The Victorian City: Everyday Life in Dickens' London by Judith Flanders Page A
Authors: Judith Flanders
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road; if the coach broke down, it was his job to keep the mail moving.
The mailcoaches were expected to travel at a steady ten miles an hour. One minute was scheduled for the tired horses to be taken out of harness and replaced by fresh ones at coaching inns along the way, although some ostlers prided themselves on achieving the feat in even less. The American visitor Alexander MacKenzie described the change over on the Dover–London mail in the 1830s. When the bugle of the guard was heard, the barmaid automatically drew a drink, usually a ‘heavy wet’, or malt, for the coachmen. As the wheels sounded in the yard, out ran the ‘inn-keeper, bar-maid, stable-boys, mischievous urchins, and all the idlers of the neighbourhood. The horses were pulled back upon their haunches, and stopped as if shot; the reins were thrown down on either side; the whip given unceremoniously to the envied occupant of the box-seat; and the coachman descended, with a princely air of condescension.’ If the coach was full, a third pair of horses, with a postilion, was harnessed at every hill. Even this ‘occasioned no delay; each horse had its attendant hostler...and the business of changing was managed with admirable despatch. A wooden block...was thrust under the hind wheel the instant we drew up...the coachman would nobly toss off the foaming tankard presented to him...and ere a minute had flown by, the guard would say “All right!” as he ascended the back of the coach, the block be withdrawn, and the horses...dart[ed] away at a gallop.’
For outward journeys from London until 1828, passengers booked seats and began their journey at the inn where the horses were stabled, travelling on to the main post office at Lombard Street, where the mailbags were collected and locked in the boots as the coaches clogged up the street, drawn up in double ranks. From 1829, the new, very large main post office at St Martin’s-le-Grand became the starting point, and from there the coaches roared out. Crowds stood by to watch their departure every evening, one of the sights of London. Their speed was proverbial, both a marvel and a worry. In Little Dorrit , a man is knocked down by a mailcoach, and all the bystanders agree: ‘“They ought to be prosecuted and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane [now Gresham Street] and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonderis, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails”... “ I see one on ’em pull up within half a inch of a boy, last night”...“ I see one on ’em go over a cat, sir – and it might have been your own mother.”’ But it was precisely because of this speed that fares were higher than for a regular stagecoach: from 4½d to 5d per mile outside, or 8d to 10d per mile inside.
The mails became woven into the fabric of life, not merely as a symbol of modernity, nor even later of nostalgia, though they were both at different times, but also as a symbol of national pride. The essayist Thomas de Quincey described how during the French wars, from the battles of Trafalgar (1805) to Waterloo (1815), it was primarily the mails that broke the news of each victory. Traditionally, boards had been affixed to the sides of the mails, announcing events of national importance, such as the death of a monarch, to those towns and villages through which they passed without stopping. But during the decade of allied victories in Europe, it was considered a privilege to ride on top of a coach that was carrying the glad tidings. On such a night the ‘horses, men, carriages, all are dressed in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and ribbons’. The streets around the post office filled with even more excited spectators than usual, who shouted ‘continual hurrahs’ as the mails moved out: ‘what a thundering of wheels! – what a trampling of hoofs!– what a sounding of trumpets! – what farewell cheers – what redoubling peals of brotherly congratulations,
The mailcoaches were expected to travel at a steady ten miles an hour. One minute was scheduled for the tired horses to be taken out of harness and replaced by fresh ones at coaching inns along the way, although some ostlers prided themselves on achieving the feat in even less. The American visitor Alexander MacKenzie described the change over on the Dover–London mail in the 1830s. When the bugle of the guard was heard, the barmaid automatically drew a drink, usually a ‘heavy wet’, or malt, for the coachmen. As the wheels sounded in the yard, out ran the ‘inn-keeper, bar-maid, stable-boys, mischievous urchins, and all the idlers of the neighbourhood. The horses were pulled back upon their haunches, and stopped as if shot; the reins were thrown down on either side; the whip given unceremoniously to the envied occupant of the box-seat; and the coachman descended, with a princely air of condescension.’ If the coach was full, a third pair of horses, with a postilion, was harnessed at every hill. Even this ‘occasioned no delay; each horse had its attendant hostler...and the business of changing was managed with admirable despatch. A wooden block...was thrust under the hind wheel the instant we drew up...the coachman would nobly toss off the foaming tankard presented to him...and ere a minute had flown by, the guard would say “All right!” as he ascended the back of the coach, the block be withdrawn, and the horses...dart[ed] away at a gallop.’
For outward journeys from London until 1828, passengers booked seats and began their journey at the inn where the horses were stabled, travelling on to the main post office at Lombard Street, where the mailbags were collected and locked in the boots as the coaches clogged up the street, drawn up in double ranks. From 1829, the new, very large main post office at St Martin’s-le-Grand became the starting point, and from there the coaches roared out. Crowds stood by to watch their departure every evening, one of the sights of London. Their speed was proverbial, both a marvel and a worry. In Little Dorrit , a man is knocked down by a mailcoach, and all the bystanders agree: ‘“They ought to be prosecuted and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane [now Gresham Street] and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonderis, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails”... “ I see one on ’em pull up within half a inch of a boy, last night”...“ I see one on ’em go over a cat, sir – and it might have been your own mother.”’ But it was precisely because of this speed that fares were higher than for a regular stagecoach: from 4½d to 5d per mile outside, or 8d to 10d per mile inside.
The mails became woven into the fabric of life, not merely as a symbol of modernity, nor even later of nostalgia, though they were both at different times, but also as a symbol of national pride. The essayist Thomas de Quincey described how during the French wars, from the battles of Trafalgar (1805) to Waterloo (1815), it was primarily the mails that broke the news of each victory. Traditionally, boards had been affixed to the sides of the mails, announcing events of national importance, such as the death of a monarch, to those towns and villages through which they passed without stopping. But during the decade of allied victories in Europe, it was considered a privilege to ride on top of a coach that was carrying the glad tidings. On such a night the ‘horses, men, carriages, all are dressed in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and ribbons’. The streets around the post office filled with even more excited spectators than usual, who shouted ‘continual hurrahs’ as the mails moved out: ‘what a thundering of wheels! – what a trampling of hoofs!– what a sounding of trumpets! – what farewell cheers – what redoubling peals of brotherly congratulations,
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