A Victorian Lady Cycles The World: Recollections of an Octogenarian

By Isabel G. Homewood

Isabel Homewood (nee Fooks) avidly took to cyclin in 1894, after she was widowed. She travelled very widely around·Europe and the Middle East, through the Antipodes and across America. Following an early Victorian childhood, she experienced crossing the Panama Isthmus before the Canal was completed, pioneering farming in New Zealand, travel by steamer and sailing ships and the First World War. The latter curtailed her ambition to cycle round the world when she had only reached Australia, so she returned to England and trained as a midwife. As she was asked by various bodies to comment on what she thought of certain situations, such as relations between the Armenians and the Turks, she decided to include her personal views on the people she met and their culture in he journals. These contemporary accounts form the basis for this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brown Dog Books
• Release date: Nov 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785453557

Book preview

record

INTRODUCTION

I CONSIDER it a privilege to write this prefatory note; because I happen to regard the record of the lady who writes this book as much more remarkable, and even sensational, than any of those sensational newspaper stories of the feats of feminine pioneers, which will probably continue to be proclaimed in large letters in the popular press while there is a single thing that a woman has not yet done; and will display in larger and larger headlines the glory of the First Woman to Find the North Pole, or the First Woman to Climb Mount Everest. Without underrating for a moment the real personal qualities which must remain personal, even in so much advertised an adventure, it is not unfair to say that the new newspaper heroines have a thousand advantages which the heroine of this adventure not only never had but never expected and certainly never dreamed of demanding.

The modern heroines prepare for the process assisted by the very best technical advice, by the most elaborate modern machinery, in the full light of modern science, not to mention the light of modern publicity. The modern atmosphere is such that the beginning of the experiment is as conclusive as the conclusion; the send-off as triumphant as the triumph. Wealth in large quantities, and from very various sources, is available to support the enterprise at every stage. In short, the more recent lady adventurer has had the full benefit that comes from the best science and the worst journalism.

Mrs. Homewood set out on an ordinary bicycle to ride round the world, with no more fuss than if she had been riding round the parish pump. I do not imagine that she bothered very much about whether she was riding the very latest pattern of bicycle; or, if she did, it was in the same private and personal manner in which an ordinary housewife might wish to have the latest pattern of stove. She certainly had no backing from newspapers or newspaper millionaires; and the stages of her astonishing pilgrimage were certainly not recorded in headlines, and probably not recorded at all. Nay, it is only too probable that she actually preferred, such were the prejudices of her generation and breeding, not to be followed everywhere by a spotlight or announced at intervals by a megaphone. For she had, among her other eccentricities, an eccentricity that is rapidly fading from the world – something that was called the love of liberty, which is often akin to the love of loneliness. And it is becoming more and more obvious that liberty is every bit as much constrained by publicity, by cosmopolitan plans and commercial expectations, as by any restriction of any tyrannies or bigotries of the past. If it be Victorian to mind one’s own business, and to regard one’s own holiday as one’s own business; if it be Victorian to prefer independence to indiscriminate and senseless eulogy from millions of total strangers who know nothing about the real story; if it be Victorian to wish to be free from mobs as well as monarchs, and from silly admiration as well as silly criticism, then certainly the Lady who wrote this story is a typical survival of the Victorian Age.

It is true that she set out on her adventures in a period when it was supposed (less universally than is commonly thought, and I fancy even less universally than she herself thinks), that a woman should remain at the fireside, and at an age when many such women were no longer expected to get out of the armchair. But I am not sure that she was not fortunate in the interlude of independence which she enjoyed after the worst of Puritan decorum was past and before the worst of plutocratic organisation had begun. Of such a personality, born in such a period, it is unnecessary to say that she has strong likes and dislikes of a personal kind; and strong opinions on many matters, with which it is not necessary that all her admirers should agree. The important fact remains that she was and is of a certain type; which the modern world is very fond of praising, but which it very seldom succeeds in perceiving when it is really there. The very words chosen to describe it confess to the confusion of modern thought. It is customary to talk of such persons as pioneers; mainly because of a particular metaphor of Walt Whitman, who had at least the excuse of living in a country where pioneering had often meant the exploration of virgin forests and untrodden wastes. But the metaphor is false; a pioneer is not a man who leads an army, he is merely a man who clears away obstacles on the particular path which the commander has already chosen. It is unfortunate that the alternative term adventurer, and still more the term adventuress, has been twisted into a false and degraded sense. Indeed, that perversion of that word is perhaps the worst witness that remains against the real vices of the Victorian era. But if anyone wants to know how very adventurous could be the virtues of the Victorian era, and who were the real forerunners of what we call the modern freedom, he could not do better than read this book; especially as, whatever happens to the movement that follows, the forerunners at least were free.

G. K. CHESTERTON

CHAPTER I

EARLY YEARS FROM 1844

I AM eighty-eight years of age, and in my long life I have seen so many people and such great changes in the way of travelling and mode of dress, etc., that I think a short account of my experiences will probably interest many of my friends and perhaps some people I do not even know.

Old people have a livelier remembrance of their extreme youth than of any other period of their lives. Why, I cannot tell! As far as I am concerned, I do not feel old.

Most people when I was young led very drab and uneventful lives; there were not many red-letter days or events to make note of. Any change from the tedious monotony was looked forward to, especially by the young folk, for a long time in advance. A journey was not a thing to plan on the spur of the moment; every detail was mapped out weeks beforehand. Invitations were issued for a party several weeks previously.

Children were kept very strictly in the nursery and bullied by the nurses. The preparation for an after-dinner visit to the drawing-room was far from pleasant. I remember well how we had our hands and faces washed regardless how much soap went into our eyes. Our hair was brushed and combed, a good pull being given to any knots, and then we were ruthlessly pushed into clean frocks, quite regardless whether we wanted to go to the drawing-room or not. On Sundays we were allowed to go down to dessert. I can remember details of my youth; I can also remember details of my later life quite distinctly, so it is very evident that I am not senile yet!

I was sixty-six years of age when I started my tour round the world on my bicycle. The doctor, when he came on board at Boston to examine the passengers before they were allowed to land, was obliged to class me with the senile, as I was over sixty! As you may well imagine, I was highly indignant. The doctor was very charming and did his best to soothe my wounded feelings. I suppose he, poor man, was merely carrying out regulations.

If my readers do not feel interested in the details of how children and young people were treated in my childhood, they may just skip a few of the next pages.

There were not often breaks in the monotony of our lives as children. My father’s habits were very irregular, so parties and such-like fun could not be indulged in, as nothing could be fixed up weeks beforehand, as was the fashion. Even breakfast and dinner could not be relied upon at a definite time. We had few or no toys to relieve the monotony of our existence. The great number of toys, and expensive ones, that the present generation of children are given is one of the most striking differences between their lives and ours; but I doubt if they are any happier.

I was born in January 1844, and my recollections go back to 1847. We lived then in Lonsdale Square, London. We were then a family of four children. Ellen was the eldest; then came two boys, William and Pemberton; I was the youngest. Later, a brother called Henry died when quite a baby, and two sisters, whom I can scarcely remember, Emily and Alice, when aged eight and fifteen. When I was eight years of age another little sister, Edith, arrived. She is still living.

I can well remember my younger brother knocking my head through the nursery window! Another vivid recollection is the sound of gulping from the corner of the room, and a frightened exclamation, I have swallowed my farthing! from the same brother. The nurses were evidently very concerned, for they rushed and fetched my mother. I was very proud to be able to tell the time before the brother of the farthing fame.

I sat on the hearthrug like many a child before and since, and poured over Mavor’s spelling book to learn my task of words of two syllables.

Nurse’s threats instilled most terrible childish fears. I was told that if I was naughty I would be given to the butcher, and I imagined myself cut up into joints and carried in a tray such as the butcher boys carried the meat in from house to house; and seeing them often from the nursery window did not help to calm my fears.

Once, when out for a walk with the nursery governess, I got lost in a crowd that was watching a Punch and Judy show, and I well remember yelling, Take care of me, take care of me, which some kindly soul did, and soon succeeded in finding the governess, who was nearly as alarmed as I was.

Our chief friends in the Square were the Grays. Mr. Gray was a barrister, as was my father. The Grays remained close friends for many years. Mr. Gray had a squint, and I never could tell when he was addressing me. After we left Lonsdale Square, the Grays moved to Gloucester Crescent, Regent’s Park, to a house opposite the one then occupied by Mrs. Charles Dickens.

Mr. Gray became solicitor to the Treasury, and I suppose had a good stipend. He was left a widower with ten children, and was able to allow his grown-up daughters £100 a year for pin-money.

My father kept ponies and a four-wheel carriage. It had a small seat which let up and down. This was where I sat when driving with my parents, and the three elder children sat upon the back seat. I was rather afraid of those ponies; they used to play up in the Square when being brought to the house. But I loved being put upon their backs. Doodle was a pony straight from the Shetland Islands. He was in shape more like a hunter than a Shetland pony – he could not have been much bigger than a Mastiff. A special small gig was made for Doodle and it had a tiny seat in it for me, like that in the four-wheel carriage.

My maternal grandmother often stayed with us when we were at Lonsdale Square, and I still have a vivid recollection of one of her visits. We children often went to see her in her bedroom. One day the three eldest clamoured for certain china ornaments which were on her mantelpiece, and she gave them. All the time I was dreadfully afraid one of the elders would fix on the ornament I wanted, but fortunately they did not do so and I was either too shy or remembered I had been taught not to ask for things. My grandmother was also my godmother, and I thought surely she will ask me to choose one of her ornaments; but she did not do so, and I went away feeling very, very hurt. Oddly enough, I have that very ornament I coveted amongst my treasures now. It must have been quite by chance that it was sent to me a few years ago, when a division of china took place, occasioned by deaths. With that said piece of china came the piece Ellen had chosen, which I had always intended to offer to her, but she died before I had an opportunity to carry out my intention.

The last memory of Lonsdale Square was of driving away to a house in the county of Kent, about fifteen miles from London. I know we stopped at Bedford Row, I expect to pick up my father; his chambers were there at that time. Soon afterwards he moved to Chancery Lane, to be nearer the Chancery Courts.

Our move to the country took place in September 1847, when I was three years and nine months old. Our new house was called Bowman’s Lodge. When we first went to live there, there were no trains or other public conveyances. My father was obliged to drive up to town, returning every other day. The house was a funny old rambling place built mostly of wood. I think there must have been a brick cottage on the site, and the wooden additions were run up for the accommodation of the Prince Regent (afterwards George IV), who held his toxophilite¹ meetings there, hence the name of the house.

Miss Mellon, the actress, made her debut at Bowman’s Lodge at the time the Prince Regent rented the house. Her portrait was at one time at the Lodge, and it was sold at Dorchester (vide Roach Smith’s Retrospections). Miss Mellon married Mr. Coutts, the banker, and was left a very rich widow. Later she married the Duke of St. Albans. My father was distantly related to the Duke of St. Albans through the Cracroft family. There were many skits upon her marriage. One in particular was, A fat woman with breasts like a melon with a slice cut in it. No doubt the caricature is still in existence. My father remembered seeing it in a shop in Cheapside. After she became Duchess of St. Albans, my grandfather and mother used to visit at the Duke’s mansion in London, and my grandfather used to go to Newbury Park, the Duke’s country seat. The Duke was the hereditary Grand Falconer of England.

The author’s father, William Cracroft Fooks, Q.C. (driving) and servants outside Bowmans Lodge, Dartford Heath, about 1870.

When I was a young girl, my Uncle Henry, then living at Holloway, used to take me for his Sunday walk to show me the tomb of the Duke. As far as I can remember, it was of red granite. My uncle would then explain our relationship through the Duke’s first wife.

The Prince Regent rented Bowman’s Lodge from Lady Salteson (I think that was her name, but I am not quite sure), who sold it to my maternal grandfather, Mr. Walker, then a solicitor in the town of Dartford, and it became the summer residence of my grandfather and his family. It was a queer old rambling place. There were a few lofty rooms and several smaller ones; these smaller rooms served as nurseries and afterwards as the girls’ bedrooms. The whole building was rather like a rabbit warren. The part of the house that fascinated us children most was the semi-basement and underground passages, the latter being filled with all sorts of lumber, dear to a child’s heart. There were numerous nooks and corners, real bogie holes, all lending themselves to lovely sport, such as hide and seek, hare and hounds, touch last, etc. In fact, a very happy hunting ground on wet days, and on wet Sundays my father used to join us.

Sometimes in very wet weather the underground passages were flooded and bricks had to be laid down as stepping-stones. Of course, that greatly enhanced the fun, for us at least! We were quite regardless of the mud and mess we carried all over the house. The servants always seemed to enter into the fun when the hare with hounds in full cry took refuge in the kitchen or nursery premises, so they knew if they grumbled at the mess they would lose a good deal of fun in the future.

Bowman’s Lodge was in a very neglected state when we arrived there, and we were obliged to lead a sort of picnic existence just at first. I do not remember any maid-servants being there after our fifteen-mile drive, so all the help my mother got was from a groom and his wife who had been with my father since his marriage.

The first night we four children slept in one large room. Early the next morning we managed to dress ourselves and went out to explore the grounds, which seemed to have been ploughed or dug up preparatory to making a garden. Ellen led the way, followed by Willie and Pem; my small self came last, trying to take big strides and keep in their footsteps, as Ellen said a scolding was in store for us if we trod on the damp ground. At the end of the ploughed ground there were some railings fencing off a nice paddock. We soon managed to wriggle through the rails. In the paddock were beautiful clumps of trees, between which the Prince Regent, no doubt, had his targets pitched, just as we had ours later on. This is all that I can remember of the first day in our new home.

Nurses were soon installed, but we had our meals with our mother. The family doctor called one day while we were having breakfast and to our disgust prohibited us having sugar in our cocoa, but he rose in our estimation when he told mother to let us live like little pigs. I suppose we must have been delicate. I for one followed the doctor’s prescription to the letter! I found my way to the cowshed and milked all the milk I wanted for myself, little guessing how useful the art would prove to me in years to come in New Zealand.

Just beyond the garden was a large fruit plantation. It was sub-let when we first arrived, so of course we were forbidden to go into it. The temptation was too strong for us to obey. There was only an old man in charge, and he had a wheezy cough which we could hear from afar; he also had something red about his attire, which showed up well through the gooseberry bushes, so we got good warning of his approach and fled! I rather think the tenant of that orchard must have been in arrears with his rent, for we were never punished for committing these daily raids.

My parents paid a short visit to Paris, and left us in charge of an aunt who had just returned from India. This aunt was not fond of children, and childlike, I soon discovered her aversion. I have no kindly recollections of her. Once she banished me to the nursery because I could not swallow some tough beef she had provided for our dinner. Years were slowly crawling by. Another brother was born, and nurseries were installed again; but he died when he was only a few months’ old.

Ellen at this time considered me old enough to hire me as nurse to her wax doll. I was supposed to dress and undress that doll daily, but soon had the misfortune to break its arm. I made matters worse by trying to sew the arm on again. I raided the nursery work-box for needle and cotton, but the kid on the arm was very rotten and I had to confess to what had happened, and was then and there dismissed without my wages. I never really cared for dolls, and converted my doll’s house into stables. I monopolised a large hollow oak tree which stood in the garden, and in the hollow I kept sticks, which I made believe were horses. An old broomstick that had a hole at one end, through which I passed a string to serve as a bridle, was a great treasure. My mother caught me riding it astride and