The Portsmouth Road and Its Tributaries Part 12

There is a certain interest bound up with the name of Thursley, for it affords an excellent example of the lengths to which antiquaries will go, to scent derivatives. Kemble, the learned author of a deep and scholarly book, "The Saxons in England," derives the name of Thursley from the Scandinavian G.o.d Thor, whose equivalent in Saxon mythology was Thunor.

The name of Thunder Hill, a height near the village, has the same origin; but the clinching argument of the neighbouring "Hammer Ponds," which Mr.

Kemble a.s.sumes to have been named after Thor's hammer, spoils the reasoning of the theory altogether, for the "Hammer Ponds" are nothing but the remains of the old forges that were thickly spread over the surface of Kent, Surrey, and Suss.e.x during a period from three centuries to one hundred years ago.

[Sidenote: _TYNDALL_]

Just where the road from Thursley rejoins the highway stands the "Huts"

Inn, now enlarged and refurbished, and nothing less, if you please, in these days than the "Royal Huts" Hotel. "Ma conscience!" I wonder what friend Cobbett would have thought, _and_ said. But, believe me, nothing less than this would serve the turn of Hindhead district now-a-days, for it fast becoming as suburban as (say) Clapham. Do you want a building-plot, carved out of a waste, where nothing has yet bloomed but the tiny purple bells of the heather or the golden glory of the gorse?

Here, then, is your chance, for building-plots fringe the road where, indeed, the trim-built villa has not already risen. Professor Tyndall, who built a house for himself just here, in 1882, selected the situation both for its health-giving air and for its seclusion, but his example served only to advertise the attractions of the place, and the astonishing favour with which Hindhead is now regarded as a residence is directly attributable to him. No one was less pleased than himself at this sudden popularity of a district that had but a few years previously been a more or less "howling" wilderness, for "he was always curiously sensitive to the beauty of scenery," disliked suburbs, and was also singularly sensitive to being overlooked from any neighbouring house. This preference for reclusion led to the building of the hideous screens which hid from his gaze an ugly house close at hand, and created so much angry controversy a few years ago: screens that to-day remain an unfailing reminiscence of the Professor. _Sic monumentum requiris, circ.u.mspice_, to quote the old tag.

XXI

And now, save for the slight rise of Cold Ash Hill, it is all down-hill to Liphook, and excellent going, too, on a fine gravelly road, closely compacted and well kept. The country, though, is still wild and unfertile, and for long stretches, after pa.s.sing the "eligible plots" of Hindhead, the road is seen narrowing away in long perspectives with never a house in sight. In midst of all this waste stands a lonely roadside inn--the "Seven Thorns" a wayside sign proclaims it to be--which draws its custom the Lord only knows whence. It is frankly an inn for refreshing and for pa.s.sing on your way: no one, I imagine, ever wants to stay there; and by its cold and cheerless exterior appearance one might readily come to the conclusion that no one even lived there. The sign is singular, and seems either descriptive or legendary. If legend it has, no whisper of it has ever reached me; while as for descriptiveness, the "seven thorns" are simply non-existent; and so the sign is neither more nor less a foreshadowing of the place than the average Clapham "Rosebank" or the Brixton "Fernlea."

[Ill.u.s.tration: TYNDALL'S HOUSE: SCREENS IN THE FOREGROUND.]

Even on a summer's day one does not find the immediate neighbourhood of the "Seven Thorns" Inn particularly exhilarating or cheerful, for, although the country is open and unspoiled by buildings, yet the scenery lacks the suavity of generous land, prolific of fine timber and graceful foliage. The soil is ungrateful and unproductive; nourishing only the gorse and the hardy gra.s.ses that grow upon commons and cover the nakedness of the harsh sand and gravel of the surrounding country-side. Such trees as grow about here are wind-tossed and scraggy, bespeaking the little nutriment the land affords, and the greater number of them are firs and pines, which, indeed, are the chiefest of Hampshire's sylvan growths.

[Sidenote: _A MEMORABLE SNOW-STORM_]

But in winter-time this unsheltered tract is swept with piercing winds that know no bulwark, nor any stay against their furious onslaughts; and here, in the great snow-storm of Yule-tide 1836, the Portsmouth coaches were nearly snowed up. "The snow," says a writer of local gossip, "was lying deep upon Hindhead, and had drifted into fantastic wreaths and huge mounds raised by the fierce breath of a wild December gale. Coach after coach crawled slowly and painfully up the steep hill, some coming from London, others bound thither. But as the 'Seven Thorns' was neared, they one and all came to a dead stop. The tired, wearied, exhausted cattle refused to struggle through the snow-mountains any longer. Guards, coachmen, pa.s.sengers, and labourers attacked those ma.s.ses of spotless white with spade and shovel, but all to no purpose. It seemed as if a way was not to be cleared. What stamping of feet and blowing of nails was there! Women were shivering and waiting patiently; men were shouting, grumbling, and swearing; and indeed the prospect of spending a winter's night upon the outside of a coach on such a spot was, to say the least of it, not cheerful. At last a brave man came to the rescue. The 'Star of Brunswick,' a yellow-bodied coach that ran nightly between Portsmouth and London, came up. The coachman's name was James Carter, well known to many still living. He made very little to-do about the matter, but, whipping up his horses, he charged the snow-drifts boldly and resolutely, and with much swaying from side to side opened a path for himself and the rest."

And so the Portsmouth Road was kept open in that wild winter, while most of the main roads in England were hopelessly snowed up. But memories of coaching days on this old road are rather meagre, for, although sea-faring business sent a great many travellers journeying between London and the dockyard town, the Portsmouth Road was never celebrated for crack coaches or for record times, and when coaching was in full swing, men saw as little romance in being dragged down the highways behind four horses as we can discover in railway travelling. With coach-proprietors, the horsing and equipping of a coach were matters of business, and beyond looking shrewdly after that business, the most of them cared little enough for coaching history. With the pa.s.sengers, too, travelling was an evil to be endured. It irked them intolerably: it was a necessity, a duty,--what you will for unpleasantness,--and so, when the journey was done, the better part of them immediately dismissed it from their minds, instead of dwelling fondly upon the memories of perils overcome and rigours endured--as we are apt to imagine.

[Sidenote: _REGRETS FOR COACHING DAYS_]

It was only when the Augustan age of coaching had dawned that travellers began to feel any delight or exhilaration in road-travel; and that age was cut short so untimely by the Railway Era that the young fellows and the middle-aged men whose blood coursed briskly through their veins, and who knew a thing or two about horse-flesh, felt a not unnatural regret in the change, and conceived an altogether natural affection for the old _regime_. Their regret can be the more readily understood when one inquires into the beginnings of railway travel; when conveyance by steam _might_ have been more expeditious than the coach service (although what with delays and unpunctuality at the inauguration of railways even _that_ was an open question), but certainly was at the same time much more uncomfortable. For, in place of the sheltered inside of a coach, or the frankly open and unprotected outside, the primitive railway pa.s.senger was conveyed to his destination in an open truck exposed to the furious rush of air caused by the pa.s.sage of the train; and, all the way, he employed his time, not in admiring the landscape, or, as he was wont to do from a coach-top, in kissing his hand to the girls, but fleeted a penitential pilgrimage in scooping out from his eyes the blacks and coal-grit liberally imparted from the wobbly engine, own brother to the "Rocket,"

and immediate descendant of "Puffing Billy."

No wonder they regretted the more healthful and cleanly journeys by coach, and small blame to them if they voted the railway a nuisance; believed the country to be "going to the dogs," and agreed with the Duke of Wellington, when he exclaimed, upon seeing the first railway train in progress, "There goes the English aristocracy!"

For these men, and for the amateur coachees who during the Regency had occupied the box-seats of the foremost stages, this last period of coaching represented everything that was healthful and manly, and when the last wheel had turned, and the ultimate blast from the guard's bugle had sounded; when the roadside inn and its well-filled stables became deserted; and when the few remaining coachmen, post-boys, and ostlers had either accepted situations with the railway companies or had gone into the workhouse, a glamour clothed the by-gone dispensation that has lost nothing with the lapse of time. The pity is that these thorough-going admirers of days as dead as those of the Pharaohs were so largely "mute, inglorious Miltons," and have left so small a record of their stirring times awheel.

[Sidenote: _AN OLD COACHMAN TALKS_]

One of the last coachmen on this road was interviewed by a local paper some years ago, and the inclusion here of his reminiscences is inevitable. The "Last of the Old Whips" they called him:--

"He was sitting by a blazing fire, in a cheerful, pleasant room, evidently enjoying a gla.s.s of 'something hot' in the style that 'Samivel's father'

would have thoroughly appreciated. But truth compels us to add that he had evidently seen better days, and that the comforts with which he was now temporarily surrounded had been strangers to him many a long day. Yet there were many still living who remembered 'young Sam Carter' as a dashing whip, who knew a good team when he sat behind them, and had handled the ribbons in a most workmanlike fashion. But the old fire and energy are still unquenched, either by the lapse of years or the pressure of hard times, and the veteran gladly gives the rein to memory and spins a yarn of the old coaching days.

[Sidenote: _REMINISCENCES_]

"'The last conveyance of which I had charge,' said he, 'was the old "Accommodation." She was not a road wagon, but a van driven by five horses, three leaders abreast, and reaching London in sixteen hours. We used to start from the "Globe Inn," Oyster Street, Portsmouth, and finished the journey to London at the "New Inn," Old Change, or at the "Castle and Falcon," Aldersgate Street. Yes, I took to the road pretty early. I was only about sixteen or seventeen years of age when I took charge of the London mail for my father. Father used to ride to Moushill and back (that's seventy-two miles) every night for fifty years. He drove the night "Nelson" for thirty-two years. That was a coach with a yellow body, and about 1822 its name was altered to that of the "Star of Brunswick." It ran from the "Fountain" and the "Blue Posts," Portsmouth, to the "Spread Eagle," in Gracechurch Street. Its pace was about eight miles per hour, including changes. We only changed once between Portsmouth and G.o.dalming, and that was at Petersfield, but the stages were terribly long, and we afterwards used to get another team at Liphook. The night coaches to London used to do the distance in about twelve hours, and the day coaches did it in nine hours; but the mails were ten hours on the road. The mail-coaches carried four inside and three out, with a "d.i.c.key"

seat for the guard, who never forgot to take his sword-case and blunderbuss, though in my time we never had any trouble with highwaymen, and I never heard much about them stopping coaches in this neighbourhood.

Of course every now and then a sailor would tumble off and break a leg, a head, or an arm, but that was only what you might expect. There were plenty of poachers and smugglers about, but no highwaymen. We did not have key bugles, as the books often say; the horn served our turn. William Balchin, who was guard with me as well as with father, was a good hand with his horn. I was guard for twelve months to the night "Rocket," which ran to the "Belle Sauvage," then kept by Mr. Nelson. It was established for the benefit of the people of Portsea, and only ran for six or seven years. The day "Rocket" was much older, and got a good share of the Isle of Wight traffic. Both these "Rockets" were white-bodied coaches. Francis Falconer, who died at Petersfield about 1874, drove the day "Rocket" all the time it ran. Robert Nicholls was the only coachman that I ever knew to save money. He was a post-boy with me, and when he died he left a nice little fortune to each of his four daughters.

"'The "Independent" ran to the "Spread Eagle," and to the "Cross Keys,"

Wood Street. It was horsed by Mr. Andrew Nance as far as Petersfield, after which the two coachmen, Durham and Parkinson, found horses over the remaining stages. Yes, I knew old Sam Weller very well indeed. He drove the "Defiance" from the "George" and the "Fountain" to the Blue Coach Office, Brighton. The "Defiance" was painted a sort of mottled colour. Sam was a lame man, with a good-humoured, merry face, fond of a bit of fun, and always willing for a rubber. His partner was Neale, for whom I used sometimes to drive. He afterwards became landlord of the "Royal Oak," in Queen Street, Portsmouth. Do you see that scar, sir? I got that in 1841, through the breaking of my near hind axle as we came down through Guildford town. I was then driving the "Accommodation" between Ripley and Portsmouth. One night we were an hour late in starting. I had the guard on the box with me, and as we were going pretty hard down the High Street at Guildford I heard the wheel "scroop." The axle broke, and the next thing I remember was finding myself in bed at the "Ram" Hotel, where I had lain without speaking for a week. Whilst I was ill my wife presented me with twins, so that we had plenty of troubles at once. When I was driving the "Wanderer," a pair-horse coach, my team bolted with me near the "Seven Thorns," and on another occasion a dog-cart got in the way of the "Star of Brunswick," and we capsized, and a lot of mackerel was spilt all over the road. That was about half-a-mile this side of Horndean. When I was first acting as post-boy my chaise got overturned, but on the whole I have been pretty fortunate. Once during a deep snow there was a complete block of coaches on the road at "Seven Thorns." My father undertook to lead the way, and he succeeded in opening the road for the rest. My father's name was James Carter. He was post-boy at the "Royal Anchor" Hotel, Liphook, at the time that the unknown sailor was murdered at the Devil's Punch Bowl.

In fact, all my people belonged to Liphook. The names of the murderers were Michael Casey, James Marshall, and Edward Lonegon. They were captured the same day, in a public-house at Rake Hill, nearly opposite the present "Flying Bull," where they were offering a blood-stained jacket for sale.

The poor fellow who was murdered was buried in Thursley churchyard.

"'I used to drive the "Tantivy,"--a day and night coach,--which afterwards ran only by day. We drove from Portsmouth to Farnborough station, then put the coach on the train, and drove into town from the terminus at Nine Elms.

"'Of course I remember the old "Coach and Horses," at Hilsea. It was afterwards burnt down. There was formerly a guard-house and picket at Hilsea Bridge, where the soldiers' pa.s.ses were examined. Hilsea Green we used to reckon the coldest spot between Portsmouth and London. Once some body-s.n.a.t.c.hers started from the "Green Posts," at Hilsea, with the officers in full cry after them, but the rascals had a famous mare, "Peg Hollis" (oh! she was a good 'un to go!), and got clear off.

"'Yes, I knew Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence well; he was a good friend to me.

Many's the time he has sat beside me on the box, and at the end of the stage slipped a crown-piece into my hand.'"

XXII

[Sidenote: _BY-WAYS_]

At the "Seven Thorns" Inn the three counties of Suss.e.x, Surrey, and Hants are supposed to meet; but, like so many of the picturesque legends of county and parish boundaries that make one house stand in three or four parishes, this particular legend is altogether unfounded, for the three counties meet in a dell about two miles southward of the road, in Hammer Bottom, where once stood a lonely beer-house called the "Suss.e.x Bell."

We will not turn aside to visit the site of the "Suss.e.x Bell," or the remains of the Hammer Ponds that tell of the old iron-foundries and furnaces that were wont to make the surrounding hills resound and despoiled the dense woods of their n.o.blest trees for the smelting of iron ore. We have no present business so far from the road in a place that has harboured no notorious evil-doer, nor has ever been the home of any distinguished man.

But we may well turn aside after pa.s.sing Cold Ash Hill to explore a singular relic of monkish days that still exists, built into a comparatively modern farm-house and forgotten by the world.

Some three miles south of the road, reached by a turning below the "Seven Thorns" Inn, lies the little-visited village of Lynchmere, a rural parish, embowered in foliage and picturesquely situated amid hills; and in the immediate neighbourhood stand the remains of Shulbrede Priory, now chiefly incorporated with farm-buildings. The place is well worthy a visit, for the farm-house contains a room, called the Prior's Room, still decorated with monkish frescoes of a singular kind. These probably date almost as far back as the foundation of this Priory of Augustinian Canons, in the time of Henry III., and are unfortunately very much defaced. But sufficient can be discerned for the grasping of the idea, which seems to be a representation of the Nativity. The design introduces the inscription:--_Ecce virgo concipiet et pariet filium; et vocabitur nomen Jesus_; while a number of birds and animals, rudely drawn and crudely coloured, appear, with Latin legends issuing from their mouths. Uppermost stands the c.o.c.k, as in the act of crowing, while from his beak proceeds the announcement, "_Christus natus est_." Next follows a duck, from whose bill issues another label, inscribed "_Quando, quando?_" a query answered appropriately by a raven, "_In hac nocte_." "_Ubi, ubi?_" asks a cow of a lamb, which rejoins, bleating "_In Bethlems_."

[Sidenote: _PRIORS AND PORKERS_]

But few other relics of this secluded priory are visible. Some arcading; a vaulted pa.s.sage; fragments of Early English mouldings: these are all.

Somewhere underneath the pig-sties, cow-houses, and rick-yards of the farm rest the forgotten priors and the nameless monks of that old foundation.

Haply this worn slab of stone has covered the remains of some jolly Friar Tuck or ascetic Augustine; this battered crocket, maybe, belonged to the tomb of some pious benefactor for whose benefit ma.s.ses were enjoined to be said or sung for ever and a day; and I dare swear this obscure stone trough, filled with hog-wash, at which fat swine are greedily drinking, was once a coffin. Imperial Caesar's remains had never so foul an insult offered them.

I lean across the fence and moralize; a most unpardonable waste of time at this _fin de siecle_, and I regret those old fellows whom Harry the Eighth in his reforming zeal sent a-packing, to beg their bread from door to door. I regret them, that is to say, from purely sentimental reasons, being, all the while, ready to allow the policy and the state-craft that drove them hence, and willing to acknowledge that the greasy ca.s.socks and filthy hair-shirts of the ultimate occupants of these cloistral shades covered a mult.i.tude of sins.

I poke the porkers thoughtfully with a stick in the place where their ribs should be, but they are of such an abbatical plumpness that my ferrule fails to discover any "osseous structure." (I thank thee, Owen, for that phrase!) They respond with piercing cries that recall the shrieks and the yells of a witches' sabbath on the Brocken, as presented before a quailing Lyceum audience,--and their horrid chorus brings the farmer on the scene.

"Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat," to quote the famous cla.s.sical _non sequitur_; and how much more should it apply to him who fattens pigs to unwieldy ma.s.ses of unconverted lard and pork! To do justice to the quotation, he is fleshy and of a full habit.

"Fine creeturs, them," says he. "Aye," say I. "Thirty score apiece, if they're a pound," he continues. They might be a hundred score for all I know; but no man likes to acknowledge agricultural ignorance, and so I agree with him, heartily, and with much appearance of wisdom. "Pooty creeturs, _I_ say," continues the farmer, smacking a broad-bellied beast, with white bristles and pink flesh covered with black splotches. That dreadful creature looks up a moment from the trough, with ringed snout dripping liberally with hog-wash, and gazes pathetically at me for acquiescence. "Yes: fine animals," I say, in a non-committal voice.

"Pictures, they are," says their owner decisively. That settles the matter, and I am off, to seek the road to Liphook.

If the excellence of the great highways of England is remarkable, the tangled lanes and absolute rusticity of the roads but a stone's throw from the main routes call no less for remark. Here, just a little way from Liphook, and in the immediate vicinity of a railway, I might have been in the deepest wilds of Devon, so meandering were the lanes, so untamed the country. An old pack-horse trail, still distinct, though unused these many generations past, wandered along, amid gorse and bracken, and footpaths led in perplexingly-different directions.

[Sidenote: _A STRANGE RENCOUNTER_]

Amid this profusion of wild life, with the dark foliage of the fir trees, the lighter leaves of the beech, and the gaily-flowered hedgerows on either hand, there appeared before me the most incongruous wayfarer: a Jingle-like figure, tall and spare, with a tightly-b.u.t.toned frock-coat, and a silk hat of another era than this, set well back upon his head--one who might have wandered here from Piccadilly in the '50's and lost his way back. I should not have been surprised had he asked news of the Great Exhibition; of Prince Albert, or the Emperor of the French. However, he merely said it was a fine day. "Yes, it was," I said; "but could he direct me to Liphook?" "Liphook?" said he, as though he had never heard the name; "I'm afraid I can't. I'm a stranger in these parts." And then he walked away. I believe he was a ghost!