrift,  leaving  his  head  exposed 
above  it,  to  show  how  the  land  lies.  The  coachman  sees, 
and  double  thongs  his  wheelers,  who  drag  the  coach  out 
of  the  rut  to  the  side  of  the  captain,  and  upset  it  in  a 
gravel  pit.  The  captor  of  the  highwayman  now  tells 
Belinda  not  to  be  alarmed,  and  seats  her  with  her  mother 
by  her  side  on  the  side  of  the  overturned  Fly,  from  which 
point  of  vantage  they  scream  in  concert,  and  look  upon 
as  dismal  a  scene  as  two  upset  Avomen  ever  saw.  A 
moan  is  heard  from  the  lawyer,  bound  on  most  important 
law  business  to  Salisbury,  but  now  studying  the  laws  of 
nature,  &c.  &c.,  after  the  manner  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  island  of  Formosa,  with  his  feet  out  of  the  window 
and  his  head  under  the  seat  ;  the  coachman  and  guard 
are  enjoying  the  experience  of  the  Laplanders,  who 
never  think  so  deeply  as  when  they  are  lying  on  their 
back  in  the  snow  ;  and  the  captain  all  the  while  is  being 
rapidly  converted  into  New  Zealand  mutton. 

Having  collected  his  scattered  companions  one  by 
one,  and  propped  them  in  various  attitudes  of  frozen 
dejection  against  the  side  of  the  overturned  coach,  the 


96 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


young  gallant  of  the  party  proposes  that  some  one  shall 
go  on  to  The  King's  Arms  at  Bagshot  and  procure  help 
— with  which  end  in  view  he  cuts  the  traces  and  leads 
up  one  of  the  wheelers  for  a  charger.  The  only  answer 
to  his  appeal  comes  from  the  guard,  who  raises  his 
blunderbuss  gravely  and  mistaking  a  too  curious 
shepherd  who  approaches  from  behind  a  bush  for  a  foot- 
pad, shoots   him,  before  he  has  time  for  effectual  flight. 


Coiniyard,  A'iiiii's  .irttis,  Salislniry. 


-^-'S^'^^^y^^  ^^^^,^. 


in  the  hinder  parts.  The  shepherd  has  now  to  be  dealt 
with.  He  is  given  brandy  and  placed  on  his  chest 
beside  the  coachman  who,  still  believing  himself  to  be 
on  the  box,  mechanically  drives  air-drawn  horses. 
Despairing  of  the  others,  the  young  man  now  commits 
Belinda  and  her  mother  to  the  care  of  the  lawyer, 
who  has  lost  all  feeling  in  hands,  feet,  and  arms,  but 
declares    he    will    look    after    the    mother,    mounts    the 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  97 

patient  wheeler  and  rides  off  for  help  to  Bagshot.  In 
under  an  hour  the  landlord  of  The  King's  Arms  is  seen 
approaching,  with  anticipation  of  a  week's  good  company 
beaming  in  his  eye,  and  surrounded  by  a  goodly  array 
of  stable  boys  bearing  torches,  and  ostlers  armed  with 
staves.  There  is  also  brandy  for  the  frost-bitten,  and  a 
post-chaise  for  the  wounded.  The  timely  succour  is 
greeted  by  the  castaways  with  a  faint  cheer.  Truth  to 
say  it  has  not  come  before  it  was  wanted,  or  before  the 
guard,  still  on  highwaymen  intent,  has  fired  off  his  empty 
blunderbuss  at  the  party  of  rescue.  All  the  way  to  The 
King's  Arms  he  babbles  of  the  hundred  pounds  due  to  him 
for  ridding  the  heath  of  a  footpad  ;  the  shepherd  consults 
the  lawyer  m.eanwhile  as  to  damages  and  as  to  how  an 
action  would  lie  ;  the  captain  swears  that  his  recent 
experience  was  nothing  to  what  he  has  known  in  the 
Low  Countries  ;  Mirabel  presses  Belinda's  hand,  and  the 
pressure  is  ever  so  faintly  returned  ;  the  snow  falls  and 
falls  as  if  it  never  intended  to  stop,  and  the  party  arrive 
finally  at  The  King's  Arms,  Bagshot,  where  a  wonderful 
display  of  good  cheer  oppresses  a  groaning  table — 
"  Iris-tinted  rounds  of  beef,  marble-veined  ribs,  gelatinous 
veal  pies,  colossal  hams,  gallons  of  old  ale,  bins  full  of 
old  port  and  burgundy." 

And  here,  in  the  midst  of  old  English  plenty,  my 
travellers  '  are  snowed  up  for  nearly  a  week.  And 
Mirabel  proposes  to  Belinda,  and  is  accepted  ;  and  the 
man  of  law  drinks  a  congratulatory  bottle  of  port  with 
the  fortunate  wooer  ;  and  proposes  himself  to  the  widow 
next  day,  and  is  refused  ;  and  Mirabel  drinks  a  bottle 
of  port  with  him — a  consolatory  one  this  time  ;  and 
the  guard  is  forgiven  by  the  shepherd  ;  and  the  captain 
is  rude  to  Betty  the  chambermaid,  and  gets  his  face 
slapped  for  his  pains  in  a  long  oak  corridor  ;  and  so  in 
the  old  coaching  days,  when  Exeter  was  five  days' 
journey  from  London,  and  ladies  wore  hoops  and 
farthingales,  and  gentlemen  bag  wigs  and  three-cornered 
hats,  the  old  coaching  world  went  round. 

H 


98  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

It  went  round  at  a  very  different  pace  though  in 
another  fifty  years,  when  the  dashing  young  Mirabel 
of  1 77 1  was  a  septuagenarian  with  the  gout  and  grand- 
children, and  the  guard  of  the  crazy  old  Exeter  Fly  was 
practising  on  a  ghostly  horn  by  the  banks  of  the  Styx, 
and  the  coachman  cracking  empty  jokes  with  pale,  un- 
substantial highwaymen  destined  never  to  cry  ''  Stand 
and  deliver"  any  more.  Let  us  skip  fifty  years,  I  say, 
and  imagine  our  Mirabel  an  old  man  of  seventy,  a 
stranger  to  reforms  in  coaching,  and  in  1823  making 
the  same  journey  to  Exeter  again  !  The  great  and 
ingenious  Nimrod  has  described  such  a  scene  with  such 
extreme  facetiousness  and  point,  that  I  may  well  take 
a  leaf  from  his  book,  T/ze  Chase^  The  Tiirf^  and  the 
Road  {MuYYdiY,  1852),  with  many  acknowledgments  and 
thanks. 

Full  of  scepticism,  then,  but  guided  by  a  friend,  our 
Mirabel  of  the  Exeter  Fly  takes  his  stand  outside  The 
Gloucester  Coffee-house,  now  the  St.  James's  Hotel,  on 
a  winter's  morning  near  Christmas  1823.  His  life  since 
he  married  Belinda  has  been  passed  out  of  England  in 
the  great  new  w^orld  beyond  the  sea,  and  he  has  come 
back  to  see  his  grandchildren  and  the  old  home  in  the 
west  country  before  the  allotted  time  arrives  for  him 
to  leave  off  travelling  for  ever.  Behold  him  then  with 
much  of  1773  about  him  in  dress,  deportment,  and 
speech,  set  down  suddenly  in  Piccadilly.  The  street  is 
crowded.  Bucks  about  to  travel  are  hurrying  into  The 
White  Horse  Cellar  for  a  last  rum  and  milk,  or  lolling 
outside  the  doors  attired  somewhat  after  the  manner  of 
our  more  modern  masher,  but  having  broader  shoulders, 
curlier  hats,  longer  hair  dressed  a  la  George  the  Fourth, 
parted  behind,  and  distilling  the  subtle  odours  of 
Macassar  the  Incomparable  to  the  morning  air.  They 
stare  at  the  old-fashioned  cut  of  the  once  fashionable 
Mirabel's  clothes  with  fatuous  incredulit}',  over  cravats 
a  la  Brummell  half-a-yard  high.  The  newest  things  in 
the  way   of  exclamations    are   abroad  ;  "  zounds  "   have 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


99 


had  their  day.  The  talk  is  of  the  six  bottles  drunk 
overnight,  of  the  recent  battle  on  Crawley  Down,  and 
Lord  Byron's  expedition  to  Missolonghi.  Mirabel 
listens  with  ears  intent,  and  is  at  the  instant  accosted 
by  a  ruffianly-looking  fellow,  made  after  the  manner  of 
the  desperadoes  who  pursue  our  cabs  for  miles  when 
we  return  wnth  our  families  from  the  sea-side,  and  insist 
upon  tendering  assistance  with  the  luggage.     Their  pro- 


X^J 


-^. 


^T  -Ji^i      iniii'//m^^'\   z;^/ 


\ 


'•    '■     '""^     i    ill 

'■  ?!•¥     »■■  ''I'tvn..,;  .1'.     ■"■"*"■'» 


T'/tc  Afi'f^  at  an  Iiai. 


genitor  of  1823  snatches  Mirabel's  portmanteau  out  of 
his  trembling  hands,  breathes  upon  him  brandy,  and 
says,  "  What  coach,  your  honour  ? "  betraying,  I  fear, 
a  Celtic  origin. 

"  I  wish  to  go  home  to  Exeter,"  says  Mirabel  mildly. 
Upon  which  the  desperado  tells  him  he  is  just  in  time, 
and  that  in  point  of  fact,  "  Here  she  comes  !  Them 
gray  horses  ! " 

11  2 


loo  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Pleased  at  having  timed  the  thing  so  well,  Mirabel 
looks  in  the  direction  thus  grammatically  indicated. 
He  expects  to  see  the  Exeter  Fly — a  trifle  improved 
upon  possibly — but  still  the  Exeter  Fly.  And  what 
does  he  see  in  its  stead  rapidly  approaching  ?  Why, 
a  turn-out  drawn  by  four  spanking  grays,  which  he 
takes  to  be  a  gentleman's  carriage,  and  which  would 
do  credit  to  a  crowned  head.  He  communicates  this 
impression  to  the  desperado,  who  remarks  "  Bah ! " 
or  "  Yah  ! "  (a  more  common  use).  "  It's  the  Comet, 
and  you  pnust  be  as  quick  as  lightning !  "  with  which 
words  he  projects  his  victim  into  the  coach,  the  victim's 
luggage  into  the  boot,  pockets  his  fee  without  a  thanks- 
giving, and  remorselessly  attaches  himself  to  another 
innocent. 

Before  he  got  into  the  coach  Mirabel  has  stared  at 
the  coachman,  and  as  soon  as  he  is  seated,  asks  what 
gentleman  is  going  to  drive.  "  He  is  no  gentleman, 
sir,"  says  a  person  who  sits  opposite  to  him,  and  who 
happens  to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  coach;  ^'he  is  no 
gentleman  !  He  has  been  on  the  Comet  ever  since  she 
was  started,  and  is  a  very  steady  young  man."  "  Pardon 
my  ignorance,"  Mirabel  replies.  "  From  the  cleanliness 
of  his  person,  .the  neatness  of  his  apparel,  and  the 
language  he  made  use  of,  I  mistook  him  for  some  en- 
thusiastic Bachelor  of  Arts,  wishing  to  become  a 
charioteer,  after  the  manner  of  the  illustrious  ancients." 
At  which  piece  of  simplicity  the  coach  proprietor 
suspects  Mirabel  of  deliriiuii  tremens,  but  says,  "  You 
must  have  been  in  foreign  parts,"  and  at  the  instant 
the  wheels  begin  to  go  round.  In  five  minutes  they 
are  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  ;  but  where  is  The  Hercules 
Pillars }  Never  to  be  seen  by  Mirabel  again,  who 
remarks  somewhat  pointlessly,  "  What,  off  the  stones, 
already }  "  He  is  informed  that  they  have  ncv^er  been 
on  the  stones,  and  that  there  are  no  stones  in  London 
now.  [This  seems  strange  to  me — I  seem  to  have  met 
some   in   my    wanderings    in    hansom    cabs  !  ]      Wrong 


THE  exetp:r  road 


lOI 


however  as  regards  stones  and  coachmen,  the  next 
thing  Mirabel  remarks  is  that  they  seem  to  be  going 
very   fast  ;  but    here    also    he    is    hopelessly  out    of  his 


m  '"''  '-^' 


Giving^  them  a  Start 


bearings.  "  Fast  !  "  says  the  proprietor.  "  We  never 
go  fast  over  this  stage.  We  have  time  allowed  in  con- 
sequence of  being  subject  to  interruptions,  and  we 
make    it   up   over   the   low   ground.      Notwithstanding 


I02  CDACIIINCx  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

which   apology    for    lack    of    speed,   in    five   and    thirty 
minutes,  the  Comet  careers  into  Brentford. 

At  the  jolting  of  the  coach  on  the  old  familiar  paving 
stones  Mirabel  becomes  young  again.  The  past  re- 
appears. He  is  in  the  Exeter  Fly  once  more,  with  the 
blooming  Belinda — whose  bright  eyes  are  dimmed  now  ; 
with  her  mother,  who  has  long  since  vanished  off  the 
face  of  the  earth  ;  with  the  lawyer  of  Salisbury  who, 
whilst  she  was  upon  it,  had  aspired  to  keep  her  com- 
pany ;  with  the  blue-faced  warrior  from  Dettingen, 
intoxicated  and  timorous  to  the  last. 

"  Wounds  bleed  anew  ;  the  Plaint  pursues  with  tears 
The  wanderer  through  life's  labyrinthine  waste  ; 
And  names  the  Good  already  past  away, 
Cheated,  alas  !  of  half  life's  little  day,'" 

as  Goethe  sings  of  a  similar  condition  of  affairs.  To 
be  brief,  the  old  man  feels  sad,  and  looks  it ;  but  when 
his  companions  ask  him  what  the  matter  is,  and  whether 
they  may  prescribe,  he  observes,  "  Hah  !  .  .  What !  .  .  . 
No  improvement  in  this  filthy  place  ?  Is  Old  Brentford 
still  here  ?  A  national  disgrace.''  In  answer  to  which 
somewhat  splenetic  attack  on  a  perfectly  respectable 
town,  he  is  informed  that  Old  Brentford  ?'s  here  ;  and  a 
second  after  it  could  only  have  been  described  as  ^/lere, 
for  the  Comet  leaves  it  at  ten  round  miles  an  hour,  and 
fifty-five  minutes  precisely  from  leaving  Hyde  Park 
Corner  draws  up  at  Hounslow. 

Mirabel  is  delighted,  for  he  wants  some  breakfast. 
"  Thank  Heaven,"  he  says,  ''  we  are  arrived  at  a  good- 
looking  house,"  with  which  words  he  stands  up  for  the 
purpose  of  alighting  at  it ;  but  he  is  violently  and  Avith 
horrid  suddenness  reseated,  and  the  waiter,  the  inn,  and 
indeed  Hounslow  itself,  disappear  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye.  By  and  by,  when  he  has  recovered  from  the 
painful  shock  of  nearly  swallowing  his  teeth,  he  eyes  the 
proprietor  sternly,  and  says,  "  Sir,  you  told  me  we  were 
to  change  horses  at  Hounslow,"  searching  meanwhile  for 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


103 


the  address  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals — or  its  equivalent  in  those  days.  The  pro- 
prietor, smiling  superior,  blandly  tells  him  that  they  have 
changed  horses  while  he  was  putting  on  his  spectacles. 
"  Only  one  minute  allowed  for  it  at  Hounslow,  sir,  and 
it  is  often  done  in  fifty  seconds  by  those  nimble-fingered 
horse-keepers."     The  coach  at   this  moment  begins  to 


^^•r«%2-i^ 


Crane  Bridge,  Salisbury. 


rock  violently,  bounding  about  the  road  like  a  pea  on 
a  drum,  and  showing  other  outward  signs  of  being 
attached  to  runaway  horses,  which  phenomena,  having 
been  remarked  upon  by  Mirabel  (who  clings  to  his  seat 
as  tenaciously  as  ever  he  did  fifty  years  before  to  the 
seat  of  the  Exeter  Fly),  are  thus  explained  by  the 
omniscient  proprietor,  in  words  full  of  darkness  and 
doubt. 


104 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


"  Oh,  sir,  we  always  '  spring  them '  over  these  six 
miles.  It  is  what  we  call  the  'hospital  ground';" 
which  fateful  phrase  being  interpreted  turns  out  to  mean 
that  it  is  ground  particularly  adapted  to  horses  suffering 
from  the  varying  peculiarities  of  (i)  having  backs  which 
are  getting  down  instead  of  up  in  their  work  ;  (2)  of  not 
being  able  to  hold  an  ounce  down  hill,  or  draw  an  ounce 
up  ;  (3)  of  kicking  over  the  pole  one  day,  and  over  the 


Puttinz-to  the  Team. 


bars  the  next;  all  of  which  gifts  qualify  them  to  work 
these  six  miles,  because  here  they  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  gallop.  This  they  proceed  to  do  in  the  fullest 
acceptation  of  the  term.  Some  expletives  in  vogue  when 
George  the  Third  was  king  are  now  heard  inside  the 
coach,  and  seem  to  come  from  the  old  gentleman's 
corner.  He  looks  out  and  sees  death  and  destruction 
before  his  eyes,  the  horses  going  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  in 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  105 

three  minutes,  and  the  coachman  in  the  act  of  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff.  The  last  of  these  three  sights  tends  to 
reassure  him,  and  he  remarks  to  the  coach  proprietor 
that  fortunately  for  their  necks  the  road  seems  excellent. 
"  They  are  perfection,  sir,"  says  the  proprietor.  "  No  horse 
walks  a  yard  in  this  coach  between  London  and  Exeter, 
all  trotting  ground  now."  "  But  who  has  effected  this 
improvement  in  your  paving  } "  says  Mirabel.  "  A  party 
of  the  name  of  M'Adam,"  is  the  reply,  "  but  coachmen 
call  him  the  Colossus  of  roads.  Great  things  likewise 
have  been  done  in  cutting  through  hills  and  altering  the 
course  of  roads  ;  and  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  nowadays 
to  see  four  horses  trotting  away  merrily  down-hill  on 
that  very  ground  where  they  were  formerly  seen  walking 
up-hill." 

When  the  Comet  arrives  at  Staines,  Mirabel,  reassured 
by  this  soothing  syrup,  alights  to  see  the  horses  changed. 
On  seeing  a  fine  thoroughbred  led  towards  the  coach, 
with  a  twitch  on  his  nose,  he  experiences  a  slight  feeling 
of  nausea  ;  but  recollects  his  inside  friend's  assurance 
that  the  next  stage  requires  cattle  strong  and  staid,  and 
takes  his  seat  again  just  as  the  artist  on  the  box  says, 
"  Let  'em  go,  and  take  care  of  yourselves."  All  goes 
well  for  a  while  till  they  reach  what  is  termed  on  the 
road  a  long  fall  of  ground,  when  the  coach  presses  upon 
the  horses.  The  thoroughbred  at  once  breaks  into  a 
canter,  and  by  doing  so  disqualifies  himself  from  being 
of  any  service  as  a  wheeler,  and  this  done  there  is  nothing 
for  it  but  to  gallop.  The  coach  rocks  awfully,  neverthe- 
less she  is  not  in  danger  ;  the  master-hand  of  the  artist 
keeps  her  in  a  direct  line,  and  meeting  the  opposing 
ground,  she  steadies  and  is  all  right. 

Not  so  old  Mirabel,  who  feels  extremely  sick  and 
shaken,  and  leaves  the  Comet  at  Bagshot  for  good  and 
all,  congratulating  himself  on  the  safety  of  his  limbs. 
He  once  more  after  a  lapse  of  fifty  years  enters  The 
King's  Arms,  recalls  the  journey  to  Salisbury  in  1773, 
finds    the  place    much  changed,    rings    the  bell  for  the 


io6 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Courtyard  of  Church  House,  Salisbury. 


TTTK  EXETER  ROAD  107 

waiter,  and  mistakes  the  well-dressed  person  who  answers 
it  for  the  landlord.  "  Pray,  sir,"  said  he,  "  have  you  any 
slow  coach  down  the  road  to-day  ? " 

"  Why  yes,  sir,"  replies  John  ;  "  we  shall  have  the 
Regulator  down  in  an  hour." 

Upon  which  Mirabel  remarks  that  the  Regulator  will 
do,  as  it  will  enable  him  to  breakfast,  which  he  has  not 
done  that  day.  Upon  which  John  breaks  into  lamenta- 
tions, which  must  often  have  been  heard  in  those  days 
when  fast  coaches  had  come  into  fashion  and  were  kill- 
ing old  inns. 

"  These  here  fast  drags,"  he  cries,  "  be  the  ruin  of  us. 
'Tis  all  hurry,  scurry,  and  no  gentleman  has  time  to 
have  nothing  on  the  road."  Here  he  breaks  off.  "  What 
will  you  take,  sir  ?  Mutton  chops,  veal  cutlets,  beef- 
steaks, or  a  fowl }  "   (to  kill.) 

Having  duly  breakfasted  off  tough  beef-steak  and 
memories  of  the  past,  old  Mirabel  sees  the  Regulator 
draw  up  at  the  door.  He  sees  also  that  it  is  a  strong, 
well-built  drag,  painted  chocolate,  bedaubed  all  over  with 
gilt  letters,  a  bull's  head  on  the  doors,  a  Saracen's  head 
on  the  hind  boot,  and  drawn  by  four  strapping  horses. 
Amongst  other  sights  which  inspire  him  with  confidence 
the  coachman  must  be  numbered,  who  has  neither  the 
neatness  nor  the  agility  of  the  artist  of  the  Comet,  but 
is  nearly  double  his  size.  Mirabel  now  asks  what  room 
there  is  in  the  coach.  "  Full  inside,  sir,  and  in  front," 
is  the  answer,  "  but  you  can  have  the  gammon  board  all 
to  yourself."  "  Ah  !  "  says  Mirabel, ''  something  new  again, 
I  suppose  ;  "  and  mounts  up  the  ladder  to  inspect  it.  He 
finds  himself  on  a  seat  which  enables  him  to  sit  back  or 
front  to  the  horses  as  he  may  like  best,  thinks  himself 
lucky,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  Regulator  leaves  the 
village  of  Bagshot  at  a  steady  pace,  to  the  tune  of  "  Scots 
wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  and  continues  at  that  steady 
pace  for  the  first  five  miles.  Mirabel  now  congratulates 
himself  ;  but  his  song  of  gladness  is  soon,  unlucky  man,  to 
be  turned  into  a  dirge.     For  the  Regulator,  though  a  slow 


io8 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


coach,  is  timed  at  eight  miles  an  hour  through  a  great 
extent  of  country,  and  has  therefore — to  borrow  an  illus- 
tration from  poetry — to  make  play  when  she  can.  This 
occurs  after  she  has  left  The  Golden  Farmer  and  The 
White  Hart  at  Blackwater  behind  her,  and  entered  upon 
a  very  dreary  and  dismal  tract  of  country  known  as 
Hartford  Bridge  Flats.  To  the  lover  of  scenery  this 
place  affords  few  attractions,  but  it  is  as  a  sweet-smelling 
savour   in   the   nostrils  of  old  coachmen,   being   known 


K   5,    : 


7'Jie  White  Hart  at  Blackwater. 


indeed  as  the  best  five  miles  for  a  coach  in  all  England. 
The  ground  being  firm,  the  surface  undulating,  and 
the  Regulator  being  timed  twenty-three  minutes  over 
the  five  miles,  the  coachman  proceeds  to  *'  spring  his 
cattle."  The  coach  being  heavily  laden  forward,  rolls 
in  a  manner  which  it  is  quite  impossible  to  find  a  simile 
for,  and  Mirabel  utterly  gives  himself  up  for  gone.  In 
the  midst  of  one  of  its  best  gallops  the  Regulator  meets 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


109 


the  coachman  of  the  Comet  driving  his  up  coach.  He 
has  a  full  view  of  his  quondam  passenger,  and  thus 
described  his  situation  : 


.^1 


^  vj:5ili::|:. ,..  #:f  i 


^' 


'     'li''*'9 


,-<^V-5 


'"ssi 


d*' 


The  Lion  at  Bla:kwatcr. 


At  Whiichiirck 


"  He  was  seated  with  his  back  to  the  horses,  his  arms 
extended  to  each  extremity  of  the  guard  irons,  his 
teeth  set  grim  as  death,  his  eyes  cast  down  towards  the 


no 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


ground,  thinking  the  less  he  saw  of  his  danger  the 
better  ; "  and  in  this  state  he  arrived  at  Hartford  Bridge. 
Here     he    dismounted    from    the    Regulator   with   the 


J 


I 


^^ 


^, 


77/r  /'onlfry  C'rosa,  Sirli'sh7i>y. 


alacrity  of  lightning.  "  I  will  walk  into  Devonshire," 
he  cries.  Then  he  thinks  better  of  this,  and  says  he 
will  post  ;  then   he    is   told   that    posting  will  cost  him 


THK  EXETP:R  road  III 

twenty  pounds  ;  then  he  says  this  will  never  do,  and 
asks  whether  the  landlord  of  The  White  Lion  can 
suggest  no  coach  to  his  notice  that  does  not  carry 
luggage  on  the  top. 

Here  he  lays  himself  open  to  the  unkindcst  cut  of  all, 
which  the  landlord  hastens  to  avail  himself  of  with  all 
the  unbending  remorselessness  of  his  kind. 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  says,  "we  shall  have  one  here  to-night 
that  is  not  allowed  to  carry  a  band-box  on  the  roof ; 
the  Quicksilver  mail,  sir,  one  of  the  best  out  of  London. 
Jack  White  and  Tom  Brown — picked  coachmen  over 
this  ground  ;  Jack  White  down  to-night." 

"  Guarded  and  lighted  } " 

"  Both,  sir  ;  blunderbuss  and  pistols  in  the  sword- 
case,  a  lamp  each  side  of  the  coach  and  one  under  the 
footboard — see  to  pick  up  a  pin  the  darkest  night  of 
the  year." 

'^  Very  fast .?  " 

''  Oh  no,  sir  !      JUST  KEEPS  TIME,  AND  that's  ALL  !  " 

"  That's  the  coach  for  me !  "  says  the  credulous 
Mirabel  ;  "  and  Fm  sure  I  shall  feel  at  my  ease  in  it.  I 
suppose  it  is  what  used  to  be  called  the  Old  Mercury  .? " 

Alas  !  not  at  all.  The  Devonport,  commonly  called 
the  Ouicksilver,  mail,  is  half  an  hour  faster  than  most 
in  England,  and  is  indeed  the  miracle  of  the  road.  She 
has  no  luggage  on  the  top,  it  is  true,  but  she  is  a  mile 
in  the  hour  quicker  than  the  Comet  ;  at  least  three 
miles  in  the  hour  quicker  than  the  Regulator  ;  and  she 
performs  more  than  half  her  journey  by  lamplight. 
Imagine  Mirabel's  condition  when  he  discovers  into 
what  sort  of  coach  he  has  been  beguiled  !  Past  Hartley 
Row  he  flies,  past  Hook,  where  in  The  White  Hart 
there  was  and  is  a  splendid  old  inn  ;  but  it  is  the  dead 
of  night  now,  and  the  inn  is  shut  up  if  the  Ouicksilver 
stopped  at  it,  which  it  didn't.  .  The  climax  comes  when 
old  Mirabel  awakens  from  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  on  a 
stage  which  is  called  the  fastest  of  the  journey — it  is 
four   miles  of  ground,  and  twelve  minutes   is  the  time. 


ii: 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Mirabel  now  loses  his  head,  and  in  spite  of  the  assur- 
ances of  the  passengers  that  all  is  right,  thrusts  it  out 
of  the  window  to  see  where  the  deuce  they  are  going  to, 
sees  nothing  but  dust  and  whirling  wheels,  and  loses 
his  wig.  The  unfeeling  passengers  remark,  "  I  told  you 
so,"  according  to  invariable  recipe.  Mirabel  cries, 
"  Stop,  coachman  !  "  The  coachman  hears  him  not. 
In  another  second  the  broad  wheels  of  a  road  waggon 
have  done  the  accursed  thing  ;  and   a  short  time  after 


.  -      ;fe^    -•■•-■■ 


^ 


The  White  Hart  at  Hook. 


the  Quicksilver  mail  thunders  through  Basingstoke, 
which  is  forty-five  miles  one  furlong  from  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  and  as  uninteresting  a  town  as  can  be  seen  in  a 
day's  march. 

And  at  Basingstoke  I  shall  leave  Mirabel  and  the 
Exeter  mail,  and  go  down  the  rest  of  the  road  in  slower 
and  more  historic  company. 

Amongst  the  most  distinguished  of  these  must  be 
mentioned   Cromwell,  who  was  extremely  busy  on  this 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


113 


part  of  the  Exeter  road,  in  1645,  taking  Basing  House 
(which  had  defied  the  Parhamentarians  for  four  years), 
stripping  lead  off  the  roof  of  the  Abbey  for  casting 
bullets  for  the  purposes  of  the  siege,  and  generally 
impressing  his  iron  personality  on  everything  about. 
Little  remains,  thanks  to  him  and  time,  I  regret  to  say, 
of  Basing  House,  except  a  ruined  gateway  and  the 
indelible  memories  of  its  gallant  defence   for  the  king  ; 


%4, 


Courtyard,  White  Hart,  Hook. 


but  a  great  deal  remains  of  the  town  of  Basingstoke, 
which  is  a  modern  growth  from  old  Basing,  and  w^iich, 
though  I  understand  it  had  once  a  large  share  of  the 
silk  and  woollen  trade,  is  chiefly  remarkable,  from  my 
point  of  view,  as  being  the  place  where  many  of  the 
West  of  England  coaches  stopped  for  their  passengers 
to  dine. 

The  road  between  here  and  Andover,  about  eighteen 


ti4  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

miles,  runs  through  a  desolate  country,  which  already 
begins  to  anticipate  in  its  lonely  monotony  some  of  the 
more  engaging  peculiarities  of  Salisbury  Plain.  Through 
this  tract  (it  being  give-and-take  sort  of  land)  the  fast 
coaches  made  fast  time  ;  past  Worting,  once  famous  for 
its  White  Hart  ;  past  Overton,  six  miles  and  a  half 
further  on,  famous  for  its  trout  stream  and  foxhounds — 
the  celebrated  Vyne  ;  and  so  on  to  Whitchurch,  which 
is  fifty-six  miles  six  furlongs  from  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
and  is  not  the  bustling  place  now  that  it  was  when  the 
coaches  from  London  to  Salisbury,  and  from  Oxford  to 
Winchester,  crossed  each  other  here,  as  they  used  to. 
It  may  be  perhaps  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  that  the 
inn  at  Whitchurch  is  The  White  Hart,  but  what  adds 
interest  to  the  fact  is  that  it  was  here,  while  waiting  for 
the  down  mail  to  Falmouth,  that  Newman  began  the 
Lyra  Apostolica,  with  the  lines,  "  Are  these  the  tracks  of 
some  unearthly  friend  ?  " 

Seven  miles  further  and  we  are  in  Andover,  which 
though  a  small  place,  has  a  railway  junction  and  a 
history.  Here  Henry  VH.  rested  from  his  labours  after 
suppressing  the  insurrection  of  Perkin  Warbeck  ;  but 
whether  the  miserly  Tudor  put  up  at  the  Star  and 
Garter,  or  the  everlasting  White  Hart,  or  their  mediaeval 
equivalents,  if  there  were  any,  is  more  than  I  can  say. 
It  was  upon  Andover,  to  link  another  royalty  with  the 
place,  that  James  11.  fell  back,  after  the  breaking-up  of 
the  camp  at  Salisbury.  Here  it  was  that  he  was  deserted 
by  Prince  George,  remarkable  for  his  impenetrable 
stupidity  and  his  universal  panacea  for  all  contingencies 
in  a  catch-word.  Whatever  happened,  "  P^st-il  possible  ?  " 
was  his  exclaim.  He  suppecl  with  the  king,  who  was 
at  the  moment  overwhelmed  naturally  enough  with  his 
misfortunes,  said  nothing  during  a  dull  meal,  but  directly 
it  was  over  slipped  out  to  the  stable  in  the  company  of 
the  Duke  of  Ormond,  mounted,  and  rode  off.  James 
did  not  exhibit  much  surprise  on  learning  the  adventure, 
being    used    to   desertion     by    this    time.     He    merely 


TTTF.  EXETER  ROAD 


115 


remarked,  '•'  What,  is  '  F.st-il  possible  ? '  gone  too  !  A 
good  trooper  would  have  been  a  greater  loss  ;"  and  left 
for  London — I  was  going  to  say  by  the  next  coach.  At 
the  Lion  Inn,  readers  of  Thackeray  \v\\\  remember,  the 
ingenious  Barry  L)-ndon  lay  on  the  first  night  of  his 
journey  to  Ha'ckton  Castle,  county  Devon  ;  here  he 
called  up  the  landlord  to  crack  a  bottle  with  him  in  the 
evening  ;    here    Lady     Lyndon    took    umbrage    at    the 


V 


,  /■■■/       ■■■}     ///■>  ^  -T'  • 


1- 


^  n??'"- 


'  im 


t 


Nlfe._.:.. 


^^^S'^ 


s-'*i 


/7.-e  IF/;i7^  //cir^,  Whitchurch. 


^■% 


Corridor  in  White  Hart. 


proceeding  ;  and  here  the  great  Barry  "  who  hated 
pride,"  "  overcame,"  as  he  delicately  puts  it,  this  vice 
in  his  haughty  spouse. 

To  become  geographical  for  a  moment,  it  is  at 
Andover,  or  to  be  quite  accurate,  half  a  mile  out  of  the 
town,  that  the  two  great  coaching  roads  to  the  West  of 
England  diverge — one  going  by  Little  Ann,  Little 
Wallop,  Lobton  Corner,  and  Winterslow  Hut  (celebrated 


I  2 


ii6 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


as  the  residence  of  Hazlitt,  and  as  the  scene,  on  the 
evening  of  October  20;  18 16,  of  an  attack  by  an  escaped 
lioness  on  the  Exeter  Mail)  to  Salisbury  ;  the  other 
route  being  by  Weyhill,  Mullens  Pond,  Park  House, 
Amesbury,  and  thence  to  Exeter  by  Mere,  Wincanton, 
and  Ilminster.  Of  this  road,  which  was  the  one  taken 
by  the  Telegraph,  more  anon.  The  Quicksilver,  the 
other   crack   coach  on  the  Great  Western  road,  which 


Barry  Lyndon  Cracks  a  Bottle. 

was  timed  eighteen  hours  for  the  175  miles,  changed 
horses  at  Salisbury,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  towns  in  the  south  of  England,  and  will  make 
a  convenient  halting-place  for  me,  it  being  situate 
almost  exactly  halfway  between  lixetcr  and  London. 

The  town  of  Salisbury,  which  is  eighty  miles  seven 
furlongs  from  Hyde  Park  Corner,  is  chiefly  remarkable 
for  its  cathedral  ;  and  it  owes  this  agreeable  notoriety  to 
the  north  wind.  This  may  sound  strange  in  the  ears 
of  those  who  hav^c  not,  attired  as  shepherds,  highwaymen 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


117 


or  huntsmen,  braved  the  elements  in  the  surrounding 
plain.  Those  however  who  have  enjoyed  this  fortune, 
will   not   be  surprised   to   learn,   that   when    the   winds 


A  Ckrisimas  Visitor. 


raged  in  the  good  old  days  of  1220  round  the  original 
church  of  Old  Sarum,  which  was  quite  unprotected  and 
perched  upon  a  hill,  the  congregation  were  utterly  unable 


ii8  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

to  hear  the  priests  say  mass  ;  and  no  doubt  they  were  un- 
able to  hear  the  sermon  too.  This  fact  much  exercised  the 
good  Bishop  Poore ;  and  so, a  less  windy  site  having  oppor- 
tunely been  revealed  to  him  in  a  dream  by  the  Virgin- 
he  got  a  licence  from  Pope  Honorius  for  removal. 
Which  done — with  a  mediaeval  disregard  for  the  safety 
of  the  local  cowherd  or  government  inspector — he 
aimlessly  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air  from  the  ramparts 
of  Old  Sarum,  and  (unlike  Mr.  Longfellow's  hero), 
having  marked  where  it  fell,  there  laid  the  foundations 
of  the  existing  beautiful  church. 

To  pass  from  ecclesiastical  matters,  with  which  we 
have  really  little  to  do,  Salisbury,  from  the  fact  of  its 
position  on  the  great  thoroughfare  to  the  west  of  England, 
has  always  played  a  prominent  part  in  the  history  of  the 
road — in  times  of  civil  commotion  indeed,  a  part  perhaps 
second  to  no  other  provincial  town  of  its  size  and  com- 
mercial  insignificance.  And  so,  long  before  coaches 
were  built  or  flying  machines  dreamed  of,  this  part  of 
the  Exeter  road  was  trod  by  kings  and  queens,  and 
courtiers  and  statesmen,  who  made  at  different  times  in 
their  august  and  calculating  lives  the  town  of  Salisbury 
their  headquarters,  cracked  their  mediaeval  old  pleasan- 
tries in  the  quaint  old  streets,  caracoled  along  them,  not 
in  coaches  and  four,  but  on  such  gallant  steeds  and  so 
caparisoned,  as  our  eyes  are  feasted  with  on  Lord  Mayor's 
Day,  gorgeous  without  and  within,  resplendent  with  vel- 
vet, and  cloth  of  gold,  and  ermine,  and  stiff  embroidery. 

First  perhaps  among  the  royal  visitors  to  Salisbury  was 
Richard  the  Second,  who  was  here  immediately  before 
his  expedition  to  Ireland,  where  he  should  clearly  never 
have  gone.  But  this  visit  does  not  seem  to  have  been  a 
success.  There  was,  I  fear,  not  enough  largesse  about 
during  the  last  of  the  Plantagencts'  stay,  not  enough 
tournaments  and  junketings,  and  conduits  running 
rhenish,  and  cakes  and  ale  ;  for  the  good  inhabitants 
seem  to  have  been  impressed  so  little  with  what  was  to 
be  got   out   of    Richard,   that   they   a  short   time  after 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


119 


Quadrangle  of  Hotise,  Exeter. 


expressed  their  thanks  for  his  visit,  by,  with  almost 
indecent  alacrity,  cspoiisino-  the  cause  of  Henry. 
Perhaps  though  it    was    the   otlier   way,  and  the  disap- 


I20  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

pointment  of  the  good  men  of  Salisbury  at  Richard's 
visit  was  caused  by  contemplation — not  of  how  little 
they  got  out  of  Richard,  but  of  how  much  Richard  got 
out  of  them.  For  the  kind  king  had  an  amiable  inclina- 
tion towards  charging  his  subjects  with  his  outings  ; 
and  as  his  household  consisted  of  ten  thousand  per- 
sons, three  hundred  of  whom  were  cooks,  and  as  this 
enormous  train  had  tables  supplied  them  at  the  king's 
expense  ;  some  good  quarters  of  an  hour  were  spent  by 
the  purveyors,  whose  action  was  one  of  the  chief  reasons 
of  public  discontent,  and  who,  no  doubt,  gave  Salisbury 
good  reason  for  recollecting  their  activity. 

The  next  arrival  of  importance  at  Salisbury  was  one 
of  the  four  quarters  of  Jack  Cade,  a  fifteenth  century 
politician,  of  Irish  origin,  who  held  views  on  deep 
questions  of  rent  and  labour  extremely  in  vogue  at  the 
present  day  but  which  in  1450  were,  unfortunately  for 
Cade,  premature.  Yes,  like  all  really  great  men,  Cade 
was  considered  to  be  before  his  time  !  And  so  instead 
of  being  returned  to  Parliament  as  a  Home  Ruler,  a 
price  was  set  on  his  head,  and  he  was  killed  by  a 
Liberal  Unionist  of  the  period,  one  Iden,  a  gentleman 
of  Sussex.  Not  however  before  Cade  had  had  a  good 
time  of  it  with  the  fifteenth  century  unemployed,  who 
saying  (and  quite  correctly)  in  their  hearts,  "  There  arc 
no  police,"  demonstrated  in  London  for  some  time, 
unopposed  by  law  and  the  authorities,  till  a  rich  house 
or  two  were  broken  into,  and  plundered,  when  the 
Londoners  felt  that  the  time  was  come  for  action,  and 
took  the  law  into  their  own  hancis. 

Thirty-four  years  after  Cade  had  suffered  for  advanced 
political  principles  by  having  one  of  his  legs  exposed  in 
a  cathedral  town,  the  hunchbacked  Richard  honoured 
Salisbury  with  his  presence  ;  but  he  was  not  I  expect  in 
the  best  o(  tempers,  for  here  to  him  was  brought  the 
Buckingham  we  have  all  read  of  in  IJie  play,  wlio  had  just 
seized  the  fleeting  opportunity  to  head  an  insurrection 
against  the   king,  in  an  unprccedentedly  wet  season    in 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


121 


yjiw'^M- 


'/'he  Elepluml  /«;;,  E.xffet. 


Wales.     The  result  was  that  he  was  unable  to  cross  the 
Severn,  and  this  niisfortune  brought  him  too  to  Salisbury, 


122  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

where  Richard  was  waiting  to  superintend  his  execution 
at  what  is  now  the  Saracen's  Head. 

In  the  courtyard  of  this  inn,  which  was  then  called 
the  Blue  Boar,  and  not  "in  an  open  space,"  as  Shake- 
speare has  described  it  (as  if  he  were  speaking  of 
Salisbury  Plain),  Buckingham  had  his  head  cut  off 
according  to  contemporary  prescription.  We  have  none 
of  us  seen  the  episode  presented  on  the  stage,  but  we 
have  read  the  carpenters'  scene,  which  Shakespeare 
\vrote  in,  to  give  the  gentleman  who  originally  played 
Buckingham  a  chance,  and  allow  a  few  moments  more 
preparation  for  Bosworth  Field.  And  we  may  recollect 
that  it  consists  principally  in  Buckingham  asking 
whether  King  Richard  will  not  let  him  speak  to  him, 
and  on  being  told  not  at  all,  informing  the  general 
company,  at  some  length,  that  it  is  All-Souls'  Day,  and 
that  as  soon  as  he  has  been  beheaded,  he  intends  to 
commence  "  walking." 

After  Richard  and  Buckingham, there  came  to  Salisbury 
in  the  way  of  kings,  Henry  VH.  in  1491.  Henry  VHI. 
'^"^  1535  with  Anne  Boleyn,  already  in  all  probability 
engaged  in  those  sprightly  matrimonial  differences  as  to 
men  and  things  which  culminated  the  year  following  on 
Tower  Green.  Next  in  order,  came  to  Salisbury,  Eliza- 
beth, bound  for  Bristol,  bent,  as  on  all  her  royal  pro- 
gresses, on  keeping  her  nobility's  incomes  within  bounds, 
and  shooting  tame  stags  that  were  induced  to  meander 
before  her  bedroom  windows.  After  the  virgin  queen 
came  James  I.,  who  liked  the  solitudes  which  surrounded 
the  Salisbury  of  those  days,  for  the  two-fold  reason,  firstly, 
because  they  saved  him  in  a  large  measure  from  the  in- 
vasion of  importunate  suitors  (who  were  afraid  of  having 
their  purses  taken  on  Salisbury  Plain  before  they  could 
proffer  their  supplications),  and,  secondly,  because  they 
were  well  stocked  witli  all  sorts  of  game  on  w^hich  he 
could  wreak  his  royal  and  insatiable  appetite  for  himting. 
Tlic  "open"  natin"e  of  the  countr\'  might  ]^orhaps  be 
added  as  another  reason    lor   the    sporting    king's   liking 


IIIE  i:XETia<   RUAl) 


123 


for  the  place  :  for  James  was  no  horseman,  and  as  he 
was  in  no  danger  of  meeting  a  hedge  in  an  area  of  thirty 
miles,  the  going  must  have  suited  him  down  to  the  ground. 
Indeed  I  do  not  doubt,  but  that  in  ghostly  form  he  still 
follows  the  celebrated  Tedworth  on  their  down  days, 
riding  on  an  invisible  horse,  propped  on  a  well-pillowed 
and   invisible   saddle,  and   having  an   invisible  bottle  of 


Christmas  Eve. 


Greek  wine  dangling  on  either  side.  His  royal  prefer- 
ence for  Salisbury  however  drew  a  greater  presence  to 
the  place,  and  associated  the  old  cathedral  town  with  a 
genius  whose  head  James  cut  off,  but  in  whose  presence 
he  was  not  worth)'  to  stand.  For  here  came  Raleigh  on 
his  last  journey  to  London,  broken  down  by  the  shame- 
less ingratitude  of  princes,  pining  with  the  sickness  of  hope 


124  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

deferred.  Here  he  sought  a  last  interview  and  explana- 
tion with  James,  who  sent  word  that  he  was  sorry,  but 
was  hunting  ;  here  he  tried  to  gain  time  for  his  suit 
(foreseeing  the  Tower  at  the  end  of  his  journey  to  London) 
by  feigning  sickness  by  the  aid  of  a  French  quack  ;  failing 
of  course  to  move  his  drunken  and  hunting  master's 
compassion  in  the  least ;  here  he  wrote  his  apology  for 
the  voyage  to  Guinea  ;  and  hence  he  started  on  his 
last  journey  from  Salisbury  to  London,  the  last  of  many 
journeys  up  the  Exeter  Road,  from  that  west  country 
which  saw  his  birth — as  it  saw  the  birth  of  the  best  and 
greatest  of  English  manhood — which  fed  his  stirring 
genius  with  many  a  wild  tale  of  sea  romance  and  adven- 
ture, and  whose  pleasant  green  hollows  "  crowned  with 
summer  sea,"  still  hold  the  decapitated  head,  in  which 
that  wonderful,  wild,  restless  brain  throbbed,  and  schemed, 
and  laboured. 

It  is  a  long  way  from  Raleigh  to  Charles  II.,  though 
not  so  far  from  Raleigh  to  Cromwell,  who  was  at 
Salisbury  and  on  the  Exeter  Road  on  October  17, 
1646,  after  the  taking  of  Basing  House,  as  I  have 
already  remarked.  The  merry  monarch  was  here  twice, 
but  on  neither  occasion,  I  suspect,  was  he  peculiarly 
merry  ;  for  after  the  battle  of  Worcester,  when  he  lay 
concealed  near  the  town  for  a  few  days,  and  his  com- 
panions used  to  meet  at  the  King's  Arms  in  John 
Street,  to  plan  his  flight,  the  Ironsides  were  much 
too  close  on  his  track  to  allow  opportunity  for  jesting  ; 
and  when  he  came  here  as  king  in  1665,  all  but  the 
most  forced  mirth  was  banished  from  a  court  which 
dreaded  every  day  to  be  stricken  by  the  plague. 

I  have  already  recalled  the  fact  that  it  was  from 
Salisbury  that  James  II.  fell  back  upon  Andover, 
when  the  army  which  he  had  concentrated  there  to  bar 
the  way  of  William  of  Orange,  departed  on  the  more 
pastoral  errand  of  conducting  him  in  triumph  to  London  ; 
and  this  episode  in  the  Rcxokition  closes,  I  think, 
Salisbury's  historical  account,  which   I   am  rather  glad 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


12  = 


of,  as  I  am  tired  of  kings,  and  pine  for  the  more  con- 
genial society  of  horses,  hosts,  footpads,  of  guards  blowing 
horns,  and  coachmen  staring  at  broken  traces. 


SL  Marys  Stc/'s. 


And  Salisbury  was,  of  course,  a  big  coaching  centre. 
Apart  from  the  Quicksilver  Mail,  the  wonder  of  foreigners, 


126 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACTTING  WAYS 


the  envy  of  rival  coach  proprietors,  which  did  the  175 
miles  in  eighteen  hours,  and  caused  rustics  to  stand  in 
turnip  fields  motionless,  gaping,  paralytic  with  surprise 
for  minutes  after  it  had  passed — when  they  set  with 
trembling  hands  the  correct  London  time  on  Brobding- 
nagian  watches  ;  apart  from  the  Devonport  Mail,  I  say, 
a  large  number  of  coaches  halted  at  and  passed  through 
Salisbury,    some    bound    for    Exeter,    others    bound  no 


The  Broken  Trace. 


further,  others  bound  for  places  like  Weymouth,  on  the 
south-western  coast.  I  have  a  Hst  before  me  of  some  of 
these  crack  turn-outs,  which  constantly  used  to  enliven 
the  streets  of  the  now  sleepy  old  town  with  the  clanging  of 
horses' hoofs  on  macadamised  roads,  the  sounding  of  horns, 
the  objurgations  of  passengers  irritable  after  a  long  jour- 
ney, and  in  a  hurry  to  start  on  another,  with  the  friendly 
greetings  of  rivals  of  the  whip  as  they  passed  each  other 
on  their  journe}'s  up  and  down  the  great  li^xeter  Road. 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  127 

In  1 82 1,  tlien,  there  set  out  for  Salisbury,  from  the 
Angel,  St.  Clement's,  what  was  known  as  the  Post  Coach, 
which  started  at  7  in  the  morning  daily,  and  arrived  at 
the  White  Hart,  Salisbury,  at  7.30  in  the  evening  ;  from 
the  Bell  and  Crown,  Holborn,  the  new  and  elegant  Post 
Coach,  which  left  London  every  evening  at  6.15,  and 
arrived  at  the  Black  Horse,  Salisbury,  at  6.15  next 
morning  ;  from  the  same  inn  in  Holborn  also  departed 
at  3.30  daily,  Saturdays  excepted,  what  was  known  as 
the  Old  Coach,  which  arrived  at  7  the  next  morning  at 
the  same  Black  Horse.  Besides  these,  all  more  or  less 
known  to  fame,  there  passed  through  Salisbury  the  Royal 
Auxiliary  Mail,  which  started  every  afternoon  at  6.15 
from  the  Bell  and  Crown,  Holborn,  and  arrived  at  the 
New  London  Inn  at  Exeter  at  7  next  night ;  the  Eclipse, 
which  left  the  Golden  Cross,  Charing  Cross,  daily  at  7.30 
A.M.  for  Exeter,  going  by  Salisbury,  Blandford, 
Dorchester,  and  Bridport  ;  also  the  Royal  Mail  to 
Exeter,  which  left  the  Swan  with  Two  Necks,  Lad  Lane, 
every  evening  at  7.30,  and  going  by  the  same  route  as  the 
last  coach,  arrived  at  the  New  London  Inn  at  Exeter  at 
9.30  next  morning  ;  also  the  Regulator,  whose  acquaint- 
ance we  have  made  already,  which  reached  Exeter  from 
London  in  twenty-six  hours,  starting  daily  at  3  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  from  the  same  celebrated  London  house. 
Nor  was  the  Weymouth  Union,  which  left  the  Saracen's 
Head,  Snow  Hill,  every  afternoon  at  4,  less  known  in 
the  streets  of  Salisbury  than  any  of  these  former  ;  and  with 
it  the  Accommodation  post  coach  from  the  Swan  with 
Two  Necks  entered  into  brilliant  rivalry,  and  leaving 
London  an  hour  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  arrived  at  9 
o'clock  next  morning  at  the  same  seaside  resort. 

The  names  of  many  celebrated  coaches  will  be  found 
missing  from  this  list,  some  of  which  were  not  running 
at  the  time  it  was  made,  others  of  which  were  ;  but  it  is 
not  in  my  design  to  compile  coaching  statistics,  for 
statistics  I  abhor  ;  and  those  on  coaches,  as  on  all  other 
subjects,  whether  in  the  heavens  above  or  on  the  earth 


128  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


College  Hall,  Exeter. 


beneath,  may  be  sought  by  students  in  the  British 
Museum,  where,  if  cUie  pertinacity  be  theirs,  they  will, 
after  many  months,  be  voluminously  found.     No  !  stat- 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  129 

istics  arc  neither  my  object  nor  my  forte.  I  wish  only 
as  I  hurry  along  them  (and  this  reminds  mc  that  Exeter 
is  still  ninety-one  miles  seven  furlongs  off)  to  give  faint 
glimpses  of  the  old  life  on  the  old  roads,  looking  upon 
that  life  from  all  possible  different  points  of  view,  and 
trying  more  to  render  its  sentiment  perhaps  than  to  write 
its  history. 

My  readers,  then,  who  have  been  loitering  with  me  all 
this  while  at  Salisbury,  may  remember  that  had  they 
been  travelling  to  Exeter  in  the  finest  age  of  coaching 
by  the  Telegraph,  the  fastest  coach  of  the  age,  or  nearly 
so,  they  would  not  have  been  at  Salisbury  at  all,  for  the 
Telegraph  diverged  from  the  Salisbury  road  at  Andover  ; 
and  as  "  the  Lunnon  Coach,"  a  perpetual  source  of  won- 
der to  staring  rustics  at  work  on  the  wayside,  went  to 
Exeter  by  Amesbury,  Deptford,  Wincanton,  and 
Ilminster,  I  propose  to  follow  this  route  as  far  as 
Deptford  Inn,  which  is,  or  was,  for  its  days  are  gone,  a 
very  celebrated  house,  standing  about  twenty-four  miles 
from  Andover,  on  the  middle  of  Salisbury  Plain.  And 
then  I  shall  leave  the  Telegraph  to  go  on  to  Mere  and 
Wincanton  alone,  and  returning  to  Salisbury  once  more 
from  Deptford  (it  is  only  eleven  and  three-quarter  miles 
on  the  worst  branch  line  in  Europe),  shall  go  down  to 
Exeter  by  the  route  taken  by  the  Telegraph's  great  rival, 
the  Quicksilver,  which  did  (I  never  can  sufficiently 
impress  my  readers  with  the  astounding  fact)  the  175 
miles  from  London  in  eighteen  hours,  and  went  by 
Shaftesbury,  Sherborne,  Yeovil,  Crewkerne,  and  Chard. 

Meanwhile  we  have  to  do  with  the  Telegraph,  and  the 
first  thing  that  the  Telegraph  Coach  did  after  leaving 
Andover  was  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  do  a  three-mile 
stretch  of  collar  work  to  Weyhill,  at  which  place  is 
annually  held  a  fair,  which  would  make  those  people 
who  have  never  seen  one  stare.  This  festivity,  which  is 
indeed  quite  an  un-English  and  out-of-the-way  sight, 
begins  on  October  loth  (Michaelmas  Eve)  and  goes  on 
for   six  days,  during  which  all  the  country-side  seems 

K 


I30 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


to  have  broken  loose,  and  high  junketings  are  to  be 
seen.  Besides  junketings  (which  prevail  chief!)'  on  the 
last  day   of  the   fair  in   connection   with  peep-shows  of 


'^l.. 


''L^/i^ '^T^^SMl.^''^ 


The  Lintnon  Coach. 


the  most  blood-curdling  description,  whirligigs,  merry- 
go-rounds,  rifle  galleries,  and  gingerbread)  are  also  to  be 
seen  wonderful  shows  of  sheep,  magnificent  cheeses, 
the  finest   hops   in   England    displayed    in  the   h\'irnham 


TIIK  KXETER  ROAD  131 

Row,  great  exhibits  of  macliinery  and  enormous  cart- 
horses, and,  enveloping  all,  a  Babel  indescribable.  The 
whole  thing  is  curious  in  the  extreme  and  antique  into 
the  bargain— indeed  the  line  in  Piers  Ploughman's 
Vision^ 

"  At  \Vy  and  at  Winchester  I  went  to  the  fair," 

is  supposed  to  allude  to  Weyhill,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  does,  though  I  leave  the  decision  of  the  point  to 
the  wise. 

After  leaving  Weyhill  the  Telegraph  went  by  way  of 
Mullen's  Pond,  where  in  the  good  old  days  there  was  a 
turnpike  to  give  you  pause  (if  you  had  no  coppers),  to 
the  Park  House  four  miles  further  on,  in  old  days  an 
inn  of  some  importance,  now  a  solitary  beer-house, 
standing  on  the  verge  of  desolate  downs — on  the  verge 
of  Salisbury  Plain,  in  fact — across  which  the  road  runs 
under  the  side  of  Beacon  Hill,  a  windy  place  celebrated 
for  its  hares,  coursing  meeting,  and  some  time  since  for 
a  march  past  held  at  the  close  of  autumn  manoeuvres  ; 
then  across  the  Bourne  river  into  the  extremely  ancient 
town  of  Amesbury,  which  is  fourteen  miles  from 
Andover  and  seventy-seven  miles  seven  furlongs  from 
Hyde  Hark  Corner. 

Over  this  bleak  and  inhospitable  country,  between 
Amesbury  and  Andover,  the  great  snowstorm  of  1836 
raged  in  a  way  which  those  who  have  seen  a  snowdrift 
on  Salisbury  Plain  may  best  be  able  to  realise,  and  the 
Telegraph  Coach  passed  through  the  very  thick  of  it. 
The  guard  of  the  mail  who  travelled  with  it  on  that 
memorable  December  27,  1836,  from  Ilminster  to 
London,  had  an  experience  to  retail  when  he  reached 
Piccadilly.  The  snow  began  to  fall  when  the  coach 
reached  Wincanton,  and  never  left  off  driving  all  the 
way  to  London.  Nor  did  the  coachman  either,  to  his 
credit  be  it  said,  though  over  this  tract  of  ground  we  are 
discussing  two  extra  pairs  of  leaders  were  put  on,  and 
could   only   with   the   utmost   difficulty  and  after  much 

K  2 


i:;2      COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


J 


*' fanning"  get,  even  in  that  reinforced  state,  through 
the  mountainous  snowdrifts.  It  must  have  been  an 
awful  drive  that,  I  know  ;  for  1  know  the  countr}- 
weU. 

For  the  present  however  we  have  safely  arrived  at 
Amesbury,  where  we  can  alight  at  the  George  and 
conjure  up  a  celebrity  or  two  before  we  go  to  supper. 
Amesbury  indeed  is  rich  in  these,  from  the  time  when 
Guinevere  arrived  here  somewhat  late  at  night,  after  a 
ride  across  the  Plain  (which  is  more  unlike  Dore's  repre- 
sentation of  it  than  anything  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life, 
but  this  by  the  way),  up  to  the  time  when  the  charming 
Duchess  of  Queensberry  played  the  Lady  Bountiful  in 
the  place,  and  by  entertaining  Prior  and  Gay  at  the 
Abbey  graced  the  quaint  old  Wiltshire  town  with  the 
memories  of  two  of  the  not  least  celebrated  of  the 
English  humorists. 

But  indeed  Amesbury  is  so  ancient  that  if  we  cared 
to  enter  the  sacred  garden  of  the  antiquary,  and  if 
Guinevere  were  not  perhaps  legendary  enough,  we  might 
start  the  history  of  Amesbury  further  back  than 
Guinevere.  As  an  antiquity  however  I  think  that 
Guinevere  may  pass.  After  the  unfortunate  lady  had 
retired  from  Amesbury 

"To  where  l:)eyon(I  these  voices  there  is  peace," 

hither  came  Queen  Elfrida  in  980  in  search  of  it,  after 
her  murder  of  her  stepson  Edward  at  Corfe  ;  and  bent, 
like  all  media^'val  murderesses  suffering  from  a  temporary 
mental  depression,  on  building  a  church.  When  she 
came  to  the  point  however,  and  had  interviewed  the 
architect  and  the  abbot,  she  went  the  whole  hog,  and 
built  an  abbey.  In  1177,  I  regret  to  say,  all  the  ladies 
of  this  establishment  were  dismissed  without  a  month's 
warning  by  Henry  II.  for  staying  out  all  night;  and 
twent\'-foin'  nuns  and  a  prioress  from  Fontevrault  in 
Anjou.  all  with  personal  characters,  filled  the  vacant 
places.     Within  the  walls  of  this  abbe)-  a  whole  bevy  of 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


133 


royal,  hipped,  and  unfortunate  ladies  of  all  ages  sought 
shelter  from  a  wicked  world.  I  must  chronicle  these, 
because  they  are   all,  from   my  point   of  view,  memories 


Old  Housls  on  Exe  Island. 


of  the  Exeter  road,  though  the  Exeter  road  at  that  time 
was  but  a  mediaeval  cart-track,  and  a  very  bad  one  too. 
At  Amesbury   then  lived,  and    for  the  most  part  died, 


134  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Eleanor  of  Brittany,  sister  of  Prince  Arthur  ;  Mary,  sixth 
daughter  of  Edward  I.,  with  thirteen  ladies  to  keep  her 
company.  This  was  in  1285.  In  1292  Eleanor,  Queen  of 
Henry  III.,  died  here,  and  Katharine  of  Aragon  stayed 
for  a  while  here  on  her  first  arrival  in  England  in   1501. 

Shortly  after  this  came  the  dissolution,  when  a  some- 
what similar  fate  befell  the  old  abbey  as  that  which 
turned  the  castle  at  Marlborough  into  a  posting  inn 
and  a  public  school.  In  point  of  fact,  the  abbey  of  Ames- 
bury  became  Amesbury  Abbey,  and  passed  from  the  Earl 
of  Somerset,  to  whom  it  was  granted  by  Henry  VIII.,  into 
the  respective  hands  of  the  Aylesburys,Boyles,andOueens- 
berrys,  till,  after  the  death  of  the  fourth  Duke  of  Queens- 
berry,  the  estate  was  bought  by  Sir  Edmund  Antrobus, 
in  the  possession  of  which  family  it  still  remains. 

Under  the  hospitable  roof  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Queensberry,  when  they  were  in  possession  at  the 
abbey,  the  genial  Gay  passed  the  latter  years  of  his 
epicurean  life,  "was  lapped  in  cotton,"  as  Thackeray 
has  it,  and  "  had  his  plate  of  chicken  and  saucer  of  cream, 
and  frisked,  and  barked,  and  wheezed,  and  grew  fat,  and 
died."  It  was  here  that  he  wrote  the  Beggar  s  Opera 
(inspired  by  how  many  personal  recollections  of  high- 
waymen, I  wonder,  gleaned  on  journeys  between 
Amesbury  and  the  capital  ?),  and  in  the  garden  there 
is  shown,  or  used  to  be,  a  curious  stone-room,  built  in  a 
bank  and  overlooking  the  Avon  (here  famous  for  its 
trout),  which  is  said  to  have  been  the  poet's  stud)'.  But  I 
dare  say  that  this  is  an  allegory.  The  dining  room  would 
have  been  a  more  likely  place  for  it  I  should  have  said. 

The  Exeter  road  after  leaving  Amesbury  mounts 
straightway  on  to  Salisbury  Plain  again,  and  two 
miles  from  the  town  passes  on  the  right  Stonehenge, 
which  I  shall  not  write  about,  because  everybody 
has  written  about  it,  and  most  people  have  read 
what  has  been  written.  If  anybody  however  who 
has  not  seen  it,  should  chance  to  be  in  the 
neighbourhood    I    would    advise    them    (without    troub- 


TTIE  EXETER  ROAD 


135 


ling  themselves  much  beforehand  as  to  whether  it 
is  Druidical,  or  post  Roman,  or  built  by  the  Bclgai)  to 
approach  it  from  Amesbury  about  sunset,  when  they 
will  sec  what  they  will  see,  and  return  home — or  I  am 
in  error — w^ell-pleased  with  what  they  have  seen.  From 
Stonehenge  it  is  a  run  of  little  more  than  eight  miles 
through  Winterton-Stoke  to  the  once  celebrated 
Deptford  Inn,  of  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  nothing 
is  to  be  seen  now, 
except  its  site, 
which  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly pretty 
one,  looking  over 
the  valley  of  the 
Wily. 

And  here  I  shall 
leave  the  Tele- 
graph to  continue 
its  eagle  flight,  as 
Mr.  Micawber 
would  say,  alone, 
merely  remarking 
by  the  way  that 
it  went  from 
Deptford  to  Hin- 
don,  sixty  -  four 
miles  four  fur- 
longs from  Hyde 
Park  Corner, 
which  is  an  an- 
cient  market- 

town,  and  was  once  a  rotten  borough  contested  success- 
fully by  "  Monk  "  Lewis  of  lyic  Castle  Spectre  renown 
and  Henry  Fox,  afterwards  Lord  Holland  ;  and  unsuc- 
cessfully contested  by  Lord  Beaconsfield  ;  from  Hindon 
the  Telegraph  went  on  to  Mere,  10 1  miles  2  furlongs,  noted 
for  its  Ship  Inn,  and  a  mediaeval  house  of  plain 
Perpendicular    in    one    of    its    streets  ;    and    so    on    to 


"\\ 


MMim  ^ 


4->\  >'  y 


:'U 


i'isvs 


An  Exeter  Gable. 


136 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Wincanton,    108    miles    3    furlongs,    noted    for   its    Bear 
Inn,  for   a  visitation  of  the  Black   Death   in    1553,  and 


J'ayinj:;'  'J 'oil. 


for  the  hrst  blood  shed  in  a  slight  skirmish  in  the 
Revolution;  and  thence  by  llcjlton,  and  Sparkford 
Street,  to    Ilchester  and  Ilminster,   which    former   place 


THE  EXETER  ROAD  137 

was  once  represented  by  Sheridan,  and  the  neighbour- 
hood of  which  was  the  scene  of  an  amusing  difference 
between  a  toll-keeper  and  a  guard,  thus  pleasantly  told 
by  Mr.  Stanley  Harris  in  his  justly  well-known  work 
The  Coaching  Age. 

"  The  Exeter  Defiance,  one  of  Mrs.  Anne  Nelson's 
coaches  from  the  Bull  Inn,  Aldgate,  went  through  the 
gate  at  Staines  ;  all  the  tolls  at  the  gates  below  were 
paid  by  the  guard  every  Monday,  amounting  to  about 
£^0.  It  so  happened  that  the  keeper  of  the  gate  near 
Ilchester  had  got  in  arrear  with  his  payments  to  the 
trustees,  and  accordingly  their  clerk  served  a  notice  on 
the  guard  of  the  coach  not  to  pay  him  any  more  tolls.  The 
gatekeeper  to  counteract  this  move,  shut  the  gate  before 
the  time  for  the  arrival  of  the  coach.  When  the  coach 
came  in  sight  therefore,  the  guard  blew  his  horn  to  no 
purpose,  and  couldn't  get  through  till  he  had  paid  three 
shillings.  Meanwhile  with  the  assistance  of  a  horse  and 
trap,  the  pikekeeper  reached  the  next  toll,  which  the 
coach  also  found  barred  against  it.  This  keeper  being 
more  obdurate  than  the  other,  the  guard  produced 
his  tool-box  with  the  object  of  breaking  through 
the  outwork.  This  led  to  fisticuffs  between  himself 
and  the  keeper,  in  which  the  keeper  came  off  second 
best.     The  bout  ending  in  the  gate's  being  opened." 

Ilminster,  to  conclude,  as  readers  of  Thackeray  may 
remember,  was  graced  by  the  presence  of  Barry  Lyndon 
in  1773,  who  lay  at  the  Bell  (now  the  George  or  the 
Swan  presumably,  for  the  Bell  is  at  Ilchester)  on  his 
third  night  from  town.  Here,  as  he  had  previously 
done  at  Andovcr,  he  engaged  himself  in  the  pleasing 
distraction  of  cracking  a  bottle  with  the  landlord,  and 
overcoming  by  this  recipe  Lady  Lyndon's  natural  vice 
of  pride.  There  is  nothing  after  this  to  notice  in  the 
fifteen  miles  between  Ilminster  and  Honiton,  where 
this  Wincanton  route  joins  the  mail  road  from  Salis- 
bury to  Exeter,  down  which  I  now  propose  to  travel. 

And  I    think   that   I  will  not  go  by   the  Quicksilver 


I -.8 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


as  I  said  I  would,- though  it  took  the  shortest  route 
by  Shaftesbury,  Sherborne,  Yeovil,  and  Chard,  but  will 
go  instead  by  the  old  mail  road  via  Blandford,  Dorchester, 
and  Bridport,  by  which  such  well-known  coaches  as  the 
Eclipse,  the  Royal  Mail,  and  the  Regulator  used  to 
travel.  And  I  select  this  route  not  only  because  it  is  the 
old  mail  road,  but  because  it  runs  to  my  mind  through 
a   more   interesting  and   storied  country.     At  ten  miles 


'•V'  V-     "''•/-■-a»^i' ''■"'""  '-' 


Forde  Abbey,  near  Chard. 

three  furlongs  from  Salisbury,  then,  this  road,  to  begin 
with,  brings  us  to  the  once  celebrated  Woodyates  Inn, 
and  at  the  same  time  enters  the  delightful  county  of 
Dorset.  And  here  we  are  surrounded  on  all  sides  with 
memories  of  that  fatal  risini^  which  culminated  on  the 
bleak  plain  of  Sedgemoor,  and  crushed  for  ever  the 
daring  hopes  of  the  brilliant  young  nobleman  who  was 
for  so  long  the  darling  of  the  West.     The  memory  of 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


139 


Monmouth  is  still  preserved  about  Woodyates.  It 
was  close  to  the  Woodyates  Inn  that  the  giving  in  of 
the  desperately  ridden  horses  stopped  the  flight  of 
Monmouth,  Grey,  and  Buyse  to  the  sea. 

Here  the  fugitives  turned  their  horses  loose,  concealed 
the  bridles  and  saddles,  disguised  themselves  as  rustics, 
and  made  their  way  on  foot  towards  the  New  Forest  ; 
and  quite  close  by  they  fell   into  the  hands  of  James's 


'>''■:- #ssw' 


^ii'tT:  /.. 


-l 


Old  House  at  Bridport,  at  one  time  the  Castle  Inn. 

troopers.  Monmouth  himself  was  taken  on  the  Wood- 
lands Estate  near  Horton,  his  captors  failing  for  some 
moments  to  recognise  in  the  gaunt  figure,  crouching  in 
a  ditch,  dressed  like  a  shepherd,  with  a  beard  of  three 
days'  growth,  already  prematurely  grey,  the  once  brilliant 
and  graceful  son  of  Charles  II.  and  Lucy  Walters.  The 
ash-tree  under  which  he  was  discovered  still  stands. 

Three  miles  further  down  the  road  is  Thorley  Down 
Inn ;  two  miles  beyond  it  stands  Cashmoor,  famous  in  the 


140 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


coaching  days  for  post-horses,  victuals,  rum  and  milk, 
snug  bars,  and  general  accommodation  of  the  best  old 
English  quality  for  man  and  beast  ;  and  another  seven 

miles     and      three 


furlongs    bring    us 


■^, 


>;' 


into  Blandford,  103 
miles  4  furlongs 
from  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  celebrated 
for  a  disastrous  fire 
1 73 1,    to  which 


m 


■  V. 

r 


/.^^/7      ^A^      ','•  it  owes  its  present 

handsome  appear- 
ance, and  also  for 
having  been  the 
scene  in  1760  and 
1762  of  some  of 
Gibbon  the  histor- 
ian's outings  with 
the  Hants  Militia  ; 
or,  as  he  more  aptly 
describes  it,  of''  his 
wandering  life  of 
military  servitude." 
It  was  on  the  downs 
round  pleasant  and 
hospitable  Bland- 
ford,  in  short,  that 
"  the  discipline  and 
evolutions  of  a 
modern  battalion  " 
gave  the  future 
historian  of  the 
Roman  empire  a 
clearer  notion  of 
the  phalanx  and  the  legion,  or  would  have  done,  may  I 
add  ?  if  the  captain  of  Hampshire  grenadiers  had  not 
passed  so  much  of  his  time  in  the  Crown  and  the  Grey- 


/ill  /wlhij 


>j 


Excicr.     Charles  11 .  hid  in  this  House. 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


141 


hound  ;  for  a  page  further  on  he  speaks  of  the  dissipations 
of  pleasant,  hospitable  Blandford,  in  a  strain  of  deeply 
philosophical  regret. 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  any  place  between 
here  and  Dorchester,  which  is  sixteen  miles  down  the 
Exeter  Road.  At  Winterborne,  Whitchurch,  however, 
there  is  a  church  with  a  curious  font  in  it,  of  which  the 
grandfather  of  John  Wesley,  founder  of  Methodism, 
was  vicar  ;  but  he  does  not  seem  to  have  had  a  very 
pleasant  time  of  it.  For  either  by  reason  of  having 
married  the  niece  of  Thomas  Fuller,  author  of  the 
WortJiies,  or  because  he  had  not  been  properly  ordained, 
he  was  much  hunted  up  and  down  like  "  a  partridge  in 
the  mountains,"  when  the  king  enjoyed  his  own  again. 
Four  miles  beyond  Whitchurch,  at  Dewlish,  there  was 
a  turnpike  gate,  I  notice,  but  there  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  much  else  there  of  any  interest,  and  so  on  to 
Dorchester  (inns,  the  Antelope  and  the  King's  Arms), 
which  was  a  posting-town  of  great  importance,  and  is 
119  miles  6  furlongs  from  Hyde  Park  Corner. 

Dorchester  has  been  remarkable  for  all  time  for  its 
extreme  healthiness,  and  was  remarkable  during  the 
great  Civil  Wars  for  its  antipathy  to  the  king  :  two  ex- 
tremes in  the  way  of  qualities  which  may  cause 
wonder,  but  which  are  well  vouched  for  nevertheless. 
For  on  the  first  peculiarity  the  celebrated  Dr.  Arbuthnot 
— Arbuthnot  the  learned,  the  fascinating,  the  friend  of 
Pope,  Gay,  and  Swift — who  was  here  in  his  young  days, 
remarks,  "  that  a  physician  could  neither  live  nor  die  at 
Dorchester,"  commenting  on  his  own  experience  ;  and 
on  the  second  peculiarity,  lack  of  loyalty,  no  less 
weighty  an  authority  than  Clarendon  reports,  that  when 
the  great  Rebellion  broke  out,  no  place  was  more 
entirely  disaffected. 

Fess  pleasant  celebrities  however  than  the  brilliant 
author  of  the  Art  of  Sinking  in  Poetry^  Laiv  is  a 
Bottomless  Pit,  and  the  Effects  of  A  ir  on  Hninan  Bodies, 
haunt    the   streets   of  this   almost   aggressively  healthy 


142 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


town.  Recollections  of  Monmouth's  rising  spring  up 
on  all  sides,  terrible  episodes  of  blood  and  cruelt}%  too, 
and  the  memory  of  a  imivcrsally  execrated  monster. 
Dorchester  was  the  second  place  Judge  Jeffreys  reached 
on  the  Bloody  Assize. 


^ 


Jl/r 


ll 1 

\1 


,■ 


-  /y 


'Jiu-iitJ, 


,     m-    16', -X  ^^^i^s-  Mm>. 


''•'IP' HIS 


fl 


,57 


^.Jii"«it>*S:=» 


A'^^'tV"* 


M.     'AiJ  ,1;.! 


-'^^ 


-t^^s=;S_^ 


T/ic  Wliitc  Hart.  Dorchester. 


1^ 


"  The  court,"  writes  Macaulay,  "  was  hung,  by  order 
of  the  chief  justice,  with  scarlet,  and  this  innov^ation 
seemed  to  the  multitude  to  indicate  a  bloody  purpose. 
It  was  also  rumoured  that  when  the  clergyman  who 
preached  the  assize  sermon  enforced  the  duty  of  mercy, 
the  ferocious  countenance  of  the  judge  was  distorted  by 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


143 


an  ominous  grin.     These  things  made  men  aiigiu'  ill  of 
what  was  to  follow. 

"  More  than  three  hundred  prisoners  were  to  be  tried. 


,.  >     ^,  i.iiiniii'"'*^  1  'U 


Judge  Jeffreys'  Lodgings,  Dorchester. 


The  work  seemed  heavy,  but  Jeffreys  had  a  contrivance 
for  making  it  light,  lie  let  it  be  understood  that  the 
only  chance  of  obtaining  pardon  or  respite  was  to  plead 


144 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


guilty.  Twenty-nine  persons  who  put  themselves  on 
their  country  and  were  convicted  were  ordered  to  be 
tied  up  without  delay.  The  remaining  prisoners  pleaded 
guilty  by  scores.  Two  hundred  and  ninety-two  received 
sentence  of  death." 

Jeffreys,  after  this  amiable  display  of  judicial  activity, 
retired   to   his   lodgings  in   High  West  Street  (Duffall's 


'^?^'*'^ 


Charles  Recognised  hv  the  Ostler. 


glass-shop),,  where  he  no  doubt  partook  of  brandy, 
according  to  his  convivial  wont,  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
conscienceless  carouser,  and  left  for  Kxeter  next  clay. 

And  by  the  same  road  that  we  are  on  now,  by 
Winterborne  Abbas,  through  Winterborne  Bottom,  past 
Longberry  turnpike  gate,  540  feet  above  the  sea,  then 
down   a  descent  of  two  miles   to   the   Travellers'  Rest, 


THE  EXETKK  ROAD 


145 


mmm 


77!C  Packho7-sc,   Bridport. 

253    feet   above   the   sea,  and    then   down  into  Bridport, 
134  miles  4  furlongs. 

L 


146  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

The  inns  in  Bridport  proper  used  to  be,  in  the  coach- 
ing days,  the  Bull  and  the  Golden  Lion  ;  but  half  a 
mile  distant,  on  the  quay,  there  is  a  house  called  the 
George,  where  Charles  II.  was  nearly  seized  in  165 1,  by 
reason  of  an  ostler  recognising  his  face — a  compliment 
at  the  moment  not  appreciated  by  our  future  king,  who 
made  the  best  of  his  way  to  Salisbury  via  Broad- 
windsor — a  very  out-of-the-way  route  surely.  But 
main  roads  at  the  time  were  not  Charles's  fancy.  He 
would  have  preferred  tunnels  had  they  been  in  vogue. 
Meanwhile  we  must  go  on  to  Exeter,  past  Chidiock, 
where  there  used  to  be  ruins  of  an  old  manor  house 
belonging  to  a  family  of  the  same  name,  but  which  now 
is  not,  thanks  to  Time  and  Colonel  Ceely,  Governor  of 
Lyme  in  1645.  At  Charmouth,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  places  on  the  Southern  coast,  Charles  II. 
was  nearly  caught,  before  he  was  nearly  caught  at 
Bridport  in  the  manner  already  described  ;  but  while  at 
Bridport  the  fatality  almost  occurred  through  an  ostler's 
recognising  the  fugitive's  face,  here  at  Charmouth  a 
village  blacksmith  got  upon  the  scent  by  observing  with 
much  curiosity  that  the  horse's  three  shoes  had  been 
set  in  three  different  counties,  and  one  of  them  in 
Worcestershire  ;  which,  considering  that  the  Battle  of 
Worcester  was  in  everybody's  mouth,  was  too  near  the 
mark  to  be  pleasant,  and  caused  the  much  hunted 
Charles  to  get  instantly  to  horse. 

At  Hunters'  Lodge  Inn,  about  four  miles  on,  the 
road  enters  the  pleasant  county  of  Devon,  and  then 
passing  through  Axminster  (occupied  by  Athelstan  in 
938,  after  the  battle  of  Branesdown,  and  by  Monmouth 
in  1685,  a  few  days  after  his  landing  at  Lyme)  runs 
through  Iloniton  (visited  by  Charles  I.  in  1644),  and 
thence  by  Fenny  Bridges,  Fair  Mile  Inn,  Iloniton 
Clyst,  into  the  town  of  Exeter,  which  by  this  route  is 
172  miles  6  furlongs  from  Hyde  I^irk  Corner. 

Much  might  be  written  about  I^'.xcter,  its  history,  its 
site,  its  castle,  its  promenade  on  Northernhay,  its  beau- 


THE  EXETER  ROAD 


H7 


tiful  cathedral.  I  shall  content  myself  however  with 
remarking  that  the  town  has  been  besieged  more  times 
than  I  can  remember ;  that  Perkin  Warbcck,  one  of 
the  many  claimants  who  troubled  Henry  VII.'s  diges- 
tion, was  in  1497  led  through  the  picturesque  streets 
clothed  in  chains  as  in  a  raiment  ;  land  with  that  I  shall 
pass  on  to  the  inns  of  this  terminus  of  the  great  western 
road,  and  to  the  coaches   and   the  great  coachmen  who 


'•^^ri-^ 


Tlie  Gco7\g;c  Inn,  Axnii)istey. 


The  Half  Moon,  Exeter. 


haunted  them.  For  I  have  not  yet  touched  upon 
the  coachmen  on  the  Exeter  road,  and  yet  they  were 
mighty  men  in  the  land. 

The  principal  coaching  inns  at  Exeter  then  were  the 
Old  London,  and  the  New  London,  and  the  Half  Moon, 
kept  by  a  Mr.  Stevens  who  immortalised  himself  by 
putting  on  the  celebrated  Telegraph,  which  used  to 
leave  Exeter  at  6.30  A.M.,  breakfasted  at  Ilminster, 
dined  at  Andover,  and   reached   Hyde   Park  Corner  at 

L    2 


148  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

9.30  P.M.  In  the  way  ot'  coaching  this  record  of  the 
Exeter  Road  was  hardly  if  ever  beaten  ;  and  as  for  the 
coachmen  who  performed  this  and  kindred  feats  of 
different  character,  but  all  of  the  highest  style  of  art,  I 
cannot  more  appropriately  round  the  Exeter  Road's 
story  than  by  solemnly,  and  in  the  place  of  honour, 
inscribing  their  great  names.  Eirst  then  let  mention  be 
made  of  the  incomparable  Charles  Ward,  who  drove 
the  Telegraph  out  of  London  ;  and  after  him,  let  there 
be  ranged  in  no  narrow  spirit  of  rivalry,  but  in  the  order 
which  chance  and  my  note-book  dictates,  the  following 
masters  of  their  art  :  Jack  Moody,  who  worked  on  the 
Exeter  Mail,  an  out  and  outer,  whose  fine  performances 
on  the  road  were  interrupted  at  last  by  ill  health,  whose 
retirement  was  the  signal  for  general  mourning,  and 
whose  appearance  and  execution  on  the  box  were  as 
superior  to  other  coachmen  as  night  is  to  day  ;  '•  Pop," 
a  coachman  on  the  Light  Salisbury,  whose  father  hunted 
the  Vyne  Hounds  ;  Mountain  Shaw,  the  respectable, 
the  scientific,  who  drove  Monk's  Basingstoke  coach  to 
London  one  day  and  down  the  next  ;  Jackman  of  the 
Old  Salisbury,  who  was  a  great  favourite  with  his 
master,  whose  cattle  were  alwa}'s  of  unequalled  size  and 
condition  and  than  whom  no  one  in  England  who  sat 
on  a  box-seat  better  understood  the  art  of  saving  horses 
under  heavy  work. 


V   -> 


r.:' 


^^- 


A 


^  'ZJ^'yi 


Ttt'^. 


>  :,ff;j:.  ^_ 


Castle  Arch,  Guildford. 


III._THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD. 

The  Portsmouth  Road  has  been  described  to  me  by 
one  having  authority  as  the  Ro}'al  Road  ;  and  certain!}' 
kings  and  queens  have  passed  up  and  down  it,  eaten  and 
drunken  in  the  Royal  Rooms,  still  to  be  seen  in  some  of 
the  old  inns  ;  snored  in  the  Royal  Beds  (also  in  places  to 
be  seen,  but  not  slept  in),  and  dreamed  of  ruts  and  bogs, 
and  blasted  heaths  and  impassable  m.orasses,  and  all 
the  sundry  and  other  mild  discomforts  which  our  an- 
cestors, whether  kings  or  cobblers,  had  to  put  up  with  ; 
or  those  amono"  them  at  all  events  who  travelled  when 
the  weather  was  rain}-,  and  there  were  no  real  roads  to 
travel  upon. 

To  me  however  the  Portsmouth  Road — so-called  Royal 
— presents  itself  in  a  less  august  guise  ;  so  much  so 
that  if  I  were  asked  to  give  it  a  name  whereby  it  might 


I50  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

be  especially  distinguished,  I  should  be  inclined,  I  think, 
to  call  it  the  Road  of  Assassination.  And  it  will  be 
found  to  have  claim  to  the  title.  Apart  from  Felton's 
successful  operation  on  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  at 
Portsmouth  in  1628,  which  marks  the  terminus  with  a 
red  letter  ;  and  the  barbarous  doing  away  of  the 
unknown  sailor  on  September  4th,  1786,  which  has 
made  the  weird  tract  of  liindhead  haunted  ;  the  beau- 
tiful country  between  Rowland's  Castle  and  Rake  Hill 
yields  an  especially  prime  horror.  For  here  was  enacted 
at  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century  that  protracted 
piece  of  fiendish  brutality  known  as  the  "  Murder  by  the 
Smugglers,"  an  atrocity  which  was  spun  out  over  eleven 
miles  of  ground,  which  out-Newgates  anything  of  the 
kind  to  be  found  in  the  Newgate  Calendar,  and  of  which 
I  shall  have  more  to  say  when  I  get  to  the  scene  of  its 
commission.  Here  meanwhile  we  have  three  good  juic)- 
murders  in  seventy-one  miles,  seven  furlongs — the  dis- 
tance from  the  Stone's  ILnd,  Borough,  Surre}^  to 
Portsmouth  ;  and  that  is  a  fair  average  of  crime  for 
mileage,  as  I  think  most  people  will  admit. 

The  old  Portsmouth  Road,  as  appears  above,  is  mea- 
sured from  the  Surrey  side  of  the  water  ;  and  it  was 
from  the  Surrey  side  that  old-fashioned  visitors  to 
Portsmouth  started.  Pep}'s,  in  1668,  having  received 
orders  to  go  down  to  Portsmouth  in  his  official  capacity, 
and  having  gone  through  the  usual  formalities  of  going 
to  bed,  waking  betimes,  &c.,  &c.,  discovered  suddenly 
that  his  wife  (who  no  doubt  suspected  junketings  on 
the  part  of  the  susceptible  Samuel)  had  resolved  at  an 
hour's  warning  to  go  too.  So  Samuel  first  of  all  sent 
her  mentally  to  the  deuce,  and  then  to  Lambeth,  where 
she  embarked  in  a  coach.  Samuel,  after  having  ad- 
journed to  St.  James's  and  remarked  "  God  be  with 
you  "  to  a  Mr.  Wren  (who  surely  ought  to  have  remarked 
it  to  Samuel,  considering  the  state  of  the  Portsmouth 
Road),  went  over  the  water  to  what  he  calls  P^ox  Plall, 
where  he  ingeniously  intercepted   the  coach  containing" 


THE  PORTSMOUTTl  ROAD 


15' 


The  Angel,  Guildford, 


152  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

his  wife  ;  and  in  due  course  lost  his  way  for  three  or 
four  miles  about  Cobham,  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
was  hoping  to  be  seated  at  dinner  at  Guildford. 

In  1668  the  Portsmouth  and  Guildford  Machines  left 
London  (as  the  South-Western  Railway  leaves  it  now, 
but  not  quite  so  quickly)  by  Vauxhall,  Battersea, 
Wandsworth,  and  so  on  to  Putney  Heath  ;  and  so  the 
route  is  marked  in  Carey's  Itinerary.  In  more  modern 
times  however  the  Portsmouth  coaches  felt  it  incumbent 
upon  them  to  appear  (like  everything  else  that  was 
fashionable)  in  Piccadilly,  and,  starting  from  the  White 
Bear,  made  the  best  of  their  way  to  Putney  without 
troubling  to  cross  the  Thames  till  they  got  there. 

Most  of  us  connect  Putney  in  our  minds  with  the 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat-race,  and  attempts  more  or 
^less  successful  to  see  it  ;  but  the  place  has  a  histor}- 
other  than  an  aquatic  one — was  indeed  the  birthplace  of 
two  very  celebrated  men,  and  the  scene  of  a  third  one's 
death.  At  Putney  was  born  Thomas  Cromwell,  black- 
smith first  of  all,  and  afterwards,  according  to  Mr. 
P'roude,  the  most  despotic  minister  who  ever  governed 
I^ngland.  "  Fierce  laws,"  writes  the  same  picturesque 
historian,  "  fiercely  executed — an  unflinching  resolution 
which  neither  danger  could  daunt,  nor  saintly  virtue 
move  to  mercy — a  long  list  of  solemn  tragedies  weigh 
upon  his  memor)'.  Be  this  as  it  will,  his  aim  was  noble." 
He  certainly  made  it  hot  for  the  monks,  having  no  doubt 
learned  the  lesson  in  very  early  days  at  his  father's  forge, 
the  site  of  which  is  still  somewhat  apocryphally  pointed 
out,  south  of  the  Wandsworth  Road. 

At  Putney  also  was  born,  "  April  7th,  O.S.,  in  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  thirty-.seven  "^ — as  he 
writes  it  in  that  delightful  autobiography,  ^vhich  will 
always  be  read,  I  fear,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  thunders 
— PLdward  Gibbon,  whom  we  have  met  already  down  the 
Plxeter  Road  at  Blandford,  carousing  and  masquerading 
as  a  militiaman.  The  house  in  which  the  future  author 
of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  was  born 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


15; 


^.i»l 


i^ 


ai'XSir.-: 


1 1  v*  X. 

,/  4 1»  lit"'-— ^-?^3j| 


•  J,         jj     ,   7 


y^  i)«iiir/iin«"         /  Li, 


Cczirtyai-d,  White  Hart,  Guildford. 


was  bought  by  his  grandfather,  who  used  to  exercise  "a 
decent  hospitahty"  in  its  spacious  gardens  on  summer 
evenings.     It  Hes  between  the  Wandsworth  and  Wimble- 


154  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

don  Roads,  and  since  the  da3\s  of  the  Gibbons  has  been 
successively  inhabited  b}-  Mr.  Wood,  Sir  John  Shelley, 
and  the  Duke  of  Norfolk.  These  be  good  tenants,  but 
I  prefer  the  Gibbons  myself.  I  like  to  think  of  Edward 
in  his  young  days  at  Putney,  a  fat,  heavy,  and  huge- 
headed  boy,  voted  by  his  neighbours  uncommonly  slow, 
but  with  his  precocious  brain  already  working — not  on 
consuls  and  legions,  and  emperors  and  bishops,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  gorgeous  paraphernalia  with  which  he 
was  one  day  to  make  his  name  immortal — but  on  that 
large  appreciation  of  creature  comforts,  of  the  good 
things  of  this  good  earth  which  his  dawning  intelligence 
felt  about  his  father's  house,  and  which  he  has  thus  in  his 
autobiography  so  whimsically  described — 

"  My  lot  might  have  been  that  of  a  slave,  a  savage,  or 
a  peasant  ;  nor  can  I  reflect  without  pleasure  on  the 
bounty  of  Nature,  which  cast  my  birth  in  a  free  and 
civilised  country,  in  an  age  of  science  and  philosoph}-,  in 
a  family  of  honourable  rank,  and  decently  endowed  with 
the  gifts  of  fortune.  From  my  birth  I  have  enjoyed  the 
rights  of  primogenitiire ;  but  I  was  succeeded  by  five 
brothers — and  one  sister — all  of  whom  were  snatched 
away  in  their  infancy.  My  five  brothers,  w^hose  names 
may  be  found  in  the  parish  register  at  Putney,  I  shall  not 
pretend  to  lament!' 

Happy  eldest  son,  I  say.  Proper  predilection  for 
primogeniture's  enjoyable  rights  ! 

To  finish  with  Putney  and  its  celebrities  (for  I  must 
be  getting  forward  to  Portsmouth  as  quickly  as  local 
celebrities  and  legends  will  permit) — at  Bowling  Green 
Plouse,  on  the  east  side  of  Putney  Heath,  lived,  and  on 
the  twenty-third  of  January,  1806,  died,  William  Pitt, 
broken-hearted  at  the  news  of  Austerlitz,  confident  that 
the  map  of  Europe  would  be  needed  no  more.  And  not 
far  off  the  house  where  the  great  statesman  lay  dying, 
still  stands  the  small  inn  where  the  wire-pullers  of  both 
parties  put  up  their  horses,  while  they  made  inquiries 
couched    in    a    true    spirit    of    Christian    and     political 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


155 


sympath)',  as  to  how  the  struggle  between  death  and  the 
invalid  was  getting  on  in  the  sick  chamber— alternately 
(as  they  chanced  to  be  Whig  or  Tory)  jubilant  or 
depressed  as  the  bulletins  were  issued  ;  tremulous  with 
anxiety  even  in  their  cups  as  to  which  way  the  political 
cat  would  jump. 

No\\^  the   road   runs   over   Putney    Heath,  where  our 
ancestors  (who  had  drunk  three  bottles   over  night   and 


A  Duel  on  Putney  Heath. 

transmitted  the  blessings  of  gout  to  a  distant  posterity^) 
showed,  in  a  humorous  age,  so  little  lack  of  humour  as 
to  appear  early  on  a  frosty  next  morning  to  be  skewered 
by  a  blackleg  parading  as  a  boon  companion  in  the 
presence  of  sharps  for  seconds.  The  preliminary  nego- 
tiations have  been  well  described  by  the  late  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  and  should  be  commended  to  our  cousins 
in  F'rance  and  on  whatever  other  barbaric  shores  the 
code  of  the  duello  still  ridiculously  lingers. 


156  C(3 ACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

''  Did  you  ever,"  somebody  or  other  says  in  Vivian 
6^;^/,  "  fi^^ht  a  duel  ?  "  .  .  "No?  Nor  send  a  challenge 
either  ?"  fa  ver\^  different  thing  !)  "  Well,  you  are  fresh 
indeed  !  'Tis  an  awkward  business  indeed,  even  for  the 
boldest.  After  an  immense  deal  of  negotiation,  and 
giving  your  opponent  every  chance  of  coming  to  an 
honourable  understanding,  the  fatal  letter  is  at  length 
signed,  sealed,  and  sent.  You  pass  your  morning  at  your 
second's  apartments,  pacing  his  drawing-room  with  a 
quivering  lip  and  uncertain  step.  At  length  he  enters 
with  an  answer,  and  while  he  reads  you  endeavour  to 
look  easy,  with  a  countenance  merry  with  the  most 
melancholy  smile.  You  have  no  appetite  for  dinner,  but 
you  are  too  brave  not  to  appear  at  table ;  and  you  are 
called  out  after  the  second  glass  by  the  arrival  of  your 
solicitor,  who  comes  to  make  your  will.  You  pass  a 
restless  night,  and  rise  in  the  morning  as  bilious  as  a 
Bengal  general." 

So  slept  and  so  rose,  and  in  such  a  state  appeared  on 
Putney  Heath,  in  the  history  of  the  Portsmouth  Road  in 
1652,  Lord  Chandos  and  Colonel  Compton,  when  the 
latter  was  run  through  the  body  after  half-a-dozen 
passes  ;  in  1798  Mr.  Pitt  and  George  Tierney,  M.P.  for 
Southwark  ;  and  in  1809  my  Lord  Castlereagh  and  Mr. 
Canning. 

The  passengers  in  the  up  mail  from  Portsmouth  must 
often  have  passed  about  this  neighbourhood  the  meaning 
procession  of  principals,  seconds,  and  leeches,  making 
with  a  ghastly  ostentation  of  indifference  for  the  cele- 
brated heath  ;  the  principals  as  yellow  as  Disraeli  has 
described  them,  the  seconds  full  of  the  importance  of 
self-security,  the  leeches  sniffing  guineas  in  the  morning 
air.  The  passengers  on  the  down  coaches  to  Portsmouth 
may  have  seen  such  inspiring  spectacles  as  well — and 
after  having  remarked  to  one  another,  "  another  affair," 
passed  on  to  Kingston  (which  is  eleven  miles  five  furlongs 
from  the  Stone's  P2nd,  Borough),  where  they  breakfasted. 

The  old    inn   at   Kingston,   which   used   to    be  called 


THE  rORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


157 


the  Castle,  is  now,  like  many  another  such  place,  con- 
verted into  dwelling-houses,  and  in  the  process  (as  is 
also,  alas  !  usual)  a  valuable  record  has  been  lost.  But 
there  is  antiquity  enough  about  Kingston  to  make  up 
for  the   practical  disappearance  of  its  old  inn.     To  say 


(|  ''i'j'iii! 


Back  of  Red  Lion,  Guildford. 


Bakers'  Market  House 
{iioiv  demolished]. 


that  its  importance  as  a  town  dates  from  the  Saxon 
period  has  long  since  failed  to  convey  any  meaning  to 
a  posterity  who  have  ceased  to  recognise  celebrated 
names  under  the  disguise  of  pedantic  spelling ;  but 
Egbert  was  here  discoursing  on  state  affairs  long  before 
coaches  ran   to  Portsmouth   (though    Ecgberht    will   be 


158 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


preferred  by  Mr.  Freeman)  ;  and  in  the  open  space  in 
front  of  the  coachhouse  is,  or  was,  a  shapeless  block 
placed  in  an  octagonal  space,  upon  which  eight  kings 
were  crowned. 

From  kings  to  public  houses  the  transition  is  easy  ; 
and  permits  me  the  opportunity  of  remarking  that  the 
Griffin  and  the  Swan  have  taken  the  place  of  the  trans- 
formed Castle,  and  still  retain  the  traditions  and  the 
ale  of  the  old  days,  when  I  should  not  like  to   say  how 

many  coaches,  chaises, 
and  travel  ling- waggons, 
passed  through  the  old 
town  between  sunrise  and 
sunrise. 

Let  a  few  of  the  more 
celebrated  coaches  suffice 
• — for  I  must  not  in  my 
history  of  the  Portsmouth 
Road  lose  sight  of  the 
coaching  portion  of  it, 
though  the  Portsmouth 
Road  does  not  take  a 
high  place  in  the  record, 
for  speed,  coaches  or 
cattle.  Amongst  the 
coaches  then  which  in 
1 82 1  (to  be  particular  in 
dates)  passed  through  Kingston  may  be  mentioned — 

The  Royal  Mail,  which  left  the  Angel,  St.  Clement's, 
Strand,  at  half-past  seven  every  evening  and  arrived  at 
the  George,  Portsmouth,  at  6.30  next  morning  ;  from 
the  same  house  the  Portsmouth  Regulator,  which 
departed  at  eight  in  the  morning  and  arrived  at  the 
George,  Portsmouth,  at  five  the  same  afternoon  ;  from 
the  l^elle  Sauvage,  Ludgate  Hill,  departed  every  morning 
the  ]:)opular  and  celebrated  Rocket,  which  same  coach  left 
the  White  Bear,  Piccadilly,  at  nine,  and  did  the  seventy- 
one   miles,  seven    furlongs   to   Portsmouth  in  nine  hours. 


Birthplace  of  Archhislwp  Abboi,  Guildford. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


159 


arriving  at   the    Fountain,   Portsmouth,  at    5.30    to    the 
minute.     From   the   Cross   Keys,  Cheapside,  the    Light 


lijii'-/ 


rjitti-MiSS 


'"^"T^ 

l<'* 

■^ 


V 


OW  Court,  Guildford. 


Post  Coach  took  eleven  hours  to  do  the  journey,  leaving 
London  at  eight  every  morning.  The  Portsmouth 
Telegraph  leaving  the  Golden  Cross,  Charing  Cross,  im- 


i6o  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

proved   upon    this   performance,  but  still   failed   to   beat 
the  Rocket  by  half  an  hour. 

Besides  these  once  familiar  names  must  be  chronicled 
the  Hero,  from  the  Spread  Eagle,  Gracechurch  Street, 
which  left  the  city  daily  at  8  A.M.  and  arrived  at  the 
Blue  Post,  Portsmouth,  at  6  P.M.  ;  from  the  same  house 
the  Night  Post  Coach,  7  P.M.  from  London,  getting 
its  passengers  to  the  same  inn  at  Portsmouth,  sick  no 
doubt  of  an  all-night  journey,  but  just  in  time  for  a 
good  breakfast  ;  and  finally  several  light  post 
coaches  from  the  Bolt  in  the  Tun,  the  Spread  Eagle, 
and  other  well-known  inns,  which  ran  no  further  than 
Godalming,  taking  about  five  hours  to  compass  the 
thirty-three  miles. 

Leaving  the  town  by  any  of  these  coaches  (if  we  did 
not  meet  one  Jerry  Abershawe,  whose  name  now,  like 
many  others  of  ephemeral  celebrity,  awakes  no  echo  in 
our  breasts,  but  who  was  in  his  day  a  noted  highwayman 
much  revered  and  feared,  greatly  given  to  robbing- 
travellers  to  Portsmouth,  and  to  drinking  at  a  road-side 
house  called  the  Bald-Faced  Stag,  now  no  more  to  be 
seen  on  earth) — leaving  Kingston  and  this  digression 
behind  us,  I  say,  we  should  soon  in  the  old  coaching 
da}'s  have  covered  the  four  miles  to  the  pretty  village  of 
Esher,  and  stopped  of  course  at  the  Bear. 

And  at  Pusher  the  Portsmouth  Road  is  connected  with 
another  great  historical  character,  who  lived  near  here  in  a 
fine,  damp  house  picturesquely  situated  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  Mole  ;  and  must,  one  is  tempted  to  think,  have 
often  travelled  from  his  country  seat  to  Westminster  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  which  he 
so  particularly  affected,  in  an  age  remarkable  perhaps 
above  all  others  in  our  history  for  splendour  and 
pageant. 

But  to  suppose  this  would  be,  I  regret  to  say,  an 
historical  error;  for  in  1529  when  Wolsey  was  ordered 
to  retire  to  Esher,  he  was  ordered  to  retire  there  because 
his    royal    master    was    bilious  ;  and   when    Henry    the 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


i6l 


Eighth  was  bilious,  melancholy  marked  his  courtiers 
for  her  own.  No  !  there  was  not  much  magnificence 
about  Wolsey  during  the  short  time  he  stayed  at  Esher 
Place.  He  had  no  steward  about  him,  "  which  was 
always  a  dean,  or  priest  ;  no  treasurer — a  knight  ;  no 
controller — a  squire — who  always  had  within  his  house 
their  white  staves  ;"  nor  in  his  privy  kitchen  had  he  the 
master  cook,  "  who,"  according  to  Cavendish,  "  went  daily 


cj^jUiil 


^^ 


^      ,-/■ 


?'.^~-/'. 


v^"-f:'@%-"'?h('^^-- 


*■ 


fiiiBWf'j    s       Vni 


(jjSsr 


w 


4^ 


^^-^^^-yU^ir' 


7"Ac  Z?ean  Eshcr. 


1' 


in  satin,  damask,  or  velvet,  with  a  chain  of  gold  about 
his  neck  " — though  a  white  cap  and  apron  would  surely 
have  been  more  in  harmony  with  the  surroundings.  No, 
Wolsey,  when  he  retired  to  Esher  Place,  had  none  of 
these  things.  He  was  closely  shorn  of  all  his  magnifi- 
cence, and  was  indeed  in  want  of  the  common  necessaries 
of  life.  His  dejection  was  not  mitigated  by  this  starved 
condition  of  the  larder,  nor  by  the  dampness  of  the 
house,  of   which  he  wrote  a  sad    account   to  Gardiner, 

M 


l62 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


describing  it  as  the  reverse  of  a  desirable  country 
residence,  and  as  being  remarkable  for  its  moist  and 
corrupt  air.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  me  an  attractive 
place  enough  when  I  was  there  the  other  afternoon.  A 
fallen  minister  however  is  not  likely  to  be  pleased  with 
any  palace ;  and  I  dare  say  that  Wolsey  from  sheer 
enmii  and  lack  of  company  used  often  to  steal  up  to  the 
Bear  (disguised  as  a  pedlar  of  course  according  to 
immemorial  prescription),  spend  a  pleasant  evening  on 
the  ingle  bench  with  the  local  boors,  hear  them  discuss 

^  his    own    disgrace 

"  ;'. "  and  his  chances  of 

restoration  to  royal 
favour,  and  then 
steal  back  again  to 
the  lonely  house  by 
the  Mole — late  and 
beery. 

Not  that  the  beer 
of  the  Bear  would 
have  done  the  car- 
dinal any  harm,  if 
it   was   as   good    a 


tap  then,  that  is  to 
say,  as  it  is  now.  It 
probably  brought 
him  a  temporar3n'e- 
turn  of  luck,  for  in 
1530  he  was  taken 
into  favour  again,  and  left  Esher  Place  for  the  north.  At 
Esher  however  the  memory  of  the  Ipswich  butcher 
boy  (who  of  course  never  was  a  butcher  boy  at  all — 
are  any  of  our  fond  historical  beliefs  to  remain  un- 
subverted  T)  is  preserved  ;  as  also  is  the  memory  of 
another  great  man  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood, 
travelled  much  on  the  Portsmouth  Road,  rose  from 
almost  as  low  a  grade  as  the  great  cardinal,  was 
equally  successful  in  making  by  force  his  merit  known. 


Water  Gate,  Wolsey  s  Palace,  Esher. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


163 


Claremont,  which  Hes  immediately  at  the  back  of  the 
Bear,  is  a  palace  now  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  its  towers  (if 


The  Old  Church,  Esher. 

they    can    be    seen)    excite    more    interest  among    the 
inhabitants  than  they  used  to  in  the  days    when  they 

M  2 


164  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

sheltered  the  gloomy  life  of  the  hero  of  Arcot  and 
Plassy.  Lord  Clive  lived  at  Clarcmont  during  many 
of  the  latter  years  of  his  life  in  the  present  house, 
which  he  built  on  the  site  of  Vanbrugh's  palace.  But 
the  Trajan  of  England,  according  to  Macaulay,  was  mo-re 
feared  than  admired  by  the  simple  inhabitants  of  Esher. 

"  The  peasantry  of  Surrey,"  he  writes  in  his  Essay 
on  Clive,  "  looked  with  mysterious  horror  on  the  stately 
house  which  was  rising  at  Claremont,  and  whispered 
that  the  great  wicked  lord  had  ordered  the  walls  to 
be  made  so  thick  in  order  to  keep  out  the  devil,  who 
would  one  day  carry  him  away  bodily."  This  is  what 
comes  of  being  a  warrior  of  the  rank  of  Lucullus,  and 
a  reformer  of  the  rank  of  Turgot.and  Lord  William 
Bentinck — but  I   must  get  on   to  Guildford. 

Not  however  before  noticing  the  enormous  pair  of 
jack  boots  (on  view  in  the  entrance  hall  of  the  Bear, 
and  redolent  with  memories  of  miry  roads,  ruts  a  yard 
deep,  coaches  hopelessly  stuck  in  morasses,  and  other 
picturesque  incidents  of  the  travelled  past),  which  boots 
are  said  to  have  been  worn  by  the  fortunate  postillion 
who  went  with  the  pair  of  fortunate  horses  which  drew 
the  unfortunate  Louis  Philippe's  carriage  when  Clare- 
mont sheltered  the  ro}'al  exile.  I  can  only  remark  in 
leaving  these  boots  that  they  are  "  very  fine  and  large," 
and  are  obligingly  shown  to  all  visitors  at  the  Bear  by 
the  obliging  landlord  ;  and  so  pass  onto  Cobham,  three 
miles  four  furlongs  down  the  road,  on  the  heath,  sur- 
rounding which  place,  had  we  been  travellers  to  Ports- 
mouth in  the  year  of  grace  1668,  we  should  have  found 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepys  aimlessly  wandering,  having  lost 
their  way  "  for  three  or  four  miles."  Travelling  at  a 
later  date  however  we  should  not,  I  take  it,  have  seen 
much  at  Cobham,  except  the  White  Lion,  a  fine  old  relic 
of  old  coaching  days — out  of  the  rush  of  life  now,  but 
alive  still  ;  where,  having  taken  a  glass  of  nun  and  milk, 
we  should  pass  on  to  Ripley,  three  miles  seven  furlongs 
on,  noted  for  its  cricketers,  its  green  on  which  they  play 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


165 


Guildford  Town  Hall. 


Courtyard  of  the  Crown,  Guildford. 


cricket,  its  old  inn,  the  Talbot,  full  of  gables,  long  corri- 
dors, and  hoary  memories  of  gastronomic  feats,  performed 
by  cramped  travellers  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  to  the 


1 66 


COACITTNCx  DAYS  AND  COACHINrr  WAYS 


accompaniment  of  the  guard's  horn,  relentlessly  pro- 
claiming imminent  departure.  And  from  Ripley  it  is  a 
run  of  six  miles  into  Guildford,  which  is  twenty-nine 
milesseven  furlongs  from  the  Stone's  End  in  the  Borough, 
the  capital  of  Surrey,  a   most  picturesque  town,  and  a 


7  L^ 


^S^^ 


Fireplace  in  Abbot's  Hospital. 


good  place  to  dine  at   after   rambling  about  lost  on  a 
Common,  as  Mr.  Pepys  in  1668  found. 

The  inns  of  Guildford  were  in  the  coaching  days  the 
Crown  and  the  White  Hart,  when  the  constant  throb  of 
traffic  on  the  direct  Portsmouth  Road  must  have  kept  the 
now  sleep)'  old  place  from  ever  even  nodding  ;  but  there 
is  not  much  throb  of  traffic  about  the  High  Street  now; 
and  Guildford  sleeps  on  its  past  according  to  the  present 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


167 


comfortable  practice  of  most  provincial  towns,  most  of 
them  equally  suggestive  of  laudanum,  mandragora, 
poppies,  hop-pillows,  and   other  sedatives  ;  few  of  them 


A  Corner  of  Abbot's  Hospital  at  Guildford. 


(as  to  their  High  Street,  at  all  events)  half  so  picturesque. 
I  have  heard  that  the  record  of  Guildford  goes  back  to  the 
days  of  Alfred,  but  I  have  not,  I  confess,  inquired  too 
curiously  into  this  matter  ;  having  found  a  passage  in  the 
town's  history   to   my  mind   more  interesting,  and  of  a 


1 68 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


trifle  later  date.  In  the  upper  room  of  the  tower  then, 
over  the  entrance  gateway  of  Archbishop  Abbot's 
hospital,  the  unfortunate  Duke  of  Monmouth  was  lodged 
on  his  way  to  London  after  his  defeat  at  Sedgemoor. 
The  melancholy  journey  from  Ringwood — where  Mon- 
mouth was  kept  for  five  clays  after  his  capture — to  London 
occupied  the  better  part  of  a  week,  ended  at  Vauxhall, 
and    thus    gave    another   interesting    personage   to    the 


,f„  .^■'1     -,,. 

'  -^i/^/'^'^r'^^^f^    '^VVf*''?"  I'liJ];!'"'  ■'.',■'1"'"*:^-       ■  ■     _____  - 


^^^Si,Mi^:'r< 


■s" 


*^    'It 


y.  ^  ,..y  ...... .       -yp^. 


_k%i*^"'(;C;'V   ;^^-^^«^v.;;.. 


■t:ft>-  .. 


•  ^ 


'iir^. 


■-  [■ 


Old  Mill  near  Guildford. 


Portsmouth  Road.  In  the  coach  with  the  Duke  was  an 
officer,  whose  orders  were  to  stab  the  prisoner  if  a  rescue 
were  attempted.  The  captive  himself  made  no  attempt 
however  for  liberty  ;  the  large  body  of  regular  troops  and 
militia  who  served  as  guard  probably  convinced  him  of 
the  utter  hopelessness  of  any  such  attempt,  if  the  utter 
prostration  from  which  he  was  suffering  had  not  made 
even  an  attempt  impossible.  Monmouth  indeed  was 
unnerved  to  such  an   extent  that  through  the  whole  of 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  169 

the  trying  journey  to  London  he  made  the  spectators 
stare  at  his  pusillanimity  ;  as  Grey,  his  companion  in 
bonds,  made  them  stare  with  his  incessant  cheerful  chatter 
on  dogs,  field  sports,  horses,  and  other  subjects  of  general 
interest,  not  however  supposed  commonly  to  occupy  the 
attention  of  travellers  going  to  certain  death. 

At  the  pretty  town  of  Godalming,  four  miles  two  fur- 
longs further  on,  most  coaches  stopped  for  refreshments 
at  the  King's  Arms  ;  a  house  which  I  see  scored  in 
my  note-book  as  famous  for  good  dinners  ;  and  here 
or  at  the  George  some  of  the  coaches  from  town,  as  I 
have  already  observed,  stopped  altogether.  Charles  the 
Second  used  to  be  seen  at  Godalming  a  good  deal,  hunt- 
ing and  flirting  when  he  ought  to  have  been  otherwise 
employed  ;  and  a  timbered  house  in  Bridge  Street  is  said 
to  have  been  his  hunting  lodge,  or,  to  be  quite  accurate, 
was  said  to  be,  before  it  was  (as  usual)  pulled  down.  A 
short  distance  west  of  the  railway  station  is  Westbrook, 
not  a  particularly  beautiful  house  by  any  means,  but  long 
the  residence  of  the  Oglethorpes.  Here  a  very  delightful 
gentleman  of  the  old  school  was  born  in  1698,  and  here 
he  died  in  1785.  I  refer  to  General  Oglethorpe,  sports- 
man, soldier,  and  kindly  patron  of  literature  ;  an  amiable 
combination  surely  which  deserved  success  in  life,  and 
General  Oglethorpe  gained  what  he  deserved.  As  a 
patron  he  defended  Samuel  Johnson  ;  as  a  soldier  he 
was  present  with  Prince  Eugene  at  the  siege  of  Belgrade  ; 
and  as  a  sportsman  he  shot  a  woodcock  in  what  is  now 
the  most  crowded  part  of  Regent  Street.  As  a  triple 
record,  this,  I  believe,  will  be  found  hard  to  beat — if 
indeed  it  does  not  absolutely  take  the  cake. 

After  leaving  Godalming  and  Milford  behind  them, 
careful  coachmen  used  in  the  old  days  to  save  their 
horses,  especially  if  they  had  a  heavy  load  and  the  roads 
were  heavy  ;  for  it  is  collar  work  now  almost  all  the 
five  miles  on  to  the  top  of  Hindhead  Hill,  long  before 
which  summit  was  reached  careless  coachmen  who  had 
not  followed  the  above  prescription  discovered  the  pain- 


170  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

fill  fact  that  "  there  was  no  life  in  the  coach,"  which, 
being  interpreted  from  the  dark  language  of  stage 
coachmen,  means  that  they  found  themselves  travelling 
slowly  over  deep  and  gravelly  roads.  They  also  found 
themselves,  if  in  mood  for  such  observation,  in  the  face 
of  one  of  the  wildest  bits  of  scenery  to  be  found  in  Eng- 
land, and  face  to  face  with  a  silent  memorial  of  murder. 
This  takes  the  form  of  a  gravestone  placed  simply  by 
the  roadside,  with  an  inscription  on  it,  simple  enough 
also,  but  which  when  read  in  so  lonely  a  spot  on  the 
closing  in  of  a  November  afternoon,  has  been  known  to 
give  a  chill.  It  sets  forth  its  erector's  and  all  honest 
men's  detestation  of  a  barbarous  murder  committed  on 
the  spot  on  the  person  of  an  unknown  sailor  (who  lies 
buried  in  Thursley  Churchyard,  a  few  miles  off)  ;  and 
airs  also  with  some  satisfaction  the  feeling  then  very 
prevalent  (before  Scotland  Yard  was),  that  murderers  are 
a  class  who  invariably  fall  into  the  hands  of  justice.  We 
are  perhaps  not  so  credulous  as  this  nowadays  ;  but  we 
put  our  trust  in  a  large  detective  force  when  our  throats 
have  been  cut,  and  hope  for  the  best.  The  local  police 
of  1786  however  could  have  given  many  of  our  shining 
lights  a  lesson,  it  seems  to  me  ;  for  on  the  very  afternoon 
of  September  the  4th  in  that  year  (which  was  the  date  of 
the  murder)  they  apprehended  three  men  named  Lone- 
gon,  Casey,  and  Marshall,  twelve  miles  further  down  the 
road,  at  Sheet  (or  in  a  public-house  opposite  to  the  Fly- 
ing Bull  at  Rake,  as  some  accounts  say),  engaged  in  the 
unwise  exercise  of  selling  the  murdered  man's  clothes. 
For  this,  and  previous  indiscretions,  they  were  presently 
hanged  in  chains  on  the  top  of  Hindhead  as  a  warning 
to  his  Majesty's  liege  subjects  ;  and  not  much  to  the 
delectation  of  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  Road  I  should 
apprehend,  especially  when  tired  by  a  long  journey,  and 
when  the  wind  was  favourable.  On  the  site  of  the 
original  gibbet  the  late  Sir  William  Erie,  Lord  Chief 
Justice  of  Common  Pleas,  set  up  a  beautiful  granite 
monument,  with  a  Eatin  inscription   on  each  of  the  four 


THE  PORTSMOUTTI  ROAD 


171 


sides,  which  much  puzzles  amiable  youths  rusty  in  their 
Latinity,  when,  accompanied  by  inquisitive  maidens,  they 
have  breasted  the  steep  pitch  of  the  hill. 

And  now  it  is  all  down  hill  into  Liphook,  five  miles 
from  Hindhead,  and  here  late  coaches  made  up  for  lost 
time.  The  Seven  Thorns  inn,  a  little  way  down  the 
road,  is  supposed  to  stand  where  the  three  counties 
meet  ;  but  it  doesn't,  for  they  meet  in  Hammer  Bottom, 


The  Seven  Thorns. 


which  is  some  distance  away.  The  Seven  Thorns,  apart 
from  this  undeserved  distinction,  has  the  reputation  of 
being  a  legendary  house  ;  but  I  have  never  been  able 
to  discover  what  legend  is  attached  to  it  ;  nor  indeed, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  has  anybody  else.  It  was  how- 
ever the  scene  of  an  adventure  in  a  snowstorm,  which  I 
find  chronicled  in  the  Reverend  G.  N.  Godwin's  Gt'een 
Lanes   of  Havipshirc^    S^trt'ey,  mid   Sussex^   and  which 


172 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


I  shall  take  the  Hberty  of  extracting  for  the  benefit  of 
my  readers  : — 

"  The  snow,"  writes  Mr.  Godwin — and  he  is  repeating 
the  story  of  an  old  stage  coachman — "  was  lying  deep 
upon  Hindhead,  and  had  drifted  into  fantastic  wreaths 
and  huge  mounds  by  the  fierce  breath  of  a  wild 
December  gale.     Coach  after  coach  crawled  slowly  and 


^:\ 


Ckarging  a  Sncm-drift. 


painfully  up  the  steep  hill,  some  coming  from  London, 
others  bound  thither.  But  as  the  Seven  Thorns  was 
neared  they  one  and  all  came  to  a  dead  stop.  The 
tired,  wearied,  exhausted  cattle  refused  to  struggle 
through  the  snow  mountains  any  longer.  Guards, 
coachmen,  passengers,  and  labourers  attacked  those 
masses  of  spotless  white  with  spade  and  shovel,  but  all 
to  no  purpose.      It  seemed   as  if  a  way  was  not   to  be 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  173 

cleared.  What  stamping  of  feet  and  blowing  of 
nails  were  there  !  Women  were  shivering  and  waiting 
patiently  ;  men  were  shouting,  grumbling,  and  swear- 
ing ;  and  indeed  the  prospect  of  spending  a  winter's 
night  on  the  outside  of  a  coach  on  such  a  spot  was,  to  say 
the  least,  not  cheerful.  At  last  a  brave  man  came  to 
the  rescue.  The  Star  of  Brunswick,  a  yellow-bodied 
coach  that  ran  nightly  between  Portsmouth  and  London, 
came  up.  The  coachman's  name  was  James  Carter, 
well  known  to  many  still  living.  He  made  very  little 
to  do  about  the  matter,  but  whipping  up  his  horses,  he 
charged  the  snow-drifts  boldly  and  resolutely,  and  with 
much  swaying  from  side  to  side,  opened  a  path  for  him- 
self and  the  rest." 

I  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  Godwin  refers  in  this 
stirring  episode  to  the  great  snowstorm  of  1836;  but 
if  he  does  his  story  accounts  for  a  fact  which  has  caused 
me  a  good  deal  of  surprise.  For  I  find  that  of  all  the 
main  roads  of  England  the  Portsmouth  Road  (far  from 
being  the  least  exposed  of  any  of  them)  was  the  only 
one  which  was  kept  open.  And  in  this  case  the  credit 
belongs  to  gallant  James  Carter  and  the  Star  of  Bruns- 
wick— and  much  credit  it  is. 

From  the  Seven  Thorns  into  Liphook  is  a  nice  run, 
not  unadapted  to  the  agreeable  pastirne  of  "  springing 
them,"  which  as  I  have  before  interpreted  into  common 
or  ordinary  English,  means  galloping  pure  and  simple, 
a  practice  not  at  all  uncommon  to  the  Portsmouth  Road 
in  spite  of  the  poor  times  made,  as  I  shall  presently 
show.  Meanwhile  we  have  arrived  at  the  Anchor  at 
Liphook,  which  is  one  of  the  most  famous  houses 
between  London  and  Portsmouth,  and  is  forty-five  miles 
five  furlongs  exactly  from  the  Stone's  End,  Borough. 
And  the  Anchor  at  Liphook  not  only  is  an  historical 
house,  but  has  the  advantage  of  possessing  in  Mr. 
Peake  a  host,  who  is  proud  and  careful  of  its  history — a 
pleasant  experience  which  I  regret  to  say  I  have  found 
far   from   common    in    my  wanderings.      Indeed   many 


174  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

houses  as  old  as  the  Anchor  on  the  great  roads,  some 
too  on  this  very  Portsmouth  Road  that  I  am  speaking 
of,  have  had  as  full  a  tide  of  history  fill  their  state 
rooms  and  flood  their  broad  corridors  as  the  famous  inn 
at  Liphook  can  boast  of  But  where  is  this  history 
now  ?     It  is  simply  gone  for  want  of  being  garnered. 

Not  so  at  the  Anchor  ;  where,  thanks  to  a  decent  care 
for  memorials  of  the  past,  and  to  a  respect  for  that 
Romance  which  is  becoming  so  extremely  unfashion- 
able, we  are  able  to  meet  in  the  imagination  a  whole 
crowd  of  distinguished  guests  of  all  centuries  and  all 
ranks — kings,  queens,  statesmen,  admirals,  soldiers, 
down  to  clerks  in  the  Admiralty  in  the  person  of 
Samuel  Pepys  ;  who  having  lost  his  way  at  Cobham 
on  his  way  to  Guildford,  as  already  chronicled  ;  and 
having  dined  at  Guildford  and  congratulated  himself 
and  his  wife  on  having  found  it ;  lost  it  again  coming 
over  Hindhead  on  his  way  to  Liphook,  and  arrived  at 
the  Anchor  at  ten  o'clock  on  August  6,  1668 — exceed- 
ingly tremulous  about  highwaymen  and  in  company 
with  an  old  man,  whom  he  had  procured  for  a  guide. 
"  Here,  good  honest  people,"  he  writes.  "  And  after 
supper,  to  bed."  I  can  imagine  that  succulent  supper 
well,  taken  with  an  appetite  whetted  by  a  long  ride  in 
moorland  air,  and  flavoured  with  an  agreeable  recollec- 
tion of  past  perils  safely  surmounted.  I  can  imagine 
also  the  sound  sleep  which  fell  afterwards  on  the  amiable 
Samuel  ;  and  the  nightmares,  graphically  representing 
coaches  standing  on  their  heads  with  their  occupants 
inside  them,  which,  to  break  the  monotony  of  a  too 
perfect  repose,  passed  now  and  then  under  his  cotton 
night-cap. 

But  more  celebrated  people  than  the  theatre-loving 
clerk  of  the  Admiralty  (was  he  a  dramatic  critic  I 
wonder  like  all  Admiralty  clerks  now  .'*)  stayed  at  the 
Anchor,  and  before  his  time.  Edward  the  Second  was 
hunting  in  Woolmer  Forest  continually  ;  and  unless  he 
liked  camping   out  on  marshy  heaths,  probably  put  up 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  175 

with  his  suite  at  the  old  hostehy,  whose  internal  arrange- 
ment by  the  way  he  threw  into  some  disorder  by  bringing 
his  own  cook  with  him — a  very  bad  compliment  to  the 
house  surely.  And  the  cook,  whose  name  was  Morris 
Ken  (no  ancestor  I  presume  of  the  Bishop)  was  not  less 
cook  than  acrobat ;  continually  pretending  to  fall  off  his 
horse  as  he  rode  before  the  king  through  the  forest,  after 
the  manner  of  the  clowns  at  Sanger's.  And  the  Royal 
Plantagenet  is  said  to  have  laughed  consumedly  at  this 
foolish  feat  on  the  part  of  Ken,  which  had  nothing  to  do 
with  his  cooking !  and  ordered  twenty  shillings  to  be 
given  him  out  of  the  parish  poor  box — I  mean  out  of 
the  Royal  Exchequer. 

Of  crowned  heads  besides  Edward  the  Second,  who 
have  at  times  honoured  Liphook  with  their  august 
presences  may  be  numbered — Edward  the  Sixth,  who 
must  at  all  events  have  come  very  near  to  the  place,  on 
the  only  royal  progress  which  he  had  time  to  make  in  his 
short  life — to  Cowdray  ;  Elizabeth  on  her  royal  progress 
from  Farnham  to  the  same  fine  seat  (safely  arrived 
at  w^hich,  need  I  say,  that  she  shot  the  proverbial  stag  ?)  ; 
Charles  the  Second  on  his  way  to  Portsmouth  ;  and 
indeed  every  English  king  that  was  ever  crowned,  it  seems 
to  me,  and  who  was  anxious  for  an  outing,  and  wanted 
to  see  his  ships. 

Queen  Anne  however  came  to  Liphook  for  a  different 
purpose,  namely,  to  see  her  stags,  which  in  those  days 
wandered  over  the  royal  Forest  of  Woolmer.  With 
which  end  in  view  she  turned  off  the  road  at  Liphook 
after  luncheon,  and  very  unwisely  (as  she  was  always 
rheumatic)  reposed  on  a  bank,  which  was  smoothed  for 
that  purpose,  lying  about  half-a-mile  to  the  east  of 
Woolmer  Pond.  Thus  enthroned  she  saw  the  whole 
herd  of  red  deer,  brought  out  by  the  keepers  and  driven 
along  the  vale  before  her,  consisting  then  of  about  500 
head.  After  which  she  went  back  to  the  Anchor  to 
dinner,  no  doubt  well  pleased  with  what  she  had  seen, 
and  I  hope  took  some  hot  toddy. 


176 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


To  complete  the  chronicle  of  the  guests  at  the  Anchor 
— for  I  am  still  twenty-six  miles  and  two  furlongs  from 
Portsmouth — maybe  named  King  George  the  Third  and 
Queen  Charlotte,  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  afterwards 
William  the  Fourth.  The  allied  sovereigns  after  the 
campaign  of  18 15,  in  company  with  Blucher  and  the 
Duchess  of  Oldenburg.  The  Queen  of  Spain  and  the 
Queen  of  Portugal.  Liberty  Wilkes,  who  used  to  lie 
here  on  his  journeys  to  and  from  Sandown,  and  lastly 
the  Duchess  of  Kent  and  the  Princess  Victoria.     There 


&»  .<b'^-iEuUMl(')i 


--'-^ 


r" 


The  Anchor,  Liphook. 


is  a  Court  Circular  flavour  about  this  list  which  entitles 
the  Anchor,  I  think,  to  its  epithet  of  Royal,  and  Mr. 
Peake  thinks  so  too. 

To  leave  him  and  his  fine  old  house  behind  us,  and  to 
descend  from  kings  to  coachmen,  the  eight  miles  between 
Liphook  and  Petersfield — the  next  change — was  the 
scene  of  a  race  between  two  coaches,  or  rather  between 
three,  which  might  have  ended  in  a  casualty  of  no 
common  order,  but  didn't,  thanks  about  equall}%  I  should 
suppose,    to    good    luck    and    good    management.     Mr. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


177 


Stanley  Harris  tells  this  story  well  in  his  Coaching  Age 
— which  remains  in    spite   of  all   other  rivals  the  text- 


^ 


>*' 


M.  I 


ill  ul^:3,\ LZ. mM- 


^  ^,>  .■  ^ 


The  Anchor,  Liphook. 


The  Porch. 


book    on    this    great    subject.     And    an    old    coachman 
speaks. 

*'  It  happened,"  said  he,  "  that  when  he  was  driving  on 

N 


178  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

the  Portsmouth  Road  there  were  two  other  day  coaches 
on  it  ;  but  as  they  left  Portsmouth  at  different  hours, 
there  was  no  fear  of  their  coming  into  contact.  With 
the  down  coaches  it  was  different,  as  from  their  leaving 
London  by  different  routes,  and  from  other  circumstances, 
such  as  stopping  or  not  stopping  to  dine,  they  would 
sometimes  in  the  middle  of  a  journey  all  get  together,  as 
they  did  one  day,  when  on  returning  he  overtook  the 
other  coaches  at  the  Anchor  at  Liphook,  where  they 
changed  horses  and  dined.  The  coachman  asked  him 
what  time  he  intended  to  get  to  Portsmouth  that  evening, 
to  which  he  replied  much  about  the  same  as  usual  ;  and 
he  then  left." 

But,  alas  !  while  this  coachman,  who  had  hitherto 
resisted  temptation,  was  changing  horses  at  the  Wheat- 
sheaf  inn  half  a  mile  out  of  the  village,  the  other  two 
coaches,  who  had  changed  at  the  Anchor,  came  by  at  a 
round  trot,  and  shot  out  at  him  the  tongue  of  the  scorner. 
At  this  the  blood  of  the  old  coachman  boiled  ;  in  point 
of  fact  he  said,  "  I  will  pursue,"  and  he  was  fortified  in 
this  wicked  determination  by  his  fresh  team  being  com- 
posed of  four  thoroughbred  horses.  He  pursued  accord- 
ingly, and  soon  came  in  sight  of  his  rivals,  one  a  little 
in  advance  of  the  other,  and  travelling  as  fast  as  they 
were  able.  Upon  this  the  old  coachman  flung  official 
directions  and  prudence  to  the  winds  and  "  sprang  his 
cattle."  Success  soon  rewarded  this  disregard  for  the 
safety  of  his  passenger's  neck.  He  overtook  the 
Regulator,  which  was  the  name  of  one  of  the  rival 
coaches,  as  it  was  ascending  Rake  Hill.  The  Hero 
however,  which  was  the  name  of  the  other  coach,  he  saw 
still  about  half-a-mile  in  front  of  him.  Upon  this,  "  he 
sprang  his  cattle  "  more  than  ever,  and  the  only  passen- 
ger in  his  coach,  a  soldier,  was  tossed  about  on  the  roof 
like  a  shuttlecock  on  a  battledore.  This  however  was 
as  nothing  in  the  old  coachman's  eyes,  who  could  sec 
noticing  with  them  but  his  rival,  and  him  he  overtook  on 
the    top    of   Sheet   Hill.     The   old   coachman    and    the 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  179 

driver  of  the  Hero,  now  qualified  for  charioteers  in  the 
Roman  chariot  races  at  the  Paris  Hippodrome,  by 
ch'iving  their  respective  vehicles  at  full  gallop  down  a 
steep  and  winding  pitch.  At  the  bottom  of  it  they  met 
a  post-chaise  returning  from  somewhere  or  other  ;  but 
they  did  not  heed  it ;  the  petrified  post-boy  only  saved 
his  neck  by  driving  at  full  speed  into  a  ditch.  So  far 
so  good  ;  especially  as  the  old  coachman  now  thought 
he  saw  the  Hero  beaten.  He  marked  a  place  therefore 
in  his  m^ind's  eye  on  the  opposite  rise  where  he  might 
pass  her  comfortably  ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  place 
he  had  marked,  he  came  with  a  rush.  The  old  coach- 
man's leaders,  answering  to  the  call  gamely,  were 
already  by  the  front  wheels  of  the  Hero,  when  what 
happened  ?  Why  the  driver  of  the  Hero  suddenly 
pulled  his  horses  right  across  the  old  coachman's  leaders' 
heads  ;  who  thus  at  the  very  moment  that  he  thought 
he  was  going  to  snatch  a  victory,  found  himself  driven 
up  a  bank.  Fortunately  no  strap  or  trace,  or  buckle,  was 
broken  by  this  extremely  ungentlemanly  manoeuvre,  or 
the  old  coachman  would  at  the  finish  have  been  nowhere  ; 
but  as  it  was  he  was  never  after  able  to  get  beyond  the 
hind  boot  of  the  Hero,  who  won  therefore  at  the  Dolphin 
by  a  short  length. 

Time — twenty  minutes  for  the  eight  miles. 

Result  of  the  race — three  of  the  Hero's  horses  never 
came  out  of  the  stables  again,  and  a  complaint  to  the 
proprietors. 

There  is  not  much  to  see  in  the  town  of  Petersfield, 
except  the  memories  of  old  coaching  days  which  linger 
round  the  three  inns,  the  Castle,  now  turned  into  a 
private  house,  the  Dolphin,  the  Red  Lion,  and  the 
White  Hart.  Two  miles  out  of  the  town  the  Ports- 
mouth Road  passes  Buriton,  the  home  for  some  period 
of  Gibbon,  on  the  left  ;  and  then,  assisted  by  a  chalk 
cutting,  crosses  Buster  Hill,  which  is  the  highest  of  the 
Southdowns,  and  commands  everything  from  the  spire 
of  Salisbury  Cathedral  to  Chanctonbury  Ring,  a  little 

N   2 


i8o 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


beyond  Worthing.  Here,  to  geologise,  the  chalk  is 
entered  :  and  here,  to  be  historical,  a  gentleman  was 
stopped  by  a  highwayman,  who  presented  a  pistol  and 
modestly  demanded  horse,  money,  and  watch.  These 
the  gentleman  handed  over  and  returned  to  Petersfield 
exceeding  sorrowful.  The  highwayman  meanwhile 
made  for  Hindhead,  hotly  pursued  by  a   hue  and   cry. 


c^r 


■1 


\  -fern; 


I)    \}h.  - 


■^'•'?f^?'„ 


I^M 


•Jy.'.w 


1.131 


III  PI 


ililP 


House  at  Petersfield, 
formerly  the  Castle  Inn. 


Seeing  which  condition  of  affairs  he  foolishl)-  enough 
dismounted  and  sought  consolation  by  grovelling  in  the 
heather — which  was  a  fatal  instance  of  bad  iudement. 
and  enabled  him  shortly  afterwards  to  feast  his  eyes  on 
the  interior  of  Winchester  Gaol. 

The  Portsmouth  Road   after  passing  through    Ilorn- 
dean,  which   is  ten   miles  from    the    terminus,  runs   for 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


i8i 


about  four  miles  through  the  forest  of  Bere  ;  in  which 
tract  of  country  the  "  old  coachman "  of  the  racing 
episode,  enjoyed  a  further  adventure  in  a  thick  fog,  and 
a  rime  frost  upsetting  his  coach  with  a  noise  like  the 
report  of  cannon  while  he  was  listening  to  the  aimless 
babblings  of  a  loquacious  passenger.  The  coach  was 
not  empty  on  this  occasion  either.  On  the  contrary 
there  were  four  young  ladies  inside  it,  who  must  have 


Racitisr  the  Mail. 


been  artless  creatures  indeed,  for  they  were  fast  asleep 
when  the  coach  was  upset,  and  woke  up  when  it  was 
being  restored  to  its  equilibrium,  and  remarked,  "What 
is  it  ?  "  Some  gipsies  who  were  chiefly  instrumental  in 
removing  the  coach  from  its  side,  showed  themselves 
more  wide-awake  ;  for  mistrusting  the  gratitude  of 
upset  coachmen  while  with  one  set  of  hands  they 
reared  the  upset  coach,  with  the  other  set  of  hands  they 


i82  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

removed  several  baskets  of  game,  which  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  day  were  hanging  underneath  it.  And 
the  coachman  did  not  discover  till  he  got  to  Portsmouth 
that  his  generous  assistants  had  thus  earned  their 
reward ! 

And  this  brink's  me  to  the  second  of  those  three 
crimes  which,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter, 
gives  the  Royal  Road  in  my  eyes  so  unenviable  a 
notoriety.  1  do  not  purpose  to  treat  the  atrocity  known 
as  "  The  Murders  by  the  vSmugglers,"  at  any  great 
length,  or  with  any  detail,  though  a  curious  pamphlet 
which  I  have  by  me  entitled,  "  A  full  and  genuine 
History  of  the  Inhuman  and  Unparalleled  Murders  of 
Mr.  William  Galley,  a  custom-house  officer,  and  Mr. 
Daniel  Chater,  a  shoemaker,  by  Fourteen  notorious 
Smugglers  with  the  trials  and  Execution  of  Seven  of 
the  Bloody  Criminals  at  Chichester,"  would  enable  me 
if  I  had  the  inclination  to  do  both  the  one  and  the  other. 
I  leave  however  the  full  accomplishment  of  so  graceful  a 
literary  labour  to  the  young  disciples  of  M.  Zola  in  this 
country  ;  assuring  them  that  in  the  above  pamphlet 
(which  by  the  way  is  very  scarce)  they  will  find  abun- 
dance of  that  precious  documentary  evidence  concerning 
the  abysms  of  human  depravity,  the  spectacle  and 
analysis  of  which  affords  them  such  radiant  delight. 
In  my  eyes  the  subject  is  totally  unfit  for  literary 
treatment.  A  bare  statement  however  of  it  I  feel 
forced  to  make,  not  only  because  its  ghastly  memory 
still  haunts  this  part  of  the  Portsmouth  Road 
(so  poignantly  did  the  atrocity  touch  the  imagination 
of  a  generation  little  given  to  hysteria),  but  because 
the  criminals  formed  a  characteristic  portion  of  a  class 
of  desperadoes  who  were  the  terror  of  travellers  on 
this  part  of  the  Portsmouth  Road  in  George  the 
Third's  time,  and  lend  therefore  local  colour,  however 
detestable,  to  this  part  of  the  Portsmouth  Road's 
history. 

All    through    the    last    century,    then,    it    seems    the 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  183 

country  from  Portsmouth,  almost  as  far  as  Liphook, 
was  infested  by  gangs  of  smugglers  of  whom  the 
poachers  who  still  confer  notoriety  on  some  of  the 
villages  of  the  area  may  be  perhaps  the  lineal  de- 
scendants. 

From  time  to  time,  after  some  unusually  audacious 
outbreak  against  custom-house  laws  had  taken  place, 
violent  reprisals  were  made ;  but  on  the  whole  the 
revenue  officers  seem  to  have  had  decidedly  the  worst 
of  it,  and  the  smugglers  enjoyed  an  enviable  immunity 
from  the  retribution  of  justice.  The  climax  to  this 
condition  of  affairs  came  on  the  6th  and  7th  of  October, 
1747,  when  a  gang  of  some  sixty  of  these  desperadoes 
assembled  secretly  in  Charlton  Forest ;  made  a  sudden 
raid  on  Poole  ;  broke  open  the  custom,  where  a  large 
quantity  of  tea  which  had  been  seized  from  one  of  their 
confederates,  was  lodged,  and  made  off  with  the  booty, 
without  encountering  any  resistance  from  the  surprised 
authorities. 

The  smugglers  returned  to  their  quarters  by  way  of 
Fordingbridge,  and  it  is  here  that  one  of  their  future 
victims  first  makes  his  appearance  in  the  history. 
Daniel  Chater,  a  shoemaker  of  the  place,  was  standing 
watching  the  triumphant  procession  as  they  riotously 
passed  his  house,  when  he  recognized  a  man  among 
them  who  had  worked  with  him  in  the  last  harvest- 
time.  The  man  thus  recognized,  whose  name  was 
Diamond,  not  altogether  relishing  the  attention,  threw 
Chater  a  bag  of  the  stolen  tea  as  he  passed  him — by 
way  of  a  sop  to  Cerberus.  Shortly  afterwards  however  he 
was  unfortunate  enough  to  be  taken  into  custody  at 
Chichester  on  suspicion  of  complicity  in  this  very 
Poole  affair  ;  and  the  fact  coming  to  Chater's  ears,  he 
was  tempted  by  the  promise  of  a  reward  to  accom- 
pany a  Mr.  William  Galley,  a  custom-house  officer,  to 
Chichester  for  the  purpose  of  identifying  Diamond. 
And  Galley  carried  a  sealed  letter  to  Major  Battin,  a 
justice  of  the  peace  for  Sussex,  clearly  setting  forth  the 


1^4  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

object  of  the  journey.  Never  probably  did  a  letter 
prove  more  fatal  to  its  bearers. 

The  above  is  but  the  prologue  to  the  tragedy.  The 
tragedy  itself  was  set  in  motion  by  the  arrival  of  Chater 
and  Galley  at  the  White  Hart,  Rowlands  Castle,  in  the 
company  of  a  Mr,  George  Austin,  who  had  found  them 
somewhere  out  of  their  proper  road,  and  had  undertaken 
to  set  them  right.  No  sooner  had  they  arrived  at  the 
inn  than  the  landlady,  a  Mrs.  Payn,  friendly  of  course 
to  smugglers  and  highwaymen,  seems  to  have  been 
struck  with  a  sudden  suspicion — that  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  custom-house  officer's  presence  which  boded 
no  good  to  her  friends.  She  communicated  her  fears 
to  Mr.  George  Austin,  who,  by  way  of  assuring  her 
that  they  were  groundless,  told  her  that  the  custom-house 
officer  and  his  friend  were  simply  bearers  of  a  letter  to 
Major  Battin  at  Chichester.  But  this  ominous  fact,  far 
from  comforting  Mrs.  Payn,  only  assured  her  that  she 
had  harped  her  fears  aright.  She  knew  that  Diamond 
w^as  in  bonds  at  that  very  place,  and  that  Major  Battin 
was  a  justice  of  the  peace.  She  took  instant  action. 
First  she  advised  Mr.  George  Austin  to  leave  Chater's 
and  Galley's  company  at  once  or  harm  would  come  to 
him  (a  hint  which  he  with  pusillanimous  alacrity  availed 
himself  of),  and  then  when  he  was  safely  off  the  premises, 
she  sent  for  seven  smugglers  resident  in  the  place — by 
name  William  Steele,  William  Jackson,  William  Carter, 
John  Race,  Samuel  Downer,  Edmund  Richards,  and 
Henry  Sheerman,  and  confided  to  them  her  suspicions 
and  her  fears. 

They  too  took  alarm.  For  some  time  divided  councils 
prevailed  as  to  what  course  should  be  taken  to  provide 
most  effi:ctivcly  for  their  own  and  Diamond's  safety  ; 
but  by  and  by  it  was  generally  felt  that  the  first  step  to 
be  taken  was  to  ascertain  beyond  all  doubt  the  contents 
of  the  letter  which  Galley  and  Chater  were  carrying  to 
the  Chichester  magistrate.  The  smugglers  at  once  pro- 
ceeded   to    carry  out    this    scheme    with    an    assurance 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD  185 

which  was  assisted  from  the  first  by  the  total  ignorance 
which  Chater  and  Galley  showed  of  the  gravity  of  their 
own  situation,  or  of  the  profession  and  character  of  the 
men  who  surrounded  them. 

The  old  programme  was  pursued.  An  impromptu 
fight  was  got  up  ;  Galley,  on  being  struck  on  the  mouth 
by  Jackson,  called  out  that  he  was  a  king's  officer,  and 
could  not  put  up  with  such  usage.  Then  followed  the 
usual  pretended  reconciliation,  and  then  the  drinking 
bout  to  set  a  seal  to  it. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  unfortunate  victims — who  were 
already,  as  it  were,  dead  men — from  some  smuggler's 
chance  observation,  dropped  probably  in  incipient  drunk- 
enness, seem  suddenly  to  have  realized  what  kind  of 
company  they  were  in,  and  at  the  same  moment  their 
dire  danger.  They  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  wanted  to 
be  going.  But  they  were  prevailed  upon  with  force  to 
stay  and  drink  more  rum  ;  and  the  drink,  drugged  in 
all  probability,  soon  had  its  intended  effect.  Galley  and 
Chater  became  unconscious,  were  dragged  into  a 
neighbouring  room,  thrown  upon  a  bed,  and  their 
vital  secret  was  directly  afterwards  in  their  enemies' 
hands. 

A  brief  consultation  now  took  place  among  the 
smugglers,  not  as  to  whether  Galley  and  Chater  should 
be  murdered  or  not,  but  as  to  the  most  convenient  manner 
of  murdering  them.  Two  ladies,  Jackson's  and  Carter's 
wives,  who  with  several  more  smugglers  had  recently 
joined  the  party,  thus  expressed  their  views  :  "  Hang  the 
dogs,  for  they  came  here  to  hang  us." 

This  view  of  the  case  seems  to  have  in  an  instant 
turned  men  into  monsters.  A  devilish  fury  possessed 
the  whole  company.  Jackson  rushed  into  the  room  where 
Chater  and  Galley  were  sleeping.  He  leaped  upon  the 
bed  and  awakened  them  by  spurring  them  on  the  fore- 
head. He  flogged  them  about  the  head  with  a  horse- 
whip till  their  faces  poured  with  blood.  Then  they  were 
taken  out  to  the  back  yard,  and  both  of  them  tied  on  to 


i86  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

one   horse,  their  four  legs  tied  together,  and  these  four 
legs  tied  under  the  horse's  belly. 

They  had  not  got  a  hundred  yards  from  the  house 
when  Jackson,  in  one  of  those  sudden  accesses  of  fiendish- 
ness  continually  characteristic  of  the  whole  affair,  and 
which  seemed  a  veritable  possession  of  the  devil  himself, 
yelled  out — "  Whip  them  !  Cut  them  !  Slash  them  ! 
Damn  them  ! "  and  in  an  instant  the  whole  gang's  devil- 
ish fury  was  wreaked  on  their  bound  and  helpless 
enemies.  Past  Wood  Ashes  they  whipped  them,  past 
Goodthorpe  Dean,  up  to  Lady  Holt  Park.  Here  they 
proposed  to  throw  Galley  into  the  well. 

The  wretched  man,  who  had  already  fallen  off  the 
horse  three  or  four  times,  in  the  very  exhaustion  of  agony, 
welcomed  death  loudly  as  a  release.  Upon  which  his 
tormentors  decided  to  spare  his  life  for  a  little  more 
torment,  and  whipped  him  over  the  Downs  till  he  was 
so  weak  that  he  fell. 

But  it  is  not  my  intention  to  trace  the  red  steps  of 
this  barbarity  further.  The  details  sicken.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  that  near  Rake  Hill  Galley  fell  off  the  horse  ; 
and  was  supposed  to  have  broken  his  neck.  He  was  at 
once  buried  in  a  fox  earth,  in  Harting  Coombe,  alive 
presumably,  since  when  he  was  found  his  hands  covered 
his  face  as  if  to  keep  the  dirt  out  of  his  eyes.  Chater 
did  not  find  so  fortunate  a  release  from  his  torments. 
He  was  kept  for  over  two  days  chained  by  the  leg 
in  an  outhouse  of  the  Red  Lion  at  Rake,  "in  the  most 
deplorable  condition  that  man  was  ever  in  ;  his  mind 
full  of  horrors,  and  his  body  all  over  pain  and  anguish 
with  the  blows  and  scourges  they  had  given  him."  All 
this  while  the  smugglers  were  calmly  debating  as  to 
how  they  should  finally  make  an  end  of  him.  At  length 
a  decision  was  come  to.  Subjected  all  the  way  to  treat- 
ment which  I  cannot  describe,  he  was  taken  back  to 
the  same  Harris  Well  where  it  had  been  originally  pro- 
posed to  murder  Galley  ;  and  after  an  unsuccesful 
attempt  at  hanging  him  there,  he  was  thrown  down  it. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  ROAD 


187 


and  an  end  put  at  last  to  his  awful  sufferings  by  heavy- 
stones  being  thrown  on  the  top  of  him. 

This  last  act  in  this  unparalleled  atrocity  was  com- 
mitted on  the  Wednesday  night  or  Thursday  morning. 
The  victims  had  set  out  for  Chichester  on  the  Sunday 
before.  This  four  days'  murder  was  avenged  at  Chi- 
chester shortly  afterwards,  when  all  the  principals  were 
executed  at  Broyle,  near  the  town,  amidst  the  universal 
execrations  of  a  crowd  drawn  from  two  counties.  The 
body  of  Carter  was  hung  in  chains  on  the  Portsmouth 
Road  on  Rake  Hill  ;  the  bodies  of  the  other  murderers 


c 


i^^y 


,*♦  4/ft- «-"'■- 


•{[fOtil.  *  </<fni((ll,,jt\(!(«WT|l' fll 


vvc 


v>   •  ir 


T/u  Jolly  Drovers  on  Rake  Hill. 

being  distributed  between  Rock's  Hill,  near  Chichester, 
and  the  sea-coast,  near  Selsea  Bill,  whence  they  were 
visible  for  miles. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  the  story  of  the  murders  by 
the  smugglers  ;  and  I  am  glad  myself  that  I  am  at  the 
end  of  it.  It  is  pleasant  after  such  a  horror  to  arrive 
at  last  at  Portsmouth,  though  I  have  nothing  much  to 
say  about  the  old  town  now  that  I  have  got  there.  The 
usual  number  of  kings  and  cjueens  visited  it  by  sea  and 
land,  the  latter  sea-sick,  the  former  inquisitive  about 
the  state  of  their   navy.     Robert,  Duke  of  Normandy, 


r88  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

landed  here  in  iioi,bent  on  an  argument  with  his 
brother  Henry  as  to  who  should  wear  the  crown.  Henry 
however  elected  to  wear  the  crown  and  avoid  the  argu- 
ment, in  which  I  think  he  was  wise.  Richard  the  First 
gave  the  town  its  first  charter  ;  and  at  Portsmouth  in 
1290  the  first  oranges  were  landed  in  England  by  a 
Spanish  vessel  as  a  present  for  the  Castilian  wife  of 
Edward  the  First. 

Besides  these  royalties  already  mentioned,  Henry  the 
Eighth  was  at  Portsmouth  once  or  twice.  Edw^ard  the 
Sixth  came  here  in  1552,  not  in  the  best  of  moods,  and 
remarked  that  the  bulwarks  of  the  town  were  "  charge- 
able, massy,  and  ramparted  "  (whatever  that  may  mean), 
"but  ill-fashioned,  ill-flanked,  and  set  in  remote  places" 
(which  is  more  clear)  ;  after  which  he  left  for  London  ; 
and  left  Elizabeth  to  correct  the  faults  he  had  pointed 
out  ;  and  James  the  Second  to  inclose  Gosport  within 
its  present  lines. 

I  have  described  enough  scenes  of  blood  in  the  seventy- 
one  miles  seven  furlongs  from  London,  it  seems  to  me,  to 
suit  the  most  sanguinary  taste,  and  a  great  deal  more  than 
suits  my  own.  But  still  I  cannot  leave  Portsmouth,  the 
terminus  even  of  the  road,  without  reminding  my  readers 
that  at  what  was  in  1628  the  Spotted  Dog  Inn,  and  what 
is  now  a  gabled  house  known  as  12  High  Street,  Villiers, 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  the  Steenie  of  King  James,  was 
assassinated  by  John  P^elton,  a  discontented  half-pay 
officer,  just  as  the  Duke  was  about  to  sail  to  the  relief  of 
La  Rochelle,  then  being  besieged  by  Richelieu.  Lingard 
has  written  the  history  of  the  episode  ;  and  the  great 
Dumas,  in  the  Three  Ahisketeers,  has  written  its  romance  ; 
and  the  subject  has  been  too  well  treated  by  both  writers 
in  their  different  styles  to  make  a  subject  for  me.  It 
remains  for  me  to  remark  that  the  journey  of  P'elton  to 
London,  where  he  was  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered  at 
Tyburn,  was  accomplished  amid  scenes  of  extraordinary 
and  many-sided  excitement  ;  and  coming,  as  it  does, 
before  a   similarly   mournful  expedition   over   the  same 


THE  PORTSMOUTTT  ROAD  189 

f^round  on  the  part  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  seems  to 
me  to  cast  a  characteristic  gloom  over  the  annals  of 
a  road  —  not  remarkable  for  coaching  anecdotes  or 
coaching  records — which  has  been  called  Royal,  and 
rightly  perhaps  enough, — but  which  has  yet  witnessed, 
so  far  as  its  historical  side  is  concerned,  and  so  far 
as  my  knowledge  goes,  gloomier  and  more  tragic 
scenes  than  any  other  of  the  great  thoroughfares  out 
of  London. 


n 


^' 


-^ 


\  ■  I 


^     I  « 


J        .7,  '  ^5^1  _ 


IV.— THE  BRIGHTON   ROAD. 


A  PECULIAR  flavour  of  the  Regency  lingers  about  the 
record  of  the  Brighton  Road.  It  is  a  record,  as  I  read 
it,  of  bucks,  with  stupendous  stocks,  and  hats  with  brims 
weirdly  curly,  casting  deathly  glances  at  lone  maidens 
perambulating  haplessly  by  the  wayside  ;  a  record  of 
"  The  Fancy,"  as  I  see  it  drawn  for  me  in  the  classic 
pages  o{ Boxiajia — thronging  in  their  thousands,  and  in 
almost  as  many  different  kinds  of  conveyances  to  witness 
one  of  the  many  great  battles  decided  on  Crawley  Down 
or  Blindley  Heath  ;  a  record  finally  of  the  great  George 
himself,  repairingto  the  health  resort  which  his  royal  pene- 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


191 


Regency  Bitcks. 


192  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

tration  had  discovered,  and  repairing  there  in  a  coach  and 
four,  driven  by  his  own  royal  hands,  at  the  rate  of  fifty- 
six  round  miles  in  four  hours  and  a  half. 

Indeed  it  seems  to  me  that  the  Brighton  Road  might 
almost  be  called  the  Regent's  Road.  For  where  without 
the  Regent  would  its  terminus  have  been  }  Why,  it 
would  have  been  nowhere  ;  or  it  might  have  been  at  St. 
Leonards,  Eastbourne,  or  anywhere  else.  When  once 
however  the  Regent  has  discovered  that  the  air  of  Brighton 
tended  to  benefit  his  health,  he  made  a  centre  of  fashion 
out  of  a  small  health-resort,  almost  before  he  had  time  to 
finish  the  Pavilion  ;  and  one  of  the  finest  of  the  coaching 
roads  of  England  out  of  an  uncertain  track,  often  im- 
passable. 

For  before  the  Pavilion  was,  Brighton  was  about  as 
easy  to  get  at  as  Cranmere  Pool  in  the  middle  of  Dart- 
moor, the  moon,  the  North  Pole,  the  special  exits  in  case 
of  fire  at  our  principal  theatres,  or  anything  else  on  earth 
totally  inaccessible.  When  in  1750  the  genial  Doctor 
Russell,  of  Lewes,  found  himself  better  for  a  trip  to  the 
small  fishing  village,  and  induced  some  of  his  fair 
hypochondriacs  to  go  there  too  ;  how  they  were  to  get 
there,  considering  the  state  of  the  roads — if  they  could 
be  called  roads — was  the  conundrum  which  they  gener- 
ally proposed.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  Doctor 
Russell  of  Lewes  prescribed  oxen  as  a  means  of  transit  ; 
for  oxen  were  about  the  only  beasts  of  burden  which 
could  cope,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  with  the  country's 
wickedly  deep  ruts.  People  got  into  coaches  to  go  to 
Brighton  and  only  got  out  of  them  when  they  were 
overturned.  Princes  on  Royal  progresses  sat  fourteen 
hours  at  a  stretch  in  state  carriages,  without  being 
able  to  get  an  atom  of  refreshment  into  their  royal  jaws. 
In  1749  Horace  Walpole  cursed  the  curiosity  which  had 
tempted  him  to  tour  in  a  country  In  which  he  found  neither 
road,  conveniences,  inns,  postillions,  nor  horses  !  What 
did\\(t  find  in  Sussex  1  one  is  tempted  to  ask.  Why,  he 
found  that  "the  whole  country  had  a  Saxon  air"  (which 


THE  l]RIGirrON  ROAD 


193 


seems  a  very  remarkable  discovery  to  have  made) ;  and 
"  that  the  inliabitants  were  savage  " — whicli  is  a  discovery 
not  so  remarkable,\vhen  one  remembers  that  near  Brighton 
not  long  ago  one  of  these  savages  ran  at  a  lady  with  a 
pitchfork  for  riding   over   a  turnip-field.     Poor   Horace 


A  Snapped  FoL: 


had  no  such  adventure  as  this — so  far  as  I  can  learn  ;  but 
it  was  clear  to  him  that  "  George  the  Second  mii^ht  well 
'  be  the  first  monarch  of  the  East  Angles,"  and  "  that 
coaches  grew^  in  Sussex  no  more  than  balm  or  spices  "  ; 
almost  immediately  after  which  horticultural  remark  .he 

O 


194  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

had  to  leave  his  post-chaise  (for  some  horrid  reason  which 
he  veils  from  posterity),  and  take  to  pedcstrianism — a 
form  of  exercise  which  he  ever  particularly  loathed.  No 
doubt  however  he  would  have  bewailed  his  wrecked 
post-chaise  more  had  it  resembled  ''  a  harlequin's  Calash  " 
less  ;  and  a  harlequin's  Calash  too  "  which  was  occasion- 
ally a  chaise  or  baker's  cart  " — which  is  the  most  re- 
markable definition  of  a  vehicle  that  I  have  chanced  on 
between  Boadicea's  chariot  and  a  hansom  cab  !  Who 
can  wonder  after  reading  it,  that  the  man  w^ho  had  rested 
in  it  found  Sussex  "  a  great  damper  of  curiosity  "  ?  I 
cannot  wonder  for  one. 

All  these  horrors  of  the  Brighton  Road  the  much 
abused  George  the  Fourth  did  away,  with  the  sweep  as 
it  were  of  his  fat,  bejewelled,  and  august  hand  !  He 
built  the  Pavilion,  and  people  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
came  straightway  to  see  it  and  him.  Now  in  building 
the  Pavilion,  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt  I  think 
in  reasonable  minds  that  the  first  gentleman  in  Europe 
did  the  "  accursed  thing "  spoken  of  by  the  prophet  ; 
but  when  the  crowds  which  this  atrocity  attracted  are 
considered,  almost  half  the  sin  may  be  forgiven  him. 
For  the  crowds  soon  found  from  such  miry  experiences 
as  have  already  been  detailed,  that  if  they  ivere  to  come 
to  Brighton,  and  to  court,  they  had  better  have  some 
decent  road  to  come  upon.  And  from  this  simple  bring- 
ing home  of  a  plain  truth  came  into  existence  the  Brighton 
Road —  "  perhaps  the  most  nearly  perfect,  and  certainly 
the  most  fashionable  of  all  " — according  to  "  Viator," 
who  should  know  what  he  is  talking  about. 

And  not  one  road  only  ;  but  three  roads — in  point  of 
fact,  according  to  some  authorities,  about  five.  P'rom 
having  practically  no  road  to  it  at  all,  there  is  surely  no 
place  in  England  which  can  be  reached — (or  rather 
could  be  in  the  coaching  days,  for  we  can  now  only  go 
by  the  London  and  Brighton  Railway) — could  be 
reached,  by  so  many  different  routes  as  Brighton.  Of 
these    the    favourite — called    the    new    road — went    by 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


195 


•    .j4?=ffI^FR-5?«^T^t^^ff^^sS5^    %^/,. 


A  Visit  to  the  Invalids. 


Croydon,  Merstham,  Redhlll,  Horley  Turnpike,  Bal- 
combe,  and  Cuckfield,  making  the  distance  fifty-one 
miles   three  furlongs  ;  then   there   was   a  route  through 

O   2 


196 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Ewcll,  Epsom,  Dorking,  Horsham,  and  Mockbridge, 
making  the  distance  fifty-seven  miles  five  furlongs.  A 
more  favourite  way  than  any  was  by  Croydon,  Merstham, 
Reigate,  Crawley  and  Cuckfield — making  the  distance 
fifty-three  miles  exactly  ;  while  the  longest  and  the 
oldest  route  Avas  through  Croydon,  Godstone  Green, 
East  Grinstead,  Nutley,  Naresfield,  Uckfield,  and  Lewes 


l/l 


^^' 


AW 


I;         .  -J 

7 


7  y^  I  ITU  I'  y^u-.y  H)  i^kf" 


Tlw  Maiden's  Ifcad,  UckjlcLI. 

■ — the  entire  distance  being  fifty-eight  miles  two  furlongs 
from  the  Surrey  side  of  Westminster  Bridge,  which  is 
the  point  from  which  the  Brighton  Road  is  measured. 
Of  the  celebrated  coaches  which  ran  by  these  various 
routes,  and  which  all  made  fast  time,  due  mention  must 
be  made,  as  also  of  their  coachmen,  of  whom  however 
the  already  mentioned  "  Viator  "  seems  to  have  held  no 
extraordinary  opinion.     Of  the  coaches  Carey's  Itinerary 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD  197 

of  1 82 1  gives  mc  the  names  of  some  eighteen — all 
celebrated,  and  many  of  which  I  recollect  hearing  spoken 
of.  by  one  who  had  travelled  in  most  of  them,  long 
before  I  ever  thought  it  would  be  my  lot  to  revive  their 
memories.  There  started  then  in  the  prime  era  of 
coaching — circa  1821 — from  the  Angel,  St.  Clement's, 
Strand,  at  9.30  every  morning  for  Brighton,  the  Light 
Post  Coach,  which  went  by  Reigate  and  Cuckfield  ;  from 
the  Bell  and  Crown,  Holborn,  the  Alert  (Safety)  Coach, 
which  started  daily  at  8.30  A.M.,  and  arrived  at  Brighton 
at  4  ;  from  the  Old  Bell,  Holborn,  the  Meteor  daily  at 
10.30  ;  the  True  Blue,  from  the  Blossoms  Inn,  Cheapside, 
started  dail}^  at  9  A.M.,  and  did  the  journey  in  six  hours  ; 
as  also  did  the  Night  Coach,  from  the  same  inn — which 
was  extremely  good  travelling.  Amongst  other  cele- 
brated coaches  whose  names  were  once  household  words 
may  be  mentioned  the  Royal  Eagle,  which  left  the  Boar 
and  Castle  Inn  at  midday  ;  the  Royal  Clarence,  from 
the  Bull,  Bishopsgate,  at  8.30  every  morning,  and  which 
took  a  still  different  route  from  any  that  I  have  yet 
named — going  by  Lindfield  and  Ditchling  ;  the  Life  Pre- 
server, daily  at  8.45  from  the  Cross  Keys,  Cheapside  ;  the 
Regent,  daily  at  8  A.M.,  from  the  Flower  Pot,  Bishopsgate 
Street  ;  the  Original  Red  Coach — via  Croydon,  Reigate, 
and  Crawley — from  the  Golden  Cross,  Charing  Cross, 
at  9  every  morning  ;  the  Eclipse,  at  2  in  the  afternoon, 
from  the  same  celebrated  house  ;  and  to  make  an  end, 
from  the  Spread  Eagle,  Gracechurch  Street,  the  Dart,  at 
2.45  P.M.,  and  the  Sovereign  at  6.45  in  the  morning  ; 
the  Royal  Brunswick  at  2.30  daily  from  the  Spur  in  the 
Borough  ;  the  Rocket  at  9.30  A.M.,  and  the  Tally-ho  at 
10  A.M.  daily  from  the  White  Bear,  Piccadilly  ;  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  which  left  the  White  Horse,  Fetter 
Lane,  at  9.30,  and  going  the  favourite  route  through 
Croydon,  Reigate,  Crawley,  and  Cuckfield,  reached 
the  Old  Ship  at  Brighton  at  5  in  the  afternoon  ;  and 
finally  in  the  post  of  honour  the  celebrated  Vivid, 
which  did  the  journey  in  five  hours  and  a  quarter. 


198 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Of  the  coachmen  on  this  celebrated  road  for  travelHng, 
as  I  have  already  remarked,  a  great  authority  on  the 
subject  held  a  poor  opinion.  And  why  ?  Simpl}^ 
because,  according  to  "Viator  Junior"  (quoted  by 
Captain  Malet  in  his  Annals  of  the  Road,  to  which  ex- 
haustive authority  I  gratefully  recommend  coaching 
fanciers),  simply  because  the  excellence  of  the  road 
annihilated  the  breed.  This  severe  critic  indeed  ranges 
fort\'-five  trembling  coachmen  in  his  judicial  mind's  eye, 


'>'-Mf' 


•.tUf^ 


'^-."^:Mss^^>^= 


h 


^aB«.j.- 


The  Village  Cage,  Lindfield. 

and  out  of  the  whole  batch  is  only  able  to  select  seven 
or  eight  worthy  of  the  title  of  "  artists  ;  "  capable,  as  he 
poetically  puts  it,  of  "  hitting  'em  and  holding  'em."  Oh, 
what  a  fall  is  here  !  l^ut  Viator  Junior  proceeds  to 
details.  Not  having  travelled  in  an  excursion  train  (he 
writes  in  1828),  he  marvels  how  passengers  can  trust  their 
necks  to  coachmen,  utterh-  incompetent  to  take  along  a 
heavy  load  in  safety,  at  the  pace  at  which  the  Brighton 
coaches  are  timed — and  then  a  ghastly  vision  of  incom- 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


199 


pctcncc  rises  before  his  critical  ken.  "  This  very 
day,"  he  writes,  "  I  saw  one  of  the  awkward  squad 
keep  his  coach  on  her  legs  by  pure  accident,  in  bringing 
her  with  a  heavy  load  round  the  corner  by  the  king's 
stables  ;  and  as  his  attitude  was  rather  good  I'll  en- 
deavour to  describe  it.  His  bench  "  [here  he  proceeds 
to  attain  to  the  irony  of  Sophocles],  "  his  bench  was  very 


The  Star,  Alfrtston. 


man  ;  his    legs. 


low  ;  and  he  himself  is  rather  a  tall 
tucked  under  him  as  far  as  possible,  were  as  wide  apart 
as  if  he  was  across  one  of  his  wheels  ;  both  hands  had 
hold  of  the  reins  which,  though  perfectly  slack,  were 
almost  within  his  teeth  ;  his  whip  was  stuck  beside  him 
(in  general  however  it  is  hanging  down  between  his 
wheel  horses,  about  the  middle  of  the  footboard),  and  to 
complete  the  picture,  his  mouth  Avas  gaping  wide  open. 


200 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


like  Curran's  Irishman  endeavouring  to  catch  the 
EngHsh  accent."  This  satiric  touch  is  surely  not  un- 
worthy of  a  coaching  Swift — but  to  continue  to  the  bitter 
end.  "  South  of  York,"  writes  Viator,  "  I  have  not 
often  seen  this  man's  fellow ;  but  surely  Providence 
must  keep  a  most  especial  guard  over  him  ;  for  I 
understand  he  has  worked  some  years  on  the  same 
coach    without    an    accident.     And   judging    from    ap- 


Fresh  Teams. 


pearances    it  is    a  daily  miracle    that    he    gets    to    his 
journey's  end." 

A  personal  experience  gave  shortly  afterwards  to  this 
all-seeing  eye  another  example  of  incompetence  in 
Brighton  coachmen.  lie  mounted  on  a  coach  driven 
by  one  who,  had  he  measured  tape  behind  a  linen- 
draper's  counter,  would  in  Viator's  opinion,  have  more 
nearly  fulfilled  the  purpose  for  which  Providence  had 
designed  him.  Instead  of  measuring  tape  however, 
unfortunately  he  hold  the  ribbons  —  also  a  cigar — horrcsco 


THE  JiKlGIITON  ROAD  201 

referens,  between  his  teeth.  He  also  had  a  pair  of  bad 
holders  as  wheelers  (both  thoroughbreds)  to  complete 
the  situation,  and  the  miserable  slave  to  tobacco  could 
not  keep  them  out  of  a  canter.  He  was  more  successful 
in  putting  his  chain  on  down  the  hill  by  New  Timbers, 
or  this  tale  would  never  have  been  told  except  at  a 
coroner's  inquest  ;  but  being  too  busy  with  the  aforesaid 
cigar  ("  the  march  of  intellect,"  as  Viator  once  more 
crushingly  remarks),  he  let  his  team  get  well  on  to  the 
crown  of  the  hill,  just  above  his  change,  before  he 
attempted  to  pull  up.  And  what  happened  when  this 
too  long-deferred  effort  failed  ?  Why,  "  away  they 
went."  And  where  they  were  going  to,  except  to  perdition, 
Viator  for  some  moments  was  utterly  unable  to  tell. 
For  the  incompetent  one  had  his  reins  clubbed  by  way 
of  meeting  the  emergency,  and  by  reason  of  his  awkward 
pulling  and  hauling,  had  the  coach  first  of  all  in  one 
ditch,  and  then  in  the  other,  till  the  passengers  were 
utterly  unable  to  say  whether  they  were  on  their  heads 
or  their  heels,  and  momentarily  expected  to  be  lying 
ready  for  burial  on  their  backs.  At  the  very  crisis  of 
the  affair  the  stables  of  the  runaway  team  loomed  into 
sight,  when  they  stopped  of  their  own  accord,  in  spite, 
no  doubt,  of  the  efforts  of  their  driver.  On  the  next  stage 
an  opportunity  of  another  kind  was  given  to  this  miser- 
able charioteer  for  retrieving  his  lost  laurels  and  pocket- 
ing the  half-crowns  which  the  outside  passengers  had 
determined  at  the  moment  not  to  give  him.  For  the 
next  stage  w^as  one  which  required  the  exercise  of  a 
little  "fanning";  and  it  was  within  the  bounds  of 
reasonable  human  hope  that  such  an  ignoramus  with  the 
reins  might  yet  be  able  to  use  his  whip  the  least  bit  in  the 
world.  But,  alas  !  "  Dominie  Sampson  could  not  have 
made  a  more  diabolical  attempt  at  hitting  a  near  leader." 
And  every  time  the  fellow  tried  to  hit  his  off-side  wheel 
horse,  he  nearly  cut  off  his  off-side  passenger's  near  ear! 
Under  which  delightful  conditions  the  journey  to  London 
was  done  in  six  hours,  the  passengers  never  being  out  of 
jeopardy  the  whole  time. 


202 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


This  sort  of  romance  makes  us  feel  momentarily 
thankful  for  railway  trains,  and  drivers,  who  have  to  pass 
a  severe  examination,  and  are  not  supposed  to  take 
anything  stronger  than  cold  tea.  Not  however  must 
the  impression  be  permitted  to  remain  (in  spite  of  Viator's 


'  ,-■ -I'' 


Cnnv/nirsi  Gra7tsrc. 


savage  indignation)  that  all  the  Brighton  coachmen 
were  the  dangerous  dunces  which  the  above  experience 
shows  one  of  them  to  have  been. 

On  the  contrary  several  among  them  were  of  the  A  I 
class — others  not  up  to  this  standard  quite  ;  but 
decidedly  fair  all    round.      In    the   latter   category   was 


TIIK  I'.KICIITON   ROAD  203 

Sam  Goodman,  of  the  Times.  Yet  it  were  profanity  to 
compare  him  to  the  incomparable  Mr.  Snow,  whose  per- 
fect ease  and  elegant  attitude  on  his  box  in  turning  the 
Dart  out  of  the  Spread  Eagle  Yard  in  Gracechurch 
Street  was  a  sight  for  gods  and  coachmen.  Gray,  on 
the  Regent,  was  ''  fair — inclining  to  steady,"  as  the 
meteorologists  might  say  ;  Ned  Russel,  when  once  started 
over  London  Bridge,  not  worse  than  some  of  his  neigh- 
bours, Mr.  Steven,  of  the  Age,  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  good  coachman,  which  is  all  that  Viator  will  say 
for  him,  except  to  wish  him  success  ;  but  young  Cook, 
formerly  of  the  Magnet,  but  afterwards  of  the  Regulator 
(having  changed  his  coaches,  from  sickness,  at  being 
bandied  about  between  Hell  and  Hackney,  as  he  graphi- 
cally expresses  it),  young  Cook,  was  not  only  a  first- 
rate  coachman  but  one  of  the  pleasantest  fellows  to  travel 
with  that  could  be  met  on  the  road.  From  this  bead- 
roll  of  distinguished  professionals  (to  make  an  end  of 
coachmen)  can  the  distinguished  amateurs  of  the 
Brighton  Road  be  with  any  justice  excluded  .''  Certainly 
not !  For  the  Brighton  Road,  to  keep  up  its  distinctive 
flavour  of  what  I  call  "  Corinthianism,"  has  ever  been 
distinguished  and  fortunate  in  its  choice  of  aristocratic 
whips.  And  of  these  no  selection  could  be  complete 
which  wanted  the  names  of  Sir  Vincent  Cotton,  who 
drove  the  Age  ;  of  the  Marquis  of  Worcester,  father  of 
the  present  Duke  of  Beaufort,  who  drove  the  Beaufort  ; 
of  the  Hon.  Fred.  Jerningham,  a  son  of  Lord  Stafford, 
who  drove  the  Brighton  Day  Mail — who  were  all 
artists  to  the  tips  of  their  fingers,  who  never  solicited 
fees,  and  yet  pocketed  them  when  offered,  with  as  much 
readiness  and  relish  as  could  be  shown  by  the  poorest 
"  knights  of  the  whip." 

And  what  of  the  travellers  on  the  Brighton  Road  in 
the  days  of  its  prime  ?  They  are  as  the  sands  of  the 
sea  for  multitude,  and  pass  before  my  mind's  eye  in  a 
long  line,  beginning  with  the  Regent  and  ending  with 
Tom  Cribb— if  indeed  the  prince  should  be  put  before 


204 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


the    pugilist.     Byron    was    here    in    1808    with   another 
fighting  man,  the  celebrated  gentleman  Jackson,  and  also. 


The  White  Hart,  Lcii^cs. 


I  much  regret  to  have  to  sa)-  it,  with  a  }'oung  lady  who 
rode  about  with  him  in  male  attire,  and  who  remarked 


Til  I-:  BRKillTON  ROAD  205 

to    Lcidy    P ,    who    said,    "  What    a    pretty    horse 

you  are  riding,"  ''  Yes  ;  it  was  gave  me  by  my  brother." 
How  many  times  I  wonder  did  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Fitzherbcrt,  the  only  woman  that  George  the  Fourth 
ever  loved  probably,  travel  from  London  to  her 
lodgings  in  the  Steyne,  and  from  her  lodgings  in 
the  Steyne  to  London }  Those  journeys  must  have 
been  countless,  and  what  heartburnings,  what  agonies 
of  pride  broken  and  hope  deferred  must  have  been 
suffered  by  the  way !  Not  that  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  was 
by  any  means  the  only  wounded  beauty  drawn  moth- 
like  to  the  gracious  glare  eternally  effulgent  at  the 
Pavilion.  Perdita  Robinson  was  constantly  to  be  seen 
on  the  Brighton  Road  during  her  brief  period  of  ascend- 
ency— her  turn-out  faultless,  her  postillions  pictures,  her 
luncheon  bills  at  the  Dorset  Arms,  East  Grinstead,  or 
the  White  Hart  at  Godstone  Green,  worthy  of  the  attent- 
ive consideration  of  a  nation  who  had  to  pay  for  them. 
But  why  pursue  further  the  bevy  of  frail  beauty  who 
posted  to  and  fro  from  Brighton  in  pursuit  of  the  Royal 
George?  It  would  be  a  scandalous  research  not  requir- 
ing much  consideration.  Let  us  look  at  another  side  of 
the  picture — a  more  intellectual  side. 

In  1779 — three  years  that  is  to  say  before  the  Prince 
Regent  visited  Brighton  for  the  first  time — Miss  Burney 
(than  whom  I  have  found  no  more  entertaining  com- 
panion since  I  first  set  out  on  the  roads)  came  here  in 
company  with  Mr.,  Mrs.,  Miss,  and  Miss  Susan  Thrale. 
She  travelled  in  a  coach  with  four  horses  ;  the  servants 
travelled  in  a  chaise,  and  two  men  additionally  accom- 
panied them  on  horeback.  The  procession  started  from 
Streatham,  and  took  the  Reigate  and  Cuckheld  route  ; 
and  they  were  obliged  to  stop  for  some  time  at  three 
places  on  the  road.  Of  Reigate  Miss  Burney  has  only 
to  remark  that  "  it  is  a  very  old,  half-ruined  borough  ; " 
and  that  a  high  hill  leading  to  it  afforded  a  very  fine 
prospect  ;  after  which  she  passed  on  to  Cuckfield, 
where,  instead  of  at  once  visiting  Cuckfield  Park,  (which 


2o6  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

is  a  most  entrancing  sixteenth-century  house,  possessing 
a  gloomy  park,  a  family  curse,  and  a  general  atmosphere 
altogether  redolent  of  Mrs.  RadclifYe  at  her  darkest), 
Miss  Burney  contented  herself  with  observing  that  the 
view  of  the  South  Downs  from  the  King's  Head  or  the 
Talbot  (where  I  suppose  she  was  taking  tea)  was  very 
curious  and  singular. 

The  utter  lack  of  feeling  displayed  by  the  most 
cultured  people  of  the  eighteenth  century  for  the 
domestic  architecture  of  England  positively  appals. 
I  believe  that  Horace  Walpole  was  the  only  man  living 
who  had  the  faintest  natural  tendency  to  the  taste — and 
his  taste  naturally  was  affected  by  the  vitiated  atmosphere 
which  prevailed.  Here  is  the  second  fine  house  that  Miss 
Burney  (so  far  as  human  nature  is  concerned,  the 
observant  of  the  observant)  passes  entirely  without 
observation.  First  it  is  Littlecote  on  the  Bath  Road, 
which  she  fails  to  perceive,  and  now  it  is  Cuckfield  Park 
on  the  Brighton  Road.  Two  points  only  can  be  urged 
in  excuse  of  this  deplorable  exhibition  of  wall-eyedness 
in  one  so  young.  Firstly,  that  Miss  Burney  was  not  by 
nature  a  romanticist — indeed  held  them  rather  in 
contempt — and  so  was  probably  watching  from  the 
landing  window  a  comedy  in  real  life  played  by  two 
post-boys  and  a  chambermaid  in  the  galleried  inn's 
backyard  ;  secondly,  that  the  author  of  Evelina  had  not 
enjoyed  the  advantage  possessed  by  the  present  genera- 
tion of  revelling  in  the  romances  of  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
No  ;  Miss  Burney  had  no  opportunity  of  reading  Rook- 
wood  (not  that  she  would  have  read  it  if  she  had  had  the 
opportunity,  I  fear)  ;  and  so  Cuckfield  Park  was  not 
associated  in  her  mind,  as  it  is  in  ours,  with  Dick  Turpin 
and  all  the  adventurous,  dashing  figures  that  throng  the 
pages  of  Ainsworth's  first  success.  For  Cuckfield  Park 
is  the  Rookwood  of  the  romance  ;  and  it  is  no  unde- 
served compliment  to  its  intrepid  writer,  who  with  all  his 
faults,  possessed  the  truly  refreshing  capacity  for  ''  cutting 
analysis  and   getting  to  the   story,"   that  his  novel  has 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


J07 


'^  '-'-'^^fc 


The  Gossips 


thrown  the  glamour  of  an  additionally  romantic  interest 
over  an  old  manor  house  already  instinct  with  romance. 
At  Cuckfield  then  Miss  Burney  is  disappointing  ;   but 


^oS      COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

when  she  gets  to  Brighton — which  she  did  on  this 
occasion  at  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening — she  is  in 
her  element.  Then  she  becomes  rich — rich  in  description, 
humour,  observation,  analysis,  rich  in  everything  in 
short  which  can  help  to  bring  the  terminus  of  the 
Brighton  Road  in  1779  vividly  before  our  eyes.  I  do 
not  think  that  I  can  do  better  than  follow  her  for  a  day 
or  two  through  the  pages  of  the  diary  which  so  racily 
describes  this  visit. 

The  day  then  after  her  arrival.  Miss  Burney  dined  at 
the  Ship  Tavern — ^■(now  known  as  the  Old  Ship,  by 
actors,  authors,  managers,  and  other  distressed  un- 
fortunates, jaded  with  their  labours  and  in  search  of 
change  between  the  Saturday  and  the  Monday).  Not 
that  Miss  Burney  dined  in  such  congenial  company. 
Far  from  it.  She  dined  at  the  officers'  mess — she  forgets 
to  say  of  what  regiment,  to  which  she  had  been  specially 
invited  by  the  major  and  captain.  The  next  morning 
there  arrived  at  Mrs.  Thrale's  house,  which  was  situated 
in  West  Street,  a  melancholy  and  typical  personage,  who 
was  destined  to  inflict  upon  Miss  Burney  several  very 
bad  quarters  of  an  hour.  This  was  one  Dr.  Dewlap. 
The  wretched  man  had  written  a  tragedy,  and  had  also 
had  it  accepted.  His  attitude  towards  men  and  things 
may  therefore  be  imagined  ;  and  was  I  need  hardly  say 
carefully  noted  by  Miss  Burney,  who  had  herself  written 
a  comedy — accepted  also.  But  Dr.  Dewlap  seems  to 
have  been  a  very  wicked  specimen  of  the  budding 
dramatic  author.  He  was  commonly  of  course  naturally 
grave,  silent,  and  absent  ;  yet  when  any  subject  with 
which  he  was  conversant  had  once  been  begun,  he 
worked  it  threadbare :  and,  wretch  that  he  was,  seemed 
hardly  to  know  when  all  was  over  ;  or,  what  is  more 
remarkable,  whether  anything  had  passed.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  tragedy,  no  doubt. 

Not  the  least  noxious  point  about  him  was  that  his 
appearance  was  "  smug  and  reserved."  He  soon  however 
gave  Mrs.  Thralc  his  play  to  read.     A  deed  which  drove 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


209 


Miss  Burncy  (with  a  keen  perception  of  what  was  in 
store  for  her  too)  out  for  a  walk  on  the  Parade.  Here 
she  found  some  soldiers  mustering.  And  in  what  state  ? 
It  pains  me  to  say  that  they  were  half  intoxicated,  and 


cs 


GN 


(T'-^^tGy-X 


Quaint  Sig'ns. 

laughed  so  violently  as  Miss  Burney  passed  by  them, 
that  they  could  hardly  stand  upright.  The  wind,  too,  to 
make  matters  worse,  was  extremely  high,  blew  Miss 
Burney's  gown  about  abominably,  and  played  the  deuce 
with  her  bonnet.     And  the  merry  light  infantry  laughed 

P 


2IO 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHINC;  WAYS 


the  more.     And  "  Captain  Fuller's  "  embarrassed  desire 
to  keep  order,  made  Miss  Burney  laugh  as  much. 

There  is  an  exterior  of  Brighton  in  1779  !  But  an 
interior  equally  graphic  is  also  to  hand.  It  is  connected 
with  Dewlap  the  inevitable.  On  one  occasion  I  read 
(there  is  an  end  to  everything)  an  accursed  divergence  of 


"  '-  :A  V 


':(^ua>^~- 


Thc  Chcqurr:,  Marcsficld. 


occupation  called  away  all  the  gentlemen  from  Miss 
Burney's  society,  and  precipitated  the  deepl)-  dreaded 
hour.  Dr.  Dewlap  remained.  He  seated  himself  next 
to  the  fair  diarist.  He  began  to  question  her  about  his 
tragedy — which  by  this  time  he  had  given  her  too  to 
read.      But  had  Miss  Burney  read  it  }    That  is  the  ques- 


TIIK  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


211 


tion.  I  doubt  it  cxtremcl}'.  Hear  what  the  lady  herself 
says — 

''  I  soon  said  all  I  wanted  to  say  upon  the  subject,"  she 
writes.  "  And  soon  after  a  great  deal  more  ;  but  not 
soon  after  was  he  satisfied.  He  returned  to  the  same 
thing  a  million  of  times,  till  I  almost  fell  asleep  with  the 
sound  of  the  same  words." 

To  leave  the  fair  authoress  of  Evelina  for  ever,  with 
many  thanks  for  her  assistance  so  far  (and  I  hope  that 
these  thanks  may  reach  her  wherever  she  may  now 
chance  to  be  studying  character,  and  regretting  eternally 


Vf^SS, 


■~ "^ 


'•j:'^"$mr- 


Sackville  College. 


\ 


<^ 


her  desertion  of  literature  for  a  servile  attendance  on  a 
hum-drum  court)  ;  three  other  travellers  on  the  Brighton 
Road — and  immortal  travellers  too,  as  long  as  English 
is  read — present  themselves  for  notice. 

About  the  time  then  when  the  air  was  full  of  the 
rumours  which  culminated  in  Waterloo,  Captain  Crawley, 
Captain  Osborne,  and  Mr.  Jos  Sedley,  "  were  enjoying 
that  beautiful  prospect  of  bow  windows  on  the  one  side, 
and  blue  sea  on  the  other,  which  Brighton  affords  to  the 
traveller."  Who  can  forget  the  incident  ?  W^ho  does 
not  remember  the  sublime  and  here  first  recorded  attempt 
of  the  immortal  Jos    to  catch   the  warlike  spirit  of  the 

P  2 


212  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

times  by  a  subtle  alteration  of  costume?  Jos,  brilliant 
in  under  waistcoats,  sporting  a  military  frock  coat, 
clinking  his  boot  spurs,  swaggering  prodigiously  and 
shooting  death  glances  at  all  the  servant  girls  who  were 
worthy  to  be  slain  ! 

'' '  What  shall  we  do,  boys,  till  the  ladies  return  ? '  he 
asked.  The  ladies  were  out  to  Rottingdean  in  his 
carriage  on  a  drive. 

" '  Let's  have  a  game  of  billiards,'  one  of  his  friends 
said — the  tall  one  with  the  lacquered  moustachios. 

"'No,  dammy ;  no.  Captain,'  Jos  replied,  rather 
alarmed.  '  No  billiards  to-day,  Crawley,  my  boy — 
yesterday  was  enough.' " 

And  then,  after  various  suggestions  for  killing  time, 
including  Jos's,  " '  to  have  some  jellies  at  Button's  and 
kill  the  gal  behind  the  counter — devilish  fine  gal  at 
Button's'" — the  determination  was  come  to,  as  is 
generally  known,  to  go  and  see  the  Lightning  "  come  in  " 
— and  the  advice  prevailing  over  billiards  and  jelly,  the 
trio  turned  towards  the  coach-office. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  leave  Brighton  and 
Thackeray  behind  us,  without  recalling  another  incident 
detailed  by  the  author  of  the  Four  Georges^  this  time  an 
historical  one,  which  has  to  do  with  a  wicked  old  celebrity, 
once  a  well-known  figure  on  the  Steyne — with  posting, 
and  with  the  august  personage  who  called  posting  and 
coaching  to  Brighton  into  fashion — nay,  even  into  life. 
"  In  Gilray's  caricatures,"  I  quote  from  \\\^  Four  Georges, 
"there  figures  a  great  nobleman  called  'Jockey  of 
Norfolk  '  in  his  time,  and  celebrated  for  his  table  exploits. 
He  had  quarrelled  with  the  Prince,  like  the  rest  of  the 
Whigs,  but  a  sort  of  reconciliation  had  taken  place  ; 
and  now  being  a  very  old  man,  the  Prince  invited  him 
to  dine  and  sleep  at  the  Pavilion,  and  the  old  duke  drove 
over  from  his  castle  of  Arundel,  with  his  famous  equipage 
of  gray  horses,  still  remembered  in  Sussex." 

A  pleasant  Bacchanalian  scene  is  then  enacted,  it  \\\\\ 
be  remembered,  which   began   by  everybody  challenging 


Till-:  DRKiHTON   R(3AD 


213 


the   old    duke  to  drink  (who,  not  forgetful  of  his  reputa- 
tion, did  not  decline  the  honour),  and  ended  by  the  first 


VA'. 


Taking  jtp  the  Mails. 


gentleman   in  Europe    proposing   bumpers    of    brandy. 
Too  proud    to   brook  defeat   in   his  especial  line  of  art 


214  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

the  old  duke's  intrepidity  did  not  fail  him  even  here. 
He  drank.  Then  finding  that  his  head  was  failing  him 
he  remarked  that  he  had  had  enough  of  such  hospitality, 
and  would  go  home. 

"  The  carriage  was  called  and  came,  but  in  the  half- 
hour's  interval  the  liquor  had  proved  too  potent  for  the 
old  man  ;  his  host's  generous  purpose  was  answered, 
and  the  duke's  old  gray  head  lay  stupefied  upon  the 
table.  Nevertheless,  when  the  post-chaise  was  an- 
nounced he  staggered  to  it  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
stumbling  in,  bade  the  postillions  drive  to  Arundel. 
They  drove  him  for  half-an-hour  round  and  round  the 
Pavilion  lawn  ;  the  poor  old  man  fancied  he  was  going 
home.  When  he  awoke  that  morning  he  was  in  bed  at 
the  Prince's  hideous  house  at  Brighton.  You  may  see 
the  place  now  for  sixpence  ;  they  have  fiddlers  there 
every  day,  and  sometimes  buffoons  and  mountebanks 
hire  the  riding-house,  and  do  their  tricks  and  tumbling 
there.  The  trees  are  still  there,  and  the  gravel  walks 
round  which  the  poor  old  sinner  was  trotted.  1  can 
fancy  the  flushed  faces  of  the  royal  princes  as  they 
support  themselves  at  the  portico  pillars — and  look  on 
at  old  Norfolk's  disgrace  ;  but  I  can't  fancy  how  the  man 
who  perpetrated  it  continued  to  be  called  a  gentleman." 

It  certainly  is  a  hard  nut  to  crack.  But  the  above 
graceful  scene  of  conviviality  at  Brighton  reminds  me 
that  I  have  yet  to  make  mention  of  the  houses  of  entertain- 
ment on  the  Brighton  Road.  Horace  Walpole,  it  will 
be  remembered,  said,  in  1749,  that  there  were  no  inns 
in  Sussex.  But  here  I  fear  Horace  pulled  the  long  bow 
of  the  disappointed  tourist — for  the  guide-books  of  the 
old  coaching  days  tell  a  different  tale.  Amongst  others 
the  following  were  well-known  houses — of  varying 
degrees  of  merit,  no  doubt,  and  situated  on  different 
routes. 

At  Croydon — the  Crown  ;  at  Godstone  Green — the 
White  Hart :  at  ICast  Grinstead — the  Dorset  Arms  :  at 
Uckfield — the  Maiden's  Head  ;  at  Reigate — the   Swan  ; 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


215 


at    Hickstcad — the    Castle  ;  at    Cuckfield — the    King's 
Head  and  the  Talbot. 

Out  of  these,  two  houses  are  in  my  opinion  specially 
worthy  of  mention,  namely — the  White  P^art  at  God- 
stone  Green,  and  the  Dorset  Arms  at  East  Grinstead  ; 
not  only  because  the  houses  are  fine  in  themselves,  but 
because,  thanks  no  doubt  in  a  great  measure  to  the  in- 
terest  taken   by  their  landlords   in   their    past    history. 


'i^r 


i 


-^ 


^c-    >V'    t--  ■'     '^■'■''':  ■/■*^ 


0.\  J;^ 


tl-.Li-'iiii;,-! 

The  Dorset  Arms,  East  Grinstead. 

something  of  that  rare  romance  of  the  roads  hangs  about 
them  still.  Ihe  inn  at  East  Grinstead,  which  is  an  un- 
usually fine  specimen  of  its  class,  used  formerly  to  be 
called  the  Cat — but  why  it  was  so  called  it  will  not  be 
well  too  particularly  to  inquire — in  fact,  as  Mr.  Silas 
Wegg  would  have  said,  "  In  Mrs.  Boffin's  presence,  sir, 
we  had  better  drop  it."  A  token  however  was  struck 
off  to  perpetuate  this  title,  which  I  have  been  shown 
through   the   courtesy  of  Mr.  Trac)',  the  landlord  of  the 


2i6.  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

house  ;  and  a  very  rare  and  curious  token  it  is,  showing 
"  The  Cat  "■ — ^the  name  of  the  town,  and  inn. 

All  distinguished  travellers  on  the  Brighton  Road 
pulled  up  as  a  matter  of  course  at  the  Dorset  Arms. 
Amon^rst  those  whose  names  have  been  handed  down  as 
habitual  visitors,  was  Lord  Liverpool,  who  always  stayed 
at  the  Dorset  Arms  when  on  his  way  to  visit  the 
Harcourt  seat  near  Buxted,  and  who  has  left  a  record  of 
his  impatience  at  dawdling  waiters  and  dinners  not 
served  up  to  the  minute  ;  "  Liverpool's  in  a  hurry  "  even 
now  being  remembered  in  the  place.  Another  constant 
guest  was  Lord  Seymour,  who  died,  I  believe,  in  1837 — 
mean,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  as  regards  his  expenses  ;  and 
yet  not  mean  either  one  way,  for  if  he  didn't  eat  and 
drink  much,  he  possessed  a  passion  for  illumination 
which  must  have  produced  some  respectable  items  in 
the  bill — thirty  wax  candles  or  more  burning  in  his  bed- 
room all  night.  Spencer  Perceval  too,  the  Prime  Minister 
(remarkable  for  great  ability  and  for  having  been  shot  in 
the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons  in  18 12  by  John 
Bellingham),  must  have  been  a  familiar  figure  at  the 
Dorset  Arms,  for  the  House  from  which  he  was  married 
in  1790  to  Miss  Jane  Wilson  stands  just  at  the  bottom 
of  the  Dorset  Arms'  garden. 

At  nine  miles  three  furlongs  up  the  London  Road, 
tow^ards  London,  stands  the  other  inn  that  I  have  par- 
ticularly mentioned — the  White  Hart,  now  called  the 
Clayton  Arms,  at  Godstone  Green.  The  White  Hart 
claims  to  be  a  very  old  house.  Mr.  Churchill,  the  pro- 
prietor, who  has  had  it  for  twenty-two  years,  and  who 
takes  a  natural  and  gratifying  pride  in  its  history,  tells 
me  that  it  was  an  inn  in  Richard  the  Second's  time, 
whose  badge  was  a  white  hart  couchant,  as  heralds  may 
know.  The  White  Hart  was  open  timbered  then,  and  had 
quarried  windows.  The  gable  ends  were  added  in 
Elizabeth's  time.  In  the  absence  of  documentary 
evidence  it  requires  but  a  small  stretch  of  the  imagination 
to  picture  the  long   crowd  of   all    ranks,  kings,  queens 


THE  BRIGHTON  ROAD 


217 


soldiers,  statesmen,  conspirators,  coachmen,  and  liigh- 
waymen,  who  must  have  passed  the  portals  of  so  vener- 
able a  place  of  entertainment  as  this,  in  the  lapse  of  six- 
centuries.  A  tradition  however  which  associates  one 
royalty  with  the  White  Hart  is  noticeable  ;  not  only 
from  the  sini^ularitv  of  the  association,  but  because  the 


--.■3  REiD  Jr/'R"*  >t  'i   '-isr' 


my;, 


»   ,'j        -^^ 


7"/ii;  Clayton  .Irins,  Godstoiie. 


particular  association  in  question  is  to  me  a  distinctive 
feature  in  the  history  of  the  Brighton  Road. 

It  is  said  then  that  in  18 15  the  Regent,  the  Czar  of 
Russia,  and  many  royal  visitors  stayed  at  the  inn  on 
their  way  to  Blindley  Heath,  to  be  present  at  the  fight 
for    the    championship    of    England.     Having    lost    my 


2i8  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Fistiaiia,  I  am  unable  to  verify  the  date  of  this  fight,  or 
to  name  the  combatants  ;  but  people  who  know  their 
subject,  in  an  age  when  boxing  may  be  said  to  be  revived, 
will  not  need  me  to  tell  them  that  Blindley  Heath, 
which  is  about  four  miles  from  Godstone  Green,  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  and  celebrated  of  prize-fighting 
rendezvous.  Here,  to  quote  one  example  :  On  the  12th 
of  June,  1 82 1,  Hickman,  the  gas-light  man,  and  Oliver, 
fought  ten  rounds  in  thirteen  minutes.  Not  that 
Blindley  Heath  is  the  only  place  in  the  neighbourhood 
celebrated  for  this  classic  amusement.  Within  a  few 
miles  are  Copthall  Common,  where  on  December  loth, 
1 8 10,  Cribb  fought  and  beat  Molineaux,  the  black,  for 
the  first  time  ;  and  Crawley  Down,  which  has  witnessed 
more  mills  than  I  have  time  or  memory  to  catalogue. 

The  processions  from  town  to  these  fights  however 
afford  too  remarkable  an  illustration  of  contemporary 
manners  for  me  to  pass  over  so  lightly :  an  illustration 
of  manners  continually  to  be  studied  in  this  neighbour- 
hood on  the  Brighton  Road.  And  1  think  that  an  ex- 
tract from  tJie  classic  authority  will  give  a  better  idea 
than  I  can  of  the  scenes  to  be  witnessed  on  the  road 
immediately  before  a  celebrated  "mill." 

"  The  Fancy  were  all  upon  the  alert  soon  after  break- 
fast "  (I  quote  from  Boxiands  description  of  the  Grand 
Pugilistic  combat  between  Randall  and  Martin,  at 
Crawley  Down,  thirty  miles  from  London,  on  Tuesday, 
May  4,  1 8 19)  ''  on  the  Monday,  to  ascertain  the  scat  of 
action  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  important  ivJiisper  had  gone 
forth,  that  Crawley  Down  was  likely  to  be  the  place, 
the  toddlers  were  off  in  a  tivinkling.  The  gigs  were 
soon  brushed  up,  the  prads  harnessed,  and  the  boys 
who  intended  to  enjoy  themselves  on  the  road  were  in 
motion.  Between  the  hours  of  two  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  upwards  of  a  hundred  gigs  were  counted 
passing  through  Croydon.  The  Bonifaces  chuckled 
again  with  delight,  and  screzving  was  the  order  of  the 
day.     Long   before  eight  o'clock   in  the  evening  every 


THE  BRIGHTON   ROAD 


219 


7'hc  ynJ^qvs'  IIoiiscs,  Easi  Grinstcad. 

bed  belonging  to  the  inns  and  public-houses  in  God- 
stone,  East  Grinstead,  Reigate,  Bletchingley,  &c.,  were 
doubly,  and  some  trebly  occupied. 


220 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


"  Five  and  seven  shillings  were  charged  for  the  stand 
of  a  horse  in  any  wretched  hut.  But  those  customers 
who  were  fly  to  all  the  tricks  and  fancies  of  life,  and 
who  would  not  be  nailed  dX  any  price,  preferred  going  to 
roost  in  a   barn  ;    while  others  possessing  rather   more 


The  Grange,  Lczvcs. 


The  Si_^n  of  the  Swidi,  Southover. 


gaiety,  and  who  set  sleep  at  defiance,  blowed  a  cloud  over 
some  heavy  wet,  devouring  the  rich  points  of  a  flasJi 
cJiaiint;  and  thought  no  more  of  time  hanging  heavily 
than   they  did  of  the  classics.     ChaiLiiting  and  siviping 


THE  BKTGTITON  ROAD  221 

till  many  of  the  young  sprigs  dropped  o^  ihc'w  perches  ; 
while  the  oiild  ones  felt  the  influence  of  the  dnstuian,  and 
were  glad  to  drop  their  nobs  to  obtain  forty  winks. 
Those  persons  whose  blunt  enabled  them  to  procure  beds, 
could  not  obtain  any  sleep,  for  carriages  of  every  de- 
scription were  passing  through  the  above  towns  all 
night.  Things  passed  on  in  this  manner  till  daylight 
began  to  peep.  Then  the  szuells  in  their  barouches  and 
four,  and  the  swift  trotting  fanciers,  all  hurried  from  the 
metropolis,  and  the  road  exhibited  the  bustle  of  the 
priniest  day  of  Epsom  Races.  The  brilliants  also  left 
Brighton  and  Worthing  at  about  the  same  period,  and 
thus  were  the  roads  thronged  in  every  direction.  The 
weather  at  length  cleared  up,  and  by  twelve  o'clock  the 
amphitheatre  on  Crawley  Down  had  a  noble  effect,  and 
thousands  of  persons  were  assembled  at  the  above  spot. 
It  is  supposed  if  the  carriages  had  all  been  placed  in 
one  line  they  would  have  reached  from  London  to 
Crawley.  The  amateurs  were  of  the  highest  distinction, 
and  several  noblemen  and  foreigners  of  rank  were  upon 
the  crround." 

Regent  and  emperor  putting  up  at  a  wayside  inn  to 
witness  a  fight  for  the  championship !  Young  sprigs 
chaunting  and  swiping  till  they  dropped  off  their 
perches  !  The  swells  in  their  barouches  and  four  hurrying 
from  the  metropolis  !  The  noblemen  and  foreigners  of 
rank  crowding  round  the  twenty-four  foot  ring  !  What  can 
give  us  a  better  idea  of  the  Brighton  Road  in  its  prime 
than  these  facts  }  What  paint  more  vividly  what  I  call 
its  "  Regency  flavour,"  its  slang,  its  coarseness,  its 
virility — in  a  word,  its  "  Corinthianism  "  .-^ 


Sf.  'Yohn^s  /-/os/^ffal,  Canterbti7-y, 


v.— THE  DOVER  ROAD 


Such  rich  crowds  of  historical  figures  throng  tlie  long 
reaches  of  the  Dover  Road  that  one  really  hardly  knows 
where  to  make  a  beginning  and  where  to  make  an  end 
with  them.  Indeed,  when  I  think  of  the  record  of  this 
seventy-one  miles,  one  long,  confused,  grotesque  pro- 
cession of  all  ages,  and  of  all  periods  of  English  history, 
files  before  me.  I  see  as  many  sights  as  Tilburina  does 
in  the  Critic,  and  a  few  more.  Kings  returning  from 
conquest.  One  king  returning  from  exile.  Many 
queens  on  their  way  to  weddings — (''  Unfortunate 
chiefly,  I  regret  to  say,"  as  Mr.  Pecksniff  might  have 
remarked) — one  queen  on  her  way  to  a  wedding,  which, 
fortunately  for  her,  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  completely 
come  off ;  grave  archbishops  tremulously  proceeding  to 
installation  ;  our  earliest  dramatic  genius  on  his  way  to 
London,  glory,  and  a  violent  death,  his  "  unbowed,  bright, 


TTTK  DOVER  ROAD  223 

insubmissivc  head,"  already  full  of  Faust.  I  sec  too 
another  English  man  of  letters  as  immortal  as  Marlowe, 
with  keen,  kindly  eyes,  overlooking  from  Gad's  Hill  the 
dusty  track  along  which  he,  and  so  many  of  his  crea- 
tions, travelled  ;  and  the  latest  of  the  ingenious  race  of 
footpads  at  his  adroit  business  on  Blackheath  ;  and  one 
of  the.  last  of  the  old  coachmen  (with  whom  I  have  had 
the  honour  of  shaking  hands),  calm  in  the  emergency 
of  "  chain  snapped  and  coach  running  on  wheelers  on  a 
frosty  morning,"  descending  the  Dartford  side  of 
Shooter's  Hill. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  thought  that  it  would  be  well  for 
me,  with  such  material  in  hand,  to  begin  at  the  beginning. 
But  the  beginning  of  the  history  of  the  Dover  Road,  I 
fear,  would  be  the  beginning  of  the  history  of  the  Watling 
Street — for  the  two  terms  are  in  a  large  measure  identical 
— and  this  would  lead  me  into  a  long  dis.sertation  on 
chariot  wheels  suddenly  flying  off,  to  the  intense  discom- 
fiture of  centurions  ;  to  details  concerning  the  stern 
tramp  of  the  legions  ;  to  the  heart-quaking  sound  of 
"  Consul  Romanus,"  according  to  De  Ouincey  ;  and  to 
other  classic  items,  foreign,  even  in  my  extended  view, 
to  gossip  about  the  great  coaching  roads  of  England. 

And  so  I  think  that  (this  being  an  age  in  which  many 
people  talk  of  Chaucer  without  having  read  him)  I  can- 
not do  better  than  start  from  the  Old  Tabard  in  South- 
wark — as  it  stood  in  Edward  the  Third's  time — in 
the  company  of  a  certain  body  of  pilgrims  who  set  out 
thence  for  Canterbury  on  a  certain  May  morning.  In 
the  company,  to  wit,  of  a  "  verray  parfight  gentil 
knight,"  in  cassock  and  coat  of  mail  ;  his  curly-headed 
squire  ;  the  brown-faced  yeoman  bow  in  hand  ;  the  abbot, 
a  mighty  hunter  from,  his  youth  up  ;  the  friar,  medi^evally 
typical  of  our  street  singers,  abhorred  by  literary  men  ; 
the  prioress,  possessed  of  a  charming  French  lisp,  and 
having  Avior  vincit  <?;;/;?/<7  characteristically  graven  upon 
her  brooch  ;  in  the  company  too  (in  case  the  Tabard 
whisky — malmsey,  I  mean — should  prove  cumulativ^e  in 


22.1 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


its  effects)  of  a  doctor  of  physic,  who  had  been  making 
hay  while  the  sun  shone  and  the  plague  was  rampant  ; 
in  the  company,  lastly,  of  the  clerk  from  Oxford,  whom 
much  study  had  made — not  mad — but  as  lean  and 
leaden-eyed  as  Eugene  Aram  ever  was. 

Not  that  I  intend  to  travel  with  this  famed  company 
all  the  way  to  Canterbury.  They  did  not  hurry  them- 
selves enough  ;  sat  too  long  telling  discursive  stories  by 


^^'^C"^^' 


-  4,> 


The  Old  I'abard,  Soiit/nvark. 


the  way-side,  which  may  be  read  to  advantage  in  editions 
carefully  prepared  for  ladies'  colleges  and  the  young. 
And  here  I  may  perhaps  remark  with  advantage — to 
myself  (in  case  it  may  appear  that  1  am  on  history  bent 
rather  than  on  coaching) — that  the  purely  coaching 
record  of  the  Dover  Road  is  a  thing  only  to  be  touched 
on  briefly.  For  in  point  of  fact  it  is  "  thin,"  as  dra- 
matic critics  would  say,  in  the  extreme.     The  following 


THE  dovp:r  road  225 

copy  of  a  time  bill  marks  probably  the  beginning  of 
its  development. 

"LONDON  EVENING  POST.     J/a;r// 28.      1751. 
"  A  Stage  Coach 

"  WILL    SET    OUT 

"For  Dover  every  Wednesday  and  Friday  from  Christopher  Shaws  the 
Golden  Cross  at  four  in  the  morning  to  go  over  Westminster  Bridge  to 
Rochester  to  dinner  to  Canterbury  at  night  and  to  Dover  the  next  morning 
early  ;  will  take  up  passengers  for 

"Rochester,  Sittingbourne,  Ospringe,  and  Canterbury— and  returns  on 
Tuesdays  and  Thursdays. 

-r^    fThos  :  Hartcup. 
^\Robt  :  Legeyt, 

-p    f  Richd  :  Stradwick. 

^y\Cath  :  Pordage." 


And    I   wish  the   four   could  have  got   up  some  better 
grammar  and  punctuation  amongst  them. 

To  advance  from  this  barbaric  attempt  of  our  ancestors 
to  induce  credulous  people  to  go  to  Dover,  the  fastest 
coach  Avhich  ran  on  this  road  in  the  eolden  aee  of 
coaching  was  Chaplin's  Tally-ho,  which  was  driven  by 
Clements — the  fine  old  coachman  whom  I  have  already 
mentioned,  and  whose  interesting  personal  experiences 
given  to  myself  I  shall  deal  with  when  I  get  to  Canter- 
bury, where  he  lives.  The  Tally-ho  used  to  run  from 
the  Spread  Eagle  in  Gracechurch  Street  to  Sittingbourne 
—forty  miles — every  day,  including  Sunday,  and  (as  Mr. 
Stanley  Harris  tells  all  who  will  learn  how  their  fore- 
fathers travelled  in  The  Coaching  Age)  was  largely 
patronized  by  the  Kentish  farmers,  who  could  leave 
their  homes  at  five  or  six  o'clock  on  Sunday  afternoon, 
get  their  night's  rest — acrobatic,  somewhat,  I  fear — and 
be  on  the  spot  for  the  early  markets  in  London. 

To  get  along  on  our  way  to  Rochester  the  Dover 
Road  (which  is  measured  from  the  Surrey  side  of  London 
Bridge)  after  going  through  New  Cross,  where  in  coaching 
days   there  was   a   turnpike,  runs  into   Deptford,  where 


226 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


there  has  been  some  history.  For  here,  to  begin  with, 
in  1 581,  Elizabeth  went  on  board  Drake's  ship,  the 
Golden  Hind,  in  which  that  greatest  of  Enghsh  seamen 
had  circumnavigated  the  globe.  On  board  the  Golden  Hind 
the  queen  dined,  and  after  dinner  knighted   the  captain. 


The  Toilet. 


I  read  that  the  ship  was  afterwards  laid  up  in  a  yard 
here,  and  converted  into  a  sort  of  dining-house  for 
London  visitors  ;  in  which  case  all  I  can  say  is  that  I 
hope  that  they  recollected  in  what  sort  of  sanctuary  of 
heroism  they  were  dining  and  drank  the  health  reverently 
of  the  great  man  who  made  English  commerce  possible, 
and  so,  indirectly,  enabled  them  to  pay  the  bill. 

Eleven  years   after   Elizabeth  had  dined  at  Deptford 
the  greatest  perhaps  of  our  Elizabethan  dramatists  was 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


227 


killed  here  in  a  tavern  brawl.  The  death  of  Christopher 
Marlowe  at  the  age  of  thirty  makes  most  of  us  wonder 
with  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  at  the  prodigal  way  in  which 
nature  plays  with  the  lives  of  the  most  gifted  of  her  sons. 
As  the  author  of  Doctor  Faustus  however  had  permitted 
himself  the  licence  of  certain  criticism  quite  uncalled  for 
and  extremely  distasteful  to  the  clergy,  our  view  of  his 
premature  cutting  off  was  not  shared  by  his  contem- 
poraries.   Beard,  on  the  contrary,  in  his  Theatre  of  God's 


Hall  Place,  Bexley. 

Judgments,  thus  urbanely  comments  on  Marlowe's  death 
from  his  own  dagger.  "  But  see  what  a  hooke  the  Lord 
put  in  the  Nostrils  of  this  barking  dogge  ; "  an  effort  in 
criticism  which  makes  us  hope  that  there  are  such  things 
as  literary  amenities  among  us  after  all. 

The  poet's  birth  at  Canterbury  ;  his  education  there 
at  the  King's  School,  gives  him  to  the  Dover  Road  as 
perhaps  its  brightest  ornament.  When  we  are  tired,  it 
maybe,  of  erecting  tablets  to  third-class  authors  (English 
and  others),  adorned  with  inscriptions  which  for  unintelli- 


228  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

gibility  would  not  misbecome  the  tomb  of  Cheops,  it 
may  occur  to  us  that  one  of  the  greatest  of  our  poets  is 
unrepresented  in  our  pedantic  Pantheon.  Till  which 
time  comes  Mr.  Swinburne's  fine  eulogy  will  take  the 
place  of  a  bad  statue.  ''  This  poet,"  he  writes,  "  a  poor 
scholar  of  humblest  parentage  lived  to  perfect  the  ex- 
quisite metre  invented  for  narrative  by  Chaucer,  giving 
it  (to  my  ear  at  least)  more  of  weight  and  depth, 
of  force  and  fulness,  than  its  founder  had  to  give  ;  he 
invented  the  highest  and  hardest  form  of  English  verse, 
the  only  instrument  since  found  possible  for  our  tragic 
or  epic  poetry  ;  he  created  the  modern  tragic  drama  ; 
and  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  went 

"  '  Where  Orpheus  and  where  Homer  are.'" 

"  Surelv  there  are  not  more  than  two  or  three  names 
in  any  literature  which  can  be  set  above  the  poets  of 
whom  this  is  the  least  that  can  in  simple  truth  be  said. 
There  is  no  record  extant  of  his  living  likeness  ;  if  his 
country  should  ever  bear  men  worthy  to  raise  a  statue 
or  monument  to  his  memory,  he  should  stand  before 
them  with  the  head  and  eyes  of  an  Apollo,  looking 
homeward  from  earth  into  the  sun  :  a  face  and  figure,  in 
the  poet's  own  great  phrase, 

"  '  Like  his  desire,  lift  upward  and  divine.'  " 

To  leave  Marlowe  for  a  while — and  before  leaving" 
Deptford — it  may  not  misbecome  me  to  remark  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  still  read  Scott  in  an  age  which  has 
turned  aside  after  brazen  images  with  feet  of  clay — 
that  at  Sayes  Court — long  since  pulled  down  — arc  laid 
some  of  the  most  brilliant  scenes  in  Kenihvorth.  It  is 
here  that  Blount  and  Raleigh  first  appear  in  the  pages 
of  perhaps  the  finest  historical  novel  in  the  world  ;  it  is 
here  that  Tressilian,  milksoppy  to  the  verge  of  nausea 
even  for  one  of  Scott's  heroes,  brings  Wayland  Smith  to 
cure  Sussex  of  Leicester's  broth  ;  it  is  to  Saycs    Court 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


229 


that  Elizabeth  herself  comes  when  she  is  least  expected, 
finds  it  watched  like  a  beleaguered  fort,  and  makes  a 
rapid  exit,  "  having  brought  confusion  along  with  her, 
and  leaving  doubt  and  apprehension  behind." 

I  confess  that  it  does  me  good  when  in  the  course  of 
these  disjointed  rambles  along  the  great  roads  of  England 
I  can  find  some  spot  haunted  by  the,  to  me,  charmed 
figures  which  throng  the  pages  of  the  Waverley  Novels. 
Hitherto  I  have  not  reaped  much  of  a  harvest  of  joy  in 
this  direction,  it  must  be  confessed  ;    but   Deptforcl  has 


-■    —---"■-     ^4Kf,     ^/X^,^"  '""^-        "i.  >  1  r-T:f*™fi.''r--Trn«'- 


Cobham  Hall,  Rochester. 

given  me  my  first  opportunity  ;  and  the  Dover  Road,  a 
little  further  on,  will  give  me  my  second  ;  with  which 
remark  I  think  I  may  leave  Deptford  altogether,  lament- 
ing that  all  that  can  be  seen  of  Sayes  Court  is  now  a 
parish  workhouse  which  stands  on  its  site  ;  and  marvel- 
ling at  the  imperial  relaxation  of  Peter  the  Great  who 
stayed  here  in  1698  (at  the  Court,  not  at  the  workhouse), 
and  who  was  wont  to  unbend  a  mind  wearied  with  ship- 
building, by  being  driven  through  the  world-famous 
hedges  of  the  garden  in  a  wheelbarrow. 


230 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


•^^^■m 


-  iiSi^C ' 


yj  Claiidesiinc  Intefoieiv- 


THE  DOVER  ROAD  231 

Immediately  beyond  Deptford  we  come  to  Blackheath, 
seven  miles  from  London  Bridge,  famous  in  these  days 
for  football  matches,  and  for  villas  built  for  credulous 
people  simple  enough  to  believe  in  fine  air  as  a  remedy 
for  that  mysterious  disease  which,  to  quote  the  terrific 
advertisement,  is  "  stealing  upon  us  all."  But  the  villas, 
I  regret  to  say,  in  which  these  deluded  persons  seek  for 
that  health  which  passeth  understanding,  and  can  only 
be  procured  at  the  vendors  of  patent  medicines,  are  by 
no  means  equal  to  the  aristocratic  residences  for  which 
Blackheath  was  once  famous.  The  manners  of  their 
inhabitants  are  however  much  improved.  At  least  I 
hope  so.  For  Montague  House,  now  pulled  down,  did 
not,  I  apprehend,  shine  conspicuously  in  this  desirable 
respect.  The  reverse  indeed  was  the  case  ;  Montague 
House  having  been,  in  the  days  I  speak  of,  the  residence 
of  the  unfortunate  Oueen  Caroline,  and  the  scene  of  the 
delicate  investigation — which  reminds  me  that  I  am  on 
delicate  ground.  From  the  same  house  that  delightful 
combination  of  the  devil  and  the  three  graces,  my  Lord 
Chesterfield,  wrote  some  of  those  amazing  letters  to  his 
son.  At  Blackheath  also  lived,  at  intervals,  the  con- 
queror of  Quebec,  and  from  his  villa  here  his  remains 
were  carried  to  Greenwich  for  burial. 

Besides  a  queen  devoted  to  junketings,  a  letter-writing 
father,  bent  on  directing  his  son  to  the  deuce,  and  a 
great  warrior,  rebellion  has  in  the  good  old  days  (when 
people  who  wanted  a  purse  simply  took  one  on  the 
nearest  common,  v/ithout  starting  a  subscription  in  the 
newspapers) — rebellion  has  raised  its  head  on  this 
celebrated  spot  ;  and  it  raised  its  head  in  the  person 
of  Wat  Tyler,  who  was  here  in  1381  at  the  head  of  one 
hundred  thousand  other  heads  (which  was  wise  of  him 
seeing  that  he  had  previously  cracked  a  poll-tax  collector's 
head  at  Dartford,  after  drinking  too  much  ale,  I  suppose, 
at  the  celebrated  Bull  Inn).  Another  rebel  was  here,  at 
Blackheath,  in  1497.  Lord  Audley  to  wit,  who  went 
through    the    somewhat    aimless    exercise    of    bringing 


2^2 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


troops  all  the  way  from  Cornwall,  pitching  their  tents, 
and  immediately  afterwards  suffering  defeat  at  the  hands 
of  Henry  the  Seventh. 

Here  we  have  found  history  enough  in  seven  short 
miles  from  London — and  yet  not  half  the  history 
which  can  be  directly  associated  with  Blackheath.  For 
this  celebrated  spot  occupied  in  the  annals  of  England 
much  the   same  sort  of  position   apparently  as  Rotten 


The  Leather  Bottle,  Cohliavt. 


Row  occupies  in  the  annals  of  contemporary  fashion. 
It  was  the  place  where  kings  and  ministers  met  casually 
on  their  way  to  or  from  London,  and  babbled  of  the 
weather,  the  price  of  corn,  the  latest  hanging,  the  odds 
on  the  next  bear-fight,  the  state  of  the  unemployed,  or 
any  other  kindred  subject  which  might  suggest  itself  to 
mediaeval  brains,  in  an  open  space,  where  it  was  not  too 
windy.     Here  then,  to  notice  a  few  of  such  meetings,  in 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


233 


1400  Henry  the  Fourth  met  Manuel,  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople, who  came  to  ask  for  aid  against  the  Sultan 
Bajazet ;  and  sixteen  years  later  the  Emperor  Sigismund 
was  received  here  and  conducted  in  state  to  Lambeth. 
Henry  the  Fifth,  after  one  long  triumphal  procession  the 
whole  way  from  Dover,  was  met  here  on  Blackheath  b)- 
the  mayor  and  five  hundred  citizens  of  London,  and 
hailed  Victor  of  Agincourt.  The  mayor  and  aldermen 
had  "  got  them  all  on "  on  this  occasion  (I  refer  to 
their  scarlet  robes  and  red  and  white  hoods),  and 
were  doubtless  prepared,  with  the  help  of  conduits 
running  wine,  pursuivants-at-arms,  cloth  of  gold,  and 
emblazoned  trappings,  to  give  the  conquering  hero  the 
reception  he  deserved.  But  Henry  on  this  occasion 
seems  to  have  borne  his  honours  with  exemplary 
modesty  ;  and  whether  he  was  surfeited  by  the  sweets  of 
a  triumph  which  had  already  lasted  sixty-four  miles,  or 
whether  he  was  bilious  from  the  Channel  passage  and  a 
long  ride  on  horseback,  he  nipped  all  the  worthy  mayor's 
preparations  in  the  bud.  In  point  of  fact,  according  to 
Holinshed,  "  the  king,  like  a  grave  and  sober  personage, 
and  as  one  remembering  from  Whom  all  victories  are 
sent,  seemed  little  to  regard  such  vaine  pompe  and  shews 
as  were  in  triumphant  sort  devised  for  his  welcoming 
home  from  so  prosperous  a  journie  ;  insomuch  that  he 
would  not  suffer  his  helmet  to  be  carried  before  him, 
whereby  might  have  appeared  to  the  people  the  blowes  and 
dints  that  were  to  be  scene  in  the  same  ;  neither  would 
he  suffer  any  ditties  to  be  made  and  sung  by  minstrels 
of  his  glorious  victorie,  for  that  he  would  have  the  praise 
and  thanks  altogether  given  to  God."  A  pious  decision, 
but  one  which  must  have  been  extremely  unsatisfactory 
to  town  councillors  who  had  launched  forth  in  the  way  of 
dress  and  decorations,  and  to  the  thousands  of  Londoners 
who  had  flocked  out  to  Blackheath  to  see  the  show. 

The  next  royalty  I  find  on  Blackheath  is  Henry  the 
Eighth,  whose  name  is  constantly  cropping  up  in  Kent 
and  Sussex,  and  curiously  enough,  generally  in  connec- 


234  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

tion  with  one  of  his  six  wives  whose  appearance  he  from 
the  first  particularly  abhorred.  I  refer  to  Anne  of 
Cleves,  whose  sad  fate  should  be  a  lasting  Avarning  to 
young  ladies  about  to  marry,  of  the  danger  of  flattering 
portraits.  It  was  here  on  Blackheath  that  the  already 
muchly  married  king  publicly  received  his  fourth  wife, 
with  all  due  decency  and  decorum,  having  already  made 
up  his  royal  mind  to  put  her  away  privately.  For  Henry 
on  this  occasion  did  not  play  fair  ;  and  though  he  pre- 
tended to  Anne  of  Cleves  herself  that  it  was  at  this 
meeting  on  Blackheath  that  he  had  first  seen  her — in 
saying  so,  he  said  that  which  was  not ;  for  he  had  already 
privately  inspected  her  at  the  Crown  Inn  at  Rochester. 
It  was  on  this  occasion,  it  may  be  remembered,  that  the 
bluff  Tudor  gave  way  to  a  regrettable  license  of  speech 
at  first  sight  of  the  goods  the  gods  had  provided  for  him, 
and  said  many  things  unfit  for  publication  ;  which  shocked 
the  onlookers,  and  made  Cromwell  put  his  hands  to  his 
head  to  feel  if  it  was  still  on  his  shoulders. 

It  was  not  there  long  after.  The  match-maker  ex- 
piated his  unfortunate  choice  on  Tower  Hill  ;  and  Anne 
of  Cleves  was  content  to  forego  the  dubious  joys  of 
married  life  for  the  possession  of  the  several  manors  in 
Kent  and  Sussex  that  her  grateful  late  lord  bestowed  up- 
on her.  The  number  of  these  manors  exceeds  belief,  and 
at  the  same  time  gracefully  gauges  Henry's  conception 
of  the  magnitude  of  the  matrimonial  peril  past.  Indeed, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  king's  brain  must  have  been 
quite  turned  with  delight  at  the  retiring  attitude  of  the 
Flanders  lady ;  and  that  whenever  he  had  nothing 
villainous  on  hand,  and  was  disinclined  for  tennis,  he 
gave  Anne  of  Cleves  a  manor  or  two  simply  to  while 
away  the  time. 

But  though  on  cither  of  these  great  occasions  that  I 
have  named,  Blackheath  must  have  been  a  sight  worth 
seeing,  it  was  in  1660  no  doubt  that  the  grandest  of  its 
historical  pageants  was  to  be  seen  :  when  the  long  reac- 
tion against  Puritanism  had  suddenly  triumphed,  and  all 


THE  DOVER  ROAD  235 

England  went  mad  on  a  May  morning  at  the  Restoration 
of  lier  exiled  king;  when  through  sixty-one  miles  as  it 
were  of  conduits  running  wine,  triumphal  arches,  gabled 
streets  hung  with  tapestry — through  battalions  of  citizens 
in  various  bands,  some  arrayed  in  coats  of  black  velvet 
with  gold  chains,  some  in  military  suits  of  cloth  of  gold  or 
silver — Charles,  who  had  slept  at  Rochester  the  night 
before,  rode  on  to  I^lackeath  between  his  brothers,  the 
Dukes  of  York  and  Gloucester. 

And  on  Blackheath  he  saw  on  one  side  the  stern  array 
of  the  great  army  which  he  had  seen  last  (and  seen  too 
much  of)  at  Worcester  ;  and  on  the  other,  according  to 
Walter  Scott,  a  very  favourite  family  group,  well  known 
to  readers  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  In  point  of  fact, 
Sir  Henry  Lee,  of  Ditchley,  arrived  at  the  uttermost 
limits  of  a  noble  old  age,  "having  a  complacent  smile 
on  his  face  and  a  tear  swelling  to  his  eye,  as  he  saw 
the  banners  wave  on  in  interminable  succession,  and 
heard  the  multitude  shouting  the  long-silenced  accla- 
mation, '  God  save  King  Charles  ! '  "  And  round  the 
old  man's  chair  stood  a  delightful  group,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, of  all  the  pleasant  characters  of  Woodstock 
— Colonel  Everard  and  Alice,  now  his  wife  ;  Joceline 
Joliffe,  of  quarter-staff  renown,  and  Mrs.  Joceline  Joliffe, 
iiee  Phoebe  ;  then  Wildrake  too,  the  incomparable  of 
Squattlesea  Mere,  In  the  moist  county  of  Lincoln,  much 
given  to  singing  "  Rub-a-dub,"  and  requesting  the  moon 
and  stars  to  catch  his  hat.  This  morning  he  blazes  in 
splendid  apparel,  but  his  eyes,  I  regret  to  say,  have  been 
washed  with  only  a  single  cup  of  canary.  And  last,  but 
not  least,  Beavis,  the  wolf-hound,  dim  also  as  to  his  eyes, 
stiff  as  to  his  joints,  a  ruin  of  his  former  self,  but  having 
lost  none  of  his  instinctive  fondness  for  his  master. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  when  Charles  from  the 
midst  of  a  maze  of  pursuivants  and  trumpeters,  and 
plumes  and  cloth  of  gold,  and  waving  standards  and 
swords  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  saw  this  group,  he 
had  the  tact  to   remember  it,  the  urbanit)'  to  dismount, 


236 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


prevent  Sir  Henry  Lee  from  rising,  and  ask  for  his 
blessing".  Having  duly  received  which,  the  king  went 
on  to  London,  and  his  very  faithful  servant,  having 
seen  the  desire  of  his  eyes,  was  gathered  to  his  fathers. 
After  Blackheath  and  Scott  (so  literary  is  this  part 
of  the  Dover  Road)  comes  Shooter's  Hill  and  Dickens. 
And  Dickens  is  the  veritable  genius  of  the  road.  His 
memory  burns  by  the  way — as  all  but  the  wicked  man 
who  has  not  read  Pickzvick  and  David  Copperfield  will 


<-■' "    ^  •-'--    ,^v«(ife 


Walking  lip  the  Hill. 


remember — and  indeed  A  Talc,  of  Two  Cities.  For  in  the 
.second  chapter  of  that  wonderful  book  the  very  spirit  of 
the  Dover  Road  in  George  the  Third's  time  is  caught  as 
if  by  magic.  Who  (having  e)'cs)  cannot  see  "  the  Dover 
Road  on  a  Friday  night  late  in  November  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five 
— the  Dover  Road,  lying  beyond  the  Dover  Mail,  as  it 
lumbered  up  Shooter's  Hill".''  The  coachman  (whose 
name  was  Tom)  towelling  the  tired  horses — especially 


THE  DOVER  ROAD  237 

the  near  leader,  much  given  it  will  be  remembered  to 
shaking  its  head  and  everything  upon  it,  as  it  were 
denying  that  the  coach  could  be  got  up  the  hill  at  all. 
The  passengers  wrapped  up  in  rugs  and  in  a  mortal 
distrust  of  each  other,  trudge  through  the  slush  by  the 
coach's  side — Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  of  Telson's  bank,  among 
them.  A  steaming  mist  rises  out  of  all  the  hollows  ; 
the  hour  is  "  ten  minutes,  good,  past  Eleven  " — learning 
which  the  coachman  remarks,  "  My  blood  !  "  and  then, 
"  Tst !  Yah  !  Get  on  with  you  !  "  The  last  burst  carries 
the  Mail  to  the  top  of  the  Hill.  Then  comes  some  dia- 
logue often  heard  on  the  old  coaching  roads  when  George 
the  Third  was  king.  The  passengers  are  in  the  act  of 
re-entering  the  coach. 

"  '  Tst !  Joe  ! '  cried  the  coachman  in  a  warning  voice, 
looking  down  from  his  box. 

"  What  do-  you  say,  Tom  .'' ' 

"  They  both  listened. 

" '  I  say  a  horse  at  a  canter  coming  up,  Joe.' 

" '  I  say  a  horse  at  a  gallop,  Tom,'  returned  the  guard, 
leaving  his  hold  of  the  door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to 
his  seat.  '  Gentlemen,  in  the  king's  name  all  of  you.' 
With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunderbuss, 
and  stood  on  the  defensive." 

Then  to  the  Dover  Mail  as  it  stood  on  the  top  of  Shooter  s 
Hill  entered  Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher ;  remarkable  for  his 
leaning  towards  pursuits  of  an  agricultural  character, 
carried  on  in  churchyards  at  one  in  the  morning  with  the 
assistance  of  a  sack,  a  crowbar  of  convenient  size,  a  rope 
and  chain,  and  other  fishing  tackle  of  that  nature  ;  re- 
markable also,  on  his  domestic  side,  for  a  wife  much 
given  to  flopping  herself  down  and  praying  that  the 
bread  and  butter  might  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of 
her  only  child.  Mr.  Cruncher  was  not  on  a  body-snatch- 
ing expedition  on  this  occasion  however  ;  though  Mr. 
Lorry's  answer  "  Recalled  to  life  " — a  verbal  answer  to 
the  letter  of  which  Jerry  was  bearer — struck  him  as 
ominous  decidedly. 


238  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Who  does  not  remember  all  these  things  ?  Who  has 
not  read  them  again  and  again  ?  I  declare  that  I  think 
this  second  chapter  of  A  Talc  of  Two  Cities  a  picture  of 
the  old  coaching  days  more  perfect  than  any  that  has 
been  painted.  Every  detail  is  there  in  three  pages. 
Every  colour,  every  suggestion,  from  "  the  mildewy  inside 
of  the  old  Mail,  with  its  damp  and  dirty  straw,  its  dis- 
agreeable smell,  and  its  obscurity,"  to  the  guard's  arm- 
chest  where  the  blunderbuss  lay  recondite ;  to  that  smaller 
chest  too  in  which  there  were  a  few  smith's  tools,  a  couple 
of  torches,  and  a  tinder-box.  ''  For  he  was  furnished 
wath  such  completeness  that  if  the  coach  lamps  had  been 
blown  and  stormed  out,  w4iich  did  occasionally  happen, 
he  had  only  to  shut  himself  up  inside,  keep  the  flint  and 
steel  sparks  well  off  the  straw,  and  get  a  light  with  toler- 
able safety  and  ease  (if  he  were  lucky)  in  five  minutes." 
I  can  see  the  passengers  hiding  their  watches  and  purses 
in  their  boots  (still  fearful  that  the  messenger  who  had 
stopped  the  Mail  was  a  highwayman),  their  hearts  beat- 
ing loud  enough  to  be  heard,  and  the  panting  of  the 
horses  communicating  a  tremulous  motion  to  the  coach 
— as  if  it  too  were  in  a  state  of  agitation.  Which  fancied 
peril  passed — if  we  had  been  in  the  Dover  Mail  on  that 
memorable  night  with  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry — we  should  have 
probably  taken  our  watches  gradually  out  of  our  boots 
as  we  passed  Welling,  Bexley  Heath,  and  Crayford,  in 
order  that  on  arrival  at  the  Bull  Inn  at  Dartford,  we  might 
walk  to  the  bar  comfortably  to  take  a  drink. 

And  the  Bull  at  Dartford  looks,  at  the  present  time  of 
speaking,  much  as  it  must  have  done  to  the  passengers 
by  the  Dover  Mail  in  1775.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  finest 
inns  on  the  Dover  Road.  Here  at  the  Bull  at  Dartford 
we  have  a  galleried  courtyard  (not  however  rendered 
more  interesting  to  artistic  eyes  by  the  addition  of  a 
glass  roof,  under  which  local  corndealcrs  try  to  get  the 
best  of  a  bargain).  W'e  have  also  the  low  archway 
decorated  with  game  suspended,  the  kitchen  on  one  side, 
the  bar  on  the  other,  and   a  general  atmosphere  of  dc- 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


239 


liberate  travelling  and  sleepy  comfort.  Also  a  reminis- 
cence of  antiquity — for  the  Bull,  according  to  local 
legend  and  Mr.  Harrison  Ainsworth,  was  a  flourishing 
concern  five  centuries  ago.  In  front  of  the  old  house  the 
impetuous  Wat  Tyler  began  his  historical  record  in  the 
fifth  year  of  Richard  the  Second  by  incontestably  de- 
monstrating to  an  incredulous  crowd  that  the  local  poll- 


The  Bull,  Dartford. 

tax  collector  had  brains.  In  truth  he  spread  them  coram 
J)op2ilo  upon  the  Green.  Much  history  has  passed  in  front 
of  the  old  inn  of  course  since  those  exhilarating  days  ;  in 
1822  perhaps  scene  the  last.  For  then  while  the  great 
Fourth  George  was  majestically  reposing  in  his  royal 
post-chaise  in  front  of  the  old  archway  he  experienced  an 
unpleasant  surprise.  A  very  ungentlemanly  man  named 
Calligan,  a  working  currier  who   ought  to  have  known 


240 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


better,  suddenly   projected   his  head    into   the   carriage 
window,  and  observed   in  a   voice   of  thunder,  "  You're  a 


■■■■■■^m:MSsmmMm 


ii^^vJy(iiV-\n 


.;>l:,^ 


*■« 


^    T 


mm^'^ 


)  W:im 


w 


■•\v'/,'-    Vl! 


A  '»</ 


i 


K" 


Place  House — Anne  of  Cleves'  Manor  House 


murderer!"  an  historical  allusion  to  the  kinc^'s  late  treat- 
ment  of  Queen  Caroline,  which  made  the  royal  widower 


THE  DOVER  ROAD  241 

"  sit  up."  Upon  which  a  bystander  named  Morris  knocked 
the  personal  currier  down,  and  the  window  of  the  post- 
chaise  was  pulled  up,  and  the  post-boy  told  to  drive  on 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

But  I  cannot  leave  Dartford  without  visiting  Place 
House,  a  delightful  record  of  the  Middle  Ages,  standing 
in  immediate  juxtaposition  to  an  iron  foundry  and  a  rail- 
way station,  and  approached  by  a  narrow  lane  rich  in 
black  mud.  We  are  indebted  for  Place  House,  as  well 
as  for  much  that  is  picturesque  in  England,  to  the  monks 
— or  rather  in  this  case  (I  beg  the  ladies'  pardon)  to  the 
nuns.  For  the  house,  founded  by  Edward  the  Third,  was 
a  priory  of  Augustinians  to  which  all  the  noble  ladies  in 
Kent,  who  had  discovered  that  life  is  not  worth  a  potato, 
retired  serenely  from  a  tedious  world.  After  the  disso- 
lution, Henry  the  Eighth  saw  in  it  a  desirable  residence 
for  Anne  of  Cleves — Place  House  indeed  was  one  of  the 
first  manors  granted  to  this  little-married  but  much 
dowered  lady.  In  after  times  the  manor  was  given  with 
many  others  by  James  the  First  to  Robert  Cecil,  in  ex- 
change for  Theobalds  (the  Stuart  king's  Naboth's  vine- 
yard), and  here  its  history  ends  ;  but  it* is  a  charming 
place  to  feast  the  eyes  upon  still,  and  is  best  looked  at 
from  the  farmyard. 

There  is  nothing  much  now  to  see  or  describe  in  the 
eight  miles  which  separate  Dartford  from  Gravesend. 
Cardinal  Wolsey  however  was  down  this  part  of  the 
Dover  Road  in  1527,  with  his  usual  Brobdingnagian  reti- 
nue. The  cardinal  in  his  prosperous  days  must  have 
been  a  deuce  of  a  person  to  ask  to  one's  country-house — 
as  Sir  John  Wilshyre,  of  Stone  Place,  discovered  on  this 
identical  occasion.  For  Stone  Place  was  not  big  enough 
for  Wolsey's  nine  hundred  followers,  and  so  most  of  them 
had  to  put  up  at  Dartford,  and  Sir  John  had  to  pay 
the  bill. 

People  now  go  to  Gravesend  to  embark  on  the  P.  and  O. 
steamers  for  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  so  it  is 
still  a  busy  place.     But  it  was  always  busy  even  in  the  old 

R 


242  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

times,  and  was  then  additionally  picturesque.  At 
Gravesend  distinguished  visitors  to  London  made  up 
their  minds  as  to  whether  they  would  approach  the 
capital  by  the  river  or  the  Dover  Road.  And  if  they 
decided  on  the  river,  there  was  generally  a  gorgeous  sight 
to  be  witnessed  on 

*'  The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green  " 

— the  Thames  that  is  to  say  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
Mr.  William  Morris.  The  present  Lord  Mayors'  Shows 
give  us  no  conception,  I  fear,  of  the  gorgeous  processions 
which  attended  the  passage  of  distinguished  visitors  up 
the  river  in  the  days  when  the  Thames  looked  as  Mr. 
Morris  has  described  it,  and  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London 
was  the  important  personage  that  French  dramatists  still 
believe  him  to  be.  Cardinal  Pole  came  by  this  route  on 
his  return  from  exile,  and  the  Poet  Laureate  in  Queen 
Mary  has  put  a  fine  passage  into  his  mouth  descriptive 
of  his  experience.  With  "  royal  barges "  however, 
"  thrones  of  purple  on  decks,"  "  silver  crosses  sparkling 
before  prows,""  "  ripples  twinkling  in  their  diamond 
dance,"  "  boats  as  glowing  gay  as  regal  gardens,"  we 
have  nothing  to  do,  so  had  better  get  on  to  Rochester 
via  Gad's  Hill. 

Here  Falstaff's  horse  was  removed  by  Prince  Hal,  an 
operation  which  caused  its  owner  to  "  fret  like  gummed 
velvet."  Here  he  was  desired  by  his  unfeeling  companion 
to  lie  down  and  lay  his  ear  close  to  the  ground  in  order 
that  he  might  hear  the  tread  of  travellers — a  formality 
which  he  declined  to  comply  with,  unless  somebody 
promised  to  help  him  up.  Here  he  was  called  opprobrious 
names — "  Fat  Guts  "  amongst  others.  Here  he  robbed 
the  travellers  w^ho  were  carrying  money  to  the  king's 
exchequer,  in  order  that  he  might  divert  it  to  the  King's 
Arms.  And  here  he  was  robbed  of  what  he  had  robbed 
by  his  graceless  confederates  childishly  bent  on  a 
practical  joke. 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


243 


The  Precinct  Gate,  Rochester. 


R   2 


244 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


m^^ 


The  New  Leader. 


Here   too,  from  his   house  on   Gad's  Hill  (and  a  very 
hideous  house  it  is),  Charles  Dickens,  having  a  full  view 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


245 


of  the  scene  of  this  Shakesperean  interlude,  gave   novel 
after  wonderful  novel  to  an  astonished  world,  which  was 
never  sated  with  a  humour  and  an  observation  of  life  which 
were  indeed  Shakesperean  ;  but  kept  craving  and  ^ 
calling  for  more,  and  for  more — till  the  magi-    J'^^^^ 
cian's  brain  was    hurt,    and    the    magic    pen 
began  to  move   painfully  and  with    labour, 
and    the    chair   on    Gad's    Hill  was   found 
one  June  morning  to  be  empty  for  ever. 

I  remember  the  shock  of  that  announce- 
ment well.     It  was  as   if  some  pulse  in 


fm^^M.      ^&^^ 


■■.-■'■''   W} 

'""•'t'.    •'■''#■     ■>  '«■■ 


llOls-*---- 


The  Nuns'  Houses,  Rochester. 


the  nation's  heart  had  stopped  beating.     There  was  as 
it  were  a    feeling  that    some    great  embodied   joy  had 


246 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


left  the  world,  and  silence  had  fallen  on  places  of 
divine  laughter.  So  men  must  have  felt,  I  think, 
when  Rabelais  died — Rabelais,  the  man  who  first 
tausrht  a  monk-ridden  world  how  to  shake  its  sides  : 
so  men  must  have  felt,  I  think,  when  the  day  destined 
for  the  departure  came  to  Swift  and  Fielding  and  Sterne 
— Sterne  so  much  maligned  by  Coleridge  and  Thackeray 
and  others,  yet  of  all  his  contempbraries  the  most  pro- 
found, the  most  misunderstood.  Yes,  the  feeling  was 
general,  I  think,  that  English  literature  had  suffered   an 

irremediable  loss  by 
Dickens's  death  ;  and 
time  has  confirmed  the 
fear.  We  have  aban- 
doned laughter  in  these 
days  for  documentary 
evidence,  psychology, 
realism,  and  other  pre- 
scriptions for  sleep,  and 
have  entered  on  a  liter- 
ary era  which  has  lost 
all  touch  and  sym- 
pathy with  Dickens, 
and  is  indeed  divinely 
dull. 

The  above  may  ap- 
pear perhaps  in  a 
coaching  article,  a 
literary  digression,  but  it  is  in  truth  but  a  resurrection 
pie  of  thoughts  which  occurred  to  me — and  would  occur 
to  any  real  lover  of  Dickens — in  the  course  of  that  two 
mile  seven  furlong  walk  on  the  Dover  Road  between 
Gad's  Hill  and  Rochester,  which  the  great  author  used 
to  cover  nearly  every  other  day  of  his  life.  For  Rochester 
is  as  closely  associated  with  Dickens  as  Chaucer  is  with 
Canterbury,  or  Shakespeare  with  Stratford-on-Avon.  In 
that  great  cycle  of  imaginative  prose  beginning  with  the 
Pickwick  Fathers  and  ending  with  Edwin  Drood^  Roches- 


Staircase  in  the  A'wis'  Houses,  Rochester. 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


247 


tcr  is  written  almost  on  the  first  page,  and  almost  upon 
the  last.  Is  it  a  wonder  then  that  in  the  picturesquely 
beautiful  old  town  reminiscences  of  the  departed  genius 
should  haunt  one  at  every  step  ? 

"The  principal  productions  of  Rochester,"  wrote  Mr. 
Pickwick,  "  appear  to  be  soldiers,  sailors,  Jews,  chalk, 
shrimps,  officers,  and  dockyard  men."     But   I   think   the 


.m 


^w 


Hi  (* 


''^^  ^^^wmm^^m 


TAe  Bull  and  Victoria,  Rochester. 

description  is  truer  of  the  three  other  towns  of  Strood, 
Chatham,  and  New  Brompton,  which  are  included  in  the 
category ;  for  when  I  was  at  Rochester  I  saw  few  of 
these  articles  of  commerce,  and  nothing  whatever  I  am 
bound  to  say  of  the  historic  conviviality  of  the  military. 
But  I  saw  the  cathedral  and  the  castle,  which  are  both 
fine,  especially  the  castle  ;  and  I  heard  as  it  were  in  the 
air  the  voice  of  the  immortal  Jingle  observing,  "  Glorious 


248  COACHING   DAYS   AND   COACHING   WAYS 

pile — frowning  walls — ^tottering  arches — dark  nooks — 
crumbling  staircases — old  cathedral  too — earthy  smell — 
pilgrims'  feet  worn  away  the  old  steps — confessionals  like 
money-takers'  boxes  at  the  theatre  ;  "  after  which  I  looked 
at  the  bridge  over  which  David  Copperfield  saw  himself 
coming  as  evening  closed  in  footsore  and  tired,  and 
eating  the  bread  that  he  had  bought  for  supper  ;  after 
which  I  went  to  the  Bull  and  Victoria  Hotel  and  had 
supper  myself. 

"  Good  house — nice  beds,"  according  to  Mr.  Jingle, 
who  however  did  not  put  up  here  himself,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  but  he  dined  with  the  Pickwickians  and  recom- 
mended broiled  fowl  and  mushrooms — if  he  might  be 
permitted  to  dictate.  But  why  prolong  the  description 
of  that  immortal  night  .'*  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  at 
the  Bull — which  is  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the  inn  of  old 
days  as  I  have  seen  on  my  travels — everything  con- 
nected with  the  stay  of  the  Pickwickians  is  preserved 
and  cherished  as  the  apple  of  his  eye  by  the  courteous 
and  cultivated  proprietor.  All  is  shown  to  those  who 
are  interested  and  reverent.  The  long  room  where  the 
ball  took  place,  "  with  crimson  covered  benches  and  wax 
candles  in  glass  chandeliers  ;  the  elevated  den  in  which 
the  musicians  were  securely  confined  ; "  the  corner  of 
the  staircase  where  the  indignant  Slammer  met  the  vic- 
torious Jingle  returning  after  escorting  Mrs.  Budger  to 
her  carriage,  and  said  "  Sir  !  "  in  an  awful  voice,  pro- 
ducing a  card  ;  the  bedroom  of  Winkle  ''  inside  that  of 
Mr.  Tupman's,"  an  arrangement  which  enabled  Mr. 
Jingle  to  restore  his  borrowed  plumage  "  unbeknownst" 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  ball.  All  the  first  part  of  Pick- 
wick is  to  be  seen  I  say  at  the  Bull  and  Victoria — with 
surroundings  eloquent  of  the  old-world  past  ;  and  which 
the  author  has  in  some  other  of  his  works  thus  graphically 
described  : — 

"  A  famous  inn  !  The  hall  a  very  grove  of  dead  game, 
and  dangling  joints  of  mutton  ;  and  in  one  corner  an 
illustrious  larder,  with  glass  doors  developing  cold  fowls 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


249 


Courtyard  of  Bull  and  Victoria,  Rochester. 


and  noble  joints.  And  tarts  wherein  the  raspberry  jam 
coyly  withdrew  itself,  as  such  a  precious  creature  should, 
behind  a  lattice  work  of  pastry." 


250  COACHING   DAYS   AND   COACHING   WAYS 

But  to  leave  the  Bull  and  Pickwick  (for  the  Bull  is 
not  the  only  inn  in  Rochester  to  be  described,  nor  is  the 
History  of  Pickwick  by  any  manner  of  means  its  only 
history) — the  Crown,  which  stands  at  the  foot  of  the 
bridge,  is  a  modern  house  now,  but  it  is  built  on  the  site 
of  a  venerable  place  with  gables  and  barge  boards,  which 
stood  in  1390,  and  was  pulled  down  (without  a  drawing 
having  been  made  of  it,  it  is  needless  to  remark)  so  late 
only  as  1863.  A  portion  of  the  original  stable  still 
stands,  which  is  a  remarkably  interesting  fact,  since  it  was 
here  that  that  scene  with  the  carriers  took  place  in  Henry 
IV.,  Act  II.,  Scene  I,  which  was  an  introduction  to  the 
robbery  on  Gad's  Hill.  To  the  Crown  in  its  old  shape 
came  as  visitor  Henry  the  Eighth  to  have  a  private  peep 
at  Anne  of  Cleves.  He  came  ;  he  saw  ;  he  pronounced 
her  a  Flanders  mare.    He  departed,  using  strange  words. 

The  White  Hart,  another  inn  at  Rochester  almost 
opposite  the  Bull  and  Victoria,  now  presents  the  appear- 
ance of  a  small  public-house  ;  but  it  can  boast  some 
antiquity  in  its  way,  having  been  built  in  the  reign  of 
Richard  the  Second,  and  in  1667  sheltered  the  inquisi- 
tive head  of  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys — an  incident  which,  re- 
membering that  Samuel  was  no  enemy  of  good  cheer, 
makes  it  probable  that  in  those  good  old  days  it  was  the 
best  inn  in  the  place.  Pepys  was  at  Rochester  on  some 
business  connected  with  the  Admiralty  and  dockyards. 
He  went  to  the  Cathedral,  but  left  before  the  service, 
strolled  into  the  fields,  viewed  Sir  F.  Clark's  pretty  seat, 
and  then  retired  to  a  cherry  garden,  where  he  met  with 
an  adventure  in  the  shape  of  a  young,  plain,  silly  shop- 
keeper, who  had  a  pretty  young  woman  as  his  wife. 
Mrs.  Pepys  not  being  present,  on  this  plain  shopkeeper's 
pretty  wife  the  susceptible  Samuel  threw  deathly  glances. 
He  also  kissed  her,  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say,  and 
they  then  ate  their  dinners  together,  and  walked  in  the 
fields  till  dark.  An  hiatus  here  occurs  in  the  Diary. 
But  the  paragraph  on  emerging  from  mystery  ends  in 
the  usual  way — "  and  so  to  sleep." 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


251 


Besides  Mr.  Fepys  there  came  to  Rochester  in  1573 
Oueen  Elizabeth,  and  in  1606  James  the  First  and  that 
exceedingly  jovial  boon  companion,  the  King  of 
Denmark  ;  but  they  appear  to  have  been  both  in  decent 


^^mt 


'    y 


1     ♦,,, >,    f& 

'   ■^  rrr  1  'a* ' 


^mr 


.v:  .'■'»«. 


Restoratio>i  House,  Rochester. 

and  sober  frame — indeed,  something  in  the  penitential 
mood — for  they  underwent  a  sermon  in  the  Cathedral. 
James  the  Second  was  at  Rochester  too,  but  not  in  the 
best  of  spirits  I  apprehend,  or  in  the  mood  for  viewing 
any  ruins  except  those  of  his  own  life.  For  he  came 
here  under  a  Dutch   guard,   after  his    first    attempt    to 


252  COACHING   DAYS   AND   COACHING   WAYS 

escape,  and  after  a  week's  detention  was  probably  allowed 
to  do  so.  He  embarked  on  board  a  tender  in  the  river 
from  a  house  which  is  still  standing,  and  was  landed  in 
due  course  at  Ambleteuse. 

But  the  most  interesting  events  connected  with  royal 
visits  to  Rochester  surround  the  stay  of  Charles  the 
Second  at  Restoration  House,  in  the  course  of  his 
triumphant  procession  to  London.  The  present  owner  of 
this  house,  which  was  built  about  1587,  Mr.  S.  J.  Aveling, 
has  kindly  obliged  me  with  some  details  about  this  royal 
and  memorable  visit  which  are  full  of  interest  and  have 
been  most  religiously  preserved. 

The  king  arrived  at  Rochester  on  the  Monday  follow- 
ing his  landing  at  Dover.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
refresh  himself ;  the  second  to  go  and  see  the  Royal 
Sovereign,  then  lying  at  Chatham.  After  which  he 
returned  to  Restoration  House,  and  was  immediately 
presented  with  a  most  dutiful  and  loyal  address  from 
Colonel  Gibbons,  then  in  temporary  possession  of  the 
place  ;  and  also  from  the  regiment  of  Colonel  Gibbons 
stationed  at  that  time  in  Rochester.  John  Marloe,  the 
mayor  of  the  city,  now  had  his  opportunity  for  display- 
ing loyalty,  and  went  to  the  length  of  a  "faire  piece  of  plate, 
value  one  hundred  pounds,"  being  a  basin  and  ewer  gilt. 
The  king  must  have  been  tired  that  night,  and  no  doubt 
he  slept  well.  He  should  have  done  so,  at  all  events,  for 
he  slept  in  a  delightful  room  which  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing,  containing  amongst  other  curiosities 
a  secret  panel  which  opens  into  passages  communicat- 
ing with  the  garden  and  with  the  roof. 

The  first  half  of  the  Dover  Road — that  part  of  it  as  far 
as  Rochester  at  all  events — is  so  closely  associated  with 
the  memory  of  Dickens,  that  another  reminiscence  of  him 
may  fittingly  round  its  story.  There  is  a  passage  then 
in  Great  Expectations  referring  to  this  very  Restoration 
House,  a  place  which  always  took  his  fancy,  and  well  it 
mi"ht. 

"  I  had  stopped,"  thus  the  passage  runs,  "  to  look  at 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


253 


the  house  as  I  passed,  and  its  seared  red  brick  walls, 
blocked  windows,  and  strong  green  ivy  clasping  even  the 
stacks  of  chimneys  with  its  twigs  and  tendons,  as  if  with 
sinewy  old  arms,  made  up  a  rich  and  attractive  mystery." 
This  mystery  held  him  to  the  end.  On  the  occasion 
of  his  last  visit  to  Rochester,  June  6th,  1870,  he  was  seen 
leaning  on  a  fence  in  front  of  the  house,  gazing  at  it, 
rapt,  intent,  as  if  drawing  inspiration  from  its  clustering 


^I'l'^-^'' 


y>^ 


•.ain->  >-^r.  11 


Summerhill. 


chimneys,  its  storied  walls  so  rich  with  memories  of  the 
past.  It  was  anticipated,  it  was  hoped,  that  the  next 
chapter  of  Edwin  Drood  would  bear  the  fruits  of  this 
reverie.     The  next  chapter  was  never  written. 

The  Dover  Road  after  leaving  Rochester,  runs  through 
Chatham,  celebrated  for  its  dockyard,  for  its  lines,  in 
which  Mr.  Pickwick  playfully  chased  his  hat  till  it  intro- 
duced him  to  the  Wardles,  and  gave  a  new  start  by 
doing  so  to  his  adventures  ;  celebrated  also  for  a  gentle- 


254 


COACHING   DAYS    AND    COACHING   WAYS 


man  of  David  Copperfield's  acquaintance  who  used  to 
live  here  in  a  low  small  shop,  which  was  darkened 
rather  than  lightened  by  a  little  window,  and  who  was 
wont  to  remark,  "  O  my  lungs  and  liver  !  what  do  you 
want  ?  O  Goroo  !  Goroo  !  "  to  any  one  who  offered  him 
for  sale  an  old  waistcoat. 

I    went,    when    I    was    at    Chatham,  to   see  whether 
tradition    could    still    point    out   the   residence    of   this 


V'     ''■ 


-^1 


--^*.^JH«Si.'*» 


Town  House,  lg;htham. 

peculiar  man  of  genius  whose  strange  exclamation  has 
added  as  far  as  I  know  another  gem  to  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  whose  remarks  on  his  constitution  are  so 
pregnant  with  melancholy  meaning  to  people  who  live 
sedentary  lives  ;  but  my  search  was  unsuccessful ;  the 
home  of  the  author  of  "  Goroo  !  Goroo !  "  is  no  longer 
pointed  out  to  dyspeptic  travellers  ;  so  I  set  my  face  for 
Canterbury,  finding  nothing  in  Chatham  to  interest  me 
further. 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


255 


The  Dover  Road  after  leaving  Chatham  is  simply  the  old 
Watling  Street  with  modern  improvements  and  nothing 
more.  It  runs  consequently  in  nearly  as  straight  a  line  as 
can  be  imagined,  through  a  fine  rolling  country,  com- 
manding here  and  there  fine  views,  and  here  and  there 
no  views  at  all.  But  that  plethora  of  historic  incident 
which  marked  the  Dover  Road  as  far  as  Rochester  still 
occurs  ;  till,  at  the  end  of  twenty-five  miles  one  furlong 
we  reach  Canterbury,  which  is  a  sort  of  historical  reservoir 
in  itself 

We  are  not  there  however  yet.  By  no  means.  And 
on  the  way  there  (after  passing  through  Rainham  and 
Moor  Street)  Newington,  six  miles  from  Chatham,  first 
gives  me  pause.  For  here  a  very  dolorous  event  occurred 
in  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  the  dark  ages.  And  it 
occurred  in  a  priory  for  nuns,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  which 
was  founded  shortly  after  the  Domesday  Survey.  There 
was  a  difference  of  opinion  among  the  ladies  on  a  rainy 
afternoon,  and  the  next  morning  the  prioress  was  found 
strangled  in  her  bed.  The  catastrophe  striking  even 
the  mediaeval  authorities  as  something  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  they  took  decisive  measures  for  staying 
the  scandal  by  burying  all  the  nuns  alive  in  a  chalk  pit  ; 
a  curious  instance  of  an  adroit  dealing  with  a  difficulty, 
which  may  be  seen  (the  chalk  pit,  not  the  difficulty)  to 
this  day. 

After  which  heavy  business  we  had  better  get  on  to 
Sittingbourne  (thirty-nine  miles  six  furlongs  from 
London)  for  a  little  refreshment.  And  Sittingbourne  is, 
or  rather  was,  in  the  old  coaching  days,  a  good  place 
for  a  dinner.  At  all  events,  here  many  of  our  English 
kings  dined,  Henry  the  Fifth  amongst  the  number,  who 
was  sumptuously  entertained  at  the  Red  Lion  on  his 
return  from  Agincourt  at  the  cost  of  nine  shillings  and 
sixpence.  ("Are  visions  about  .^ ")  Here  also  George 
the  First  and  George  the  Second  refreshed  repeatedly 
on  their  way  to  Hanover  at  the  George  or  Rose,  but,  as 
I  apprehend,  at  a  more  extended   tariff.     The  George 


256 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


and  the  Rose  both  stand  still — but  as  inns,  alas  !  no 
more.  They  are  fallen  from  their  previous  divinity,  and 
now  cast  a  shade,  and  an  extremely  dismal  one  too, 
one  as  a  shop,  and  the  other  as  a  lecture  hall — which  is 


Gateway,  Leeds  Castle. 


a  good  instance  of  the  sort  of  degraded  disguise  in  which 
so  many  of  the  once  famous  hostelries  of  the  great  roads 
of  England  coyly  hide  themselves  from  the  historian's 
inquiring  eyes. 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


^57 


r 


,) 


W    4 


um 


I 


K 


Old  Hospital,  Canterbury. 


s 


258  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Sittingbournc  is  not  exactly  the  sort  of  place  now,  in 
spite  of  its  august  past,  to  make  a  weary  traveller  dance, 
and  sing,  and  rejoice,  and  play  the  lute — as  Mr.  Chadband 
would  have  it.  Far  from  it,  if  the  truth  must  be  told. 
It  is  indeed  depressing  to  a  distinct  degree,  and  was  the 
birthplace  of  a  once  celebrated  critic.  Here  Theobald 
was  born  towards  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
He  edited  Shakespeare,  and  said  nasty  things  of  Pope, 
who  marked,  learned,  and  inwardly  digested  them,  and 
thus  in  the  Diinciad  remembers  him  kindly. 

"  Here  to  her  chosen  all  her  works  she  shows," 

sings  the  little  man  of  Twickenham,  describing  a  pastime 
of  the  great  goddess  Dulness. 

"  Prose  swell'd  to  Verse,  verse  loitering  into  Prose  : 
How  random  thoughts  now  meaning  chance  to  find, 
Now  leave  all  memory  of  sense  behind  : 
How  Prologues  into  prefaces  decay, 
And  these  to  notes  are  frittered  quite  away  : 
How  index-learning  turns  no  student  pale. 
Yet  holds  the  eel  of  science  by  the  tail  ; 
How,  with  less  reading  than  makes  felons  "scape, 
Less  human  genius  than  God  gives  an  ape, 
Small  thanks  to  France,  and  none  to  Rome  or  Greece, 
A  past,  vamp'd  future,  old,  revised,  new  piece, 
'Twixt  Plautus,  Fletcher,  Shakespeare,  and  Corneille, 
Can  make  a  Cibber,  Tibbald,  or  Ozell." 

Which  last,  though  far  from  a  good  rhyme,  enshrines, 
I  fear,  our  critic's  name  for  ever.  For  by  "  Tibbald," 
I  much  regret  to  say,  Theobald  is  meant.  And  when 
Theobald  read  it,  I've  no  doubt  he  wished  that  Sitting- 
bourne  had  never-  seen  him. 

After  leaving  which  town,  forward  the  long  reaches  of 
the  Dover  Road  stretch  past  Bapchild,  past  Radfield,  past 
Green  Street,  where  in  the  days  of  the  Road  at  the  Swan 
the  London  coaches  changed  horses  ;  when  all  such 
coaching  rites  were  celebrated  as  "  throat-lashing,"  "  tak- 
ing out  the  leaders,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  And  so  on  to  Ospringe, 
where  at  the  Red  Lion  horses  were  also  kept,  and  a  Camera 


THE  DOVER  ROAU 


259 


Butchery  Lane,  Canterbury. 


26o  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Regis  in  a  Maison  Dieu  as  well,  for  the  use  of  such  kings 
on  this  truly  royal  road  as  had  got  galled  in  the  saddle 
and  felt  disposed  to  lie  on  their  royal  faces  for  a  night. 
This  Maison  Dieu  was  founded  by  Henry  the  Second, 
and    came    afterwards   into  the  hands  of  the  Knights 
Templars.     By  them  it  was  no  doubt  administered  ac- 
cording to  their  debonair  wont.     Barmaids,  hot  soup,  old 
Malvoisie,  and  no  change  given  over  the  counter,  put 
fresh  life  into  the  old  place,  and  dimly  heralded  the  pro- 
fuse hospitality  of  the  coaching  days  ;  made  many  knights 
and  squires  of  high  estate  linger  on  their  pilgrimage,  and 
forget  whither  they  were  going.     For  they  were  going  to 
Canterbury  we  must  suppose  ;  and  from  Boughton  Hill, 
about  four  miles  on,  the  spire  of  the  great  cathedral  was 
first  seen  from  the  backs  of  war-horses,  mules,  from  the  top 
of  stage  coaches,  or  from  other  points  of  view  obtainable 
by  travellers  of  all  ranks  on  the  Dover  Road,  and  at  various 
periods  in  its  history.     None  but  pedestrians  or  bicyclists 
get  this   view   now,  because  the    railway  after    leaving 
Faversham  makes  a  detoii?-  which  does  not  command  it. 
At  Faversham  I   should  like  to  have  paused  if  I  had 
any  business  there  at  all,  for  it  was  a  most  picturesque 
place,  and  enshrines  among  its  traditions  a   most  pic- 
turesque murder,  redolent  of  gloom,  premeditation  and 
the  sixteenth  century.     The  Dover  Road  proper  how- 
ever avoids  Faversham  altogether,  so  I  must  avoid  it  too, 
and  passing  over  Boughton  Hill,  and  shortly  afterwards 
passing  by  "  Courtenay's  Gate"  (where  in   May,   1838, 
Sir    William   Courtenay,  Knight  of  Malta,  an  amiable 
man,  believing  himself  to  be  somebody  who  he  wasn't, 
was   shot,   after  his   remarkable  pilgrimage),   pass   into 
Canterbury    itself,    which    as    a    cathedral   town   stands 
alone — like   its   cathedral.     And  everywhere  in  Canter- 
bury— at  the  Falstaff  Inn  beyond  the  W^est  Gate,  in  the 
incomparable  Pligh  Street,  a  very  coloured  vista  itself  of 
medi?cvalism — on  the  grand  cathedral's  dreaming  close, 
"  the  Middle  Age   is  gorgeous  upon  earth  again,"   as   a 
modern  poet  very  felicitously  puts  it.     On  all  sides,  at 


THE  dovp:r  road 


261 


every  turn  history,  romance,  legend,  spring  beneath  our 
feet,  h'or  the  moment,  in  face  of  such  a  treasure  house 
of  the  fantastic  past,  all  recollections  of  coachmen  and 
coaches,  and  wheelers  and  leaders,  and  time  bills,  and 
Carey's  Itinerary  and  Paterson's  Roads,  and  other  data 
for  horsey  history,  vanish  as  a  tale  that  is  told.  Only  for 
a    moment  however,  for  the  coaching  tale  of  the  Dover 


Taking  out  the  Leaders. 


Road  has  not  been  told  yet  at  all,  and  very  shortly  has 
to  be. 

Meanv/hile  the  history  of  Canterbury — and  by  its 
history  I  mean  not  only  its  coaching  history,  with  its 
accompanying  casualties,  shoes  cast,  bolting  horses, 
chains  snapped,  &c.,  &c.  ;  but  also  its  long  list  of 
historical  visitors  who  reached  it  bv  the  Dover  Road, 
and  not  by  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  Railway — 


262 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


calls  for  instant  telling.  For  its  list  of  historical  visitors 
is  long  and  distinguished,  and  the  visitors  must  be  made 
rotate  in  the  order  of  their  rotation,  as  a  game-keeper 
speaking  of  undisciplined  beaters  at  a  battue  once 
geographically  remarked. 

To  avoid  then  a  too  profound  plunge  into  the  past, 
I  shall  skip  such  uncomfortably  early  visitors  as  King 
Lucius,   Ethelbert,  and  Augustine,  who  are   so   antique 


€  ■»^,.      ^h 


^j        y  "mm 


1    t;U]'!^/!  -v-^!'-,^ 


Falstaff  Inn,  West  Gate,  Canterbury. 

that  they  would  be  very  likely  to  get  me  into  trouble 
if  I  meddled  with  them,  and  mention  Becket,  who 
has  been  much  overdone,  only  to  point  out  that  so 
many  skulls  have  been  attributed  to  him,  that  the 
modern  inhabitants  have  sunk  into  a  horrid  state  of  in- 
credulity as  to  any  of  them.  The  latest  skull  had  been 
discovered  (by  the  Daily  Telegraph,  I  believe)  when  T 
was  at  Canterbury  last  ;  but  the  burghers  of  Canterbury 
when    I   spoke  of  it   looked   at  me  with  a  pitying  smile, 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


163 


and  directed  me  to  the  nearest  house  of  refreshment. 
Skulls  or  no  skulls  however,  it  is  certain  that  the  fracture 
of  Bccket's  at  Canterbury  at  five  o'clock  on  December  29, 


A  Cast  Shoe. 


1 1 70,  was  the  magnet  which  drew  most  visitors  to  the  town  ; 
and  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  church  in  which  Becket 
was  murdered  in  the  glorious  choir  of  Conrad  (the  Prior, 
not  the  Corsair)  was  entirely  burnt  down  in   1 1 74.     The 


264  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

early  Inhabitants  were  much  annoyed  at  this  catastrophe. 
They  held  no  local  inquiry  according  to  our  more  modern 
custom,  but  they  beat  the  walls  and  pavements  of  the 
church  and  blasphemed,  with  equally  satisfactory  results. 
After  which  they  sent  for  another  architect,  and  William 
of  Sens  appeared  upon  the  scene.  All  went  well  with 
William  till  one  day  there  was  an  eclipse  of  the  sun, 
upon  which  he  fell  off  a  scaffolding  raised  for  turning  the 
vault,  and  found  himself  so  extremely  unwell  when  he 
cfot  to  the  bottom  that  he  had  to  return  to  France — via 
Dover  of  course. 

The  cathedral,  in  spite  of  these  mishaps,  was  com- 
pleted in  II 84.  To  Becket's  shrine,  ''blazing  with  gold 
and  jewels,"  came  amongst  others,  Richard  Cceur  de 
Lion,  on  shanks's  mare — barefoot  too,  and  from  Sandwich, 
which  seems  a  curious  place  to  have  come  from  ;  but 
Richard  at  the  time  was  fresh  from  an  Austrian  dungeon, 
and  could  not  be  expected  to  know  what  was  what,  or 
what  was  the  best  port  in  his  own  country.  After 
Richard  came  Edward — he  with  the  long  legs,  who  knew, 
as  he  proved  in  the  case  of  Wallace,  what  to  do  with  a 
patriot  when  he  caught  him.  Edward  approached  the 
shrine  with  a  kingly  gift — -with  nothing  more  or  less  in- 
deed than  the  crown  of  Scotland,  which  next  to  his  own 
crown,  which  he  kept  on  his  head,  was  about  as  costly  a 
thing  as  he  could  have  thought  of  At  Becket's  shrine 
knelt  Henry  the  P'ifth,  "  his  cuises  on  his  thigh,  gallantly 
armed,"  but  his  beaver  off  on  this  occasion,  I  trust,  though 
it  was  fresh  from  the  splendid  shocks  of  Agincourt.  In 
1520  Henry  the  Eighth  knelt  here  with  a  much  greater 
man^ — that  is  to  say,  with  Charles  the  Fifth.  The  two 
/oung  kings  rode  together  from  Dover,  and  entered  the 
city  through  St.  George's  Gate.  They  sat  in  the  same 
coach — I  mean  under  the  same  canopy,  and  Wolsey,  who 
was  going  strong  at  the  time,  was  not  far  off  In  point 
of  fact  he  rode  in  front,  which  was  the  right  place  for 
him,  if  intellect  took  precedence  in  the  processions  of  the 
age.     Canterbury  looked   its   best,  1   should  imagine,  on 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


265 


tliat  Whit-Sunday.  The  old  streets  Hncd  witli  clergy  in 
full  ecclesiastical  costume  ;  the  best  blood  of  England 
thronging  about  bluff  King  Hal  ;  the  bluest  blood  of 
Spain,  acting   as  duly   phlegmatic   escort  to  the  )'oung 


The  Chequers  of  the  Hope^  Canterbury. 


monarch  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  Granada,  Naples, 
Sicily  and  Milan,  Franche-Comte  and  the  Netherlands, 
Peru  and  Mexico,  Tunis  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 
"  and  all  the  fair  spiced  islands  of  the  East," 


266  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

Archbishop  Warham  met  this  distinguished  pair  at  the 
west  door  of  the  Cathedral,  and  no  dcubt  performed 
with  due  dignity  the  ornate  duties  of  his  distinguished 
office.  But  it  was  not  only  in  such  purely  official  ex- 
ercises as  these  that  this  good  archbishop  shone.  He 
was  as  good  at  a  feast  as  at  a  reception — as  he  had  proved 
sixteen  years  before.  On  the  occasion  indeed  of  his  in- 
stallation, which  must  have  been  a  very  trying  time,  this 
primate  gave  a  foolish  trifling  banquet  in  the  archbishop's 
palace  built  by  Lanfranc,  which,  from  what  I  can  read 
of  it,  would  have  made  some  of  our  most  redoubtable 
seasoned  aldermen  stare,  and  on  the  morrow  seek  medical 
aid.  I  should  not  like  to  name  the  number  of  courses, 
or  hint  at  the  number  of  "  subtylties  "  which  appeared 
between  each  course.  "  Subtylties  "  meanwhile  strike 
me  as  good.  But  were  they  good  for  one  ?  That  is  the 
question  !  I  doubt  it,  considering  the  quaint  mediaeval 
precautions  that  had  been  taken  for  dealing  with  the 
morrow.  The  high  steward,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
indeed  (who  served  the  bishop  with  his  own  hands, 
entered  the  hall  on  horseback,  and  had  his  own  table 
decorated  with  "  subtylties "),  was  especially  prepared 
for  ensuing  fatalities.  P'or  he  had  the  right,  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  services,  of  staying  for  three  days  at  the 
archbishop's  nearest  manor  for  the  purpose  of  being  bled  ! 
So  that  really,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  when  our  ancestors 
banqueted  they  banqueted,  and  looked  upon  apoplexy 
as  a  naturally  culminating  epilogue  to  a  merry  feast. 

Archbishop  Warham,  on  this  magnificent  occasion, 
had  as  guests  the  king  and  queen  themselves,  so  that  I 
suppose  courtly  conversation  took  up  most  of  his  time, 
and  enabled  him  to  make  a  show  of  eating  while  others 
gorged.  But  from  this  sweeping  accusation  I  am  pleased 
to  be  able  to  except  the  clergy,  who  fed  on  lampreys  one 
and  all,  and  withstood  subtylties  as  they  withstood  all 
that  is  evil. 

But  the  truth  is  that  so  many  kings  of  England 
visited   Canterbury  that   one   becomes  tired  of  naming 


THE  DOVKR  ROAD 


267 


•^'^^^5^:'  ^^i^-=i^ 


-^_  J0^' 


Watering  the  Horses. 


268 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


them.  They  were  all  here  more  or  less — and  those  who 
were  not  here  ought  to  have  been.  They  were  all  here 
mostly  for  "  drams  or  prayers,"  except  Charles  the 
First,  who  came  here  to  be  married.  He  carved  some 
pheasant  and  some  venison  for  Henrietta  Maria  with 
his  own  royal,  white,  and  extremely  beautiful  hands, 
and  retired  to  rest  with  his  royal  bride  in  the  room  over 
the  gateway  of  St.  Augustine's  College.  His  son  was 
at  Canterbury  too  of  course  at  the  time  of  the  Restora- 


.  <^.> 


rM-iiii^^L 


If 


The  Flying  Horse,  Canicrhtiry. 


tion  ;  but  with  the  second  Charles's  connection  with  the 
Dover  Road  I  have  already  fully  dealt. 

The  mention  of  St.  Augustine's  College  reminds  me 
of  a  more  famous  Canterbury  seat  of  learning.  The 
King's  School  was  established  by  Henry  the  Eighth  at 
the  Dissolution.  It  possesses  a  Norman  staircase  which 
is  quite  unique,  up  which  Christopher  Marlowe,  who  was 
educated  here,  must  often  have  passed,  rebellious  more 
generally  than  not,  I  suspect,  and  having  the  lowest 
possible  opinion  of  his  instructors.  And  after  Marlowe, 
and    some    distance    behind    him,   comes    Lord    Justice 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


z6\) 


kj 


i\ 


i\, 


'imt'-  \ii.'!i 


u 


\}l , . 


s 


«1 


li 


A 


r- 


r.'fe  G^'l 


f%'  t 


I        ■■■■'■. 


,  fS^  'ill'  ^S^*'"         •  fWfr    'Vol        I  w' 


m^. 


iw-w,. 


-'\. 


••\-' 


TAe  /?^s^,  Canterhury. 


Tenterden,  who  was  on  the  contrary  a  very  studious  and 
grateful  boy — so  much  so  that  in  after  Hfe  and  with  all 
due  solemnity  he  used  to  declare  '•  that  to  the  free  school 


270  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS      - 

of  Canterbury  he  owed,  under  the  Divine  blessing,  the 
first  and  best  means  of  his  elevation  in  life."  The 
future  judge's  grandfather  used  to  shave  people  for  a 
penny  in  a  small  shop  opposite  the  west  front  of  the 
cathedral.  And  the  last  time  the  good  judge  came 
down  to  Canterbury  he  brought  his  son  Charles  with 
him,  and  showed  him  the  spot,  and  read  him  a  small 
homily  which  Charles  I  hope  digested. 

It  will  not  be  forgotten  that  Canterbury  as  a  cathedral 
town  was  graced  for  a  short  but  stirring  period  in  his 
life  by  the  presence  of  Mr.  Micawber.  "  I  am  about, 
my  dear  Copperfield,"  he  wrote,  "  to  establish  myself  in 
one  of  the  provincial  towns  of  our  favoured  island  (where 
the  society  may  be  described  as  a  happy  admixture  of 
the  agricultural  and  the  clerical)  in  immediate  connec- 
tion with  one  of  the  learned  professions."  Which  con- 
nection it  will  be  remembered  led  the  writer  into  the 
society  of  Uriah  Heep,  which  society  led  him  into  that 
painful  slough  of  despond  which  compelled  him  to 
describe  himself  as  a  "  foundered  barque,'"  "  a  fallen 
tower,"  and  "  a  shattered  fragment  of  the  temple  once 
called  man." 

We  all  know,  I  should  hope,  how  the  great  man  rose 
superior  to  this  lamentable  state  of  affairs — how  in  this 
very  town  of  Canterbury,  supported  by  David  Copper- 
field  and  Traddlcs,  he  bearded  Heep  in  his  den,  "  or,  as 
our  lively  neighbour  the  Gaul  would  have  it,  in  his 
bureau  ;  "  how  with  a  perfect  miracle  of  dexterity  or 
luck,  he  caught  the  advancing  knuckles  of  Uriah  (bent 
on  ravishing  away  the  compromising  document)  with  a 
ruler,  and  disabled  him  then  and  there,  remarking  at  the 
same  moment,  "  Approach  me  again,  you — you — you 
Heep  of  infamy,  and  if  your  head  is  human  I'll  break 
it."  All  these  great  landmarks  of  literature  are  to  me 
as  it  were  everlasting  mile-stones  on  the  old  Dover 
Road,  and  I  but  mention  them  to  fix  their  site. 

Fifteen  miles  or  so  separate  Dover  from  Canterbury. 
Near  Bridge,  which  is  about  five  miles  on,  lived  Hooker, 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


271 


to  whom  the  Hving  of  l^ishopsbournc  was  given  in  1595. 
Hooker's  library  and  the  sanctity  of  his  hfe  were  so 
remarkable  that  travellers  to  Dover  in  those  days 
turned  off  the  road  to  improve  their  minds  and  eyes; 
after  which  they  ascended  Barham  Downs,  a  very  windy 
plateau  about  four  miles  long,  where  many  people  have 


'  Springing  ''em. 


gathered  together  in  a  highly  nervous  state,  from  the 
days  of  Julius  Caesar  to  that  less  distant  period  of 
history  when  Napoleon's  camp  threatened  Kent  and 
Christendom  from  the  opposite  heights  of  Boulogne. 
To  name  two  instances  of  martial  gatherings  out  of 
many  between  these  whiles  :  King  John's  army  of 
60,000  men  was  encamped  here  in  12 13,  when  Philip 
Augustus  thought  of  invading    England,  but   thought 


272  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

better  of  it  afterwards,  and  left  the  business  to  his  son  ; 
and  after  John's  days,  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  Third,  the 
Downs  were  turned  temporarily  into  an  armed  camp  by 
Simon  de  Montfort,  who  hourly  expected  a  visitation 
from  Queen  Elinor  of  France.  A  less  martial  spectacle 
was  to  be  witnessed  here  on  the  loth  of  May,  1625, 
when  Henrietta  Maria,  on  her  way  from  Dover  to 
Canterbury — on  her  way  to  church  in  fact — selected 
I^arham  Downs  as  the  scene  of  her  first  drawing-room — 
and  a  very  draughty  drawing-room  it  must  have  been. 
Low  dresses  and  plumes  were  however  not  de  rigiieiir  in 
1625,  in  addition  to  which  the  court  ladies  who  were 
present  to  pay  their  respects  to  their  sovereign  were 
provided  providentially  with  a  tent.  After  which 
nothing  much  occurred  on  Barham  Downs  till  the 
muster  for  Napoleon's  invasion  already  mentioned, 
except  wind  and  snowstorms  and  frantic  struggles  of 
overdue  mail  coachmen  to  make  up  lost  time,  by 
"springing"  tired  cattle,  and  the  stopping  of  mail 
coachmen  so  struggling  by  a  gentleman  named  Black 
Robbin,  who  rode  a  black  mare  and  drank  a  great  deal 
meanwhile  at  a  small  inn  between  Bishopsbourne  and 
Barham,  whose  sign  still  perpetuates  his  name. 

And  so  into  Dover,  which  is  seventy-one  miles 
exactly  from  the  Surrey  side  of  London  Bridge,  and 
bears  very  few  traces  about  it  now  of  the  Coaching  Age, 
either  in  its  inns  or  its  atmosphere.  Attacked  on  two 
sides  by  the  demon  steam — by  land  and  by  sea,  with 
steam  packets  roaring  at  one  end  of  the  pier  and  tidal 
trains  at  the  other,  the  very  memories  of  old-fashioned 
travel  seem  to  have  folded  their  wings  and  fled.  There 
is  no  touch  perceptible  of  the  Dover  of  1775 — of  the 
Dover,  that  is  to  say,  of  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  and  the  old 
Dover  Mail.  Where  is  the  drawer  at  the  Royal  George 
who  opened  the  coach  door  "  as  his  custom  was "  } 
Who  used  to  cry  into  the  ears  of  still  half-awakened 
passengers  the  following  programme  of  peace :  "  Bed 
room    and    breakfast,   sir  1      Yes,  sir !      That  w^ay,  sir. 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


273 


Show  Concord  !  "  [The  Concord  bed-chamber  was  always 
assigned  to  a  passenger  by  the  Mail.]  ''  Gentleman's 
valise  and  hot  water  to  Concord.  (You  will  find  a  sea-coal 
fire,  sir.)  Fetch  Barber  to  Concord  !  Stir  about  now 
there  for  Concord  ;  "  and  so  on.  Where  is  this  drawer  now 
to  be  found  at  Dover,  I  ask  ?  Where  is  Concord,  with  its 
vision  of  comfort  and  a  sea-coal  fire  .'*  Where  is  the 
Royal  George  indeed  ^  Its  place  is  no  longer  known 
among  Dover  inns — or  it  may  be  the  Lord  Warden 
Hotel,  for  aught  that  I  know. 


.'»tTi 


Kjv-r 


A  Roadside  Inn,  Hoilingboume. 

And  the  customs  of  the  inhabitants  have  as  much 
changed  of  course  as  the  .sea  view  of  their  town.  Dover 
no  longer  "  hides  itself  away  from  the  beach,  or  runs  its 
head  into  the  chalk  clifts  like  a  marine  ostrich  ;  nor  do 
the  inhabitants  stroll  about  at  the  dead  of  night  and 
look  seaward  ;  particularly  at  those  times  when  the  tide 
made  and  was  near  flood."  Or  if  they  do  they  are 
looking  for  a  Channel   Steamer,  and  not  for  smuggled 

T 


274  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

brandy.  Nor  do  small  tradesmen  with  no  business 
unaccountably  realize  large  fortunes  ;  nor  does  every- 
body in  the  town  loathe  the  sight  of  a  lamplighter  ;  for 
the  pier  lamps  are  lighted  every  evening ! 

No  !  Dover  and  its  inhabitants  are  indeed  changed, 
and  the  only  memory  of  the  old  coaching  days  left  in  the 
place  are  its  long  bills.  Long  1  regret  to  say  they  were. 
Long  they  remain  ;  and  long  no  doubt  they  will  remain 
so.  A  sea-port  cannot  be  the  exodus  of  an  empire 
without  some  such  natural  tendencv  to  extravas^ance. 

Of  the  coaches  on  this  Dover  Road  I  have  refrained 
from  speaking,  not  because  I  was  reserving  the  best  thing 
till  the  last,  but  in  point  of  fact  for  an  exactly  opposite 
reason.  An  indisputable  authority  on  the  subject  tells 
me  that,  considering  its  importance  as  the  principal  route 
for  travellers  between  England  and  France,  there  were 
not  many  coaches  running  on  the  Dover  Road.  I  fancy 
that  most  people  who  had  the  wherewithal  and  wanted 
to  catch  a  packet  when  the  tide  set,  posted  and  con- 
gratulated themselves.  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  I  know  was 
not  amongst  this  number,  but  then  he  travelled  by  the 
Dover  Mail,  which  was  always  an  institution,  kept  good 
time,  and  carried  in  its  day  historic  matter. 

Of  the  other  coaches  on  the  Dover  Road  I  shall  make 
no  mention.  For  once  in  the  way,  a  catalogue  will  not 
be  missed,  especially  when  that  catalogue,  if  made, 
would  contain  no  sounding  names  in  coaching  story, 
would  register  no  records  in  the  way  of  speed,  catas- 
trophes, or  drivers  especially  cunning,  sober,  or  drunk. 
Yet  one  coach  besides  the  Dover  Mail  on  this  road  I 
will  mention,  because  next  to  the  Mail  it  took  high 
rank — in  some  estimations  a  rank  above  it  ;  because 
with  its  coachman  in  its  best  days,  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  hands.  Yes  !  I  have  shaken  hands 
with  a  classic  coachman  !  No  tyro  he  when  coaching 
was  the  fashion,  but  an  artist  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers — 
one  of  the  old  school,  whom  I  have  heard  described,  by 
one  who  knew  them  well,  as  Grand  Gentlemen  ;  parties 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


275 


.     -^  |||.--^a^i^— 


^oi^t^^-'l 


if 


A  • 


The  Mote  House,  Jghtham. 


The  Chapel. 


capable  of  giving  Fatherly  advice  to  bumptious  pre- 
tenders— parties  who  at  the  end  of  a  trying  journey, 
&c.,  over  heavy  roads  took  their  ease  at  their  inn  with  an 

T  2 


276 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


air,  disembarrassed  themselves  of  their  belchers,  and  sat 
down  to  a  pint  of  sterling  port. 

Yes,  in  Mr.  William  Clements,  who  still  enjoys  a  hale 


Fatherly  Advice. 


old  age  at  Canterbury,  I  have  chanced  on  a  type  now 
almost  extinct,  and  which  another  generation  will  only 
read  of  in  descriptions  more  or  less  fabulous,  and  wonder 
whether  such    people   have  ever  been.     Mr.   Clements, 


THE  DOVER  ROAD 


277 


who  still  takes  a  sort  of  paternal  interest  in  those  revivals 
of  the  coaching  age  which  delight  our  millionaires 
during  the  prevalence  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  our 
summer  months,  lives  in  a  snug  house  of  his  own,  sur- 
rounded by  memories  of  his  former  triumphs.  A 
duchess  might  envy  the  Chippendale  furniture  in  his 
drawing-room,    and    the    bow    window    commands    an 


^i^   -^^,: 


,        »>•"  .A* 


The  Chequers,  Tonbridge. 

extensive  view  of  a  rambling  block  of  buildings  which  in 
days  gone  by  housed  the  treasures  of  a  choice  stud. 

As  I  listened  to  this  man,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
came  into  direct  personal  contact  with  the  very  genius 
of  coaching  days  and  coaching  ways — felt  the  impulse 
which  throbbed  in  the  brains  of  our  ancestors  to  be  at 
the  coaching  office  early  to  book  the  box  seat  :  sat  by 
the  side  of  a  consummate  master  of  his  craft ;  was  initiated 


278  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

in  an  instant  into  all  its  dark  mysteries  of  "  fanning," 
"  springing,"  "  pointing,"  "  chopping  "  and  "  towelling." 
I  went  through  snowdrifts,  I  drank  rums  and  milk  ;  hair- 
breadth escapes  in  imminent  deadly  floods  were  momen- 
tary occurrences  ;  I  alighted  at  galleried  inns  ;  waiters 
all  subservient  showed  me  to  "  Concords  "  in  all  quarters 
of  the  empire.  I  revelled  in  the  full  glories  of  the 
coaching  age  in  short  in  a  moment  !  For  had  I  not 
touched  hands  with  its  oldest,  its  most  revered  repre- 
sentative ? 


The  Green  Man,  Waltham. 


VL— THE  YORK  ROAD. 

There  were  two  main  roads  to  York  in  the  old 
coaching  days.  The  first  of  these  was  measured  from 
Shoreditch,  and  went  by  way  of  Ware,  Tottenham,  and 
Waltham ;  Hatfield  and  Stevenage  ;  the  second  was 
measured  from  Hicks's  Hall,  and  went  by  way  of 
Barnet.  At  the  Wheatsheaf  Inn  at  Alconbury  Hill, 
down  in  Huntingdonshire,  these  two  roads  to  York 
became  one  and  the  same  road  ;  but  the  Ware  route 
was  four  miles  one  furlong  the  shorter    of  the  two. 

When  we  want  to  go  to  York  now  we  breakfast  at 
half-past  eight,  if  we  are  wise,  and  catch  the  ten 
o'clock  Scotch  express  from  King's  Cross.  Our  grand- 
fathers did  not  breakfast  at  all  ;  not  because  they  had 
no  appetite  at  half-past  eight,  but  because  they  had  to 
start  from  High  Holborn  at  half-past  six. 


28o  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

According  to  the  faculty,  early  rising  is  a  healthy 
thing,  yet  I  have  known  it  bring  strong  men  to  their 
bier  ;  and  besides,  however  enjoyable,  though  perilous, 
it  may  be  in  summer,  I  think  that  few  of  us  care  to  leap 
from  our  beds  at  half-past  five  on  a  raw  January  morning. 

Yet  this  is  what  our  ancestors  had  to  do  who  wanted 
to  catch  one  of  the  crack  northern  coaches. 

Shall  we  follow  them  in  the  spirit  on  one  of  these 
ghastly  expeditions  ? 

Our  coach — we  will  take  the  Regent  for  choice — 
starts  at  6.30  from  the  George  and  Blue  Boar,  but  we 
are  not  there  yet.  We  are  in  bed  in  Berkeley  Square, 
Marylebone  Lane,  or  where  you  please. 

Our  sleep  has  been  fevered  with  grim  visions  of  the 
coming  strife.  It  is  broken  by  a  loud  knocking  at  the 
outer  door,  as  in  MacbctJi. 

Our  servant^  who  has  overslept  himself  according  to 
immemorial  receipt,  now  comes  to  tell  us  that  it  is  half- 
past  five,  and  that  the  hackney  coach  ordered  overnight 
to  take  us  to  the  coach-office  is  already  at  the  door. 

Unless  on  these  occasiojis  }'ou  ordered  a  hackney  coach 
overnight,  you  were  utterly  undone. 

We  now  use  strange  words,  and  ask  what  sort  of  a 
morn  it  is.  We  are  told  that  it  is  foggy,  and  we  soon 
see  that  it  is  yellow.  We  have  thoughts  of  not  going  to 
York,  but  we  recollect  that  we  have  already  bought  our 
ticket.  At  the  same  time  knocking  from  the  hackney 
coachman  below  tells  us  that  time  flies. 

We  now  fly  into  our  boots  and  hat  and  other  things. 
A  horrible  attempt  at  preparing  breakfast  has  been  made 
in  the  interval  by  the  penitent  valet  ;  an  impromptu 
effort  in  the  way  of  a  dingy  table-cloth,  a  tea-urn,  a  loaf 
and  a  pat  of  butter,  which  causes  us  to  shy  on  one  side, 
as  a  thoroughbred  shies  at  a  traction  engine.  We  seize 
our  portmanteau,  and  hurry  out  into  the  eager  morning 
air.  The  eager  morning  air  is  yellow,  and  in  it  the 
hackney  coachman,  his  horse,  his  coach,  our  servant,  who 
helps  us  in,  all  look  supereminently  the  same  colour. 


THE  YORK  R0Ai3  281 

In  the  fulness  of  time  we  arrive  at  the  Georo;e  and 
Blue  Boar,  Holborn.  On  his  legal  fare  being  tendered 
to  the  hackney  coachman,  he  throws -down  his  hat  and 
offers  to  fight  us  for  five  shillings.  We  decline  the 
stirring  invitation  and  hurry  into  the  inn  yard.  All  here 
is  bustle  and  animation  in  a  sort  of  half  gloom. 

The  Stamford  Regent  stands  ready  for  her  flight  ;  four 
chestnuts  with  a  good  deal  of  blood  about  them  seem 
anxious  to  be  off;  ostlers  making  noises  after  the 
manner  of  engines  letting  off  steam  in  underground 
stations,  are  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  the  toilet. 
Afar  off  in  a  dim  doorway  the  celebrated  Tom  Hennesy 
draws  on  his  gloves,  and  says  sweet  nothings  to  a  pretty 
housemaid,  with  her  black  hair  out  of  curl.  Ostlers  are 
thrusting  luggage  into  the  boot..  The  boot  seems  to 
have  an  insatiable  appetite  for  luggage.  It  swallows 
everything  that  is  thrown  at  it,  and  makes  no  sign. 
The  two  inside  passengers  now  appear  upon  the  scene. 
One  of  them  is  an  Anglo-Indian,  who  has  whiskers 
brushed  as  if  by  a  whirlwind,  a  voice  like  a  bull,  and  a 
complexion  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings.  A  sort 
of  Jos  Sedley  going  to  York.  The  other  is  a  lady  of 
uncertain  age,  who  wears  her  hair  in  curl  papers,  and 
pretends  to  a  rooted  antipathy  to  travelling  alone  with  a 
man.  This  antipathy  she  communicates  to  the  guard  in 
a  faded  whisper.  The  guard  grinning  all  over  his  face 
communicates  this  faded  whisper  to  the  Bengal  Civil 
Servant.     He  receives  it  with  matutinal  curses. 

"Confound  it,  sir,"  he  roars,  'then  let  her  ride  out- 
side." 

With  which  he  hurls  himself  into  the  coach.  From 
this  point  of  vantage  he  shakes  his  fist  at  a  wretched 
native  in  a  turban,  who,  safely  out  of  distance,  salaams 
till  his  head  almost  touches  the  coach  court-yard,  and 
confesses  that  he  has  indeed  omitted  to  provide  the 
Sahib  with  his  umbrella. 

While  a  terrific  volley  of  objurgations  in  Bengalese 
pours  from  one  door  of  the  coach,  the  lady  with  the  faded 


282 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


manner  enters  it  by  the  other.  At  the  same  time  the 
incomparable  Tom  Hennesy  languidly  mounts  on  to  his 
box.     He  chews  a  piece  of  sweet  lavender  given  by  the 


Filling  the  Boot. 


pretty  housemaid — assumes  the  whip  as  a  marshal  does 
his  bdto)i,  and  darts  a  deathly  glance  over  his  left 
shoulder  at  the  lingering  fair.  "  Let  'em  go,"  he  says, 
"  and  look  out  for  yourselves."     The  ostlers  fly  from  the 


The  YORK  ROAD 


28-: 


I     1 


^    1       A 


A7t  Old  Conic f,  Smithjlcld. 


284  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

chestnuts'  heads — the  four  horses  spring  up  to  their 
collars — the  guard  performs  "  Oh,  dear,  what  can  the 
matter  be  ? "  on  his  bugle  in  a  manner  which  would  elicit 
an  enthusiastic  encoi^e  at  an  evening  concert,  and  we  are 
out  of  the  coachyard  almost  before  we  know  it,  stealing 
down  Holborn  Hill  with  that  "  fine  fluent  motion  "  which 
De  Ouincey  described  as  characteristic  of  the  Bristol 
Mail — but  which  indeed  could  be  experienced  on  any 
crack  coach  which  was  finely  driven. 

And  Tom  Hennesy  is  a  master  of  his  art.  His  manner 
on  the  box — all  great  artists  are  mannerists — is  so  calm, 
so  quiet — as  to  be  almost  supercilious.  But  he  has  to 
keep  a  sharp  look-out,  for  he  is  driving  through  Egyptian 
darkness.  The  weather  indeed  reminds  us  of  Homer's 
Hell  ;  and  as  for  the  cold,  it  would  make  a  snipe  shiver 
in  an  Irish  bog.  Up  Cow  Lane  we  steal,  through  Smith- 
field.  The  wheelers  appear  like  phantom  chestnuts  ;  the 
leaders  are  hardly  seen  ;  the  houses  on  each  side  of  the 
way  loom  grim  and  ghostly.  And  through  the  gloom  the 
Stamford  Regent  steals  along,  like  some  ghost  of  a  coach 
itself.  We  on  the  box  seat  feel  like  unembodied  joys. 
We  have  already  lost  the  use  of  our  hands  and  feet. 
Deep  draughts  of  yellow  fog  complete  our  discomfiture. 

Suddenly  shouts  are  heard  ahead,  and  large  herds  of 
cattle  throng  the  streets  ;  they  seem  to  spring  out  of  the 
foul  air  as  everything  does  besides,  but  they  come  from 
Smithfield  of  course,  or  are  going  there.  Drovers — 
looming  phantom-like,  like  everything  else,  prove  by  a 
graceful  flow  of  expletives  that  they  are  after  all  but  men. 
Our  near  side  leader  now  mistakes  a  strayed  bullock  for 
some  monster  of  mythology  and  swerves  on  one  side 
after  the  manner  of  Balaam's  ass,  upon  which  our  coach- 
man, who  has  up  to  now  sat  perfectly  upright  with  hands 
still,  the  very  statue  of  an  accomplished  charioteer,  im- 
mobile as  fate,  turns  his  wrist  under,  and  lets  his  thong 
"  go  "  in  such  a  way  that  the  near  side  leader's  hind  leg  is 
nearly  severed  from  his  body.  Which  duty  done  Tom 
Hennesy  remarks  "  that  there  are  some  of  'em  as  never 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


285 


could  hit  a  horse."  And  we  feel,  almost  as  poignantly 
as  the  near  side  leader  has  done,  that  he,  Tom  Hennesy, 
is  not  to  be  included  in  the  category. 

And  now  the  Peacock  at  Islington  (where  in  old  days 
"The  Queen's  Head,"  pulled  down  in  1829,  was  the 
stopping  tavern,  with  its  wood  and  piaster  walls,  its  three 
stories  projecting  over   each   other   in    front,   its    porch 


The  Queen's  Head,  Islington. 

propped  by  Caryatides) — and  now  the  Peacock  at 
Islington  begins  to  loom  through  the  fog.  Or  rather 
the  horn  lantern  of  the  old  ostler,  whose  province  it  is 
to  stand  outside  the  inn  and  announce  the  names  of  the 
coaches  as  they  drive  up  to  the  door,  with  the  voice  of 
an  asthmatic  trumpet.  All  the  northern  coaches  made 
a  point  of  stopping  at  the  Peacock,  on  their  way  north  ; 
though    why   they  did    so    I   have   never  been   able    to 


286  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

discover.  The  fact  remains  that  there  were  twenty  or 
more  drawn  up  at  a  time  here  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  And  such  an  outcry  attending  their  arrival, 
such  a  clattering  of  hoofs,  clanging  of  bugles,  slamming 
of  doors  and  stamping  of  feet  on  splash  boards,  as 
never  was  heard,  well,  out  of  Islington  ;  and  through  all 
this  din  the  raucous  voice  of  the  ostler  continually  sounds, 
like  the  cry  of  a  mediaeval  herald  with  a  cold  in  his  head 
announcing  the  entry  of  distinguished  competitors  to  a 
tournament.  And  he  announces  famous  names  though 
they  are  recognized  as  such  no  longer.  They  made  our 
fathers'  blood  boil  at  times  if  we  are  to  believe  De 
Quincey.  These  names — the  York  Highflyer,  the 
Leeds  Union,  the  York  Express,  the  Stamford  Regent, 
the  Rockingham,  the  Truth  and  Daylight — made  our 
fathers'  blood  boil  as  these  famed  coaches  carried  north- 
wards the  heart-stirring  news  of  Vittoria,  or  of  Water- 
loo !  But  times  are  changed — such  national  telegrams 
(when  we  have  them  to  transmit)  are  transmitted  silently 
and  decorously,  by  the  telegraph.  There  is  no  adver- 
tisement possible  in  the  way  we  travel  now,  except  on 
the  walls  of  railway  stations — and  of  this  latter  form  I 
regret  to  say  Mr.  Ruskin  does  not  approve. 

But  to  return  to  ourselves  and  the  Stamford  Regent. 
The  announcement  of  the  Truth  and  Daylight  coach 
makes  us  hope  that  we  too,  shortly,  may  see  the  sun. 
We  see  it  in  due  course,  as  our  steaming  team  breasts 
the  ascent  to  Highgate  archway.  The  sun  springs 
lurid  from  a  cloud  of  yellow  mist.  The  great  city  lies 
before  us,  the  coverlet  of  the  fog  but  half  withdrawn 
from  her  disturbed  sleep.  The  dawn  from  Highgate  is 
doubtless  a  grand  sight.  But  it  unfortunately  inspires 
my  next  neighbour  on  the  box  seat  with  the  idea  that 
he  is  a  Constable— this  always  occurs.  He  determines 
to  paint  the  salient  landscape — this  always  occurs  too. 
1  ask  Hennesy  at  what  point  we  may  discern  the  bourn 
of  the  next  public  house.  He  says  that  the  Green  Man 
at    Barnet    is  the  first  change,   and  expatiates   on   the 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


287 


soothing  joys  of  rum  and  milk  as  applied  to  a  constitu- 
tion that  has  relished  a  winter's  dawn  breakfastless.  The 
Green  Man  at  l^arnet  is  now  to  me  like  the  star,  seen,  or 
not  seen,  by  the  mariner,  and  in  due  course  I  see  it,  and 
alight  at  the  first  opportunity.  But  not  before  Tom 
Hennes}'.  In  front  of  the  Green  Man  at  Barnet  his 
languidly  sedate  manner  goes.  For  here  too,  alas  !  for 
the  historic  inconstancy  of  coachmen  !  he  is  a  great 
favourite  with  the  fair.  Looks  quite  the  coaching 
Lothario,  as  he  lounges  against  the  bar,  his  beaver  ad- 


— *.  ■  - 


The  T1V0  Brewers,  Ponders  End. 


justed  rakishly,  his  melting  glances  fastened,  now  on  his 
next  team  already  fuming  in  the  traces,  now  on  the 
Barnet  Hebe  as  hopelessly,  alas  !  in  the  toils. 

"  Take  your  seats,  gentlemen,  please." 

And  Barnet  is  soon  a  memory  on  the  great  north  road. 
A  memory  however  which  shows  some  claim  to  "  recollec- 
tion dear,"  fixing  as  it  does  the  site  of  a  great  battle, 
and  of  a  highwayman's  exploits,  w^hich  have  occupied 
almost  the  same  space  in  history — I  mean  fiction — No  ! 
I  mean  history.  To  come  to  details  : — On  Hadley 
Green,  half-a-mile  to  the  north  of  the  town,  was  fought 


288 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


■--r 


At  the  Cross  Tioads. 


THE  YORK  ROAD  289 

on  a  raw,  cold  and  dismal  Easter  Day,  in  the  year  1471, 
the  famous  battle  between  the  Houses  of  York  and 
Lancaster  which  ended  in  the  death  of  the  king-maker, 
and  established  Edward  IV.  upon  the  throne  ;  and  behind 
an  oak  tree,  which  still  stands  opposite  the  Green  Man 
at  the  junction  of  the  York  and  Holyhead  Roads,  the 
immortal  Dick  Turpin  used  to  sit  silent  on  his  mare, 
Black  Bess,  patiently  waiting  for  some  traveller  to  speak 
to.  The  battle  has  been  celebrated  by  Lord  Lytton  in 
The  Last  of  the  Barons^  perhaps  as  fine  an  account  of  a 
mediaeval  "  set  to  "  as  can  be  found  out  of  Scott.  The 
noble  author  lived  at  Copped  Hall,  near  Totteridge,  and 
often  used  to  pay  visits  to  the  scene.  The  Highwayman 
has  been  immortalized  by  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Did  he 
not  write  in  one  night's  sitting  the  whole  series  of  chapters 
— I  don't  know  how  many  there  are — should  not  like  to 
say  how  many  there  are  not — in  which  is  set  forth  in 
such  stirring  form  the  celebrated  ride  to  York  t  Certainly 
he  did,  and  Macaulay  as  certainly  denied  that  such  a 
thing  ever  took  place,  according  to  the  invariable  practice 
of  Whig  historians,  who  are  always  heavy  when  they 
handle  volatile  matter. 

And  Turpin's  ride  to  York  reminds  me  that  there  is 
another  road  to  it,  besides  the  one  I  am  on  ;  namely  the 
road  by  Ware,  which,  according  to  the  prophet  Ainsworth, 
Turpin  took,  though  why  he  should  have  gone  to  Ware 
when  he  was  already  in  Barnet  is  a  matter  which  will 
ever  remain  one  of  conjecture  to  the  curious.  I  think 
however  that  we  will  follow  this  Ware  route  for  a  few 
miles,  just  to  get  us  clear  of  London,  when  I  shall  go  off 
the  York  Road,  so  far  as  its  history  is  concerned,  and 
tell  here  of  some  great  northern  coachmen,  and  some 
great  northern  catastrophes. 

The  York  Road  then,  which  goes  by  way  of  Ware, 
runs  through  Shoreditch,  Stoke  Newington,  Stamford 
Hill  to  Tottenham,  and  so  into  Edmonton,  through 
which  place  John  Gilpin,  Esq.,  passed  at  the  rate  of 
sixty  miles   an   hour.     The   world  has   made   itself  ac- 

U 


290 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


quainted  with  that  famous  ride.  But  now  Edmonton 
gains  as  much  fame  perhaps  from  having  been  the  resi- 
dence of  Charles  Lamb  as  from  Cowper's  humorous  poem. 
A  few  miles  further  on  and  we  are  at  Enfield  Highway, 
and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that  celebrated  Chase 
where  once  our  kings  and  queens  used  to  disport  them- 
selves, but  where  now  the  jerry  builder  and  the  credulous 
agriculturist  who  believes  in  small  holdings  labour  day 
by  day.  James  I.  was  here  hunting  on  an  extremely 
wet   day,    on    his    royal    progress    up   to    London,    and 


"^'t^f  'iii^ 


,'./»4vv- 


I   M 


I'M')  * .  ^■•'"'^ 


The  Geors^e  and  Vulture.  Tottcnlunn. 

curiousl)%  as  it  seems  to  me  for  such  an  acute  sportsman, 
was  much  disconcerted  by  the  showers.  I  had  thought 
that  a  southerly  wnnd  and  a  rainy  sky  realized  the 
hunter's  ideal  ;  but  I  suppose  that  James's  padded  saddle 
got  wet,  certain  it  is  that  he  broke  up  the  hunt  long 
before  he  had  a  chance  of  breaking  up  the  stag,  and 
retired  to  London  in  the  worst  of  moods.  And  1  hope 
the  luirl  of  Northumberland,  who  rode  on  his  right  hand, 
and  the  l^arl  of  Nottingham  who  rode  upon  his  left, 
properly  appreciated  their  positions. 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


291 


'The  first  of  the  Stuarts  (so  far  as  England  is  con- 
cerned) was  in  Enfield  Chase  again  in  1 606,  but  he  had 
a  better  time  on  this  occasion.  He  was  entertained  at 
Theobalds  by  Cecil,  and  was  in  the  company  of  a  first- 
class  boon  companion  in  the  person  of  the  King  of 
Denmark.  These  two  often,  I  apprehend,  woke  the 
night  owl  with  a  catch  in  Cecil's  lordly  halls,  which  the 
King  already  had  his  e\'e  upon.     They  passed  into  his 


The  Bell,  Edmonton. 


possession  shortly  afterwards  by  a  process  of  exchange 
and  mart  similar  to  that  advocated  in  our  society 
journals.  Cecil  gave  up  Theobalds  for  Hatfield  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  had  the  worst  of  the  bargain. 

I  read  that  when  the  Princess  Elizabeth  was  residing  at 
Hatfield  in  charge  of  Sir  Thomas  Pope,  P^nfield  Chase 
used  to  be  favoured  a  good  deal  too  with  that  prospective 
royal  presence.     The  future  Queen  of  England  always 

U  2 


292 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


knew  what  a  wardrobe  meant,  and  carried  her  love  *of 
finery  with  her  to  the  hunting  field  ;  to  the  considerable 
disgust,  I  should  say,  of  her  twelve  ladies  in  waiting, 
who  found  themselves  pursuing  the  flying  hart,  arrayed 
in  white  satin,  and  seated  on  ambling  palfreys. 

Fifty  archers,  too,  had  to  be  careful  what  they  had  on 
their  backs  (though  details  as  to  trimming  of  tunics  is 
not  given)  ;  but  they  had  gilded  bows  in  their  hands,  and 


The  Falcon,  and  the  Four  Swans,  W althani. 

scarlet  boots  on  their  feet,  and  yellow  caps  on  their  heads 
— and  presented,  I  should  say,  a  sufficiently  startling 
ensemble,  which  the  stag  they  were  after  must  have 
admired  a  mile  off. 

To  leave  hunting  subjects  behind  us  and  get  to  graver 
matter.  At  Camelot  Moat,  situated  in  one  of  the  most 
delightful  and  least  desecrated  parts  of  the  Chase,  is  laid 
the  last  scenes  of  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel.     Here  Dalgarno 


THE  YORK  ROAD  293 

waited  impatiently  for  his  rival,  in  order  that  he  might 
wipe  out  a  long  score  in  a  quiet  glade  ;  here,  as  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and  gazed  eagerly  down 
an  alley,  he  received  a  shot  which,  grazing  his  hand, 
passed  right  through  his  brain,  and  laid  him  a  lifeless 
corpse  at  the  feet,  or  rather  across  the  lap  of  the  un- 
fortunate victim  of  his  profligacy.  A  very  fitting  close 
to  a  consummate  scoundrel's  career,  and  in  most 
picturesque,  in  almost  too  picturesque  surroundings. 

It  is  not  however  by  romance  alone  that  Enfield  Chase 
earns  fame  as  a  trysting-place  for  people  whose  characters 
are  doubtful.  More  sinister  associations  cling  to  it, 
associations  linked  with  one  of  the  most  lurid  episodes 
of  a  nation's  history.  The  old  house  of  White  Webbs, 
which  in  1570  Elizabeth  granted  to  Robert  Huicke,  her 
physician,  was  pulled  down  in  1790.  A  portion  of  the 
grounds  of  Middleton,  however,  still  marks  its  site  ;  and 
its  position  about  a  mile  to  the  left  of  Enfield  Wash, 
going  north,  gives  to  my  gossip  about  the  great  roads  of 
England  its  first  batch  of  conspirators,  in  the  authors  of 
the  Gunpowder  Treason.  For  here,  at  this  lonely  house, 
then  in  the  middle  of  Enfield  Chase,  nearly  all  the  actors 
in  the  dark  catastrophe,  imminent  at  Westminster,  at 
one  time  or  another  gathered.  Over  and  over  again  the 
ten  miles  between  Enfield  Wash  and  London  must  have 
rung  to  the  sound  of  their  horses'  hoofs,  as  they  rode 
fiercely  through  the  night — always  through  the  night  we 
may  well  believe — between  White  Webbs  and  London. 
That  Catesby  was  here  ten  days  before  the  meditated 
explosion  is  evident  from  Winter's  confession  : — 

"  Then  was  the  parliament  anew  prorogued  until  the 
fifth  of  November,  so  as  we  all  went  down  until 
some  ten  days  before,  when  Mr.  Catesby  came  up  with 
Mr.  Fawkes  to  an  house  by  Enfield  Chase,  called  White 
Webbs,  whither  I  came  to  them,  and  Mr.  Catesby  willed 
me  to  inquire  whether  the  young  prince  came  to  the 
parliament  ;  I  toldc  him  I  heard  that  his  grace  thought 
not  to  be  there.     '  Then  must  we  have  our  horses,'  said 


294 


COACMTNG  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Mr.  Catesby,  '  beyond  the  water,  and    provision  of  more 
company   to    surprise    the    prince,  and   leave  the  chike 
one. 

That  a  more  important  factor  in  the  deadly  design — if 
the  latest  judgment  of  posterity  is  to  be  believed — even 
than  Catesb)^  himself  was  frequently  at  the  old  house  in 


/   /■/   V.       '^     •     . 


/" 


\^- 


t 


n 


ill 


iSi  a.  I 


\: 


A 


\4 


1^-. 


7^/f«  Green  Dragon,  Cheshunt. 


Enfield  Chase  is  shown  in  the  examination  of  James 
Johnson  ;  that  is  to  say  in  the  examination  of  Guy 
Fawkes. 

It  was  stated  by  him  that  the  place  had  been  taken  of 
Dr.  Huicke  by  his  master,  Mr.  Meaze,  of  Berkshire,  for 
his  sister  Mrs.  Perkins  {alias  Mrs.  Ann  Vaux)  ;  that 
Mrs.  Vaux  had  spent  a  month  there,  and  mass  had  been 
said  by  a  priest  whose  name  deponent  did  not  know. 


THE  YORK  ROAD  295 

And  as  Mr.  Meaze,  of  Berkshire,  was  none  other  than 
Henry  Garnet,  the  Provincial  of  the  EngHsh  Jesuits,  the 
importance  of  the  testimony  becomes  apparent.  And 
the  fact  gives  birth  to  a  fancy.  It  is  interesting  to  me 
to  think  that  Mr.  Meaze,  of  Berkshire,  with  his  candid 
blue  eyes,  his  fair  curHng  hair,  his  poHshed  courteous 
manners,  his  form  tending  to  an  embonpoint  by  no  means 
suggestive  of  asceticism  ;  it  is  interesting  to  me,  I  say, 
to  think  that  Mr.  Meaze,  of  Berkshire,  may  have  been  a 
well-known  and  respected  figure  about  Enfield  Wash. 
That  he  may  have  been  recognised  as  Father  Garnet,  for 
the  first  time  as  he  stood  absolutely  under  the  beam  on 
that  May  morning — "  the  morrow  of  the  invention  of  the 
Cross  " — on  the  great  scaffold  at  the  west  end  of  old  St. 
Paul's  ;  that  he  may  have  been  recognised  there  by  some 
Enfield  yeoman,  who  had  ridden  in  from  Enfield  to  see 
the  show,  little  expecting  to  see  in  the  last  victim,  in 
the  most  distinguished  of  all  the  victims  perhaps,  to  a 
justly  outraged  justice,  the  courteous,  handsome  stranger, 
whom  he  had  so  admired  and  respected  down  in  his  quiet 
Enfield  home  ! 

And  here  I  shall  leave  the  historical  part  of  the  great 
north  road  and  take  to  coaching.  Of  the  great  Tom 
Hennes}-,  with  whom  we  have  already  made  a  driving 
acquaintance,  an  anecdote  may  first  be  told.  The  scene 
of  it  is  laid  of  course  on  the  Barnet  route  to  York,  on 
which  route  the  great  Tom  drove.  Between  Hatfield 
and  Welwyn  then  Tom  aforenam.ed  nearly  got  into  hot 
brandy  and  water.  And  in  this  wise — A  young  gentle- 
man, named  Reynardson,  who  in  the  matter  of  coaching 
was  at  quite  an  early  age  a  devotee,  and  has  lived  to 
write  a  book  of  his  various  experiences  Doivn  tJie  Road, 
was  seated  at  Tom  Hennesy's  side  on  one  of  his  numerous 
journeys  from  London  to  Huntingdon.  He — the  young 
gentleman — burned  as  usual  to  be  Jehu.  Upon  which 
Tom  Hennesy,  who  seems  to  have  been  an  extremely 
agreeable  and  vivacious  box  companion,  said,  "  Now  then, 
sir,  you  must  take  them  a  bit."     Mr.  Reynardson  did 


296 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


not  refuse  the  contest.  Far  from  it.  He  chancred  seats 
with  Mr.  Hcnnesy,  *'  took  them  a  bit,"  and  all  went 
well  between  Hatfield  and  Welwyn.  Arrived  at  this 
place  (where  the  coach  changed  horses)  Tom  Hennes}- 
remarked  that  he  had  better  take  them  down  the  hill. 
And  why  did  he  think  it  necessary  to  depose  his  young 
protege  at  the  very  apex  of  his  triumph  1  Because  he 
had  the  fear  of  a  **  three-cornered  old  chap  named 
Barker  "  before  his  eyes.     "  Who  would  kick  up  a  devil 


tv     >/■ 


^f^'^^^r 


:  "'11 


The  Roebuck,  Knehivorih. 

of  a  row  if  he  saw'  you  working  !  "  Thus  spoke  Tom 
Hennesy,  with  great  disrespect  to  the  proprietor  of  the 
White  Hart  at  Welwyn  who  horsed  the  coach.  Thus 
he  spoke  and  prepared  to  take  the  reins  from  the  un- 
willing hands  of  the  unwilling  neophyte  when  lo !  he 
looked  ahead  and  saw  the  very  "  three-cornered  old  chap" 
spoken  of  advancing  up  the  hill  to  meet  them.  The 
situation  was  now  summed  up  in  three  words,  "  Here's  a 
go ! "  At  the  same  time  Mr.  Hennesy  disdained  to 
attempt  disguise  at   a   time  when   disgui.se   was   useless, 


THE  YORK  ROAD  297 

and  told  Mr.  Rcynardson  to  drive  on  and  not  look  at  him 
— by  him  meaning  Barker. 

Perhaps  he  hoped  to  escape  b}-  a  quick  change  at  the 
inn  below.  But  not  so.  I^efore  the  fresh  horses  had 
been  put  in,  entered  to  them  Mr.  Barker,  not  wearing 
upon  his  face  the  most  pleasant  expression  in  the  world. 
In  fact  it  was  so  unpleasant  that  Tom  saw  that  it  meant 
mischief,  and  adopting  the  method  prescribed  by  the 
best  pugilists  "  opened  fire  "  at  once.  In  point  of  fact  he 
remarked  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Barker,  sir !  Did  you 
ever  see  a  young  gentleman  take  a  coach  steadier  down 
a  hill  ?  "  Mr.  Barker  showing  no  immediate  inclination 
or  capacity  for  answering  this  question,  the  glib  Tom 
continued,  "  'Pon  my  word,  sir,  he  could  not  have  done  it 
better.  He's  a  pupil  of  mine,  and  Pm  blessed  if  he  didn't 
do  it  capital !  Don't  you  think  he  did,  sir,  for  you  seed 
him  ? " 

What  could  the  three-cornered  Barker  answer  to  this 
appeal  ?  Nothing  !  And  this  is  practically  what  he 
answered,  muttering  something  about  "against  the  rules," 
and  "  don't  do  it  again."  And  so  Tom  and  Mr.  Rcy- 
nardson got  off  very  lightly  from  what  might  have  been, 
had  it  not  been  less  directly  handled,  an  awkward  dilemma 
— and  Tom  should  have  been  grateful  to  Barker  for  once. 
But  his  gratitude,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  did  not  take  a  very 
grateful  form.  "  Well,  he  was  wonderful  civil  for  him," 
he  said  as  soon  as  they  got  off.  So  far  so  good,  but 
now  comes  the  fall.  "  But  as  I  said  before  he's  a  cross- 
grained,  three-cornered  old  chap  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  if  I  could  only  catch  him  lying  drunk  in  the  road, 
Pd  run  over  him  and  kill  him,  blessed  if  I  wouldn't  " — 
and  then  comes  the  cause  of  so  sanguinary  an  indigna- 
tion— "  What  business  had  he  to  be  walking  up  the 
hill  ?  I  suppose  he  thought  he  should  catch  me  shoulder- 
ing." 

And  *'  shouldering ''  in  the  tongue  of  coachmen  and 
guards  meant  taking  a  fare  not  on  the  way-bill  and  un- 
known to  the  proprietor. 


29S 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHTNG  WAYS 


This  same  Tom  Hennesy  had  a  celebrated  whip — it 
was  a  crooked  one — and  in  his  practised  hands  inflicted 
deadly  execution  on   lagging  wheelers,  and  on    leaders 


A  Coach iiiaJi's  ConHship. 


given  to  dropping  going  down  declines,  on  coach  horses 
meriting  justice  generally.  But  perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable thing  about  this  whip  was  that  it  was  not  Tom 
Hennesy's    own.     No!     He  had   "  conveyed  it,"   as  the 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


299 


wise  call  it,  from  a  brother  coachman,  whose  weakness 
it  was  to  borrow  stray  whips  with  no  fixed  intention  of 
rcturningr  them. 

Tlie  end  of  this  accomph'shed  artist  in  his  own  h'ne — 


The  Falcon,  Huntingdon. 


clearly,  from  what  I  can  learn,  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished box  figures  on  the  first  eighty-nine  miles  out  of 
town  of  the  great  north  road — is  melancholy  in  the  ex- 
treme to  contemplate.  But  it  is  typical  at  the  same  time 
of  the  remorseless  destiny  forced  on  men  who  were  really 


300  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

fine  men  in  their  way  by  the  Nemesis  of  a  new  invention. 
It  is  a  marvel  to  me  when  I  read  the  record  of  their  fall 
that  stage  coachmen  did  not  form  themselves  into  an 
amalgamated  society,  with  branches  everywhere,  for 
smaslKng  locomotives.  Never  surely  was  such  a  fall 
seen  since  the  days  of  Lucifer,  who  is  rather  out  of  fashion, 
as  the  fall  of  the  great  stage  coachmen  before  the  demon 
steam.  The  observed  of  all  observers  at  one  moment ! 
In  another,  heeded  by  no  one  ;  buried  away  in  obscure 
corners  of  out-of-the-way  counties  ;  driving  buses  ; 
hanging  about  inn-yards,  where  formerly  their  very  foot- 
fall produced  clumsy  reverences  from  drunken  post- 
boys ;  melancholy,  blue-nosed  phantoms  of  their  former 
selves.  Seldom  surely  has  there  been  so  cruel  a  revo- 
lution ! 

Why,  this  man  Tom  Hennesy,  the  dandy  of  the 
Stamford  Regent !  the  knight  of  the  crooked  whip,  the 
adored  of  barmaids,  the  idol  of  schoolboys,  horsil}^  in- 
clined, for  eighty-nine  miles  of  the  finest  coaching  road 
in  England,  came  down  from  mere  natural  force  of 
circumstances — circumstances  in  a  real  sense  over  which 
he  had  no  control — to  what  ?  To  driving  a  two-horsed 
'bus  from  Huntingdon  to  Cambridge. 

Nor  is  the  hope  permitted  that  others  of  his  craft  as 
distinguished  as  he,  fared  better  at  the  end  of  laborious 
lives  when  fortune  should  have  shone  kindliest  upon 
their  efforts.  John  Barker  indeed  — the  Daniel  Lambert 
of  the  north  road — not  a  swell  coachman,  but  as  strong 
as  the  man  of  Gath  and  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land, was  saved  the  painful  experience  of  seeing  his 
empire  ravished  away  from  him  by  the  Great  Northern 
Railway  Company  ;  but  he  was  only  saved  from  this 
humiliation  by  a  mortification  setting  in  after  an  accident 
to  his  right  foot,  and  what  the  ultimate  fate  of  Cart- 
wright  was,  and  what  the  last  engagement  of  Leech, 
I  scarcely  like  to  consider.  Yet  few,  not  excepting 
even   Hennesy,  could  show  greener  laurels  than  they. 

Eor  the  first  of    them,    Cartwrit{ht — who    drove    the 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


^oi 


York  Express  from  Buckdcn  to  Wclwyn  and  back — 
about  seventy  miles  every  day — was  described  by  Peter 
Pry  in  the  Sporting  Magna i7it\  and  Peter  Pry  knew 
what  he  was  describing,  as  ahnost  everything  that  a 
fine  coachman  should  be — "  under  fifty  years  of  age, 
bony,  without  fat,  healthy-looking,  evidently  abstemious  ; 
moreover  not  too  tall,  but  just  the  proper  size  to  sit 
gracefully."     So    much    for    a    general  view  !     And  to 


RC^** 


\% 


f.i*vi 


/*' 


^l'^^^^^#PS>^'lMpW-i  .pi^'il^ii^ 


fiiUii  h 


,/'''i//iHl,,./.tt/;   : 


Huntingdon  Bridge. 

descend  to  detail — "  His  right  hand  and  whip  were 
beautifully  in  unison  ;  "  at  which  point  Peter  Pry  appears 
to  me  to  rise  into  the  regions  of  metaphor  in  the  de- 
scription of  his  favourite.  But  he  continues  his  eagle 
flight  undaunted. 

"  Cartwright's  perfections,"  he  cries,  "end  not  here! 
His  manner  of  treating  his  leaders  is  equally  fine. 
His    system    is    stillness,  and    to    drive   without    using 


302  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

the  whip  ;  his  personal  equipment,  not  that  of  a  dandy, 
but  modest,   respectable,  in  confirmed  good  taste." 

Well  this  it  seems  to  me  is  the  description  of  an 
artist's  salient  traits — the  sort  of  critical  effort  which 
we  expend  now  on  young  actors  who  bound  upon  the 
stage  without  experience  ;  on  authors  who  write  African 
romances  without  having  read  their  Dumas  !  And  I 
could  quote  twenty  more  examples  of  a  coachman's 
fine  points  as  carefully  considered,  had  I  the  space  to 
do  so  or  the  inclination.  Cartwright's  great  rival,  to 
take  one  instance,  has  been  as  carefully  weighed  in  as 
crucial  a  balance  and  not  found  wanting.  He  drove 
the  Edinburgh  Mail  from  Stamford  to  Doncaster,  about 
seventy-five  miles.  Not  so  polished  a  man  as  Cart- 
wright  quite ;  but  of  his  method — quietness  itself. 
Under  his  urbane  direction,  no  hurry,  no  distress,  no 
whipping,  the  pace  ten  miles  an  hour,  including  stop- 
pages, seemed  nothing  to  do.  And  a  team  of  four  bay 
blood  mares  did  this  nothing  from  Barnby  Moor  to 
Rossiter  Bridge  in  exceptionally  gratifying  style. 

Peter  Pry  in  this  neighbourhood,  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Sutton,  v/as  witness 
of  a  local  custom  from  Leech's  box-seat  which  filled  him 
with  an  ingenuous  surprise.  This  was  the  annual  offering 
of  extremely  indigestible  first-fruits  to  guards  and  coach- 
men, not  excluding  passengers,  by  the  honest-hearted 
farmers  and  cottagers  of  the  roadside. 

When  I  say  that  upon  a  tray  covered  with  a  beautiful 
damask  napkin,  plum  cakes,  tartlets,  gingerbread,  ex- 
quisite home-made  bread,  and  biscuits,  profusely  appeared, 
my  readers  may  understand  wdiat  sort  of  a  digestion  was 
needed  to  cope  with  them  on  a  May  morning  after  sundry 
rums  and  milks.  The  deadly  list  however  is  not  concluded, 
ales,  currant  and  gooseberry  wines,  rounded  the  homicidal 
whole  ;  ales  and  currant  wines  only  more  instantaneously 
fatal  from  the  pleasing  appearance  which  they  pre- 
sented in  old-fashioned  glass  jugs  embossed  with  jocund 
figures. 


THE  YORK  ROAD  303 

But  was  Peter  Pry's  figure  jocund  after  he  had  par- 
taken ?  "  P2at  and  drink  you  must,"  he  says.  "  I  tasted 
all."  Wretched  man,  let  him  describe  in  directly  simple 
words  his  own  miserable  subsequent  state  !  "  My  poor 
stomach,"  he  writes,  "  not  used  to  such  luxuries  at  eleven 
in  the  morning,  was  in  fine  agitation  for  the  remaining 
fifty  miles  of  the  ride." 

And  who  can  say  justly  that  this  agitation  was  to  be 
wondered  at ! 

It  must  not  be  thought  however  that  perils  such  as 
these,  springing  from  an  unreasonable  hospitality  were 
the  only  perils  to  be  encountered  in  the  coaching  days 
on  the  great  north  road.  Catastrophes  abound  in  the 
record  ;  and  this  very  Stamford  Regent  which  I  have 
been  speaking  of  used  frequently  to  get  into  cold  water 
when  the  floods  were  out  and  the  weather  rainy. 

Mr.  C.  T.  Birch-Reynardson  who  has  much  to  say 
about  the  northern  coaches  in  his  Down  the  Road,  com- 
memorates one  of  these  contingencies,  which  occurred  in 
this  wise — At  a  place  called  St.  Neot's,  fifty-six  miles 
from  London,  the  Regent  coach  used  to  leave  the  main 
road,  every  now  and  then,  for  some  reason  which  remains 
occult,  and  go  round  by  some  paper  mills,  which  were 
naturally  situated  on  the  flat.  The  river  Ouse  has  a 
habit,  as  is  well  known,  of  playfully  overflowing  its  banks, 
and  the  consequence  was  that  the  road  lying  before  the 
Regent  coach  lay  sometimes  for  half  a  mile  under  water. 
Now  an  extra  pair  of  leaders  were  put  on,  and  ridden  by 
a  horsekeeper,  who  made  the  best  of  his  way  through  a 
situation  which  was  novel  not  to  say  precarious.  The 
water  was  often  up  to  the  axle-trees  ;  and  on  the  par- 
ticular occasion  of  which  Mr.  Reynardson  writes,  went 
beyond  this  limit  and  invaded  the  inside  of  the  coach. 
P^or  a  moment  or  two  the  Stamford  Regent  was  afloat, 
also  two  old  ladies  who  were  inside  of  it,  with  their  goods 
and  chattels.  Their  cries  and  laments  when  they  found 
the  coach  gradually  being  converted  into  an  Ark 
were  heartrending  in   the  extreme.     They   gave  them- 


3^4 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


^ 


^==^8^- 


A  Mornini;  Draiti:;ht. 


selves  utterly  for  gone,  and  prepared  for  the  most  com- 
fortable, but  moistest.of  all  deaths.  Nor  were  the  outside 
passengers  in  very  much  better  plight.     For  though  they 


THE  YORK  ROAD  305 

were  not  sitting  absolutely  in  the  water,  as  I  am  sorry 
to  say  the  old  ladies  were  ;  still  they  were  sitting  in 
wet  clothes,  which  is  the  next  thing  to  it — and  in  this 
situation  commanded  as  fine  a  prospect  of  water  above, 
below,  and  around,  as  has  been  seen  by  travellers  I 
should  say  since  the  flood.  In  addition  to  this  not  alto- 
gether gratifying  panorama  of  flood  effects,  unseen 
dangers  were  on  every  side  ;  to  wit,  a  large  ditch  on  one 
side,  and  a  series  of  huge  heaps  of  stones  on  the  other  : 
both  pleasantly  invisible  by  reason  of  the  great  waters, 
but  both  clearly  there  for  a  specific  purpose  ;  the  stones 
to  overturn  the  coach  ;  the  ditch  to  receive  it  when  it 
had  been  overturned.  It  must  have  been  a  truly  critical 
five  minutes  for  the  Regent,  Tom  Hennesy,  the  passen- 
gers, the  horses  and  everybody  else,  but  they  all  got 
safely  through  and  thanked  their  stars. 

At  Wandsford,  thirty  miles  or  so  further  down  the 
road,  this  same  coach  nearly  came  to  an  overturn  with- 
out  the  aid  of  water,  through  the  combined  efforts  of  a 
smart  set  of  red  roans  who  were  fit  for  any  gentleman's 
drag,  a  young  coachman  too  full  of  valour,  and  a  very 
awkward,  old  and  narrow  bridge.  The  roans  were  fresh, 
and  declined  to  face  it.  The  coachman  (young  Norval, 
I  mean  young  Percival,  was  his  name)  dropped  into  them. 
Upon  which  the  roans  committed  themselves  to  a  suc- 
cession of  sudden  antics,  too  rapidly  consecutive  to  be 
followed.  What  principally  followed  however  was  that 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  people  on  the  Regent 
coach  found  themselves  once  more  at  the  door  of  the 
Haycock  Inn.  A  place  of  entertainment  which  they  had 
a  moment  previously  left,  but  with  this  radical  change  in 
the  general  position  of  affairs — the  horses'  heads  pointed 
to  London  instead  of  to  Stamford. 

Young  Percival  having  no  explanation  to  offer  as  to 
how  such  a  phenomenon  could  have  occurred,  handed 
the  reins  to  old  Barker,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  out- 
side passengers,  who  had  seldom  felt  so  like  humming  tops 
in  their  lives,  and    by   reason   of   the  altitude  at  which 

X 


3o6  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

they  had  been  set  spinning,  were  feehng  very  low  in 
their  minds.  And  old  Barker,  safe  as  the  Bank  of 
England,  as  he  always  was,  quieted  the  four  roans,  and 
negotiated  the  bridge  without  further  revolution  of  any- 
thing, except  wheels. 

And  here  I  think  that  I  may  leave  the  coaching  side  of 
the  York  RoaJ.  When  I  leave  it,  I  leave  by  no  means  the 
most  important  or  the  most  picturesque  side  of  its  story. 
I  have  still  something  to  say  of  the  York  Road's  grand 
inns,  as  fine  specimens  of  their  class  of  building  as  are 
to  be  found  anywhere  in  England.  Witness  the  great 
hostelries  at  Huntingdon,  Stamford,  Stilton,  and  Grant- 
ham. And  these  fine  houses  are  not  only  interesting 
in  themselves,  picturesque  as  the  quaint  towns,  of  which 
they  are  the  centre,  but  they  are  alive  with  history, 
fragrant  with  memories  of  those  good  old  times, 
when  the  Mail  performed  the  whole  199  miles  in  t\vo 
days  and  three  nights,  if  God  permitted,  and  complaints 
were  made  about  so  extraordinary  a  velocity,  which  had 
caused  several  intrepid  travellers  on  reaching  London  to 
die  suddenly  of  an  affection  of  the  brain. 

But  before  I  deal  in  detail  with  the  York  Road's 
great  inns,  I  think  that  a  ride  over  the  distance  will 
be  advisable,  if  only  to  give  some  sort  of  idea  as  to  how 
the  land  lies.  And  we  have  been  in  coaches  and  Flying- 
machines  so  often,  that  I  think  that  a  turn  on  horse- 
back may  be  a  welcome  change.  And  so  I  propose  to 
go  to  York  with  Dick  Turpin,  though  he  was  pronounced 
by  Macaulay  to  be  a  myth. 

I  find  then,  on  referring  to  the  prophet  Ainsworth, 
that  Dick  Turpin  started  for  his  celebrated  ride  from 
the  Jack  Falstaff  at  Kilburn — an  inn  I  do  not  find  in 
my  Paterson's  Roads.  Here,  after  having  regaled  a 
cosmopolitan  company  with  several  flash  chaunts,  gener- 
ally prefaced  by  some  such  remark  as  "  Let  me  clear 
my  throat  first  !  And  now  to  resume !  "  the  gallant 
Turpin's  improm[)tu  oratorio  was  interrupted  by  the 
rapid  entrance  of  those  who-  -''  in  point  of  fact  "  wanted 


TITE  YORK  ROAD 


307 


him.  Upon  which  he  ''got  to  horse"  upon  his  mare 
Black  Bess,  shot  his  friend  Tom  King  by  mistake  (who 
observed  to  a  lady  opportunely  standing  by  liim,  "Susan, 
is  it  you  that  I  behold  ?  ")— and  then  rode  off  to  the  crest 
of  a  nei^hbourinij  hill,  whence  a  beautiful  view  of  the 
country  surrounding  the  metropolis  was  to  be  obtained. 
Here  his  bosom  suddenly  throbbed  high  with  rapture  ; 
he  raised  himself  in  the  saddle,  and  prefacing  his  declar- 
ation with  a  profanity,  said  that  he  would  do  it.  And  by 
"it,"  he  meant  his  ride  to  York. 

He  at  once   shaped   his  course   for  "  beautiful,  gorsy, 


(fc^.i^'-ASI  :".,'■;•' 


'  iv-  ■  -J*- 


M^^^^^^^^^l^S^^^^ 


Bridge  at  St.  Neots. 


sandy  Highgate."  No  doubt  he  would  have  admired  the 
scenery  more  (he  was  a  great  admirer  of  scenery  was 
Turpin,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  I  am  going  with  him 
to  York)  if  "  the  chase  had  not  at  this  moment  assumed 
a  character  of  interest " — whatever  that  may  mean. 
Turpin  however  saw  nothing  favourable  in  the  phenom- 
enon, and  made  over  Crackskull  Common  to  Highgate. 
He  avoided  the  town,  struck  into  a  narrow  path  to  the 
right,  and  rode  leisurely  down  the  hill.  His  pursuers  at 
this  point  somewhat  aimlessly  bawled  to  him  to  stand — 
seeming  to  forget  in  their  flurry  that  he  was  on  horseback. 
The  gallant  Dick  answered  their  demands  by  unhesitat- 

X    2 


3o8 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


ingly  charging  a  gate,  and  clearing  it  in  gallant  style.  He 
then  scudded  rapidly  past  Highgate,  "  hke  a  swift-sailing 
schooner  with  three  lumbering  Indiamen  in  her  wake," 
And  so  through  Du  Val  Lane— (what  tender  recollections 
must  here  have  possessed  that  manly  breast)  into  Hornsey 
- — where  the  turnpike  fellow  closed  the  toll-bar  in  his  face, 
and  the  "three  lumbering  East  Indiamen"  (the  meta- 
phors here  become  a  trifle  mixed — but  no  matter)  cried 
aloud,  ''  The  gate  is  shut  !     We  have  him  !   Ha  !   Ha  !  " 


But    not    so  !    though    the 

old   Hornsey  toll-bar  was  a 

high    gate,   with    chevaitx  de 

frise  in  the  upper  rail !     Not 

so  !  thouo"h  the  <:rate   swun^j 

into   its   lock  ;    "  and    like  a 

'"^    '  tiger  in  his  lair  the  prompt 

custodian    of   the    turnpike, 

enscanced  within  his  doorway,  held  himself  in   readiness 

to   spring  upon  the   runaway."     Not  so  !     For  what  did 

Dick  do  ?      He  did  four  things. 

1.  He  coollv  calculated  the  heii^ht  of  the  or^tc. 

2.  He  spoke  a  few  words  of  encouragement  to  l^ess. 

3.  He  stuck  spurs  into  her  sides. 

4.  He  cleared  the  spikes  by  an  inch. 


THE  YOkK  ROAD  309 

,  The  next  event  which  followed  In  this  order,  was  the 
narrow  escape  of  the  toll-bar  keeper,  who,  tired  of 
crouching-  like  a  tiger  in  his  lair,  rushed  out  of  it,  and 
was  nearly  trampled  to  death  under  the  feet  of  the  three 
lumbering  East  Indiamen — that  is  to  say  under  the 
feet  of  Paterson's  (chief  constable  of  Westminster's) 
horse. 

'"  Open  the  gate,  fellow,"  he  (Paterson)  cried. 

But  the  man  said  "  not  at  all  "  unless  he  got  his  dues. 
He'd  been  done  once  already  ;  and  he  was  prepared  to 
be  struck  stupid  if  he  was  done  a  second  time.  By  which 
ingenious  block,  while  Paterson  was  feeling  in  his  pocket 
for  a  crown  piece,  our  friend  Richard  was  enabled  to  take 
advantage  of  the  delay  and  breathe  his  mare — after  which 
he  struck  into  a  bye  lane  at  Duckett's  Green,  and  canter- 
ing easily  along  came  at  Tottenham  (four  and  a  half 
miles  from  London),  for  the  first  time  in  his  ride,  into 
the  Great  North  Road. 

At  Tottenham  the  whole  place  was  up  in  arms. 
The  Inhabitants  shouted,  screamed,  ran  and  danced. 
They  also  hurled  every  possible  missile  at  the  horse 
and  her  rider.  And  what  did  Dick  do  under  these 
sufficiently  embarrassing  circumstances  '^  Why,  he 
"  laughed  at  the  brickbats  that  were  showered  thick  as 
hail  and  quite  as  harmlessly  around  him."  After  which 
he  proceeded  at  his  best  pace  to  Edmonton  (seven 
miles  from  London).  Here  too,  as  at  Tottenham,  the 
ingenuous  natives  turned  out  to  a  man  to  see  him  pass. 
But  they  did  not  throw  brick-bats  at  him :  far  from  it  ! 
They  supposed  that  Dick  was  riding  for  a  wager,  and 
received  him  with  acclamations.  But  now  came  borne 
on  the  wind's  wings  the  pursuers'  ominous  cries,  "Turpin  ! 
Dick  Turpin  ! "  upon  which  in  an  instant  the  good 
Edmontonlans  ratted,  and  hissed  ;  and  no  toll-gate, 
twelve  feet  high,  with  cJievaiix  de  frise  in  the  upper 
rail,  being  hand)%  a  man  In  a  donkey  cart,  somewhat 
ostentatiously  drew  himself  up  In  the  middle  of  the 
road.     And  Turpin    went    through    the    usual    formula 


3IO 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


above  categorically  set  down  ''  and  cleared  the  driver 
and  his  little  wain  with  ease."  This  feat  brought  down 
the  house  or  rather  the  street.  "  Hark-a-way,  Dick  !  " 
resounded  on  all  hands. 

Pursued  and  pursuers,  I  now  observe  with  pain  (for  a 
change  of  metaphor  is  always  embarrassing),  "  fly  past 
.scattered  cottages  along  the  Enfield  Highway"  (nine  and 
a  half  miles  from  London)  no  longer  "  Hke  a  swift-sailing 


Driving^  to  Catch  the  Alail. 


schooner  with  three  lumbering  Indiamen  in  her  wake," 
but  "  like  eagles  on  the  wing."  To  descend  from  these 
aerial  regions  to  the  hard  high  road — ^they  were  all  going 
well  and  strong.  Coates's  party  not  having  lost  ground, 
but  perspiring  profusely,  Black  Bess  not  having  turned 
a  hair.  It  was  at  this  period  in  the  journey,  somewhere 
about  Waltham  Cross,  that  is  to  say,  that  Dick  said, 
"  I'll  let  'em  see  what  I  think  of  'em,"  and  turned  his 
head.     This   was  surely  an   unnecessary  step.      But   the 


THE  YORK  ROAD  311 

lighting  of  the  pipe,  while  Black  Bess  was  still  at  full 
stretch,  was  a  worthier  effort  in  the  way  of  showing  con- 
tempt, and  caused  one  of  the  enemies  who  pursued, 
whose  name  was  Titus,  who  rode  "  a  big  Roman-nosed, 
powerful,  flea-bitten  Bucephalus,"  to  call  out  on  his 
"  mother  who  bore  him,"  and  thump  the  wind  out  of  his 
horse  with  his  calves.  Shortly  after  which  extraordinary 
manoeuvre  the  pursuers  lost  sight  of  Turpin  altogether, 
till,  encouraged  by  a  wagoner's  assurance  that  they  would 
find  the  great  highwayman  at  York,  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him  just  outside  Ware  (twenty-one  miles 
from  London  measured  from  Shoreditch  Church),  stand- 
ing with  his  bridle  in  his  hand  coolly  quaffing  a  tankard 
of  ale. 

Here  the  pursuers  changed  horses,  either  at  the  Bull 
or  the  Fox  and  Hounds,  and  again  "  pursued  their 
onward  course.  Night  now  spread  her  mantle  over  the 
earth  ;  still  it  was  not  wholly  dark.  A  few  stars  were 
twinkling  in  the  deep,  cloudless  heavens,  and  a  pearly 
radiance  in  the  eastern  horizon  heralded  the  rising  of  the 
orb  of  night,"  after  which  atmospheric  eccentricities,  it 
appears  to  me  that  we  had  better  get  forward  as  quickly 
as  possible — as  Turpin  did.  Whether  from  the  atmo- 
spheric eccentricities  already  alluded  to,  or  from  some 
occulter  cause,  peculiar  physical  symptoms  might  at  this 
moment  have  been  detected  in  Turpin  himself,  had  a 
medical  man  been  riding  by  him  armed  with  a  stetho- 
scope. His  blood  "  spun  through  his  veins  ;  wound  round 
his  heart ;  and  mounted  to  his  brain."  Where  it  next 
went  to  is  not  on  record  ;  but  the  possessor  of 
this  peculiar  circulation  went  "away,"  away!  Hall, 
cot,  tree,  tower,  glade,  mead,  waste,  woodland,  and 
other  etceteras  to  travel  are  seen,  passed,  left  behind 
— vanish  as  in  a  dream.  To  be  plain,  Turpin  rode 
as  hard  as  he  could,  I  suppose,  through  Wades  Mill, 
Puckeridge,  Buntingford,  Royston,  till  the  limits  of  two 
shires  have  already  been  passed,  and  as  he  surmounts  the 
"  gentle   hill   that  slips  into  Godmanchester,"  he  enters 


312 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


the  confines   of   a  third    county — in    point  of    fact    the 
merry  county  of  Huntingdon. 

"  The  eleventh  hour  was  given  from  the  iron  tongue  of 
St.  Mary's  spire  as  he  rode  through  the  deserted  streets  " 
— of  Huntingdon,  which,  as  Huntingdon  is  fifty-eight 
miles  and  three-fourths  from  London,  and  as  Turpin  left 

the    metropolis    at    seven    o'clock,    shows 
j1     a    record   I   believe  of  nearly  sixty  miles 
in  four  hours. 

I   am  sorry  for  one  thing  that  Tur- 
pin   did    not    stop    in    Huntingdon, 
because    in    the    George    he    would 
have  found  a  very  fine  inn  there  ; 
but  I   suppose  he  heard  his  pur- 
suers behind  him,  for  he  was  gone 
like    a    meteor  almost   before 
had    appeared.     Shortly 
fterwards  he   found  him- 
self surrounded  by  dew- 
gemmed  hedges 
and      silent, 
slumbering 
trees,  also  with 
broad  meadows, 
pasture-land, 
drowsy  cattle, 
and  low-bleat- 
i  n  g    s  h  e  e  p. 
'^But  what  to 
Turpin  at  that 
moment     was 
\vas 


HOUNDSi'! 


The  Fox  and  Hounds. 


Nature, 
He   was 


It 


nothing- 


animate    or    inanimate.?" 

thinking  only  of  his  mare — and  of  himself 
And  here  I  am  sorry  to  say  the  light-hearted  high- 
wayman fell  almost  into  the  weeping  mood  at  the 
mawkish  thought  that  no  bri<>ht  c\'es  rained  their 
influence  upon  him  ;  no  eagle  orbs  watched  his  move- 
ments ;  no  bells  were  rung  ;  no  cup  awaited  his  achieve- 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


;i3 


ment ;  no  sweepstakes  ;  no  plate.  But  at  about  Alconbury 
tlill,  sixty-four  miles  from  London,  where  the  two  roads 
to  York  meet,  he  recovered  himself  happily  from  this 
degraded  dejection — asked  himself  what  need  he  had  of 
spectators,  reminded  himself  that  the  eye  of  posterity 
was  upon  him,  and  midway  between  Alconbury  Hill  and 
Stilton  (the  intersecting  dykes,  yawners,  gullies,  or  what- 


Thc  George,  Huntingdon. 

ever  they  are  called,  beginning  to  send  forth  their  steam- 
ing vapours)  burst  suddenly  from  the  fog  upon  the  York 
stage  coach. 

It  being  no  uncommon  thing  for  the  coach  to  be 
stopped,  the  driver  drew  up  his  horses.  Turpin  at  the 
same  moment  drew  up  his  mare.  I  had  always  hoped 
that  he  was  going  to  leap  over  the  York  coach  too  !  But 
no  !  An  exclamation  was  uttered  by  a  gentleman  on  the 


314 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


box-seat —  "  That's  Dick  Turpin  ! "  he  exclaimed.  The 
name  of  Turpin  acted  like  magic  on  the  passengers, 
according  to  advertisement.  One  jumped  off  behind  ; 
another  having  projected  a  cotton  nightcap  from  the 
window  drew  it  suddenly  back.  A  faint  scream  in  a 
female  key  issued  from  within  ;  there  was  a  considerable 
hubbub  on  the  roof;  and  the  guard  was  heard  to  click  his 
horse-pistols.     All  which  preliminaries  having  been  ad- 


..m 


Down  the  Hill  0)1  a  Fivsty  Mornitig. 

justed,  two  horse-pistols  having  been  discharged  point- 
blank  without  any  outward  and  visible  effect,  and  some 
violent  dialoLTue  having;  been  carried  on  between  Dick  and 
a  Major  Mowbray,  who  was  perched  on  the  box-seat  of  the 
coach,  relating  to  an  obscure  and  wicked  baronet  resident 
somewhere  in  Sussex,  the  York  mail  went  aimlessly  on 
its  way  to  London,  and  Tur])in  rode  through  Stilton 
(which  is  a  place  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  to  say  about  in 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


J'D 


a  minute),  through  Norman's  Cross,  through  Wansford 
turnpike  gate,  till  eighty  odd  miles  had  been  traversed, 
and  the  boundary  of  another  county,  Northampton, 
passed,  when  he  deemed  it  fitting  to  make  a  brief  halt. 
He  drew  up,  it  will  be  remembered,  at  a  small  hostelry 
with  which  he  was  acquainted,  bordering  the  beautiful 
domain  of  Burleigh.  "Burleigh  House  by  Stamford 
Town  "  that  is  to  say.      Here  he  called  for  three  bottles 


-^ 


'\ 


•   '  St.  Mary's,  Stamford. 

of  brandy,  a  pail  of  water,  a  scraper,  a  raw  beefsteak, 
and  other  adjuncts  to  the  toilet.  Which  order  having 
been  executed,  the  most  sedulous  groom  could  not  have 
bestowed  more  attention  upon  the  horse  of  his  heart 
than  Dick  Turpin  now  paid  to  his  mare.  He  performed, 
in  fact,  a  complete  variety  entertainment  of  strange 
tricks  common  to  ostlers,  concluding  the  display 
by    washing    Black     Bess    from     head    to    foot    in    the 


3i6  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

diluted  spirit  ;  not  however,  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say, 
before  he  had  conveyed  a  thimbleful  of  the  liquid  to  his 
own  parched  throat.  The  effect  of  these  blandishments 
on  Black  Bess  may  better  be  imagined  than  described — 
"her  condition  was  a  surprise  even  to  Dick  himself" 
Her  vigour  seemed  inexhaustible,  her  vivacity  not  a  w^hit 
diminished,  and  suddenly  "  she  pricked  her  ears  and 
uttered  a  low  neigh." 

"  Ha  ! "  exclaimed  Dick,  springing  into  his  saddle  ; 
"  they  come  !  " 

A  very  short  time  after  having  made  which  remark, 
Dick  Turpin  and  his  mare  were  "  once  more  distancing 
Time's  swift  chariot  in  its  whirling  passage  o'er  the 
earth,"  in  which  agreeable  exercise  Stamford  (89  miles 
from  London)  and  the  tongue  of  Lincoln's  fenny  shire 
on  which  it  is  situated,  are  passed  almost  in  a  breath. 
Rutland  is  won  and  passed  and  Lincolnshire  once  more 
entered.  The  Black  Bull  on  Witham  Common  used  to 
mark  the  borders  of  the  counties,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  hundredth  milestone  from  London. 

At  about  this  point  of  the  journey  Dick's  blood  was 
again  on  fire.  "  He  was  giddy  as  after  a  deep  draught 
of  kindling  spirit."  This  disagreeable  symptom  passed 
off,  my  readers  will  be  glad  to  learn — ''  yet  the  spirit  was 
still  in  the  veins" — "  the  estro  was  working  in  the  brain." 
Subject  to  this  somewhat  complicated  condition  of 
circulation  is  it  surprising  that  Dick  gave  vent  to  his 
exaltation  in  one  wild  prolonged  halloo  .''  or  that  Bess, 
catching  the  spirit  of  an  example  so  contagious,  also 
bounded,  leaped,  and  tore  up  the  ground  beneath  her  .'' 
And  so  "  as  eddying  currents  sweep  o'er  its  plains  in 
howling,  bleak  December,"  the  pair  pass  over  what 
remained  of  Lincolnshire — left  the  town  of  Grantham 
(iio  miles),  to  which  I  shall  also  return  in  a  moment  or 
two,  behind  them,  and  in  due  course,  that  is  to  say  when 
they  had  covered  another  mile  and  three  quarters,  they 
were  rising  the  ascent  of  Gunnerby  Hill.  From  here 
there  is  a  fine  prospect — on  the  right  Lincoln   Minster, 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


317 


and  on  the  left  Belvoir  Castle.  The  prospect  however 
which  interfered,  so  far  as  Turpin  was  concerned,  with 
these  scenic  surroundings,  took  the  form  of  a  gibbet  on 
the  round  point  of  hill  which  is  a  landmark  to  the  whole 
plain  of  Belvoir  :  and  to  complete  the  disillusionment, 
two  "  scarecrow  objects  covered  with  rags  and  rusty  links 


Newark  Castle. 


of  chains  depended  from  the  tree."  I  need  not  mention 
I  hope  that  on  being  confronted  with  this  coup  de  tJicdtre 
prepared  for  him  on  a  highway,  Turpin  looked  up  with 
an  involuntary  shudder^and  remarked,  "  Will  this  be  my 
lot,  I  wonder  ? "  any  more  than  I  need  recount  with 
detail  the  immediate  springing  from  beside  a  tuft  of 
briars  that  skirted  the  blasted   heath,  of    a   crouching 


Ii8 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


figure  who  observed,  "Ay,  marry,  will  it."  Such  facts  in 
romances  are  every-day  experiences,  without  the  aid  of 
which  their  surprising  worlds  would  not  go  round. 
Besides,  such  matters  have  nothing  to  do  really  with  the 
ride  to  York.  Time  also  presses — as  the  novelist  almost 
immediately  afterwards  remarks — and  we  may  not  linger 
on  our  course. 

With  a  view  of  obviating  which  undesirable  contingency 
the  prophet  Ainsworth  proceeds  to  pass  full  forty  miles 
in  a  breath  of  the  Great  North  Road,  and  having  left 
Dick  admiring  highwaymen  hung  in  chains  on  Gunnerby 
Hill,  just   out   of  Grantham,  proceeds  to  pick   him    up 


fe 


t. 


The  C'r'cwn,  Ba'^vtry. 


again  as  he  rides  through  Bawtry,  which  is  153  miles 
from  London,  as  measured  from  Hicks's  Hall,  and  is 
also  where  the  Great  North  Road  enters  Yorkshire. 
But  it  may  be  well  to  mention  that  before  Turpin  got  to 
Bawtry  he  went  through  Newark,  124^  miles  from 
London,  and  2I  miles  over  the  Nottinghamshire  border 
— past  Scarthing  Moor  inn  (a  posting-station  in  old  days 
but  where  is  it  now  ?),  tiirough  Tuxford,  where  the  Red 
Lion  was  a  famous  inn  in  the  coaching  days — now  as 
the  Newcastle  Arms,  and  posting-house  not  imknown  to 
fame — and   so  on   past   East  Retford  and  Barnby  Moor 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


319 


inn    1 47 J  miles   from   London   to    the  bourne  where  \vc 
left  him. 

And  from  Bavvtry  the  roads  to  York  chverce— the 
main  and  mail  road  going  b}-  Doncaster,  Fcrr\'bridge,  and 
Tadcaster  into  our  terminus  :  the  lower  road  going  b\' 
Thorne,  Selby,  and  Cawood.  And  Turpin  took  the 
lower  road.  And  here  the  first  signs  of  calamity  began 
to  overtake  him.     His  mortal  pursuers  seem  long  since 


W^' 


l> 


-■•V  ;•:       ,'      r  -ni 


^:^^  ( J 


«-;ir 


Making  the  Yard  Ri'ig. 

to  have  abandoned  all  idea  of  performing  this  feat. 
One  of  them  named  Titus,  was  resting  like  a  wise  man 
at  the  Angel  at  Grantham — having  had  as  he  poeticall}^ 
remarked,  "  a  complete  bell)'ful  of  it,"  the  rest  were 
pursuing  still  no  doubt — but  nearly  a  county  separated 
them  from  their  prey.  Yes,  it  was  at  such  a  crisis  of 
affairs,  when  all  promised  to  end  prosperously  for 
Richard  Turpin,  Esquire,  that,  as  I  say,  calamity  began 
to  overtake  him.     As  he  was  skirting  the  waters  of  the 


320  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

deep-channelled  Don,  Bess  began  to  manifest  some  slight 
symptoms  of  distress.  This  was  bad  enough  ;  but  It  "  was 
now  that  gray  and  grimly  hour  ere  one  flicker  of  orange 
or  rose  has  gemmed  the  East,  and  when  unwearying 
Nature  herself  seems  to  snatch  brief  repose.'"  Under 
such  a  depressing  condition  of  affairs,  I  cannot  wonder 
for  my  part,  that  Bess's  slight  symptoms  of  distress  were 
communicated  to  her  master,  and  that  our  gallant  high- 
wayman began  to  feel  extremely  low  in  his  mind. 
"  Hope  forsook  him,  the  reins  also  forsook  his  chilled 
fingers,  his  eyes.  Irritated  by  the  keen  atmosphere, 
hardly  enabled  him  to  distinguish  surrounding  objects," 
— and  It  was  owing  probably  to  this  latter  circumstance 
that  Bess  suddenly  floundered  and  fell,  throwing  her 
master  over  her  head.    Turpin  instantly  recovered  himself 

But  his  practised  eye  soon  told  him  that  Black  Bess 
was  in  a  parlous  plight.  Her  large  eyes  glared  wildly. 
"  She  won't  go  much  further,"  said  Turpin,  "  and  I  must 
give  It  up !  What !  .  .  .  give  up  the  race  just  when  it's 
won.?  .  .  .  No!  .  .  .That  can't  be.  .  .  Ha  !  Well  thought 
on  !  " — with  which  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  inevitable 
phial,  without  which  romances  could  never  be  brought  to 
their  end.  "  Raising  the  mare's  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
he  poured  the  contents  of  the  bottle  down  her  throat  " — 
and  lo  !  in  the  twinkling;  of  an  eve  he  was  once  more  at  a 
gallant  pace  traversing  the  banks  of  the  Don  and  skirt- 
ing the  fields  of  flax  that  bound  its  sides  ! 

Snaith  was  soon  passed,  and  our  hero  was  well  on  the 
road  to  Selby,  when  dawn  put  in  an  appearance  with  the 
usual  accompaniments  of  sparrows  twittering,  hares 
running  across  the  path,  and  mists  rising  from  the  earth. 
It  became  extremely  foggy,  and  Turpin,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  was  so  weak  as  to  be  influenced  by  the  climate  and 
became  foggy  too. 

He  became  aware  of  another  horseman  riding  by  his 
side.  "  It  was  impossible  to  discern  the  features  of  the 
rider  ;  but  his  figure  in  the  mist  seemed  gigantic,  neither 
was  the  colour  of  his  steed  distinguishable."     And  Dick 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


321 


having"  taken  note  of  these  phenomena,  came  somewhat 
hastily  to  an  amazing"  conclusion.  "  It  must  be  Tom," 
thought  he  ;  ''  he  is  come  to  warn  me  of  my  approaching 
end.     I  will  speak  to  him." 

But  why  Tom  ?  Indeed  it  was  not  Tom  at  all  as 
Turpin  discovered  by  and  by  when  the  atmosphere  had 
become  clearer.  "  Sir  Luke  Rookwood  by  this  light  !  " 
was  the  exclamation  which  sounded  the  depths  of  this 


V-c%*v.  T,l^ 


Bootham  Bar,  York. 


conundrum  and  proved  the  grim  personage  who  rode  at 
our  hero's  right  hand  to  be  none  other  than  the  obscure 
and  aimless  baronet,  resident  somewhere  in  Sussex,  and 
already  mentioned  in  the  encounter  with  the  York 
Mail. 

After  a  brief  mysterious  dialogue  with  this  mysterious 
and  aimless  personage,  principally  dealing  with  such 
fanciful  subjects    as    oaths,    affianced    brides,    contracts 

Y 


322  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

sealed  with  blood  or  not  sealed,  as  the  case  may  be, 
Turpin  rode  down  to  the  Ferry  at  Cawood — 189I  miles 
from  London.  Nine  miles  only  separated  him  from  his 
goal.  But  the  ferryman  accidentally  happened  to  be  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
loud  shout  smote  his  ear — (Turpin's  ear,  not  the  ferry- 
man's). This  shout  was  the  halloo  of  the  pursuers. 
The  only  thing  to  be  done  now  was  to  ford  the  river, 
and  this  Dick  Turpin  did.  Once  on  the  other  side,  he 
had  a  fresh  start — in  other  words,  ''  Once  more  on  wings 
of  swiftness"  Black  Bess  bore  him  away  from  his 
pursuers.  But  Major  Mowbray,  who  was  one  of  them, 
saw  that  all  this  parade  of  victory  was  only  an  expiring 
flash.  "  She  must  soon  drop,"  he  observed.  Bess  how- 
ever held  on  past  Fulford — "till  the  towers  of  York 
(199 J  miles  from  London)  burst  upon  him  in  all  the 
freshness,  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  a  bright  clear 
autumnal  morn.  The  noble  minster,  and  its  serene  and 
massive  pinnacles,  crocketed,  lantern-like,  and  beautiful  ; 
Saint  Mary's  lofty  spire ;  All  Hallows'  tower,  and  archi- 
tectural York  generally,  to  make  a  long  list  short, 
beamed  upon  him  ;  shortly  after  which  another  mile  was 
passed  ;  shortly  after  which  Dick  shouted  "  hurrah  !  " 
shortly  after  which  Black  Bess  "tottered — fell.  There 
was  a  dreadful  gasp — a  parting  moan — a  snort  ;  her  eye 
gazed  for  an  instant  on  her  master  with  a  dying  glare  ; 
then  grew  palsied,  rayless,  fixed.  A  shiver  also  ran 
through  her  frame."  And  there  was  an  end  of  the 
celebrated  ride  to  York.  And  I  hope  that  those  who 
can  believe  in  it  will. 

And  now  I  come  to  a  less  legendary  side  of  my 
subject.  Turpin  has  taken  us  to  York  :  and  faster  than 
we  could  have  gone  there  in  the  Coaching  Age — faster 
a  good  deal — but  he  has  not  stopped  for  us  at  any  of 
the  inns,  and  to  one  or  two  of  these  inns  on  the  great 
North  Road  I  wish  particularly  to  introduce  my  readers. 
For  they  are  hostel ries  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
and    call    up    even    now    I    know    not    what    coloured 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


j^j 


reminiscences  of  the  full  life  of  the  Coaching  Age — 
reminiscences  of  the  late  arrival  of  fagged  travellers 
on  snowy  nights  before  ample  porches,  their  induction 
thence,  their  immediate  induction  half  frozen  as  they 
were,  into  snug  parlours  adorned  with  prints  of  coaches 
at  full  gallop,  revealed  by  the  light  of  a  fire  blazing 
half-way  up  the  chimney  ; — reminiscences  too  of  table 
comforts  considered  prodigious  in  these  degenerate  days 
— with  good  liquor  to  round  the  story,  and  a  dreamless 
sleep  between  lavender-scented  sheets. 


r 


ft  T       ."'■>. 


I 


J.*' 


-^tfUfcttri^:- 


iVi 


y/ic  George,  Siainford. 

The  scenes  of  such  comfortable  hours  spent  by  an- 
cestors long  since  buried,  still  throng  the  now  almost 
deserted  reaches  of  the  Great  North  Road  ;  and  some 
of  these  old  inns,  situated  in  places  through  which  the 
northern  railways  pass,  still  live,  careless  of  the  changed 
condition  of  things,  and  tender  the  same  hospitality  to 
passengers  alighting  from  the  Great  Northern  Railway, 
as  they  used  to  tender  in  days  gone  by  to  passengers 
alighting  from  the  Great  York  and  Edinburgh  Mail. 
At  Stamford,  for  instance,  the  George  still  stands  where 

Y   2 


324 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


it  stood,  though  with  main  entrance  altered — a  huge 
reservoir  in  itself  (had  its  record  been  in  some  way  or 
other  preserved)  of  a  whole  sea  of  travel  continually 
ebbing  and  flowing  between  the  Metropolis  and  the 
North.  Royalty  itself  was  entertained  at  this  house  in 
the  person  of  Charles  the  First.  The  King  slept  here 
on  his  way  from  Newark  to  Huntingdon  on  August  23, 
1645.     And  besides  royalty,  who,  I  should  like  to  know, 


a 


.V#i     -*''-^''^- 


-^. 


"'  .}^%  :^^^ 


)V 


Stamford  7 '07011. 


can  tell  the  list  of  its  distinguished  guests  in  all  branches 
of  all  the  arts,  cither  of  war  or  peace  ?  Walter  Scott 
was  frequently  at  this  house  on  those  numerous  jaunts 
of  his  up  to  London,  when  he  was  a  welcome  guest 
at  the  Prince's  table — a  valiant  bottle  companion  and 
entrancing  raconteur — always  the  same  genial,  kindly 
gentleman  of  genius,  though  not  known  yet  as  the  author 


THE  YORK  ROAD  325 

of  surely  the  most  delightful  novels  in  the  world.  To 
pass  from  the  pen  to  the  sword,  at  this  house  stayed  the 
Butcher  of  Culloden  on  his  way  up  to  London  :  and  1 
do  not  doubt  that  the  George's  best  Burgundy  flowed  in 
red  seas  down  fierce  gullets  in  loyal  celebration  of  that 
shameful  shamble.  But,  as  I  have  said  in  another  place, 
the  list  of  distinguished  visitors  at  such  great  hostelrics 
on  the  main  roads  of  England,  must  be  looked  for  in 
the  letters  and  diaries  of  four  generations.  All  were 
here,  we  may  be  well  assured,  at  such  noted  halting- 
places  on  the  main  artery  of  travel  between  two  countries 
— all  and  of  every  rank,  in  a  motley  assemblage  of  con- 
fused travel — kings,  queens,  statesmen,  highwaymen 
(the  North  Road  about  Stamford  was  celebrated  for  these 
gentry),  generals,  poets,  wits,  fine  ladies,  conspirators, 
and  coachmen.  All  were  in  such  houses  as  this  George 
at  Stamford  at  one  time  or  other  in  the  centuries,  and 
ate  and  drank,  and  robbed,  or  were  robbed,  and  died, 
and  made  merry. 

But  if  so  much  can  be  said,  and  indeed  it  is  no  ex- 
aggeration to  say  so  much  about  the  inn  at  Stamford, 
the  great  inn  at  Grantham  twenty  miles  further  north 
should  be  able  to  claim  even  a  fuller  tide  of  story.  For 
the  celebrated  Angel  at  the  latter  place,  now  much 
resorted  to  by  hunting  men  and  women  who  can  start 
from  its  doors  to  meet  about  four  packs  of  hounds,  is 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  one  of  the  three  mediaeval 
hostels  remaining  in  England.  And  this  means  a  good 
deal  if  one  comes  to  think  of  it.  It  means,  indeed,  the 
survival  of  the  best  kind  of  thing  in  its  way  to  be  seen. 
For  a  very  superlative  kind  of  comfort  was  needed,  I 
surmise,  after  however  brief  an  experience  of  mediaeval 
roads.  And  if  what  inns  there  were  between  London 
and  York,  when  people  had  to  ride  the  whole  distance 
over  often  impassable  morasses,  had  not  been  A  i, 
people  would  not  have  ridden  so  frequently  between 
York  and  London. 

To  give  an  idea  of  the  age  of  the  Angel  at  Grantham 


226 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


'^\^\' 


■Vn 


V' 


77/<T  Aii-^d,  Graiithain. 


(to  come  to  details),  the  Knights  Templars  arc  supposed 
to  have  been  at  the  foundation  of  the  whole  affair.     This 


THE  YORK  ROAD  327 

however  I  think  is  an  allegory — but  what  is  quite  certain 
about  the  place  is  that  it  was  undoubtedly  one  of  those 
Maisons  du  Roi,  as  they  were  called,  which  in  days  gone 
by,  when  the  roads  still  had  life  in  them,  were  placed  at 
the  special  service  of  kings  and  their  retinues  as  they 
passed  here  and  there  through  England  on  royal  pro- 
gresses or  quelling  insurrections.  Perhaps  indeed  as 
well-known  an  historical  event  as  can  be  chronicled — 
(not  an  important  historical  event  because  they  are  as  a 
rule  not  well  known) — took  place  in  the  three  fine  sitting 
rooms,  which  were  then  one  room,  over  the  entrance 
gateway  of  this  celebrated  inn.  For  here,  on  October 
19th,  1485,  Richard  the  Third  signed  the  death-warrant 
of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  This  in  itself  is  an  appe- 
tizing fact  to  an  imaginative  traveller.  It  is  not  often  I 
fancy  that  one  can  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  under  a  floor 
which  creaked  four  hundred  years  ago  to  the  unequal 
strides  of  a  hunchbacked  and  irritable  king.  I  thought 
I  heard  Richard's  voice  myself  when  I  was  last  at  Grant- 
ham, and  the  beautiful  moulding  in  the  oriel  window  of 
the  Angel  smoking-room  gave  life  to  the  illusion. 

It  will  be  seen  then  perhaps  from  what  I  have  said, 
that  at  Stamford  and  Grantham  are  two  as  fine  speci- 
mens of  the  old  hostelries  of  the  great  roads  of  England  as 
can  be  found,  which,  fed  as  they  are  by  great  lines  of  rail- 
way, keep  a  generous  life  throbbing  in  their  old  hearts  still. 
But  whether  the  inns  at  Grantham  and  Stamford  are  as 
representative  of  the  Coaching  Age  in  its  prime,  as  I 
suppose  them  to  be,  or  no,  it  is  very  certain  that  no 
place  more  representative  of  the  "  Coaching  Age 
Decayed,"  than  Stilton,  is  to  be  found  on  Earth. 

For  here  the  Great  Northern  Railway  has  diverged 
from  the  line  of  the  old  road,  and  by  doing  so  has  turned 
a  vast  coaching  emporium  into  a  corpse  of  a  town — if 
town  indeed  Stilton  could  by  any  stretch  of  language 
ever  have  been  called.  It  was  rather,  in  its  best  days, 
a  village  clustering  about  two  magnificent  inns,  the 
Angel  and  the  Bell,  which  still  stare  at  each  other  stonily 


528 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


across  the  Great  North  Road.  At  the  Angel,  well  known 
in  the  coaching  days  as  the  house  of  the  famed  Miss 
Worthington  (stout,  smiling,  the  chrlstener  of  Stilton 
cheeses  made  miles  away,  but  so  called  because  they  were 
sold  at  her  hospitable  door),  over  300  horses  were  stabled 
for  coaching  and  posting  purposes.  Vast  barracks  indeed 
stretching  at  the  back  of  the  old  house — one  wing  of 
which  alone  is  now  open  to  travellers — tell  of  the  bustle 

of  post-boys,  of 
the  hurrying  to 
and  fro  of  fidgety 
passengers  over 
eager  to  be  off,  the 
harnessing  and 
unharnessing  of 
horses,  of  all  the 
many-voiced  Babel 
of  travel  in  fact 
which  fifty  years 
ago  surged  and 
swayed  round  this 
teeming  coaching 
centre,  now  lying 
silent  and  deserted 
as  the  grave.  I  am 
told — and  from  its 
central  position  on 
the  great  North 
Road  seventy-five 
miles  from  London 
I  can  well  understand  the  fact — that  at  Stilton  in 
the  old  days  the  ebb  and  flow  of  traffic  never 
ceased.  All  day  coaches  and  postchaises  continually 
poured  into  the  place  and  out  of  it.  And  by  night  the 
great  mails  running  from  John  o'  Groat's  almost,  into 
the  heart  of  London,  thundered  through  the  splendid 
broad  thoroughfare,  visible  mediums  as  it  were  of  an 
empire's    circulation.       And    other    wayfarers    besides 


->«tv* 


Oriel  Window  in  The  An^el,  Gt-antham. 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


329 


postillions  and  coachmen  seemed  never  off  the  road — 
huge  flocks  of  geese  destined  for  the  London  market, 
and  travelling  the  seventy-five  miles  with  uncommon 
ease ;  enormous  droves  of  oxen,  not  such  roadsters  born. 
Each  beast  was  indeed  thrown  and  shod  at  Stilton  to 
enable  them  to  bear  the  journey.  And  to  show  the 
huge  press  even  of  this  kind  of  traffic,  this  business 
of  shoeing  oxen  was  a  trade  almost  in  itself,  as  I  have 
been  told  by  the  present  landlord  of  the  Angel  Inn,  who 
used  in  his  youth  to  do  the  office  himself,  and  to  whose  still 
active  memory  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  the  foregoing 
details. 

And  to  cross  the  road  (the  breadth  of  the  great  North 
Road  at  Stilton  at  once  seizes  the  imagination,  it  is  royal, 
the  breadth  of  it,  and  looks  like  the  artery  of  a  nation), 
to  cross  the  road  from  the  Angel,  and  to  come  to  the 
Angel's  great  rival,  the  Bell,  is  to  bridge  a  whole  period 
in  the  history  of  English  travel  ;  to  pass  in  twenty  yards 
from  the  age  of  crack  coaches  and  spicy  teams  to  times 
long  antecedent,  when  Flying  Machines' were  not;  when 
the  great  roads  were  hazily  marked  over  desolate  heathy 
tracks  ;  when  men  travelled  on  horseback  and  women 
rode  pillion,  and  people  only  felt  secure  when  they  went 
in  large  companies  ;  when  solitary  travellers  went  in  fear 
of  their  lives  when  the  gloaming  overtook  them,  and 
"  spurred  apace  to  reach  the  timely  inn." 

The  date  of  Charles  the  First's  execution  is  to  be  seen 
on  one  of  the  gables  of  the  Bell.  But  this  dream  in 
stone  must  date  far  further  back  than  1649  (when  no 
doubt  a  slight  restoration  was  here  commemorated),  must 
date  far  back  I  should  say  into  the  early  days  of  the 
Tudors  ;  must  have  seen  much  of  the  gorgeous  life  of 
that  period  of  pageant  pass  and  repass  its  hospitable 
doors.  There  is  an  inn  at  Tuxford,  sixty-two  miles 
further  on  the  road  to  York,  which  stands  on  the  site  of 
an  old  house  called  the  Crown,  which  must  very  greatly 
have  resembled  the  Bell  at  Stilton.  I  make  mention  of 
it  here  because  some  of  the  Crown's  history  has  been 


330 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


preserved,  and  the  Bell  must  have  had  as  full  and  very 
similar  a  record.  To  this  Crown  then  at  Tuxford  (it 
was  destroyed  by  a  violent  tempest  in  1587)  came 
Margaret  Tudor  on  her  journey  to  the  north.  "  She  was 
met  by  the  vicar  and  churchmen  near  where  the  rebel 
stone  is  now  standing,  the  bells  rang  merrily  till 
midnight,  and  large  fires   kept  burning  in   the  market- 


4^^*-( 


i 


Courtyard  of  the  Bell,  Stilton. 


place."  The  Virgin  Queen  slept  in  the  room  over  the 
south-east  angle,  and  proceeded  on  her  journey  on  the 
early  morning  of  July  I2th,  1503.  All  the  neighbours 
of  the  place  came  in  on  horseback,  and  a  great  train  of 
persons  on  foot  to  see  the  Queen  at  her  departure  from 
the  town.  These  all  fell  into  the  procession  and  the 
minstrels  commenced  their  avocations  and  "played  right 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


331 


merrily."  Having  descended  the  hill,  they  again  with 
difficulty  began  to  ascend.  The  road  at  that  period  was 
anything  but  a  road,  and  but  barely  passable  even  at 
that  period  of  the  year.      Having  arrived  at  the  summit, 


"  Cajt  I  have  a  iiight's  lodging?" 


the  towers  of  Lincoln  Minster  presented  their  noble 
proportions  in  the  distance,  whereupon  honour  was  done 
to  this  ancient  temple  of  Jehovah.  The  whole  coi'tcge 
stopped    as    with  one    consent,    and    Johannes  and  his 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


company,  the  minstrels  of  music,  and  the  trumpeters 
again  made  the  welkin  ring  with  their  notes  of  praise, 
and  the  thanksgiving  of  the  goodly  company.  Passing 
down  the  hill  onward  to  Markham  Moor  (then  consisting 
of  only  a  few  thatched  cottages  scattered  here  and  there) 
the  procession  left  what  is  now  the  route  of  the  Great 
North  Road,  and  proceeded  through  West  Drayton,  up 
to    near    Ecksley,    the    bells    of  which    church    merrily 


■'-'^/.l' 


-m  Iff 


t    I 


*(((    . 


L 


L^--. 


The  Sign  of  the  Bell,  StUton. 


welcomed  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  England.  Pass- 
ing slowly  and  heavily  across  the  forest  on  the  Old 
London  Road,  the  cavalcade  arrived  at  Rushey  Inn,  then 
a  noted  resting-place  for  travellers,  and  an  agreeable 
retreat  from  the  gnats  and  flies,  which  then  infested  the 


THE  YORK  ROAD 


333 


ling,  gorse  and  furze  on  each  side  the  margin  of  the  road 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  In  due  course  Margaret 
Tudor  arrived  in  Edinburgh,  August  2nd,  and  was 
married  August  8th,  1503. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  mediaeval  travel  such  as  I  think 
must  have  often  been  witnessed  from  the  windows  of 
such  old  houses  of  entertainment  as  the  Bell  at  Stilton, 
when  the  Tudors  ruled  England.  And  often  sterner 
episodes  of  history  must  have  passed  beneath  its  mag- 
nificent copper  sign  than  wedding  processions  of  royal 
princesses,  even  in  those  days,  when  England  was  called 
merry,  and  was  merry  England  indeed.     During  the  >^ear 


''9 


The  Bell,  Stilton. 


1-536  the  Bell  at  Stilton  was  no  doubt  often  visited  by 
one  of  those  medley  cavalcades  so  common  at  the  time, 
consisting  of  abbots  in  full  armour,  waggon-loads  of 
victuals,  oxen  and  sheep,  and  a  banner  borne  by  a  retainer 
on  which  was  worked  a  plough,  a  chalice  and  a  Host,  a 
horn,  and  the  five  wounds  of  Christ — the  well-known 
badge  which  marked  the  fiery  course  of  the  Pilgrimage 
of  Grace,  This  great  rising  which  began  in  Lincolnshire 
ran  much  of  its  course  along  the  Great  North  Road — 
who  knows  how  much  of  it  passed  through  the  now- 
deserted  rooms  and  corridors  of  the  great  Northern  inns 
such  as  this  Bell  at  Stilton  !     It  was  in  an  inn  at  Lincoln 


334  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

at  all  events  that  on  a  night  of  October  there  was  present 
a  gentleman  of  Yorkshire  whose  name  (Robert  Aske)  a 
few  weeks  later  was  ringing  through  every  English  house- 
hold in  accents  of  terror  or  admiration. 

But  indeed  standing  before  such  a  monument  of  days 
gone  by  as  this  is,  it  is  not  a  question  of  this  or  that 
romantic  episode  rising  to  a  fanciful  man's  mind  as  the 
pageant  of  a  whole  nation's  history  passing  in  a  sort  of 
ghostly  procession.  And  what  episode  of  that  pageant, 
or  of  such  part  of  it  at  all  events  as  passed  on  the  Great 
North  Road,  has  not  this  great  deserted  house  of  enter- 
tainment seen,  fed,  sheltered  within  its  now  crumbling 
walls  ?  Gallants  of  Elizabeth's  day,  Cavaliers  of  Charles 
the  First's,  Ironsides  on  their  way  to  Marston  Moor, 
Restoration  Courtiers  flying  from  the  Plague.  And  in 
days  more  modern,  King's  messengers  spurring  to  London 
with  the  tidings  of  Culloden — and  Cumberland  himself 
fresh  from  his  red  victory,  and  the  long  line  of  Jacobite 
prisoners  passing  in  melancholy  procession,  their  arms 
pinioned  behind  them,  each  prisoner's  horse  led  by  a 
foot  soldier  carrying  a  musket  with  fixed  bayonet ;  each 
division  preceded  by  a  troop  of  horse  with  drawn  swords, 
the  drums  insulting  the  unhappy  prisoners  by  beating  a 
triumphal  march  in  derision. 

Why,  scenes  beyond  number  such  as  these  must  have 
passed  before  the  long  gabled  front  of  this  old  Bell  at 
Stilton  ;  passed,  faded,  been  succeeded  by  hundreds  more 
stirring,  which  in  their  turn  too  vanished  like  some  half- 
remembered  dream.  And  the  old  house  still  seems  to 
keep  some  mysterious  memory  of  these  scenes  locked  in 
its  old  withered  heart  ;  as  gaunt,  ghost-like,  deserted, 
but  half  alive,  it  stares  night  and  deiy  on  the  lonely  North 
Road. 


^ 


^^f 


M^^T-^  ~~ 


?~1 


^  Quaint  Bay,  St.  Albans. 


VIL— THE   HOLYHEAD  ROAD. 

The  history  of  the  New  and  Direct  Road  to  Holyhead 
by  St.  Albans,  Redbourn,  Dunstable,  Brick-hill,  Tow- 
cester,  Dunchurch,  Coventry,  Birmingham,  and  thence  to 
Shrewsbury,  begins,  as  I  read  its  record,  two  hundred 
years  before  the  Holyhead  Mail  showed  fair  claim  to  be 
one  of  the  fastest  coaches  in  England,  or  the  Shrewsbury 
Wonder's  supreme  punctuality  regulated  the  watches  of 
dwellers  on  the  roadside.  It  is  true  that  in  November, 
1605,  roads  as  we  now  understand  them  did  not  exist ; 
but  this  same  route,  or  at  all  events  tracks  across  unin- 
closed  heaths,  even  then  connected  the  above-mentioned 
places  with  each  other  and  the  capital,  and  marked  the 


336  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

shortest  way  for  those  riding  post  to  reach  Northampton- 
shire, or  the  counties  beyond  its  borders. 

Early  then  in  the  November  of  1605,  certain  elaborate 
preparations  which  had  been  made  for  rapid  travelling 
between  London  and  Dunchurch,  eighty  miles  down 
in  Warwickshire,  was  the  common  talk  of  ostlers  and 
loafers  at  the  chief  posting-houses  at  St.  Albans, 
Dunstable,  Towcestcr,  and  Daventry.  At  each  of  these 
places  a  Mr.  Ambrose  Rookwood,  a  young  Catholic 
gentleman  of  fortune,  well  known  on  the  road  for  his 
splendid  horses,  had  placed  heavy  relays.  The  heaviness 
of  these  relays  excited  continual  discussion.  The  con- 
fused rumour  of  the  tap-room,  fed  by  chance  travellers 
on  the  road,  decreed  presently  that  these  heavy  relays 
were  to  carry  Mr.  Ambrose  Rookwood  down  to  a  great 
hunting  party,  to  be  shortly  assembled  at  Dunsmoor. 
But  when  this  hunting  party  was  to  take  place,  no  one 
seemed  to  know,  or  why  the  young  Catholic  gentleman 
should  have  made  such  elaborate  preparations  to  reach 
it  so  hurriedly. 

And  so  the  few  intervening  days  passed  till  the  5th  of 
November,  1605,  dawned  grayly  over  London — amidst 
torrents  of  driving  rain  and  wild  gusts  of  a  west  wind 
which  had  gathered  strength  as  the  night  waned,  and  by 
daylight  had  grown  into  a  hurricane — dawned  on  a  city 
distracted.  Narrow  streets  were  already  crowded  with 
excited  groups,  who  whispered,  gesticulated,  at  street 
corners.  Some  men  but  half  dressed  rushed  from  their 
houses  as  if  the  rumour  of  some  monstrous  imminent 
doom  had  startled  them  suddenly  from  sleep.  Others 
with  drawn  swords  in  their  hands  counselled  all  men  to 
arm  in  one  breath,  and,  as  now  and  again  a  woman's 
shriek  rose  above  the  press  cried  in  another,  that  there 
was  no  cause  for  fear.  Consternation  was  everywhere, 
— but  no  fixed  rumour  prevailed.  Only  each  man  eyed 
his  neighbour  suspiciously,  only  a  vague  feeling  as  of 
some  nightmare  had  seized  upon  London  that  the  past 
darkness  had  brought  forth  a  portent 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


337 


In  the  dim  twilight  of  that  November  dawn  Mr. 
Ambrose  Rookwood,  the  young  Cathoh'c  gentleman, 
whose  relays  of  fine  horses  had  excited  such  discussion 
on  the  North-western  Road — came  out   into   these  dis- 


.H  the  Stable  Door. 


tracted  streets,  in  company  with  a  friend — one  Mr. 
Thomas  Winter.  The  two  gentlemen  walked  aimlessly 
here  and  there  for  some  time,  listening  attentively  to  all 
that  was  said  on  all  sides,  now  joining  themselves  to  a 
group  and  adding  questions  on  their  own  part,  to  the 

Z 


338 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


sort  of  universal  interrogatory  which  prevailed — now 
shuddering  and  passing  on  their  way  quickly  as  the 
unformed  phantom  of  the  people's  fear  began  to  grow 
gradually  into  defined  shape.  Then,  as  if  fearful  any 
longer  of  uncertainty,  they  made  with  extraordinary 
coolness  towards  the  Parliament  House. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen  ;  but  in  the  middle  of  King 


^S>1: 


.5^  "^P*^ 

V  "^.J 


Saddling  tip. 

Street,  Westminster,  the  two  found  a  guard  standing. 
Permission  to  pass  was  peremptorily  refused.  Then  as 
Mr.  Rookwood's  friend  stood  parleying  with  the  guard  a 
white-faced  citizen  passed  by  hurriedly,  exclaiming  in 
panic-stricken  tones,  "  There  is  treason  discovered  ! 
And  the  king  and  lords  should  have  been  blown  up." 
The  two  gentlemen  turned  without  a  word,  and  made 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


339 


for  their  horses.  The  heavy  relays  on  the  North- Western 
Road  were  now  to  be  put  to  their  proper  use.  But  great 
caution  had  to  be  exercised.  The  appalHng  news  had 
circulated  in  the  city  with  the  rapidity  of  poison. 
Barricades  were  being  hastily  erected  at  the  ends  of  the 
streets;  passengers  were  being  stopped  and  questioned  ; 
any  appearance  of  hurry  would  have  led  to  instant 
arrest.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  therefore  before  the  two 
gentlemen  got  clear  of  London — and  they  were  but  just 
in  time  :  for  rumours  were  already  in  the  air  of  a 
proclamation  forbidding  anybody  to  leave  the  town  for 
three  days.   Once  clear  of  London  they  rode  desperately. 

Few  incidents  I  think  in  history  seize  the  imagination 
so  forcibly  as  that  wild  flight  of  the  Gunpowder  Con- 
spirators northward.  Thomas  Winter  made  for  his 
brother's  house  at  Huddington  in  Worcestershire  ;  but 
Rookwood  rode  fiercely  down  the  North- W^estern  Road 
to  bear  the  fatal  news  to  the  conspirators  already 
assembling  on  Dunsmoor.  Catesby,  Piercy,  John  and 
Christopher  Wright  were  he  knew  on  the  road  in  front. 
But  the  relays  already  placed  for  him,  and  the  desperate 
fear  which  urged  him  forwards  enabled  Rookwood  to  over- 
take the  others  as  they  were  rising  the  ascent  at  Brickhill. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  them  what  had  happened  in 
London — that  Fawkes  had  been  arrested  and  lodged  in 
the  Tower — that  at  any  moment  torture  might  make 
him  give  up  their  names — that  the  whole  scheme  had 
fallen  through,  and  that  their  only  chance  of  safety  lay 
in  instantly  joining  their  friends.  From  this  moment  the 
flight  became  a  stampede.  "  They  devoured  the  ground," 
.shouting  as  they  rode  through  startled  towns  and  villages 
that  they  were  carrying  despatches  from  the  King  to 
Northampton,  flinging  off  their  large  cloaks,  heavy  with 
the  rain  that  still  poured  remorselessly,  that  they  might 
add  wings  even  to  their  precipitate  flight.  Rookwood 
rode  thirty  miles  in  two  hours  on  one  horse.  At  six  in 
the  evening  the  fugitives  arrived  atCatesby's  house  at  Ash- 
by  St.  Legers,  about  three  miles  from  Daventry.  They 
had  ridden  the  eighty  miles  from  London  in  seven  hours. 

Z  2 


340 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Here  after  a  brief  consultation  with  Robert  Winter, 
who  was  staying  in  the  house  (it  still  stands  in  all  its 
gloomy  suggestiveness,  this  home  of  England's  most 
desperate  conspirator),  they  rode  off  hastily  on  the  same 
tired  horses  to  join  Sir  Everard  Digby  and  the  pretended 
hunting  gathering  on  Dunsmoor  Heath  which  the  direct 


s,- 


U    ,^:^ffm 


■     •..■■.      .■   '.  >:■*..;,;,,;,, #^., -wife 


■Hwfi; 


,   i"  ■■  / 11    .  1^  ■ 
Caiesby's  House,  Ashby-St.-Leger. 

road  to  Holyhead  still  crosses  at  the  eighty-fifth  mile- 
stone from  London. 

Their  further  wild  course  through  Warwickshire  to 
Holbeach  on  the  Staffordshire  border  calls  here  for  no 
telling,  as  it  is  no  longer  associated  with  the  Road.  But  so 
intimately  associated  with  the  Gunpowder  Treason  does 
the  way   to  Holyhead  seem  that   though   its  history  is 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD  341 

closed  so  far  as  the  directest  route  is  concerned,  the 
earher  route  by  Chester  has  another  Hnk  to  add  to  its 
story.  A  short  distance  from  Newport  Pagnell  (fifty- 
one  miles  from  London),  stands  Gayhurst, — the  fine 
Elizabethan  house  once  the  home  of  Sir  Everard  Digby. 
Of  him  a  sympathetic  historian  writes,  "  His  youth,  his 
personal  graces,  the  constancy  which  he  had  exhibited 
whilst  he  believed  himself  a  martyr  in  a  good  cause,  the 
deep  sorrow  which  he  testified  on  becoming  sensible  of 
his  error,  seem  to  have  moved  all  hearts  with  pity  and 
even  admiration  ;  and  if  so  detestable  a  villainy  as  the 
Gunpowder  Plot  may  be  permitted  to  have  its  hero 
Everard  Digby  was  undoubtedly  the  man." 

The  gray  walls  of  his  beautiful  Buckinghamshire  home 
were  indeed  witnesses  at  all  events  of  some  of  the  most 
suggestive  incidents  in  the  heart-quaking  scheme. 
Fawkes  was  a  frequent  guest  here — meditating  through 
the  prolonged  rains  which  heralded  the  approach  of  the 
destined  day,  on  the  state  of  the  powder,  by  now  safely 
placed  under  the  Parliament  House  ;  riding  to  and  fro 
frequently  from  London  ;  often  an  unexpected,  always  a 
welcome  guest.  From  Gayhurst,  besides,  set  out  that 
Pilgrimage  to  St  Winifred's  well,  in  Flintshire,  the 
motive  of  which  was  so  much  discussed  after  the 
discovery  of  the  Conspiracy.  Motives  apart  however, 
what  is  more  important  from  my  point  of  view  is  that 
the  company  of  about  thirty  persons — all  relations  of 
the  conspirators  ;  some  of  the  actual  conspirators  among 
these,  travelled  in  coaches — proceeded  by  Daventry  to 
John  Grant's  house  at  Norbrook,  a  fine,  melancholy, 
moated  manor  once  (where  is  it  now .'' ),  thence  to 
Robert  Winter's,  at  Huddington,  and  so  to  Flintshire 
by  Shrewsbury. 

The  fact  that  the  pilgrims  travelled  in  coaches  brings 
me  by  quite  a  natural  stage  from  the  historical  to  the 
coaching  side  of  the  Holyhead  Road.  And  it  was  from 
all  I  can  learn  the  coaching  road  par  excellence.  Cele- 
brated, thanks  to  the  immortal  Telford,  for  its  260  miles 
of  superb  surface,  so  masterfully  laid  down  that,  though 


342 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


i;he  last  107  miles  from   Shrewsbury  to   Holyhead   ran 
through  mountainous  country,  no  horse  was  obliged  to 


.,^_^.^>ici^^ 


Seein^^  them  off. 


walk,  unless  he  particularly  wished  it,  between  Holyhead 
and  London  ;  celebrated  too  for  its  coachmen,  a  long 
list  of  historic   names  shining   calmly  through   many  a 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


343 


story  of  poles  snapped ;  coaches  over-turned  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye ;  runaway  teams  nearing  closed  toll- 
bars  ;  desperate  races  for  a  slight  pre-eminence,  ending 
in  desperate  collisions  ;  celebrated  consequently  and 
finally  for  its  time  records,  which  never  were  beaten. 

Not  even  on  the  Exeter  Road  by  the  Quicksilver  or 
the  Telegraph.  For  though  the  former  covered  the  175 
miles  between  London  and  Exeter  in  eighteen  hours,  and 


/ 


Through  the  Toil-Gate. 


though  the  latter  covered  the  165  miles  in  seventeen 
hours,  yet  on  the  Holyhead  Road,  the  Holyhead  Mail, 
which  ran  through  Shrewsbury,  was  timed  at  ten  miles 
and  a  half  an  hour  through  the  whole  journey,  including 
stoppages;  w^hile  the  celebrated  Wonder  did  the  158 
miles  between  London  and  Shrewsbury  in  fifteen  hours 
and  three  quarters  ;  and  the  Manchester  Telegraph, 
travelling  some  distance  at  all  events  on  the  Holyhead 


344 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Road,  did  the  i86  miles  in  eighteen  hours  eighteen 
minutes,  leaving  the  Bull  and  Mouth  at  five  in  the 
morning,  reaching  the  Peacock,  Islington,  at  5.15,  and 
Northampton  at  8.40,  where,  according  to  Mr.  Stanley 
Harris,  twenty  minutes  were  allowed  to  eat  as  much  as 
you  could,  with  tea  or  coffee  (of  course  too  hot  to  drink). 

And  I  think  that  the  performances  of  these  last 
two  coaches  are  so  remarkable  that  I  cannot  emphasize 
them  more  firmly  than  by  here  subjoining  their  re- 
spective time-bills  ;  voiceless  proclamations  these  of  great 
feats  in  the  past,  pasted  long  since  most  of  them  into 
the  scrap-books  of  old-fashioned  travel,  or  hanging  in 
melancholy  neglect  and  astounding  frames  on  the  smoke- 
begrimed  walls  of  once  celebrated  posting  houses. 

Here  then  is  the  time-bill  of  the  Wonder  coach  from 
London  to  Shrewsbury  : — 


Despatched  from  Bull  and  Month  at  6.30  morning. 
,,  ,,        Peacock,  Islington,  at  6.^^  o'' clock. 


Proprietor. 

Place. 

Miles. 

Time 
Allowed. 

Should 
Arrive. 

8.48 

9-13 

10.21 
2.15 

4.2       1 

5-4(3 

8.16 

8.51 

9.34 
10.30     1 

1 

1 

1 
1 

Sherman     .... 
J.  Liley 

Goodyear    .... 
Sheppard    .... 
Collier 

Vyse 

Evans 

J.  Taylor     .... 
H.  T.  Taylor  .    .    . 
J.  Taylor    .... 

St.  Albans     .... 
Redbourn 

(Breakfast)     .    . 

Dunstable 

Daventry 

Coventry 

(Business)  .... 
Birmini;ham  .         .    . 

(Dinner)     .... 
Wolverham]Uon    .    . 

(Business)  .... 
Summerhouse    . 

Shifnal 

Haygate 

Shrewsbury    .... 

22i 

8i 

29I 

19 

19 
14 

64 
6h 
8 
10 

H.    M. 

2     3 

0   25 

0    20 

0  48 

2  54 

1  47 

0  5 

1  39 

0  35 

1  15 
0    5 
0  35 
0  35 
0  43 
0  56 

158 

15  45 

THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


345 


And    here    the    time-bill    of    the    Manchester    Tele- 
graph : — 

Leave  Bull  and  Month  at  5  a.m. 
,,       Peacock,  Islington,  at  5. 15. 


Proprietor. 


Place. 


St.  Albans 


j   Sherman     ...    . 

I   Liley Redbourn  .    . 

I   Fossey Hocklifife    .    . 

I  Northampton 
j       (Breakfast) 

j   Shaw Harboro'    . 

I  Leicester    . 

(Business) 
Loughboro' 
Derby     .    . 
(Dinner) 

Mason Ashbourne 

Wood Waterhouses 

Linley     ....       i  Bullock  Smithy 
Wetherall  &  Co.    .      Manchester 


Pettifer 


Miles. 

Time 
Allowed. 

; 

11.    M. 

19.^ 

I    54 

4^ 

0    22 

\2h 

I    10 

0    20 

474 

4  30 

0    5 

26 

2  27 

0  20 

30 

2  48 

7i 

0  43 

29  i 

2  46 

9 

0  50 

186 

18  15 

Sliouid 
Arrive. 


7-9 

7-3^ 

8.41 


i.^i 


4-3 


7. 1 1 

7-54 
10.40 

11.30 


Desperate  travelling  this  !  But  by  no  means  repre- 
senting solitary  records  of  sustained  speed  on  these  fine 
North- Western  Roads.  By  no  means.  For  the  Mail 
to  Holyhead  via  Chester  (the  old  route),  though  not  keep- 
ing the  same  pace  as  the  Mail  from  London  to  Holyhead 
via  Shrewsbury,  still  did  its  nine  miles  and  a  half  an  hour, 
including  stoppages,  travelling  on  not  nearly  such  good 
roads  too,  and  by  night  ;  while  on  May  Day,  1830  (May 
Day  being  the  great  day  for  coaches  to  race  against  time, 
some  of  them  with  that  object  in  view  carrying  no  pas- 
sengers), the  Independent  Tallyho,  running  between 
London  and   Birmingham,   covered    the    109    miles    in 


346 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Saracen's  J I  cad,  St.  Albans. 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD  347 

seven  hours  thirty  minutes — a  feat  which  altogether 
beats  the  record  in  Coaching  Annals  ;  though  on  May 
Day,  1838,  "the  Shrewsbury  Greyhound  came  a  good 
second  by  travelling  the  153  miles  two  furlongs  at  the 
rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour,  including  stoppages. 
And  as  an  irreproachable  coaching  authority  repre- 
sents that  eleven  miles  an  hour,  including  stoppages, 
stands  for  galloping  at  least  the  greater  part  of  the  way, 
an  easy  calculation  may  be  made  as  to  what  extent  the 
coachmen  of  the  Tallyho  "  sprung  their  cattle." 

Flying  Machines  these,  indeed  !     Of  a  different  kind 
though  to  those  which  in   the  year  of  Grace    1742   had 
already  made  the  North- Western  Roads  famous  jfor  head- 
long speed,  when   the   Oxford   Machine  used   to  leave 
London  at  7  A.M.  (the  weather,  Providence,  and  a  variety 
of  other  factors  permitting),  arrived  at  Uxbridge  (fourteen 
miles  seven  furlongs)  from  Tyburn  Turnpike  at  midday, 
and  at  High   Wycombe   (twenty-eight  miles  seven  fur- 
longs) at   5   P.M.,  where  they  inned  for   the  night,  and 
proceeded  desperately  to. Oxford    next  morning.     Nor 
when  George  the  Second  was  king  was  the  Manchester 
Telegraph  of  1836  without  a  prototype.     For  it  came 
to  pass  in  1754  that  a  company  of  Manchester  merchants, 
having  considered  how  Time  flew,  and  to  what  a  degree 
the  success    or   non-success   of  commercial  speculation 
coincided  with  the  flight  of  Time,  bethought  them  how 
most  nearly  in  their  passage  to  and  from  London  they 
might  fly  themselves.     To  which  end  they  started  a  new 
sensation  called  a  "  Flying  Coach."     And  they  carefully 
put  forward  in  a  well-w^eighed   prospectus  the  claims  of 
their  invention  to  the  title,  stating  that  there  was  no  non- 
sensical pretence  about  the  thing  this  time,  but  that  in 
point  of  honest  fact  they  seriously  contemplated  running 
their  machine  at  the  accelerated  speed   of  five  miles  an 
hour  ;  and  that  however  incredible   it  might  appear,  the 
coach  would  actually,  barring  accidents,  arrive  in  London 
four  days  and  a  half  after  leaving  Manchester  ! 


348  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

To  set  out  ourselves  on  the  roads  on  which  these  pro- 
digies were  perpetrated,  it  may  be  well  to  state  at  this 
point  that  there  were  three  routes  to  Holyhead  in  the 
prime  of  the  coaching  days  ;  firstly,  the  direct  and  old 
ro3id,  via  Chester,  and  measured  from  Hicks's  Hall,  going 
vm  Barnet,  St.  Albans,  Dunstable,  Hockliffe,  Woburn, 
Newport  Pagnell,  Northampton,  Hinckley,  Tamworth, 
Rugeley,  Nantwich,  and  Chester  ;  secondly,  the  road 
measured  from  Tyburn  Turnpike,  and  going  vm  Southall, 
Uxbridge,  Beaconsfield,  High  Wycombe,  Oxford,  Wood- 
stock, Chapel  House,  Shipston,  Stratford-on-Avon,  Hen- 
ley-in-Arden,  and  Birmingham  ;  and,  thirdly,  the  new 
road  ("  new  old  "  though,  as  it  turns  out)  z>m  Barnet,  St 
Albans,  Dunstable,  Brickhill,  Stony  Stratford,  Towcester, 
Daventry,  Dunsmoor,  Coventry,  Birmingham,  and  thence 
to  Shrewsbury,  as  route  No.  2,  vm  Wednesbury,  Wol- 
verhampton, Shifnal,  Haygate,  and  Atcham. 

It  was  this  latter  route  which  was  taken  by  the  Wonder, 
the  Holyhead  Mail,  and  other  crack  coaches  ;  and  it  is 
on  this  route  that  I  purpose  to  travel,  permitting  myself 
as  heretofore  the  graceful  license  of  running  off  it,  on  to 
one  of  its  branches,  whenever  the  desirability  of  a  change 
suggests  itself,  or  an  anecdote  or  an  accident  calls  for 
diversion. 

And  the  accidents  on  the  North- Western  Road  begin 
early  ;  before,  indeed,  it  branches  from  the  Great  North 
Road,  which  it  does,  or  did,  at  Barnet  Pillar  (the  stone 
put  up  to  commemorate  the  celebrated  battle),  six  fur- 
longs beyond  Barnet  town.  But  as  I  say  the  first 
casualty  to  be  noticed  on  the  North- Western  Road  oc- 
curred before  this  spot  is  reached,  so  near  to  London 
indeed  as  Finchley  Common  (which  is  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  beyond  Highgate  Archway),  though  the  cause  of 
the  accident,  the  first  cause,  originated  at  a  place  called 
Redbourn,  twenty-one  miles  down  the  road.  And  in 
this  wise  :  Owing  to  an  obstruction  below  Dunstable — in 
point  of  fact  to  heavy  snow-drifts — four  or  five  coaches 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


349 


■■''I'r 


Courtyard  of  the  George,  St.  Allans. 


started  together  thence.     They  all   went  at   a  fair  pace, 
not  racing,  but  passing  each  other  at  the  different  stages. 


350  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

till  they  reached  the  Green  Man  at  Finchley,  where  ac- 
cording to  immemorial   prescription  the   four   coachmen 
alighted   for   a  drink,  or  rather   for  four.     And  now  ''  a 
change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  the    scene."      In  other 
words,  one  "  Humpy,"  so  called  either  from  his   driving 
the  Umpire  (but  I  hope  not)  or  from  his  having  a  hump 
on  his  back,  which  is  more   probable,  was  discovered  to 
have  taken  too  much  spirits.     For  he  was  very  noisy  and 
.shouted  and  hallooed  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  though  at 
what  it  is  impossible  to  conjecture.     However,  the  old 
coachman   who  tells  the  story  (the  same  who,  it  may  be 
remembered,    upset    his    coach    when    driving   on    the 
Portsmouth    Road,  with    a   noise    like   the   report   of  a 
cannon,    and    had    consequently    gained    caution    from 
experience),   the   old    coachman,   I   say,   suspected  that 
something   would    happen.       So    he    kept    behind,    and 
waited   to  see  what  he  would  see.     He   first  of  all  saw 
one  of  the   three  coaches  by  a  fence  opposite  a  public- 
house   (no  uncommon  spectacle  on  the   roads,  I   fancy). 
But  what  did  he  next  see  when  he  arrived  himself  at  the 
public-house  (sign,  the  Bald-faced  Stag)  ?     Why,  he  saw 
a  coach  lying  on  its  side — the  Manchester  Umpire  in  fact 
— the   coach  of  the  too  demonstrative    Humpy.     And 
things    were  pretty    considerably    mixed    up    with    the 
Manchester  Umpire.     The  forepart    of  the  coach    was 
broken,  the  luggage  was  scattered  all  over  the  road,  also 
the  passengers,  who,  thus  agreeably  circumstanced,  im- 
proved the  shining  hour  by  bewailing  their  bruises  and 
cursing  the  conduct   of  Humpy.     This   was  rather  un- 
chivalrous  of  them,  as  it  turned  out,  thus  to  rail  against 
the  unfortunate  ;  for  Humpy  was  also   on  his  back,  per- 
fectly helpless,  "  like  a  large  black  beetle,"  moaning  and 
groaning  most  hideously,  and  certainly  more  injured  than 
anybody   else.     He  had  indeed,  with   a  curiously  misdi- 
rected   ingenuity,   upset   the    coach   upon   himself,  and 
materially  injured  his   hip-joint.     From  Humpy  himself 
therefore  no  explanation  of  how  things  had  occurred  was 
naturally  forthcoming.     But  there  were  not  wanting  men 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


353 


TJte  George  and  Red  Lion,  St.  Albans- 


unkind  enough  to  allege  that  this  complete  turnover  re- 
sulted from  no  more  intricate  a  fact  than  that  of  the 
miserable    Humpy   having   his    leaders'    reins   wrongly 


352  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

placed  between  his  fingers,  which  was  done  when  he 
took  them  from  his  box-passenger,  after  the  last, 
the  fatal,  brandy  and  water.  The  natural  but  very- 
embarrassing  consequence  was,  that  when  Humpy 
suddenly  discovered  that  he  was  too  near  the  fence, 
he  pulled  the  wrong  rein,  and  there  they  were — on  their 
backs  in  the  road. 

A  more  serious  accident  than  this,  inasmuch  as  one  of 
the  unfortunate  passengers  was  killed,  happened  to  the 
Holyhead  Mail,  a  little  further  down  the  road,  a  mile 
indeed  on  the  London  side  of  St.  Albans.  This  arose 
from  the  exciting  but  highly  dangerous  pastime  of  racing. 
The  Holyhead  Mail,  via  Shrewsbury,  attempted  to  pass 
the  Chester  Mail  by  galloping  furiously  by  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  road.  The  coachman  of  the  Chester 
Mail  resented  the  indignity,  and  pulled  his  leaders 
across  his  rival's — a  heap  of  stones  conveniently  placed 
by  the  roadside  did  the  rest  of  the  business,  and  in  a 
moment  converted  two  spick-and-span  turn-outs,  full 
of  passengers  more  or  less  alive  and  alarmed,  into  a  mass 
of  struggling  horseflesh,  splintered  wood  and  groaning 
wounded.  The  inquest  on  the  victim  of  this  rivalry 
among  coachmen  was  held  at  the  Peahen  Inn  in  St. 
Albans,  and  a  verdict  of  manslaughter  was  returned 
against  both  artists.  Abundant  subsequent  opportunity 
was  afforded  them  of  meditating  on  their  sins,  for  they 
were  kept  in  irons  in  St.  Albans  for  six  months  before 
they  were  tried  at  Hertford — in  which  town  they  enjoyed 
a  further  twelve  months'  imprisonment  in  the  county  gaol. 

A  snow  effect  is  the  next  coaching  incident  to  be 
chronicled  in  this  neighbourhood  of  St.  Albans,  richer 
surely  in  its  agreeably  diversified  crop  of  casualties  than 
any  other  place  in  England.  The  North-Western 
coaches  at  all  events  seem  to  have  got  the  full  benefit  of 
the  historic  snow-storm  of  1836.  This  visitation  lasted 
the  best  part  of  a  week  and  has  never  been  equalled  in 
England  before  or  since.  The  drifts  in  some  hollows 
were  said  to  be  twenty  feet  deep— which  caused  some 


THE  IIOLYTIEAD   ROAD 


353 


passengers  not  unnaturalh'  to  report  that  they  were 
"  mountains  high,"  and  some  coachmen  to  state  that  the 
snow  in  some  places  was  higher  than  their  heads  as  they 
sat  on  the  box.  "  Never  before,"  writes  a  correspondent 
of  the  Times  of  that  day  (quoted  by  Captain  Malet  in 
his  Annals  of  the  Road) — "never  before  within  recollec- 
tion was  the  London  Mail  stopped  for  a  whole  night  at 
a  few  miles  from  London,  and  never  before  have  we  seen 
the  intercourse  between  the  southern  shores  of  England 
and  the  metropolis  interrupted  for  two  whole  days."  In 
spite  of  which  assertion  I  read  a  few  sentences  on  "  that 
the  roads  leading  to  Portsmouth  and  Poole  were  the 
only  ones  kept  open  during  the  storm  !  "  Yet  Ports- 
mouth and  Poole  are  on  the  "  southern  shores  of  England  " 
surely, — and  this  is  but  one  instance  of  the  incurable 
slovenliness  which  marks  the  compilation  of  so  much  of 
coaching  history — and  makes  the  truth-seeker  ask  what 
is  truth,  and  wonder  where  he  has  got  to. 

For  the  present  however  we  are  at  St.  Albans,  where 
during  the  prevalence  of  this  great  snowstorm  of  1836, 
many  mails  and  coaches  remained  hopelessly  stuck,  able 
neither  to  get  up  the  road  nor  down  it — a  state  of  affairs 
v/hich  must  have  caused  many  passengers  to  use  strange 
words,  and  the  landlords  of  the  Angel,  White  Hart,  and 
Woolpack  to  make  hay  while  the  snow  fell.  And  some 
people  were  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  stuck  fast  in  a 
picturesque  place  where  there  was  something  to  eat,  as 
Burdett,  the  guard  of  the  Liverpool  Mail,  was  able  to 
testify.  For  on  Tuesday,  December  27,  of  this  memor- 
able year,  this  guard  from  his  vantage  point,  beheld  a 
chariot  buried  in  the  snow  and  without  horses,  safely  at 
anchor  at  about  a  mile  on  the  London  side  of  St.  Albans. 
And  he  had  no  sooner  seen  it — and  two  elderly  ladies 
inside  it,  who  rent  the  welkin  with  clamorous  cries  for 
help — than  he  found,  by  being  suddenly  precipitated 
head  first  into  twelve  feet  of  snow,  that  his  coach  had 
got  into  a  drift  too.  Having  recovered  his  perpendicular, 
and   emptied  his   mouth,  a   natural  curiosity  prompted 

A   A 


354 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


Burdett  to  cross-examine  the  ladies  on  their  somewhat 
forlorn  position.  They  told  him  that  their  post-boy  had 
left  them  for  St.  Albans  to  get  fresh  cattle,  and  had 
been  gone  two  hours — no  doubt  having  elected  to  get 
brandy  for  himself  instead.  Meanwhile  there  they  were 
— and  in  a  very  deplorable  plight  surely.     But  will  it  be 


^'Aoi'TiJ. 


Old  Inn,  St.  Albans. 

believed  that  this  heart-moving  vision  of  beauty  in  dis- 
tress did  not  move  the  guard  of  the  Liverpool  Mail  in 
the  least !  No !  He  proceeded  stolidly  in  the  plain 
path  which  is  duty's — a  fact  which  tends  to  the  suspicion 
that  the  ladies  cannot  have  been  beauties.  But  whether 
they  were  or  no,  Burdett,  after  having  heard  their  story, 
turned    a  deaf  ear  to   their   appeals   for   help.     He  just 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD  355 

helped  his  coacliman,  his  passengers,  and  his  four  horses 
on  to  their  feet — (for  the  horses  too  had  assumed  a  re- 
cumbent position) — and  having  extricated  his  mail,  by 
the  help  of  his  tools,  curses,  and  other  expedients  not 
mentioned  in  the  text,  pursued  his  journey  to  London, 
leavinir  the  chariot  and  the  ladies  to  their  fate. 

Twelve  miles  further  on  l)rought  coaches  in  the  old 
days  to  Dunstable  in  Bedfordshire,  where  the  Priory 
Church  is  very  fine  and  interesting,  and  where  the  Sugar 
Loaf  Inn  used  to  be  celebrated  for  its  dinners.  Here 
follows  a  t}^pical  menu,  to  be  dealt  with  in  twenty 
minutes — • 

"MENU  AT  THE  SUGAR  LOAF,  DUNSTABLE— 

"  A  Boiled  Round  of  Beef;  a  Roast  Loin  of  Pork  ;  a  Roast  Aitchbone 
of  Beef;  and  a  Boiled  Hand  of  Pork  with  Peas  Pudding  and  Parsnips  ; 
a  Roast  Goose  ;  and  a  Boiled  Leg  of  Mutton." 

It  sounds  rather  formidable;  but  there  were  such 
people  as  trenchermen  in  the  Coaching  Days. 

Immediately  beyond  Dunstable,  or,  to  be  quite  ac- 
curate, three  miles  six  furlongs  beyond  it,  is  Hockliffe, 
immediately  west  of  which  place  there  used  to  be  some 
inconveniently  steep  hills,  greatly  calculated  to  bring 
overladen  coaches  to  grief,  but  which  were  cut  down,  and 
the  valleys  at  the  same  time  raised,  when  the  new  mail 
road  to  Holyhead  was  opened — improved  and  shortened 
by  the  Parliamentary  Commissioners.  At  Hockliffe  the 
mail  road  to  Manchester,  Liverpool  and  Chester  branched 
off  from  the  direct  road  to  Holyhead  via  Shrewsbury  ; 
and  at  Hockliffe,  on  December  26th,  1836,  the  Manches- 
ter, Holyhead,  Chester  and  Halifax  Mails  stuck  fast  in 
a  snowdrift,  within  snowballing  distance  of  each  other 
— all  the  North-Western  Mails,  that  is  to  say,  at  one  fell 
swoop.  Report  says  not  what  happened  to  the  Manches- 
ter and  Halifax  Mails,  so  I  presume  they  remained  where 
they  were  till  the  snow  melted  ;  but  an  attempt  to  drag 
the  Chester  Mail  out  of  the  drift  with  waggon-horses 
ended  in   the  fore  axle   giving  way  and  the  coach  being 

A  A   2 


556 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


left  behind.  Upon  which  the  bags  were  forwarded  by  a 
post-horse — with  a  man  on  his  back  I  jDresume.  As  for 
the  Holyhead  Mail,  it  was  even  more  awkwardly  situated, 
though  I  confess  to  not  seeing  clearly  how  such  a  state  of 
things  could  be.  However,  the  horses  were  almost  buried 
in  an  attempt  to  pull  the  coach  out  of  a  drift  ;  and  the 


V 


■■"^•■^4  .  U-» 


.  ~  ^:''  -^•-  -*'  '^ 


Porch  III  Dunstable. 


coachman,  with  all  the  hardihood  of  extreme  imbecility, 
venturing  himself  to  alight,  disappeared  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  into  the  drift  into  which  he  had  alighted.  At 
this  crisis  of  affairs  a  waggon  fortunately  appeared  upon 
this  wintry  scene — a  waggon  fortunately  also  with  four 
horses  in  it.     The  four  horses  were  at  once  pressed  into  the 


THE  IIOLVIIEAD  ROAD  357 

service  of  the  Mail,  and  succeeded  after  incredible  exer- 
tions in  getting"  it  out  of  the  hollow  in  which  it  was 
sunk. 

The  Holyhead  Road  enters  Buckinghamshire  at 
Brickhills,  seven  miles  six  furlongs  further  on,  and 
forty-five  miles  from  London. 

But  I  must  not  leave  these  forty-five  miles  behind  me 
without  noting  a  curious  sight  which  was  often  to  be 
seen  on  this  stretch  from  the  tops  of  coaches  before  the 
legislature  forbade  the  use  of  dogs  as  animals  of  draught. 
This  sight  was  an  old  pauper,  born  without  legs  but  with  a 
sporting  turn  of  mind.  This  natural  bias  led  him  to 
contrive  a  small  waggon — very  light,  as  may  well  be 
imagined  since  it  had  nothing  but  a  board  for  the  body. 
It  was  however  fitted  with  springs,  lamps  and  all 
necessary  appliances,  and  was  drawn  by  a  new  kind  of 
team  in  the  form  of  three  fox-hounds  harnessed  abreast. 

In  this  flying  machine  of  his  own  contriving.  Old  I.al, 
for  such  was  the  name  of  the  old  pauper  born  without 
legs — no  name  having  been  given  him  by  his  Godfathers 
and  Godmothers  at  his  baptism — Old  Lai  used  to  make 
the  most  terrific  times.  His  team  were  well  matched  in 
size  and  pace,  cleverly  harnessed,  and  he  dashed  coaches 
making  even  their  twelve  miles  an  hour  like  the  shot  out 
of  a  gun,  and  with  a  slight  cheer  of  encouragement  to 
his  team  ;  but  not  in  any  spirit  of  insolence  or  defiance, 
as  Captain  M.  E.  Haworth  (who  in  his  Road  Scrapings 
has  preserved  this  episode  of  the  North-Western  Road) 
is  careful  to  tell  us,  but  merely  to  urge  the  hounds  to 
their  pace. 

This  pace  in  the  end  proved  fatal  to  Old  Lai,  after 
having  lived  for  many  years  on  the  alms  of  passengers 
by  coaches  between  the  Peacock  at  Islington  and  the 
Sugar  Loaf  at  Dunstable.  For  one  winter,  when  ac- 
cording to  the  ostler  of  the  Sugar  Loafs  version,  '*  the 
weather  was  terrible  rough,  there  was  snow  and  hice, 
and  the  storm  blowed  down  a-many  big  trees,  and  them 
as  stood  used  to  'oiler  and  grunt  up  in  the  Pine  Bottom 


358  , 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


SO  that  he'd  heerd  folks  say  that  the  fir-trees  was  a-rub- 
bing"  themselves  against  one  another  " — one  such  winter 
as  this  Old  Lai  had  not  been  seen  for  three  weeks. 
This  fact  did  not  cause  any  anxiety  to  his  friend  the 
ostler.     But  one   Sunday  afternoon,  when  he  had  "  four 


inT' 


y^^^ 


■'^     srz 


4    1      * 


^i 


•«*■■*■  U,  ji..  •■ 


"V*.     in 


;Si#;%,,W,,v,,  '"'^''^ 


V-N 


-%^e^ 


^Vv-  ■,.  . 


«^v.:f#»v 


'  ii 


MIM^, 


Old  Inn,  now  Farmhouse,  Brickhills. 


o'clocked  his  horses  "  and  was  putting  a  sack  over  his 
shoulders  preparatory  to  going  down  to  his  cottage,  who 
should  come  up  to  him  but  one  Trojan — a  fox-hound 
and  a  respected  member  of  Old  Lai's  team.  The  fact 
that  Trojan   had   part    of  his  harness  on,  set  the  ostler 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD 


359 


tliinking'  thcit  he  had  cut  and  run,  and  tliat  pcrliaps  he 
had  left  Old  Lai  in  trouble. 

This  supposition  proved  correct ;  but  it  was  never 
believed  that  old  Trojan  was  the  cause  of  Old  Lai  beini^r 
found  dead  on  the  side  of  the  road  some  distance  off 
his  waggon,  which  was  found  stuck  fast  between  two  fir- 
trees,  with  one  of  the  hounds  still  in  harness  lying  dead 
beside  it.  No  !  It  was  believed  by  the  ostler  that  the 
guilt  of  Old  Lai's  death  lay  at  the  door  of  another 
of  the  dogs — one  Rocket,  who  turned  up  at  the  Sugar 
Loaf  shortly  after  the  arrival  of  Trojan.  For  this 
Rocket,  according  to  the  ostler,  possessed  many  traits 
calculated  to  give  rise  to  suspicion.  In  the  first  place, 
he  was  "  a  younger  and  more  ramblier  dog  ; "  in  the 
second  place,  "  he  never  settled  nowhere  ;  "  and  in  the 
third  place,  the  last  that  the  ostler  heard  of  him  was 
that,  "  being  allers  wonderful  fond  of  sport,"  he  had 
joined  a  pack  of  Harriers  at  Luton.  ''  He  was  kinder 
master  of  them,  frequently  collecting  the  whole  pack 
and  going  a-hunting  with  them  by  his  self."  All  three 
which  considerations  put  together  induced  in  the  ostler 
the  very  probable  belief  that  Rocket  was  the  instigator 
of  the  poor  old  man's  death  ;  that  he  (Rocket)  must 
have  caught  a  view  of  a  fox,  or  at  any  rate  have  crossed 
a  line  of  scent  and  bolted  off  the  road  and  up  through 
the  wood,  and  ''  after  he  had  throwed  the  old  man  out 
continued  the  chase  till  the  waggon  got  hung  fast  to 
a  tree  and  tied  them  all  up."  The  jury,  it  may  be  re- 
marked in  conclusion,  who  sat  on  Old  Lai's  remains,  did 
not  rise  to  this  very  lucid  explanation  of  the  cause  of  their 
session  :  for  according  to  the  ostler,  they  contented 
themselves  with  observing  "  That  Old  Lai  was  a  pauper 
wagrant,  that  he  had  committed  accidental  death,  and 
the  coroner  sentenced  him  to  be  buried  in  the  parish  in 
which  he  was  last  seen  alive."  He  was  buried  in  a  square 
box  accordingly,  and  the  ostler  and  Trojan  the  fox-hound 
were  the  sole  assistants  at  the  rite. 

But  what  of  the  coachmen  on  this  celebrated  coaching 


36o 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


road  ?  More  celebrated  even  than  the  most  celebrated 
of  their  rivals,  it  is  time  that  I  should  make  some  men- 
tion of  them  here  :  of  their  appearance  when  in  the 
flesh,  of  their  characteristics  as  artists,  of  their  fate. 
And,  to  begin  with — speaking  of  coachmen's  fate — few  I 
should  surmise  have  met  a  more  ignobly  ironical  one 
from  a  coachman's   point   of  view  than  did  poor  Jack 


Courtyard  oj  the  Saracen's  Head,  Toivcestcr. 


Matthews  who  drove  the  Oak  and  Nettle  coaches  from 
Welshpool  to  Liverpool,  which  were  run  in  opposition  to 
the  Holyhead  Mail  and  were  often  too  fast  to  be  safe. 
For  poor  Jack  fell  no  willing  victim  to  his  own  indiscretion, 
but  was  killed — it  is  with  a  blush  for  the  departed  that  I 
write  it — in  a  railway  accident.  In  a  foolish  moment 
he  took  it  into   his   head  to  go  to  Liverpool  for  a   day's 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD  361 

outing,  in  a  foolishcr  moment,  if  tlicrc  be  such  a  word, 
he  got  on  a  raihvay  which  was  only  half  finished.  He 
got  on  to  this  railway  at  Wrexham,  intending  to  go  as 
far  as  Chester.  This  feat  the  unfinished  railway  accom- 
plished for  him,  only  however  to  throw  him  off  a  bridge 
(unfinished  too,  I  suppose)  when  he  got  there.  Well 
may  his  biographer  exclaim,  "Poor  Jack!  He  wcndd 
have  been  safer  driving  the  Nettle  Coach,  in  all  proba- 
bility !  "  (which  "in  all  probability"  gives  us  a  very  fair 
idea  of  the  safety  of  the  Nettle  Coach  !  But  this  is  a 
digression.)  And  Jack  was  as  pretty  a  coachman  as 
ever  had  four  horses  in  hand.  "  A  good  workman  in  all 
respects,  smart  as  a  new  pin." 

Another  celebrated  coachman  on  this  road  met  as  sad, 
but  more  consistent  a  fate,  this  was  Dick  Vickers,  who 
drove  the  Mail  between  Shrewsbury  and  Holyhead.  He 
fell  a  victim  to  agriculture.  That  is  to  say  that  though 
in  stature  he  was  so  little  "  that  he  had  to  get  on  to  six- 
pennyworth  of  coppers  to  look  on  to  the  top  of  a  Stilton 
cheese "  yet  the  cleluded  man  pined  to  be  a  farmer. 
And  he  was  fond  of  fishing  too,  a  much  more  profitable 
pastime.  However  a  farmer  Vickers  became,  in  spite  of 
his  friends'  entreaties,  who  after  a  reasonable  interval  of 
anxiety  found  him  sus.  per  coll.  This  Vickers,  not 
content  with  the  lack  of  judgment  he  displayed  while  on 
earth,  is  said  to  haunt  the  scene  of  his  indiscretion  still. 
Though  the  Mail  which  he  u.sed  to  drive  has  long  ceased 
to  exist,  they  do  say  that  at  times  a  rumbling  is  heard — 
and  so  on.  Mr.  Birch  Reynardson,  to  get  to  something 
more  tangible  about  Vickers,  knev/  him  well,  as  he  seems 
to  have  known  most  of  the  crack  coachmen  on  the 
Holyhead  Road,  through  Shrewsbury,  and  has  described 
them  as  well  as  he  knew  them  in  his  Down  the  Road. 
The  ill-fated  Vickers,  he  writes,  w^as  a  good  little 
fellow,  always  civil,  always  sober,  always  most  obliging, 
and  a  friend  of  every  one  along  the  road.  And  Mr. 
Reynardson  had  some  opportunity  of  studying  his 
model's  characteristics,  particularly  I  should  conceive  on 


\<o2 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


that  one  celebrated  occasion  chronicled,  when  he  sat  by 
him   on  the   box-seat  and  saw  him   deal  with   a  team 

comprised  of  the  engag- 
ing attributes  of  "  Three 
blind  'uns  and  a  bolter," 
or  in  the  coachman's  own 
words  "  Four  horses,  but 
they've  only  got  two  eyes 
among  'em,  and  it  would 
be  quite  as  well  if  that 
horse  had  not  any  so  far 
as  I  know — for  he  makes 
shocking  bad  use  of  'em 
at  all  times  I  can  tell 
you." 

A  differently  organized 
team  was  equally  success- 
fully coped  w^ith  by  one 
known  to  fame  as  Old 
John  Scott.  He  drove 
the  Chester  and  Holyhead 
Mail,  and  remarked  to 
Mr.  Reynardson,  who  was 
using  all  his  art  to  boil 
up  a  trot  going  up  Pen- 
maenmawr  (thirty  -  six 
miles  from  Holyhead), 
"Hit  'em  sly— hit  'em 
sly ! "  And  on  being 
asked  the  reason  for  this 
dark  advice  alleged  that 
if  this  particular  team 
heard  the  whip  before 
they  felt  it,  they  would 
never  be  got  up  Penmaen- 
mawr  at  all.  Nor  was  "  hitting  'em  sly "  with  the 
whip  the  ingenious  Old  John  Scott's  sole  method  of 
dealing    on    heavy  ground    with    this  extremely   sticky 


Ford's  Hospital,  Coventry. 


Till.  iiolyiip:ad  road  -,6 


J"J 


lot.  No.  He  was  accustomed,  when  the  crisis  came, 
and  the  coach  threatened  to  come  •  to  a  full  stop 
where  there  was  no  proper  halting-  place,  to  play  a 
sort  of  rat-tat-tat  with  both  feet  on  the  foot-board 
— and  lo  !  the  sticky  ones  sprang  up  to  their  collars 
at  once,  as  if  the  author  of  all  evil  was  behind  them. 
Much  exercised  by  this  extraordinary  phenomenon,  Mr. 
Reynardson  w^ith  a  praiseworthy  impulse  to  arrive  at  the 
dark  truth,  remarked,  "  Well  !  that's  a  curious  dodge  ! 
What  do  they  think  is  coming  ? "  Upon  which  Old 
John  Scott,  saying,  ''  Wait  a  pit,  I'll  soon  let  you  see 
what  they  think  is  coming," — stooped  down  and  pro- 
duced from  the  boot  a  most  respectable  and  persuasive 
looking  "  Short  Tommy ".  This  sounds  rather  like  a 
case  for  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals — did  we  not  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that 
Old  John  Scott  was  a  worthy,  good,  little,  stout-made 
fellow,  whose  B  was  sounded  like  P,  and  who  when  he 
said  "  Shall"  pronounced  it  like  Sail. 

An  artist  of  a  finer  mould  was  Sam  Hayward,  who 
drove  the  Wonder  from  Shifnal  to  Shrewsbury  (i 8  miles). 
Not  only  was  he  a  fine  performer  on  the  Road — but  he 
did  a  deed  in  the  usual  way  of  business  when  he  got  into 
Shrewsbury  which  made  spectators  stare.  The  Lion 
yard  is  just  on  the  top  of  the  hill  in  Shrewsbury,  and  is 
so  placed  that  to  coachmen  not  demigods,  to  turn  into 
it  off  a  sharpish  pitch  with  a  heavy  load  was  to  attempt 
the  impossible  to  an  accompaniment  of  breaking  poles 
and  shrieking  passengers.  All  other  coaches  coming 
from  London  went  in  therefore  ignominiously  by  the  back- 
way,  though  they  came  out  at  the  usual  entrance.  Not 
so  Sam  Hayward  on  the  Wonder.  Secure  in  the  know- 
ledge of  accomplished  strength  he  smilingly  hugged  the 
kerbstone  on  the  near  side,  passed  the  entrance  for  a  few 
yards — but  yards  accurately  calculated — then  described 
a  round  and  imperial  circle,  and  shot  in  under  the  arch- 
way a  victorious,  a  classic  charioteer.  People  at  first 
thought  him  mad — I  read,  when  they  saw  him  thus  as  it 


M 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


tj' 


C 


^ 


The  Rows  of  Chester. 


THE  IIOLVIIICAI)   ROAD 


3^'5 


were  defying  the  tliiinder — but  they  soon    saw  that   he 
knew  what  he  was  doing,  and  could  do  it. 

Of  quite  a  different  type  was  one  Winterbotham — 
who  drove  the  Holyhead  Mail  four  stages  out  of  Holy- 
head and  who  on  one  occasion  when  Mr.  l^irch  Reynard- 
son — the  great  authority  in  this  part  of  the  world — 
approached  the  coach,  was  described  to  him  by  the  guard 
as  being  "  amazing  fresh."  "  Amazing  fresh  "  is  not  only 
good    in    my  eyes :     it    is    delicious.      And    how    when 


i  m  ..if  ^'  '* 


i"'^ 


..^r 


j-*-.^iAk^'-i^ 


rt^l-frti^v"^!;.'-^  'V-- ■* 


The  Falcon  and  the  Bear,  Chester. 


Winterbotham  presently  put  in  an  appearance  did  he 
answer  to  this  poetic  description  ?  Why,  amazingly. 
"  He  approached  rolling  about  like  a  seventy-four  in  a 
calm  ;  or  as  if  he  were  walking  with  a  couple  of  soda- 
water  bottles  tied  under  his  feet."  The  peculiarity  of 
this  gait,  which  might  have  been  much  appreciated  on 
the  Metropolitan  boards  as  an  eccentric  dancer's  new 
departure,  did  not  appeal  to  the  teller  of  this  tale  as 
prophetic  of  safety  from  the  box-seat  of  a  crack  coach. 
So  Winterbotham  in  all  the  meridian  of  his  freshness  was 


366 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


inclosed,  a  solitary  passenger,  in  the  stuffy  inside — and 
Mr.  Birch  Rcynardson  himself  assumed  the  ribbons.  At 
the  change  near  St.  Asaph,  sixty  miles  from  Holyhead, 
inquiries   were    made   after   Winterbotham's    condition. 


I 


c/ 


J      Ih^. 


f) 


'9.ii1h'^ 


.,-•<• 

Ju 


'^    *■ 


F. 


-^■^^^J^    ^TflWE- 


t 


^u 


The  Bcaraiid  Billet,  Chester. 


S 


rA^  I'af/i/  /;/?/. 


But  all  his  freshness  had  deserted  the  cooped-up 
charioteer !  He  was  however  found  fairly  rational 
though  excessively  dejected,  and  expressed  himself 
thus  on  a  unique  experience — "  Well,  I  think   I'd  better 


THE  HOLYHEAD  ROAD  367 

get  outside  now  !  I  aren't  used  to  this.  Well !  This  is 
travelling  like  a  gentleman,  and  inside  the  Mail  to  be 
sure  !  \Vcll !  I  never  travelled  inside  a  Mail  or  a  coach 
before  ;  and  I  dare  say  I  never  shall  again  !  I  don't 
think  I  like  the  inside  of  a  coach  much  ;  and  so  \\\ 
better  uet  out  now  !  it  feels  wonderful  odd  somehow  to 
be  inside  the  Mail  ;  and  I  really  hardl)'  know  how  I  got 
there." 

On  the  same  coach,  but  further  up  the  road,  Dan 
Herbert  did  his  twenty-four  miles  between  Eccleshall  and 
Lichfield  with  two  changes,  and  his  twenty-four  miles  back 
the  same  day, — an  artist  perfected  in  the  quiet  method, 
driving  bad  teams  punctually  without  punishing  them, 
rather  by  the  medium  of  fine  hands  and  temper  coaxing 
them  along.  He  was  upwards  of  thirty  years  on  the 
Chester  and  Holyhead  Mail,  and  in  consideration  of 
his  faithful  and  correct  attention  to  business  was 
awarded  a  scarlet  coat  on  every  anniversary  of  the 
Kino''s    birthdav. 

And  Georcre  Clarke  was  an  artist  of  the  same  calibre 
and  of  like  style.  He  took  the  Umpire  at  Newport 
Pagnell  (fifty-one  miles  from  London),  and  met  the  down 
coach  at  Whetstone  returning  about  nine  o'clock.  The 
most  valuable  of  servants,  because  the  first  coachman  in 
England  for  bad  horses.  Having  always  weak  horses  to 
nurse,  the  ordeal  had  worn  him  down  to  a  pattern  of 
patience.  W^ith  these  and  other  great  weights  upon 
severe  ground,  he  was  steady,  easy  and  economical  in 
thong  and  cord,  very  light-handed,  and  sometimes  even 
playful ! 

An  idyllic  description  of  a  great  coachman's  kind 
qualities  this,  raising  all  sorts  of  pictures  to  the  mind's 
eye  of  comfortable  journeys  performed  under  a  master's 
direction  with  no  discomfort  to  the  cattle  ;  but  we  enter 
into  a  wilder,  a  fiercer  atmosphere  of  travel,  when  we 
come  to  consider  the  great  names  of  John  Marchant  of 
the  Manchester  Telegraph,  and  Bob  Snow  of  the  Defiance. 
For  these  men  drove  opposition  coaches,  in  which  speed 


368 


COACHING  PAYS  AND  COACHTNG  WAYS 


The  End  of  the  Journey. 


was  the  one  thing  looked  to,  associated  in  a  mild  degree 
with  a  more  or  less  reasonable  amount  of  safet}'.  And 
they    drove    furiously    to    beat    the     record — careful    of 


THE  JI()L\11EAI)   RoAlJ  369 

nothing  so  long  as  the  coach  kept  on  its  wheels,  demi- 
gods whose  steel  nerves  their  passengers  implicitly 
trusted,  well  knowing  as  they  did  that  if  those  steel 
nerves  had  for  an  instant  failed  their  owners  the  whole 
stock  and  lot  would  have  gone  to  the  Deuce  in  an 
instant. 

It  was  this  sort  of  fiery  opposition  kept  up  between 
the  two  crack  Manchester  coaches  which  called  forth 
some  such  comment  as  the  following,  comments  con- 
stantly to  be  culled  from  contemporary  magazines  : — 

"  Whoever  takes  up  a  newspaper  in  these  eventful 
times  it  is  even  betting  whether  an  accident  by  a  coach 
or  a  suicide  first  meets  his  eye.  Now  really  as  the  month 
of  November  is  fast  approaching,  when  from  foggy 
weather  and  dark  nights  both  these  calamities  are  likely  to 
increase,  I  merely  suggest  the  propriety  of  any  unfortunate 
gentleman  resolved  on  self-destruction,  trying  to  avoid 
the  disgrace  attached  to  it  by  first  taking  a  few  journeys 
by  some  of  these  Dreadnought,  Highflyer,  or  Tally-ho 
coaches  ;  as  in  all  probability  he  may  meet  with  as  in- 
stant a  death  as  if  he  had  let  off  one  of  Joe  Manton's 
pistols  in  his  mouth,  or  severed  his  head  from  his  body 
with  one  of  Mr.  Palmer's  best  razors." 


B  li 


CONCLUSION. 

Our  ancestors,  on  alighting  from  any  of  the  prolonged 
journeys  I  have  tried  to  describe,  were  used,  being  for- 
tunate people  who  lived  when  life  was  not  at  all  hurry, 
to  sit  down  quietly  over  a  generous  glass  and  take  their 
ease  in  their  inn.  We  less  fortunate  descendants  cannot 
do  this  now,  because  time  is  not  permitted  us,  and  we 
have  no  inns  to  take  our  ease  in.  We  live  in  an  age  of 
hotels,  where  on  touching  an  electric  communicator 
everything  but  ease  is  to  be  had. 

However,  though  our  ancestors'  ease  after  travel  may 
not  be  ours,  we  may  be  permitted  some  sort  of  retro- 
spection— such  as  was  often  theirs — over  the  long  list 
of  perils  past,  on  many  thousand  miles  of  good,  bad,  or 
indifferent  roads,  in  vehicles  and  company  agreeably 
diversified — some  final  desultory  chat  on  road-bills, 
coaches,  horses,  inns,  to  induce  sleep  or  round  the  story. 

Of  road-bills,  then,  to  begin  with,  here  are  one  or  two 
suggestive  specimens — not  connected  with  the  roads  on 
which  we  have  been  travelling,  but  none  the  less 
illustrative  of  Coaching  Days  and  Coaching  Ways  for 
all  that. 

•M^^OM    THE    SWAN    WITH    TWO    NECKS    IN    LAD    LANE. 

AUGUST,  1774. 

"  A  post-chaise  to  (Gloucester  in  sixteen  liouis,  and  a  Machine  in  one  day 

.—each  three  days  a  week.      A  Macliinc  to  Hereford  twice  a  week  in  a  day 

and  a  half.      A  Machine  to  Salop  every  Monday,  Wednesday,  and  Friday 

in  two  days.     A  Macliine  for  Wolvcrhaini)lon  every  Sunday,  Tuesday,  and 

Thursday  in  one  day." 


CONCLUSION  371 

The  same  bill  winds  up  with  the  following  startling 
epilogue : — 

"The  Rumsey  Machine,  through  Winchester,  hung  on  Steel  Springs 
begins  Flying  on  the  3rd  of  April  from  London  to  Poole  in  one  day." 

Here  is  another  characteristic  announcement  from  the 
Daily  Advertiser  of  April  9,  1739  : — 

"  The  Old  Standing  Constant  Froom  Flying  Waggon,  in  three  days,  sets 
out,  with  goods  and  Passengers,  from  Froom  for  London  every  Monday  by 
One  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  will  be  at  the  King's  Arms  at  Holborn 
Bridge  the  Wednesday  following  by  twelve  o'clock  noon,  from  whence  it 
will '  Set  Out  on  Thursday  morning  by  One  o'clock,  for  Amesbury, 
Shrewton,  Chiltern,  Heytesbury,  Warminster,  Froom  :  and  all  other 
places  Adjacent  :  and  will  continue,  allowing  each  person  I4lbs,  and  be  at 
Froom  on  Saturday  by  twelve  at  noon.  If  any  passengers  have  any 
occasion  to  go  from  any  of  the  aforesaid  places,  they  shall  be  supplied  with 
able  horses,  and  a  guide,  by  Joseph  Chavey  the  Proprietor  of  the  said 
Flying  Waggon.     The  Waggon  calls  at  the  White  Bear  Piccadilly  coming 


in  and  going  out. 


Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  spoken  a  good  deal  about 
Flying  Waggons  and  Machines,  but  have  never  described 
them,  so  that  a  brief  description  of  their  "  more  salient 
features  "  may  here  be  in  place. 

I  read,  then,  that  they  were  principally  composed  of  a 
dull  black  leather,  thickly  studded  by  way  of  ornament 
with  broad  black-headed  nails,  tracing  out  the  panels,  in 
the  upper  tier  of  which  were  four  oval  windows,  with 
heavy  red  wooden  frames,  or  leather  curtains.  Upon  the 
doors  were  displayed  in  large  characters  the  names  of 
the  places  whence  the  coach  started,  and  where  it  was 
going  to — another  matter.  The  shape  of  the  Flying 
Machine  was  a  matter  left  much  open  to  choice.  You 
could  ride  in  one  shaped  like  a  diving  bell ;  or  in  one  the 
exact  representation  of  a  distiller's  vat,  hung  equally 
balanced  between  immense  back  and  front  springs  ;  or 
in  one  made  after  the  pattern  of  a  violoncello-case — past 
all  comparison  the  most  fashionable  .shape.  If  my 
readers  are  tempted  to  cry  why  this  thusness,  I  can  only 
saybecause  these  violoncello-like  Flying  Machines  hungin 


372  COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

a  more  graceful  posture — namely,  inclining  on  to  the  back 
springs — and  gave  those  who  sat  within  it  "  the  appear- 
ance of  a  stiff  Guy  Fawkes  uneasily  seated."  But  this 
is  a  satiric  touch,  surely.  To  get  on  to  the  roofs,  how- 
ever. These  generally  rose  into  a  swelling  curve,  which 
was  sometimes  surrounded  by  a  high  iron  guard,  after 
the  m.anner  of  our  more  modern  four-wheeled  cabs. 
The  coachman  and  the  guard  (who  always  held  his 
carbine  ready  cocked  upon  his  knee — an  attitude  which 
must  have  made  inside  passengers  wish  they  had  insured 
their  lives)  then  sat  together  over  a  very  long  and  narrow 
boot  which  passed  under  a  large  spreading  hammercloth 
hanging  down  on  all  sides,  and  furnished  with  a  most 
luxuriant  fringe.  Behind  the  coach  was  the  immense 
basket,  stretching  far  and  wide  beyond  the  body  to  which 
it  was  attached  by  long  iron  bars  or  supports  passing 
beneath  it.  I  am  not  surprised  to  learn  that  these 
baskets  were  never  very  great  favourites,  though  their 
difference  of  price  caused  them  to  be  frequently  filled — 
but  another  proof  of  needs  must  when  the  devil  drives 

.     And  as  for  the  motion  of  these   Flying  coaches 

when  well  on  the  road,  it  was  ''  as  a  ship  rocking  or 
beating  against  a  heavy  sea  ;  straining  all  her  timbers, 
with  a  low  moaning  sound  as  she  drives  over  the  con- 
tending waves."  With  which  extraordinary  simile  we 
may  leave  Flying  Machines  behind  us — and  any  de- 
scription of  their  successors  too.  For  are  not  the  models 
of  the  crack  coaches  in  coaching's  primcstage  to  be  seen 
every  day  in  Piccadilly  ?  They  are — and  some  very 
delightful  rides  can  be  had  in  them  too. 

Not  that  travelling  in  these  perfected  turn-outs  was 
always  like  riding  on  a  bed  of  roses,  as  I  have  had  occa- 
sion frequently  to  point  out,  which  consideration  brings 
me  to  the  inevitable  comparison  of  the  advantages  of  rail 
verstcs  road.  On  which  great  subject  much  can  be  said 
on  both  sides,  as  a  celebrated  Attorney- General  for 
Honolulu  once  remarked.  Dc  Ouincey,  for  instance, 
may  talk  of  tlic  *' fine  fluent  motion  of  the  Bristol  Mail," 


CONCLUSION  373 

and  call  up  recollections  in  our  minds  of  the  modern 
Bristol  Mail's  motion  as  anything  but  fluent ;  he  ma)- 
glorify  "  the  absolute  perfection  of  all  the  appointments 
about  the  carriage  and  the  harness,  their  strength,  their 
brilliant  cleanliness,  their  beautiful  simplicity,  the  ro)'al 
magnificence  of  the  horses  ; "  but  here  is  another  side  to 
the  picture.  I  quote  from  Hone's  Table-books,  an 
extract  in  the  style  of  Jingle,  and  worthy  of  him. 

'•  STAGE  COACH  ADVENTURES. 

"Inside. — Crammed  full  of  passengers — ihrec  fat  fusty  old  men — a 
young  Mother  and  sick  child — a  cross  old  maid — a  poll  parrot — a  bag  of 
red  herrings — double-barrelled  gun  (which  you  are  afraid  is  loaded) — and  a 
snarling  lap  dog  in  addition  to  yourself.  Awake  out  of  a  sound  nap  with 
the  cramp  in  one  leg  and  the  other  in  a  lady's  bandbox — pay  the  damage 
(four  or  five  shillings)  for  gallantry's  sake — getting  out  in  the  dark  at  the 
half-way  house,  in  the  hurry  stepping  into  the  return  coach  and  finding 
yourself  next  morning  at  the  very  spot  you  had  started  from  the  evening 
before — not  a  breath  of  air — asthmatic  old  woman  and  child  with  the 
measles — window  closed  in  consequence — unpleasant  smell— shoes  filled 
with  warm  water — look  up  and  find  it's  the  child — obliged  to  bear  it — no 
aj-ipeal — shut  your  eyes  and  scold  the  dog — pretend  sleep  and  pinch  the 
child — mistake — pinch  the  dog  and  get  bit. — Execrate  the  child  in  return — 
black  looks — no  gentleman — pay  the  Coachman  and  drop  a  piece  of  gold 
in  the  straw — not  to  be  found — fell  through  a  crevice — Coachman  says  '  He'll 
find  it.'- — Can't — get  out  yourself — gone — picked  up  by  the  Ostler — no  time 
for  blowing  up — Coach  off  for  next  stage — lose  your  money — get  in — lose 
your  seat- — stuck  in  the  middle — get  laughed  at — lose  your  temper — -turn 
sulky — and  turned  over  in  a  horse-pond." 

"  Outside. — Your  eye  cut  out  by  the  lash  of  a  clumsy  Coachman's  whip 
—  hat  blown  off  into  a  pond  by  a  sudden  gust  of  wind — seated  between  two 
apprehended  murderers  and  a  noted  sheep-stealer  in  irons — who  are  being 
conveyed  to  gaol— a  drunken  fellow  half  asleep  falls  off  the  Coach — and  in 
attempting  to  save  himself  drags  you  along  with  him  into  the  mud- 
musical  guard,  and  driver  horn  mad— turned  over.— One  leg  under  a  bale 
of  cotton — the  other  under  the  Coach — hands  in  breeches  pockets — head  in 
hamper  of  wine — lots  of  broken  bottles  ve^'sus  broken  heads.  Cut  and  run 
— send  for  surgeon — wounds  dressed — lotion  and  lint  four  dollars — take 
post-chaise — get  home- — lay  down — and  laid  up." 

So  much  for  coach  travelling  from  a  pessimistic 
point  of  view.  And  now  a  few  words  on  the  Coaching 
Inns. 

"  There  is  no  private  house,"  said  Johnson — it  was  in 


374 


COACHING  DAYS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 


the  Old  Chapel  House  inn  in  Oxfordshire,  on  the  Bir- 
mingham Road,  that  he  gave  vent  to  the  profoundity — 
"  there  is  no  place,"  he  said,  "  at  which  people  can  enjoy 
themselves  so  well  as  at  a  capital  tavern  like  this.  Let 
there  be  ever  so  great  a  plenty  of  good  things,  ever  so 
much  «;randeur,  ever  so  much   clcs^ance,  ever  so   much 


A  Performance  on  the  Horn. 


desire  that  every  guest  should  be  easy,  in  the  nature  oi 
things  it  cannot  be.  There  must  always  be  some  degree 
of  care  and  anxiety.  The  master  of  the  house  is  anxious 
to  entertain  his  friends  ;  these  in  their  turn  are  anxious 
to  be  agreeable  to  him,  and  no  one  but  a  very  impudent 
dog  can  as  freely   command  what   is  in   another   man's 


CONCLUSION  375 

house  as  if  he  were  in  his  own.  Whereas  at  a  tavern  there 
is  a  general  freedom  from  anxiety.  Yon  are  sure  you 
are  welcome,  and  the  more  noise  you  make,  the  more 
trouble  you  give,  the  more  good  things  you  call  for,  the 
welcomer  you  are.  No  servants  will  attend  you  with  the 
alacrity  which  waiters  do,  who  are  incited  by  the  prospect 
of  an  immediate  reward  in  proportion  as  they  please. 
No,  sir  ;  there  is  nothing  which  has  yet  been  contrived 
by  man  by  which  so  much  happiness  is  produced  as  by  a 
good  tavern  or  inn." 

Hear,  hear  !  say  I  ;  but  while  on  the  subject  of  inns 
may  remark  that  I  have  been  much  disappointed  in  my 
ramblings;  in  truth  began  some  six  years  too  late  from  this 
point  of  view.  For  in  that  interval  the  country  has  been 
deprived  of  many  of  its  finest  examples  of  this  hospitable 
sort  of  architecture.  Of  those  fine  examples — few  and 
far  between — which  still  remain,  many  are  now  sinking 
into  a  state  of  irremediable  disrepair — witness  the  great 
inn  at  Stilton  for  one — and  will  in  the  near  fulness  of 
time  doubtless  be  improved  altogether  off  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Some  of  these  meanwhile  on  these  direct  roads  of 
England  which  I  have  up  to  now  treated  of,  have  been 
preserved  by  a  sympathetic  artist's  pencil,  and  the  thought 
is  so  satisfactory  a  one  that  I  propose  to  bestow  on  three 
other  inns — not  on  the  main  roads,  but  magnificent 
houses  still,  the  same  enviable  fate. 

At  Norton  St.  Philip,  then,  in  Somersetshire,  seven 
miles  south-east  of  Bath,  there  still  stands  in  the  George 
Inn,  a  half-timbered,  fifteenth  century  house,  of  the  finest 
possible  type.  Monmouth  passed  the  night  of  June  26th, 
1685,  at  this  George.  He  watched  a  skirmish  between 
his  outposts  and  Feversham's  from  the  windows  of  the 
inn,  was  shot  at  while  standing  there  for  his  pains,  and 
marched  upon  Frome  next  day.  At  Glastonbury,  in  the 
same  county,  an  inn  of  the  same  name — the  George — 
with  front  one  splendid  mass  of  panelling,  pierced  where 
necessary  for  windows,  the  finest  piece  of  domestic  work 


376  COACHING  DAVS  AND  COACHING  WAYS 

in  one  of  the  most  entrancing  towns  in  England  from  an 
antiquary's  point  of  view,  dates  from  the  fourth  Edward  ; 
while,  to  go  further  afield  for  a  fine  specimen  of  a  differ- 
ent period,  at  Scole  in  Suffolk,  the  White  Hart,  erected 
in  1655  by  John  Peck,  merchant,  of  Norwich,  still  retains 
some  fine  carving,  and  had  till  the  end  of  the  last  cen- 
tury an  enormous  sign  containing  many  figures — Diana 
and  Actaion,  Charon,  Cerberus  and  sundry  other  worthies, 
carved  in  wood  by  Eairchild,  at  a  cost  of  ;^io57. 

Such  splendid  monuments  of  road-travelling  as  these 
may  fitly  round  this  disjointed  story  of  England's  Coach- 
ing Days  and  Ways.  In  looking  back  over  many  miles 
covered  and  many  incidents  missed  I  find  little  cause  for 
self-congratulation,  save  the  fact  that  I  have  at  least  kept 
to  my  programme.  I  have  traversed  an  obscure  period 
carefully  on  well  beaten  tracks,  and  to  my  pioneers' 
assistance  I  hope  I  have  always  made  due  acknowledg- 
ment. To  give  an  accurate,  a  statistical  record  of  the 
prime  age  of  coaching  has  been  in  most  cases  their  object, 
and  they  have  in  most  cases  attained  to  it.  If  a  minor 
measure  of  success  attends  my  enterprise  I  shall  be  con- 
tent— content,  that  is  to  say,  if  I  have  caught  some 
flavour  of  the  romance  of  the  Great  Roads  of  England 
from  the  time  when  the  Plying  Machine  of  Charles  the 
Second's  age  lumbered  out  of  the  Belle  Sauvage  Yard,  up 
to  the  day  when  the  Holyhead  Mail  via  Shrewsbury, 
timed  at  eleven  miles  an  hour,  was  our  fathers'  wonder, 
and  the  pride  of  this  perfect  road — ''  Mr.  Bicknell's  spicy 
team  of  greys." 


/ 


^ 


Tin-:  END. 


klCllAkb  Cl.AY   AND   SONS.    LIMlTliD,    LONDON   AND   BUNGAV. 


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