IN THE HARE AND HOUNDS.
In the tavern with the sign of the Hare and Hounds, a fire of peat was
burning on the hearth. A huge oak settle occupied the side of the
fireplace opposite to the window; and beneath and before the window was
a long table, the end of which admitted of being drawn out so as to make
it serve as a shuffle-board for the use of such as liked to play at that
game so popular in the reign of Elizabeth, illicit in the time of the
Commonwealth, and at the epoch of my story almost obsolete, except in
stray corners remote from fashion.
The settle was of a construction then usual, now rarely met with, and
therefore deserving a description as a domestic curiosity. The seat was
on hinges, and could be raised, disclosing beneath it a cavity like a
clothes chest; the settle back opened in compartments and revealed sides
of bacon and hams that had been smoked, and there awaited cutting up.
Above the heads of those who sat in the settle was a sort of projecting
roof to cut off all down draught; but this also served as a cupboard for
vinegar, salt, spices, and other groceries. The chest, that was also
seat, to a mother with an infant, was of extraordinary service; when she
was engaged at the fire, baking or cooking, she raised the lid or seat
and buttoned it back, then she planted the babe in the box, where it lay
warm and secure, close to her, without the chance of coming to harm. If
the child were in the age of toddledum, then it ran up and down in the
box with the little hands on the edge, saw its mother, crowed to her,
watched her proceedings, and ran no risk of falling into the fire, or
of pulling over and breaking the crockery. Altogether the settle was a
great institution, and the march of culture, instead of improving it,
has abolished it. More is the pity.
The fireplace was of granite uncarved, but rudely chamfered, very wide
and very deep, so deep as to allow of a seat recessed in the wall at the
side, in which a chilly old man might sit and toast his knees, protected
from the down draught and falling soot by the arched roof of the recess.
It used to be said of one of these great fireplaces, in which wood and
peat were burned, that a necessary accompaniment was an old man and a
pair of tongs, for the logs when burnt through in the midst fell apart,
and required some one at hand to pick the ends up, and reverse them on
the hearth, and to collect and repile the turfs when they fell down. At
the fire-breast burnt, what was called a "spane," that is, a slip of
deal steeped in resin, which lighted the housewife at her operations at
the fire. But the "spane" emitted more smoke than light. Opposite to the
ingle-nook was the "cloam" oven, that is, the earthenware oven let into
the wall for baking.
In more ancient times ovens were constructed with enormous labour out of
granite blocks, which were scooped out in the middle, but the
disadvantage attendant on granite was that it became in time resolved
into sand by heat, and crumbled away like sugar.[1] These were rapidly
got rid of when the earthenware oven was introduced, and hardly a
specimen remains. Not so, however, with the stone frying-pan, which is
only just, and not altogether, superseded. Housewives contend that the
iron pan is not so good at frying as the scooped-out pan of stone, and
that rashers of bacon done in the latter are incomparably superior to
those burnt in iron. Thus, it will be seen that in the West we are only
recently, in some particulars emerging from the Stone-Age, but it is
with a leap over that of Bronze into the era of Iron.[2]
The walls of the "mug-house" of the Hare and Hounds were well
white-washed and ornamented with a quantity of broadside ballads, the
illustrations very generally bearing no intelligible relation to the
letterpress.
A single rush-candle burning on the table, served to light the room. The
servant-wench was expected to act as snuffer, and she regularly at
intervals of ten minutes left the work on which she was engaged,
cooking, washing, drawing ale, and like the comet that sweeps up to and
about the sun, and then dashes back into obscurity, so did she rush up
to the candle, snuff the wick between the forefinger and thumb, and
plunge back to the work on which she was engaged, at the fire, in the
back-kitchen, or in the cellar.
At the fire and about the table were seated Anthony Cleverdon, Fox
Crymes, the host of the Hare and Hounds. Mr. Solomon Gibbs, also a
quaint old grey-haired man in sorry garb, and a couple of miners from
the moor.
At the time of the tale, and, indeed for a century after, it was
customary for men of all classes to meet at the alehouse, parson and
Squire, surgeon, farmer, and peasant, comrades all in merry-making--and
at that period there was no social-democracy, no class-hatreds--how
could there be, when all classes met, and gossiped, and smoked, and
boozed together? No good thing comes without bringing a shadow after it.
Perhaps it is well that parson and Squire do not now go to the tavern to
take pipe and glass with yeoman and ploughboy, but--the misfortune is
that there has come class-alienation, along with this social
amelioration of the better sort.
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was at the table. He had occupied the corner of the
settle all the afternoon, searching for his niece in the bottom of his
tankard, but after a while, as evening settled in, he declared he felt
the heat too greatly by the fire, and then withdrew to the table. In
fact, when occupying the settle, his can of ale had stood on a
three-legged stool between his feet, and whenever he lusted after a
drink he was obliged to stoop to take it up. As the ale got into his
head, he found that this stooping produced a fulness of the veins that
made him giddy, and he had fallen forward once on his hands, and upset
the stool and his ale. Then he deemed it advisable to retire to the
table, but as men never give direct and true reasons for their
proceedings, he explained to those who were present that----
"There was thunder in the air, and when there was, he was liable to fits
of giddiness; moreover, the heat of the fire was insufferable."
His wig was very much awry; underneath it was a strong stubbly growth,
for Mr. Gibbs had not had his head shaved for a fortnight. His mulberry
coat was much stained with ale, and the elbows were glossy.
The old man in the threadbare coat occupied a chair near the table, and
he stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, extended his arms rigidly
before him, planted his legs apart, and began to sing a song at that
time exceedingly popular, "The Catholic Cause;" his voice ranging
through an extensive scale, from bass to falsetto.
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,
How earnestly I do desire thee!
Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,
But only to thee to inspire me.
The singer was interrupted by a groan from all in the room, and a shout
from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist Géneva and Hollands for me! Catholic
French Claret is thin--deuced thin liquor!"
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,
Which in England will be a new wonder!
Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal things
Shall submit, and shall truckle under!
The miners jumped to their feet, and began to swear that they'd rather
be crushed in their adits, than live to see that day.
"Things are coming fair on towards it, sure as the clouds have been
rolling up, and portending a thunderstorm," said the host.
"Ah!" growled Solomon; "give the Devil his due. Old Noll, who didn't sit
by right Divine, knew how to make Britain free and honoured."
"No Dutch in the Medway, then! No burning of Spithead and His Majesty's
fleet under His Majesty's nose," said the old singer.
"'Tis a pity," said one of the men present, "that there were not a few
more drowned on the Lemon and Ore than those who did. Nay, rather, that
certain who escaped should not have sunk, and such as drowned should not
have escaped."
This had reference to a sandbank near Yarmouth, on which the frigate
bearing the Duke of York had struck, when about a hundred and thirty
persons were drowned.
"Here!" called Sol Gibbs. "Here's bad luck to Lemon and Ore for doing
the work so foully!" and he put his jug of ale to his lips.
"Lemon and Ore," said each who drank, "better luck next time."
"Folks do say," put in the landlord, "that the King, God bless him, was
really married to Lucy Walters. If that be so, why then the Duke of
Monmouth should be King after him." Then he shook his head, and added,
"But, Lord! I know nought about such matters."
"Here's a health to the Protestant Duke!" said the miners, and looked
about them. "Now, my masters! Won'ty all drink to the Protestant Duke?"
"To be sure I will--drink to any one," said Solomon Gibbs.
"Why should he not have married her?" asked the singer. "Didn't the Duke
of York marry Mistress Ann Hyde? And Lucy Walters was a gentlewoman
every whit as much. When the Duke of Monmouth was born, then His Majesty
was Prince Charles, in France, with small chance of coming to his own
again; for Old Noll was then in full flower, and making the earth quake
at the name of England."
"When the Duke of Savoy was persecuting the Protestants, did not Old
Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight of his nail the Duke stayed
his hands?" said Anthony Cleverdon. "By the Lord! If it had been in my
time, I would have drawn the sword for them."
"When all the giants are dead, every Tom Thumb boasts he would have been
a Jack of Cornwall," sneered Fox Crymes.
"What is that you say?" asked Anthony, hotly.
"I was merely saying that it ill becomes a man of spirit to boast of
what he would have done had things been other than they are."
"Do you mean to hint that I am a coward?"
"I hinted nothing of the sort. I made a general observation. If the time
should come when your sword would be wanted to sustain the Protestant
cause, I make no doubt that you will be ready to prop it up--on the
point."
"No quarrels here," shouted Solomon Gibbs; then he sang:--
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,
Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.
We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,
Give me the punch-ladle--I'll fathom the bowl.
Then he called to the united assembly, "What say you all--shall we have
a punch-bowl? _Nem. con._ Carried. That is it which lacked to establish
sweetest concord. Landlord! Bring us the needful, and we'll brew."
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,
Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.
Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,
Give me the punch-ladle--I'll fathom the bowl.
The host called to his wife to produce the requisite ingredients, and
went in quest of the ladle, which he kept upstairs, as it had a silver
piece of Charles I. let into it.
"I ax," said one of the miners, throwing out his arm as if proclaiming
defiance, "how it came about that London was burnt? Warn't them Poperies
seen a doing of it--a firing it in several places?"
"And Sir Edmondbury Godfrey--weren't he cruelly and bloodily murdered by
'em?" asked the second.
"Ay! and whose doing is it that that worthy gentleman, my Lord Russell,
has been done to death? That every one knows. 'Tis said the Earl of
Bedford offered a hundred thousand pounds to save his life; but the
Catholic Duke would not hear of his being spared. And the Duke of York
will be King after his present Gracious Majesty. By heavens! I would
draw sword for the Protestant Duke and swear to his legitimacy."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Fox Crymes, "if this sort of talk is
going on here, I'm off and away. If you are not speaking treason, you go
pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for safety, and I'll be off."
"There are no informers and spies here," said the yeoman.
"I reckon us be all true Protestants and loyal to the Crown and
Constitution. The Constitution! God bless it!"
"You can't go, Fox," said Anthony, "for here comes the storm we have
been expecting." He spoke as a flash illuminated the room, and was
followed by a boom of near thunder, then down came the rain like the
fall of a water-spout on the roof.
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,
Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was erect, supporting himself on the table by his left
hand, whilst he mixed the bowl of punch and stirred it, and sang in
snatches:
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,
Give me the punch ladle--I'll fathom the bowl.
"Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not
going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a
Crown, or a parson without a gown."
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please--
Haven't got one, I'm thankful--a sister don't count--
Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.
In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.
Give me the punch ladle--I'll fathom the bowl.
"--So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with?
Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without,
and the spirit is within."
"This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman.
"And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you," laughed Anthony,
"had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery."
"Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were
wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective
glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and
drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night."
"Now--no more of this," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "I am president here.
Where the punch-bowl is, there is a president, and I waive my sceptre,
this ladle, and enforce abstention from politics, and all such scurvy
subjects. You began it, Taverner, with your damnable ballad of the
Catholic cause, and you shall be served last. Comrades! 'To the King,
God bless him!'"
"And the Protestant cause!" shouted Taverner.
"Ay, ay, which His Majesty swore to maintain," said the miners.
"Bar politics!" cried Mr. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw the punch out
of the door. I will, I swear I will. Taverner, give us something
cheerful--something with no politics in it to set us all by the ears."
"Shall I give you something suitable to the evening, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Certainly--tune up. I wish I had my viol with me to give a few chords;
but I set out to look for my niece who had strayed, and I forgot to take
my viol with me."
The grey-haired ballad-singer stood up, cleared his throat, and with the
utmost gravity sang, throwing marvellous twirls and accidentals into the
tune, the following song:
My Lady hath a sable coach
And horses, two and four,
My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound
That runneth on before.
My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,
The coachman has no head.
My Lady's face is ashen white,
As one that long is dead.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in and ride!"
"I thank thee, I had rather walk,
Than gather to thy side."
The wheels go round without a sound
Of tramp or turn of wheels,
As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,
Onward the carriage steals.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, prithee, come to me."
She takes the baby from the crib,
She sets it on her knee.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in, and ride,"
Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,
She takes to her the bride.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"There's room I wot for you."
She waved her hand, the coach did stand,
The Squire within she drew.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"
She took the gaffer in by her,
His crutches in the boot.
The wheels go round, etc.
I'd rather walk a hundred miles,
And run by night and day,
Than have that carriage halt for me,
And hear my Lady say:
"Now, pray step in, and make no din,
I prithee come and ride.
There's room, I trow, by me for you,
And all the world beside."[3]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Such a granite-oven was discovered in the author's own house in an
old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 1866. It was impossible to
preserve it.
[2] Two such stone frying-pans are to be seen in the Museum at
Launceston. The one was given by a gentleman from his kitchen, where it
had been long in use, the other was found among the ruins of
Trecarrel--probably coeval with the buildings, the middle of the
sixteenth century.
[3] Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West,
Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S.
Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London,
1889).