Chapter III

Sir William Dugdale, in his diary, under date of July 16th, 1679, mentions the first Birmingham coach we have any notice of. He says, “I came out of London by the stage-coach of Bermicham to Banbury.” That is all we learn of specifically Birmingham coaches until 1731, when Rothwell’s began to ply to London in two days and a half, according to the old coaching bill still preserved.

Afterwards came the Flying Coach of 1742, followed in 1758 by an “improved Birmingham Coach,” with the legend “Friction Annihilated” prominent on the axle-boxes. This the _Annual Register_ declared to be “perhaps the most useful invention in mechanics this age has produced.” Much virtue lingered in that “perhaps,” for nothing more was heard of that wonderful device.

In 1812 the Post Office established a Birmingham Mail, and great was the local rejoicing on May 26th, when, attended by eight mail-guards in full uniform, adorned with blue ribbons, it paraded the streets. After two hours’ procession, when coachman and guards were feasted with wine, biscuits, and sandwiches, the Mail set out for London from the “Swan” Hotel, amid the ringing of St. Martin’s bells and the cheering of the assembled thousands.

Eight years later it was estimated that Birmingham owned eighty-four coaches. Forty of these were daily, and most plied on bye-roads.

BIRMINGHAM
STAGE-COACH,
In Two _Days_ and a half; begins _May_ the 24th,
1731.

SETS out from the _Swan-Inn_ in _Birmingham_,
every _Monday_ at six a Clock in the Morning,
through _Warwick_, _Banbury_ and _Alesbury_,
to the _Red Lion Inn_ in _Aldersgate street_,
_London_, every _Wednesday_ Morning: And returns
from the said _Red Lion Inn_ every _Thursday_
Morning at five a Clock the same Way to the
_Swan-Inn_ in _Birmingham_ every _Saturday_, at
21 Shillings each Passenger, and 18 Shillings
from _Warwick_, who has liberty to carry 14
Pounds in Weight, and all above to _pay One
Penny a Pound_.

Perform d (if God permit)

By Nicholas Rothwell.

_The_ Weekly Waggon _sets out every Tuesday
from the Nagg’s-Head in Birmingham, to the_
Red Lion Inn _aforesaid, every Saturday, and
returns from the said Inn every Monday, to
the Nagg’s-Head in Birmingham every
Thursday._

_Note. By the said_ Nicholas Rothwell _of_
Warwick, _all Persons may be furnished with
a By Coach Chariot, Chaise or Hearse, with a
Mourning Coach and able Horses, to any Part
of Great Britain, at reasonable Rates And
also Saddle Horses to be had._

* * * * *

From 1822 to 1826 Birmingham witnessed a great improvement in its coaches. Waddell owned the two most prominent yards in the town, but had many ardent competitors. In 1822 the “Tally-ho” was established, shortly to be followed by the hotly competing “Independent,” “Real,” and “Patent” Tally-hoes. Supposed to keep a pace of ten miles an hour, they no sooner left the town behind than they started racing, to the terror of the nervous and the delight of the sporting passengers. Annually, on the First of May, they were spurred to superhuman and super-equine exertions, and, we are told, covered the hundred and eight miles between Birmingham and London “under seven hours.” How much under is not stated, but as an even seven hours gives us fifteen miles an hour, including stops, the pace must have been furious. Harry Tresslove, the coachman of the “Independent Tally Ho,” always galloped the five-mile stage between Dunchurch and the “Black Dog,” Stretton-upon-Dunsmore, in eighteen minutes.

The existence of all stage-coaches being furiously competitive, they could not afford to be quiet and plain, like the Mails. “Once I remember,” says De Quincey, “being on the top of the Holyhead Mail between Shrewsbury and Oswestry, when a tawdry thing from Birmingham, some ‘Tally-ho’ or ‘Highflyer,’ all flaunting with green and gold, came up alongside of us. What a contrast with our royal simplicity of form and colour in this plebeian wretch! The single ornament on our dark ground of chocolate colour was the mighty shield of the Imperial arms, but emblazoned in proportion as modest as a signet-ring bears to a seal of office. Even this was displayed only on a single panel, whispering, rather than proclaiming, our relations to the mighty State; whilst the beast from Birmingham, our green-and-gold friend from false, fleeting, perjured Brummagem, had as much writing and painting on its sprawling flanks as would have puzzled a decipherer from the tombs of Luxor. For some time this Birmingham machine ran along by our side—a piece of familiarity that already of itself seemed to me sufficiently Jacobinical. But all at once a movement of the horses announced a desperate intention of leaving us behind. ‘Do you see _that_?’ I said to the coachman. ‘I see,’ was his short answer. He was wide awake, yet he waited longer than seemed prudent, for the horses of our audacious opponent had a disagreeable air of freshness and power. But his motive was loyal; his wish was that the Birmingham conceit should be full-blown before he froze it. When that seemed right he unloosed, or, to speak by a stronger word, he _sprang_ his unknown resources: he slipped our Royal horses like cheetahs, or hunting-leopards, after the affrighted game. How they could retain such a reserve of fiery power after the work they had accomplished seemed hard to explain. But on our side, besides the physical superiority, was a tower of moral strength, namely, the King’s Name. Passing them without an effort, as it seemed, we threw them into the rear with so lengthening an interval between us as proved in itself the bitterest mockery of their presumption; whilst our guard blew back a shattering blast of triumph that was really too painfully full of derision.”

The “Emerald” was a fast night coach between London and Birmingham, “driven,” says Colonel Corbet, in his book, _An Old Coachman’s Chatter_, “by Harry Lee, whose complexion was of a very peculiar colour, almost resembling that of a bullock’s liver—the fruit of strong potations of ‘early purl’ or ‘dog’s nose,’ taken after the exertions of the night and before going to bed.”

The last coach put on the road between London and Birmingham, we are told, on the same authority, was in 1837. It was a very fast day mail, started to run to Birmingham and then on to Crewe, where it transferred mails and passengers to the railway for Liverpool. It was horsed by Sherman, and timed at twelve miles an hour.

Early or late in the coaching era robbery flourished. In the opening years the coaches, as already abundantly noted, were held up by the conventional figure of the highwayman; but, as civilisation advanced, methods changed, and, instead of bestriding a high-mettled steed at the cross-roads, there to await the coach, the thief, in concert with a chosen band, booked seats, and during a long journey cut open the boot from the inside of the vehicle, and having safely extracted the bank parcels and other valuables, made off from the next stopping-place with ease and complete safety. The advantages of this method were so obvious that coaching history teems with examples of such robberies. Very often, however, the booty was in notes, and difficult to turn to any account. Hauls such as that described in _Aris’s Birmingham Gazette_ of February 17th, 1823, were rare. It mentioned: “A parcel containing 600 sovereigns, directed to Messrs. Attwood and Spooner, was stolen last week from one of the London coaches, on its way to Birmingham.” The bankers never saw the colour of their money again.