the village inn.

there is nothing more characteristic in rural life than a village alehouse, or inn. it is the centre of information, and the regular, or occasional rendezvous of almost everybody in the neighbourhood. you there see all sorts of characters, or you hear of them. the whereabout of everybody all around is there perfectly understood. i do not mean the low pothouse—the new beer-shop of the new beer-bill, with licensed to be drunk on the premises blazoned over the door in staring characters—the tom-and-jerry of the midland counties—the kidley-wink of the west of england. no, i mean the good old-fashioned country alehouse; the substantial, well-to-do old country alehouse—situated on a village green, or by the road-side, with a comfortable sweep out of the road itself for carriages or carts to come round to the door, and stand out of all harm’s way. the nice old-fashioned house, in a quiet, rural,[481] out-of-the-way, old-fashioned district. the very house which goldsmith in his day described—

where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

and news much older than their ale went round.

it is a low, white-washed, or slap-dashed, or stuccoed, or timber-framed house, with its various roof, and steep gables; its casement windows above, bright and clean, peeping out from amongst vines or jasmines, where the innkeeper’s neat daughter, who acts the parts of chambermaid, barmaid, and waiter, may be seen looking abroad; and its ample bay-windows below, where parties may do the same, and where, as you pass, you may occasionally see such parties—a pleasant-looking family, or a group of young, gay people, with merry, and often very sweet faces amongst them;—their post-chaise, travelling-carriage, barouche, or spring-cart, according to their several styles and dignities, standing at the door, under the great spreading tree. ay, there is the old spreading tree, that is as old, and probably older than the inn itself. it is an elm, with a knotty mass of root swelled out around the base of its sturdy stem into a prodigious heap—into a seat, in fact, on holiday occasions, for a score of rustic revellers, or resters. in some cases, where the root has not been so accommodating, a good stout bench runs round it; or where the root is at all endangered by scratching dogs, picking and hewing children, or rooting pigs of the village, it has heaped up a good mound of earth round it; or it is protected by a circle of wattled fence.

you see the tree is a tree of mark and consequence; it is, indeed, the tree. it is looked upon as part and parcel of the concern; of as much consequence to the house as its sign; and it is often the sign itself:—the old elm-tree! or it may be a yew—the very yew out of which robin hood and little john, will scarlett, or will stutely cut their bows—yes, that house is “the robin hood.” or it may be a mighty ash—the one-ash, or the mony-ash, as in the peak of derbyshire. or it is an oak of as much dignity—the royal-oak. or it is a whole grove or cluster, by character or tradition—the seven-sisters—or the four-brothers—or the nine-oaks—all of which sisters, brothers, or nine companions, except[482] one, are decayed, dropped off, or thrown down, as many a family beside has been. see!—the sign hangs in it, or is suspended on its post just by, bearing the likeness of the original tree, attempted by some village artist.

just such a tree and such a house, all my surrey, and many of my metropolitan readers are familiar with at the foot of st. anne’s hill, by chertsey. the golden-grove, kept by james snowden,—who does not know it, that loves sweet scenery, sweet associations, or a pleasant steak and pipe, or a tea-party on a holiday of nature, in one of the most delicious nests imaginable? yes! there is a nice old village inn for you; and such a tree! there you have the picture of the golden-grove all in a blaze of gold—somewhat dashed and dimmed, it is true, by the blaze of many suns,—but there it is, in front of the inn, and by the old tree. the inn, the hanging gardens and orchards, the rustic cottages scattered about, the rich woods and splendid prospects above, the beautiful meadows and winding streams below; why, they are enough to arrest any traveller, and make him put up his horse, and determine to breathe a little of this sweet air, and indulge in this arcadian calm, amid these embowering woodlands. and where is he? below, in those fair meadows, amid those cottage roofs and orchard trees, rises the low, square church-tower of chertsey:—chertsey, where cowley lived and died; and where his garden still remains, as delicious as ever, with its grassy walk winding by his favourite brook, and the little wooden bridge leading into the richest meadows. and where his old house yet remains, saving the porch pointing to the street, which was taken down for the public safety, but the circumstance and its cause recorded on a tablet on the wall, with this concluding line—

here the last accents flowed from cowley’s tongue.

you then, poetical or enthusiastic traveller or visitant, tread the ground which abraham cowley trod in his retirement; and what is more, you tread the ground which charles james fox trod in his retirement. the hill above is st. anne’s,—conspicuous through a great part of surrey, berks, bucks, herts, and middlesex, delightful for its woods and for its splendid panoramic views, including the winding thames, cooper’s hill, celebrated by sir john denham,[483] hampstead, highgate, harrow, and mighty london itself, but still more delightful to the patriotic visitant, as the place where fox retired to refresh himself after his parliamentary contests, and to recruit himself for fresh struggles for his country. it is a place which rogers by his pen, and turner by his pencil, have made still more sacred. who does not know the lines of rogers in his poem of human life, in his last splendidly-embellished edition of his works, referring to fox?—

and now once more where most he wished to be,

in his own fields, breathing tranquillity—

we hail him—not less happy fox, than thee!

thee at st. anne’s so soon of care beguiled,

playful, sincere, and artless as a child!

thee, who wouldst watch a bird’s nest on the spray,

through the green leaves exploring, day by day.

how oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,

with thee conversing in thy loved retreat,

i saw the sun go down!—ah, then ’twas thine,

ne’er to forget some volume half divine,

shakspeare’s or dryden’s—through the chequered shade

borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed;

and where we sate (and many a halt we made),

to read there with a fervour all thine own,

and in thy grand and melancholy tone,

some splendid passage, not to thee unknown,

fit theme for long discourse.—thy bell has tolled!

—but in thy place among us we behold

one who resembles thee.

there is the place, drawn by turner, exactly as it is; and there is still living the widow of the great statesman, at the advanced age of upwards of ninety years.

it must be confessed that the golden-grove is located in a very golden situation, and then—its tree! i suppose that is scarcely to be rivalled. i have placed on my title-page the king of belgium’s tree, but james snowden’s tree is every whit as remarkable.

it is a grand old elm, with massy, wide-spreading horizontal branches, on which is laid a stout oaken floor, fenced in by a strong parapet of boards and palisades. it is an aerial, arborean lodge, reached by an easy flight of steps, furnished with seats and tables, and canopied by the green awning of the whole tree’s foliage—just[484] the sylvan bower that makes one long to see a joyous party in it on a summer’s day, looking out with glad faces on the passers by; or a rustic company, with their homely pots of ale, and the smoke of their pipes circling out amongst the green leaves about them.

this is the old-fashioned country alehouse, such as i am speaking of, only that we are still merely at the entrance of it, still lingering and haunting about the door, while the landlady and her daughter are on the fidgets to receive us, and the old landlord comes out with his bare head, and his rustic bow, and greets us with—“a fine old tree that, sir! their heads don’t ache as planted it, sir;” and the hostler is advancing from the stable to take charge of our vehicle. but walk in. how clean it is! bless us, what a nice snug parlour! what an ample, comfortable kitchen, or house-place as they call it, with its wide fireplace! what an array of plates, dishes, and bright pewter pots on the shelves around, and of hams and flitches dangling from the ceiling. it is a substantial place; there is no fear of starvation here. the joint is turning at the fire, and the tea-kitchen stands for ever boiling, ready to mix a tumbler of spirits, or to make coffee or tea at all hours.

these country inns are, of course, some greater, some less; some richer, some more simple—according to their custom, situation, or other contingent circumstances; but they are generally clean to a miracle, and plentiful places. the travelling carriages stop to bait there, for it is between towns; the squire comes there occasionally, for he patronizes it, and has all private and public meetings held there. most probably it is his own property, and its sign the arms of his family; and what is quite as likely, the landlord is his old servant. half of these places are kept by old servants of the neighbouring families, who have married and retired to public life. the groom, the coachman, nay the valet or the butler, has married the lady’s maid, or the comely laundress, or a daughter of a neighbouring farmer, and there is nothing he can so readily fashion himself to as an inn. it is something after his own way—he is still waiting on somebody at table or at carriage. he is knowing in horses and dogs, and he can’t be well spared out of the neighbourhood. he is acquainted with all the farmers, and their acquaintance all round, and they come to the house. in[485] nine cases out of ten he has a farm attached to his inn. in other cases, our country innkeeper is a maltster too, or a miller; and these are the country inns for good cheer. o, what cream, what fresh butter, what fresh eggs, what fresh vegetables, what plump tender pullets, what geese and ducks for the roasting, with all appendages of peas and onions, cucumbers and asparagus, can that larder produce which is situated in the goshen of rural plenty; where the malt-kiln is at hand instead of the druggist’s shop; where barley is steeped instead of coculus; where the hostel has a plentiful garden at its back, and a good farm behind that.

go up to your bed-chamber; you are delighted with its sweetness—its freshness—its cleanness. you fairly stand to snuff up the air that comes in at the open window. you turn to admire the clean white bed—the snowy sheets—the fresh carpet—the old-fashioned walnut drawers, and wide elbow-chairs of massy workmanship, with damask cushions, clean, though much worn, which have been purchased at the sale of some ancient manor-house. all is as bright and clean as busy and country hands can make them. there is lavender in the drawers! you may, indeed, if you please, be laid in lavender; for you have only to look out of your window, and the garden below has whole hedges of lavender, and there are trees of rosemary nailed up your walls to the very window-sills of the room. and then you see such filbert-bushes, such damson, and plum, and apple, and pear trees, that you have visions of apple dumplings, damson tarts, and a hundred other rural dainties. and now, if you want to study the character of the place; if you are staying some few days, and are curious in “the short and simple annals of the poor;” if you want to paint like moreland or gainsborough; or to vie with miss mitford in sunshiny pictures of an english village, there you are in the very watch-tower of observation.

you look out on the green, and there comes all the population—the old to talk and smoke their pipes, the young to play at skittles, nine-pins, quoits, or cricket. you see out over fields and farms; whatever, or whoever you meet with in your walks,—cottage or hall, man, woman, or child,—your landlord can give the whole history and mystery of it; and besides, as i have said, there every[486] body comes. the clergyman himself comes there sometimes to meet his neighbours, on parish or other affairs. all the gentlemen farmers and plodding farmers, the keepers, the labourers,—every body has some business at one time or another there. there are the privileged guests of the bar, the frequenters of the best parlour, the rustic circle of the kitchen fireside. there the wedding-party comes, and often dines there. there the very followers of the funeral find some occasion or need of comfort to draw them.[28] there the soldier on furlough halts—the recruits marching to their destination halt too. if it be a country that is at all frequented for its natural beauty or curiosities, or for sporting, there is always some wild-looking animal or other, a “man at a loose end,” ready to guide you to the moors, to act as a marker, to carry your game-bag, or your fishing-basket. in all such places there is a wit, an eccentric, a good singer. the will wimbles, the broken-down gentlemen, the never-do-wells, all come there. you may see them, and hear them, and when they are gone, may hear all their oddities and their histories; and every evening you shall hear every piece of news, for five miles round, as related and canvassed over by the guests amongst themselves. many of these landlords are themselves perfect originals; and by their humour, their racy anecdotes, and “random shots of country wit,” draw numbers to their ingle. if any of my readers have heard old matthew jobson, of the nag’s head, wythburn, at the foot of helvelyn, holding forth in the midst of the rustic frequenters of his hearth, they have a good notion of such bonifaces,—men that can furnish a wordsworth or a crabbe with the rough diamond of a story which they set in imperishable gold,—or flash out sparks of native wit that afterwards set the tables of city palaces in a roar.

[28] in wales the attenders of a country funeral adjourn, as regularly as they attend the funeral itself, to the alehouse; and it strikes an englishman very strangely, to meet a funeral going to the church, and to hear the chief mourner, perhaps the widow, crying aloud, and repeating as she goes, all the virtues of the deceased; and in an hour after, to find the whole company seated in the public house, enveloped in a canopy of tobacco-smoke, loud in talk, and drowning their sorrow in their cups. i recollect how my feelings were harrowed by meeting such a funeral, and a widow just so lamenting; but the gentleman with me, a resident of the place, said “o, it is all the better—they run off the poignancy of their feelings by their lamentations. their grief seems like one of their mountain torrents—loud and rapid, and then it is gone.”

[487]

but lest i should be accused of tempting my readers into the abodes of publicans and sinners, i must again remind them that i am only talking of those quiet, respectable old country inns, where the master and mistress had a character to maintain, had a regard to the opinion of the parson and the squire; and of those only as places of necessary refreshment. as parts and parcels of english rural life, i am bound to describe them; and who has not spent a pleasant hour in such a place with a friend, on a pedestrianizing excursion, or with a rural party at dinner or tea? and who has not rejoiced to escape from night and storms, on wide heaths or amongst the mountains, to the “shelter of such rustic roof?” into such a house i remember, years ago, being driven by a wild night of wind, rain, and pitchy darkness, on the edge of yorkshire, and the cheerful blaze of the fire, and the rustic group round it, as i entered, were a right welcome contrast to the tempestuous blackness without. wet, and cold, and weary as i was, i had no intention of being conducted to the best parlour of so small a house as this was, in so secluded a part of the country, on a dismal night in october. whoever is obliged at such a season to betake himself to such humble hostel, let him, if he do not find a good fire blazing in the parlour, seat himself in the old chimney-corner: there he is sure of warmth and comfort in a homely way. in summer a rustic inn, in the most obscure district, is pleasant enough; but in winter beware! travellers are few—the best parlour is probably not used once a month, for all country incomers know that the old chimney-corner is always warm. instead, therefore, of being led, as is the regular custom, on the arrival of a respectable looking stranger, into the best parlour, while a fire is lighted, and of waiting, chill and miserable, for its burning up, and for the coming of your tea or supper, watching the smoking, snapping, fizzing sticks, and the reek, refused ascent up the damp chimney, ever and anon puffing out into the room in clouds—march at once into the common room, or ensconce yourself as a privileged guest in the bar. if you find a fire blazing in the parlour, that is indication that there is passing enough on that road to keep one burning there: if not, the blazing ingle is your spot. there i took my station, with a high wooden screen behind me, a bright hearth before me; and having ordered[488] a beef-steak and coffee, and secured the room over this very one for my lodging, knowing that that too is always dry in winter, i began to notice what company i had got. the scene presented is worth describing, as a bit of rural life. about half a dozen villagers occupied the centre of the great circular wooden screen, at one end of which i was seated. before them stood the common three-legged round table of the country public-house, on which stood their mugs of ale. the table, screen, fire-irons, floor, every thing had an air of the greatest cleanness. opposite to me, in one of the great old elbow-chairs, so common in country inns in the north, some of them, indeed, with rockers to them, in which full-grown people sit rocking themselves with as much satisfaction as children, sate an old man in duffil-grey trousers and jacket, and with his hat on; and close at my left hand a tall, good-looking fellow of apparently fifty-five, who had the dress of a master stonemason, but a look of vivacity and knowingness, very different to the rest of the company. there was a look of the wag, or the rake about him. he was, in fact, evidently a fellow that in any place or station would be a gay, roystering blade; and if dressed in a court dress, would cut a gallant figure too. he eyed me with that expression which said he only wanted half a word to make himself very communicative. the check which my entrance had given to the talk and laughter which i heard on first opening the door, had now passed, and i found a keen dispute going on, upon the important question of how many quicksets there are in a yard, when planted four inches asunder. the old man opposite i found was what a punster would term a fencing-master,—a planter of fences,—a founder and establisher of hawthorn hedges for the whole country round; and out of his profession the dispute had arisen. the whole question hinged on the simple inquiry, whether a quickset was put in at the very commencement of the line of fence, or only at the end of the first four inches. in the first case there would be evidently nine—in the latter only eight. the matter in dispute was so simple and demonstrable, that one wondered how it could afford a dispute at all. some, however, contended there were eight quicksets, and some that there were nine; and to demonstrate, they had chalked out the line of fence with its division into yards, and sub-division into four inches, on[489] the hearth with a cinder; but the dispute still went on as keenly as if the thing were not thus plainly before their eyes, or as disputes continue in a more national assembly on things as self-evident: and many an earnest appeal was made from both sides to the old hedger, who having once given his decision, disdained to return any further reply than by a quiet withdrawal of his pipe from his mouth, a quiet draught of ale, and the simple asseveration of—“nay, i’m sure!” the debate might have grown as tediously prolix as the debates just alluded to, had not my left-hand neighbour, the tall man of lively aspect, turned to me, and, pointing to the cindery diagram on the hearth, said, “what things these stay-at-home neighbours of mine can make a dispute out of! what would ben jonson have thought of such simpletons? look here! if these noisy chaps had ever read a line of homer or hesiod, they wouldn’t plague their seven senses out about nothing at all. why, any child of a twelvemonth old would settle their mighty question with the first word it learned to speak. eight or nine quicksets indeed! and james broadfoot there, who should know rather better than them, for he has planted as many in his time as would reach all round england, and ireland to boot, has told them ten times over. eight or nine numbskulls, i say!”

“o!” said i, a good deal surprised—“and so you have read homer and hesiod, have you?”

“to be sure i have,” replied my mercurial neighbour, “and a few other poets too. i have not spent all my life in this sleepy-headed place, i can assure you.”

“what, you have travelled as well as read, then?”

“yes, and i have travelled too, master. ben jonson was a stonemason; and if i am not a stonemason i am a sculptor, and that is first-cousin to it. when ben jonson first entered london with a hod of mortar on his head, and a two-foot rule in his pocket, i dare say he knew no more that he had twenty plays in his head, than i knew of all the cherubims i should carve, and the epitaphs i should cut; and yet i have cut a few in my time, and written them too beforehand.”

“o! and you are a poet too?”

he nodded assent, and taking up his mug of ale, and fixing his eyes stedfastly on me over the top of it as he drank with a[490] look of triumph,—then setting down his mug—“and if you want to know that, you have only to walk into the churchyard in the morning, and there you’ll find plenty of my verses, and cut with a pen of iron too, as job wished his elegy to be.” here, however, lest i should not walk into the churchyard, he recited a whole host of epitaphs, many of which must have made epitaph-hunters stare, if they really were put on headstones.

“well,” i said, “you astonish me with your learning and wit. i certainly did not look for such a person in this village—but pray where have you travelled?”

“o! it’s a long story—but this i can tell you—i have gone so near to the end of the world that i could not put sixpence between my head and the sky.”

at this the whole company of disputants forgot their quicksets, lifted their heads and cried—“well done septimus scallop! that’s a good ’un. if the gentleman can swallow that, he can anything.”

“o!” said i, “i don’t doubt it.”

“don’t doubt it!” they shouted all at once—“don’t doubt it? why, do you think any man ever could get to where the sky was so low as he couldn’t get in sixpence between his head and it?”

“yes he could, and often has done—make yourself sure of that. if a man has not a sixpence he cannot put it between his head and the sky; and he is pretty near the world’s end too, i think.”

here they all burst into a shout of laughter, in the midst of which open flew the door, and a tall figure rushed into the middle of the house, wrapped in a shaggy coat of many capes, dripping with wet, and holding up a huge horn lantern. a face of wonderful length and of a ghastly aspect glared from behind the lantern, and a voice of the most ludicrous lamentation bawled out—“for god’s sake, lads, come and help me to find my wagon and horses! i’ve lost my wagon! i’ve lost my wagon!” up jumped the whole knot of disputants, and demanded where he had lost it. the man said that while he went to deliver a parcel in the village, the wagon had gone on. that he heard it at a distance, and cried, “woa! woa!” but the harder he cried, and the farther he went, the faster it went too. at this intelligence away marched every one of the good-natured crew excepting the wit. “and why do[491]n’t you go?” i asked.—“go! pugh! it’s only that soft brother of mine, tim scallop, the doncaster carrier. i’ll be bound now that the wagon hasn’t moved an inch from the spot he left it in. he has heard the wind roaring, and doesn’t know it from his own wagon wheels. here these poor simpletons will go running their hearts out for some miles, and then they will come back and find the horses where he left them. i could go and lay my hand on them in five minutes. but they are just as well employed as in griming mrs. tappit’s hearthstone. never mind;—i was telling you of what the hostler said to ben jonson when ben was reeling home early one morning from a carouse, and ben declared that he was never so pricked with a horsenail-stump in his life—

ben.—

thou silly groom

take away thy broom,

and let ben jonson pass:

groom.—

o! rare ben!

turn back again,

and take another glass!”

septimus scallop laughed at the hostler’s repartee, and i laughed too, but my amusement had a different source from his. there was something irresistibly ludicrous in the generous rushing forth of the whole company to the aid of the poor carrier, except the witty brother! but he was quite right: in about an hour, in came the good-natured men, streaming with rain like drowned rats, and declaring that after running three miles and finding no wagon, they bethought themselves of turning back to where the carrier said it was lost; and there they had nearly run their noses against it, standing exactly where he left it.

so much for the village inn. every traveller must have seen in such a place many a similar piece of country life. a new class of alehouses has sprung up under the new beer act, which being generally kept by people without capital, often without character; their liquor supplied by the public brewers, and adulterated by themselves; have done more to demoralize the population of both town and country, than any other legislative measure within the last century. in these low, dirty, fuddling places, you may look in vain for

the whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

the varnished clock that clicked behind the door.

[492]

in manufacturing towns, and agricultural districts, they alike multiply the temptations to the poor man, and by their low character are sure to deteriorate his own. against the swarms of these, in many places, the quiet respectable old village inn has little chance. it must disappear, or be kept by a different and a worse class of people; and when it goes, it goes with goldsmith’s graphic lamentation—for very different are the shops that succeed it:

vain transitory splendours! could not all

reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!

obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

an hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart.

thither no more the peasant shall repair,

to sweet oblivion of his daily care;

no more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,

no more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail;

no more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

the host himself no longer shall be found,

careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,

shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.