DOWN THE ROAD IN DAYS OF YORE
I.--A JOURNEY FROM NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE TO LONDON IN 1772
In 1773, the Reverend James Murray, Minister of the High Bridge
Meeting House at Newcastle, published a little book which he was
pleased to call _The Travels of the Imagination; or, a True Journey
from Newcastle to London_, purporting to be an account of an actual
trip taken in 1772. I do not know how his congregation received this
performance, but the inspiration of it was very evidently drawn from
Sterne’s _Sentimental Journey_, then in the heyday of its success and
singularly provocative of imitations--all of them extraordinarily thin
and poor. Sentimental travellers, without a scintilla of the wit that
jewelled Sterne’s pages, gushed and reflected in a variety of travels,
and became a public nuisance. Surely no one then read their mawkish
products, any more than they do now.
Murray’s book was, then, obviously, to any one who now dips into it,
as trite and jejune as the rest of them; but it has now, unlike its
fellows, an interesting aspect, for the reason that he gives details
of road-travelling life which, once commonplace enough, afford to
ourselves not a little entertainment. Equally entertaining, too, and
full of unconscious humour, are those would-be eloquent rhapsodies
of his which could only then have rendered him an unmitigated bore.
It should be noted here that although his picture of road-life is in
general reliable enough, we must by no means take him at his word when
he says he journeyed all the way from Newcastle to London. We cannot
believe in a traveller making that claim who devotes many pages to
the first fifteen miles between Newcastle and Durham, and yet between
Durham and Grantham, a distance of a hundred and fifty miles, not
only finds nothing of interest, but fails to tell us whether he went
by the Boroughbridge or the York route, and mentions nothing of the
coach halting for the night between the beginning of the journey at
Newcastle, and the first specified night’s halt at Grantham, a hundred
and sixty-five miles away. Those were the times when the coaches inned
every night, and not until the “Wonder” London and Shrewsbury Coach was
started, in 1825, did any coach ever succeed in doing much more than
a hundred miles a day. So much in adverse criticism. But while a very
casual glance is sufficient to expose his pretensions of having made
the entire journey in this manner, it is equally evident that he knew
portions of the road, and that he was conversant with the manners and
customs that then obtained along it--as no one then could help being.
The fare between Newcastle and London, the lengthy halts on the way,
and the manner in which the passengers often passed the long evenings
at the towns where they rested for the night--witnessing any theatrical
performance that offered--are extremely interesting, as also is the
curious sidelight thrown upon the fact that actors--technically, in
the eyes of the law, “rogues and vagabonds”--were then actually so
regarded. How poorly considered the theatrical profession then was, is,
of course, well known; but it is curious thus to come upon a reference
to the fact that London theatres then had long summer vacations, in
which the actors and actresses must starve if they could not manage to
pick up a meagre livelihood by barnstorming in the country; as here we
see them doing.
So much by way of preface. Now let us see what our author has to say.
To begin with, he, like many another before and since, found it
disagreeable to be wakened in the morning. When a person is enjoying
sweet repose in his bed, to be suddenly awakened by the rude,
blustering voice of a vociferous ostler was distinctly annoying. More
annoying still, however, to lose the coach; and so there was no help
for it, provided the stage was to be caught. The morning was very fine
when the passengers, thus untimely roused, entered the coach. Nature
smiled around them, who only yawned in her face in return. Pity,
thought our author, that they were not to ride on horseback: they
could then enjoy the pleasures of the morning, snuff the perfumes of
the fields, hear the music of the grove and the concert of the wood.
These reflections were cut short by the crossing of the Tyne by ferry.
The bridge had fallen on November 17th, 1771, and the temporary ferry
established from the Swirl, Sandgate, to the south shore was the
source of much inconvenience and delay. The coach was put across on a
raft or barge, but in directing operations to that end, the ferryman
was not to be hurried. One had to wait the pleasure of that arbitrary
little Bashaw, who would not move beyond the rule of his own authority,
or mitigate the sentence of those who were condemned to travel in a
stage-coach within a ferry-boat.
Our author, as he hated every idea of slavery and oppression, was not a
little offended at the expressions of authority used on this occasion
by the august legislator of the ferry. The passengers were now in the
barge, and obliged to sit quiet until this tyrant gave orders for
departure. The vehicle for carrying coach and passengers across the
river was the most tiresome and heavy that ever was invented. Four
rowers in a small boat dragged the ponderous ferry across the river,
very slowly and with great exertions, and almost an hour was consumed
in thus breasting the yellow current of the broad and swiftly-running
Tyne. Meanwhile, there was plenty of time to reflect on what might
happen on the passage, and abundant opportunity for putting up a
few ejaculations to Heaven to preserve them all from the dangers of
ferryboats and tyrants.
But the voyage at last came to an end. So soon as they were landed on
the south side of the river Tyne, they were saluted by a blackbird,
who welcomed them to the county of Durham. It seemed to take pleasure
in seeing them fairly out of the domains of Charon, and whistled
cheerfully on their arrival. “Nature,” said Mr. James Murray to
himself, “is the mistress of real pleasure: this same blackbird cannot
suffer us to pass by without contributing to our happiness. Liberty (he
continued) seems to be the first principle of music. Slaves can never
sing from the heart.”
No: they sing, like everyone else, from the throat.
But these observations carried them beyond Gateshead and to the ascent
of the Fell, along whose steep sides the pleasures of the morning
increased upon them. The whins and briars sent forth a fragrance
exceedingly delightful, and on every side of the coach peerless drops
of dew hung dangling upon the blossoms of the thorns, adding to the
perfume. Aurora now began to streak the western sky--something wrong
with the solar system that morning, for the sun commonly rises in the
east--and the spangled heavens announced the advent of the King of
Day. Sol at last appeared, and spread his healthful beams over the
hills and valleys, and the wild beasts now retired to their dens, and
those timorous animals that go abroad in the night to seek their food
were also withdrawn to the thickets. The hares, as an exception--and
yet this was not the lunatic month of March--were skipping across the
lawns, tasting the dewy glade for their morning’s repast. The skylark
was skylarking--or, rather, was already mounted on high, serenading his
dame with mirthful glee and pleasure. (Here follow two pages of moral
reflections on skylarks and fashionable debauchees, with conclusions in
favour of the larks, and severe condemnation of “libidinous children
of licentiousness,” who are bidden “go to the lark, ye slaves of
pollution, and be wise. _He_ does not stroll through the grove or
thicket to search for some new amour, but keeps strictly to the ties of
conjugal affection, and cherishes the partner of his natural concerns.”)
In the midst of these idyllic contemplations, a grave and solemn scene
opened to the view. Hazlett, who had robbed the mail in 1770, hung
on a gibbet at the left hand. “Unfortunate and infatuated Hazlett!
Hadst thou robbed the nation of millions, instead of robbing the mail
and pilfering a few shillings from a testy old maid, thou hadst not
been hanging, a spectacle to passers-by and a prey to crows. Thy case
was pitiable--but there was no mercy: thou wast poor, and thy sin
unpardonable. Hadst thou robbed to support the Crown, and murdered for
the Monarchy, thou might’st have been yet alive.”
The place where Hazlett hung, the writer considered to be the finest
place in the world for a ghost-walk. “At the foot of a wild romantic
mountain, near the side of a small lake, are his remains; his shadow
appears in the water and suggests the idea of two malefactors. The
imagination may easily conjure up his ghost. Many spirits have been
seen in wilds not so fit for the purpose. This robber is perhaps the
genius of the Fell, and walks in the gloomy shades of night by the
side of this little lake. This (he adds--it must have been a truly
comforting thought to the other passengers) is all supposition.” The
dreary place was one well calculated for raising gloomy ideas, tending
to craze the imagination.
After this, it was a relief to reach Durham, a very picturesquely
situated city with a grand cathedral and bishop’s palace. The pleasant
banks on the west side of the river Wear were adorned with stately
trees, mingled with shrubs of various kinds, which brought to one’s
mind the romantic ideas of ancient story, when swains and nymphs
sang their loves amongst trees by the side of some enchanted river.
The abbey and the castle called to mind those enchanted places where
knights-errant were confined for many years, until delivered by some
friend who knew how to dissolve the chains and charm the necromancy.
Durham, he thought, would be a very fine place, were it not for the
swarms of clergy in it, who devoured every extensive living without
being of any real service to the public. The common people in Durham
were very ignorant and great profaners of the Sabbath Day, and, indeed,
over almost the whole of England the greatest ignorance and vice were
under the noses of the bishops. He would not pretend to give a reason
for this, but the fact was apparent.
Durham was a very healthful place--the soil dry, the air wholesome; but
the Cathedral dignitaries performed worship rather as a grievous task
than as a matter of choice, a thing not infrequently to be observed in
our own days. The woman who showed the shrine of St. Cuthbert did not
understand Mr. Murray when he referred to the Resurrection, a fact that
gave him a good opportunity to enlarge upon the practically heathenish
state of Durham’s ecclesiastical surroundings.
All this sightseeing, and these reflections and observations at Durham
(and a good many more from which the reader shall be spared) were
rendered possible by a lengthy halt made by the coach in that city.
Thus there was ample time for seeing the cathedral--“very noble and
delightful to the eyes of those who had a taste for antiquity or Gothic
magnificence,” he says.
After they were wearied with sauntering in this old Gothic abbey, they
went down to the river side. There the person who was fond of rural
pleasures might riot at large. Comparisons drawn on the spot between
the choristers of the grove, who sang from the heart, and the minor
canons and prebendaries of the cathedral, who wearily performed their
duties for a living, were, naturally, greatly to the disadvantage of
the dignified clergy.
Strolling through the suburb of Old Elvet, the company at last returned
to the inn--the “New Inn” it was called. The landlord of this hostelry
was a jolly, honest man; his house spacious, and fit even to serve the
Bishop. All things were cheap, good, and clean at this inn. If a person
came in well pleased, he would find nothing to offend him, provided
he did not create some offence to himself--which sounds just a little
confused.
While our itinerant chronicler was noting down all these things, orders
were given for departure, and so he had hurriedly to conclude.
And now, turning from wayside reflections, we get a description of the
passengers. The coach, when it left Newcastle, was full. Four ladies,
a gentleman of the sword and our humble servant made up its principal
contents. They sat in silence for some time, until they were jolted
into good humour by the motion of the vehicle, which opened their
several social faculties. One of their female companions, who was a
North Briton, a jolly, middle-aged matron with abundance of good sense
and humour, entertained the company for a quarter of an hour with
the history of her travels. She had made the tour of Europe, and had
visited the most remarkable places in Christendom, in the quality of a
dutiful wife, attending her valetudinary husband, travelling for the
recovery of his health. Her easy, unaffected manner in telling a story
made her exceedingly good company, and none had the least inclination
to interrupt her until she was pleased to cease. She knew how to time
her discourse, and never, like the generality of her sex, degenerated
into tediousness and insipidity.
At every stage she was a conformist to all the measures of the company,
and went into every social proposal that was made.
Another companion was a widow lady of Newcastle, quite as agreeable as
the former. She understood how to make them laugh. Unfortunately, she
only went one stage, and they then lost the pleasure of her company.
The third passenger was a Newcastle lady, well known in the literary
world for her useful performances for the benefit of youth. This
female triumvirate would have been much upon a par had they all been
travellers, for their gifts of conversation were much alike; but the
lady who had taken the tour of Europe possessed in that the advantage
of circumstances.
The fourth lady was the Scottish lady’s servant. As she said nothing
the whole way (remarks Mr. Murray), I shall say nothing of her.
The fifth person was an officer in the army, who appeared very drowsy
in the morning, and came forth of his chamber with every appearance of
reluctance. His hair was dishevelled and quite out of queue, and he
seemed to be as ready for a sleep as if he had not been to bed. He
was, for a time, as dumb as a Quaker when not moved by the spirit, and
by continuing in silence, at last fell asleep until they had completed
nearly half the first stage. During this time, Mr. Murray sarcastically
observes, he said no ill.
They finished their first stage without exchanging many words with
this son of Mars, except some of those flimsy compliments gentlemen
of the sword pay frequently to the ladies. After a dish of warm
tea the tissues of his tongue were loosed, and he began to let his
companions know that he was an officer in the army, and a man of some
consequence. He seemed to be very fond of war, and spoke in high terms
upon the usefulness of a standing army. When he had exhausted his whole
fund of military arguments in favour of slavery and oppression, Mr.
Murray observed to him that a standing army had a bad appearance in
a free country, and put it in the power of the Crown to enslave the
nation--with the like arguments, continued for an unconscionable space.
It is not at all surprising that the soldier resented this. The spirit
of Mars began to work within him, and he threatened that if he were
near a Justice of the Peace he would have this argumentative person
fined for hindering him from getting recruits, adding that he once
had a man fined for persuading others not to enlist in his Majesty’s
service.
To this Mr. Murray rejoined that the officer certainly had a right
to say all the fine things he could to recommend the service of his
master, but, having done that, he had no more to do; and that any man
had also a right to tell his friends, whom he saw ready to be seduced
into bondage, that they were born free, and ought to take care how they
gave up their liberty--together with remarks derogatory of the justice
of courts martial.
Our author did not, however, find this military hero a bloodthirsty
man, for, by his own confession, he and a brother officer had a few
months before surrendered their purses to a highwayman between London
and Highgate for fear of bloodshed. This showed that some officers were
abundantly peaceable in time of danger, and discovered no inclination
for taking people’s lives. This gentleman of sword and pistol, in
particular, had a great many solid reasons why men should not adventure
their lives for a little money. He said there was no courage in
fighting a highwayman, and no honour to be had in the victory over
one; that soldiers should preserve their lives for the service of the
country in case of war, and not run the risk of losing them by foolish
adventure.
These reasons did not altogether satisfy the ladies, for one of them
observed that robbers were at war alike with laws and governments, and
that the King’s servants were hired to keep the peace and to defend
the King’s subjects from violence; that officers in the army were as
much obliged by their office and character to fight robbers as they
were bound to fight the French, or any other enemy; and that footpads
were invaders of the people’s rights and properties, and ought to be
resisted by men whose profession it was to fight, and who were well
paid for so doing. It was for money all the officers in the army served
the King and fought his battles, and why should they not as well fight
for money in a stage-coach as in a castle or a field? She insisted that
only one of them could have been killed by the highwayman, or perhaps
but wounded, and there were several chances that he might have missed
them both. But, supposing the worst--that one had been shot--it was
only the chance of war, and the other might have secured the robber,
which would have been of more service to the country than the life of
the officer. In short, she observed, it had the appearance more of
cowardice than disregard for money, for two officers to surrender their
purses to a single highwayman, who had nothing but one pistol.
The lady’s reflections were severely felt by the young swordsman,
and produced a solemn silence in the coach for a quarter of an hour,
during which time some fell asleep, and so continued until coming to
the next inn, where the horses were changed. There two or three glasses
of port restored the officer’s courage, and he determined, in case of
an attack, to defend every one from the assaults of all highwaymen
whatsoever. To show the courage that sometimes animated him, he told
the story of how he had dealt with a starving mob in Dumfries. The
hungry people of that town, not disposed to perish while food was
abundant, and corn held by the farmers and corn-factors for higher
prices, assembled to protest against such methods; and the magistrates,
who thought the people had a right to starve, sent for the military to
oblige them to famish discreetly or else be shot. Our hero had command
of the party, where, according to his own testimony, he performed
wonders. The poor people were shot like woodcocks, and those who could
get away with safety were glad to return home to wrestle with hunger
until Heaven should think fit to provide for them.
The officer was very liberal in abusing those whom he called “the mob,”
and said they were ignorant, obstinate and wicked, and added that he
thought it no crime to destroy hundreds of them.
The lady who had already given him a lecture then began to put him in
mind of the footpad whom he and his brother officer had suffered to
escape with their purses, and asked him how he would quell a number of
highwaymen. Taken off his guard at the mention of footpads, he stared
out of the window with a sort of wildness, as if one had been at the
coach door.
Nothing was seen worthy of note until the coach came to Grantham,
which place they reached about seven in the evening. The first things,
remarks Mr. Murray--with all the air of a profound and interesting
discovery--that travellers saw in approaching large towns were,
generally speaking, the church steeples. Ordinarily higher than the
rest of the buildings, they were--remarkable to relate--on that account
the more conspicuous. The steeple of Grantham was pretty high, and
saluted one’s eyes at a good distance before the town was approached.
It seemed to be of the pyramidical kind.
Grantham was a pleasant place, although the houses were indifferently
built. On reaching it, they wandered through the town before returning
to the inn for supper, when the captain took care to say some civil
things to the landlady’s sister, who was a very handsome young woman.
It was, however, easy to perceive that she was acquainted with these
civilities, and could distinguish between truth and falsehood. She made
the captain keep his distance in such a manner as put an entire end
to his compliments. The fineness of her person and the beauty of her
complexion were joined with a modest severity that protected her from
the rudeness and insults which gentlemen think themselves entitled to
use towards a chambermaid, the character she acted in.
After supper was done, the coach-party were informed that some of Mr.
Garrick’s servants were that night to exhibit in an old thatched house
in a corner of the town. They had come abroad into the country during
the summer vacation, to see if they could find anything to keep their
grinders going until the opening of Drury Lane Theatre. They were that
night to play the _Went Indian_ and the _Jubilee_.
The whole of the passengers went to see the performance. The actors
played their parts very indifferently, but, after all, not so badly but
that one could, with some trouble, manage to perceive as much meaning
in their actions as to be able to distinguish between an honest man
and a rogue. Our ingenious and imaginative Mr. Murray thought it must
be dangerous for an actor to play the rogue often, for fear of his
performance becoming something more than an imitation. But after all,
he says, with the fine intolerant scorn of the old-time dissenting
minister, the generality of players had little morality to lose.
It was a very poor theatre--being, indeed, not a theatre at all, and
little better than a barn. The audience, however, was good, and well
dressed, and the ladies handsome. The performance was over by eleven
o’clock, and the company dismissed. Mr. Murray concludes his account of
the evening’s entertainment by very sourly observing that their time
and that of the rest of the audience might have been better employed
than in seeing a few stupid rogues endeavouring to imitate what some of
them really were.
The coach left Grantham at two o’clock the next morning; much too
early, considering the short rest the night’s gaiety had left them.
But there was no choice--they were under authority, and had to obey.
That person would be a fool who, having paid £3 8s. 6d. for a seat in a
stage-coach from Newcastle to London, should consent to lose it by not
rising betimes. The worst of it was, that here one had to take care of
one’s self, because no one would wait upon him or return him his money.
Observe the passengers, therefore, all, in the coach by 2 a.m. The
company being seated, the driver went off as fast as if he would have
driven them to Stamford in the twinkling of an eye. So early was the
hour that we are not surprised to be told that the author fell asleep
by the time they were clear of the town, and doubtless the others
did the same. It may be remarked here that a very excellent proof of
this being a fictitious journey is found in there being no mention
of the passengers being turned out of the coach to walk up the steep
Spitalgate Hill--a thing always necessary at that period of coaching
history.
The remainder of this not-inaptly named _Travels of the Imagination_
is made up chiefly of a long disquisition upon sleep--itself highly
soporific--which only gives place to remarks upon the journey when the
coach arrives on Highgate Hill. Coming over that eminence, they had a
peep at London.
“It must be a wonderful holy place,” he suggests to the other
passengers, “there are so many church steeples to be seen.”
The others, who must have known better, said nothing.
“Are we there?” he asked when they had reached Islington.
“No, not there yet.”
“Is it a large place: four times as large, for instance, as Newcastle?”
“Ten times as large.”
“Where are the town walls?”
“There are no walls.”
At last they reached Holborn, and the end of the journey, where the
company dispersed and our chronicler went to bed.