The Bath Road Part 14

Opposite Noon is the advice, "Whilst we have time, do good."

"QVUM TEMPUS HABEMUS, OPEREMUR BONUM.

"Life steals away--this hour, O man, is lent thee Patient to work the work of Him that sent thee."

For Evening the admonition is not a little alarming--if taken literally.

"REDIBO. TU NUNQUAM.

"Haste, traveller! the sun is sinking low; He shall return again--but NEVER THOU."

The pa.s.sing wayfarer might well ask why he should never return along this road!

The late vicar of Bremhill did these metrical paraphrases of the Latin which led so tragically, but whose qualities, as verse, resemble the average of the ordinary Pantomime librettist.

Maud Heath's charity is still in existence, and is now worth about 120 per annum, a sum amply sufficient for keeping her Causeway in repair.

x.x.xVI

Rowden Hill, a mile out of Chippenham, on the road to Bath, is a welcome drop down into level land again, and would be enjoyable were it not for the bad surface. It is while wheeling such hills and such road-metal that one appreciates at the full the pluck and endurance of those early cyclists who raced across them in the early seventies, making the pace on the high bicycles of those times as gallantly as though the terrible jolting they experienced was really enjoyable. That well-known body of cyclists, the Bath Road Club, has numbered some good sportsmen and rare flyers in its time, and though their pace reads ridiculously slow beside that of these pneumatic-tyred days, the performances of those half-forgotten racers were quite as fine, and, conditions being equal, perhaps finer, than the record rides of recent seasons. There was a time--in August, 1870, to be precise--when two cyclists--Gardner and Fisher, did the double journey of 107 miles each way in five days, and men looked upon them as marvellous riders; so perhaps they were, considering the mechanical limitations of the machines they rode, whose like is not to be seen nowadays save in collections of curios. Equally wonderful were those stalwarts who cut away the hours, piece by piece, until their performances were topped by "Wat" Britten on the "ordinary" in 1880, when he did the double journey in 23 hours. There were those who then thought the last word had been said in the matter of Bath Road Records. They must have been astonished when R. C. Nesbitt's "ordinary" record was made on August 1, 1891, when he covered the out and home course in 15 hrs. 40 mins. 34 secs. Improved methods of manufacture may have had something to do with the smas.h.i.+ng character of this new performance; but, even so, consider the extraordinary efforts that must have gone toward getting those figures, which cut Britten's by 7 hrs. 20 mins., and at the same time secured one of the rare victories of the "ordinary" over the "safety"

pneumatic-tyred bicycle. For this grand ride defeated Mr. Lowe's, made on a "safety," in 1891 by more than 30 minutes.

[Sidenote: _CYCLING HISTORY_]

But that was one of the last expiring efforts of the now obsolete and miscalled "ordinary." It was speedily beaten by J. W. Jarvis, September 20, 1892, who put the figures at 15 hrs. 16 mins. 42 secs.--23 mins. 52 secs. better than the previous best. Then came that hardy Brighton Road record-maker, C. G. Wridgway, whose ride of August 2, 1893, put the clocking at 14 hrs. 22 mins. 57 secs.--a wonderfully heavy lowering of figures. The following year Wridgway established records on both the Brighton and Bath Road within a month; beating his record here of the previous August by his ride on October 4, when he reduced his own time by the astonis.h.i.+ng margin of 1 hr. 27 mins. 43 secs.

Time was now cut so close that when W. J. Neasen, of the Anfield Club, essayed the difficult task of lowering it, he only succeeded, on May 11, 1895, in getting inside Wridgway's time by 24 mins. 10 secs., the figures then standing at 12 hrs. 31 mins. 4 secs. H. C. Horswill, of the Ess.e.x Wheelers, then beat Neason's performance, in July, 1897, by 24 mins. 34 secs., to be succeeded finally by F. W. Barnes, who on October 30, in the same year, performed the double journey in 11 hrs. 48 mins. 42 secs., and still holds the record.

Among these records of the Bath Road must be mentioned the various essays made by C. A. Smith, of the Bath Road Club, on tricycles. He rode to Bath and back on a three-wheeler, July 16, 1891, in 16 hrs. 13 mins. 18 secs., thus establis.h.i.+ng a record, which was beaten four years later--August 23, 1895--by F. Martin, by the narrow margin of 11 mins. 43 secs. These figures in turn were lowered, August 5, 1897, by T. J. Gibbs, Bath Road Club, who accomplished a record of 14 hrs. 18 min.

x.x.xVII

[Sidenote: _PICKWICK_]

And now we come, past the tree-shaded hamlet of Cross Keys, to Pickwick, ninety-seven miles from London, situated at a turning in the road which leads to Corsham Regis, half a mile distant, on the left hand. The traveller, exploring this road for the first time, looks forward with curiosity to seeing a place with so famous a name; but Pickwick, the decayed coaching hamlet, can scarcely be said to "live up to" its literary a.s.sociations. Strictly speaking, it is not even decayed; but, now that the coaches are no more, flourishes on the "Pickwick Brewery," which makes a brave show down the road. It is an eminently prosperous-looking, stone-built hamlet, a comparatively modern offshoot of the h.o.a.ry Saxon village of Corsham, which, once on the main road, was thrust into the background when the mail coach came in, and the great highway to Bath was cut on this route, half a mile away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CROSS KEYS.]

It is a curious literary puzzle--How did the t.i.tle of the "Pickwick Papers" originate? It is a well-ascertained fact that, in 1835, d.i.c.kens, then a reporter for the daily press, was sent to Bath to report a speech of Lord John Russell's, that now almost-forgotten statesman being a candidate for representing that city. The future novelist was then but twenty-three years of age, a time of life when impressions of travel are vivid and lasting. Journeying by coach, he had every opportunity for observing places and people; and so it happened that when, a few months later, the now historic publis.h.i.+ng firm of Chapman and Hall offered him the literary commission which resulted in the "Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club," the story he produced derived many of its features from his own experiences. His recollections had no time to fade, for in March, 1836, the first part of "Pickwick" was published, and others were well on the way. It must ever be a matter of doubt whether d.i.c.kens noticed the existence of Pickwick, the place. That he had noted the existence of Moses Pickwick, the coach proprietor of Bath, is obvious enough from the "Pickwick Papers," where Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller are taking their seats for that City of the Waters.

"'I'm wery much afeerd, sir, that the properiator o' this here coach is a playin' some imperence vith us,' says Sam.

"'How is that, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick; 'aren't the names down on the way-bill?'

"'The names is not only down on the vay-bill, sir,' replied Sam, 'but they've painted vun on 'em up, on the door o' the coach.'

"'Dear me,' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence, 'what a very extraordinary thing!'

"'Yes, but that ain't all,' said Sam, again directing his master's attention to the coach door; 'not content vith writin' up Pickwick, they puts "Moses" afore it, vich I call addin' insult to injury.'"

There were then, it will be seen, real Pickwicks living in Bath, and the "Moses" Pickwick referred to was an actual person, the great-grandson of one Eleazer Pickwick, who, many years before, had risen by degrees from the humble position of post-boy at the "Old Bear," at Bath, to be landlord of the once famous "White Hart" inn, which stood where the "Grand Pump Room" hotel now towers aloft.

Now comes the long-sought-for connection between place and persons of identical name. Eleazer Pickwick was a foundling. Discovered as an infant on the road at Pickwick, he was named by the guardians, in accordance with an old custom, after the place.

[Sidenote: _CORSHAM REGIS_]

Corsham, to which Pickwick belongs, is one of those places which it would be almost an indignity to call a "village," while to name it a "town"

would be to give too great an importance to it. It is Corsham "Regis," by virtue of having been a residence of the Saxon Kings; but the Great Western has docked the kingly suffix, and if you were to ask at Paddington for a ticket to Corsham Regis, it is to be feared that the booking-clerk would not recognize the place under its full name.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HUNGERFORD ALMSHOUSE, CORSHAM REGIS.]

The townlet is a pleasing one, and, always excepting the new and ugly stone villas recently built, it abounds with delightful specimens of domestic architecture of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and mid-eighteenth centuries; fine houses built of Corsham stone in a dignified Renaissance manner, or in the earlier Tudor convention of gables and mullioned windows. Corsham Court, the finest of all, standing in its n.o.bly-wooded park, is Elizabethan, and exhibits the merging of the two periods of Gothic and Renaissance architecture. It was Lady Hungerford, widow of a former owner of Corsham Court, who, in 1672, built the quaint Hungerford Almshouse, close by.

For the rest, Corsham has little history. It was the scene of a mysterious murder in 1594, when a gentleman, one Henry Long, was shot dead, while sitting at dinner amid his friends, by Sir Charles and Sir Henry Danvers, two brothers, who hailed from Dauntsey. The motive was never known, and the a.s.sa.s.sins were never punished. Six years later, Charles was beheaded for taking part in Ess.e.x's rebellion; which seems to be a kind of oblique and fumbling retribution on the part of Providence for his crime. Henry, however, prospered amazingly, and was eventually created Earl Danby, flouris.h.i.+ng all his life, as the wicked are, on good authority, supposed to do, "like the green bay tree," and dying in the odour of sanct.i.ty, "full of honours, woundes, and daies." He is commemorated in an eloquent epitaph, written by the saintly George Herbert of Bemerton, more than ten years before his (Danvers') death; a circ.u.mstance which would seem to prove Herbert a hypocrite and Danvers peculiarly solicitous for his own post-mortem reputation.

Corsham was the birthplace of Sir Richard Blackmore, physician to William the Third, and poetaster, who, says Leigh Hunt, "composed heaps of dull poetry, versified the Psalms, and, by way of extending the lesson of patience, wrote a paraphrase of the Book of Job." What sarcasm!

But Blackmore was read in his day, just as Leigh Hunt was in his, and Fate is sardonic enough (for who at this time reads Hunt's tedious stuff?) to consign critic and criticized to one common limbo of neglect.

x.x.xVIII

[Sidenote: _THE BOX TUNNEL_]

From Corsham the old road used to lead precipitously up to the summit of Box Hill and thence downwards by breakneck gullies, furrowed by rains, and rich in loose stones, into Box. The modern highway goes modestly round the shoulder of the hill. The village of Box has gained an advent.i.tious fame from the celebrated tunnel on the Great Western Railway, which pierces Box Hill, and was, upon its completion, the longest tunnel in England.

Compared with later works, it sinks into quite minor importance; but it is still an impressive engineering feat, whether you view it from the railway carriage windows or from the highway. Its length is 3199 yards, or nearly two miles, and the hill rises above it to a height of three hundred feet.

Its cost of over 500,000 is no less impressive.

A curious story is told at Box of a platelayer, employed in the tunnel some twenty years ago, who with his gang worked there at night, and slept at Box village in the day. After a while he became engaged to a girl in the village, and the wedding-day was fixed. The vicar of Box, however, was a stickler for red tape, and it appears that he found some technical objection in the fact of the man not sleeping the night in the village.

At any rate, he would not perform the ceremony until the Bishop (of Gloucester) compelled him to do so.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ENTRANCE TO BOX QUARRIES.]

[Sidenote: _BOX QUARRIES_]

At Box we are well within the stone district whose quarries have rendered building-stone from the times of the Roman occupation until the present day. The oolite which comes from here and from the Corsham quarries is a fine grained stone, easily worked, and of a rich cream colour when freshly wrought. As "Bath stone" it is famous, and has made Bath exclusively a city of stone-built houses. In addition, it is sent to all parts of the country, and even exported. The quarries of Corsham and Box are, therefore, the centres of a large and important industry. Box Hill is a ma.s.s of this stone, and the tunnel is consequently pierced through it.

Three of the quarries are situated in the hill, some of them of great extent. The most extensive is driven into the flank of the hill like a tunnel, and has over three miles of galleries laid with tram-lines: dark, damp places, whose roofs are supported here and there by timber struts.

The coldness of these quarry tunnels is remarkably piercing, even in the height of summer.