ravelling was both a difficult and a dangerous operation in former days. We do not know when a direct communication by coach between Liverpool and London was first established; but we have been told that some sort of stage was started to Warrington and Manchester in the year 1767. We have indeed read in an old Liverpool Chronicle, January 21st, 1768, that John Stonehewer, a driver of the said stage, had broken his thigh by a fall from the box, a very likely accident in those old-fashioned days of rough stone pavements. Many of our readers must recollect with what persevering tenacity the shaking old road between Liverpool and Prescot was maintained as part and parcel of the British constitution, to the great loss and damage of our more modern coach proprietors, whose vehicles were more tried and injured by the eight miles of paving stones between these two towns than by all the rest of the journey to the metropolis. The surveyors stood by the paving stones to the last. Liverpool always adhered to the old ways, however rough they might be. Macadam, “the Colossus of roads,” as some wit called him, was an innovator; what right had he to make improvements which would militate against the trade of coach-builders and menders? Macadam! What a short reign was his?
“Come like shadows; so depart!”
Hardly had he grasped his sceptre firmly in his hand, and persuaded the people to mend their ways, when another and a mightier magician waved his wand, and all was changed. George Stephenson and railways burst upon us, and Macadam’s meteor flight was brought to a sudden close. The fast man gave way to the faster.
The first coach which we can ourselves recollect travelling by was of a very long shape, and moved at a very slow pace. Its destination was Birmingham, at which we ultimately, after many delays and dangers, managed to arrive. It had many “odoriferous names,” as Mrs. Malaprop would say, among which “the cheap and nasty” was the most prominent and usual. The coachman was a fat man, with a low-crowned hat, and a large nosegay stuck in his button-hole, the very man, we should say, who sat for the picture of old Mr. Weller in Pickwick. What business he had to transact on the road! He seemed to be the universal agent for the universal affairs of all mankind, between town and town, and village and village. And what stoppages, not only at public-houses, but “here, there and everywhere,” had the miserable passengers consequently to undergo! And what universal flirtations he used to carry on with the universal womankind who dwelt by the wayside! He appeared to have reached high pressure or breach-of-promise point with some inmate of every cottage on the road. And then when at last we reached Birmingham, into what universal fleadom we found that we had plunged when we went to bed! We have eschewed sleeping at Birmingham ever since. A Birmingham bed is a perfect “Cannibal Isle,” with a more carnivorous population than can be met with in any part of the globe. There is even less danger of being devoured in New Zealand itself.
But a new era sprang up in the coaching business. The “Bang-up” was started for Birmingham, and the “Umpire” for London. Those were splendid conveyances compared with their slow moving predecessors, combining, as they did, speed, safety, regularity and comfort. They were literally the timekeepers for the several towns and villages through which they passed. They started to a moment, arrived at each stage to a moment, and reached their final destination to a moment. The regularity of the dial could not have been greater. We have heard of the man who boasted that his clock regulated the sun, and truly the old Umpire and Bang-up seemed to regulate the clock. But “where are they now?” An echo answers, “Where?” Enter, as we have said before, George Stephenson, and exit Bretherton. Railways came in and coaches went out. Sic transit gloria mundi. We are all for speed now. The march of improvement first became a run, then a gallop, and now it has increased into a flight, beating wings and the wind. But, nevertheless, it was pleasant travelling in those old days, “All right,” said the guard; smack went the whip; “off she goes!” What a team! How the bits of blood do their work! Even the experienced hands of the veteran Jehu can hardly tame their fire and check their speed. And now the horn blows, we dash into the market-place of some country town, to the delight of the congregated idlers and gazers of the place. What a bustle among the grooms and stable boys. Parcels are handed up and down; the smoking horses are unharnessed; fresh ones put to, all in less time than it takes to tell it. Off again! We sweep at speed past the village green, dogs barking, pigs squealing, geese hissing, children shouting, men huzzaing, women smiling. Through the winding pleasant lanes we go, with their lovely hedgerows on either side, the spire in the distance, the mansion in the park, the glorious old trees, the noble woods, the delicious lakes, the sparkling streams, altogether a landscape of sweetness and beauty which no country but merry England can set before the traveller’s eye. All this, however, was lost to us when the last of the coaches disappeared from the road. We now fly, but we do not see. We are, as it were, shot forth from station to station at a speed becoming the spirit of the age. But one consequence of all this is, that the rising generation know nothing of the old high-ways and by-ways of their country, its many beauties, its shady lanes, its lovely nooks and corners, the sudden turns in our old lines of road which used unexpectedly to open to us the most charming prospect, and then as suddenly to hide it, only to reveal to us some other vision of beauty on the fair face of nature spread before us. These were exquisite treats to us old travellers. We miss them, but we are not regretting. We like to keep up with the pace of the age.
And what early hours our grandfathers and grandmothers used to keep! What an anarchical, chaotical, daring, radical innovator, the very æs triplex circum pectus man of old Horace, was that bold spirit considered to be amongst them who first wrote four o’clock, instead of mid-day, upon his “ticket for soup.” Then came dinner at five, at six, and all hours, until day and night changed places, and late hours and indigestion became triumphant, until wise people learned that the best plan was to lay in a stock of solids at lunch, and then only trifle and coquet with the grand banquet of the evening.
But how different was the style of visiting in those days from what it is now. About five or six o’clock you might see the ladies on a visit to the house of some one of their number, who was giving what was called “a rout” to her female friends. We speak advisedly when we say her female friends, because it was as difficult to press a gentleman into the service on such occasions as to catch an ostrich or a real live rhinoceros. A treasure, indeed, was the man, and a star, and an idol, who would come to these parties. Dr. Gerard, once mayor of Liverpool, was an especial pet with the ladies in St. Anne-street for accepting all their invitations to these meetings. But what was a rout? It was a muster of all her female friends, with the rara avis of a gentleman, if, like Mrs. Glass’s hare in the cookery book, one could be caught by the heroine or lady-hostess of the evening. The custom was to crowd as many guests as possible into a small room, or a large one, as the case might be. As the hour for assembling arrived, there was a tremendous crush of sedan-chairs towards the mansion where the party was given. There were several stands for these old-fashioned conveyances in Newington-bridge. Those ladies who were not so magnificent in their notions, or more moderate in their pocket, might be seen making their way to the festival with what were called calashes over their heads, a reduced form of the covering still raised over gigs on a rainy day. When the party, or a sufficient number to commence operations, had mustered, tea and coffee, rather weak than strong, and bread and butter, rather thin than thick, were handed round. This ceremony performed, the business of the evening fairly began. The lady of the house made up her card tables. Some would sit down to whist, of course, in those old days, long antediluvian patriarchal whist, silver threepences the stake, and nothing more. Short whist had not then come in, with gas, steam railways, and electric telegraphs. But the favourite game with the ladies was one called quadrille or preference. Perhaps they liked it better than whist because it was carried on with more talking. We never could fathom its mysteries. In truth, we never tried to dive into them. All that we recollect of it is, that it went on with a dreadful clamour about the “pool,” “basting,” “spadille,” “manille,” “ponto,” and “basto;” some of which phrases sounded very like Egyptian hieroglyphics turned into language, while others had a sporting smack about them. Indeed we are not certain whether “ponto” is not altogether a fiction or confusion of our memory. When the lady of the house began to tire, or fancied that her company began to flag or look fatigued over their cards, she gave the signal, and in rushed the servants with the trays, on which were spread refreshments of a very mild and innocent character. Ices were almost unknown in those days. Weak lemonade and weaker negus, with jumbles and ratafia cakes, were handed round, and, as they were nibbled and sipped at, Mrs. Gildart would vow that she was nearly ruined by a run of bad luck, which had impoverished her to the amount of two-and-sixpence. Dr. Gerard would meekly affirm that he had had a most delightful evening. Robert Norris would lay his hand upon his heart, and swear that he was always at the service of the ladies. Beau Sealy, still, we are told, a flourishing and vigorous plant somewhere near Bridgewater, would smile one of his demure smiles, and say ditto to Norris, ditto to Gerard. The hostess was delighted; the ladies were in raptures. Who like Norris? Who like Gerard? Who, especially, like Sealy? Sealy being single, as he is single still. By this time all the nibbling and sipping were over. The jumbles, and cakes, and negus, and lemonade had disappeared. The candles were burning low. There was a cry for the calashes, and a rush to the sedans, and “the feast of reason and the flow of soul” were at an end for that evening. And all this happiness, recollect, was achieved before nine o’clock. Our mothers and grandmothers were unrobing for the night before their glasses at the hour at which our modern belles are sitting before theirs, clasping the sparkling necklace, arranging the last curl, and practising the fatal smile which is to do such execution at the Wellington-rooms or some private party. We will not attempt to decide upon the charms of the ancient and modern Houris; but the hours kept by the former were certainly more reasonable and seasonable. They had the advantage of all “the beauty sleep,” which is said to come before midnight.
CHAPTER XXV.
