COACHING INNS
A hundred years ago, everybody who had occasion for inland travelling was
perforce obliged to use the road; that is, unless he preferred a canal
boat or barge, and navigable waters lay in the desired direction. Rich
people travelled in their private carriage with four horses which were
changed every few miles at the posting-houses. Those without means had to
content themselves with carriers’ carts or the stage broad-wheeled
waggons; a few resorted to dog-carts, then a tiny four-wheeled contrivance
actually drawn by dogs. But the great majority of passengers were conveyed
in the coaches or mails. In 1825 it was calculated that no less than
10,000 persons were daily on the road in mail-coaches, so closely timed
that if a driver were to be ten minutes late in arriving at an important
centre many corresponding services would be seriously upset. The average
speed, allowing for changing horses, was about ten miles an hour on the
fast day coaches.
All this vast organisation had grown up since the time of Queen Elizabeth,
when the coach was introduced from France by Fitz-Alan, Earl of Arundel.
Only in her old age would this queen leave her horse for the effeminate
conveyance, and the Judges continued to ride on horseback to Westminster
Hall, almost until the Restoration. In the year 1672, when there were only
six stage-coaches in daily running, a Mr. John Cresset, of the
Charterhouse, published a pamphlet urging their suppression on the ground
that “These stage-coaches make gentlemen come to London on every small
occasion, which otherwise they would not do, but upon urgent necessity;
nay the convenience of the passage makes their wives often come up, who
rather than come such long journeys on horseback would stay at home. Then,
when they come to town, they must presently be in the mode, get fine
clothes, go to plays and treats, and by these means get such a habit of
idleness and love of pleasure, as to make them uneasy ever after.”
The coaches started on their journey each morning and evening from great
inn yards surrounded by tiers of galleries one above the other. Sometimes,
as at the _Bull and Mouth_ in St. Martins le Grand, or the _Oxford Arms_
in Warwick Lane, there were four stories of these galleries. It is not
easy to trace the various steps by which the plan of the coaching inn was
evolved from the “corrall” of migrating tribes, who when resting for the
night arranged their waggons in a hollow square, with their cattle in the
centre. But the idea underlying the coaching inn was a species of fortress
entered only by the great archway with massive doors strongly barred at
closing time. The bedchambers of the guests all opened into the galleries
overlooking the yard. When an alarm was raised each owner of waggons or
cattle in the yard could at once hurry out to the defence of his property.
Later on, the traveller would be bound to hear the note of the guard’s
horn, warning him that the coach in which he had booked a place was
preparing to start.
“Heads, heads,--take care of your heads!” is the cry as the Pickwick Club
pass on the top of the Rochester coach through the low inn archway.
“Terrible place--dangerous work--other day--five children--mother--tall
lady eating sandwiches--forgot the arch--crash--knock--children look
round--mother’s head off--sandwich in her hand--no mouth to put it
in--head of a family off--shocking, shocking!” And it was no invention of
the ingenious Mr. Jingle--for the accident actually happened at the _White
Hart_ at St. Albans.
[Illustration: Yard of White Hart, St. Albans]
Just as the coaching system had reached its highest perfection, the
railway came and the coach vanished--more suddenly than the horse vehicle
has disappeared from the Strand with the advent of the taxi-cab and motor
omnibus. The landlord of the coaching inn and the posting-house found his
occupation gone almost as abruptly as the guard and driver. Gone are all
the coaching inns of London, although their names survive as receiving
offices of the railway carriers. In country towns on the main roads, like
Sittingbourne or Godalming, huge forlorn wrecks present their face to the
roads converted into shops or tenements. Some of them continue to maintain
a precarious existence in country villages like Buckden in
Huntingdonshire, scarcely visited by the traveller of to-day, whereas
seventy years ago their vast size was often insufficient to accommodate
the daily arrivals of guests. They linger on in the hope that motorists
may bring them a new popularity. Others, tired of empty rooms and
dwindling local trade have retired into private life. At Caxton, on the
old North Road, the _George_, a very large inn of a lonely country
village, is now a comfortable private residence, and the old gateway arch
would hardly be recognized in the French window opening on the front
garden.
[Illustration: Coach Gallery at the Bull, Long Melford]
Gone are the old galleried yards. We do not know of one complete instance,
except the little disused _Coach and Horses_ in York Street, Westminster,
which is neither large nor beautiful. Fragments of galleries exist at the
old _George Inn_ in the Borough, where they are in several stories; at
the _George_ at Huntingdon; the _Golden Lion_ at St. Ives, and the _New
Inn_ at Gloucester; but the finest remaining gallery is at the _Bull_ at
Dartford. The _Bull_ at Long Melford owns a glazed gallery, running along
the side of the yard next the inn, said to have served to facilitate the
loading of luggage on the coaches.
But in provincial towns the coaching inn is not quite left desolate; it is
the place of departure and arrival for the carrier’s van. One need only
search any local directory to discover the enormous number of these
conveyances and the various inns from which they start. The rustic still
prefers this method of travel to any other, and if the tourist is not in a
hurry the box seat of a carrier’s cart is the ideal place from which to
study rural affairs. The carrier knows everybody in the district and he is
often a dry kind of philosopher, if not an archæologist or naturalist. Win
his heart and he will divulge unexpected secrets, besides securing for you
the most comfortable night’s lodging. His recommendation will prove a
passport admitting into every grade of village society.
When the world proves unkind, when the loneliness and disappointments of
life press hard upon you--if Fortune has dealt you a humiliating
rebuff--then, if you have a few shillings left, one night spent in an old
wayside coaching inn will brace your system up and give you heart to face
your troubles once more with a new courage. The world you have left may
have despised you. Within the walls of this old hostelry, landlord,
waiter, chambermaid, exist only to obey your lightest whim. You are the
luminary round which this little world revolves--the “gentleman in the
parlour.” As Washington Irving so well puts it: “To a homeless man there
is a momentary feeling of independence as he stretches himself before an
inn fire; the armchair is his throne, the poker is his sceptre, and the
little parlour his undisputed empire.” If you condescend to join the
company in the tap-room, still further honour awaits you. Your
pronouncements on things temporal or things eternal have acquired an
acknowledged value; your opinion is invited and universally deferred to;
and the oldest inhabitant will for your special benefit invent a new
series of reminiscences. In short, you will feel the truth of all that Dr.
Johnson has laid down on the subject: “At a tavern there is a general
freedom from anxiety. You 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 prospects of an immediate reward in
proportion as they please. No, sir; there is nothing which has been
contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good
tavern or inn.”
[Illustration: The White Hart, Witham]
A few minutes’ gossip with the landlord after closing time, and you sink
to rest in the depth of a feather bed, which removes the last vestiges of
the care that has beset you. Early in the morning you rise refreshed and
vigorous, ready after a walk round the old-fashioned garden to devour
unlimited supplies of ham and eggs washed down by coffee. It is only in
real old coaching inns that they possess the secret of brewing old English
coffee--a beverage that owes nothing to the poisonous intoxicating berry
of Arabia, discovered by the brothers Shirley. We believe it is
manufactured by roasting and grinding some species of scarlet runner. As a
breakfast drink it is unequalled. This coffee is the last of a series of
exhilarating experiences before you go your way rejoicing and awake to all
the graces of life. The bill will not be exorbitant--that is, if you have
been reasonable in your demands--and the landlord contemplates with
pleasure your return on a future occasion.
We love the coaching inn, not only as the home of practical good cheer,
but for the romantic memories that cling to it. Scarcely one of them but
has its story of the eloping couple, whose chaise slipped out at the back
gate just as the heroine’s father alighted to make inquiries at the front
door; the details vary, but the lovers always escape in the nick of time
with the connivance of Boniface. In a corner of the gallery of one old inn
near Huntingdon, a narrow door is shown, fitting so exactly that when
closed no person except those in the secret could trace it. Here some Dick
Turpin or Claude Duval might lie in wait and peep over the balcony to
choose his prey among the passengers stopping for the night; or find safe
hiding from the Bow Street runners. Romance easily gathered around the
journey by coach. Whereas a railway acquaintance ends when the passengers
each go his or her own way from the arrival platform, the companions on
the coach-top met again in the coffee-room, and might renew their intimacy
at breakfast next morning. Between London and York there was ample time
and opportunity for any suitable young couple to arrive at a good
understanding with one another.
None of the coaching inns had a more remarkable history than the _Castle
Inn_ at Marlborough. Built by Francis, Lord Seymour, in the reign of
Charles II from the reputed designs of Webb, Inigo Jones’ pupil and
son-in-law, this sumptuous manor-house was the favourite residence of the
Seymour family. During its occupation by Frances, Countess of Hertford,
and afterwards Duchess of Somerset, in the early years of the eighteenth
century, many of the leading wits and scholars of the age were invited
here. Dr. Watts, the hymn-writer, James Thomson, author of “The Seasons,”
and Elizabeth Rowe are all said to have composed their lays in the
grottoes and extravagantly-arranged gardens. When the house passed by
marriage into the hands of the Northumberland family it was neglected as a
superfluous residence, and at last was let on lease as an inn to a Mr.
Cotterell. It was a broad-fronted stately mansion, the most splendid and
best appointed hotel in England during that age. Before the grand portico
no less than forty coaches changed horses every day. The service was
magnificent. A dinner of twenty-two covers could, if necessary, be served
up on silver.
The great Lord Chatham once stayed several weeks at the _Castle Inn_. He
was detained there on his way back to London from Bath, by a relapse of
gout. His own suite demanded twenty rooms, and the exigencies of State
during that time strained the resources of the hotel to the utmost. He
required the whole staff, waiters, ostlers and boot-boys to wear his
livery. Mr. Stanley Weyman has seized on just this critical moment, and
has woven round the _Castle Inn_ the sweetest and most enthralling of his
many novels.
Other romances of real life are associated with it. Driving through
Marlborough and halting at the _Castle Inn_, a certain Duke of Chandos
heard screams in the inn-yard. Hastening to the spot he found a beautiful
girl being brutally beaten by an ostler. When the Duke interfered, the
ostler declared that the young woman was his wife, and therefore that he
had an indefeasible right to beat her. However, he was willing to
compromise the matter by selling his wife for £20. The Duke paid the
money, took the young woman away, and, so we are told, afterwards made her
Duchess of Chandos.
[Illustration: Old Coaching Inns, St Albans]
Water has continued to flow under the bridge that spans the Kennett for
many generations since Sir George Soane sat on the parapet and wooed
Julia, the college porter’s daughter. The old Bath Road knows no more the
coaches, curricles, wigs and hoops, holstered saddles or the beaux and
fine ladies, and gentleman’s gentlemen whose environment they were. We
drift half-unconsciously into the language of the novelist who has
recalled these old days so vividly. The _Castle Inn_ is now part of
Marlborough College, founded in 1843. The _Rose Inn_ at Wokingham has been
refronted since “With pluvial patter for refrain,” Gay, Pope, Swift and
Arbuthnot spent a rainy afternoon there vying their verses in praise of
Molly Moy, the fair daughter of their host, who in spite of her beauty
lived to be an old maid of seventy. Yet the wayfarer will discover that
innkeeper’s daughters are as pretty as they were in the days gone by.
Romance is not the exclusive property of any one generation. Where youth
and beauty are to be found there lurks the romance; and it belongs as much
to the inns of our own time as when highwaymen, patches, puffs, wigs, and
knee breeches were the prevailing fashion.
[Illustration: Botolph’s Bridge Inn, Romney Marsh]