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Travelling By Stage Coach

By “Switch-Back”

“Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed.”—Byron.

A Hundred years ago the science of transportation was only at the “cock crowing and the morning star”—to use Carlyle's phrase. The railway had not been developed beyond the experimental stage, the internal combustion engine that to-day is propelling tens of millions of vehicles which swish over the earth “like birds on their migrations,” was little more than a dream of the prophets, whilst “White Wings” (which frequently refused to flutter), supplied the one means—apart from the energy of human muscles—of crossing the great oceans. What a difference is presented by the world in which we live in this twentieth century! By developing as we have the transportation and inter-communication which Kipling describes as “civilisation,” we have conquered the earth and in doing so have written one of the most momentous chapters in the record of man's deeds.

But it is interesting, and for the pessimists amongst us, no less profitable, to hark back to the days when our forefathers travelled by stage coach, and contrast the manifold advantages—the Sybaritic amentities of modern transport by rail and car and liner—with conditions then existing.

A reference to travel in the “good” old days, no less pungent than it is humorous, met the writer's eye when, a few days since, he chanced to be glancing over the pages of that exceedingly fascinating old volume, “William Hone's Year Book,” for 1827. The conditions inside a stage coach a hundred years ago were described as follows:—

“Crammed full of passengers—three fat, fusty, old men—a young mother and sick child—a cross old maid—a poll-parrot—a bag of red herrings—a double-barreled gun (which you are afraid is loaded)—and a snarling lapdog, in addition to yourself awaking out of a sound nap, with a cramp in one leg and the other in a lady's band-box—play the damage (four or five shillings) for ‘gallantry's sake’—getting out in the dark at the half-way house, in the hurry stepping into the return coach, and finding yourself the next morning at the very spot you had started from the evening before—not a breath of fresh air—asthmatic old man—and child with the measles—windows closed in consequence—pay the coachman and drop a piece of gold in the straw—not to be found—fell through a crevice—coachman says ‘he'll find it’—can't—get out yourself—gone—picked up by the 'ostler—no time for ‘blowing-up’—coach off for the next stage—lose your money—get in—lose your seat—stuck in the middle—get laughed at—lose your temper—turn sulky, and turned over in a horse-pond.”

Conditions outside the coach were scarcely better—listen!:—

“Your eye cut out by the lash of a clumsy coachman's whip—hat blown off, into a pond, by a sudden gust of wind—seated between two apprehended murderers, and a noted sheep-stealer in irons (all of whom are being conveyed to gaol)—a drunken fellow, half asleep, falls off the coach, and, in attempting to save himself, drags you along with him into the mud—musical guard and driver ‘horn mad’—turned over—one leg under a bale of cotton, the other under the coach—hands in pockets—head in a hamper of wine—lots of broken arms and broken heads—send for a surgeon—wounds dressed—lotion and lint—take post-chaise—get home—lay down, and laid up.”

The thrills both inside and outside are summed up thus:—

“Drunken coachman — horse sprawling—wheel off—pole breaking—down hill—axle-tree splitting—coach overturning—winter and buried in the snow—one eye poked out with an umbrella, the other cut open by the broken window—reins breaking—hurried at meals—imposition of innkeepers—five minutes and a half to swallow three and sixpennyworth of vile meat—waiter a rogue—frozen to death—internal grumblings and outward complaints—no redress—walk forward while the horses are changing—take the wrong turning—lose yourself and lose the coach—good-bye to portmanteau—curse your ill-luck—wander about in the dark and find the inn at last—get upon the next coach going the same road—stop at next inn—brandy and water, hot, to keep you in spirits—warm fire—pleasant company—heard the guard cry ‘all right?’—run out, just in time to sing out ‘I'm left,’ as the coach turns the corner—after it ‘full tear’—come up with it—get up all in a ‘blowze’—catch cold—sore throat—inflammation—doctor—warm bath—fever—die.”

Allowing for an element of exaggeration in the above account, it is, nevertheless, a vivid statement of some of the travel disabilities existing a short century ago.

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