“O call back yesterday, bid time return.”
_Richard II._ iii., 2.
Dozing in a railway carriage on a journey to Wales I listened dreamily
to the faint echoes of an argument between a gentleman of the old school
who contended that the country was going to the dogs, and a younger
enthusiast who was optimistic as to the present and future of our race.
It was at Deganwy that the older man, who had, I thought, somewhat the
worst of the argument, pointed to the sea and said, with the air of one
who uttered a new thought, that it was impossible for those who stood
on the shore to say at the moment which way the tide was setting. The
younger man accepted the stale simile with the courteous reverence that
is the debt we willingly pay to age when we know that we know better.
A few days afterwards a friend handed me a copy of an old newspaper.
His wife had discovered it with other of its fellows during the Spring
cleaning. “The things,” she said in her practical way, “were harbouring
dirt.” But from my point of view they were also harbouring history, and
turning over the single sheet it occurred to me that it might help one to
a conclusion about the ever interesting problem “which way is the tide?”
The newspaper was, to be exact, the _Manchester Guardian_, of Saturday,
January 24th, 1824, No. 143 of Vol. IV. The price was sevenpence or seven
and sixpence a quarter if paid in advance, and eight shillings on credit.
In the matter of price the tide was clearly with the moderns. There was
an excellent wood-cut on the front page, a semi-advertisement—as I took
it—of Messrs. David Bellhouse and Sons, of Eagle Quay, Oxford Road, who
“respectfully informed the public that they have commenced carriers of
timber by water betwixt Liverpool and Manchester” by means of a paddle
steam tug “The Eagle,” with a funnel, the height of its mast and a huge
square sail and two Union Jacks, one floating at the masthead and the
other astern, and accompanying rafts of timber following the tug. In
another column Fredk. and Chas. Barry, sworn brokers, of Vine Street,
America Square, London, advertise that the fine fast sailing new brig,
Walworth Castle, 240 tons, A.1. coppered, I. Wrentmore, Commander, will
sail for Vera Cruz from London, and had only room for about fifty tons
of goods. Certainly in the matter of the carriage of goods at sea and
by canal we seem to have made progress. When you come to the matter of
passenger traffic, it is interesting to read of “The Telegraph,” which
leaves every afternoon at 3.30 for London through Macclesfield, Leek,
Derby, Leicester, and Northampton to the White Horse, Fetter Lane. In
the same column we read of the “North Briton” and “Robert Burns,” which
leave every morning at 4.30, and run through Chorley, Preston, Lancaster,
Kendal, and Carlisle, to the Buck Inn, Glasgow, and the splendid service
of six coaches to Liverpool, starting at intervals from 5 a.m. to 5.30
in the evening. This column of coach advertisements is fine picturesque
reading, but it is a little old-fashioned by the side of a sixpenny
Bradshaw of to-day.
Again, if we turn to the report of the Salford Epiphany Quarter Sessions,
Thomas Starkie, Esquire, Chairman, we have much to be thankful for in
latter-day records. It must be remembered of course that the Sessions
of to-day are more frequent, and different Sessions are held in small
areas. Still, in January, 1824, there were no less than 240 prisoners, a
number far in excess of anything we read of to-day. Nearly all the cases
seem to have been cases of stealing, and there were few acquittals. The
sentences were terrible, and only those who remember sentences given by
some of the minor tribunals in comparatively recent years can credit the
fact that such sentences were passed by humane and thoughtful men, in
what was genuinely believed to be the interest of society. A long list
of sentences begins thus: “Transported for life, William Thomas (16),
for stealing one pocket handkerchief.” Lower down we find that Thomas
Kinsey (21), for stealing thirty pieces of cotton cloth, gets off with
transportation for fourteen years. The number of young people that
are transported for small thefts is astonishing. Martha Jowett (30),
for stealing a purse; John Webster (19) and John Drinkwater (24), for
stealing a gun; Martha Myers (16), for stealing wearing apparel, and
Mary Mason (24), for stealing a purse, are all among the list of those
transported for seven years. More aristocratic sinners had a better
chance of acquittal, and the receivers of the Birmingham notes stolen
from the Balloon coach were respited because the jury found that the
receiving “was elsewhere than in the County of Lancaster,” and counsel
successfully contended that they must be discharged. Certainly in these
matters the tide has flowed towards less crime and more humanity to
prisoners since 1824.
But whereas human institutions seem to have improved, human nature seems
to have been much as it is to-day. Dr. Lamert—the predecessor of many
twentieth century quacks—is at No. 68 Piccadilly, ready to be consulted
about and to cure “all diseases incidental to the human frame,” and
has his testimonials and affidavits as to the success of his treatment
almost in the very language in which we can read them to-day. “The
greatest discovery in the memory of man is universally allowed to be
the celebrated Cordial Balm of Rakasiri,” whose name is “blown on the
bottle” and whose properties will cure any disease from “headache to
consumptions.” “Smith’s Genuine Leamington Salts are confidently offered
to the public under the recommendation of Dr. Kerr, Northampton,” and
other eminent medical men, whilst from Mottershead and other chemists
you can obtain Black Currant Lozenges “in which are concentrated all the
well-known virtues of that fruit.” In this backwater of life the tide
seems to be running, if at all, the other way. In the matter of gambling,
too, it would be hard to say whether State lotteries, well protected
from private imitations, were worse for our morals than free trade in
bookmaking, coupled by uncertain and unequally worked police supervision.
In the paper before me, “T. Bish, of the Old State Lottery Office, 4
Cornhill, respectfully reminds his best friends the public that the State
lottery begins the 19th of next month.” There are to be seven £20,000
prizes and many others, and “in the very last Lottery Bish shared and
sold 18,564, a prize of £20,000, 1379 a prize of £10,000, and several
other capitals.” Bish of 1824 was but one evil more or less honest in
his dealings and controlled by the State. Bish of 1911 is a legion of
bookmakers, more or less dishonest and wholly uncontrolled. Still I am
far from saying things are not better so, and even here could we discern
it clearly the tide may be flowing the right way.
In the interest taken in art and literature it would be hard to say that
we do not see signs of earnestness and enthusiasm in this one newspaper
of 1824 that it would be hard to find in a single copy of a journal
of to-day. The people of Liverpool are sinking sectarian differences
and starting a mechanics and apprentices’ library, and already have
1,500 volumes. It is true that the whole thing was done very much on
the lines of the gospel according to Mr. Barlow and Mr. Fairchild, but
it was being done with enthusiasm. The elder Mr. Gladstone sent ten
pounds and a letter of “correct ideas,” which was read to the meeting,
but unfortunately we shall never read the “correct ideas” which were
“basketed” by the then subeditor. The Library was to contain no works
of controversial theology or politics, and the _Liverpool Advertiser_
sees with regret that “Egan’s Sporting Anecdotes” was amongst a number
of volumes contributed by an American gentleman. The Pharisee, we must
admit, is with us to-day, and even in well governed cities sometimes
finds a place on Library Committees. But here is another announcement
in this wonderful number of the newspaper which lovers of art will read
with pious interest. “There is to be a General Meeting of the Governors
of the Manchester Institution, to consider a report to be submitted with
reference to the building and to the general welfare of the Institution.”
Below this is printed “amounts already advertised £14,610,” and then
follows a list of between thirty and forty new hereditary members
subscribing forty guineas apiece.
A hundred years hence a newspaper of our own day will be unearthed
to tell future generations of a City Council refusing supplies for
continuing the great work that these city fathers started with their own
monies. Could we to-day from a far richer Manchester and far wealthier
citizens obtain hereditary subscribers at forty guineas apiece for a
new theatre or opera house or art gallery, if such were required in
Manchester? It is at least doubtful.
Two other announcements that cannot rightly be evidence of human
progress, but which may make us worthily envious of the good old days
that are gone:—at the Theatre Royal, Mr. Matthews is playing in “The
Road to Ruin” and the musical farce of “The Bee Hive,” and on Wednesday
he will have a benefit with three musical farces including “The Review.”
It would be worth owning one of Mr. Wells’s time machines to take the
chance of dropping into Manchester in 1824, if only to go to the Royal
and see the show. And here is another echo of glad tidings. “We have been
informed that the author of Waverley has contracted with his bookseller
to furnish him with three novels a year for three years, and that he is
to have ten thousand pounds a year for the supply, and that four novels
have actually been delivered as per contract.”
When one reads an announcement such as that, and thinks of the joy of
unpacking the parcel of books when it arrives, and cutting and reading
three new masterpieces a year hot from the press, the novel reader of
to-day may be excused if he sighs over a golden age that will never
return. Nevertheless, man cannot live by Waverley novels alone; and what
is this we read a little lower down the column? “Average price of corn
from the returns received in the week ending January 10:
Wheat, 57s. 4d.”
Of a truth in essential things the tide has flowed steadily in the right
direction since this year of 1824, and is not on the turn—as yet.