Regulator" left at eight a.m., and reached Portsmouth at five o'clock in
the afternoon; the "Royal Mail" started from the "Angel," by St.
Clement's, Strand, at a quarter-past seven every evening, calling at the
"George and Gate," Gracechurch Street, at eight, and arriving at the
"George," Portsmouth, at ten minutes past six the following morning; the
"Rocket" left the "Belle Sauvage," Ludgate Hill, every morning at
half-past eight, calling at the "White Bear," Piccadilly, at nine, and
arriving (quite the speediest coach of this road) at the "Fountain,"
Portsmouth, at half-past five, just in time for tea; while the "Light
Post" coach took quite two hours longer on the journey, leaving London at
eight in the morning, and only reaching its destination in time for a late
dinner at seven p.m.
The "Night Post" coach, travelling all night, from seven o'clock to
half-past seven the next morning, took an intolerable time; the "Hero,"
which started from the "Spread Eagle," Gracechurch Street, at eight a.m.,
did better, bringing weary passengers to their destination in ten hours;
and the "Portsmouth Telegraph" flew between the "Golden Cross," Charing
Cross, and the "Blue Posts," Portsmouth, in nine hours and a half.
[Illustration: "ELEPHANT AND CASTLE," 1826.]
V
[Sidenote: _OLD-TIME TRAVELLERS_]
Many were the travellers in olden times upon the Portsmouth Road, from
Kings and Queens--who, indeed, did not "travel," but "progressed"--to
Ambassadors, nobles, Admirals of the Red, the White, the Blue, and
sailor-men of every degree. The admirals went, of course, in their own
coaches, the captains more frequently in public conveyances, and the
common ruck of sailors went, I fear, either on foot, or in the
rumble-tumble attached to the hinder part of the slower stages; or even in
the stage-wagons, which took the best part of three days to do the
distance between the "Elephant and Castle" and Portsmouth Hard. If they
had been paid off at Portsmouth and came eventually to London, they would
doubtless have walked, and with no very steady step at that, for the
furies of Gosport and the red-visaged trolls of Portsea took excellent
good care that Jack should be fooled to the top of his bent, and that
having been done, there would be little left either for coach journeys or
indeed anything else, save a few shillings for that indispensable sailor's
drink, rum. So, however Jack might go _down_ to Portsmouth, it is
tolerably certain that he in many cases either tramped to London on his
return from a cruise, or else was carried in one of those lumbering
stage-wagons that, drawn by eight horses, crawled over these seventy-three
miles with all the airy grace and tripping step of the tortoise. He lay,
with one or two companions, upon the noisome straw of the interior,
alternately swigging at the rum-bottle which when all else had failed him
was his remaining stay, and singing, with husky and uncertain voice,
seafaring chanties or patriotic songs, salty of the sea, of the type of
the "Saucy Arethusa" or "Hearts of Oak." He was a nauseous creature, full
of animal and ardent spirits, redolent of rum, and radiant of strange and
most objectionable oaths. He had, perhaps, been impressed into the Navy
against his will; had seen, and felt, hard knocks, and expected--nay,
hoped--to see and feel more yet, and, whatever might come to him, he did
his very best to enjoy the fleeting hour, careless of the morrow. He was
frankly Pagan, and fatalist to a degree, but he and his like won our
battles by sea and made England mistress of the waves, and so we should
contrive all our might to blink his many faults, and apply a telescope of
the most powerful kind to a consideration of his sterling virtues of
bull-dog courage and cheerfulness under the misfortunes which he brought
upon himself.
[Sidenote: _PETER SIMPLE_]
Marryat gives us in "Peter Simple" a vivid and convincing picture of the
sailor going to Portsmouth to rejoin his ship. He must have witnessed many
such scenes on his journeys to and from the great naval station, and it is
very likely that this incident of the novel was drawn from actual
observation.
Peter is setting out for Portsmouth for the first time, and everything is
new to him. He starts of course from the time-honoured starting-point of
the Portsmouth coaches, the historic "Elephant and Castle"; now, alas!
nothing but a huge ordinary "public," where a grimy railway-station and
tinkling tram-cars have taken the place of the old stage-coaches.
"Before eight," says Peter, "I had arrived at the 'Elephant and Castle,'
where we stopped for a quarter of an hour. I was looking at the painting
representing this animal with a castle on its back; and assuming that of
Alnwick, which I had seen, as a fair estimate of the size and weight of
that which he carried, was attempting to enlarge my ideas so as to
comprehend the stupendous bulk of the elephant, when I observed a crowd
assembled at the corner; and asking a gentleman who sat by me in a plaid
cloak whether there was not something very uncommon to attract so many
people, he replied, 'Not very, for it is only a drunken sailor.'
"I rose from my seat, which was on the hinder part of the coach, that I
might see him, for it was a new sight to me, and excited my curiosity;
when, to my astonishment, he staggered from the crowd, and swore that he'd
go to Portsmouth. He climbed up by the wheel of the coach and sat down by
me. I believe that I stared at him very much, for he said to me--
"'What are you gaping at, you young sculping? Do you want to catch flies?
or did you never see a chap half-seas-over before?'
"I replied, 'that I had never been to sea in my life, but that I was
going.'
"'Well then, you're like a young bear, all your sorrows to come--that's
all, my hearty,' replied he. 'When you get on board, you'll find monkey's
allowance--more kicks than halfpence. I say, you pewter-carrier, bring us
another pint of ale.'
"The waiter of the inn, who was attending the coach, brought out the ale,
half of which the sailor drank, and the other half threw into the waiter's
face, telling him 'that was his allowance. And now,' said he, 'what's to
pay?' The waiter, who looked very angry, but appeared too much afraid of
the sailor to say anything, answered fourpence: and the sailor pulled out
a handful of bank-notes, mixed up with gold, silver, and coppers, and was
picking out the money to pay for his beer, when the coachman, who was
impatient, drove off.
"'There's cut and run,' cried the sailor, thrusting all the money into his
breeches pocket. 'That's what you'll learn to do, my joker, before you
have been two cruises to sea.'
"In the meantime the gentleman in the plaid cloak, who was seated by me,
smoked his cigar without saying a word. I commenced a conversation with
him relative to my profession, and asked him whether it was not very
difficult to learn.
"'Larn,' cried the sailor, interrupting us, 'no; it may be difficult for
such chaps as me before the mast to larn, but you, I presume, is a reefer,
and they a'n't got much to larn, 'cause why, they pipeclays their weekly
accounts, and walks up and down with their hands in their pockets. You
must larn to chaw baccy, drink grog, and call the cat a beggar, and then
you knows all a midshipman's expected to know now-a-days. Ar'n't I right,
sir?' said the sailor, appealing to the gentleman in a plaid cloak. 'I
axes you, because I see you're a sailor by the cut of your jib. Beg
pardon, sir,' continued he, touching his hat, 'hope no offence.'
"'I am afraid that you have nearly hit the mark, my good fellow,' replied
the gentleman.
[Sidenote: _THE DRUNKEN SAILOR_]
"The drunken fellow then entered into conversation with him, stating that
he had been paid off from the 'Audacious' at Portsmouth, and had come up
to London to spend his money with his messmates; but that yesterday he had
discovered that a Jew at Portsmouth had sold him a seal as gold for
fifteen shillings, which proved to be copper, and that he was going back
to Portsmouth to give the Jew a couple of black eyes for his rascality,
and that when he had done that he was to return to his messmates, who had
promised to drink success to the expedition at the 'Cock and Bottle,' St.
Martin's Lane, until he should return.
"The gentleman in the plaid cloak commended him very much for his
resolution: for he said, 'that although the journey to and from Portsmouth
would cost twice the value of a gold seal, yet that in the end it might be
worth a _Jew's eye_.' What he meant I did not comprehend.
"Whenever the coach stopped, the sailor called for more ale, and always
threw the remainder which he could not drink into the face of the man who
brought it out for him, just as the coach was starting off, and then
tossed the pewter pot on the ground for him to pick up. He became more
tipsy every stage, and the last from Portsmouth, when he pulled out his
money he could find no silver, so he handed down a note, and desired the
waiter to change it. The waiter crumpled it up and put it into his pocket,
and then returned the sailor the change for a one-pound note: but the
gentleman in the plaid had observed that it was a five-pound note which
the sailor had given, and insisted upon the waiter producing it, and
giving the proper change. The sailor took his money, which the waiter
handed to him, begging pardon for the mistake, although he coloured up
very much at being detected. 'I really beg your pardon,' said he again,
'it was quite a mistake,' whereupon the sailor threw the pewter pot at the
waiter, saying, 'I really beg your pardon too,'--and with such force, that
it flattened upon the man's head, who fell senseless on the road. The
coachman drove off, and I never heard whether the man was killed or not."
"Liberty" Wilkes was a frequent traveller on this road, as also was Samuel
Pepys before him; but as I have a full and particular account of them both
later on in these pages, at the "Anchor" at Liphook--a house which they
frequently patronized,--we may pass on to others who were called this way
on business or on pleasure bent. And the business of one very notorious
character of the seventeenth century was a most serious affair: nothing,
in short, less than murder, red-handed, sudden, and terrible.
[Sidenote: _JOHN FELTON_]
John Felton's is one of the most lurid and outstanding figures among the
travellers upon the Portsmouth Road. For private and public reasons he
conceived he had a right to rid the world of the gay and debonair
"Steenie," George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. Felton at this time was a
man of thirty-two, poor and neglected. He was an officer in the army who
had chanced, by his surly nature, to offend his superior, one Sir Henry
Hungate, a friend of the Duke's, and who effectually prevented his
obtaining a command. Felton retired from the service with the rank of
lieutenant, disgusted and vindictive at having juniors promoted over his
head. Arrears of pay, amounting, according to his own statement, to L80
were withheld from him, and no amount of entreaty could induce the
authorities to make payment. Ideas of revenge took possession of him while
in London, staying with his mother in an alley-way off Fleet Street. The
famous Remonstrance of the Commons presented to the King convinced Felton
that to deprive Buckingham of existence was to serve the best interests of
the nation, and to this end he determined to set out for Portsmouth, where
the Duke lay, directing the expedition for the relief of La Rochelle. He
first desired the prayers of the clergy and congregation of St. Bride's
for himself, as one wretched and disturbed in mind, and, buying a tenpenny
knife at a cutler's upon Tower Hill, he set out, Tuesday, August 19, 1628,
upon the road, first sewing the sheath of the knife in the lining of his
right-hand pocket, so that with his right hand (the other was maimed) he
could draw it without trouble. He also transcribed the opinion of a
contemporary polemical writer, that "that man is cowardly and base, and
deserveth not the name of a gentleman or soldier, who is not willing to
sacrifice his life for his God, his King, and his country," and pinned the
paper, together with a statement of his own grievances, upon his hat. He
did not arrive at Portsmouth until the next Saturday, having ridden upon
horseback so far as his slender funds would carry him, and walking the
rest of the way.
Buckingham was staying at a Portsmouth inn--the "Spotted Dog," in High
Street--long since demolished. Access to him was easy, among the number
who waited upon his favours, and so Felton experienced no difficulty in
approaching within easy striking distance. The Duke had left his
dressing-room to proceed to his carriage on a visit to the King at
Porchester, when, in the hall of the inn, Colonel Friar, one of his
intimates, whispered a word in his ear. He turned to listen, and was
instantly stabbed by Felton, receiving a deep wound in the left breast;
the knife sticking in his heart. Exclaiming "Villain!" he plucked it out,
staggered backwards, and falling against a table, was caught in the arms
of his attendants, dying almost immediately. No one saw the blow struck,
and the cry was raised that it was the work of a Frenchman; but Felton,
who had coolly walked from the room, returned, and with equal composure
declared himself to be the man. Thus died the gay and profligate
Buckingham, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. Surrounded by his
friends, his Duchess in an upper room, he was struck down as surely as
though his assailant had met him solitary and alone.
Within the space of a few minutes from his falling dead and the removal of
his body into an adjoining room, the place was deserted. The very horror
of the sudden deed left no room for curiosity. The house, awhile before
filled with servants and sycophants, was left in silence.
Many were found to admire and extol Felton and his deed. "God bless thee,
little David," said the country folk, crowding to shake his hand as he
was conveyed back to London for his trial. "Excellent Felton!" said many
decent people in London; and tried to prevent the only possible ending to
his career. That end came at Tyburn, where, we are told, "he testified
much repentance, and so took his death very stoutly and patiently. He was
very long a-dying. His body is gone to Portsmouth, there to be hanged in
chains."
VI
[Sidenote: _JOHN WESLEY_]
Among the memorable passengers along the Portsmouth Road in other days who
have left any record of their journeys is "that strenuous and painful
preacher," the Rev. John Wesley, D.D. On the fifth day of October, 1753,
he left the "humane, loving people" of Cowes, "and crossed over to
Portsmouth." Here he "found another kind of people" from the complaisant
inhabitants of the Isle of Wight. They had, unlike the Cowes people, none
of the milk of human kindness in their breasts, or if they possessed any,
it had all curdled, for they had "disputed themselves out of the power,
and well-nigh the form of religion," as Wesley remarks in his "Journals."
So, after the third day among these backsliders and curdled Christians, he
shook the dust of Portsmouth (if there was any to shake in October) off
his shoes, and departed, riding on horseback to "Godalmin."
We do not meet with him on this road for another eighteen years, when he
seems to have found the Portsmouth folk more receptive, for now "the
people in general here are more noble than most in the south of England."
Curiously enough, on another fifth of October (1771), he "set out at two"
from Portsmouth. This was, apparently, two o'clock in the morning, for
"about ten, some of our London friends met me at Cobham, with whom I took
a walk in the neighbouring gardens"--he refers, doubtless, to the gardens
of Pain's Hill, and is speaking of ten o'clock in the morning of the same
day; for no one, after a ride of fifty miles, would take walks in gardens
at ten o'clock of an October night--"inexpressibly pleasant, through the
variety of hills and dales and the admirable contrivance of the whole; and
now, after spending all his life in bringing it to perfection, the
grey-headed owner advertises it to be sold! Is there anything," he asks,
"under the sun that can satisfy a spirit made for God?" This query is no
doubt a very correct and moral one, but it seems somewhat cryptic.
[Sidenote: _JONAS HANWAY_]
Another traveller of a very singular character was Jonas Hanway, who,
coming up to town from Portsmouth in 1756, wrote a book purporting to be
"A Journal of an Eight Days' Journey from Portsmouth to
Kingston-on-Thames." This is a title which, on the first blush, rouses
interest in the breast of the historian, for such a book must needs (he
doubts not) contain much valuable information relating to this road and
old-time travelling upon it. Judge then of his surprise and disgust when,
upon a perusal of those ineffable pages, the inquirer into old times and
other manners than our own discovers that the author of that book has
simply enshrined his not particularly luminous remarks upon things in
general in two volumes of leaded type, and that in all the weary length
of that work, cast in the form of letters addressed to "a Lady," no word
appears relating to roads or travel. Vague discourses upon uninteresting
abstractions make up the tale of his pages, together with an incredibly
stupid "Essay on Tea, considered as pernicious to Health, obstructing
Industry, and Impoverishing the Nation."
[Illustration: JONAS HANWAY.]
The disappointed reader, baulked of his side-lights on manners and customs
upon the road, reflects with pardonable satisfaction that this book was
the occasion of an attack by Doctor Johnson upon Hanway and his "Essay on
Tea." It was not to be supposed that the Doctor, that sturdy tea-drinker,
could silently pass over such an onslaught upon his favourite beverage.
No; he reviewed the work in the "Literary Magazine," and certainly the
author is made to cut a sorry figure. Johnson at the outset let it be
understood that one who described tea as "that noxious herb" could expect
but little consideration from a "hardened and shameless tea-drinker" like
himself, who had "for twenty years diluted his meals with only the
infusion of this fascinating plant; whose kettle has scarcely time to
cool; who with tea amuses the evening, with tea solaces the midnight, and
with tea welcomes the morning."
[Illustration: "IF THE SHADES OF THOSE ANTAGONISTS FOREGATHER."]
No; Hanway was not successful in his crusade against tea. As a merchant
whose business had called him from England into Persia and Russia, he had
attracted much attention; for in those days Persia was almost an unknown
country to Englishmen, and Russia itself unfamiliar. His first printed
work--an historical account of British trade in those regions--was
therefore the means of gaining him a certain literary success, which
attended none of the seventy other works of which he was the author.
Boswell, indeed, goes so far as to say that "he acquired some reputation
by travelling abroad, and lost it all by travelling at home;" and Johnson,
to whom Hanway addressed an indignant letter, complaining of that unkind
review, regarded with contempt one who spoke so ill of the drink upon
which he produced so much solid work.
Johnson's defence of tea is vindicated by results; and if the shades of
those antagonists foregather somewhere up beyond the clouds, then Ursa
Major, over a ghostly dish of his most admired beverage, may point to the
astonishing and lasting vogue of the tea-leaf as the best argument in
favour of his preference.
[Sidenote: _CHAMPION OF THE UMBRELLA_]
Hanway was more successful as Champion of the Umbrella. He was, with a
singular courage, the first person to carry an umbrella in the streets of
London at a time when the unfurling of what is now become an indispensable
article of every-day use was regarded as effeminate, and was greeted with
ironical cheers or the savage shouts of hackmen, "Frenchman, Frenchman,
why don't you take a coach!" Those drivers of public conveyances saw their
livelihood slipping away when folk walked about in the rain, sheltered by
the immense structure the umbrella was upon its first introduction: a
heavy affair of cane ribs and oiled cloth, with a handle like a
broomstick. In fact, the ordinary umbrella of that time no more resembled
the dainty silk affair of modern use than an omnibus resembles a
stage-coach of last century. Hanway defended his use of the umbrella by
saying he was in delicate health after his return from Persia. Imagine
the parallel case of an invalid carrying a heavy modern carriage umbrella,
and then you have some sort of an idea of the tax Hanway's _parapluie_
must have been upon his strength.
[Illustration: THE FIRST UMBRELLA.]
[Sidenote: _PROFESSIONAL PHILANTHROPY_]
For the rest, Jonas Hanway was a philanthropist who did good in the sight
of all men, and was rejoiced beyond measure to find his benevolence
famous. He was, in short, one of the earliest among professional
philanthropists, and to such good works as the founding of the Marine
Society, and a share in the establishment of the Foundling Hospital, he
added agitations against the custom of giving vails to servants, schemes
for the protection of youthful chimney-sweeps, and campaigns against
midnight routs and evening assemblies. Carlyle calls him a dull, worthy
man; and he seems to have been, more than aught else, a County Councillor
of the Puritan variety, spawned out of all due time. He died, in fact, in
1786, rather more than a hundred years before County Councils were
established, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. He was a meddlesome man,
without humour, who dealt with a provoking seriousness with trivial
things, and was the forerunner and _beau ideal_ of all earnest
"Progressives."
The year after Jonas Hanway travelled on this road, noting down an
infinite deal of nothing with great unction and a portentous gravity,
there went down from London to Portsmouth a melancholy cavalcade, bearing
a brave man to a cruel, shameful, and unjust death on the quarter-deck of
the man-o'-war "Monarque," in Portsmouth Harbour.
Admiral Byng was sent to Portsmouth to be tried by court-martial; and at
every stage of his progress there came and clamoured round his guards
noisy crowds of people of every rank, who reviled him for a traitor and a
coward, and thirsted for his blood in a practical way that only furious
and prejudiced crowds could show. Their feeling was intense, and had been
wrought to this pitch by the emissaries of a weak but vindictive
Government, which sought to cloak its disastrous parsimony and the ill
fortunes of war by erecting Byng into a sort of lightning-conductor which
should effectually divert the bolts of a popular storm from incapable
ministers. And these efforts of Government were, for a time, completely
successful. The nation was brought to believe Byng a poltroon of a
particularly despicable kind; and the crowds that assembled in the streets
of the country towns through which the discredited Admiral was led to his
fate were with difficulty prevented from anticipating the duty of the
firing-party that on March 14, 1757, woke the echoes of Gosport and
Portsmouth with their murderous volley.
[Sidenote: _ADMIRAL BYNG_]
Admiral Byng was himself the son of an admiral, who was created Viscount
Torrington for his distinguished services. Some of the innumerable
caricaturists who earned a blackguardly living by attacking a man who had
few friends and powerful enemies, fixed upon his honourable birth as an
additional means of wounding him; and thus there exists a rare print
entitled "B-ng in Horrors; or T-rr-ngt-n's Ghost," which shows the shade
of the father as he
"Darts through the Caverns of the Ship
Where _Britain's Coward rides_,"
appearing to his son as he lies captive on board the "Monarque," and
reproaching him in a set of verses from which the above lines are an
elegant extract.
[Illustration: ADMIRAL BYNG.]
Other caricatures of the period more justly include ministers in their
satire. One is reproduced here, chiefly with the object of showing the
pleasing roadside humour of hanging criminals in chains. By this
illustration the native ferocity of the eighteenth-century caricaturists
is glaringly exemplified. The figure marked _A_ is intended for Admiral
Lord Anson, _B_ is meant for Byng, and _C_ represents the Duke of
Newcastle, the Prime Minister of the Administration that detached an
insufficient force for service in the Mediterranean. The fox who looks up
with satisfaction at the dangling bodies is of course intended for Charles
James Fox, whose resignation produced the fall of the ministry. The other
figures explain themselves by the aid of the labels issuing from their
mouths.