COACHING-DAYS.
The old stagecoaches, having served their day and generation, are now a thing of the past, save such as are used for pleasure by societies like the Coaching Club. The relics of these bygone days are to be found in roomy inns, with their broad gates, their commodious yards, and extensive stabling, which have been rendered comparatively useless and deserted by the diversion of the traffic that maintained them. Our fathers and grandfathers can yet interest us by relating stories of their experiences in the old slow coaches with six inside, the improved fast coaches and flying machines running twelve miles per hour with four inside passengers; or the crawling, lumbering stage-wagon, which carried merchandise and the poorer passengers, and which was considered to have travelled quickly if it rolled over four miles of road per hour.
Previous to the introduction of coaches, journeys were performed on horseback or by postchaise, and goods were carried on packhorses. Stow says that the Earl of Arundel introduced coaches into England about 1580; but some give the honour to Boonen, a Dutchman, who is said to have used this class of vehicle so early as 1564. These coaches, however, were for private use, and it was not until 1625 that they were let for hire at the principal inns. In 1637, there were fifty hackney-coaches in London and Westminster, and soon after, stagecoaches came into general use. Here is a copy of an old coachbill of that date: ‘York Four Dayes.—Stagecoach begins on Monday, the 18th of March 1678. All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or return from York to London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan in Holborn in London, and the Black Swan in Cony Street in York. At both which places they may be received in a stagecoach every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the whole journey in Four Days (if God permit) and sets forth by Six in the Morning. And returns from York to Doncaster in a Forenoon; to Newark, in a Day and a Half; to Stamford, in Two Days; and from Stamford to London, in Two Days more.’
Nearly one hundred years after, the coaches were called ‘machines,’ and the fast ones, ‘flying machines;’ while, to continue the metaphor, one man thus advertises his coach—‘Pruen’s Machine will begin flying as follows: Hereford Machine, in a day and a half, twice a week, sets out from the Redstreak-tree Inn in Hereford, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, at 7 o’clock; and from the Swan with Two Necks, Lad Lane, London, every Monday and Wednesday evenings. Insides £1. Outsides, half-price. Jan. 5, 1775.’
During these palmy days, they had not the good macadamised roads that we now enjoy. In winter, the roads were often so bad that the coaches could not run, but were laid up, like ships during an arctic frost. If the roads were defined at all, it was most frequently by ditches, into which many a luckless outsider has been thrown by the numerous coach accidents of the period. In many places, there was no road boundary at all, for we read that Ralph Thoresby the antiquary lost his way between York and Doncaster; and the diarist Pepys between Newbury and Reading. A writer in 1770 thus speaks of the Lancashire roads: ‘I know not, in the whole range of language, terms sufficiently expressive to describe this awful road. Let me most seriously caution all travellers who may accidentally propose to travel this terrible country, to avoid it as they would a pestilence; for a thousand to one they break their necks or their limbs by overthrows or breakings-down, as they will here meet with ruts, which I actually measured, four feet deep, and floating with mud, in summer-time.’
Besides the dangers of bad roads, the drivers did not render life, limb, and property anymore secure by the furious driving which opposition coaches inspired. As in rival ocean steamers, competition led to a speed not compatible with safety. In Driffield (East Yorkshire) churchyard there is a tombstone to the memory of the guard of a coach who was killed by the coach being overturned; and the way in which the local newspaper speaks of the accident, leads you to believe there had been racing between it and another coach. Richard Wood, of the Reindeer and Ram Inns, High Street, Doncaster, in his advertisements, says that his coaches are the best—the horses keep good time—and no racing.
These days were the days of highwaymen and footpads. Lady Walpole in her Letters relates how she and Lady Browne were robbed of their purses, when going to the Duchess of Montrose. ‘After the thief had gone, Lady Browne was most fearful lest he should return and wreak vengeance; “for,” said she, “I always prepare for such-like people, and carry an old purse filled with bad money, which I give them, and so save my good money.” Her fears were groundless, however, for we reached our journey’s end without further mishap.’ These highwaymen were a source of great danger and trouble to coach-travellers, in spite of precautions to guard against them. A post-office notice issued in York, October 30, 1786, says with regard to the mailcoach passengers: ‘Ladies and gentlemen may depend on every care and attention being paid to their safety. They will be guarded all the way by His Majesty’s servants, and on dark nights, a postillion will ride on one of the leaders.’ There is also a note to the effect that the guard was well armed.
During very wet weather and on low-lying roads, it was most unpleasant to drive through deep water; while, to add one misfortune to another, the trace might break or something else give way; and the mishap must be mended before we could get on to dry land. The writer has heard of the water over the axle-trees; and on one occasion it ran into the coach, and all but set afloat two old ladies who were inside. Their dismay may be easily imagined, and their supplications to the coachman to stop were quite affecting. Those on the outside were nearly as much to be pitied; for it had rained without ceasing all day—that kind of pitiless rain which comes down straight in solid stripes, like the water from a shower-bath, which in nautical language goes by the appellation of ‘raining marlin-spikes with their points downwards.’ The only difference between the outsiders and the old ladies being, that while they got it from below, the outsiders got it from above.
A good story has been told of four young undergraduates who had taken the four inside seats of the Oxford coach ‘Defiance.’ Just as the coach was about to start, a very pretty girl came up, attended by her grandfather, and asked if she could have an inside seat. As all the seats were occupied, the guard was unable to grant her request; but the young gentlemen inside vowed they would bear any amount of crushing and discomfort for her sake. The fare was paid, and she gently handed in her grandfather, saying: ‘Mind you thank the young gentlemen, grandpa!’ The feelings of the young gallants can be better imagined than described; but the coach drove off amid a general chorus of anger and dismay.
A gentleman-coachman gives the following incident: ‘In or about November 1834, I got upon the “Albion” coach, which ran from Birkenhead to London. There was no one on the box, a most unusual thing, so I got by the side of the coachman. “I suppose you know what kind of a load we’ve got, sir?” said he. “No,” I answered; “they look a queer lot! What are they?”—“Why,” said he, “they’re all jail-birds.” “Where are they going?” said I.—“Why, to Botany Bay; and I wish they were there now, for they are inclined to give some trouble, and would do if they had not got ‘ruffles’ on; but they’re pretty safe, I think.” They had two turnkeys with them; and there was no one else on the coach but these worthies, their keepers, myself, coachman, and guard. I left the coach at Wolverhampton, and a lucky thing for me it was; for, before reaching Walsall, the horses shied at some sparks flying across the road from a blacksmith’s shop, bolted, ran against a post, and upset the coach. No one was killed; but the coachman ultimately died of the injuries then received. During the confusion caused by the accident, and whilst another coach and coachman were being got ready to take them on, some of the convicts contrived to get files and other implements, and by these means put their handcuffs into such condition that they could slip them whenever they chose to do so. At a given signal they freed themselves, sprang upon and overpowered their keepers, guard, and coachman, handcuffed them, cut the traces, let loose the horses, and decamped. The greater number of them were, however, recaptured.’