THE HORSEMEN
“The single gentlemen, then a hardy race, equipped in jack-boots and
trousers up to their middle, rode post through thick and thin, and,
guarded against the mire, defying the frequent stumble and fall, arose
and pursued their journey with alacrity.”--_Pennant_, 1739.
Long before wheeled conveyances of any kind were to be hired in this
country, travellers were accustomed to ride post. To do so argued no
connection with that great department we now call the Post Office,
although that letter-carrying agency and the custom of riding post
obtain their name from a common origin. The earliest provision for
travelling post seems to have been in the reign of Henry VIII., when
the office of “Master of the Postes” was established. Sir Brian Tuke
then held that appointment, and to him were entrusted the arrangements
for securing relays of horses on the four great post roads then
recognised: the road from London to Dover, on which the carriers came
from and went to foreign parts; the road to Plymouth, where the King’s
dockyard was situated; and the great roads to Scotland and Chester,
and on to Conway and Holyhead. These relays of horses were established
exclusively for use of the despatch-riders who went on affairs of
State; but by the time of Elizabeth these messengers were, as a
favour, already accustomed to carry any letters that might be given
into their charge and could be delivered without going out of their
way; while travellers constantly called at the country post-houses,
and on pretence of going on the Queen’s business, obtained the use of
horses, which they rode to exhaustion, or overloaded, or even rode away
with altogether.
These abuses were promptly suppressed when James I. came to the English
throne. In 1603, the year of his accession, a proclamation was issued
under which no person claiming to be on Government business was to be
supplied with horses by the postmasters unless his application was
supported by a document signed by one of the officers of State. The
hire of horses for public business was fixed at twopence-halfpenny a
mile, and in addition there was a small charge for the guide. A very
arbitrary order was made that if the post-houses had not sufficient
horses, the constables and the magistrates were to seize those of
private owners and impress them into the service. Post-masters, who
were salaried officials, were paid at the very meagre rate of from
sixpence to three shillings a day. They were generally innkeepers on
the main roads; otherwise it is difficult to see how they could have
existed on these rates of pay. Evidently these were considered merely
as retaining fees, and so, in order to give them a chance of earning
a more living wage, they were permitted to let out horses to “others
riding poste with horse and guide about their private business.” Those
private and unofficial travellers could not demand to be supplied
with horses at the official rate: what they were to pay was to be a
matter between the post-masters and themselves. In practice, however,
the tariff for Government riders ruled that for all horsemen, as made
clear in Fynes Morison’s _Itinerary_, 1617, where he says that in
the south and west of England and on the Great North Road as far as
Berwick, post-horses were established at every ten miles or so at a
charge of twopence-halfpenny a mile. It was necessary to have a guide
to each stage, and it was customary to charge for baiting both the
guide’s and the traveller’s horses, and to give the guide himself a
few pence--usually a four-penny-piece, called “the guide’s groat”--on
parting. It was cheaper and safer for several travellers to go
together, for one guide would serve the whole company on each stage,
and it was not prudent to travel alone. Morison says that, although
hiring came expensive in one way, yet the speed it was possible to
maintain saved time and consequent charges at the inns. The chief
requisite, however, was strength of body and ability to endure the
fatigue.
As to that, the horsemen of the period were, equally with those of
over a hundred years later, mentioned by Pennant, “a hardy race.” In
March, 1603, for example, Robert Cary, afterwards Earl of Monmouth,
eager to be first in acclaiming James VI. of Scotland as James I. of
England, left London so soon as the last breath had left the body of
Queen Elizabeth, and rode the 401 miles to Edinburgh in three days. He
reached Doncaster, 158 miles, the first night, Widdrington, 137 miles,
the second, and gained Edinburgh, 106 miles, the third day, in spite of
a severe fall by the way. About the same time a person named Coles rode
from London to Shrewsbury in fourteen hours.
When Thomas Witherings was appointed Master of the Post, in 1635, the
Post Office, as an institution for carrying the correspondence of the
public, may be said to have started business, although as early as
1603 private persons were forbidden to make the carrying of letters a
business. Like all such ordinances, this seemed made only to be broken
every day. It was particularly unreasonable because, before Witherings
came upon the scene in 1635 and reorganised the posts, there existed no
means by which letters could be sent generally into the country. Only
the post-riders on business of State on the four great roads were in
the habit of taking letters, and their doing so was a matter of private
arrangement.
The postmasters now, on the appointment of Witherings, first officially
made acquaintance with letters, and their name began to take on
something of its modern meaning. They still supplied horses to the
King’s messengers and the King’s liege subjects, and held a monopoly in
these businesses.
In 1657 the so-called “Post Office of England” was established by
Act of Parliament, and the office of Postmaster-General created, in
succession to that of Master of the Posts. His business was defined
as “the exclusive right of carrying letters and the furnishing of
post-horses,” and these two functions--the overlordship of what were
officially known for generations afterwards as the “letter post” and
the “travelling post”--the long line of Postmasters-General continued
to exercise for a hundred and twenty-three years.
In 1658 the mileage the country postmasters were entitled to charge
was, according to an advertisement of July 1st in that year, increased
from twopence-halfpenny to threepence, and on the Chester Road, at
least, there was no longer any obligation to take a guide:--
“The postmasters on the Chester Road, petitioning, have received order,
and do accordingly publish the following advertisement: All gentlemen,
merchants, and others who have occasion to travel between London and
West Chester, Manchester, and Warrington, or any other town upon that
road, for the accommodation of trade, dispatch of business, and ease
of purse, upon every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, between six
and ten of the clock, at the house of Mr. Christopher Charteris, at the
sign of the Hart’s Horns, in West Smithfield, and postmaster there,
and at the postmaster of Chester, and at the postmaster of Warrington,
may have a good and able horse or mare, furnished at threepence the
mile, without the charge of a guide; and so likewise at the house of
Mr. Thomas Challoner, postmaster at Stone in Staffordshire, upon every
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, to go to London; and so
likewise at all the several postmasters upon the road, who will have
such set days, so many horses, with furniture, in readiness to furnish
the riders, without any stay, to carry them to and from any of the
places aforesaid in four days, as well to London as from thence, and to
places nearer in less time, according as their occasions shall require,
they engaging, at the first stage where they take horse, for the safe
delivery of the same to the next immediate stage, and not to ride that
horse any farther without consent of the postmaster, by whom he rides,
and so from stage to stage to their journey’s end. All those who intend
to ride this way are desired to give a little notice beforehand, if
conveniently they can, to the several postmasters where they first take
horse, whereby they may be furnished with as many horses as the riders
shall require, with expedition. This undertaking began the 28th of June
1658, at all the places aforesaid, and so continues by the several
postmasters.”
The Chester Road--the road to Ireland--was of great moment at that
age. Indeed, it had been of importance for centuries past. It was in
a lonely hollow near Flint, on his landing from Ireland, that Richard
II. was waylaid in 1399 by Henry Bolingbroke, and his progress to
London barred; and from Chester as well as from Milford Haven English
expeditions were wont to sail--some carrying fire and sword across St.
George’s Channel, and later ones taking English colonists to occupy and
cultivate the lands from which the shiftless Irish had been driven.
But it was not until the close of Elizabeth’s reign, when Ireland was
subjugated, that this road began to be constantly travelled.
Under James I. the Irish chieftains came to these shores to swear
fealty, and in the wild and whirling series of events that filled the
years from 1641 to 1692 with horror, a continual flux and reflux of
military travellers and trembling refugees came and went along these
storied miles.
Already, in the year before the announcement of post-horses on the
Chester Road, the first stage-coach of which we have any particulars
had been established on this very route. It did not continue to
Holyhead, for the individually sufficient reasons that no practicable
road to that port existed for anything going on wheels, and that
Chester itself, and Parkgate, a few miles down the estuary of the Dee,
were the most convenient ports of embarkation for Ireland. No direct
road to Holyhead existed until 1783, when coaches began to run to
that port. Before that time, those who wished to cross from Holyhead
generally rode horseback. Few ventured across country by Llangollen
and Bettws-y-Coed; most, like Swift, leaving civilisation behind at
Chester, took horse and guide, and going by Rhuddlan and Conway, dared
the precipitous heights of that great headland called Penmaenmawr,
or, even more greatly daring, crept round by the rocks underneath at
ebb tide. Swift wrote two couplets for the inn that then stood beside
the track on Penmaenmawr. As the traveller approached he read, on the
swinging sign:--
Before you venture here to pass,
Take a good refreshing glass;
while the returning wayfarer was cheered by:--
Now this hill you’re safely over,
Drink, your spirits to recover.
One personage, greatly daring, did in 1685 succeed in passing his
carriage over this height. This was the Viceroy, Henry, Earl of
Clarendon, who, ill enough advised to try for Holyhead, embarked his
baggage at Chester, and essayed this perilous undertaking. “If the
weather be good,” he wrote, before setting out, “we go under the rocks
in our coaches.” But it was December, the weather was _not_ good, and
so they had to take to the hill-top. His Excellency had ample cause
to regret the venture, for he was five hours travelling the fourteen
miles between St. Asaph and Conway, and on the crossing of Penmaenmawr
the “great heavy coach” had to be drawn by the horses in single trace,
while three or four sturdy Welsh peasants, hired for the job, pushed
behind, so that it should not slip back. His Excellency walked all the
way across, from Conway to Bangor, and Lady Clarendon was carried in a
litter. How the Menai Straits were crossed does not appear, but there
is evidence in the tone of his letters that he was astonished at last
to find himself safely come to Holyhead.
In 1660, on the Restoration, the law of 1657, constituting the Post
Office and regulating the letting of post-horses, was re-enacted. By
some new provisions and amendments of old ones, travellers might now
hire horses wherever they could if the postmasters could not supply
them within half an hour. This concession, together with that which
repealed the power given by the earlier Act for horses to be seized,
was evidently made in deference to the indignation of travellers
delayed by lack of horses in the hands of the only persons who could
legally hire them out, and by the fury of private individuals who had
seen their own choice animals not infrequently requisitioned in the
King’s name and hack-ridden unconscionable distances by travellers or
King’s messengers whose first and last thoughts were for speed, and who
had not the consideration of an owner for the steeds that carried them.
The term “postage,” occurring in the Act of 1660, shows that a widely
different meaning was then attached to the word: “Each horse’s hire or
postage” is a phrase that sufficiently explains itself.
Such were the methods and costs of riding horseback when stage-coaching
began. The Government monopoly, however, was infringed with increasing
impunity as time went on, and as the letter-carrying business of the
Post Office developed, so was the “travelling post” allowed to decay.
The growing number and increasing convenience of the coaches, too,
helped to make the monopoly less valuable, for when travellers could
be conveyed without exertion by coach at from twopence to threepence a
mile, they were not likely to pay threepence a mile and a guide’s groat
at every ten miles for the privilege of bumping in the saddle all day
long. Those who mostly continued in the saddle were the gentlemen who
owned horses of their own, or those others to whom the chance company
of a coach was objectionable.
The Post Office monopoly in post-horses was, accordingly, not worth
preserving when it was abolished by the Act of 1780. From that time
the Postmasters-General ceased to have anything to do with horse-hire,
and anything lost by their relinquishing it was amply returned to
the State by the new license duties levied upon horse-keepers or
postmasters, and coaches. A penny a mile was fixed as the Government
duty upon horses let out for hire, whether saddle-horses or to be used
in post-chaises. All persons who made that a business--generally, of
course, innkeepers--were to take out an annual five-shilling license,
and were under obligation to paint in some conspicuous place on their
houses “Licensed to let Post-Horses.” In default of so doing the
penalty was £5. As a check upon the business done, travellers hiring
post-horses were to be given a ticket, on which the number of horses so
hired, and the distance, were to be specified. These tickets were to be
delivered to the turnpike-keeper at the first gate, and the vigilance
of these officials was made a matter of self-interest by the allowance
to them of threepence in the pound on all tickets thus collected. At
certain periods the tickets were delivered to the Stamp Office, and the
innkeepers and postmasters themselves were visited by revenue officers,
who required to see the books and the counterfoils from which these
tickets had come.
But the Government did not for any length of time directly collect
these duties. They were farmed out by the Inland Revenue Department,
just as the turnpike tolls were farmed by the Turnpike Trustees, and
men grew rich by buying these tolls and duties at annual auctions,
relying for their profit on the increased vigilance they would cause to
be exercised. The Jews were early in this field. In the golden era of
coaching a man named Levy farmed tolls and duties to the annual value
of half a million sterling.
But to return to our horsemen. In the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries the country gentlemen, the members of Parliament, the judges
on circuit, every hale and able-bodied man of means sufficient, rode
his horse, or hired one on his journeys, for the reason that carriages
could only slowly and with great difficulty and expense be made to move
along the distant roads. The passage from Pennant’s recollections,
quoted at the head of this chapter, shows the miseries made light of
by the single gentlemen, and endured by those married ones whose wives
rode behind them on a pillion and clutched them convulsively round the
waist as the horse stumbled along.
Nor did stage-coaches immediately change this time-honoured way of
getting about the country, for there existed an aristocratic prejudice
against using public vehicles. Offensive persons who never owned
carriages of their own were used to give themselves insufferable airs
when journeying by coach, and hint, for the admiration or envy of their
fellow-passengers, that an accident had happened to their own private
equipage. Satirists of the time soon seized upon this contemptible
resort of the snob, and used it to advantage in contemporary
literature. Thus we find the committeeman’s wife in Sir Robert Howard’s
comedy explaining her presence in the Reading coach to be owing to her
own carriage being disordered, adding that if her husband knew she had
been obliged to ride in the stage he would “make the house too hot to
hold some.”
Here and there we find exceptions to this general rule. In the coach
passing through Preston in 1662, one Parker was fellow-traveller with
“persons of great qualitie, such as knightes and ladyes”; and on one
occasion in 1682 the winter coach on its four days’ journey between
Nottingham and London had for passenger Sir Ralph Knight, of Langold,
Yorks; but the single gentlemen in good health continued for years
after the introduction of stage-coaches to go on horseback, and when
their families came to town they usually took the family chariot, and
either contracted with stable-keepers for horses on the way, or else,
taking their most powerful horses from the plough, harnessed four or
six of them to their private vehicle, and so, with the driving of their
best ploughman, came to the capital in state, much to the amusement of
the fashionables of Piccadilly and St. James’s.
We must, however, suppose, from the fury of Cresset’s _Reasons for
Suppressing Stage Coaches_, of 1662, that some of the less energetic
among the country gentlemen had already succumbed to the discreditable
practice of travelling in them. In his pages we learn something of
what a horseman’s life on the road was like, and what he escaped
by taking to the coach. The hardy race became soft and grievously
enervated by the unwonted luxury; their muscles slackened, and they
developed an infirmity of purpose that rendered them no longer able
to “endure frost, snow, or rain, or to lodge in the fields”--trifling
inconveniences and incidents of travel which, it appears, they had
previously been accustomed to support with that cheerfulness or
resignation with which one faces the inevitable and incurable.
But Cresset had other indictments, throwing a flood of light upon
what the horseman endured in wear and tear of body, mind, and wearing
apparel: “Most gentlemen, before they travelled in coaches, used to
ride with swords, belts, pistols, holsters, portmanteaus and hat-cases,
which in these coaches they have little or no use for; for, when they
rode on horseback, they rode in one suit and carried another to wear
when they came to their journey’s end, or lay by the way; but in
coaches a silk hat and an Indian gown, with a sash, silk stockings, and
beaver hats, men ride in, and carry no other with them, because they
escape the wet and dirt, which on horseback they cannot avoid; whereas,
in two or three journeys on horseback these clothes and hats were wont
to be spoiled; which done, they were forced to have new ones very
often, and that increased the consumption of the manufactures and the
employment of the manufacturers; which travelling in coaches doth in no
way do.”
Fortunately, the biographical literature of our country is rich in
records of the horsemen who, still relying upon their own exertions and
those of their willing steeds, rode long distances and left the toiling
stage leagues behind them at the close of each day’s journey. Ralph
Thoresby, of Leeds, a pious and God-fearing antiquary who flourished
at this time, gives us, on the other hand, the spectacle of one who
generally rode horseback trying the coach by way of a change. He had
occasion to visit London in February 1683, and as there was at that
time no coach service between Leeds and London, he rode from Leeds to
York to catch the stage, which seems to have kept the road in this
particular winter. He rose at five one Saturday morning, and was at
York by night, ready for the coach leaving for London on the Monday.
Four years earlier he had scorned the coach, and did not now take it
for sake of speed, for he commonly rode from Leeds to London in four
days, and the York stage at this period of its career took six; so,
including the two days expended in coming to York, he was clearly twice
as long over the business. He looked forward to the coach journey with
misgivings, “fearful of being confined to a coach for so many days with
unsuitable persons and not one I know of.”
On other occasions, when he rode horseback, his diary is rich with
picturesque incident. He finds the waters out on the road between
Ware and Cheshunt, and waits until he and a party of other horsemen
can be guided across by a safe way, and so avoid the pitiful fate of
a poor higgler, who blundered into the raging torrent where the road
should have been, and was swept away and drowned. He loses his way
frequently on the high-road; shudders with apprehension when crossing
Witham Common, near Stamford, “the place where Sir Ralph Wharton slew
the highwayman”; and, with a companion, has a terrible fright at
an inn at Topcliffe, where they miss their pistols for a while and
suspect the innkeeper of sinister designs against them. Hence, at the
safe conclusion of every journey, with humble and heartfelt thanks he
inscribes: “God be thanked for his mercies to me and my poor family!”
In 1715, when John Gay wrote his entertaining poem, _A Journey to
Exeter_, describing the adventures of a party of horsemen who rode
down from London, things were, we may suppose, much better, for the
travellers found amusement as well as toil on their way.
They took five days to ride to Exeter. The first night they slept at
Hartley Row, 36 miles. The second day they left the modern route of the
Exeter Road at Basingstoke, and, like some of the coaches about that
time, struck out along the Winchester road as far as Popham Lane, where
they branched off across the downs to Sutton and Stockbridge, at which
town they halted the night, after a day’s journey of 30 miles. The
third morning saw them making for Salisbury. Midway between Stockbridge
and that city their road falls into the main road to Exeter. That night
they were at Blandford. The fourth day took them to Axminster, and the
fifth to Exeter:--
’Twas on the day when city dames repair
To take their weekly dose of Hyde Park air;
When forth we trot: no carts the road infest,
For still on Sundays country horses rest.
Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen;
Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham Green:
That Turnham Green which dainty pigeons fed,
But feeds no more, for Solomon is dead.
Three dusty miles reach Brentford’s tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legg’d chickens known:
Thence o’er wide shrubby heaths and furrow’d lanes
We come, where Thames divides the meads of Staines.
We ferry’d o’er; for late the winter’s flood
Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar’d for war, now Bagshot Heath we cross,
Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss.
At Hartley Row the foaming bit we prest,
While the fat landlord welcom’d ev’ry guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown’d,
Our host extolled his wine at ev’ry round,
Relates the Justices’ late meeting there,
How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;
What lords had been his guests in days of yore,
And praised their wisdom much, their drinking more.
* * * * *
Let travellers the morning’s vigils keep:
The morning rose, but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun,
And Popham Lane was scarce in sight by one;
The straggling village harbour’d thieves of old,
’Twas here the stage-coach’d lass resigned her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas’d gowns,
And sent her home, a belle, to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood;
Here unnamed infants find their daily food;
For should the maiden mother nurse her son,
’Twould spoil her match, when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore,
Nor fail’d her breast to suckle nineteen more.
Be just, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear,
Be virgins still in towns, but mothers here.
Sutton we pass; and leave her spacious down,
And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town.
O’er our parch’d tongues the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.
Sad melancholy ev’ry visage wears;
What! no election come in seven long years!
Of all our race of Mayors, shall Snow alone
Be by Sir Richard’s dedication known?
Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float,
Nor cobblers feast three years upon one vote.
* * * * *
Next morn, twelve miles led o’er th’ unbounded plain
Where the cloak’d shepherd guides his fleecy train.
No leafy bow’rs a noontide shelter lend,
Nor from the chilly dews at night defend;
With wondrous art he counts the straggling flock,
And by the sun informs you what’s o’clock.
How are our shepherds fall’n from ancient days!
No Amaryllis chants alternate lays;
From her no list’ning echoes learn to sing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.
Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend,
See Sarum’s steeple o’er yon hill ascend;
Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat,
And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat.
Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire
The proud cathedral and the lofty spire?
What sempstress has not proved thy scissors good?
From hence first came th’ intriguing riding-hood.
Amid three boarding-schools well stock’d with misses,
Shall three knight-errants starve for want of kisses?
O’er the green turf the miles slide swift away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
* * * * *
The morning rose; the supper reck’ning paid,
And our due fees discharg’d to man and maid,
The ready ostler near the stirrup stands,
And as we mount, our halfpence load his hands.
Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o’erlooks,
Bordered by meads, and wash’d by silver brooks.
Here sleep my two companions, eyes supprest,
And propt in elbow-chairs they snoring rest;
I weary sit, and with my pencil trace
Their painful postures and their eyeless face;
Then dedicate each glass to some fair name,
And on the sash the diamond scrawls my flame.
Now o’er true Roman way our horses sound;
Grævius would kneel and kiss the sacred ground.
On either side fair fertile valleys lie,
The distant prospects tire the travelling eye.
Through Bridport’s stony lanes our route we take,
And the proud steep ascend to Morecombe’s lake.
As hearses pass’d, our landlord robb’d the pall,
And with the mournful scutcheon hung his hall.
On unadulterate wine we here regale,
And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail.
We climb’d the hills when starry night arose,
And Axminster affords a kind repose.
The maid, subdued by fees, her trunk unlocks,
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlas smocks.
Meantime our shirts her busy fingers rub,
While the soap lathers o’er the foaming tub.
If women’s gear such pleasing dreams incite,
Lend us your smocks, ye damsels, ev’ry night.
We rise, our beards demand the barber’s art;
A female enters, and performs the part.
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck;
Smooth o’er our chins her easy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus strok’d the beard of Jove.
Now from the steep, ’mid scatter’d cots and groves,
Our eye through Honiton’s fair valley roves.
Behind us soon the busy town we leave,
Where finest lace industrious lasses weave.
Now swelling clouds roll’d on; the rainy load
Stream’d down our hats, and smoked along the road;
When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spy’d,
Our spurs are slacken’d from the horse’s side;
For sure a civil host the house commands,
Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands--
“This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen;
Here is for horses hay, and meat for men.”
How rhyme would flourish, did each son of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!
Then he that could not Epic flights rehearse
Might sweetly mourn in Elegiac verse.
But were his Muse for Elegy unfit,
Perhaps a Distich might not strain his wit;
If Epigram offend, his harmless lines
Might in gold letters swing on alehouse signs.
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,
And Tuttle-fields record his simple lays;
Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses’ eyes,
While gaping infants squall for farthing pies.
“Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damsels sweet,
For pies and cheesecakes are for damsels meet.”
Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine,
And these proud numbers grace great William’s sign;--
“This is the man, this the Nassovian, whom
I named the brave deliverer to come.”
But now the driving gales suspend the rain,
We mount our steeds, and Devon’s city gain.
Hail, happy native land!--but I forbear
What other counties must with envy hear.
Dean Swift, too, was a frequent traveller on horseback, particularly on
the Chester and Holyhead road. He seems once to have tried the Chester
stage, and ever after to have taken to the saddle. Riding thus in 1710
from Chester to London in five days, he describes himself as “weary the
first, almost dead the second, tolerable the third, and well enough the
rest,” but “glad enough of the fatigue, which has served for exercise.”
After making the journey from London to Holyhead and Dublin in 1726, he
wrote to Pope, describing “the quick change” he had made in seven days
from London to Dublin, “through many nations and languages unknown to
the civilised world.” He had expected the enterprise, “with moderate
fortune,” to take ten or eleven days. “I have often reflected,” he
adds, “in how few hours, with a swift horse or a strong gale, a man
may come among a people as unknown to him as the Antipodes.” Swift
was by no means indulging in playful banter when he wrote this. He
felt a genuine cause for wonder in such expedition; and certainly if
the rustic speech of rural England was like a strange and uncivilised
tongue, how much more strange and uncivilised the languages of Wales
and Ireland must have sounded!
The Dean’s last recorded journey was made in September 1727. The little
memorandum-book, tattered and discoloured, in which he noted down many
of its incidents is still in existence, and is not only a valuable
document in the story of Swift’s life, but is equally precious and
interesting as an intimate record of the daily trials and troubles of
a traveller in those times, set down while he was still on his journey
and thus echoing every passing feeling. Swift was in bad health and
worse spirits when he wrote this diary at Holyhead, where he was
detained for seven days by contrary winds. It was written for lack of
employment afforded to a cultivated mind in the dreary little seaport,
and under the influence of a great sorrow. “Stella” lay dying over
in Ireland, and he, raging with impatience at Holyhead, filled his
notebook with aimless scribbling. “All this to divert thinking,” he
writes, sadly, in the midst of it.
The original notebook is still in existence, and is carefully preserved
at the South Kensington Museum, to which it was bequeathed by John
Forster. Inside its cover the handwriting of successive owners gives
the relic an authentic pedigree, and Swift himself humorously declares
how he came into possession of the blank book: “This book I stole from
the Right Honourable George Dodington, Esq., one of the Lords of the
Treasury, but the scribblings are all my own.” This George Dodington
was George Bubb Dodington, afterwards Lord Melcombe.
On the first page are hastily-scribbled memoranda for appointments: “In
Fleet Street, about a clerk of St. Patrick’s Cathedral”; “Spectacles
for seventy years old”; “Godfrey in Southampton Street”; “Hungary
waters and palsy drops.”
Then the Dean left London, riding horseback, with his servant, Watt,
for company on another nag, and carrying his master’s travelling
valise. The heavy luggage had been sent on by waggon to Chester. Watt,
as we shall presently see, was a veritable Handy Andy, always doing
the wrong thing, or the right thing in a wrong way. Swift carried the
notebook in his pocket, without writing anything of his journey in it
until Holyhead was reached.
A few unfinished lines on an old cassock, out at elbows, preface the
diary, which begins abruptly: “Friday at 11 in the morning I left
Chester. It was Sept. 22, 1727. I baited at a blind ale house 7 miles
from Chester. I thence rode to Ridland (Rhuddlan), in all 22 miles. I
lay there: bred, bed, meat and tolerable wine. I left Ridland a quarter
after 4 morn on Saturday, slept, on Penmanmaur (Penmaenmawr), examined
about my sign verses the Inn is to be on t’other side, therefore the
verses to be changed.”[A]
[A] See p. 21.
Here, on the verge of the wild Welsh coast, the way was so uncertain
and dangerous that travellers had of necessity to employ guides, who
conducted them thence to Bangor, and across Anglesey to Holyhead.
The roads in Anglesey were unworthy of the name, and only a little
better than horse-tracks; while the inhabitants of the isle spoke only
Welsh, and understood not a word of English. Nearly two hundred years
have passed, but although the roads have been made good, the folks of
Anglesey speak English no more than they did then, when the guides
acted the part of interpreters as well.
Swift, therefore, is found at Conway, mentioning the guide who had
already brought him safely over Penmaenmawr: “I baited at Conway, the
guide going to another Inn; the maid of the old Inn saw me in the
street and said that was my horse, she knew me. There I dined, and sent
for Ned Holland, a Squire famous for being mentioned in Mr. Lyndsay’s
verses to Day Morice. I there again saw Hook’s tomb, who was the 41st
child of his mother, and had himself 27 children, he dyed about 1638.
There is a note here that one of his posterity new furbished up the
inscription. I had read in Abp. Williams’ Life that he was buryed in an
obscure Church in North Wales. I enquired, and heard that it was at[B]
... Church, within a mile of Bangor, whither I was going. I went to the
Church, the guide grumbling. I saw the Tomb with his Statue kneeling
(in marble). It began thus (Hospes lege et relege quod in hoc obscuro
sacello non expectares. Hic jacet omnium Praesulum celeberrimus). I
came to Bangor and crossed the Ferry, a mile from it, where there is an
Inn, which, if it be well kept, will break Bangor. There I lay; it was
22 miles from Holyhead.”
[B] It was Llandegai.
This was the “George” at Menai Straits, a house that until the building
of Telford’s suspension bridge in 1825, flourished greatly on the
traffic of the ferry that then plied between it and the opposite shore.
Large additions have been made to the hotel, but the original wing that
Swift knew is still in existence, and is a characteristic specimen of
the architecture in vogue about the time of Queen Anne.
Swift unfortunately tells us nothing of the actual crossing of the
Straits. He must have been up at an unconscionable hour, for he was
already on the Anglesey side by four o’clock the next morning, Sunday:
“I was on horseback at 4 in the morning resolving to be at Church at
Holyhead, but we then lost Owain Tudor’s tomb at Penmarry.” This was
Penmynydd, a very steep and craggy place, whence came those Tudors
who through the fortunate marriage of Owain Tudor came at last to the
throne of England.
“We passed the place,” says Swift, “being a little out of the way, by
the Guide’s knavery, who had no mind to stay. I was now so weary with
riding that I was forced to stop at Langueveny (Llangefni), 7 miles
from the Ferry, and rest two hours. Then I went on very weary, but in
a few miles more Watt’s horse lost his two fore-shoes. So the Horse
was forced to limp after us. The Guide was less concerned than I. In
a few miles more my Horse lost a fore-shoe and could not go on the
rocky ways. I walked above two miles, to spare him. It was Sunday,
and no Smith to be got. At last there was a Smith in the way: we left
the Guide to shoe the horses and walked to a hedge Inn 3 miles from
Holyhead. There I stayed an hour with no ale to be drunk. A boat
offered, and I went by sea and sayled in it to Holyhead. The Guide came
about the same time. I dined with an old Innkeeper, Mrs. Welch, about
3, on a Loyne of mutton very good, but the worst ale in the world, and
no wine, for the day before I came here a vast number went to Ireland
after having drunk out all the wine. There was stale beer, and I tryed
a receit of Oyster shells which I got powdered on purpose; but it was
good for nothing. I walked on the rocks in the evening, and then went
to bed and dreamt I had got 20 falls from my Horse.
“_Monday, Sept. 25._--The Captain talks of sailing at 12. The talk
goes off, the wind is fair, but he says it is too fierce. I believe he
wants more Company. I had a raw Chicken for dinner and Brandy with
water for my drink. I walked morning and afternoon among the rocks.
This evening Watt tells me that my landady whispered him that the
Grafton packet-boat just come in had brought her 18 bottles of Irish
Claret. I secured one, and supped on part of a neat’s tongue which a
friend at London had given Watt to put up for me, and drank a pint of
the wine, which was bad enough. Not a soul is yet come to Holyhead,
except a young fellow who smiles when he meets me and would fain be my
companion, but it has not come to that yet. I writ abundance of verses
this day; and several useful hints, tho’ I say it. I went to bed at ten
and dreamt abundance of nonsense.
“_Tuesday 26th._--I am forced to wear a shirt 3 days for fear of being
lowsy. I was sparing of them all the way. It was a mercy there were 6
clean when I left London;--otherwise Watt (whose blunders would bear an
history) would have got them all in the great Box of goods which went
by the Carrier to Chester. He brought but one crevat, and the reason he
gave was because the rest were foul and he thought he should not get
foul linen into the Portmanteau. For he never dreamt it might be washed
on the way. My shirts are all foul now, and by his reasoning I fear he
will leave them at Holyhead when we go. I got a small Loyn of mutton
but so tough I could not chew it, and drank my second pint of wine. I
walked this morning a good way among the rocks, and to a hole in one
of them from whence at certain periods the water spurted up several
feet high. It rained all night and hath rained since dinner. But now
the sun shines and I will take my afternoon walk. It was fiercer and
wilder weather than yesterday, yet the Captain now dreams of sailing.
To say the truth Michaelmas is the worst season in the year. Is this
strange stuff? Why, what would you have me do? I have writ verses and
put down hints till I am weary. I see no creature. I cannot read by
candle-light. Sleeping will make me sick. I reckon myself fixed here,
and have a mind like Marshall Tallard to take a house and garden. I
wish you a Merry Christmas and expect to see you by Candlemas. I have
walked this morning about 3 miles on the rocks; my giddiness, God be
thanked, is almost gone and my hearing continues. I am now retired
to my chamber to scribble or sit humdrum. The night is fair and they
pretend to have some hopes of going to-morrow.
“_September 26th._--Thoughts upon being confined at Holyhead. If this
were to be my settlement during life I could content myself a while
by forming new conveniences to be easy, and should not be frightened
either by the solitude or the meanness of lodging, eating or drinking.
I shall say nothing about the suspense I am in about my dearest friend
because that is a case extraordinary, and therefore by way of comfort.
I will speak as if it were not in my thoughts, and only as a passenger
who is in a scurvy, unprovided comfortless place without one companion,
and who therefore wants to be at home where he hath all conveniences
proper for a gentleman of quality. I cannot read at night, and I have
no books to read in the day. I have no subject at present in my head
to write upon. I dare not send my linen to be washed for fear of being
called away at half an hour’s warning, and then I must leave them
behind, which is a serious Point. I live at great expense without one
comfortable bit or sup. I am afraid of joyning with passengers for
fear of getting acquaintance with Irish. The days are short and I have
five hours a night to spend by myself before I go to Bed. I should be
glad to converse with Farmers or shopkeepers, but none of them speak
English. A Dog is better company than the Vicar, for I remember him of
old. What can I do but write everything that comes into my head? Watt
is a booby of that species which I dare not suffer to be familiar with
me, for he would ramp on my shoulders in half an hour. But the worst
part is in my half-hourly longing, and hopes and vain expectations of
a wind, so that I live in suspense which is the worst circumstance
of human nature. I am a little wrung from two scurvy disorders, and
if I should relapse there is not a Welsh house-cur that would not
have more care taken of him than I, and whose loss would not be more
lamented. I confine myself to my narrow chamber in all unwalkable
hours. The Master of the pacquet-boat, one Jones, hath not treated me
with the least civility, although Watt gave him my name. In short I
come from being used like an Emperor to be used worse than a Dog at
Holyhead. Yet my hat is worn to pieces by answering the civilities of
the poor inhabitants as they pass by. The women might be safe enough
who all wear hats yet never pull them off, and if the dirty streets
did not foul their petticoats by courtesying so low. Look you; be not
impatient, for I only wait till my watch makes 10 and then I will give
you ease and myself sleep, if I can. O’ my conscience you may know a
Welsh dog as well as a Welsh man or woman, by its peevish passionate
way of barking. This paper shall serve to answer all your questions
about my journey, and I will have it printed to satisfy the kingdom.
_Forsan et haec olim_ is a damned lye, for I shall always fret at the
remembrance of this imprisonment. Pray pity your Watt for he is called
dunce, puppy and lyar 500 times an hour, and yet he means not ill for
he means nothing. Oh for a dozen bottles of Deanery wine and a slice of
bread and butter! The wine you sent us yesterday is a little upon the
sour. I wish you had chosen a better. I am going to bed at ten o’clock
because I am weary of being up.
“_Wednesday._--To-day we were certainly to sayl: the morning was calm.
Watt and I walked up the mountain Marucia, properly called Holyhead
or Sacrum Promontorium by Ptolemy, 2 miles from this town. I took
breath 59 times. I looked from the top to see the Wicklow hills, but
the day was too hazy, which I felt to my sorrow; for returning we were
overtaken by a furious shower. I got into a Welsh cabin almost as bad
as an Irish one. There were only an old Welsh woman sifting flour who
understood no English, and a boy who fell a roaring for fear of me.
Watt (otherwise called unfortunate Jack) ran home for my coat, but
stayed so long that I came home in worse rain without him, and he was
so lucky to miss me, but took good care to convey the key of my room
where a fire was ready for me. So I cooled my heels in the Parlour
till he came, but called for a glass of Brandy. I have been cooking
myself dry, and am now in my night gown.... And so I wait for dinner.
I shall dine like a King all alone, as I have done these six days. As
it happened, if I had gone straight from Chester to Park-gate 8 miles I
should have been in Dublin on Sunday last. Now Michaelmas approaches,
the worst time in the year for the sea, and this rain has made these
parts unwalkable, so I must either write or doze. Bite, when we were in
the wild cabin I order Watt to take a cloth and wipe my wet gown and
cassock: it happened to be a meal-bag, and as my gown dryed it was all
daubed with flour well cemented with the rain. What do I but see the
gown and cassock well dryed in my room, and while Watt was at dinner
I was an hour rubbing the meal out of them, and did it exactly. He is
just come up, and I have gravely bid him take them down to rub them,
and I wait whether he will find out what I have been doing. The Rogue
is come up in six minutes, and says there were but few specks (tho’
he saw a thousand at first), but neither wondered at it, nor seemed
to suspect me who laboured like a horse to rub them out. The 3 packet
boats are now all on their side, and the weather grown worse, and so
much rain that there is an end of my walking. I wish you would send me
word how I shall dispose of my time. I am as insignificant a person
here as parson Brooke is in Dublin; by my conscience I believe Cæsar
would be the same without his army at his back. Well, the longer I
stay here the more you will murmur for want of packets. Whoever would
wish to live long should live here, for a day is longer than a week,
and if the weather be foul, as long as a fortnight. Yet here I could
live with two or three friends in a warm house and good wine; much
better than being a slave in Ireland. But my misery is that I am in the
very worst part of Wales under the very worst circumstances, afraid
of a relapse, in utmost solitude, impatient for the condition of our
friend, not a soul to converse with, hindered from exercise by rain,
caged up in a room not half so large as one of the Deanery closets; my
Room smokes into the bargain, but the weather is too cold and moist
to be without a fire. There is or should be a proverb here: When Mrs.
Welch’s chimney smokes, ’Tis a sign she’ll keep her folks, But when of
smoke the room is clear, It is a sign we shan’t stay here. All this to
divert thinking. Tell me, am not I a comfortable wag? The Yatcht is
to leave for Lord Carteret on the 14th of October. I fancy he and I
shall come over together. I have opened my door to let in the wind that
it may drive out the smoke. I asked the wind why he is so cross; he
assures me ’tis not his fault, but his cursed Master, Eolus’s. Here is
a young Jackanapes in the Inn waiting for a wind who would fain be my
companion, and if I stay here much longer I am afraid all my pride and
grandeur will truckle to comply with him, especially if I finish these
leaves that remain; but I will write close and do as the Devil did at
mass, pull the paper with my teeth to make it hold out.
“_Thursday._--’Tis allowed that we learn patience by suffering. I have
not spirit enough now left me to fret. I was so cunning these three
last days that whenever I began to rage and storm at the weather I took
special care to turn my face towards Ireland, in hope by my breath to
push the wind forward. But now I give up.... Well, it is now three in
the afternoon. I have dined and revisited the master; the wind and tide
serve, and I am just taking boat to go to the ship. So adieu till I see
you at the Deanery.
“_Friday, Michaelmas Day._--You will now know something of what it is
to be at sea. We had not been half an hour in the ship till a fierce
wind rose directly against us; we tryed a good while, but the storm
still continued; so we turned back, and it was 8 at night dark and
rainy before the ship got back, and at anchor. The other passengers
went back in a boat to Holyhead; but to prevent accidents and broken
shins I lay all night on board, and came back this morning at 8. Am now
in my chamber, where I must stay and get a fresh stock of patience.”
[Illustration: EPIGRAM SCRATCHED WITH A DIAMOND-RING ON A WINDOW-PANE
BY DEAN SWIFT.]
So ends this curious diary. This is the last time that Swift is known
to have visited England, and it has always been assumed, from the lack
of evidence of his again touching these shores, that he never did
return. But he was mentally active until 1736, and it was not until
1745 that he died, in madness and old age. Meanwhile, there still
exists indisputable evidence of his travelling along the Holyhead
Road in 1730; for an old diamond-shaped pane of glass, formerly in
a window of the “Four Crosses” Inn at Willoughby, and deeply tinged
with a greenish hue, as much old glass commonly is, may be found in
private possession at Rugby, inscribed by him with a diamond ring.
The handwriting compares exactly with that of his diary and other
manuscripts still extant, and the ferocity of the humour in the lines
is characteristic of him. Other windows, at Chester and elsewhere,
are known to have been inscribed by him with epigrams and satirical
verses, but they do not appear to have survived. The occasion of
his offering this advice to the landlord of what was then the “Three
Crosses” has always been said to have been the landlady’s disregard of
his importance. Anxious to set off early in the morning, he could by no
means hurry the good woman over the preparation of his breakfast. She
told him; “he must wait, like other people.” He waited, of necessity,
but employed the time in this manner.
John Wesley was of this varied company of horsemen, and in a long
series of years rode into every nook and corner of England. His
“Journal,” abounding with details of his adventures on these occasions,
proves him to have been a hard rider and among the most robust and
enduring of travellers in that age. He rode incredible distances
in the day, very frequently from sixty to seventy miles. Once, in
1738, he travelled in this way from London to Shipston-on-Stour, a
distance of 82¾ miles, and ended the long day, as usual with him, in
religious counsel. “About eight,” he says, “it being rainy and very
dark, we lost our way, but before nine came into Shipston, having
rode over, I know not how, a narrow footbridge which lay across a
deep ditch near the town. After supper I read prayers to the people
of the inn, and explained the Second Lesson; I hope not in vain.” The
next day this indefatigable traveller and missioner rode 59 miles,
to Birmingham, Hednesford, and Stafford; and the next a further 53
miles, to Manchester, feeling faint (and no wonder!) on the way,
at Altrincham. In November 1745, riding from Newcastle-on-Tyne to
Wednesbury, he did not experience many difficulties until he came, in
the dark, to Wednesbury Town-end, where he and his companion stuck
fast. That is indeed a bad road in which a horse sticks. However,
people coming with candles, Wesley himself got out of the quagmire
and went off to preach, while the horses were disengaged from their
awkward position by local experts. The spot where Wesley was bogged
is now a broad and firm macadamised road through Wednesbury, part of
the great Holyhead Road. Eighteen years before this happening, an Act
of Parliament had been passed for repairing and turnpiking the road
between Wednesbury and Birmingham; but, although the turnpike gates
may have been in existence, the road itself certainly does not seem to
have been repaired, and must have remained in the condition described
in the preamble to that Act, when it was “so ruinous and bad that in
the winter season many parts thereof are impassable for waggons and
carriages, and very dangerous for travellers.” At the same time, the
road on the other side of Wednesbury was “in a ruinous condition, and
in some places very narrow and incommodious”; so it is evident that
Wednesbury was in the unenviable but by no means unique position of
being islanded amid execrable and scarcely practicable roads.
In his old age Wesley occasionally made use of coaches and chaises,
which were then a great deal better and more numerous than they had
been forty years earlier, when he commenced his labours; but he did
not give up the saddle until very near the last. In 1779, being then
in his seventy-seventh year, he was still so active that on one day
he rode from Worcester to Brecon, sixty miles, and preached on his
arrival there. In 1782, when eighty, he still travelled, according to
his own computation, four or five thousand miles a year, rose early,
preached, and possessed the faculty of sleeping, night or day, whenever
he desired to do so. When he began to travel he rose at the most
astonishing hours--hours unknown even to the early-rising, hard-riding,
hard-living travellers of that time. Let us look at his record for
February 1746, along the Great North Road:--
“_16th February._--I rose soon after three. I was wondering the day
before at the mildness of the weather, such as seldom attends me in my
journeys; but my wonder now ceased. The wind was turned full north,
and blew so exceeding hard and keen that when we came (from London) to
Hatfield neither my companions nor I had much use of our hands or feet.
After resting an hour, we bore up again through the wind and snow,
which drove full in our faces; but this was only a squall. In Baldock
field the storm began in earnest; the large hail drove so vehemently in
our faces that we could not see, nor hardly breathe; however, before
two o’clock we reached Baldock, where one met and conducted us safe to
Potton. About six I preached to a serious congregation.
“_17th._--We set out as soon as it was well light; but it was hard
work to get forward, for the frost would not well break or bear; and,
the untracked snow covering all the roads, we had much ado to keep our
horses on their feet. Meantime the wind rose higher and higher, till it
was ready to overturn both man and beast. However, after a short bait
at Bugden, we pushed on, and were met in the middle of an open field
with so violent a storm of rain and hail as we had not had before; it
drove through our coats, great and small, boots, and everything, and
yet froze as it fell, even upon our eyebrows, so that we had scarce
either strength or motion left when we came into our inn at Stilton.
“We now gave up our hopes of reaching Grantham, the snow falling faster
and faster. However, we took the advantage of a fair blast to set
out, and made the best of our way to Stamford Heath; but here a new
difficulty arose from the snow lying in large drifts. Sometimes horse
and man were a well nigh swallowed up, yet in less than an hour we were
brought safe to Stamford. Being willing to get as far as we could, we
made but a short stop here; and about sunset came, cold and weary, but
well, to a little town called Brig Casterton.
“_18th._--Our servant came up and said, ‘Sir, there is no travelling
to-day; such a quantity of snow has fallen in the night that the roads
are quite filled up.’ I told him, ‘At least we can walk twenty miles a
day, with our horses in our hands.’ So in the name of God we set out.
The north-east wind was piercing as a sword, and had driven the snow
into such uneven heaps that the main road was not passable. However,
we kept on on foot or on horseback, till we came to the White Lion at
Grantham”--from whence Mr. Wesley continued his journey to Epworth, his
birthplace, in Lincolnshire.
Wesley’s economy of time and his methods when riding are indicated in
an interesting way in his observations on horsemanship:--
“I went on slowly, through Staffordshire and Cheshire, to Manchester.
In this journey, as well as in many others, I observed a mistake that
almost universally prevails; and I desire all travellers to take good
notice of it, which may save them both from trouble and danger. Near
thirty years ago I was thinking, ‘How is it that no horse ever stumbles
while I am reading?’ (History, poetry, and philosophy, I commonly read
on horseback, having other employment at other times.) No account can
possibly be given but this--because when I throw the reins on his neck,
I set myself to observe: and I aver that in riding above a hundred
thousand miles, I scarce ever remember any horse, except two, (that
would fall head over heels any way,) to fall, or make a considerable
stumble, while I rode with a slack rein. To fancy, therefore, that a
tight rein prevents stumbling is a capital blunder. I have repeated the
trial more frequently than most men in the kingdom can do. A slack rein
will prevent stumbling, if anything will, but in some horses nothing
can.”
Dr. Johnson’s is a figure more often associated with coach and chaise
travelling than with horsemanship, but in his younger days he could
ride horseback with the best. He only lacked the money to afford it.
His wedding-day--when he took the first opportunity of teaching his
Tetty marital discipline--was passed in a journey from Derby. His wife
rode one horse and he another. “Sir,” he said, a few years later, “she
had read the old romances, and had got into her head the fantastical
notion that a woman of spirit should use her husband like a dog. So,
sir, at first she told me that I rode too fast, and she could not
keep up with me; and when I rode a little slower she passed me and
complained that I lagged behind. I was not to be made the slave of
caprice, and I resolved to begin as I meant to end. I therefore pushed
on briskly, till I was fairly out of her sight. The road lay between
two hedges, so I was sure she could not miss it; and I contrived that
she should soon come up with me. When she did, I observed her to be in
tears.”
It has already been noted that judges and barristers formerly rode
circuit on horseback. As Fielding says, “a grave serjeant-at-law
condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk
kicking his heels behind him.” In such cases, and when a lady rode
pillion behind her squire, clutching him by the waistbelt, the “double
horse” was used. This, which was by no means a zoological freak,
was the type of horse asked for and supplied by postmasters to two
riders going in this fashion on one animal. Like the brewers’ double
stout, the “double horse” was specially strong, and possessed more the
physique of the cart-horse than the park hack. It was chiefly for the
use of the ladies thus riding that the “upping blocks,” or stone steps,
still occasionally seen outside old rustic inns, were placed beside the
road. They enabled them to get comfortably seated.
Travellers from Scotland to London about the middle of the eighteenth
century were accustomed to advertise for a companion. Thus, in the
_Edinburgh Courant_ for January 1st, 1753, we find:--
“A GENTLEMAN sets off for LONDON Tomorrow Morning, and will either post
it on horses or a Post-Chaise, so wants a Companion. He is to be found
at the Shop of Mr. Sands, Bookseller.”
It was then generally found cheap, and sometimes profitable as well, to
buy a horse when starting from Edinburgh, and to sell him on arrival
in London. Prices being higher in the Metropolis, the canny travellers
who adopted this plan often got more for the horse than they had given.
This method had, however, the defect of not working in reverse, and so
those Scots who returned would have had to hire at some considerable
expense, or buy dear to sell cheap, a thing peculiarly abhorrent to the
Scottish mind. Dr. Johnson would have characteristically brushed this
argument away by declaring that the Scot never did return.
During many long years Scots travelling in their own country followed
an equally economical plan. “The Scotch gentry,” said Thomas Kirke in
1679, “generally travel from one friend’s house to another; so seldom
require a change-house. Their way is to hire a horse and a man for
twopence a mile; they ride on the horse thirty or forty miles a day,
and the man who is his guide foots it beside him, and carries his
luggage to boot.” The “change-house” was, of course, an inn; and from
this custom, when every man’s house was an hotel, the Scottish inns
long remained very inferior places.
Fielding throws a very instructive light upon the device hit upon
by any two travellers who wished to go together and yet had only
one horse between them. This was called “Ride and Tie.” He says:
“The two travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on
foot. Now, as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him
on foot, the custom is, that when he arrives at the distance agreed
on, he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or
other thing, and then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the
horse, he unties him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by
his fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. And
this is that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent
ancestors, who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and
that they could not use the latter without being at the expense of
suffering the beasts themselves to use the former.”
Not until the first decade of the nineteenth century had gone by
did the horseman wholly disappear from the road into or on to the
coaches. Let us attempt to fix the date, and put it at 1820, when the
fast coaches began to go at a pace equal or superior to that of the
saddle-horse. The curious may even yet see the combined upping-blocks
and milestones placed for the use of horsemen on the road across
Dunsmore Heath.
In thus giving 1820 as the date of the horseman’s final disappearance,
it need not be supposed that Cobbett and his _Rural Rides_ are
forgotten. He covered England on horseback some years later, but his
journeys are not on all fours with those of the horsemen whose only
desire was quickly to get from start to finish of their journeys. He
halted by the way, and from the vantage-point of the saddle cast a
keenly scrutinising eye upon the agricultural methods of the various
districts, as seen across the tops of hedgerows, or delayed his travels
to harangue the farmers on market-days. Nor is the existence forgotten
of those country gentlemen and City merchants who, seventy years
ago, rode to and from the City on horseback; but they also formed an
exception. Already, by some ten years or so, the commercial travellers,
as a body, had left the saddle and taken to what was, in its first
inception, essentially the vehicle of the commercial representative.
This was the “gig.” The gig at once became a favourite middle-class
conveyance. Thurtell, the flashy betting-man, vulgar _roué_, and
murderer, was thought by a witness “a respectable man: he kept a gig.”
This aroused the scorn of Carlyle, who coined the word “gigmanity.”
The early commercial travellers, in fact, were long known as “riders,”
from their custom of riding horseback from town to town, sometimes with
a led pack-horse when their samples were unusually bulky or heavy.
The “London riders” sometimes found mentioned in old literature were
therefore London commercials. The successive names by which these
“ambassadors of commerce,” as they have sometimes been grandiloquently
styled, were known are themselves highly illuminating. They were,
in succession, “bagmen,” “riders,” “travellers,” and “commercial
gentlemen.” They are now “representatives.”