A RAILWAY RIDE.—SECOND CLASS.—INCONVENIENT ARRANGEMENTS.—FIRST WALK
IN THE COUNTRY.—ENGLAND ITSELF.—A RURAL LANDSCAPE.—HEDGES.—APPROACH
TO A HAMLET.—THE OLD ALE-HOUSE AND THE OLD JOHN BULL.—A TALK WITH
COUNTRY PEOPLE.—NOTIONS OF AMERICA.—FREE TRADE.—THE YEW TREE.—THE
OLD RURAL CHURCH AND GRAVEYARD.—A PARK GATE.—A MODEL FARMER.—THE OLD
VILLAGE INN.—A MODEL KITCHEN.—A MODEL LANDLADY.
[Sidenote: _RAILROAD SCENES._]
We were very tired when we again reached the baker’s. After
passenger-life at sea, a man’s legs need to be brought into active
service somewhat gradually. As we had spent more time than we had meant
to at Birkenhead, we determined to rest ourselves for a few minutes,
and get a start of a few miles into the country by the railroad. A
seat, however, on the hard board benches of an English second-class
car, crowded, and your feet cramped under you, does not remove fatigue
very rapidly.
A heavy cloud darkened the landscape, and as we emerged in a few
moments from the dark tunnel, whirling out of town, big drops of rain
came slanting in upon us. A lady coughed, and we closed the window.
The road ran through a deep cutting, with only occasionally such
depressions of its green-sodded bank, that we could, through the dusty
glass, get glimpses of the country. In successive gleams:—
A market-garden, with rows of early cabbages, and lettuce, and peas;—
Over a hedge, a nice, new stone villa, with the gardener shoving up
the sashes of the conservatory, and the maids tearing clothes from the
drying-lines;—
A bridge, with children shouting and waving hats;—
A field of wheat, in drills as precisely straight, and in earth as
clean and finely-tilled, as if it were a garden-plant;—
A bit of broad pasture, with colts and cows turning tail to the squall;
long hills in the back, with some trees and a steeple rising beyond
them;—
Another few minutes of green bank;—
A jerk—a stop. A gruff shout, “BROMBRO!” A great fuss to get the window
on the other side from us open; calling the conductor; having the
door unlocked; squeezing through the ladies’ knees, and dragging our
packs over their laps—all borne with a composure that shows them to
be used to it, and that they take it as a necessary evil of railroad
travelling. The preparations for rain are just completed as we emerge
upon a platform, and now down it comes in a torrent. We rush, with
a quantity of floating muslin, white ankles, and thin shoes, under
an arch. With a sharp whistle and hoarse puffing the train rumbles
onward; grooms pick up the lap-dog and baskets; flaunting white skirts
are moved again across the track; another rush, in which a diminutive
French sun-shade is assisted by a New York umbrella to protect a new
English bonnet; a graceful bow in return, with lifting eyebrows, as if
in inquiry; and we are altogether crowded in the station-house.
In a few minutes they go off in carriages, and room is left us
in the little waiting-room to strap on our knapsacks. The rain
slackens—ceases, and we mount, by stone steps up a bank of roses and
closely-shaven turf, to the top of the bridge over the cutting.
[Sidenote: _FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE “COUNTRY”._]
There we were right in the midst of it! The country—and such a
country!—green, dripping, glistening, gorgeous! We stood dumb-stricken
by its loveliness, as, from the bleak April and bare boughs we had left
at home, broke upon us that English May—sunny, leafy, blooming May—in
an English lane; with hedges, English hedges, hawthorn hedges, all in
blossom; homely old farm-houses, quaint stables, and haystacks; the old
church spire over the distant trees; the mild sun beaming through the
watery atmosphere, and all so quiet—the only sounds the hum of bees
and the crisp grass-tearing of a silken-skinned, real (unimported)
Hereford cow over the hedge. No longer excited by daring to think we
should see it, as we discussed the scheme round the old home-fire;
no longer cheering ourselves with it in the stupid, tedious ship; no
more forgetful of it in the bewilderment of the busy town—but there we
were, right in the midst of it; long time silent, and then speaking
softly, as if it were enchantment indeed, we gazed upon it and breathed
it—never to be forgotten.
At length we walked on—rapidly—but frequently stopping, one side and
the other, like children in a garden; hedges still, with delicious
fragrance, on each side of us, and on, as far as we can see, true
farm-fencing hedges; nothing trim, stiff, nice, and amateur-like,
but the verdure broken, tufty, low, and natural. They are set on a
ridge of earth thrown out from a ditch beside them, which raises and
strengthens them as a fence. They are nearly all hawthorn, which is now
covered in patches, as if after a slight fall of snow, with clusters
of white or pink blossoms, over its light green foliage. Here and
there a holly bush, with bunches of scarlet berries, and a few other
shrubs, mingle with it. A cart meets us—a real heavy, big-wheeled
English cart; and English horses—real big, shaggy-hoofed, sleek, heavy
English cart-horses; and a carter—a real apple-faced, smock-frocked,
red-headed, wool-hatted carter—breeches, stockings, hob-nailed shoes,
and “_Gee-up Dobbin_” English carter. Little birds hop along in the
road before us, and we guess at their names, first of all electing
one to be Robin-Redbreast. We study the flowers under the hedge, and
determine them nothing else than primroses and buttercups. Through
the gates we admire the great, fat, clean-licked, contented-faced
cows, and large, white, long-wooled sheep. What else was there? I
cannot remember; but there was that altogether that made us forget
our fatigue, disregard the rain, thoughtless of the way we were
going—serious, happy, and grateful. And this excitement continued for
many days.
[Sidenote: _VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE._]
At length as it becomes drenching again, we approach a stone spire.
A stone house interrupts our view in front; the road winds round it,
between it and another; turns again, and there on our left is the
church—the old ivy-covered, brown-stone village church, with the
yew-tree—we knew it at once, and the heaped-up, green, old English
churchyard. We turn to the right; there is the old ale-house, long,
low, thatched-roofed. We run in at the open door; there he sits, the
same bluff and hearty old fellow, with the long-stemmed pipe and the
foaming pewter mug on the little table before him. At the same moment
with us comes in another man. He drops in a seat—raps with his whip.
_Enter_ a young woman, neat and trim, with exactly the white cap,
smooth hair, shiny face, bright eyes, and red cheeks, we are looking
for—“_Muggoyail, lass!_”
... Mug of ale!—ay, that’s it! Mug of ale!—Fill up! Fill up! and the
toast shall be
“MERRIE ENGLAND! HURRAH!”
* * * * *
We sit with them for some time, and between puffs of smoke, the talk
is of “the weather and the crops.” The maid leaves the door open, so
we can look into the kitchen, where a smart old woman is ironing by a
bright coal fire. Two little children venture before us. I have just
succeeded in coaxing the girl on to my knee, as C. mentions that we are
Americans. The old woman lays down her iron and puts on her spectacles
to look at us. The stout man who had risen to take an observation of
the weather, seats himself again and calls for another mug and _twist_.
The landlord (a tall thin man, unfortunately) looks in and asks how
times go where we come from. Plenty of questions follow that show alike
the interest and the ignorance of our companions about America, it
being confused apparently in their minds with Ireland, Guinea, and the
poetical _Indies_. After a little straightening out, and explanation
of the distance to it, its climate and civilized condition, they ask
about the present crops, the price of wheat, about rents, tithes, and
taxes. In return, we get only grumbling. “The country is ruined;”
“things weren’t so when they were young as they be now,” and so on,
just as a company of our tavern-lounging farmers would talk, except
that every complaint ends with blaming Free-Trade. “Free-Trade—hoye
sirs,—free-trade be killing the varmers.”
We left them as soon as the shower slackened, but stopped again
immediately to look at the yew through the churchyard gate. It was a
very old and decrepit tree, with dark and funereal foliage—the stiff
trunk and branches of our red-cedar, with the leaf of the hemlock, but
much more dark and glossy than either. The walls of the church are low,
but higher in one part than another. The roof, which is slated, is
high and steep. The tower is square, with buttresses on the corners,
on the tops of which are quaint lions rampant. It is surmounted by a
tall, symmetrical spire—solid stone to the ball, over which, as I am
the son of a Puritan, is a weather-cock. There are little, narrow
windows in the steeple, and swallows are flying in and out of them. Old
weather-beaten stone and mortar, glass, lead, iron, and matted ivy, but
not a splinter of wood or a daub of paint. Old England for ever! Amen.
A mile or two more of such walking as before the shower, and we came
to a park gate. It was, with the lodges by its side, neat, simple, and
substantial. The park was a handsome piece of old woods, but, as seen
from the road, not remarkable. We were told, however, that there was a
grand old hall and fine grounds a long ways within. Near the park there
were signs of an improving farmer: broad fields of mangel-wurzel in
drills; large fields, partly divided by wire fences, within which were
large flocks of sheep; marks of recent under-draining; hedges trimmed
square, and every thing neat, straight, and business-like.
[Sidenote: _THE COUNTRY INN._]
As it grows dark we approach another village. The first house on the
left is an inn—a low, two-story house of light drab-coloured stone.
A bunch of grapes (cast in iron) and a lantern are hung out from it
over the foot-path, and over the front door is a square sign—“THE RED
LION—_licensed to sell foreign spirits and beer, to be drunk on the
premises_.” We turn into a dark hall, and opening a door to the left,
enter—the kitchen. Such a kitchen! You would not believe me if I could
describe how bright every thing is. You would think the fireplace a
show-model, for the very bars of the grate are glistening. It is all
glowing with red-hot coals; a bright brass tea-kettle swings and sings
from a polished steel crane—hook, jack, and all like silver; the brass
coal-scuttle, tongs, shovel, and warming-pan are in a blazing glow, and
the walls and mantel-piece are covered with bright plate-covers, and I
know not what other metallic furniture, all burnished to the highest
degree.
The landlady rises and begs to take our wet hats—a model-landlady,
too. What a fine eye!—a kind and welcoming black eye. Fair and stout;
elderly—a little silver in her hair, just showing its otherwise thick
blackness to be no lie; a broad-frilled, clean white cap and collar,
and a black dress. Ah ha! one of the widows that we have read of. We
hesitated to cross the clean-scoured, buff, tile floor with our muddy
shoes; but she draws arm-chairs about the grate, and lays slippers
before them, stirs up the fire, though it is far from needing it, and
turns to take our knapsacks. “We must be fatigued—it’s not easy walking
in the rain; she hopes we can make ourselves comfortable.”
There is every prospect that we shall.