on the bass-viol, became landlord of the “Graham Arms,” Longtown. Jim
Byrns, guard on the Glasgow mail between Preston and Carlisle, was in
the next era station-master at Preston, and saw the trains go by on
their way to Shap, whose bleak uplands he had travelled thousands of
times. Standing up for miles together, and blowing his horn continually
to prevent a collision on foggy nights; or wading through the drifts of
a snowstorm and saddling one of the leaders to ride off to a farmhouse
and rouse the farm-labourers to come and help with their shovels to dig
out His Majesty’s mails, he had earned all he received, and a bit over.
“Jim,” says one who knew him, “was the right man in the right place, a
rare hand at the head of a fatigue-party with shovels, and a perfect
master of the carpenter’s tools in case of a break-down.”
VIII
No traveller along this road, not excepting even kings and queens,
statesmen, and other great historical figures, has left so striking
and interesting an account of travelling along it as the narratives
of two pedestrian journeys between London and Manchester, written by
Samuel Bamford. These accounts are supremely interesting in themselves,
because they were written by one of the people, and because they put
on record, as no other chronicler has done, or could have done, the
England of 1807 and 1819, as seen by an intelligent and thinking
working-man on tramp. It is an England removed not only by the space of
a century from our England, but a crowded century such as never before
was seen.
But if we would thoroughly understand Bamford’s intensely interesting
narratives, which I do not scruple to reprint here at length, we must
learn what manner of man he was who wrote them.
[Sidenote: _SAMUEL BAMFORD_]
Samuel Bamford was born in 1788, at Middleton, near Manchester, and was
a weaver and a descendant of weavers. He was by temperament something
more; was, indeed, blest, or curst, with the literary taint in its
extreme form; was, in short, a poet. At the time when Bamford was
growing up, and an eager recipient of ideas, England—and especially
the operatives’, the artisans’, and the agricultural labourers’
England—was not the free country it is now. The working-classes had no
votes, practically no education, and only too often, as the result of
troubles caused by incessant foreign warfare, insufficient food. The
country seethed with discontent—not a passing discontent, but a long,
wretched era of sullen ill-will that outlasted Bamford’s own active
period, and culminated in the Chartist agitation of 1839. Bamford,
of course, was not fully informed. His writings teem with pictures
of the wrongs of Lancashire operatives, while from his descriptions
of rural England it might almost be supposed that the agricultural
labourer of that time lived an ideal existence; which of course was by
no means the case. He only knew at first hand the case of the weavers
and the cotton-spinners, which was desperate enough; for that was the
era when machinery began to supplant the hand-loom, and manufacturers
were growing rich while many of the workers starved in the combined
circumstances of dear food and lack of employment. For himself, as
a youth, he seems to have been light-hearted enough, and it was the
sufferings, the wrongs, and the disabilities of others, rather than of
himself, that eventually led him to become a political agitator. He
could, however, scarce help being a rebel, for he came of those who had
been convinced Jacobites, and had, later, become Methodists; and was
himself, as we have seen, an idealist and something of a homespun poet.
His career was that of not a few intelligent working men of his time.
He was a “peaceful” agitator at a period when even the arguments of
the peaceful were met by Governments with the more stern, and in their
own way unanswerable, arguments of force. To-day, when agitators spout
violence, and advocate reform by explosive bomb, and are regarded with
indifference by the authorities, they come at last to Cabinet rank in
governments; but in Bamford’s day a mere assemblage was considered by
the authorities a dangerous thing, and was generally dispersed. Bamford
himself was arrested, with others, in 1817, on suspicion of high
treason, and sent up by coach, in chains, to London, to be examined
before the Privy Council. He escaped that time; but, two years later,
was arrested in connection with the famous Reform meeting in St.
Peter’s Field, Manchester, August 16th, 1819, which resulted in the
tragedy of “Peterloo.”
“This time,” he was assured, “you will certainly be hanged,” but the
proceedings resulted in a year’s imprisonment at Lincoln, where he
was regarded as an amiable poetic visionary, and greatly indulged and
liked. As he grew older, his opinions mellowed, and by the time of the
Chartist agitation he had to all intents and purposes ceased to be a
Radical, and was decidedly Whiggish. The trend of events since then has
so altered the outlook that Bamford would probably be now considered a
Tory.
In 1852 the Government offered him a post at Somerset House: a position
he accepted for a while, and then resigned with disgust, as being a
sheer waste of time. It was not an exalted post, the duties consisting
of arranging and cataloguing a vast number of dusty and useless papers
connected with forgotten inland revenue affairs: papers that only a
Government department would save from the waste-paper dealer. Clearly
Bamford was born before his age. Were it all to do now, he would be
standing, the head of his Department, in the House of Commons. It is
really—this coming into a world not yet ripe for you—a tragedy, if you
do but consider it; but there are compensations. He might have been
born a century earlier, when, for such as he, life would have ended in
a veritable tragedy of flesh and blood. Happy, perhaps, after all, in
being born into the midmost era, he died at last, in his eighty-fourth
year, in 1872.
So much for a broad view of his career, which, had he followed an
early impulse, would have been very different. In his nineteenth year
he took to seafaring, shipping aboard the _Æneas_, a coasting brig
plying between South Shields and London. Soon growing tired of the
life, he determined to give it up, and with seven shillings in his
pockets, deserted his ship in the London Docks. That was in 1807, when
likely looking sailormen were always in danger of being snapped up by
the press gang. His plan of walking the 185 miles home to Manchester
was therefore, with so little money, and at such risks, highly
adventurous. He hung about in an eating-house in Ratcliffe Highway
until dusk, and then set out upon the long journey.
IX
[Sidenote: _BAMFORD’s WALK TO MANCHESTER_]
“I thence,” he says, “went into the city, to St. Paul’s, inquiring
my way into Aldersgate Street, and when there I ventured to accost
a respectable-looking person and requested him to be so kind as to
direct me towards Islington, which, of course, he did, and I passed
through that suburb without stopping or being questioned. An officer,
in naval uniform, whom I met, certainly took more notice of me than
was quite to my liking, but he passed on and did not speak. I next
inquired the way to Highgate, knowing that if I got there I should be
on the direct great northern road, and at Highgate, whilst stopping at
a public-house, I ascertained that the next place on my route would be
Whetstone, and the next after that Barnet. I accordingly walked through
Whetstone and through Barnet without stopping. I now considered myself
fairly launched on my journey. I had been fortunate in getting clear of
the vicinity of the shipping and of the city without being questioned,
and was now ten miles from St. Paul’s. I once more breathed the sweet
country air; the smell of mown meadows sometimes came across my path.
I had seven shillings in my pocket, and though as yet uncertain of my
success, I was full of hope and delighted with the present enjoyment
of freedom. I had not gone far, however, before I became somewhat
embarrassed, the night was getting far advanced, the country less
populous, and I was uncertain both as to the name of my next stage and
the course I should keep. I had not gone far, however, before I met
a man to whom I put the necessary questions, and who told me to keep
on the broad highway, to the left, and that the next town of any note
which I should arrive at would be St. Albans. I thanked the man for his
information, when he said, ‘stop; I know what you are, and what you are
about.’
“‘Do you?’ said I, rather surprised, but in a good-humoured manner.
“‘Indeed I do,’ replied the man; ‘you are a sailor, and are running
away from your ship.’
“‘You might be a wizard,’ I said, ‘for what you say is perfect truth.’
“‘Well, now,’ said he, ‘as you have been as candid as I was frank,
I’ll tell you something which may be of use to you.’
“I thanked him.
[Sidenote: _DANGERS OF THE ROAD_]
“‘At St. Albans,’ he continued, ‘a party of marines are stationed, who
press every sailor that appears in the town. They even press them off
the coaches, or other vehicles, if they get a sight of them. Through
St. Albans, however, you must go, and you will be pressed if you appear
in the streets; you must, therefore, get through the town without being
seen, if possible. Fortunately it may be done. In a short time you will
overtake a waggon, which carries goods on this main road. You must get
to ride inside of it, get stowed amongst the packages, and never show
your face until you are clearly on the other side of the town.’
“I thanked him most gratefully for his information, and begged that he
would not mention to any one having seen such a person as myself on the
road. He desired that I would make myself easy on that score, and so
with expressions of thankfulness on my part, and of kindly wishes on
his, we separated.
“It was now about midnight; all was still and silent on the road. I
was about eight miles from St. Albans, and by the time I had shortened
the distance by three I overtook the waggon, the tail of which being
full of soldiers’ wives and their children, I could not get in there;
the driver, however, offered me a snug place in the hay-sheet—a large
and strong horse-hair cloth which fastened in front of the vehicle,
and presented a resting-place as comfortable as a hammock, and quite
large enough to conceal me. I, therefore, got into my hiding-place, and
was almost instantly fast asleep. I must have ridden about four miles,
though to me it seemed but a few minutes since I got in, when the
driver awoke me and asked which road I was going when I got through the
town?
“‘Why, the main road, to be sure,’ I said.
“‘Yes, but which main road?’ asked the man.
“‘The main road down into the north; into Lancashire,’ I said. ‘There
is no other, is there?’
“‘Oh, yes,’ said the man, ‘there is the main road to Bedford and those
parts, and that’s the road I’m a-going.’
“Instead of saying, ‘Well, drive me to Bedford then, or anywhere else,
so you don’t land me here in sight of the press-gang;’—instead of so
considering in my own mind, I might have suddenly become demented, for
I alighted from my covert, and shaking the hay-seeds from my clothes as
well as I could, I gave the man some copper, and walked right into the
broad street of St. Albans.
“It was a very fine summer’s morning, and being Saturday, the
market-place was occupied by numbers of country people setting out
their standings of butter, eggs, poultry, and vegetables. Directly
through the midst of these market people lay my way, and I stepped it
with seeming equanimity, and as much of real indifference as I could
muster, for, after all, as I reflected, if the very worst happened, I
should only be disappointed in present hope, and be sent on board a
ship of war as many hundreds had been before me. So I walked forward,
the people almost lifting their eyes in wonder at seeing a tall, gaunt,
weather-browned sailor traversing that perilous ground.
[Sidenote: _THE PRESS-GANG_]
“I had got clear of the market-place, and was proceeding down a flagged
footpath leading to the outskirts of the town, and already breathing
more freely, when the sound of a light slip-shod step approached behind
me. I thought it was some servant girl going out for her morning’s milk
or hot roll, and never turned my head. A slap on the shoulder, however,
and the salutation, ‘Hollo, shipmate,’ caused me to face about, when
what should stand before me but a marine, in his blue overcoat and
girdled hat without feather.
“At that moment I felt as little ruffled as if we had been old
acquaintance, determined, however, not be taken if either presence of
mind or resistance could prevent it.
“‘Hollo, shipmate,’ said I.
“‘What are you?’ asked the man.
“‘What am I? I’m a servant,’ I replied. A term not used in the Royal
Navy, but by which persons under contract are distinguished in the
trade of our Eastern Coast.
“‘A servant?—what’s that?’
“‘Why, a servant—that’s all,’ I replied.
“By this time three other marines had joined us.
“‘Where’s your pass, to pass you through the country?’ asked the first
man.
“‘I have no pass,’ I said; ‘I’m a free-born subject of this kingdom,
and can travel this or any other high-road without carrying a pass at
all.’
“The men looked at each other, and then at me. They could not
comprehend the reason of my cool manner and unusual language. They had
no idea of free-born subjects, nor of sailors travelling without passes.
“‘Then you have no papers?’ said the first man, who seemed to be the
superior of the party.
“‘Why, as for that,’ I said, ‘I daresay I can show a kind of a small
matter which will, perhaps, satisfy you for the present.’ Saying which,
I took my protection from an old black pocket-book which I carried in
my hat.
“‘Oh, if you have any written papers to show,’ he said, ‘you must go
with us to our captain: I can’t read writing.’
“So much the better, I thought, and straightway displayed the document
at length, knowing if it could do me no good, neither could it do me
any harm. ‘Do you see that?’ I asked, pointing to the broad seal of the
Admiralty, stamped with an anchor.
“‘Oh! be d—d,’ said the man; ‘you have been discharged from a
man-of-war.’
[Sidenote: _ESCAPE_]
“‘Why, you lubber,’ I said, in a half-familiar way, ‘do you think if I
hadn’t I should have come here?’
“‘Ah! he won’t do,’ said one or two of the party.
“‘You may go about your business,’ said the first man, turning to walk
off with the others.
“‘Ahoy, there,’ I said, ‘are you going to stop a shipmate on shore this
way, without standing so much as a glass of grog for him?’
“‘You be d—d,’ said the corporal, and hastened up the street to join
his comrades.
“Several decent-looking farmers, who had left their produce in the
market, stood in the cart-road watching the whole proceeding, and when
the marines had left, they said, ‘Well, young fellow, you are the first
blue-jacket that has slipt through the fingers of yonder scoundrels
this long time.’ I entered into friendly conversation with these men,
and as they were going my way I had their company on the road as far as
Redbourn, where, after partaking with them a glass or two of ale, we
parted.
“I next passed through Market Street, and Dunstable, always concealing
myself, as well as I could, when I heard a coach coming either way,
until it passed. At Hockliffe I rested some time, and had a good sleep
behind a hedge. I thence went through Woburn, and afterwards through
Newport Pagnell, and when night came, and the glow-worms were shining
in the hedges I found myself opposite to a small lone public-house,
near the village of Stoke Goldington, in Buckinghamshire, and about
eleven miles from Northampton.
“Into this humble hostelry I entered and got some bread and cheese and
ale for supper. The house appeared to be kept by an elderly couple,
with a woman servant, and when I mentioned my wish to stop there for
the night, they said they could not find me a bed in the house, but if
I would put up with a good litter of straw in the stable, I should be
welcome to rest there. I accepted their kind offer with pleasure, and
lay down, thanking God that I could rest without the hated ‘starboard
watch, ahoy’ breaking my slumbers; and save that once or twice I was
awaked by rats tripping over me, and by the cackling of fowls and the
quacking of ducks, a king never enjoyed sounder repose. In the morning,
it being Sunday, I brushed my shoes, washed myself well at the pump,
and turned my linen the cleaner side out, after which I got a basin of
milk and bread for breakfast, and demanding my shot, the old folks told
me I had nothing to pay, and so with truly grateful thanks for their
kindness I bade them farewell, and continued my journey.
[Sidenote: _COUNTRY DELIGHTS_]
“It was a lovely morning, and my way lay through a tract of country
which at every bend and undulation of the road, presented some object,
or group, or opening upon scenery, which was continually suggestive
of the fact, that this was indeed a land where men and women knew how
to live and be happy at their own homes. Here, on one hand, would be
a substantial farmhouse, with its open door displaying much plenty
within, its strong-limbed hinds feeding the horses or cleaning the
stables, and its ruddy-brown damsels milking the kine, which stood
sleepily lashing their tails on their backs or flapping their ears in
the sun. The next habitation would probably be a little white cottage,
with a low door, and small leaded windows shadowed by vinery, and the
eaves of the thatch slouched down, as if to prevent the wind from
upturning them. A whine and a grunt would be heard in the stye, and a
broad garden, darkened at one end by fruit trees, would be abundant
Of herbs and other country messes.
Next a clear tiny rill comes trickling by the road-side; soon we are
under a tall young wood, with an old tree here and there matted with
ivy or robed in hoar lichen. Soon we perceive a house of the higher
order, with its palisades, its gravelled walk, its bright evergreens,
its clean steps, and its stately and decent quietude; although if the
white blinds were rolled up instead of being down, it would seem all
the more frank, cheerful, and Christian like. Next, perhaps, we have
a glimpse of a spire rising above tall trees, or the turret of a grey
old-looking bell tower sends forth its summons to the villagers for
their morning’s devotion. Wending on our journey, hills and vales,
with meads, pastures, and green crops spread all over their ridges
and down to their brook margins, are laid out luxuriantly before the
ever-pleased eye; whilst far off, in the opening of hoary old woods,
are seen tower and battlement of some lordly hall.
[Sidenote: _THE GIPSIES_]
“Through such a country as this, and breathing an air sweeter than
which none ever wafted over Paradise, had I walked some five or six
miles, when the bark of a dog, and the appearance of sundry low tents,
a horse, a mare and her foal, an ass or two, a heap of panniers, a
lurcher and a couple of terriers, pans, pots, and a kettle on a fire,
which a lad was blowing into red heat, made me aware that I was, for
the first time, about to behold a family of gypsies, in their favourite
state of encampment. The tribe consisted of three stout men and as many
women, one of them very old and deformed, and one, a superb being,
with majestic golden pendants, that touched the crimson hood on her
shoulders; a coil of luxuriant hair lay across her knees, as thick as a
mainshroud and as glossy as a skein of silk, whilst her magnificently
black and darkly shadowed eyes were like two gems, light-emittent
through midnight. Two of the men and one female were asleep in tents,
some children were also at rest, a boy or two were engaged with the
dogs; the horses and the asses were pasturing, one man was smoking a
short pipe, and skinning a rabbit the while, the queen sat plaiting
what seemed to be a girdle of many colours, and the old one was tending
a cake in the embers. A young damsel sat there—a beauty such as I had
never before beheld, not even in Lancashire, for she was different
from them all, though not surpassing—nothing human could do that—but
this had a feminine grace, and a faultless beauty of a type which was
entirely new to me. A scarlet strap and a short sleeve were the only
covering to her shoulders, her neck and arms being entirely bare. Over
the front of a laced bodice of various hues, hung a small bib of fine
linen, which so far covered her bosom as modesty required. A green
kirtle bound her waist and fell below her knees, leaving her legs and
feet, which were models of symmetry, as innocent of hose or pumps as
they were at her birth. Her complexion was a clear olive, whilst her
features I can only describe as being strikingly impressive from their
beauty, and much like those which I had seen in the portraits and on
the statues of Oriental nymphs and goddesses of antiquity. Her hair,
of raven lustre, was plaited and wreathed on her head, where it was
bound with ribbons of bright and grave colours mingled, and held by a
comb, and thence dividing, fell in graceful locks over her shoulders,
and below her bosom. She was on her knees, sipping broth from a china
basin, and with a silver spoon. I accosted the party with the usual
salutation of ‘good-morning,’ to which the man and the two women
replied. We chatted as I stood there respecting various matters, as the
road, the weather, fellow wayfarers whom I had met, and things of that
kind, and in the course of our conversation the man informed me that
my best way to Leicester would be through Welford, and not through
Market Harborough, which was the more common route. After satisfying my
curiosity as well as I could consistently with a decent observation,
I bade them good-bye, and was coming away when the mistress of the
party, or queen, as I may call her, asked me if a mess of broth would
be acceptable. I had been thinking before that never had broth smelled
so temptingly as this did; I therefore expressed my thankful acceptance
of her offer, and taking a seat on the sod I partook of a breakfast
such as I had little expected to find at such a table, for besides
the broth, the young nymph, by direction of the queen, placed before
me bread, cold mutton, fowl, cheese, with mustard, and green onion
as a relish, so I laid to as freely and as plenteously, according
to my wants, as ever did alderman at a corporation feast. My kind
entertainers seemed the more pleased the more freely I partook, and
after making a most excellent meal, during which I was neither annoyed
by many questions, nor embarrassed by ceremony—for they mostly spoke
to each other, and that in a language I did not understand—I again
expressed my sincere thanks and pursued my journey, deeply interested
by the scene I had quitted, and particularly so by the two amazing
beauties I had beheld.
[Sidenote: _SUNDAY_]