CHAPTER XVI

Are these the tracks of some unearthly friend?

It was on December 2nd, 1832, while waiting for the mail to Falmouth, that he found his inspiration here. He wrote, at the same time, to his mother that he was waiting “from one till eleven” for the down Exeter mail. Ten hours! Can we imagine any one in these days waiting even half that time for a train? I think not even the most bizarre imagination could conceive such a preposterous notion. But such were the experiences of our grandfathers, travelling from branch roads to intercept the mails. With such facts before us, we may well understand how it was the inns then did such good business.

THE “WHITE HART,” WHITCHURCH.

Since 1857, when Dinah Mulock, at the age of thirty-one, wrote that remarkably popular novel,John Halifax, Gentleman, the “Bell” inn at Tewkesbury has been marked down for a literary landmark. For the “Morton Bury” of that story is the Tewkesbury of fact, and a tombstone (long since disappeared) in the Abbey churchyard gave her the name of the hero. It was in 1852, on a chance drive into the town with a friend, to view the Abbey, that Miss Mulock first thought of it as the background of a story, and lunching at the “Bell” inn, close by the Abbey gates, decided her to make that house the pivot of the tale. According to the landlord of that time, it had once, before becoming an inn, been the house of a tanner; and thus we find something of the framework of the story suggested. The resemblance of the actual house to the home of Abel Fletcher, the Quaker tanner of the story, is scarce to be followed, for it is only in the mention of the bowling-green in the garden and the yew hedge, and the channels of the Severn and the Avon at the end of it that the place is to be identified at all. You find no mention of the fine old timbered front and its three gables, nor of the initials “I K 1696” that probably indicate the owner who restored the house at that date (for the building is certainly at least a hundred and fifty years older), and altogether there is in the pages ofJohn Halifax,Gentleman, none of that meticulous topographical care that many later novelists have been at pains to bestow upon their works. But that matters little to the literary pilgrims in general, or to the American section of them in particular, who flock to Tewkesbury for sake of that very rare hero, John Halifax, whose like, one fears, never walked this imperfect earth of ours. He is, in short, a lady novelist’s hero, and all such, whether they be the military heroes of Ouida, with the physique of Greek gods, and queer morals, or the never-say-“damn” young men of the opposite extreme, have few points of contact with human beings. John Halifax, however, has a brother in fiction, and may be found in Mr. Thomas Hardy’sMayor of Casterbridge, where he masquerades as a Scot, under the alias of “Donald Farfrae.” He and Angel Clare, ofTess of the D’Urbervilles, are rivals for the distinction of being the least natural men among all Mr. Hardy’s characters. Donald is not quite the perfect gentle knight of Miss Mulock’s tale, but the same blood runs in the veins of either.

When the author ofJohn Halifax, Gentleman, who had many years before become Mrs. Craik, died, in 1887, a monument was fittingly erected to her memory in Tewkesbury Abbey Church, hard by the home of her hero.

THE “BELL,” TEWKESBURY.

The “Bell” inn is a beautiful old building, of strongly contrasted very white plaster and very black timbers. A blue and gold bell hangs out as a sign in front. At the left-hand side anaddition has quite recently been made (not included in the illustration) to provide a billiard-room and additional bedrooms.

THE “WHEATSHEAF,” TEWKESBURY.

For the rest, Tewkesbury is a town full of ancient buildings, built in those dark times of the warring Roses, when men were foolish enough to fight—and to die and to lose all—for their principles. Savage, barbaric times, happily gone for ever, to give place to the era of argument and theamateur lawyer! In our own age you do not go forth and kill or be killed, but simply “passively resist” and await the advent of the bailiffs coming to distrain for the amount of your unpaid rates and taxes, confident that, in any change of government, your party will in its turn be able to enact the petty tyrant.

In those times, when men fought well, they built with equal sturdiness, and the memory of their deeds beside the Avon meadows, in the bloody Battle of Tewkesbury of 1471, survives, side by side with the fine black-and-white timbered houses they designed and framed, and will survive centuries yet.

Tewkesbury is a town of inns. The “Hop Pole,” among the largest of them, is a Dickensian inn, and so treated of in another chapter; but besides it you have the great red-brick Georgian “Swan,” typically a coaching hostelry, that is not quite sure of the titles “inn,” “hotel,” or “tavern,” and so, to be certain, calls itself, in the boldest of lettering, “Swan Hotel, Inn, and Tavern,” and thus has it all ways.

YARD OF THE “WHITE HORSE,” MAIDEN NEWTON.

THE “WHITE HORSE,” MAIDEN NEWTON.

Probably the oldest inn of Tewkesbury is the “Berkeley Arms.” There it stands in the High Street, as sturdily as ever, and is in every timber, every casement, and in all the circumstances of uneven flooring and tortuous stairways, so indubitably ancient that men who fought on Yorkist or Lancastrian side in those contested meads by Severn and Avon in 1471 may well have slept beneath its roof the night before the battle, andconsidered the place, even then, “old-fashioned.” Its age is so evident that for the sign to proclaim it, as it does, in the modern pseudo-antique Wardour Street style, “Ye olde Berkeley Arms,” is an impertinent inadequacy, comparable to calling the Pyramids “large” or the Alps “hills.” It is much the same tale with the “Wheatsheaf”; a little less hoary, perhaps, and certainly more susceptible to pictorial treatment. It latterly has become “Ye,” instead of “The,” Wheatsheaf, and has assumed a redundant “e” or so; but the equally old neighbouring “Black Bear” fairly revels in the antique, and on a quite new sign-board proclaims itself to be “Ye Olde Blacke Beare.” What a prodigal and immoral consumption of that already poor, overworked letter “e,” already, as every compositor working at case knows, the greatest in demand of all the twenty-six letters of the alphabet!

Among the various inns mentioned in Thomas Hardy’s novels, the “White Horse” at Maiden Newton was exceptionally picturesque. “Was,” and is not, for already, in the little while between the writing ofTess of the D’Urbervillesand now, that fine old stone hostelry of the seventeenth century has been pulled down, to make way for a smart new red-brick house, all show and glitter. The old house was the original of the inn at “Chalk-Newton,” where Tess breakfasted, on the way to Flintcomb Ash.

The “Carnarvon Arms,” Bloomsbury, in Besant and Rice’sGolden Butterfly, to whichthe dog “Cæsar” leads Phillis so early in the morning, is the “Guildford Arms,” at the corner of Guildford and Brunswick Streets: “The door ... hung half open by means of a leathern strap.... A smell of stale beer and stale tobacco hanging about the room smote her senses, and made her sick and faint.... She was in a tavern—that is, she thought, a ‘place where workmen spend their earnings and leave their families to starve.’”

Similarly, the “Birch Tree Tavern,” of the same authors’Seamy Side, is the “Bay Tree,” St. Swithin’s Lane. It is described in those pages as the resort, in the quieter hours of the afternoon, when all the hungry diners were gone, of Mr. Bunter Baker and a coterie of needy company-promoters, always seeking to float impossible companies and impracticable inventions, and so unfortunate as to be, themselves, convinced of the commercial value of their preposterous projects.

VISITORS’ BOOKS

The Visitors’ Book is no new thing. In 1466, when a distinguished Bohemian traveller, one Baron Leo von Rozmital, dined with the Knights of Windsor, his hosts, after dinner, produced what they called their “missal,” and asked for his autograph “in memoriam” of him. A little daunted, perhaps, by so ill-omened an expression, but still courteous, the Baron complied with the request, and wrote, “Lwyk z Rozmitala a z Blatnie.” This uncouth autograph was not unnaturally looked upon with suspicion, and the Baron, on leaving Windsor, found himself followed by the Knights, who made inquiries of his retinue as to his real name. They suspected him to be some impostor, or at the least considered him guilty of that kind of foolishness which nowadays induces a certain class of visitor to sign himself “Kruger” or the “King of the Cannibal Islands,” or, worse still, to write down the name of the latest notorious criminal.

Foolishness is expected in a Visitors’ Book, and is not often wanting. In the present writer’s own experience, when two friends who, oddly enough, were named Rands and Sands, wrote their namesin such a volume, the waiter who read them there, half-apologetically, said, “No: yourrealnames, please, gentlemen.” Argument and assertion could not convince, and in the end they wrote “Jones” and “Robinson,” which duly satisfied.

The Visitors’ Book of an inn usually contains little else than fulsome praise of the establishment and a somewhat revolting appreciation of its good cheer. Would-be wit and offensive scurrility are, as a rule, the only other characteristics; but from all this heap of chaff and rubbish it is possible to extract a residuum of fun and sprightly fancy. Many modern tourists in the Lake District have, for instance, been amused—after their own experiences around the steeps of Langdale Pikes—to read in the Visitors’ Book of the “Salutation” at Ambleside the following piece of poignant observation:

Little bits of Langdales,Little bits of pikes,Make the little touristsWalk their little bikes.

Of the “Swan,” at Thames Ditton, Theodore Hook wrote, but whether in a book there, or not, does not appear:

The “Swan,” snug inn, good fare affords,As table e’er was put on;And worthier quite of loftier boards,Its poultry, fish, and mutton.And while sound wine mine host supplies,With beer of Meux or Tritton,Mine hostess, with her bright blue eyes,Invites to stay at Ditton.

Among the severe epigrams that guests have left behind them, none other is so witty as that by Quin, written at the once famed “Pelican” inn, a favourite Bath Road hostelry at Speenhamland, Newbury:

The famous inn at Speenhamland,That stands beneath the hill,May well be called the Pelican,From its enormous bill.

Its monumental charges were long since ended, and where the “Pelican” stood there are now only stables and a veterinary establishment.

Bathos, ineptitude, and lines that refuse to scan are the stigmata of visitors’-book verse. There is no worse “poetry” on earth than that which lurks between those covers, or in the pages of young ladies’ albums, the last refuge of drivel and impertinence. People who would be ashamed to own their verse elsewhere will write and sign it in a Visitors’ Book; and thus we find, for example, at the “King’s Arms” at Malmesbury, the following, signed by Bishop Potter of New York:

Three savages from far New YorkFound rest, refreshment here;And grateful for the King’s Arms,Bear memory of good cheer.All blessings rest on Hostess Jones,And her good spouse as well;Of their kind thought for tired bonesOur countrymen will tell.

Let us hope his divinity is better than his metrical efforts.

The interesting pages of Visitors’ Books are generally those that are not there, as an Irishman might say; for the world is populated very densely with those appreciative people who, whether from a love of literature, or with an instinct for collecting autographs that may have a realisable value, remove the signatures of distinguished men, and with them anything original they may have written. Many years ago Charles Kingsley, Tom Taylor, dramatist and sometime editor ofPunch, and Thomas Hughes, author of that classic,Tom Brown’s Schooldays, were staying at the Penygwryd Hotel, on the summit of Llanberis Pass, North Wales, and wrote a long set of verses in the Visitors’ Book; but the pages were stolen, long, since, and now you do but come to that book by asking very nicely for it, and then it is produced from a locked cupboard.

Here are the verses, the respective authors identified by the initials over each. It will clearly be seen that those three were sadly in want of occupation, and were wound up for a long run:

T. T.I came to PenygwrydWith colours armed and pencils,But found no use whateverFor any such utensils;So in default of them I tookTo using knives and forks,And made successful drawings—Of Mrs. Owen’s corks!C. K.I came to PenygwrydIn frantic hopes of slayingGrilse, salmon, three-pound red-fleshed trout,And what else there’s no saying;But bitter cold and lashing rain,And black nor’-eastern skies, sir,Drove me from fish to botany,A sadder man and wiser.T. H.I came to PenygwrydA-larking with my betters,A mad wag and a mad poet—Both of them men of letters;Which two ungrateful parties,After all the care I’ve tookOf them, make me write versesIn Henry Owen’s book.T. T.We’ve been mist-soak’d on Snowdon,Mist-soak’d on Glyder Fawr;We’ve been wet through on an averageEvery day three times an hour.We’ve walk’d the upper leathersFrom the soles of our balmorals,And as sketchers and as fishersWith the weather have had our quarrels.C. K.But think just of the plants which stuff’dOur box, old Yarrel’s gift,And of those which might have stuff’d itIf the clouds had giv’n a lift;Of tramping bogs, and climbing cliffs,And shoving down stone fencesFor spiderwort, Saussurea,And Woodsia strensis.T. H.Oh, my dear namesake’s breeches—You never saw the like—He bust them all so shamefulA-crossing of a dyke;But Mrs. Owen patched themAs careful as a mother,With flannel of three colours—She hadn’t got no other.T. T.But, can we say enoughOf those legs of mountain muttons?And that onion sauce lies on our souls,For it made of us three gluttons;And the Dublin stout is genuine,And so’s the Burton beer,And the apple tarts they’ve won our hearts;And think of soufflets here!C. K.Resembling that old womanThat never could be quiet,Though victuals (says the child’s song)And drink formed all her diet,My love for plants and scramblingShared empire with my dinner;And who says it wasn’t good must beA most fastidious sinner.T. H.Now, all I’ve got to say is,You can’t be better treated.Order pancakes, and you’ll findThey’re the best you ever eated;If you scramble o’er the mountains,You should bring an ordnance map;I endorse all that previous gentsHave said about the tap.T. T.Penygwryd, when wet and worn, has keptA warm fireside for us;Socks, boots, and never-mention-’ems,Mrs. Owen still has dried for us;With host and hostess, fare and bill,So pleased we are that, going,We feel, for all their kindness,’Tis we, not they, are Owin’.T. H., T. T., C. K.Nos tres in uno junctiHos fecimus versiculos,Tomas piscator pisces quiNon cepi sed pisciculos,Tomas sciagraphus sketches quiNon feci sed ridiculos,Herbarius Carolus montes quiNostravi perpendiculos.T. H.There’s big trout I hear in Edno,Likewise in Gwynant lake,And the governor and black alderAre the flies that they will take,Also the cockabondy,But I can only say,If you think to catch big fishes,I only hope you may!T. T.I have come in for more of mountain gloomThan mountain glory,But I’ve seen old Snowdon rear his headWith storm-toss’d mist-wreaths hoaryI stood in the fight of mountain windsUpon Bwlch-cwm-y-llan,And I go back an unsketchingBut a better-minded man.C. K.And I, too, have another debtTo pay another way,For kindness shown by these good soulsTo one who’s far away,Even to this old colley dog,Who tracked the mountains o’er,For one who seeks strange birds and flowersOn far Australia’s shore.

T. T.

I came to PenygwrydWith colours armed and pencils,But found no use whateverFor any such utensils;So in default of them I tookTo using knives and forks,And made successful drawings—Of Mrs. Owen’s corks!

C. K.

I came to PenygwrydIn frantic hopes of slayingGrilse, salmon, three-pound red-fleshed trout,And what else there’s no saying;But bitter cold and lashing rain,And black nor’-eastern skies, sir,Drove me from fish to botany,A sadder man and wiser.

T. H.

I came to PenygwrydA-larking with my betters,A mad wag and a mad poet—Both of them men of letters;Which two ungrateful parties,After all the care I’ve tookOf them, make me write versesIn Henry Owen’s book.

T. T.

We’ve been mist-soak’d on Snowdon,Mist-soak’d on Glyder Fawr;We’ve been wet through on an averageEvery day three times an hour.We’ve walk’d the upper leathersFrom the soles of our balmorals,And as sketchers and as fishersWith the weather have had our quarrels.

C. K.

But think just of the plants which stuff’dOur box, old Yarrel’s gift,And of those which might have stuff’d itIf the clouds had giv’n a lift;Of tramping bogs, and climbing cliffs,And shoving down stone fencesFor spiderwort, Saussurea,And Woodsia strensis.

T. H.

Oh, my dear namesake’s breeches—You never saw the like—He bust them all so shamefulA-crossing of a dyke;But Mrs. Owen patched themAs careful as a mother,With flannel of three colours—She hadn’t got no other.

T. T.

But, can we say enoughOf those legs of mountain muttons?And that onion sauce lies on our souls,For it made of us three gluttons;And the Dublin stout is genuine,And so’s the Burton beer,And the apple tarts they’ve won our hearts;And think of soufflets here!

C. K.

Resembling that old womanThat never could be quiet,Though victuals (says the child’s song)And drink formed all her diet,My love for plants and scramblingShared empire with my dinner;And who says it wasn’t good must beA most fastidious sinner.

T. H.

Now, all I’ve got to say is,You can’t be better treated.Order pancakes, and you’ll findThey’re the best you ever eated;If you scramble o’er the mountains,You should bring an ordnance map;I endorse all that previous gentsHave said about the tap.

T. T.

Penygwryd, when wet and worn, has keptA warm fireside for us;Socks, boots, and never-mention-’ems,Mrs. Owen still has dried for us;With host and hostess, fare and bill,So pleased we are that, going,We feel, for all their kindness,’Tis we, not they, are Owin’.

T. H., T. T., C. K.

Nos tres in uno junctiHos fecimus versiculos,Tomas piscator pisces quiNon cepi sed pisciculos,Tomas sciagraphus sketches quiNon feci sed ridiculos,Herbarius Carolus montes quiNostravi perpendiculos.

T. H.

There’s big trout I hear in Edno,Likewise in Gwynant lake,And the governor and black alderAre the flies that they will take,Also the cockabondy,But I can only say,If you think to catch big fishes,I only hope you may!

T. T.

I have come in for more of mountain gloomThan mountain glory,But I’ve seen old Snowdon rear his headWith storm-toss’d mist-wreaths hoaryI stood in the fight of mountain windsUpon Bwlch-cwm-y-llan,And I go back an unsketchingBut a better-minded man.

C. K.

And I, too, have another debtTo pay another way,For kindness shown by these good soulsTo one who’s far away,Even to this old colley dog,Who tracked the mountains o’er,For one who seeks strange birds and flowersOn far Australia’s shore.

Enough;quantum sufficit!

It was for lack of that natural outlet, the Visitors’ Book, that many old-time guests had recourse to the window-pane. Unfortunately—or should it not perhaps rather be a fortunate circumstance?—while pen and ink were at command of every one, only a diamond ring would serve on glass; and not every guest was so luxuriously equipped.

The classic instance of a window-pane at aninn being thus inscribed is, of course, that of Shenstone’s writing the last stanza of his lines on “Freedom” upon the window of an inn—generally said to be the “Red Lion” at Henley-on-Thames. But who shall decide?

If we are to believe the account of Richard Graves, who knew the poet well, and publishedRecollections of Some Particulars in the Life of the Late William Shenstone, Esq., in 1788, the lines were first written in an arbour of what used to be the “Sunrising” inn, on the crest of Edge Hill, a house long since become a private residence.

According to Graves, Shenstone, about 1750, visited a friend, one Mr. Whistler, in the southernmost part of Oxfordshire, and did not particularly enjoy his visit, Mr. Whistler sending the poet’s servant off to stay at an inn, in order that the man and the domestics of his own house should not gossip together. Shenstone himself seems to have been a very unamiable guest, and one better suited to an inn than to the house of a friend; for he grew disagreeable over being expected to play “Pope Joan” in the evening with his friend’s children, and sulked when he lost a trifle at cards. Then he would not dress himself tidily for dinner, and snuffed and slouched to the inconvenience of every one, so that it is not surprising to read of a coolness, and then quarrels, coming to estrange the pair, resulting in Shenstone abruptly cutting short his visit. He lay, overnight, on his journey home, at the “Sunrising” inn, and the nextmorning, in an arbour, inscribed the famous lines which now form the last stanza of “Freedom.”

“More stanzas,” says Graves, “were added afterwards,” and he rightly adds that they “diminish the force” of the original thought.

The “Sunrising” inn, long since become a private mansion, and added to very largely, has no relics of Shenstone. It stands, with lovely gardens surrounding, on the very lip and verge of Edge Hill, and looks out across the great levels of Warwickshire. In recent times the hill has becomes famous, or notorious, for motor and cycle accidents, and the approach to it is heralded by a notice-board proclaiming “Great Danger. Cyclists Dismount.” But in these days of better brakes, very few obey that injunction, and ride down, safely enough.

Whistler died in 1754, when Shenstone, remorseful, wrote, “how little do all our disputes appear to us now!”

Here, then, is the original story of the famous inscription, but it does not necessarily prove that this melancholy poet did not also inscribe it at Henley-on-Thames and elsewhere, notably at the “White Swan,” at that quite different and far-distant place from the Thames-side Henley, Henley-in-Arden, Warwickshire; an old-fashioned house still in existence, and claiming to date from 1358.

HENLEY-IN-ARDEN, AND THE “WHITE SWAN.”

If the story of the “Red Lion” at the Oxfordshire Henley be a myth, as it is held to be, it is one of very considerable age, and one that has not only misled uncounted myriads of writers, but will continue to do so until the end of time. There is no disabling the flyingcanard, no overtaking the original lie, howsoever hard you strive; and as the famous stanza reallywasat one time to be seen on a window of the “Red Lion” (whether written there by Shenstone or another), it really seems that there is a way out of the dilemma that probably has never until now been considered. Shenstone resided on the Shropshire border, near Henley-in-Arden, but on his journeys to and from London must often have stayed at the “Red Lion,” Henley-on-Thames, then on one of the two principal coach-routes; and it is quite probable that he was so pleased with thelast stanza of “Freedom,” and so satisfied with its peculiar fitness for inn windows, that he inscribed it at both places, if not indeed at others as well:

To thee, fair Freedom! I retire,From flattery, feasting, dice and din;Nor art thou found in homes much higherThan the lone cot or humble Inn.’Tis here with boundless power I reign,And every health which I begin,Converts dull port to bright champagne;For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn.I fly from pomp, I fly from state,I fly from falsehood’s specious grin;Freedom I love, and form I hate,And choose my lodgings at an Inn.Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,Which lacqueys else might hope to win;It buys what Courts have not in store,It buys me Freedom, at an Inn.And now once more I shape my wayThrough rain or shine, through thick or thin,Secure to meet, at close of day,With kind reception at an Inn.Whoe’er has travelled life’s dull round,Where’er his stages may have been,May sigh to think how oft he foundThe warmest welcome—at an Inn.

Misquotation—sometimes a vice, occasionally a great improvement upon the original—has constantly rendered the last two lines:

May sigh to think, hestillhas foundHiswarmest welcome at an inn;

and here, it seems, the use of posterity is the better.

Neither at the “White Swan” nor the “Red Lion” is the inscription now to be found.

Dean Swift’s bitter jest, by way of advice to the landlord, scratched on a window of the “Three Crosses” inn at Willoughby, on the road to Holyhead, is certainly the next most celebrated. It runs:

There are threeCrosses at your door:Hang up your Wife,And you’l count Four.Swift, D., 1730.

I have elsewhere,[8]and at considerable length, told the story of this remarkable incident, and given afacsimileof the still-surviving inscription, so hesitate before reprinting it.

In imagination one sees that gifted man riding horseback on his journeys between London and Holyhead, or Chester and Parkgate, on his way to or from Ireland, halting overnight with his attendant at the rough inns of that time, and leaving broadcast on the dim and flawed glass of their windows humorous or spiteful comments upon anything that chanced to arouse his criticism. You perceive him, waiting impatiently for breakfast, scrawling malignant lampoons with his ring, or recording the stupidities of his servant. The wayside taverns along that great north-westerlyroad should still have such evidence of his passing, only glass is brittle, and many a pane precious with those autographed records has accidentally perished, while doubtless many another has long ago been removed by admirers, and so become lost to the world.

One such was the pane at the “Yacht” inn at Chester, that hoary timbered and plastered tavern whose nodding gables scarce uphold the story that this was once the foremost hotel of this picturesque city. The Dean, then at the height of his fame, halting here on his way into Ireland, was in one of his companionable humours, and invited the Dean and the other dignified clergy of the Cathedral to supper; but not one of them acknowledged his intended hospitality. Deans, Canons, and Prebendaries all agreed among themselves, or resolved separately, to ignore the distinguished visitor, who, in his rage, decorated a window with the couplet:

Rotten without and mouldering within,This place and its clergy are all near akin.

On the whole, regarding this quite dispassionately, having regard to the gross affront on the one hand and Swift’s malignant nature and very full sense of what was due to himself on the other, it can hardly be said that he rose to the heights of epigram or sank to the depths of abuse demanded by the occasion. Here he surely should have surpassed himself, in the one category or the other, or—even more characteristically—in both. We want more bitterness, more gall, an extrainfusion of wormwood, and feel that this is an ineffectual thing that any affronted person, owning a diamond and merely capable of writing, could have achieved. And, even so, the historic pane itself has disappeared.

The guests at inns in the middle of the eighteenth century often did not, it seems, disdain the walls; for inColumella, a curious novel of travelling, published about that period, we read that the characters in it found time on their journey “to examine the inscriptions on walls and windows, and learned that the love of woman, the love of wine, and the love of fame were the three ruling passions that usually vented themselves” in this manner.

These were travellers who, come what might, determined to be unconventional.

“When they came to an inn, instead of complaining of their accommodations, or bullying the waiters, they diverted themselves with the humours of my landlord, criticising his taste in his furniture or his pictures, or in perusing the inscriptions on the walls or windows, or inquiring into the history of the neighbouring gentry. In short, they had determined to be pleased with everything, and therefore were not disappointed.”

At the inn where these original persons breakfasted the great patriot, John Wilkes, had usurped the principal place over the parlour chimney. Where they stopped to dine, the virtuous George the Third and the amiable Charlotte had resumed their places in the dining-room, and “Wilkes wasonly stuck up against the stable-door, and in the temple of Cloacina.”

Alas! poor Wilkes, to be subjected to such an indignity!

At one inn they found the inscription:

James Harding, from Birmingham, dined here, Sept. 29, 1763. Button-maker by trade,

and there is your bid for fame. The other remarks they shamelessly quote are all very well for eighteenth-century books, but they are not permitted on the printed page in our own time.

There was once a poet of a minor sort who not only cherished a mania for scribbling verse on the windows of inns, but was mad enough to collect and print a series of these by no means distinguished efforts, which he published under the title ofVerses written on Windows in several parts of the Kingdom in a Journey to Scotland.

This extraordinary person was one Aaron Hill, who “flourished” (as an historian might say) between 1685 and 1750. If he is at all remembered to-day, it is only as a friend of Pope, whose truest criticism presents him as “one of the flying fishes, only capable of making brief flights out of the profound.” He afterwards, with more friendship and less truth, described Hill as attempting to dive into dulness, but rising unstained to “mount far off among the swans of Thames.” How pretty! but he was in truth the veriest goose, and his pinions ineffectual.

Hill wrote reams of rhymes, but few of themare poetry and fewer have any power of entertaining. In 1728 he travelled in Scotland, and there—it is an experience not unmatched nowadays—he encountered, while staying at an inn in the Highlands, bad weather. Happily, not all who are weatherbound in those latitudes scrawl their thoughts on windows, or poetic congestion must long since have ensued. At that inn—whatinn orwherewe are not told, he accomplished his one excellent epigram, his solitary perfect quatrain:

Scotland! thy weather’s like a modish wife;Thy winds and rains for ever are at strife;So Termagant a while her thunder tries,And when she can no longer scold—she cries.

Other specimens of his quality do not exhibit the inspiration of those lines, and indeed he is found to be too concerned with moral analogies to please greatly, even in the best of them. Thus:

Where’er the diamond’s busy point could pass,See! what deep wounds have pierced the middle glass!While partial and untouching, all the rest,Highest and lowest panes, shine, unimpressed:No wonder, this!—for, e’en in life, ’tis so;High fortunes stand, unreached—unseen the low,But middle states are marks for every blow.

And again:

Whig and Tory scratch and bite,Just as hungry dogs we see:Toss a bone ’twixt two, they fight,Throw a couple, they agree.

There is some just observation in that last, although how you are to give a bone apiece, andat the same time, to Whig and Tory, would, as I conceive the situation, be a difficult, not to say an impossible, matter in our scheme of politics. When a Government comes into power, be it Whig or Tory, or any other fancy label you please, it takesallthe bones, and the other dog merely does the growling, until the times do alter.

With two more specimens we practically exhaust Hill’s well of fancy:

Tender-handed, stroke a nettle,And it stings you, for your pains:Grasp it, like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains.’Tis the same with common natures,Use ’em kindly, they rebel:But be rough on Nutmeg-graters,And the rogues obey you well.······Here, in wet and windy weather,Muse and I, two mopes together,Far from friends and short of pleasure,Wanting everything but leisure:Scarce content, in any one sense,Tell the showers, and scribble nonsense.

How true that last admission!

Adelphi Hotel, Adelphi, i. 212, 264Ale-stakes, i. 14-17Anchor, Ripley, ii.212,242Angel, Basingstoke, ii.279— Bury St. Edmunds, i. 238— Colchester, i. 90— Ferrybridge, ii.81— Grantham, i. 118-123— Guildford, ii.57— Islington, i. 119— Stilton, ii.48Ass-in-the-Bandbox, Nidd, ii.203Barge Aground, Brentford, ii.203— Stratford High Road, ii.203Battle, Pilgrims’ Hostel at, i. 97Bay Tree Tavern, St. Swithin’s Lane, ii.290Bear, Devizes, ii.8-16— Esher, ii.116— and Billet, Chester, ii.74Bear’s Head, Brereton, ii.62Beaufort Arms, Bath, i. 254Beckhampton Inn, i. 238Bee-Hive, Eaumont Bridge, ii.138— Grantham, ii.192Beetle-and-Wedge, Moulsford, ii.195Bell, Barnby Moor, i. 60, ii.55,81— Belbroughton, ii.245— Berkeley Heath, i. 256— Dale Abbey, ii.88,90— Stilton, ii.48-54— Tewkesbury, ii.283-287— Warwick Lane, London, i. 30— Woodbridge, ii.112Bell and Mackerel, Mile End, ii.129Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, i. 229Berkeley Arms, Tewkesbury, ii.288Birch Tree Tavern, St. Swithin’s Lane, ii.290Black Bear, Sandbach, ii.58— — Tewkesbury, ii.289— Boy, Chelmsford, i. 242— Bull, Holborn, i. 288-290— — Newcastle-on-Tyne, i. 53— Horse, Cherhill, i. 232— Jack, Clare Market, i. 242-244— Swan, Kirkby Moorside, ii.267Blue Bell, Barnby Moor, i. 60, ii.55,81— Boar, Leicester, i. 202— — Whitechapel, i. 291— Dragon, near Salisbury, i. 282-288— Lion, Muggleton,i.e.Town Malling, i. 226— Posts, Chester, i. 155-158— — Portsmouth, ii.137Boar, Bluepitts, near Rochdale, ii.197Boar’s Head, Eastcheap, ii.253,261— Middleton, ii.218Boot, Chester, ii.78Bottom Inn, Chalton Downs, near Petersfield, i. 270-274Buck and Bell, Long Itchington, ii.130Bull, Dartford, i. 79-82— Fenny Stratford, ii.111— Rochester, i. 221-223— Sissinghurst, ii.244— Whitechapel, i. 242, 245Bull and Mouth, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, i. 228Bull’s Head, Meriden, ii.80— Greengate, Salford, i. 7Burford Bridge Hotel, near Dorking, ii.273Bush, Bristol, i. 255— Farnham, i. 309Capel Curig Inn, ii.254Carnarvon Castle, Chester, ii.77— Arms, Guildford Street, ii.289Cart Overthrown, Edmonton, ii.203Castle, Conway, ii.122— Marlborough, i. 60, ii.8,90-99Cat and Fiddle, near Buxton, ii.147— near Christchurch, ii.181Cat and Mutton, London Fields, ii.139Cats, Sevenoaks, ii.191Chapel House, near Chipping Norton, ii.100-106Cheney Gate, near Congleton, ii.139Chequers, Slapestones, ii.134— of the Hope, Canterbury, i. 85Civil Usage, Brixham, ii.203Clayton Arms, Godstone, ii.30-34Coach and Dogs, Oswestry, ii.200Coach and Horses, Chalton Downs, near Petersfield, i. 270Coach and Horses, Isleworth, i. 276Cock, Eaton Socon, i. 267— Great Budworth, ii.69-71— Stony Stratford, ii.43,47Cock and Pymat, Whittington, near Chesterfield, i. 181-184County Inn, Canterbury, i. 291Craven Arms, near Church Stretton, ii.47Cricketers, Laleham, ii.167Crispin and Crispianus, Strood, i. 292-295Cross Hands, near Chipping Sodbury, ii.85Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, i. 295Crow-on-Gate, Crowborough, ii.205Crown, Chiddingfold, ii.242— Hempstead, i. 310— Oxford, ii.101— Rochester, i. 223-225— Stamford, ii.158Crown and Treaty, Uxbridge, i. 161-169Custom House, Chester, ii.77Dale Abbey, ii.88-90Dedlock Arms, i. 290De Quincey, T., on old inns, i. 57, ii.274-279Dial House, Bocking, ii.226Dick Whittington, Cloth Fair, i. 4Dolphin, Potter Heigham, i. 159Domus Dei, Southampton, i. 90Dorset Arms, East Grinstead, ii.35Duchy Hotel, Princetown, ii.149Eagle and Child, Nether Alderley, ii.209Edinburgh Castle, Limehouse, ii.106-108— Regent’s Park, ii.126-128Eight Bells, Twickenham, ii.200Epitaphs on Innkeepers, ii.245-254Falcon, Bidford, ii.89— Chester, ii.74Falstaff, Canterbury, i. 87Feathers, Ludlow, ii.18-25Ferry inn, Rosneath, ii.180Fighting Cocks, St. Albans, i. 4First and Last, Land’s End, ii.206— Sennen, ii.206Fish and Eels, Roydon, i. 118Flitch of Bacon, Wichnor, ii.79Fountain, Canterbury, i. 291Four Crosses, Hatherton, ii.134Fowler, J. Kearsley, of the White Hart, Aylesbury, i. 62Fox and Hounds, Barley, ii.153Fox and Pelican, Grayshott, ii.180Fox-under-the-Hill, Strand, i. 255Garter, Windsor, ii.261Gate, Dunkirk, ii.133Gate Hangs Well, Nottingham, ii.133Gatehouse Tavern, Norwich, ii.130George, Amesbury, i. 283-287— Andover, ii.16-18— Bridport, i. 180— Brighthelmstone, i. 181— Broadwindsor, i. 180— Colnbrook, i. 188— Crawley, ii.152— Grantham, i. 267, ii.55— Glastonbury, i. 107, 116— Greta Bridge, i. 268— Hayes Common, ii.172— Huntingdon, ii.47— Mere, i. 180— Norton St. Philip, i. 123-132— Odiham, ii.44— Rochester, i. 82— St. Albans, i. 117, 119— Salisbury, ii.263— Southwark, i. 31— Stamford, ii.154-158— Walsall, i. 60— Wanstead, ii.141— Winchcombe, i. 132-136George and Dragon, Dragon’s Green, ii.117-119— Great Budworth, ii.137— Wargrave-on-Thames, ii.176— West Wycombe, ii.222George and Vulture, Lombard Street, i. 213, 251, 264George the Fourth, Clare Market, i. 242-244God’s House, Portsmouth, i. 89Golden Cross, Charing Cross, i. 213-220, ii.72,268Grand Pump Room Hotel, Bath, i. 254Great Western Railway Hotel, Paddington, i. 72Great White Horse, Ipswich, i. 246-251Green Dragon, Alderbury, i. 282-288— Combe St. Nicholas, ii.109— Welton, i. 312— Wymondham, i. 95Green Man, Hatton, i. 317— Putney Heath, i. 319Green Man and Black’s Head, Ashbourne, ii.159Grenadier, Whitley, ii.138Greyhound, Croydon, ii.153— Sutton, ii.153— Thame, i. 160Guildford Arms, Guildford Street, ii.290Halfway House, Rickmansworth, ii.215Hark to Bounty, Staidburn, ii.204— Lasher, Castleton, ii.204— Nudger, Dobcross, Manchester, ii.204— Towler, Bury, Lancashire, ii.204Haycock, Wansford, ii.80Haygate Inn, near Wellington, Salop, ii.80Hearts of Oak, West Allington, ii.87Herbergers, i. 25Hop-pole, Tewkesbury, i. 257, ii.288Horseshoe and Castle, Cooling, i. 295Hostelers, i. 25Hundred-and-One, The, ii.129Innkeepers, Epitaphs on, ii.245-254Isle of Skye, near Holmfirth, ii.148Jack Straw’s Castle, Hampstead Heath, i. 300-302Johnson Dr., on inns, i. 43-46Jolly Farmer, Farnham, ii.217Keigwin Arms, Mousehole, ii.230King and Tinker, Enfield, i. 205-207King Edgar, Chester, ii.72-74King’s Arms, Lancaster, i. 299— Malmesbury, ii.293— Salisbury, i. 180— Sandwich, ii.228King’s Head, Aylesbury, i. 141-143, ii.38— Chigwell, i. 277-283— Dorking, i. 230— Stockbridge, ii.249— Thame, i. 160— Yarmouth, i. 207, ii.114Labour in Vain, Stourbridge, ii.199Lamb, Eastbourne, ii.57Lawrence, Robert, of the “Lion,” Shrewsbury, i. 60, ii.250Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, i. 230— Holborn, ii.191Leighton, Archbishop, i. 29Lion, Shrewsbury, i. 60, 297, ii.250,274-279Lion and Fiddle, Hilperton, ii.195Lion and Swan, Congleton, ii.65-67Living Sign, Grantham, ii.192Load of Mischief, Oxford Street, ii.162Locker-Lampson, F., on old inns, i. 58Loggerheads, Llanverris, ii.168Lord Crewe Arms, Blanchland, i. 136-140Lord Warden, Dover, i. 54Luttrell Arms, Dunster, ii.37-40Lygon Arms, Broadway, ii.2-8,244Magpie, Little Stonham, ii.153— and Stump, Clare Market, i. 242Maiden’s Head, Uckfield, ii.37Maid’s Head, Norwich, ii.40-42Maison Dieu, Dover, i. 88— Ospringe, i. 84Malt Shovel, Sandwich, ii.228Man Loaded with Mischief, Oxford Street, ii.162Marlborough Downs, i. 231-238Marquis of Ailesbury’s Arms, Manton, i. 232— Granby, Dorking, i. 230Maund and Bush, near Shifnal, ii.199Maypole, Chigwell, i. 277-282Miller of Mansfield, Goring-on-Thames, ii.177Molly Mog, ii.271Mompesson, Sir Giles, i. 37-41Mortal Man, Troutbeck, ii.169Morison, Fynes, on English inns, i. 36Music House, Norwich, i. 157Nag’s Head, Thame, i. 160Neptune, Ipswich, ii.110Newhaven Inn, near Buxton, ii.255New Inn, Allerton, ii.80— Gloucester, i. 98-106— Greta Bridge, i. 268— New Romney, ii.44— Sherborne, i. 106Newby Head, near Hawes, ii.149Noah’s Ark, Compton, i. 90Nutley Inn, ii.36Old Angel, Basingstoke, ii.279— Bell, Holborn, i. 30— — Chester, ii.78— Black Jack, Clare Market, i. 242-244— Fox, Bricket Wood, ii.201— Hall, Sandbach, ii.58-62— House at Home, Havant, ii.220— King’s Head, Aylesbury, i. 141-143, ii.38— — Chester, ii.77— Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, i. 230— Magpies, Sipson Green, i. 317— Rock House, Barton, ii.196— Rover’s Return, Manchester, i. 7— Royal Hotel, Birmingham, i. 258, ii.268— Ship, Worksop, ii.226— Star, York, ii.158— Swan, Atherstone, ii.227— Tippling Philosopher, Chepstow, ii.203— White Swan, Piff’s Elm, i. 202-205Osborne’s Hotel, Adelphi, i. 212, 264Ostrich, Colnbrook, i. 188-201Pack Horse and Talbot, Turnham Green, ii.192Peacock, Eatanswill, i. 230— Rowsley, ii.25-29Pelican, Speenhamland, i. 208, ii.293Penygwryd Hotel, Llanberis, ii.294-298Pheasant, Winterslow Hut, ii.102Pickering Arms, Thelwall, ii.71Pie, Little Stonham, ii.153Pied Bull, Chester, ii.78Piers Plowman, i. 16-18Piff’s Elm, i. 202-205Pilgrims’ Hostel, Battle, i. 97— Compton, i. 90Plough, Blundeston, i. 290— Ford, ii.136Pomfret Arms, Towcester, i. 259-263Pounds Bridge, near Penshurst, ii.220Queen’s Arms, Charmouth, i. 180— Head, Hesket Newmarket, i. 299— Hotel, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, i. 229— Burton-on-Trent, ii.114Raven, Hook, ii.86— Shrewsbury, i. 42, 60Red Bull, Stamford, ii.158Red Horse, Stratford-on-Avon, ii.47,269-271Red Lion, Banbury, i. 146— Canterbury, i. 51— Chiswick Mall, ii.123-125— Egham, ii.53-56— Glastonbury, i. 116— Great Missenden, ii.198— Guildford, ii.262— Hampton-on-Thames, ii.159— Hatfield, ii.55— Henley-on-Thames, ii.299-301— High Wycombe, i. 184— Hillingdon, i. 169— Martlesham, ii.113,165— Ospringe, i. 84— Parliament Street, i. 265, 290Reindeer, Banbury, i. 145, 147-155, 169Ridler’s Hotel, Holborn, i. 31Robin Hood, Turnham Green, ii.131— Cherry Hinton, ii.131Rose, Wokingham, ii.271Rose and Crown, Halifax, ii.273— Rickmansworth, ii.215Rover’s Return, Shudehill, Manchester, i. 7Row Barge, Wallingford, ii.178Royal County Hotel, Durham, ii.55Royal George, Knutsford, ii.279— Stroud, ii.82Royal Hotel, Bath, i. 255— Bideford, ii.273Royal Oak, Bettws-y-Coed, ii.172-175Rummyng, Elynor, i. 19-24Running Footman, Hay Hill, i. 255, ii.193Running Horse, Leatherhead, i. 18-25— Merrow, ii.233Salutation, Ambleside, ii.292Saracen’s Head, Bath, i. 266— Southwell, i. 172-180— Towcester, i. 259-263Serjeant’s Inn Coffee House, i. 255Seven Stars, Manchester, i. 6, 8-12Shakespeare’s Head, near Chipping Norton, ii.100-106Shears, Wantage, ii.202Shepherd’s Shore, Marlborough Downs, i. 232-237Ship and Lobster, Denton, near Gravesend, i. 296— Afloat, Bridgwater, ii.203— Aground, ii.203Ship, Brixham, ii.139— Dover, i. 54Smiling Man, Dudley, ii.203Smoker, Plumbley, ii.179Soldier’s Fortune, Kidderminster, ii.136Sondes Arms, Rockingham, i. 290Spaniards, Hampstead Heath, i. 256, 320-327Star, Alfriston, i. 93-97, ii.165— Lewes, ii.37— Yarmouth, ii.42-44,273Stocks, Clapgate, ii.202Stonham Pie, Little Stonham, ii.153Sugar Loaves, Sible Hedingham, ii.195Sun, Canterbury, i. 292— Cirencester, i. 180— Dedham, ii.225— Northallerton, ii.248Sunrising Inn, Edge Hill, ii.299Swan and Bottle, Uxbridge, i. 165— Charing, ii.188— Ferrybridge, ii.81,83— Fittleworth, ii.159,183— Haslemere, ii.242— Kirkby Moorside, ii.267— Knowle, ii.231-233— near Newbury, ii.216— Preston Crowmarsh, ii.179— Rickmansworth, ii.214— Sandleford, ii.217— Tewkesbury, ii.288— Thames Ditton, ii.292— Town Malling, i. 226— with Two Necks, Gresham Street, i. 54-56Tabard, Southwark, i. 77-79Talbot, Atcham, ii.80— Cuckfield, ii.81— Newark, i. 308— Ripley, ii.213— Shrewsbury, ii.80— Southwark, i. 79— Towcester, ii.115,243Tan Hill Inn, Swaledale, near Brough, ii.145Tankard, Ipswich, ii.110Thorn, Appleton, ii.138Three Cats, Sevenoaks, ii.191— Cocks, near Hay, ii.47— Crosses, Willoughby, ii.303— Crowns, Chagford, i. 170-172— Horseshoes, Great Mongeham, ii.197— Houses, Sandal, i. 308— Jolly Bargemen, Cooling, i. 295— Magpies, Sipson Green, i. 317— Queens, Burton-on-Trent, ii.114— Tuns, Bideford, ii.110Town Arms, Eatanswill, i. 230Traveller’s Rest, Flash Bar, ii.148— Kirkstone Pass, ii.148Treaty House, Uxbridge, i. 161-169Trevelyan Arms, Barnstaple, ii.40,110Trip to Jerusalem, Nottingham, ii.134Trouble House, near Tetbury, ii.203Turnspit Dogs, i. 48-51Turpin’s Cave, Epping Forest, i. 310Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Bluepitts, near Rochdale, ii.197Unicorn, Bowes, i. 269— Ripon, ii.121Verulam Arms, St. Albans, ii.79Vine, Mile-End, ii.259Vision of Piers Plowman, i. 16-18Visitors’ Books, ii.291-308Waggon and Horses, Beckhampton, i. 233, 237Wellington, Broadstairs, ii.47— Market Place, Manchester, i. 7— Rushyford Bridge, i. 60— Tewkesbury, ii.287Whetstone, Chiswick Mall, ii.124White Bear, Fickles Hole, ii.203— and Whetstone, Chiswick Mall, ii.123-125— Bull, Ribchester, ii.119-121White Hart, Adwalton, ii.255— Aylesbury, i. 62-67, 140— Bath, i. 254— Castle Combe, ii.234— Drighlington, ii.255— Eatanswill, i. 230— Glastonbury, i. 112— Godstone, ii.30-34— Guildford, ii.55— Hackney Marshes, ii.257-259— Scole, ii.150— Somerton, i. 185-187— Southwark, i. 226-228— Whitchurch, Hants, ii.280— Widcombe, i. 254— Yard, Gray’s Inn Road, ii.106White Horse, Eaton Socon, i. 267— Fetter Lane, i. 31, 219— Maiden Newton, ii.289— Shere, ii.241— Woolstone, ii.211White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, i. 253White House, Hackney Marshes, ii.259White Lion, Maidstone, i. 226White Swan, Henley-in-Arden, ii.300Who’d Have Thought It, Barking, ii.204Why Not, Dover, ii.204Widow’s Son, Bromley-by-Bow, ii.125-127Windmill, North Cheriton, ii.89-91— Salt Hill, i. 60— Tabley, ii.179Winterslow Hut, near Salisbury, ii.102Wizard, Alderley Edge, ii.65-69Wood’s Hotel, Furnival’s Inn, i. 31World Turned Upside Down, Old Kent Road, ii.204— near Three Mile Cross, ii.204Wright’s, Rochester, i. 223-225Yacht, Chester, ii.77,304

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