BATH.—WARMINSTER.—SURLY POSTMASTER.—A DOUBTFUL CHARACTER.—POLITE
INNKEEPER AND PRETTY CHAMBERMAID.—THE TAP-ROOM FIRESIDE.—RUSTIC
CIVILITY.—RAINY MORNING IN A COUNTRY INN.—COMING TO MARKET.—THE ROAD
IN A STORM.—SCUDDING.
It was raining hard when I again reached Bristol, and I at once jumped
on board a train ready to leave for Bath. Here I found that my friends
had walked on, and after looking at the “pump-room” and a grimy old
cathedral, and getting a dinner, I determined to follow them. There was
no public conveyance that evening, and I started on foot, thinking to
overtake them at Warminster.
At the top of a high hill I stopped under a tree during a temporary
torrent of rain, and looked back at what I could not help thinking
would be a grand view if there were but a gleam of sunshine upon it;
but perhaps it was grander by help of the imagination in the obscurity
of the rain and drifting scud and murky cloud of smoke that was swept
fragrant towards me from the city. Bath is situated among and up the
sides of extensive hills, and the country about it is much of it
well wooded and studded with numerous villas. The town is remarkably
well built, with numerous stately terrace-houses, of the same fine,
soft-tinted sandstone (Bathstone) that I described at Liverpool. It is
a famous old watering-place, you know; “a mort of merry-making” there
has been in it in days past, but now, though by no means a decayed
town, I believe its glory in this respect has departed. I should
judge it still to be a place of great wealth and elegance, but less
distinguished for gayety and folly than formerly. All I can say of the
inhabitants really, from personal observation, is, that they “know
enough to stay in when it rains,” for I hardly saw one in the streets,
except the men who were waiting by the little covered “chairs,” such
as Mrs. Skewton is represented by Cruikshanks to be wheeled about in
by her miserable, lanky page. I saw hundreds of these, ranged in the
streets as hackney-coaches are in our towns, but no carriage of any
kind, public or private; perhaps the association of Bath coachmen had
“met to a cold swarry.”
[Sidenote: _THE WARMINSTER ROAD._]
After a walk of two miles into the country, I found I had been
misdirected, and had a good deal of difficulty in finding the right
road. I once asked the way of two labourers, and their replies were
in such language, and they were so stupid, that I could not get the
least idea of what they meant. My guess was, that they either could not
understand what I wanted, or that they did not know themselves whether
or not it was the Warminster road that they were at work upon. It was
after four o’clock when I at length got upon the straight road, with
seventeen miles before me—a hilly road, with a thin, slimy chalk-mud
under foot. I stopped once again during another tremendous torrent,
taking the opportunity _to bait_ at a neat little inn, and reached
Warminster, after a hard pull, at nine o’clock. The first building in
the town, as you come from Bath, is a fine old church, going round
the yard of which you enter abruptly upon a close-built street of old
thatched two-story houses—so different from the gradually thickening
and improving houses, as you approach the cluster of churches and
centre of a New England village.
The postmaster had no letters for me, and seemed to be very angry that
I should have expected him to have. I looked from one inn to another,
not finding my friends, and finally, muddy, wet, and tired enough,
stopped at what seemed the last in the street, a house of humble
appearance.
I desired to be showed to my room. Master, mistress, maid, and Boots,
immediately surrounded and eyed me closely, and I could not but
remember that I might, probably, bear a suspicious appearance to them.
As I take off my cape, maid—a nice, kind-looking, black-eyed little
girl—catches it up, and runs off to hang it by the kitchen fire (an
absurd operation, as it is made of oiled silk)—she is back in a moment
with a light, and, lifting my knapsack, shows me up to a pleasant
room, with a deep, dark-curtained bed—slides out, and again is back
in a moment with slippers, and asks to take my shoes to be dried,
and what would I wish for supper? I decline supper, and intend to go
to bed at once. Down she goes, and, after a moment more, in pops the
landlord—“Was you understood aright, sir?—no supper, sir!—not coming
down, sir!—going to bed, sir!—_directly_, sir, without supper, sir!”
and while saying this, he bustles about the room, and locks the closet
doors, puts the keys in his pocket, and then turns towards me with a
suspicious look at my knapsack. “Yes,” I answer, quietly; and, drawing
out shirt, socks, and tooth-brush, “I find myself much heated, and
wet with perspiration and the rain; I took supper upon the road, and
I thought I had best get my clothes off, and at once to bed.” “Ah! I
see, sir; quite right, sir; ah! yes, sir; dry socks too, sir; yes, sir;
indeed, sir, I was not aware; beg pardon, sir: but indeed, would you
step down stairs a moment, sir—fine fire in the tap, sir—dry yourself,
if you would please, for a moment, I would have the room put in better
order for you, sir; indeed, the bed is hardly—if you would, sir—thank
you, sir.”
[Sidenote: _RUSTICS._]
In the tap-room were three fellows with smock frocks. As I approached,
one called to another, who was nearer the fire, to give me his
seat, and offered me, with truly rustic grace and politeness, his
half-emptied pot of beer. I have a strong stomach, and dislike to
repulse what is meant for kindness; so I tasted it, and tried to enter
into conversation with them. I soon found it was impossible; for I
could make nothing of two-thirds of their replies, and I doubted if
they could understand me much better. So I contented myself with
listening, while they continued to talk or mumble with each other. The
subjects of their conversation were beer and “the girls:” of the latter
topic they said nothing to be repeated; of the former, they wished the
farmers never gave worse drink than that they were now enjoying—“it was
most good for nothing, some of it, what they gave out.” And one told
how he had had to drink so much of it once, it had made him clear sick;
and then another told how, on the other hand, he had made himself sick
one day, when somebody wouldn’t give him as much beer as he wanted, by
taking a draught of cold water.
When the little maid came in to say that my bed was now “quite ready,”
and I rose to withdraw from the circle, they all gave a singular jerk
forward of their heads and touched their foreheads with their right
hand, as a parting salutation.
“Would you let me take something else down to be dried now, sir, your
coat, sir, or any thing—the socks, sir; thank you, sir. Hope you’ll
sleep well, sir.”
I didn’t do any thing else till, when I stopped, I found it nine
o’clock the next morning. There was a steady roar upon the tiles—the
rain still continued—I drew the window-curtain, and there was Geoffrey
Crayon’s picture almost to the life: a sleepy old gray mare “_letting_
it rain;” a draggle-tailed cock on a smoking dunghill eyeing with the
air of a miserable sick saint the riotous orgies of a company of mad
ducks deep in their favourite liquor; half-a-dozen doves huddled moping
together on the thatch of the stable—a sombre tone over every thing,
and rain, rain, rain.
“Hope you rested well, sir,” said the landlord as I reached the foot of
the crooked stairs; “a dirty day, sir. Have your shoes, sir? What’ll
you please to have for breakfast, sir? Steak, sir! O yes, sir—or chop,
sir; give you very nice chop, sir; yes, sir, thank you, sir. Walk in
here, sir? Ready shortly, sir.”
To get to the breakfast I was led through the kitchen, a large room
with saddles and box-coats and whips and straps hung up with the bacon
on the ceiling and walls. The breakfast-room (dining-room) was also
much larger than any room you would have supposed from the front of
the house it was likely to contain. Its plan was octagonal, with a
single great red-curtained bow-window, and stately, high-backed chairs,
suggesting a corporation banquet.
It is a rainy day in a country inn, dull enough; nothing to do but
write, and for writing I am not inclined. I determine to take the
road again and overtake J. and C., who will perhaps be waiting for me
somewhere on the way to Salisbury.
“Going on, sir—yes, sir.” All my things are brought, dry and warm, and
nicely folded; and now I have curiosity to know what value is placed
upon so much suavity and care for my comfort. The landlord meets my
request with deprecating gesture and grimace, as if it was a pity that
the custom of society made such a form necessary between a host and
his guest—as if he were about to say—“I am grieved that you should
mention it; really it is I that am indebted to you for this honour—but
if you insist, why”—ending the _aside_, but still low, hurried, and
indistinct—“sixpence for bed and a shilling for breakfast, and—(shall I
say thre’pence?) for Boots, sir.” “Yes, and the rest of this to that
excellent little chambermaid, if you please.” “Oh, _my little girl_,
sir; oh, thank ye, sir, you are very good, sir—yes, sir, you can’t miss
it, sir, straight road after you pass the gate, sir. _Good_-morning,
sir; should be glad to see you if you are this way again, sir, or any
of your friends. _Good_-morning, sir. Hope you’ll have a fine day yet,
sir! It’s slacking up e’en now, I think. Indeed it is, sir! Ah, you’ll
have a fine day for a walk, sir. _Good_-morning, sir.”
[Sidenote: _THE ROAD IN A STORM._]
If it slackens at all, it is only for a moment, and then the rain is
poured down again densely and with renewed vehemence; and the wind,
coming from behind, fairly twists one about, and hurries one along in
its strong, fitful gusts. It is market-day in Warminster, and, as I go
out, every body else and every thing else seems to be coming in. Men,
women, and children, in all sorts of English vehicles—spring-carts,
taxed-carts, great broad-wheeled carts, or long wagons, with bodies
of a curious curved form flaring out over the wheels, canvas tops,
stretched over all, upon hoops; sometimes two horses abreast, drawing
them in a double set of shafts; oftener two or three, and frequently
four, five, or six, all in a line, (tandem,) great, intelligent beasts,
keeping well to the left, where none will interfere with them, and they
can legally harm no one. (“Keep the _left_,” is the rule of the road
in England; not the right, as with us.) They are driven without reins;
and more than once this morning I saw the driver, well dosed with beer,
I suppose, and fatigued with night-work, fast asleep on the top of his
load. Once I saw a gentleman, who had nearly run against one of these
sleeping fellows, strike him smartly with his whip as he passed—“You
had best wake up, sir; who’s your master?” “Mr. ——, of ——, sir,”
answered the man, rubbing himself. “Very well, I shall let him know
what sort of a carter he has.” A Yankee driver, so waked up, would have
replied to the whip first.
Gentlemen come up at a spanking pace, with tall, lithe, worried-looking
horses, in dog-carts, or in the saddle, screwing their heads as deep as
they can into their drab coats, bending low, and their hats pulled down
tight upon their brows, never hardly with an umbrella, but with a groom
with gold hat-band by their side sometimes. They look scowlingly, as
they approach, at me; with my hat-brim turned up before and down behind
to shed the water from my face, my water-proof cape tightly fastened
at my waist behind, and swelling and fluttering before, my arms folded
under it, I return their inquiring stare complacently; and some, as
they come up, draw their lips resolutely tighter, and give me about
quarter of a nod, as if they understood and approved my arrangement.
Men on foot, and women, too, with clogs and pattens and old green and
blue umbrellas, and bundles and bags and baskets and hampers, and cages
and parcels in handkerchiefs; old and young, lasses and lads, generally
three or four couples together, coming to town for a holiday, loudly
laughing and coarsely joking; bound to enjoy themselves spite of the
shameful indelicacy of the wind, and the chill drenching of the rain,
and the most misplaced attachment to their finery of the spattering mud.