Going by the Great Western Railway, with Murray’s handbook for Wiltshire, Dorset & Somerset, 1859, and the current ABC Railway Guide, we soon reach Swindon, ‘the great central establishment of the company, the engine depot capable of accommodating 100 engines. A number of mechanics are here employed, and of their skill a curious specimen was exhibited in Hyde Park, 1851; it was a working model of a pair of non-condensing steam-engines, which stood within the compass of a shilling, and weighed three drachms.’ Murray also reminds us that the church gives character to the town, ‘and shows that this great railway company is not wholly absorbed in the worship of Mammon’.
Should the traveller break his journey and visit Laycock, he will read how the Talbots established their inheritance of the abbey. ‘The young daughter and heiress of Sir Henry Sherrington, being in love with John Talbot, contrary to her father’s wishes, and discoursing one night with him from the battlements of the abbey church, said she, “I will leap down to you.” Her sweetheart replied he would catch her then: but he did not believe she would have done it. She leapt down, and the wind, which was then high, came under her coates, and did something break the fall. Mr. Talbot caught her in his arms, but she struck him dead; she cried for help, and he was with great difficulty brought to life again. Her father thereon told her that since she had made such a leap she would e’en marrie him.’
Going down to the Dorset coast, an interest in penal establishments will take us to Portland: ‘Convict prison, erected in 1848 (but to which strangers are admitted only at the dinner-hour, 11 A.M.). It is a model building of the kind consisting of 8 wings, besides a hospital, chapel, barracks, and cottages for the warders. It accommodates a governor, deputy-governor, chaplain, 2 schoolmasters, and other officers, and about 1500 convicts, of whom the greater number are employed in quarrying stone for the breakwater. The arrangements are very perfect, the building is lighted with gas from its own gasometer, and abundantly supplied with both fresh and salt water, which are pumped into it by a steam-engine from reservoirs on the shore.’
Baddeley’s guidebook of 1914 gives the number of inmates as seven hundred. ‘The charitable address, and always used by officials, is “The Grove, Portland”.’ If we take a steep path we reach the plateau, ‘and are amidst the quarries. Away to the left is the Prison, which is best left alone; in fact, the sight of a horde of excursionists deeming it the correct thing to stand gazing and making remarks on the gangs of those who have been “found out” as they return from the Government quarries to dinner is unseemly and unkind.’
Murray, in his guide of 1887, says that Devonshire ‘has something to present to the curiosity of the traveller besides mere beauty and grandeur of scenery. It contains the greatest Naval and Military Arsenal combined, in the British Empire, planted on the shores of a harbour not to be surpassed for spaciousness, security, and scenic beauty. The sight of its docks, fitting yards, Steam factories, workshops, its palatial Barracks, gigantic Forts and Lines, gun wharfs bristling with rows of cannon, and, above all, the floating Armaments of iron and wooden war ships floating peacefully on the bosom of Hamoaze, combine to display to the fullest the power of Great Britain, and present alone a spectacle worth coming far to see.’
This refers, of course, to Plymouth and Devonport, and some indication is given of the hours of work: ‘The Dockyard (hours of admittance are the working hours of the yard: observing that the yard is closed from 12 to 1 in winter, and from 12 to ½ past 1 in summer, except on Saturdays, when the workmen remain at their work during the usual dinner-hour, and leave the yard at 3 P.M. It is then closed altogether).’
The traveller in search of tranquillity may visit Widecombe in the Moor, but ‘the only resting place is a very poor village Inn. The place is interesting, however, because: ‘In Oct. 1638, during divine service, a terrible storm burst over the village, and, after some flashes of uncommon brilliancy, a ball of fire dashed through a window of the church into the midst of the congregation. At once the pews were overturned, 4 persons were lulled and 62 wounded, many by a pinnacle of the tower which tumbled through the roof, while “the stones,” says Prince, “were thrown down from the steeple as fast as if it had been by 100 men.” The country people accounted for this awful destruction by a wild tale that “the devil, dressed in black, and mounted on a black horse, inquired his way to the church of a woman who kept a little public-house on the moor. He offered her money to become his guide, but she distrusted him on remarking that the liquor went hissing down his throat, and finally had her suspicions confirmed by the glimpse of a cloven foot which he could not conceal by his boot.”’
Crossing Dartmoor, we are told that the annual cost of maintaining each inmate in the famous prison was nearly thirty-six pounds – something like two thousand pounds in today’s money. A free man might try better accommodation at Clovelly, where the small inn will entertain him ‘with great hospitality (Inquiry as to rooms may be made by telegraph from Bideford). If it happens to be the autumn, he may regale at breakfast upon herrings which have been captured over night; for Clovelly is famed for its fishery.’ Another place at which the traveller might put up, especially if he is a writer, is Babbacombe: ‘A few years ago this pretty village was one of those romantic seclusions which have rendered the coast of Devon such a favourite with the novelist.’
Proceeding still further west, and carrying in his pocket Baddeley’s Thorough Guide to Devon and Cornwall, our traveller will no doubt take a look at the Scilly Isles, passing between the mainland and St Mary’s (the legendary Land of Lyonnesse). When he gets there: ‘The men who pester tourists on their arrival at the new quay with cards, are quite capable. But among them are some more qualified than others, and some are merely boatmen in the intervals of cobbling or gardening.’
Should fog or a storm keep the traveller in the inn he can read of how an English fleet was wrecked on the rocks of the main island in 1701. S. Baring-Gould gives a good account in his book on Cornwall but, for the sake of brevity, I will refer to Baddeley.
When Admiral Shovel was sailing across the main on his way back to England, there was on board his ship a common seaman who kept for himself a reckoning of the vessel’s course. This in itself was an unusual proceeding, very few sailors in those days possessing the necessary knowledge. The man declared that the ship’s course would take her upon the rocks of Scilly, and this conclusion was brought to the knowledge of the officers. The unfortunate man was court-martialled on a charge of inciting to mutiny, and then and there convicted and sentenced to be hanged at the yard-arm. Before execution he asked, and got leave, to read aloud a portion of the Holy Scripture. The portion he chose was the 109th Psalm. It spoke of him who ‘remembered not to show mercy, but persecuted the poor and needy man, that he might even slay the broken in heart.’ It invoked upon him, among many other woes, fewness of days, fatherless children, and a posterity cut off. In a few hours the reckoning of the unhappy man was proved to be correct: the vessel struck upon the Gilstone Rock, and was lost. The body of the admiral, still alive (it was whispered that he was murdered for the sake of a ring he wore by the tenant of Sallakey farm), was carried by the sea to Porthellick, and for a while rested on the spot of ground marked by that strip of sand, and ever since that time the grass has refused to grow there!
The conclusion by S. Baring-Gould is somewhat different: ‘The body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was picked up by a soldier and his wife, who gave it a decent burial in the sand. It was afterwards conveyed to Westminster Abbey and laid there.’
Going out of Cornwall by railway, and then in a northeasterly direction through delectably bucolic counties, the traveller reaches the Black Country, the centre of which is Birmingham, the seat of the hardware, glass, gun, steel-pen and silver plate industries. ‘A visit to the principal manufacturing establishments, and excursions in the neighbourhood of the town, are the sole attractions for the tourist,’ Murray says.
Taking the train towards Crewe we read: ‘Gliding out of the magnificent c
entral station and passing through the tunnel, the traveller emerges at once amongst the blackened chimneys and smutty atmosphere of manufacturing Birmingham. This is abundantly evident, not only from the physical signs of labour, but from the dense population accumulated on either side of the line, the frequent stations, and the general character of the passengers – the first class being occupied by business men, who leap in and out as though to save every moment of time, while the third are filled with grimy-faced artizans.’
After nine miles the town of Tipton, with a population of 30,000, is ‘spread over a circular area about 2m. in diameter, with coal-pits, iron-works, and dwellings, all mixed up together. In fact every inch of available ground is covered with furnaces, Tipton being celebrated for its iron as adapted for heavy works. It possesses a specialty for chain, cables, and anchors; and steam-engine boilers are also largely manufactured.’
Should the traveller decide to explore Shropshire and Cheshire he will note Mr Murray’s difficulties in compiling the handbook to those counties. ‘A list of a few good Hotels and Inns above the average is subjoined by way of help to the traveller and stimulus to hostelries below par. It is better in Shropshire, though there is still room for improvement; but in both counties it would be a proof of courtesy in the owners of “show places” and “historic houses,” which they are duly desirous to find mentioned in Country Handbooks such as “Murray’s,” if they would make known at the chief Hotels and leading bookseller’s shops of their nearest town, whether, when, and after what preliminary steps, visitors, presenting their cards, can be admitted. In one or two instances the Editor has been subjected to discourtesy, though it was the exception, not the rule.’
Ironbridge in Shropshire will be found ‘terribly spoilt by the forges and foundries, the banks of slag and refuse that run down to the water’s edge. Tiers of dirty cottages rise on the hill-side, which is very steep. Very near the station the Severn is crossed by an iron bridge of one arch, of 120 ft. span, being the first iron bridge on record.’
If our traveller in Crewe has to wait while changing trains he might look in at the nearby works, where steel ingots ‘are made here by Bessemer’s process, and it is one of the most beautiful sights in the world to see the blast put on to the huge converter. After a blow of 18 minutes, the spiegeleisen is added, and the whole fiery mass is then decanted out of the converter into a mould, a magnificent exhibition of fireworks and white heat.’
Tired of this spectacular industrial might, the traveller could pass a week at Matlock, having read Byron’s encomium in his Murray: ‘I can assure you there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or Switzerland.’
The hotels are said to be ‘very comfortable’, and ‘agreeable walks have been carried up the steep heights on both sides of the valley; but, being for the most part private property and leased out, they are accessible only on paying toll. Indeed, the tourist will soon find with what ingenuity the people of Matlock manage to make him pay “backsheesh,” enough to exhaust a good amount of small change, for the privilege of beholding their charming landscapes. Nevertheless, he should on no account omit to ascend the Heights of Abraham.’
‘I have never seen anywhere else,’ wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘such exquisite scenery as surrounds the village of Matlock.’ the author of Highways and Byways in Derbyshire (J. B. Firth), however, bewails its spoiled condition, because ‘the railway companies let loose daily in the summer-time among its sylvan beauties a horde of callous rowdies, who envy Attila his destructive secret, whereby the grass never grew again where once his feet had been planted. The debasing influence of the day tripper is everywhere visible in Matlock. His trail is unmistakable. His litter is omnipresent. He has tastes which must be catered for. The shops deck themselves out with vulgarities and banalities to please their patron. His ear is so accustomed to the roar of machinery and the din of streets that there must be a bawling salesman on the pavement to shout crude invitations to buy. It is these shops, these refreshment bars, these permanent preparations for the coming of the tripper, which ruin the place, and, once begun, the descent to Avernus becomes a veritable glissade.’
Ruskin inveighs against the ‘civilization’ which ‘enterprised a railroad through the valley – you blasted its rocks away, heaped thousands of tons of shale into its lovely stream. The valley is gone, and the Gods with it.’
Or perhaps instead of Matlock our traveller might call at Chester on his way to Wales. Murray says: ‘Few, if any towns attract so many visitors of all classes and tastes as does this ancient city.’ During the races 25,000 people a day pass through it. Dr Johnson had previously observed to Miss Barnston: ‘I have come to Chester, Madam, I cannot tell how; and far less can I tell how to get away from it.’
Henry James, in English Hours, 1872, says: ‘… if the picturesque be measured by its hostility to our modern notions of convenience, Chester is probably the most romantic city in the world … it is so rare and complete a specimen of the antique town …’ If he stayed at one of the two first-class hotels he would have learned from his Murray that both were expensive.
From Chester it is a mere twenty-four miles to Llangollen where, Murray says, the Hand Hotel is ‘one of the best in Britain, a pleasant house, thoroughly comfortable, and very moderate, kind landlady, Mrs. Edwards.’ He then leads us on a ten-minute walk above the church to a ‘small cottage ornée, once the retreat of two maiden ladies, Lady Eleanor Butler, and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby. In 1799 they came hither together in the heyday of their youth and charms, influenced only by a romantic attachment to each other, which never was sundered, and a fancied desire to retire from the world. Here they set up their tent and lived together amidst their books and flowers. An assiduous correspondence carried on with their literary and fashionable friends kept them always au courant of the latest gossip and scandal of the outer world, and as their hermitage lay on the Holyhead mail road, it allowed many a passing friend to drop in upon them, such as young Arthur Wellesley on his way to embark for Spain, in 1808. The costume which they adopted, though it seemed singular to strangers, was only that of the Welsh peasant woman, – a man’s hat, a blue cloth gown or riding habit, with short hair, uncurled and grey (undyed). After a happy friendship of 50 years Miss Butler died, 1829, aged 90, and Miss Ponsonby in 1830 at the age of 78. Their house is now converted into a sort of Museum. Visitors pay a fee of 6d., which goes to some local charity.’
The Gossiping Guide to Wales, 1905 gives more details of the association, calling them ‘two queer old souls who, when they were young, vowed, as violently attached ladies do vow, for celibacy and a cottage, only with this difference – they fulfilled their vows. They were Irish, and they fled from matrimony as from a pestilence, and found in Llangollen a haven of rest, where, for more than half a century, they lived, and where their remains now repose under a tombstone in the churchyard near the church door. Mathews the Elder describes them as they first burst on his astonished vision in the Oswestry Theatre, which is now, by the way, a malthouse. “Oh, such curiosities! I was nearly convulsed. I could scarcely get on for the first ten minutes after my eye caught them. As they are seated, there is not one point to distinguish them from men: the dressing and powdering of the hair; their well starched neck-clothes; the upper part of their habits, which they always wear even at a dinner party, made precisely like men’s coats; and regular beaver black hats. They looked exactly like two respectable superannuated old clergymen.”’
Any distinguished visitor who passed that way a second time was expected to bring a present of carved oak. ‘The Duke of Wellington was here in 1814; and Wordsworth, who called on his tour through North Wales in 1824, composed a poem in the grounds, in which he called the house a “low-roofed cot,” greatly to the annoyance of the Ladies, who declared they could have written better poetry themselves! Amongst other visitors were Madame de Genlis, with the young Mademoiselle d’Orléans, in 1791, and Sir Walter Scott in 1825.’
Baddeley’s North Wales adds this
intriguing detail: ‘In one of the bedrooms is a double secret cupboard containing authentic copies of the garments worn by the romantic pair.’ A French guidebook of 1914 gave the two ladies some philanthropic credit by remarking that ‘well before the beginning of the feminist movement they established in the district a refuge for young girls seeking to escape the deceits and wiles of men’.
For more upland scenery the traveller would go to Snowdon where, on its peak: ‘The visitor will be much mistaken if he comes prepared for mountain solitude, for in the season it is one of the most crowded spots in Wales. The guides have erected 2 or 3 huts on the highest point, where refreshments, such as eggs, cheese, tea, and bottled beer, may be obtained at tolerably reasonable prices, considering the labour of getting them up. In foggy or wet weather it is no slight relief to find a dry room and blazing fire. A charge of 6s. is made for bed and breakfast, to those who wish to see the sun rise.’ By 1914 the price had risen to ten shillings.
After a flying visit to Aberystwyth (‘the Biarritz of Wales’) we may track our way north again, to Liverpool. Hawthorne, the American consul for four years from 1853, said about the people, and the English in general: ‘I had been struck on my arrival by the very rough aspect of these John Bulls in their morning garb, their coarse frock-coats, gray hats, checked trousers, and stout shoes. At dinner-table it was not at first easy to recognise the same individuals in their white waistcoats, muslin cravats, thin black coats, with silk facings perhaps. But after a while you see the same rough figure through all the finery, and become sensible that John Bull cannot make himself fine, whatever he may put on. He is a rough animal, and his female is well adapted to him.’
Liverpool’s prosperity was founded, Black’s guidebook relates, on slaves and cotton. In 1874, it had a population of 500,000, and was the second city in the kingdom. Large scale manufactures included ‘sugar refineries, chemical works, foundries, wood and iron ship-building yards, steel works, anchor and chain cable foundries, and roperies’. Though the city’s five public parks had cost an immense amount of money the site of Liverpool was, from some unaccountable cause, ‘unhealthy. But between 1786 and 1868 upwards of three hundred million pounds have been expended in improving the town, in the formation of new streets, purchasing old obnoxious property, and in carrying out stringent sanitary improvements.’