“Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed—no matter where its
Direction be, so ’tis but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits;
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travel—which is driving.”
Thus there was Lord Londonderry, who made a speech in the House one night, and the next evening was at his own place in Durham, 250 miles or so away, having travelled down in his “chariot and four.”
There were those, however, who scorned these effeminate methods. Like Barclay of Ury, they walked or rode horseback, long after the introduction of coaches. Foul-mouthed old Lord Monboddo, for instance, a once famous Scots Lord of Session, persisted in the use of the saddle. He journeyed between the two capitals once a year, and continued to do so until well past fourscore years of age. On his last journey to London he could get no further than Dunbar, and when his nephew asked him why he gave up, “Eh, George,” said he, “I find I am noo auchty-four.” He was, in fact, suffering from the incurable disease of “Anno Domini.” He held it unmanly “to sit in a box drawn by brutes.” Would that we could have his shade for a companion on a ’bus ride from Charing Cross to the Bank!
At that period the stage-wagons performed the journey in fourteen days, carrying passengers at a shilling a day.
XXV
The list of equestrians is long and distinguished. Lord Mansfield rode up from Scotland to London when a boy, on a pony, and took two months over the enterprise. Dr. Skene, who left town in 1753 in the same fashion, reached Edinburgh in nineteen days. His expenses, having sold his mare on arrival for eight guineas—exactly the sum he had given for her—amounted to only four guineas.
This, indeed, was the usual plan to purchase a horse for the journey and to sell it on arrival; a method so canny that it must surely be of Scots invention. It had the advantage that, if you found a good market for your nag, it was often possible to make a profit on the transaction.
But it behoved the purchaser to make some inquiry as to the previous owners, as no doubt the Scotsman, leaving London with one of these newly bought mounts, discovered, after some embarrassing experiences. He went gaily forth upon his way, and nothing befell him until Finchley Common was reached. On that lonely waste, however, he met another horseman; whereupon his horse began to edge up to the stranger, as though to prevent him from proceeding. The Scotsman was at a loss to understand this behaviour, but the other traveller, thinking him to be a highwayman, was for handing over his purse forthwith. This little difficulty explained away, our friend resumed his journey, presently meeting a coach, when the performance was repeated. This time, however, blunderbusses were aimed at him, and, the nervous passengers being in no mood to hear or understand explanations, he had a rather narrow escape of his life. At Barnet he sold this embarrassing horse for what he could get, and continued his journey by coach.
It was in 1756 that Mrs. Calderwood of Coltness travelled to London from Edinburgh in her own post-chaise, her sturdy serving-man, John Rattray, riding beside the vehicle on horseback, armed with pistols and a broadsword by his side. She set out from Edinburgh on the 3rd of June and reached London on the evening of the 10th—an astonishing rapid journey, it was thought. Let it not be supposed that the armed serving-man, or the case of pistols the good dame carried with her inside the vehicle, showed an excess of precaution. Not at all; as was instanced near that suspicious place, Bawtry, in whose neighbourhood a doubtful character whom they took to be a highwayman made his appearance. However, when John Rattray began talking ostentatiously about powder and ball to the post-boy, the supposed malefactor was nonplussed; and on John Rattray furthermore “showing his whanger,” the fellow made off. And so Cox—and Box—were satisfied. Strangest of all travellers, however, was Peter Woulfe, chemist, mineralogist, and eccentric, whose specific for illness was a journey by mail-coach. He indulged this whim for years, riding from London to Edinburgh and back, until 1803, when the remedy proved worse than the disease, for he caught cold on these bleak miles and died.
John Scott, afterwards Earl of Eldon and created Lord Chancellor, left a record of his early travels along this road—surely it were better named the Road to Fortune! He left school at Newcastle in 1766 to proceed to London on the way to Oxford, and travelled in a “fly,” so called because it did the journey in the previously unheard-of time of three days and four nights. This “fly” had probably once been a private carriage, for it still bore the motto, “Sat cito, si sat bene”—that is to say, “Quick enough, if well enough”—exquisitely appropriate, however, to that slow pace. Young Scott had noticed this, and made an impudent remark to a fellow-traveller, a Quaker, who, when they halted at Tuxford, had given sixpence to a chamber-maid, telling her that he had forgotten to give it her when he had slept at the inn two years before. “Friend,” said he to the Quaker, “have you seen the motto on this coach?”