Travelling was both a difficult and a dangerous operation in former days.
We do not know when a direct communication by coach between Liverpool and
London was first established; but we have been told that some sort of
stage was started to Warrington and Manchester in the year 1767. We have
indeed read in an old Liverpool _Chronicle_, January 21st, 1768, that
John Stonehewer, a driver of the said stage, had broken his thigh by a
fall from the box, a very likely accident in those old-fashioned days of
rough stone pavements. Many of our readers must recollect with what
persevering tenacity the shaking old road between Liverpool and Prescot
was maintained as part and parcel of the British constitution, to the
great loss and damage of our more modern coach proprietors, whose
vehicles were more tried and injured by the eight miles of paving stones
between these two towns than by all the rest of the journey to the
metropolis. The surveyors stood by the paving stones to the last.
Liverpool always adhered to the old ways, however rough they might be.
Macadam, “the Colossus of roads,” as some wit called him, was an
innovator; what right had he to make improvements which would militate
against the trade of coach-builders and menders? Macadam! What a short
reign was his?
“Come like shadows; so depart!”
Hardly had he grasped his sceptre firmly in his hand, and persuaded the
people to mend their ways, when another and a mightier magician waved his
wand, and all was changed. George Stephenson and railways burst upon us,
and Macadam’s meteor flight was brought to a sudden close. The fast man
gave way to the faster.
The first coach which we can ourselves recollect travelling by was of a
very long shape, and moved at a very slow pace. Its destination was
Birmingham, at which we ultimately, after many delays and dangers,
managed to arrive. It had many “odoriferous names,” as Mrs. Malaprop
would say, among which “the cheap and nasty” was the most prominent and
usual. The coachman was a fat man, with a low-crowned hat, and a large
nosegay stuck in his button-hole, the very man, we should say, who sat
for the picture of old Mr. Weller in _Pickwick_. What business he had to
transact on the road! He seemed to be the universal agent for the
universal affairs of all mankind, between town and town, and village and
village. And what stoppages, not only at public-houses, but “here, there
and everywhere,” had the miserable passengers consequently to undergo!
And what universal flirtations he used to carry on with the universal
womankind who dwelt by the wayside! He appeared to have reached high
pressure or breach-of-promise point with some inmate of every cottage on
the road. And then when at last we reached Birmingham, into what
universal fleadom we found that we had plunged when we went to bed! We
have eschewed sleeping at Birmingham ever since. A Birmingham bed is a
perfect “Cannibal Isle,” with a more carnivorous population than can be
met with in any part of the globe. There is even less danger of being
devoured in New Zealand itself.
But a new era sprang up in the coaching business. The “Bang-up” was
started for Birmingham, and the “Umpire” for London. Those were splendid
conveyances compared with their slow moving predecessors, combining, as
they did, speed, safety, regularity and comfort. They were literally the
timekeepers for the several towns and villages through which they passed.
They started to a moment, arrived at each stage to a moment, and reached
their final destination to a moment. The regularity of the dial could
not have been greater. We have heard of the man who boasted that his
clock regulated the sun, and truly the old Umpire and Bang-up seemed to
regulate the clock. But “where are they now?” An echo answers, “Where?”
Enter, as we have said before, George Stephenson, and exit Bretherton.
Railways came in and coaches went out. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. We
are all for speed now. The march of improvement first became a run, then
a gallop, and now it has increased into a flight, beating wings and the
wind. But, nevertheless, it was pleasant travelling in those old days,
“All right,” said the guard; smack went the whip; “off she goes!” What a
team! How the bits of blood do their work! Even the experienced hands
of the veteran Jehu can hardly tame their fire and check their speed.
And now the horn blows, we dash into the market-place of some country
town, to the delight of the congregated idlers and gazers of the place.
What a bustle among the grooms and stable boys. Parcels are handed up
and down; the smoking horses are unharnessed; fresh ones put to, all in
less time than it takes to tell it. Off again! We sweep at speed past
the village green, dogs barking, pigs squealing, geese hissing, children
shouting, men huzzaing, women smiling. Through the winding pleasant
lanes we go, with their lovely hedgerows on either side, the spire in the
distance, the mansion in the park, the glorious old trees, the noble
woods, the delicious lakes, the sparkling streams, altogether a landscape
of sweetness and beauty which no country but merry England can set before
the traveller’s eye. All this, however, was lost to us when the last of
the coaches disappeared from the road. We now fly, but we do not see.
We are, as it were, shot forth from station to station at a speed
becoming the spirit of the age. But one consequence of all this is, that
the rising generation know nothing of the old high-ways and by-ways of
their country, its many beauties, its shady lanes, its lovely nooks and
corners, the sudden turns in our old lines of road which used
unexpectedly to open to us the most charming prospect, and then as
suddenly to hide it, only to reveal to us some other vision of beauty on
the fair face of nature spread before us. These were exquisite treats to
us old travellers. We miss them, but we are not regretting. We like to
keep up with the pace of the age.
And what early hours our grandfathers and grandmothers used to keep!
What an anarchical, chaotical, daring, radical innovator, the very _æs
triplex circum pectus_ man of old Horace, was that bold spirit considered
to be amongst them who first wrote four o’clock, instead of mid-day, upon
his “ticket for soup.” Then came dinner at five, at six, and all hours,
until day and night changed places, and late hours and indigestion became
triumphant, until wise people learned that the best plan was to lay in a
stock of solids at lunch, and then only trifle and coquet with the grand
banquet of the evening.
But how different was the style of visiting in those days from what it is
now. About five or six o’clock you might see the ladies on a visit to
the house of some one of their number, who was giving what was called “a
rout” to her female friends. We speak advisedly when we say her female
friends, because it was as difficult to press a gentleman into the
service on such occasions as to catch an ostrich or a real live
rhinoceros. A treasure, indeed, was the man, and a star, and an idol,
who would come to these parties. Dr. Gerard, once mayor of Liverpool,
was an especial pet with the ladies in St. Anne-street for accepting all
their invitations to these meetings. But what was a rout? It was a
muster of all her female friends, with the _rara avis_ of a gentleman,
if, like Mrs. Glass’s hare in the cookery book, one could be caught by
the heroine or lady-hostess of the evening. The custom was to crowd as
many guests as possible into a small room, or a large one, as the case
might be. As the hour for assembling arrived, there was a tremendous
crush of sedan-chairs towards the mansion where the party was given.
There were several stands for these old-fashioned conveyances in
Newington-bridge. Those ladies who were not so magnificent in their
notions, or more moderate in their pocket, might be seen making their way
to the festival with what were called calashes over their heads, a
reduced form of the covering still raised over gigs on a rainy day. When
the party, or a sufficient number to commence operations, had mustered,
tea and coffee, rather weak than strong, and bread and butter, rather
thin than thick, were handed round. This ceremony performed, the
business of the evening fairly began. The lady of the house made up her
card tables. Some would sit down to whist, of course, in those old days,
long antediluvian patriarchal whist, silver threepences the stake, and
nothing more. Short whist had not then come in, with gas, steam
railways, and electric telegraphs. But the favourite game with the
ladies was one called quadrille or preference. Perhaps they liked it
better than whist because it was carried on with more talking. We never
could fathom its mysteries. In truth, we never tried to dive into them.
All that we recollect of it is, that it went on with a dreadful clamour
about the “pool,” “basting,” “spadille,” “manille,” “ponto,” and “basto;”
some of which phrases sounded very like Egyptian hieroglyphics turned
into language, while others had a sporting smack about them. Indeed we
are not certain whether “ponto” is not altogether a fiction or confusion
of our memory. When the lady of the house began to tire, or fancied that
her company began to flag or look fatigued over their cards, she gave the
signal, and in rushed the servants with the trays, on which were spread
refreshments of a very mild and innocent character. Ices were almost
unknown in those days. Weak lemonade and weaker negus, with jumbles and
ratafia cakes, were handed round, and, as they were nibbled and sipped
at, Mrs. Gildart would vow that she was nearly ruined by a run of bad
luck, which had impoverished her to the amount of two-and-sixpence. Dr.
Gerard would meekly affirm that he had had a most delightful evening.
Robert Norris would lay his hand upon his heart, and swear that he was
always at the service of the ladies. Beau Sealy, still, we are told, a
flourishing and vigorous plant somewhere near Bridgewater, would smile
one of his demure smiles, and say ditto to Norris, ditto to Gerard. The
hostess was delighted; the ladies were in raptures. Who like Norris?
Who like Gerard? Who, especially, like Sealy? Sealy being single, as he
is single still. By this time all the nibbling and sipping were over.
The jumbles, and cakes, and negus, and lemonade had disappeared. The
candles were burning low. There was a cry for the calashes, and a rush
to the sedans, and “the feast of reason and the flow of soul” were at an
end for that evening. And all this happiness, recollect, was achieved
before nine o’clock. Our mothers and grandmothers were unrobing for the
night before their glasses at the hour at which our modern belles are
sitting before theirs, clasping the sparkling necklace, arranging the
last curl, and practising the fatal smile which is to do such execution
at the Wellington-rooms or some private party. We will not attempt to
decide upon the charms of the ancient and modern _Houris_; but the
_hours_ kept by the former were certainly more reasonable and seasonable.
They had the advantage of all “the beauty sleep,” which is said to come
before midnight.